20
SOLDIER OF FORTUNE JIHAD:
WE ATTACK A RUSSIAN FORT
“The most exhilarating experience in the world is to be fired at
with no effect. “—Winston Churchill during the Boer War
“The most exhilarating experience in the world is to be fired at
with no effect; and to fire back. “—RKB, Afghanistan 1982
“Incoming,” I muttered to Coyne and a bunch of non-English speaking Afghans who were preparing to drop another round into their obsolete British-made 3-inch mortar. “I saw a flash in the fort.”
Nobody paid any attention. Coyne continued to swivel his video camera from the Russian fort under attack to the Afghan mortar crew and back. The Afghans simply milled around with their Boy Scout Jamboree attitude while fusing mortar rounds and observing the Russian fort.
I shook my head and hunkered down next to a large rock to keep at least one side of my body protected. A few seconds later, the whine of an incoming Russian round reminded me that I didn’t appreciate that sound now any more than I had in Vietnam; nor the results.
Crump! It hit 70 meters away. The Russians had their mortars registered on our ridgeline. Nobody seemed perturbed except me. The Afghans pointed at the plume of smoke where the round hit and laughed, adjusted their mortar and continued to mill. Coyne, a SOF roaming reporter, continued to swivel. It was certainly a different way to fight a war.
A few days earlier, Coyne and I, bored in Bangkok, had flown up to Pakistan to look for new items of Russian military equipment we could sell to the U.S. government. There we linked up with Hashmatullah (Hash-mat) Mojadedi, the 36-year-old brother of Sibghatullah Mojadedi, a principal leader of the Islamic Unity of Afghanistan Mujahideen. Coyne had gone into Afghanistan with Hashmat in December 1980 and had brought out the first Russian PFM-I anti-personnel mine seen in the West.
We hadn’t planned on a tour of the combat zone when we arrived in Pakistan this trip. But then Hashmat said: “I’m going to Afghanistan on a resupply mission and to make an estimate of the situation. It will be only a few days. Do you want to come?”
Coyne and I looked at one another, pondering. Hashmat, noting our indecision, smiled and added, “We have a Russian fort surrounded and under siege. We are attacking every day.”
Coyne and I continued to look at each other. “Attack a Russian fort? Hell, yes.” Coyne, who had 12 years’ experience as a TV cameraman before joining SOF, brought a video camera with him. Perhaps we could get some combat footage. Back at the Khyber International Hotel in Peshawar we started our pre-mission planning during dinner.
I was concerned about being arrested by Pakistani authorities as we tried to cross the border. Coyne had been arrested twice during his previous trips and it does screw up one’s schedule. Hashmat, I felt, was being a bit cavalier in his dismissal of my insistence that we should dismount when we approached Pakistani border checkpoints and infiltrate around them on foot.
“No, no, just buy some Afghan clothes and, Brown, you dye your moustache and hair black. You’ll look like a Pathan,” he replied, naming the famous warrior tribe near the Khyber Pass, completely disregarding my paste-white skin and blue eyes.
The moustache would be no problem, but the hair, what hair? I finally settled on dyeing just the hair around the temples since my turban would cover the rest of my thinning pate. There was nothing either one of us could do about the blue eyes.
After a day’s delay due to vehicular problems, at 0600 hours we jumped in the back of a Jeep pickup, the bed of which was covered by a canvas. Clad in our new clothes, we snuggled up to the back of the cab and four Freedom Fighters crowded in after us with their Chinese Type-56 AK-47s.
For the next eight hours, we bounced over some of the awful goat-track roads and through five checkpoints. Coyne and I feigned sleep, pulling our turbans down over our faces when the Pakistani guards casually inspected the interior of the truck.
With the last heart-stopping checkpoint behind us, we cut from the main road onto a track. For another hour the truck lurched through featureless dark wilderness. No road was perceptible in the headlights. We stopped. Glittering against the silent black of night, stars clustered to form a domed ceiling above us, horizon-to-horizon. We were 1,000 meters from Afghanistan.
A large Bedford truck was parked to our right, a black silhouette in the night. A faintly lit, one-room mud hut was barely visible. We were greeted by shadowy figures in hushed, respectful tones. As Hashmat and the others settled in for a long night of discussion, Coyne and I laid out our bedding. We slept on reed cots, covered with warm, bright Afghan quilts protecting against the chilly night air of the border.
The sunlight woke me at 0530 hours. Twenty or more Mujahideen were already off-loading the Bedford, decorated with elaborate designs and paintings. The truck sat heavily on its springs, weighted with arms and munitions.
Coyne and I watched sleepily as the truck was unloaded. Ammunition, weapons and supplies destined for other Mujahideen guerrillas on the offensive inside Afghanistan were moved with deliberate slowness, hand-to-hand, from the truck to the ground. The driver watched and waited nervously, anxious to leave. The pile of munitions grew.
We found that the weapons consisted of ten recently manufactured Enfield rifles purchased in Darra. The care package also included a 7.62mm SGMB Goryunov light machine gun, still covered with cosmoline in its packing crate, with 1,000 Chinese-manufactured incendiary/tracer rounds; cases of antitank mines with fuses; four or five dozen three-inch mortar rounds, circa 1957; 20 cases of .303 British ammo; and the piece de resistance, two cases of linked incendiary ammo for aircraft. The label on the latter stated that it was manufactured in 1942 and was “not to be fired through synchronized machine guns after 1944”! I never figured out where that came from.
With this, they were taking on the Russian Army? More shocking revelations were awaiting us. We left the next day at 0900 hours with Hashmat and 14 of his security troops, armed with Enfields and Chinese Type-56 AKs. A camel had been loaded with a portion of the supplies and dispatched the preceding day.
The hours passed as walking turned into trudging—up ravines and dry river beds covered with square billiard balls. By the end of our tour, we were convinced that when God, in all his ultimate wisdom, created the earth, he had taken all his surplus square 2x2-, 3x3-, and 4x4-inch rocks and scattered them liberally over Afghanistan.
I kept expecting Mi-24 helicopter gunships to come roaring out of the sea-blue sky bringing death and destruction to SOF and friends. The Afghans seemed unconcerned—talking, bunched up and, once again, milling around. Either they knew something we didn’t or they simply didn’t care.
Inside Afghanistan, at about 1630 hours, we met a lookout who escorted us to our forward attack position—a ridge that had a single three-inch British Mark 5 mortar positioned in defilade about 30 meters short of the crest. One hundred meters to the right of the mortar, a Soviet DShK Degtyarev Model 38/46 12.7mm HMG poked its ugly snout toward the Russian fort.
“What the hell kind of a war are they fighting?” I muttered to myself. I could barely see the outline of the fort through my field glasses! It must have been 3,500 meters away. I was particularly confused since an inter-vening ridgeline was 1,500 meters closer. I later found out that they had fired from this ridge the night before, but had moved back one ridge because of the VIPs (us) who were going to be observing the attack. I shook my head, puzzled about the Afghan military mind or what I perceived to be the lack thereof.
“Allah Akbar!” shouted the 30 Afghans as the mortar crew plunked a round down the tube. WHAM! The first round arced toward Ivan. The mortar crew raced to the ridge, then hunkered down to wait for the round to hit.
