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Bedvan Ghar, Panjwaii, Afghanistan

Wednesday 9 Aug 06 1130 hrs AFT

The sun stood high in the sky. Neither quite at its highest point nor at its hottest yet but the day’s heat was already building. To the north, in the mountains there had been rainstorms and flash flooding that had threatened hundreds if not thousands. Here, at the edge of the desert the sky was blue, clear of clouds but with some expectation that a good bit of the mountain moisture would eventually make its way down to the Panjwaii lands by way of the waters of the Arghandab.

Norowz had sat on a rock outcropping near the top of the western finger of Bedvan Ghar since before sunrise. He had felt the sun’s heat as it rose up behind him. He had watched as the shadows crept westward, away from his objective area, Bazaar-e Panjwaii. The ramshackle town lay nestled between his two logistics areas on the southern shore of the river in the lowlands between the mountain slope he was on and Ma’Sum Ghar to the west.

Tofan had been here with him but had left an hour ago to climb down to the town in order to lead Lieutenant Colonel Emal Noorzai up to their position and to bring a meal back as well. He could see the two of them now picking their way along the wadis that criss crossed the rubble of broken stone that made up the mountain’s slope.

He had hoped that Emal would be unarmed just as he and Tofan were. It was an easy way to escape the notice of the enemy, whether the Afghan police or army or the army of the foreigners. So was wearing something other than the traditional large black turbans favored by the Taliban. For the same reason he was keeping his beard shorter and neatly trimmed and wearing his loose fitting kameez shalwar in colors and in a condition of wear and tear more likely to reflect the local Noorzai tribesmen of the valley. Blending in wasn’t a hard job for either himself or Tofan seeing as they were born and raised just a few kilometers west of the town.

Norowz was once again not happy. He was starting to wonder if he ever would be again. His constant arguments with Mullah Akhund were wearing down his spirit bit-by-bit. The overall strategy that had been developed was generally sound. He knew because his own mentor Mullah Osmani had been involved in developing the campaign as part of the rahbari shura - the leadership council - of the Quetta Shura Taliban. Unfortunately execution of the strategy had been left in the hands of Mullah Dadullah Akhund, a fierce and ruthless fighter by reputation but, in Norowz’s mind, a poor tactician and leader amongst the locals. Norowz wished him dead—inshallah—before they lost hundreds of fighters needlessly.

 

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“Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatu Allah,” Norowz said embracing Emal.

“Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatulah wa barakatuh,” replied the Pakistani ISI officer. How are you today my brother?”

“God has been kind,” replied Norowz. “We have had victories and will have more inshallah.”

The incantation to God’s willingness was truly a part of Norowz’s philosophy and not just meaningless rhetoric. While not a religious fanatic, his devotion to God was supreme and his faith that God will provide, or not, as He chooses was fundamental to his belief system. It was this and only this that had prevented him from killing Akhund. God had chosen to provide the QST with him and he was not prepared to alter God’s choice. Tofan had in private offered that if they killed Akhund then that too would be God’s will. Norowz had considered that for a while but eventually considered the idea pure sophistry. If one pushed the idea then anything one did, no matter how vile, was God’s will. He wasn’t prepared to go down that path.

While they spoke, Tofan busied himself with setting up a small cooker to boil water for chai and to unload the food from a small basket.

“You did have a good fight last week.”

“Yes but we did lose men. My lashkar lost nine; four of them from my core groups. Another eighteen were wounded; seven of them seriously and sent back across the border. That’s the most we’ve lost in one fight in a long time,” said Norowz.

“The enemy was beaten back with extensive casualties too. I think it is the first time the Canadians have failed to seize their objectives,” the Pakistani pointed out.

“That’s very true Emal, but the more important fact is that even when they do seize their objectives, they cannot hold them without being tied down like the British. How are things in Helmand by the way?” Norowz knew that Emal had just returned from touring his contacts in Helmand and would have better news than the meager and distorted rumors that generally made their way up the river. Their Helmand cousins were prone to exaggerating their effectiveness. If the rumors were to be believed, then the British would have suffered casualties on a par with those they suffered in Maywand over a hundred years ago. Neither Norowz nor Tofan had believed any of them knowing what they knew of their sources.

“Things are happening but not much militarily. The British are bringing in more troops but they are still tied to their handful of bases. What is most successful there is that their anti-drug campaign has made enemies of virtually everyone in the province overnight. We have no shortage of recruits and influence in the area. Coordination, however, is weak. There are too many with their own interests who are not prepared to help their neighbors; too many tribal factions. We’re working on that.”

“That’s where our strength is down here,” said Norowz. “The population is almost exclusively Panjpai Duranni—mostly Noorzai as you know, but also Ishaqzai and Alizai. The government in Kandahar is primarily Zirak Duranni drawing its numbers and strength from the Alikozai and the Achekzai. It makes it fairly easy to draw tribal as well of political lines between the people and the government.”