We waited and waited and waited.
Boroki, the leader and mortarman, mumbled to himself. I suspected bad ammo. Even though no aiming stakes were in evidence, they couldn’t be that far off. Another round—nothing. Then another and, again, nothing. The mortar crew was disgusted; they stared at the useless ammo and cursed among themselves.
At the first mortar round from our group, another group of Afghans had opened fire on the Russians with the DShK 12.7mm. We heard its rhythmic “doom-doom” from the other side of the fort.
We had been told before the attack that the Russians would return fire with the DShK 12.7mm HMG first. In the gathering darkness the muzzle flash from the DShK was distinct. Unlike the mortar, the “Dashika” was a direct-fire weapon and not much could be done to hide the flash. The Russians followed up with a few mortar rounds of their own.
I shook my head. The attack had lasted an hour with no results. But happily, still no Mi-24s appeared in the sky even though we were no more than 30 minutes by chopper from the Soviet airbase at Khost.
As dusk fell—and there were still no Mi-24s—we moved down to a safe-house located in the bottom of a narrow ravine four or five klicks from our firing position. The safe-house, which didn’t seem very safe to me, was simply a framework of branches covered by dried reeds. Inside, a fire pit dug into the ground fiercely burned the cardboard mortar round containers and provided the means to cook freshly slaughtered lamb. As the light from the flames cast shadows on the walls of this primitive dwelling, we imagined ourselves tripping back through time—to any time period during the last 2,500 years. The shadowed, gaunt, craggy faces of the turbaned Afghans could have been part of the forces that resisted Alexander the Great’s invading army in 327 B.C., or the conquering Mongol armies of Genghis Khan in the 12th century, or Tamerlane in the 14th century, or the British incursions of the 19th. Only the wristwatches and burning mortar round containers indicated that we were in the 20th century.
Hashmat asked us, as honored guests, to sleep inside. However, looking at the terrain as I caught up on my note taking, using the base plate of the three-inch mortar as a backrest, I figured that if the Mi-24s took a run through this valley, they would observe the base plate that was propped up against the hootch’s doorway and waste it. Coyne and I opted to sleep in the open, 50 meters from the hootch, giving us a bit of a chance if Ivan decided to snoop the following morning. The only disturbance during the night came from a scraggly Afghan rooster tethered about three feet from my head. He obviously had his sense of time upset by jet lag, mistaking 0300 hours for dawn instead of 0530 hours. His crowing disturbed what was, at best, an unsettled sleep. I was satisfied that the rooster was suitably chastised a few hours later—we ate him for lunch.
We broke camp and moved out toward our next attack position about 1400 hours the following day. As we moved across the 400-yard-wide valley floor in a gaggle, I continually searched for cover and concealment. In vain, it turned out, since there wasn’t any. Apparently, the Afghans simply didn’t worry about enemy choppers.
Granted, they had observation posts on prominent terrain features and ridgelines. However, their early warning system, which consisted of them yelling “Helicopters are coming,” down the line, was not reassuring. Even though Coyne pointed out, “You can see a chopper much farther away than you can hear it,” I still was not impressed. The Afghans had more confidence in their early warning system than I did.
After a five-hour walk that covered at least 20 klicks, we arrived at our new attack position. The Mujahideen had borrowed an additional three-inch mortar from another group because they were dissatisfied with the previous one. Once again, the mortar position was located about 20 yards from the crest of the ridge on the reverse slope. At 1815 hours, once again to cheers of “Allah Akbar!” the Afghans started mortaring the fort. I dropped a round down the mortar tube as I still had a thing about the Russian support of the NVA during the Nam war.
Much better luck was ours that night. The gunner, Boraki, bracketed the target with three rounds.
INCOMING FIRE
Incoming—once again. It was becoming interesting.
Another enthusiastic “Allah Akbar!” was followed by a bright flash and we got a secondary. Soon another bright flash erupted from the main gun of a Soviet tank! The round landed about 100 meters from our mortar position, but only 10 meters from the heavy machine-gun position. Fortunately, a rock embankment protected the gunner, who did not interrupt his firing. The Soviets once again replied in kind.
After 30 minutes we broke contact. We had run out of mortar ammunition even though we had fired only 11 rounds—the whole week’s allocation!
The following morning, the Mujahideen received an intelligence report that one of our rounds had landed on a Soviet mortar pit, killing the gunner and setting off a secondary. Not bad results for a lousy 11 rounds.
During the night, which we spent in another dry riverbed, and the following day, I pieced together a reasonable, or at least understandable, estimate of the situation. The Afghan resistance forces had the small Russian fort under siege and had surrounded it for 41 days. The concept of operations was simple and had been used since the beginning of recorded military history—starve them out.
The Afghan resistance expected that when the Afghan puppet troops ran low on ammo and food, they would slit the throats of their Russian advisers and surrender. Two other Russian outposts in the same area had already suffered that fate in preceding months.
The nightly standoff attacks’ primary purposes were to maintain pressure on the fort personnel and prod the Soviets into returning fire, thus continuing to deplete Russian ammo reserves. Since the Soviets had their guns registered on our ridgelines but still fired only a few rounds of counter-mortar fire, I gave the Afghans’ assumption a fair amount of credibility.
The Afghans believed that no resupply by land was possible since all main approach avenues to the fort were under Afghan observation and their blocking forces would attack any relief columns. The Soviets would not risk using a chopper to resupply. However, it seemed to me that if the Russians wanted to relieve the fort they could, if they committed sufficient air assets. I thought that a couple of Mi-24 gunships could easily provide sufficient firepower to suppress any Afghan fire.
On the other hand, perhaps the Soviets felt it was not worth the effort. It was hard for us who had served in the U.S. military to believe that the Soviets could so callously write off their advisers. But in light of the fact that several reports had circulated of Russians destroying damaged Mi-24s with crews trapped inside to preclude military secrets from being compromised, perhaps not.
Ultimately the Mujahideen were unable to storm the fort because a 200-meter minefield surrounded it. They had insufficient artillery and no Bangalore torpedoes with which to breach the minefield. Nor were funds available to purchase enough sheep to attempt to run livestock through the mines, a technique of questionable effectiveness.
Their starvation plan was not sophisticated, but it appeared to be working, and one has to make do with what is available, which obviously was not a hell of a lot. However, I certainly did not envy the trapped Russian advisers.
At about 0900 hours, it was plinking time. A bunch of Afghan “good old country boys” showed off their marksmanship skills, which were not very impressive. A meeting followed, which in turn was closed with the inevitable prayer, and then we traversed the “square billiard balls” again to return to the Mujahideen FOB. However, the return trip was not without adventure. We had to cover approximately 30 klicks and the trip led through a minefield. An Mi-24 had sown PFM-I antipersonnel mines along the border, a few hundred-meters deep, intersecting the trail. It wasn’t difficult to spot the little brown foot poppers as the Mujahideen got a big kick out of pointing them out and picking them up to be photographed. I got a big kick out of not touching the damn things, instead following carefully the tracks of the Mujahideen and even then keeping my eyes peeled.
Then it happened! We heard an explosion in the vicinity of the point man, about 40 meters ahead and around the bend. We moved up quickly and found the man on the ground with a hole in his right thigh.
You can explode a PFM-I by throwing a rock at it. You can also explode it by stamping on it, hitting it with a hammer or butting it with your head. The Mujahideen liked to blow them in situ by throwing rocks at them. In this case, the rock was blown back into the “pitcher’s” right thigh. The injured Mujahideen was kidded by his compatriots, patched up and packed out on a horse.
We trekked back to the FOB and returned the next day to Peshawar. We decided that it wasn’t a bad week’s work. We had illegally crossed into Afghanistan; traveled over 60 klicks; personally participated in two attacks on a Russian fort; survived a few rounds of incoming from Russian 12.7mm heavy machine guns, AK-47s and a 82mm mortar; successfully negotiated a Russian minefield; and cemented a close relationship with some of the toughest fighting men in the world. We had whetted our appetites for adventure and expressed our support for the Freedom Fighters’ cause.
As we left, we promised, “We shall return, Ivan.”
In 1988, I invited former Rhodesian Scout Deputy Commander Mike Williams, former French Foreign legionnaire Paul Fanshaw, and Hunter Penn, a 10ist Airborne Vietnam vet and rodeo roper, to go to Afghanistan with me. The plan was to go blow up a Russian fort and shoot down a MiG or Hind Mi-24 gunship with a Stinger.
Williams, a tough as mails, medium-height, suave, smooth-talking, broad-shouldered, wavy-haired ladies’ man, later said, “I have done a lot of stupid things, including volunteering for Special Forces, commanding a battalion of North Korean and Chinese deserters in the mountains of North Korea, serving as deputy commander of Grey’s Scouts in Rhodesia, marrying three American women and lending my daughter a thousand dollars. But . . . the first prize in dumb was letting Robert K. Brown talk me into paying my own way to Afghanistan to ‘assist’ the Russian withdrawal.”
We were to ship all equipment through a third party in Peshawar, Pakistan, over to our Area of Operations, where we would retrieve it and sneak across the Pakistani border to join the ranks of the Mujahideen fighting the Russians.
Our little band of adventurers linked up at Dulles Airport in D.C., where we boarded a British Airways flight to London. Hunter, who had been in Afghanistan just a while earlier, told us that communication between him and his Afghan friends was virtually non-existent—he didn’t speak Pushto, and they didn’t speak much English.
We, who spoke only English and some French, were soon to find out what a serious problem that could be. We flew to London, and after dick-ing around old Blighty for a day, we boarded a second British Airways flight, this one bound for Islamabad with an intermediate refueling stop near Dubai.
We soon found out that Pakistani security measures were draconian. Troops armed with MP-5 submachine guns surrounded the aircraft and gun jeeps cruised the outer perimeter of the airfield. The country was on high alert. Khomeini Revolutionary Guard suiciders had infiltrated the country with orders to kill any American, or any Westerner for that matter, they could find.
General Zia, Pakistan’s president, had issued a warning to the Ayatollah that Pakistani security forces would eliminate on the spot any Revolutionary Guards found in Pakistan.
The Pakistani troops, particularly members of airborne units, were impressively professional. Signs were everywhere identifying various military installations, and their types of uniforms and saluting evidenced the influence of previous British Army training.
The ride from the airport to the Holiday Inn had us longing for the notorious, madmen New York cab drivers. The driver did everything but look at the road, spending half the time twisting his head over his shoulder to tell us about his cousin in New York and the remaining half-racing other cabs to traffic lights.
After lunch, Williams and I paid a visit to the U.S. Embassy, where we spoke with several officials who clued us in to trouble-spots within the country. The streets of Islamabad were like something out of the Arabian Nights. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, I decided, so I informed the team that we would wear Mujahideen-type clothing. We rounded up their wide-waisted trousers held up by a cloth cord at the waist and a shin-length shirt and turban. We had no clue at the time that we would end up wearing the drab outfits for ten days straight without a bath.
We had negotiated with the commander of the particular Mujahideen group we were to join that we were to go to Quetta, Pakistan (today a headquarters for the Taliban), where we would link up with our group and cross over into Afghanistan.
General Ramatullah Safi, a boisterous, hulking, high-ranking officer with the Mujahideen, who had a very loud and authoritative presence, met us on our arrival in Islamabad and helped us get settled. In perfect English with a British accent he explained, in detail, the situation in-country regarding Soviet forces and the tactical dispositions of the Mujahideen. When we were ready to leave for Quetta, he drove us to the airport to assist in our departure.
As was customary, we dragged along some Al Mar knives to “souvenir” to our hosts. Pakistani security went ballistic. We had to show our passports, open all luggage, swear we weren’t agents of the KGB, and bow three times toward Mecca before they’d let us on the plane.
We chilled out when the guards wrote our passport numbers in ink on the heels of their palms. Although it might be a long time down the road, they would have to wash their hands eventually, or the numbers would all be smudged by their heavy sweat.
Finally, we were off to Quetta, in a rickety airplane that soon was filled with thick clouds of body odor and hot air since the air conditioning was on its way out. It finally fired up when we go to cruising altitude. The captain’s voice shattered the thick air. “This is captain speaking. We shall arrive at Quetta at 1530 hours, Inshallah [God willing].”
“Inshallah,” my ass.
Quetta was a teeming border town that served as a conduit into Afghanistan through which Mujahideen and reporters traveled back and forth. An Iranian consulate in Quetta allegedly provided a base for a unit of the Ayatollah’s Revolutionary Guards, whose mission it was to kidnap, or kill, any Americans found in the city. However, thanks to a contact in Washington, we had a list of the license plates of the Guards’ autos.
After circling Quetta’s airport for what seemed like forever, we touched down. We were met by a large contingent of blue-uniformed security guards marching out to the hardstand. They covered sectors of fire with MP-5s. A jeep with a pedestal-mounted MG-42 slowly circled the inner perimeter. This was our introduction to some of the toughest security measures we had ever encountered. It made the Israelis seem like gentle lambs. We were body searched and, rather than take our shoes off as we have to do in the United States these days, we were forced to put each foot on top of a small bench so that the security guard could check the soles and heels of our footwear for a fake compartment.
The local Mujahideen commander, Mohammed Tahir Khan, who was short, wiry and in his late 30s, met us. Fluent in English, he had been educated at a military academy in India, a reminder that Pakistan had been ruled by the British Empire. Khan was a mover and shaker, having lobbied “Free Afghan” supporters in Europe and the United States. He had moved his family to California.
We loaded into two Toyotas and headed to the local Mujahideen local command post in Quetta’s ancient bazaar. It was a typical souk, like in Turkey or other Middle Eastern countries. Shops carrying various products were jammed side by side, and slabs of raw beef and chickens hanging by their heads gave the air a stench of death while providing sustenance to clouds of flies. The mobs scurried back and forth, dodging donkey carts, bicycles, motor scooters and rickety trucks. Cars weaved through the crowds.
The locals were staring at the gringos. We saw the first of many large, red hammer-and-sickle signs screaming: “U.S. OUT AFGHANISTAN.” Pakistani Communist Party flags hung everywhere, which unsettled us.