“It’s also the difference between the farmers and the city’s businessmen,” offered Emal.

“Very much so,” agreed Norowz. Emal was no fool. He might not be an Afghan but he was well educated and a very smart man in his own right. For years now the man had been the primary and most trusted ISI facilitator on the ground in the region. He was well acquainted with the situation.

“How well did the locals support you in the last fight?”

“They support me well,” replied Norowz. He knew that his emphasis on the word me would not be lost on Emal. “When Pashmul’s elders to the north asked us to move out of their district, I did and took that part of my lashkar which was on the north across the river. As a result we have much support on both sides and young fighters are easy to recruit.”

“But hard to train?” observed Emal.

“Yes. They are hard to train. They are little more than wild boys but with a few of my regulars amongst them they can be stiffened and directed. They certainly do not lack courage; or foolhardiness.

“But back to your question about cooperation. There are quite a few locals who have not been as cooperative as they should be. There are many resisters amongst them. Unfortunately many of your countrymen here are arrogant and have made enemies amongst the people. Their support is not very solid no matter what Akhund may say. It’s easy to win the people over when the government is weak and made up of traditional enemies and now foreigners. It is counterproductive to alienate them unnecessarily. That suicide bomb in Bazaar-e Panjwaii last month was stupid. It made many enemies of people we counted amongst our friends,” Norowz knew Emal well. He could be candid with him. Criticism was always accepted as constructive criticism and not defeatism and would not make its way back to Akhund.

The ISI officer nodded agreement although he harbored disagreement with Norowz. He knew that there was a place for Akhund’s tactics just as there was one for Norowz’s.

“We are already seeing some effects from your battle,” Emal said. “The Canadian newspapers are openly questioning their country’s involvement. It never ceases to amaze me how few casualties set them off. It’s hard to believe this is the same country that fought for six years against the Germans despite the fact that nearly fifty thousand of them were killed and the same number wounded. They’ve lost their spirit.”

“And now their experienced fighters are going home. Next week a fresh unblooded battalion will start operations here.”

“Well, it will be your job to ensure that they get more bloodied than blooded,” said the Pakistani.

“Hmm,” grunted Norowz. “Therein lies the problem. You know what Akhund’s next plan is?”

“Bazaar-e Panjwaii,” responded Emal.

“Exactly,” said Norowz taking the cup of chai handed to him by Tofan who then set out bowls of rice, bread and goat stew on the carpet between them. “We’ve just had a great victory by fighting from defensive and ambush positions and here we’re planning a major assault with hundreds of men—my men—on a built-up area.”

“I think that he wants to duplicate what the mujahideen did against the Soviets there. He wants to show that we are strong here,” Emal was somewhat apologetic in offering a justification for Akhund’s plan to Norowz.

“Certainly he wants to show we’re strong,” Norowz waved off the response. “All year the plan was to take Kandahar. Now we’re taking a small district center. If you ask me, all that we are doing is proving that we are weak. Mind you not weak in fighting spirit or numbers but weak in our tactics and our imagination.

“Do you know what will happen, Emal?”

The ISI officer held his peace.

“Tell him what will happen, Tofan,” directed Norowz.

“We will fight against generally weak police and foreign forces that will be in defensive positions with unlimited ammunition. They will give ground slowly, if at all, while we suffer casualties. They will call in artillery, air strikes and helicopters that will shoot us up. They will send in reinforcements by air and ground and will drive us back out with many casualties.

“In the end we will have shown that our biggest assault of the anniversary wasn’t good enough because we couldn’t take a town militarily that we already own behind the scenes. We will give the enemy a major political victory and alienate much of our support south of the river.”

“What are your suggestions?”

Norowz looked at him. “Continue the ambushes. Continue developing our strength here and north of the river. Nibble away at them so that they call in more of the hated police who thieve and rape. That will strengthen our support here. Continue to push harder into Kandahar and fight them there. Destabilize Panjwaii and we destabilize our own base; destabilize Kandahar and we win the South.”

“But you have your orders,” observed Emal.

“That we do,” responded Norowz morosely. “They are poor orders but orders nonetheless. Next week we attack. The week after my lashkar will be ineffective and will be unable to help out when the Canadians launch their next attack into Pashmul.”

Norowz sat back and looked down on the town below. His plan for Akhund’s desired attack would be as good as it could possibly be. He owed that to his fighters. But he could already see their upcoming failure. He could see their broken bodies laying in the dust. He could see the blood dripping from the tailgates of the pickup trucks taking the wounded away to the border. He could see the tattered prayer flags fluttering over the graves. He could see it all; just as surly as if it was already a fact.