We turned off the main road and entered a narrow side street that had trash strewn everywhere. It was swarming with flies and hungry, mangy dogs searching for food. Tahir stopped the truck and motioned to some turbaned Mujahideen mulling around. They opened a large, iron gate leading to a courtyard in front of a two-story house. The guards, armed with well-kept Kalashnikovs, carried our bags as we walked across the courtyard and into the house. Tahir told us to sit on the carpeted floor in a large room that served as a conference center. Tea was served. Tahir sipped his tea as he spoke in Pashto to one of the many Mujahideen who’d just arrived.
“It is better you go with me now,” he told us after a few minutes.
First we had to slip into our new costumes for this gig. We were soon to find that the baggy outfits and turbans served as perfect camouflage in the environment. One of the Mujahideen showed us how to wrap a turban around our heads and secure the baggy-waisted Afghan trousers with a cloth cord attached to a plastic hook which threaded through a loop sewn around the waistband.
Dressed in our new garb, transformed into apparent locals, we were ready to roll. Tahir said, “We will have to pass through Pakistani checkpoints, so cover your faces and look at the floor when I tell you.”
Pakistani guards at checkpoints had the option of throwing you in a filthy jail or accepting a bribe to let you pass. Tahir, the designated driver, put Fanshaw, Penn and the Mujahideen guards, carrying AKs, in the rear of the enclosed Toyota pickup; Williams and I rode in the front with Tahir.
We swerved through the chaos of pedestrians, bicyclists, donkeys and cars, passing through successively smaller villages onto roads that were traveled by a series of large Bedford trucks like those used by the Rhodesian Army.
Tahir stopped in front of a small shop and signaled the “pull the bottom half of our turbans across our faces” warning. He got out of the truck and walked inside the dimly lit shop. The lanky Fanshaw and Penn, all cramped up after being jammed in among the Mujahideen the whole time, had no chance to ease the cramps in their calves. They’d ridden that way from Quetta and began grumbling about getting out to stretch lest they get blood clots.
We tried to sneak peeks at the surroundings and passers-by through our turban-covered faces. We coyly looked at them from the corners of our eyes, while looking down at the floor.
Tahir returned, offering us a handful of small oranges and a large melon.
“Can Fanshaw and Penn get out and stretch their legs?” I asked Tahir, worried that the loose cannon Fanshaw might just dart out and start running.
“Not good. There is problem, many spies here for Russians,” Tahir said, as he walked to the rear of the truck and handed the remainder of the fruit to Fanshaw, Penn and the Mujahideen, who grabbed it and started chewing away, spitting seeds into the dirt.
We drove over the dusty, narrow, rocky roads that for hours allowed only one car to pass at a time. In the distance we could see that shadows of much higher ridges were faintly visible in the weak, silver moonlight. We spotted two figures toting AKs, standing by a side road that branched off to the right. They recognized Tahir as he slowed to pull alongside them and waved us on.
“Our people. They guard this road.” He shifted gears and accelerated. “Important no Pakistanis come this way.”
We drove over the mountainous trails that were carved right on the edge of the cliffs for another nerve-wracking two hours. After what seemed like forever, we stopped at a wooden crossbar marking the entrance to a camp containing tents and mud houses. Large stacks of ammo crates were dimly visible. Two Mujahideen sentries raised the barrier and we drove through, turned right, and stopped in front of a small building.
“Please get out . . . come in!” Tahir motioned to the Mujahideen standing near the truck to bring our bags and follow him. Inside, he stopped and removed his shoes before entering. We did the same, placing our boots in a row near the doorway.
By now jittery, the always-on-alert Williams felt edgy, figuring out how he would grab his shoes and run for the nearest hole in case of a Chinese fire drill. Once again, we sat on the carpet with pillows behind us in the dimly lit room next to Tahir, who spoke in a near whisper with three bearded Mujahideen squatting just inside the doorway.
We sunk into the plush pillows, seeing the large group of shadowy young male strangers and old bearded men with their AKs and ammo hung around their shoulders, as we fought the urge to fade. They stared, barely paying attention to what Tahir and the three commanders were saying.
A Mujahideen boy carrying a tray of tea, bread, cakes and fruit made his way through the curious crowd. We inhaled the sugar-loaded brew and gorged ourselves to the last crumb.
Tahir told me, “You will sleep here tonight and tomorrow we will go see our people. Your beds are ready.”
We followed one of the guards outside to get our boots and gear and followed him around the side of the building on a trail that led up a steep hill. I never wanted to see another hill again. They had laid out four thick blankets on pallets side by side against the mud walls of a small hut.
Finally, we thought we could crash until morning.
“ALLAH AKBARRR!” A loud chant woke us at two blasted thirty from an exhausted sleep. Now I am half deaf, but the singing and laughter of the Muslim guards roared in my ear. It was Ramadan, the Muslim holy month, when the Muslims fasted all day and stayed up eating and carousing most of the night.
WHERE’S THE RUSSIAN FORT?
We were woken up again at sun-up and choked down the sugar-thick tea, which would probably give us all diabetes by the time we got out of there, plus half-baked naan that was supposed to pass for bread and the usual small cakes and oranges. I picked up the naan, brushed away a few dozen flies and invited the rest of the gang to eat up, saying, “You know, people pay thousands of dollars for a chance to experience something like this.”
Then, “What’s that smell?” I asked, looking around.
Williams pointed to a sagging, dilapidated wooden shack covered with gunny-sacks just behind our breakfast feast. “The smell is coming from the latrine. That’s also where the squadron of flies is coming from that crawled in your mouth with that last bite of bread,” smart ass Williams said.
Shortly afterward, a runner, panting as he ran up the hill called to us, “Commander say you come.”
“What about our gear? Do we take it?” Hunter asked, pointing to his camera bag. The Mujahideen shrugged and shook his head.
“Maybe we’re going in today,” Williams told me as I had just begun to enjoy a mouthful of Skoal to dull the thought of the dreadful dining room. I spit at three fat beetles busily attempting to roll a goat turd down the hill.
“I don’t give a shit! I just want to shoot down a MiG with a Stinger,” I said, already wanting to get this endless adventure over with.
Tahir was waiting outside the CP, standing near the Toyota. He nodded and said, “Good morning. We will look at Russian fort today. Soon we will attack it.” He pointed at a tall, skinny Mujahideen wearing a Fu Manchu mustache with a dull, dazed hashish look standing near the truck. “Your driver, Mahmoud.”
“Salaam a Leikum,” the ever smooth-talking Williams said, shaking his hand.
“Wah a Leikum al Salaam,” the driver answered and smirked, rolling bloodshot whites.
Williams and I got in front while Fanshaw, Hunter and a gaggle of AK-bearing Mujahideen crawled into the back. Finally, off to the fort we went. Mahmoud fired up the Toyota and popped the clutch, and we shot toward the barrier in second gear.
“ALLAH AKBARRR!” he roared as he shot off full blast onto the rocky road.
“Thinks he’s Sterling Moss, doesn’t he?” I observed.
Mahmoud had the transistor radio blasting some Middle Eastern chants. “AHHHH . . . ALLAHHH . . . AKBARRR. . . OHHH ALLLAH-HHHH,” Mahmoud roared along at the top of his voice. We barely missed the donkeys with the old men dragging behind along the winding road.
Williams kept mumbling about some Arabic curses in a travel book he had read, “something to the effect that the supreme insult alluded to the fact that the cursee’s mother was the product of a sexual liaison between a donkey and a syphilitic camel,” a curse he figured the old man had placed on our chauffeur.
Whether Mahmoud was one helluva driver or whether hashish enhanced his expertise we didn’t want to know. No doubt the latter, but by some miracle he kept us alive on the winding, cliff-hanging road.
“We walk,” one of the Mujahideen in one of the vehicles in the convoy said as we approached a narrow trail that led toward a deep canyon filled with Mujahideen who were highly amused at our misery.
A small mud hut and an ammunition dump with hundreds of 82mm mortar and 107mm rocket rounds were hidden in the canyon. The “command center” communicated with the help of several professionally placed antennae, allowing effective communication.
We were invited in and served some more sickeningly sweet tea with the local Mullahs, who offered prayers for our safety. The big moment had finally come. After getting the introductions over with, we climbed back up the hill to take turns firing a Soviet 14.5mm KPV heavy machine gun at a Russian fort near the village of Lara. The fort was garrisoned with approximately 200 Afghan troops and several Soviet advisers.
Next morning, after the same old sickly tea, cakes and oranges, we rode off with Tahir to inspect the troops who were slated to attack the Russian fort. We passed bombed-out villages where huts showed the effects of Mi-24 Hind strafing and rocketing attacks against their defenseless inhabitants.
“Keep a lookout for MiGs. This area is under air reconnaissance by the Russians,” Tahir said as we bounced along the exposed trail over a dried up creek bed.
MUJAHIDEEN, ADVANCE PARTY FOR GENGHIS KAHN?
After about four hours, we braked to a halt. Standing in the middle of the road were four of the meanest looking Mujahideen we had yet seen. Bearded, dirty, yet carrying spotless AKs, they spoke with Tahir and studied us, taking in our Afghan outfits and turbans. Hunter, whose previous three months with the Mujahideen in the mountains near Kabul gave him plenty of insight into the Afghan hierarchy said, “They’re local commanders in this area.”
The system of district and regional commanders within the ranks of the Mujahideen made it lethal for Soviet troops to attempt infiltration of any Mujahideen area. From the intelligence networks that existed throughout Afghanistan, the Mujahideen knew in short order about any new stray dog in a village, let alone an attempted infiltration by a Russian Spetsnaz unit.
Tahir shook hands with the Mujahideen, nodded goodbye, and we jolted along toward the assault force’s assembly area. After a while, the road deteriorated into a goat trail leading off into a canyon. Sentries stopped us before we’d gone 100 meters. Then, recognizing Tahir, they waved us on.
Tahir pointed to a huge pile of 107mm rocket rounds lying on the trail, “We will fire 1,000 of those when we attack the fort tomorrow.” Stacked on a ledge above the rounds were 12 Soviet mines and a large number of 75mm recoilless rounds. Boxes of ammo for the AKs and RPD machine guns were stacked next to RPG-7 rounds covering a wide area along the roadside.
“Come with me; you will see the commander and Mujahideen.” I fell in step with Tahir while Fanshaw, Hunter and Williams followed, taking pictures of the troop activities.
We moved from a cave, deep in the side of the canyon wall where the command shack was located, to the top of a nearby ridge, where we checked out the Russian fort with our Steiner binoculars. It was stifling hot and dusty. No wonder they wore the white turbans and gowns. They kept their brains from frying, since even the turbans got blazing hot.
The Mujahideen were loading stacks of ammo onto carts pulled by Massey-Ferguson tractors at the bottom of the hill. I asked Tahir what the plan was.
“Two more days until we attack.” All the mines, 107mm rockets, 82mm mortar rounds and ammo for the AKs and RPDs had to be loaded back on the carts pulled by the tractors and transported to the attack assembly area. This was their idea of mechanized infantry.
“Tomorrow we will look at a captured Russian fort!” Tahir announced as he cranked the Toyota’s engine. He waited while our team and half a dozen Mujahideen guards crowded into the cargo compartment.
“STOP!” Williams yelled. Tahir hit the brakes.
107mm rounds were lying a foot ahead of the tire, their noses aligned with the centerline of the Toyota’s wheel. To their left and two feet away were about 25 more, scattered in a close group. Tahir reversed the truck, managing to clear the rounds with Williams’ guidance.
“What’s going on?” I asked, glancing at the pile of ammunition. “Hell, the fuses probably weren’t in.”
“They are in,” Tahir said
Williams asked Tahir, “Do you have accidents with the Mujahideen when they handle ammunition?” He shrugged, “Many.” I couldn’t afford to have one accident.
The Mujahideen had fasted all day and were tired and thirsty, and so were we. The water we drank out of a small mountain stream was a life-saver. We crossed the shallow creek separating the camp from a Pakistani village at dusk. Tahir had the usual Mujahideen commanders waiting for him and they conducted the normal day’s briefing while we ate.
The attack was scheduled within 48 hours, Inshallah. All ammunition would be stockpiled at a new reserve site, ready for use in a preparatory barrage against the Soviet fort.
“My plan is to use 400 Mujahideen in the assault with 500 in reserve,” Tahir said. “That way we will hold down the casualties.”
“The assault force will be split into two groups, one to encircle the fort from the east, the other from the west. I will leave a path open from the fort to the Afghans inside who want to surrender and join us.”
“How are you going to establish contact with the Afghans and the Soviets in the fort?” I asked
“ After the barrage, which will start at 0300 and last until 0600, I will send in one of my people to talk with the Russian commander.” Tahir stretched and yawned wearily. This made no sense to me but nothing about this whole thing made any sense. “Tomorrow we must leave early. I want to look at the captured fort.” He shook hands and wished us a good night’s sleep.
After the same old breakfast of tea, cakes and oranges, we mounted up and set out for the captured fort. Tahir drove for four hours over the same dry creek bed as before, keeping a weather eye out for MiGs or Mi-24s. We finally arrived at a small village surrounded by mulberry trees.
The terrain had flattened out from hills and canyons to a wide desert floor. A hot, gusty wind blew dust devils across the road and sand particles into our eyes. We pulled the loose ends of our turbans across our faces, to shield noses and lips from the sand blasts. My idea of wearing local garb was a stroke of genius, but about the only one.
Tahir spoke with several armed Mujahideen at the village, then we continued on, driving toward the yellow-brown mud walls of a fort some two kilometers to the east. We stopped a few hundred meters before its entrance. Tahir leaned out of the Toyota and pointed to the side of the road. “Mines,” he warned.
No lie, genius! On either side of the road, aligned in successive rows, were anti-personnel mines laid in an area approximately 20 meters wide, in front of a single strand of barbed wire. The Soviet POMZ-2 stake mines consisted of a wooden stake with a serrated iron body containing six rows of fragmentation segments with a TNT charge of 75 grams. Deployed around the POMZ-2s were plastic PMN antipersonnel mines buried beneath the surface. A rubber top and a metal band held the covers in place. The PMNs had a TNT charge of 240 grams and were pressure activated. They were lethal because they were undetectable by standard magnetic mine detectors.
The fort, which covered some three-quarters of a square mile in total area, looked as if it had been transplanted from Beau Geste’s North Africa; all that was missing was the Tricolor flying from a flagstaff in the center of the parade ground. However, instead of legionnaires with kepis-blancs, there were only discarded pieces of communist Afghan uniforms—caps, jackets, socks—and assorted notebooks scattered throughout the grounds.
At the extreme southeastern corner of the perimeter were the hulks of two Soviet T-62 MBTs, their turrets blown off and hulls scorched. Dug in near a trench-line was an MT-LB, a multi-purpose tracked vehicle the turret of which, with a 7.62mm PKT machine gun, had also been destroyed. Fifty meters farther along the trench line sat a BTR-152 VI Armored Personnel Carrier with its sides and front heavily pockmarked from Mu-jahideen AK rounds.
Tahir, our team and several Mujahideen checked the vehicles out. Tahir warned, “Don’t walk too far from the center of the fort.” He pointed toward the edge of the perimeter. “There are many mines scattered . . . not marked.” Water, as always, had become a problem. The large mechanical pump that furnished well water for the garrison had been destroyed before the Soviets and their Afghan lackeys had abandoned the place.
We all gathered at the Toyotas, shaking hands and preparing to leave. A number of the villagers had been designated as a guard force to occupy the fort temporarily, although the possibility of the Russians attempting to retake the position seemed remote, given the proposed withdrawal plan signed by the U.S.S.R. in Geneva, which was soon to go into effect.
DEADLY POTION
Williams bellyached loudly about dying of thirst and we all echoed him. “No problem,” Tahir replied. “Good water in village. We will stop there.”
At the roadside, 100 meters from the village, was a large pond some 50 meters wide and 70 meters long. Its pale green waters were spotted with leaves and occasionally dotted by clusters of ripe berries that were swept by occasional gusts from a grove of tall mulberry trees on one side.
We had run out of our supply of iodine tablets, but in spite of the appearance of the water, thirst drove us to recklessness. Desperation drove us. Fanshaw knelt by the pond’s edge and filled our canteens.
On the return trip to the CP, Tahir stopped frequently at mountain-fed streams, and everyone drank their belly full. In one deep pool, the Mu-jahideen in the back of the truck engaged in a little Afghan fishing—bursts of AK fire caused spurts of water to geyser several feet in the air and hurl tiny fish along the rocks lining the shore.
The fasting of Ramadan had left the Mujahideen and Tahir totally whipped. He complained of weakness as he pulled the Toyota to a stop in front of his hut. During tea after dusk, he mentioned that we had a choice during the coming attack on the Russian fort of either going with the assault group or remaining with the supporting weapons. We had the im-pression that he would be directing the attack from the support weapons’ position, high on the military crest of a mountain overlooking the objective. We soon found out otherwise.
Before we had a chance to make a decision, he had started another round of talks with newly arrived commanders who would lead the Mujahideen during the attack, and we were left to ourselves. In our honor, Tahir had ordered a small feast. In addition to the usual sickening sweet tea, cakes and oranges, we got tomatoes, greens, bread and pieces of chicken, a real Afghan feast.
“We must sleep. Tomorrow we will leave very early!” Tahir said, fighting to stay awake. We were barely able to muster up the energy to finish the meal and start back up the long trail to the hilltop and our bedrolls.
At “rooster reveille” at daybreak, things were hopping in Tahir’s quarters. People were racing back and forth between the Toyotas and the CP buildings, and one of the Mujahideen ran up the hill in our direction. Fanshaw, the eternal organizer, started gathering up our gear. “We’d better get ready. It looks like we’re going to move out!” The runner stopped a few feet below us and motioned: “Come now . . . we go!”
The road gradually shrank to a trail leading down an increasingly steep canyon. Rocks, shale, basketball-sized boulders and mud puddles from a small stream blocked the way. Ahead of us, a long column of armed Mujahideen walked on either side of the trail, AKs, RPGs, and RPDs slung. Several hundred meters ahead, three Mujahideen drivers were carefully easing Massey-Ferguson tractors, ammunition carts in tow, over the obstacles. Our Toyota stopped and Mohammed, a former Afghan Army colonel, tapped on the side of the door.
“We walk now.”
He led us up a billy goat trail winding toward a cave high on the rock face. Standing aside at the entrance, he waited until one by one we ducked under a low stone overhang and entered the dim cavern. Inside were several older Mujahideen sitting on blankets with their backs against the damp rock walls. The air was filled with a strong odor of hash and a fog of blue smoke.
Mohammed stuck his head inside and spoke to one of the younger Mujahideen sitting near the entrance. “Chai,” he ordered. The boy went outside and returned with the usual tray, this time only with the syrupy sweet green tea. The boiled tea was providing most of our liquid intake since the Afghans had no purified water, but Hunter and I had been hit with Montezuma’s revenge and were wiped out. Nauseated, cursing this mad adventure, we grabbed our cameras and left the foul-smelling cave. Williams and Fanshaw soon followed behind. Columns of Mujahideen tractors pulling carts loaded with ammunition were passing below.
“Let’s go,” Mohammed said. Our Toyota had disappeared, and in its place was one of the four-wheeled ammo carts hitched to a Massey-Ferguson. Instead of 107mm rocket rounds, the cart was crammed with Mujahideen who grinned and nodded as we climbed aboard. A 12-year-old boy who had hopped on offered to carry my AK. Mohammad put an instant stop to that, telling me to stay glued to my weapon. Musa warned us about some of the Mujahideen tagging along: “These are bad people. . . some bandits. Be careful.” As Williams said, “Some of the Muj looked like members of the Golden Horde who’d formed an advance party for Genghis Khan.”
A very bumpy hour later, the cart jolted to a halt and we got out. We pulled out our cameras and started shooting photos of the attack force. Musa, who had a TV camera, began filming the operations, asking Hunter to give a running commentary on the march.
The sun had set and we were soon stumbling through the darkness. We hopped into the tractors and other vehicles with the rest of the “attack force” and hit the flat road. Suddenly, honking horns, lots of yells of “Allah Akhbar” and the sound of sirens shattered the night air. The Afghan Army garrison troops must have been completely stoned on hash because the Mujahideen, with no concern for noise discipline, had alerted the commies in the fort that we were coming to destroy them. Musa’s warning may have panned out.
“Do you believe this shit?” I roared, expecting an imminent attack on our battalion of idiots. But we hit the road again, passing by another village, where more Mujahideen joined our entourage.
After another uneventful 15 or 20 minutes, we stopped in front of a clump of trees. The Mujahideen jumped out and formed into a group. I made sure my team was still together. Musa and Mohammed joined us, directing us to follow a column of Mujahideen moving out in the darkness. We stumbled over each other along the road as we followed our guides. Williams fell into a ditch and Musa helped him back up.
Bodies piled into the mosque and by the time our heads hit the pillows, the snoring rumbled. Williams, by now in an advanced neurotic stage, squirmed around on the hard floor, trying not to strangle himself overnight with the neck straps on his chest webbing, and pulled the canvas rig over his head.
“No, no,” Musa, on alert, told Williams. “Leave magazines on. Don’t let anyone have the Kalashnikov. Put the sling around the leg and not let anyone take Kalashnikov. Many bad people—Khomeini people—take guns from you,” warning about some in the group. Why the hell were we marching with some of the enemy? A better question was why were we involved in this insanity?
Three of the Mujahideen slipped out of the mosque, toting their RPG launchers. Next morning we drank the sick chai and chomped on fly-infested bread with a group of Mujahideen inside the mosque while others were eating outside.
NOBODY SAID ANYTHING ABOUT TANKS
A rocket blast shocked us into tossing our tea and running out to see what was going on. Another blast exploded on the far side of the fort some two klicks to the southeast of our position, creating a large cloud of smoke. I reached for my Skoal. “What happened to the 1,000 107mm rounds that were supposed to hit the fort between 0300 and 0600?” I asked.
“Inshallah,” answered Hunter, wiping sweat from his face. The sick sweet tea had made us even thirstier and there was no water to be found.
“Where’s the water point?” Williams shouted at a Mujahideen trotting past us. He ignored us and headed toward several scrawny trees 100 meters behind the mosque, where other Mujahideen were squatting around what looked like an oasis in the desert.
“That looks like a pond.” Hunter started walking toward the group, followed by Fanshaw carrying our canteen.
We caught up with them and walked around a wall to find a good-sized sinkhole, better called a shit hole, covered with a greenish scum. Standing at the far edge were two sheep and a donkey, their feet soaking in the muddy mix. Near them were several sheep turds floating gently near the green scum.
Fanshaw filled the canteen, shaking his head in disbelief, and we started back to the mosque. It was 1000 hours and the weather was scorching and stagnant. The flies had invaded the mosque and covered the food like a black vibrating blanket.
Several Mujahideen were standing on the shoulders of others under four mulberry trees full of ripe fruit next to the mosque. They were beating the tree with sticks and the ground below was covered with the unappetizing red fruit. Along with the flies and the Mujahideen, who were used to their pathetically slow-moving pace of life, we watched our watches slowly tick until it was time to sleep again. No action, nothing.
The next morning Williams, by now nearly hallucinating, ready to forget about the commies and just kill me, asked Musa when the attack was supposed to start. Further, where the hell were the 1,000 rounds of 107mm rockets that were supposed to have plastered the fort? Also, where were the 340 other members of the attack force? Not to mention the reserve of 500 other Mujahideen.
“No problem,” came the answer. “The attack force waiting for word from fort.”
“What word from the fort?”
“A Mujahideen agent is inside the fort,” Musa smiled. “He is speaking with Russian commander. When the commander says hands up, we get four tanks.”
Nobody had said anything about tanks.
“They have four Russian T-62 tanks in the fort,” Musa wrinkled his brow. The T-62 tank has a U-5TS(2A20) 115mm smooth-bore gun with a bore evacuator. Maximum rate of fire is four rounds per minute, and it can fire HE-FRAG, (FS and OF-IS), HEAT-FS (BK-4 and BK-4M), and APFSDS (BM-6) ammo. A 7.62mm PKT machine gun is fired co-axially. Like other Soviet tanks, it can lay its own screen of white smoke by spraying diesel on hot exhaust manifolds; the smoke exits from exhaust ports on the left side. At 3,000 yards firing APFSDS rounds, first-hit probability is 100 percent.
Musa shrugged.
Williams perked up, hoping that the Soviet commander would indeed “hands up,” anticipating the effect of four 115 mm tank guns working over the Mujahideen attack formation as it crossed a line of departure in the open area around the fort.
Williams asked Musa, “What tactics do you use when you attack the fort?”
“No problem. First lie down on ground.” He demonstrated. “Then stand up.” He jumped to his feet with his AK at port arms and hesitated. “OK, then what?”
“Then stand up straight.” He squared his shoulders, brought the AK to an assault position from the hip, and yell Allah Akhbar,’ then run forward.”
It was no surprise that the Mujahideen’s infantry assault tactics were bizarre. “Musa, how close will you get to fort before you stand up and yell, Allah Akhbar’?” Williams asked. This insanity was about as whacky as Pickett’s charging up Cemetery Ridge at the battle of Gettysburg.
“No problem. Maybe 1,000 meters. No problem,” Musa said. Insanity!
Later that afternoon, three of us decided to eat our fly-infested bread and oranges in the shade of some trees rather than in the mosque. Before we’d finished our oranges, the rockets whizzed. We rushed off to find Hunter. Musa and two Mujahideen just outside the mosque entrance bantered in Pashto and burst into laughter.
“What is the joke?” I asked.
Apparently on our first night here, the Mujahideen with the RPGs had gone to the village and captured the deputy Russian commander and two Afghan soldiers, all drunk and asleep from hashish.
The flies were so thick inside our new mosque hotel by now that we decided to camp outside. Musa nixed that idea, pointing to a group of Mu-jahideen standing around a 14.5mm KPV heavy machine gun.
“Those are bad. Better you stay inside.”
Again that night, we faced the usual Mujahideen feast of sick sweet chai, bread, oranges and flies. By now, Montezuma’s revenge had struck everyone. We were dehydrated and becoming delusional.
The number of Mujahideen was thinning down. The number of rocket rounds fired at the fort increased, but nowhere close to the point where it could be called a barrage. Mortar rounds came from the fort once in a while but nothing of importance.
A FOX HOLE
On the morning of the third day, Williams and Fanshaw scooped out a hole in the event the fort batteries decided to give the mosque and the surrounding huts a pasting from mortars, artillery or, worst scenario, the T-62 MBTs. On the way back, Fanshaw turned and walked toward the 14.5 and a truck that was partially hidden by an adobe wall. While he was look-ing at the vehicle, a young Mujahideen, maybe in his early 20s, dressed in clean cammies, stopped Williams and in perfect English asked, “Are you a Muslim?”
“No.”
“Are you an American?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing here?”
Williams ignored him and found us checking out the fort through Steiner binoculars, watching the exchange of fire between the Soviets and the Mujahideen 107mm rocket batteries emplaced some 100 meters to the southeast of the mosque compound. Musa ran up from the rear of the adjoining buildings and called to us, “You come now.”
“Come where?” Williams asked.
“You no come? Why you are doing this to me?” The more agitated he got, the worse his English became.
“Bullshit. We want to know where the hell you are going and how far it is before we’re leaving here.” Fanshaw shook his finger at Musa, who turned to me for guidance.
“OK, we go,” I decided. Hunter and I dragged behind Musa
“They’re gonna get their ass blown away going with that idiot,” Williams remarked as he just watched us walk off.
BOOMMM! Twenty-two hundred yards, Williams estimated the range from the rocket batteries to the point of impact. CRUMMP, CRUMMP. Fanshaw started running toward the truck, unslinging his AK. All the Mujahideen around the 14.5 began running away from the gun to look at an open field some 800 meters away. By now Williams and Fanshaw had spotted through their binoculars several Mujahideen advancing across the field from our left to the right.
CRUMMP A 120mm mortar round from the fort landed behind one of the running Mujahideen, temporarily masking him with grey smoke. As the smoke cleared, there was no sign of the Afghan; then within seconds he was up and trotting again. To his left were two other Mujahideen, advancing across the thick grass. CRUMMP. Another round hit to their front, throwing chunks of earth, stones and grass stalks high in the air, covering them with smoke and cordite fumes.
“Paul, if those Afghans in the fort traverse those tubes to the left, we’re going to be in a world of hurt. That truck behind the wall is sitting over a grease pit that’s deep enough for us both. The wall might go, but the truck will cover us except for a direct hit. Then we’re screwed anyway,” Williams warned.
The two started toward the truck when Mohammed, standing near the 14.5, waved at them to follow him immediately.
“Hell, no!” Fanshaw shook his head at Mohammed. “If he’s going to go back to the mosque, we’ll get our ass blown off if they start hitting the buildings.”
“No, no. Please come with me. I must speak with you. There is much danger for you here.” Mohammed started toward the mosque.
“Come on, let’s give him a few minutes. We can come back here.” Williams fell in behind the old man, Fanshaw following.
There were no Mujahideen to be seen in the mosque.
“Alright, what’s the problem?” Fanshaw asked.
“You must leave quickly. There is a vehicle at the back of the building.” The Afghan’s face was drawn and his eyes bloodshot. Fanshaw was staring at Mohammed as if the old man was off his rocker.
“You know Mujahideen who ask you if you are Muslims?”
“Yeah, what about ‘em?”
“They are Khomeini people from village.” He paused and wiped his nose with the back of one gnarled hand. “Many times they meet and take money from KGB in fort. They say when we attack, they will shoot Americans.”
“I think it’s time we got the hell out of here,” Fanshaw said. “I believe the old man.”
Mohammad told the two to stay in the mosque until he found a vehicle.
“We’ve got to tell Brown and Hunter,” Fanshaw said as he picked up his AK and followed the Afghan out of the mosque and into the courtyard. Musa, Hunter and I were rounding the comer, with Fanshaw and Williams heading toward us. Several Mujahideen were watching the 122mm mortar rounds from the fort explode in the distance.
Williams was spouting out some gibberish in Spanish about whether we should tell Musa about what Mohammed had said. Musa, insulted, stomped off after Mohammed. Fanshaw and Williams told me what old Mohammed had said.
“I don’t believe any of this bullshit,” Hunter snorted and wiped his face with the sleeve of his Afghan blouse. “The old man is crazy. There aren’t any Khomeini people here, and even if there were there’s no way the Muj are going to let them hurt us. That would be the worst possible thing they could allow.”
As I reflected on the crazy story Fanshaw asked me, “Where’d Musa take you guys?”
“We walked about a hundred meters over to the 107s. I got a chance to fire a couple of rockets at the fort. Musa took some pictures,” I said.
“To hell with the pictures. What are your feelings about leaving?” Williams put pressure on.
“I think we should get the hell out of here,” I said. “We haven’t got communication with a swinging dick here who’s got any authority. We’re all sick from drinking pond scum shitwater. There hasn’t been shit in the way of an attack on the fort, and sooner or later the Russians in that sonofabitch are going to call Kabul and all shit’s going to hit the fan.” We went looking for Mohammed.
“I’ll go find him.” Fanshaw headed for the area behind the building where Mohammed was last seen. We were getting our gear together when Musa ran in.
“There is no danger. No Khomeini men. Tahir come. Russians go hands up maybe.” He was as wound up as before. “Screw it, Musa, we go,” I said.
Hunter made a face and looked at Musa. “Musa, they think some people in the village will try and kill us during attack.”
“No, not possible. Mujahideen won’t let it happen.”
Mohammed suddenly walked in, looked around at the group and sat down near Musa, who said some harsh Pashto words to the old man and stormed out. Mohammed smiled and shook his head. “Musa is boy,” he said. “He not understand.”
“Is all our gear ready?” I asked Fanshaw. “We’re set to get out of here?”
“I will go now to the vehicle. You wait at the wall outside.” Mohammed shook hands with us and scurried out the door. We gathered outside at the adobe wall that faced the Russian fort. It shielded us from any of the Russian Afghan garrison that might be scoping the mosque and the surrounding buildings. Williams was focusing his binoculars on the fort, watching for Mujahideen 107mm hits, when we heard a sudden CRACK.
“What the hell’s that?” I looked around with nerves dancing from the heat, the cuisine, the chants and lunacy.
ORANGE FLAMES FLARED
An orange-red flame flared from the direction of the highest point on the 1,500-meter ridgeline, followed by another CRACK.
“Holy shit!” Fanshaw yelled.
The flame came from a 115 mm gun attached to the turret of a T-62, which was sitting in full view atop the ridgeline and firing at the Mujahideen rocket batteries in the valley. Apparently the commander, who did not bother to go into hull defilade position, which would afford some protection against the 107s, was not worried about the Mujahideen rockets. Suddenly, a ball of fire throwing orange showers of flame erupted near the T-62. One of the Mujahideen rounds had landed short but on line with the Soviet tank. It was only a matter of time before the gunner decided to traverse the turret in our direction.
BLAM. A second orange fireball hit dead center against the T-62’s hull, enveloping the tank in flames that kept burning long after impact, sending a column of greasy, black smoke high in the air, obscuring any view of the turret and hatch.
I muttered, “There’s Mohammed. Maybe he’s got our vehicle squared away.” The old man was trotting toward us, casting glances toward the burning tank.
“The vehicle will be ready soon. We will go back into the mosque to wait.”
“Horseshit. Another ‘no problem’ scenario. Let’s find out what the hell’s going on.” Fanshaw turned and stuck his face close to Mohammed’s. “Where’s the vehicle?”
“The vehicle is back there. Behind the building.”
“Paul, take a recce and see what’s going on with our ride,” I said. The ex-legionnaire left at a run, long legs moving like pistons, Mohammed walking swiftly behind him. “Bob, the Toyota’s there, but it’s locked and there’s no driver anywhere around. What do you want to do?” Fanshaw came back panting.
“Let’s go.” I headed for the vehicle, ordering the rest to follow, with the old man Mohammed bringing up the rear. When we reached the Toyota, Williams crawled up into the cargo compartment and squatted down with his back toward the wall of a darkened building only a few feet away. Fanshaw took up a position between the truck and the building, giving him a field of fire covering both flanks. Hunter and I stood at the rear of the vehicle, waiting for Mohammed to close up. Musa and several Mujahideen walked quickly around the side of the building and headed for the truck.
There was a series of dull click-clacks as rounds were chambered. Williams and I locked and loaded, my fire selector was set to AUTO.
Musa and the Mujahideen, hearing us chamber rounds in our AKs, skidded to a halt. He raised both hands chest high, turned palms outward and protested, “Bob, Mike . . . no shoot Mujahideen.” I pointed my AK at Musa’s chest. “I no shoot if Mujahideen no shoot.” Musa walked away from me and toward Williams.
“Mike, Mujahideen no shoot you.” Williams moved his fire selector from SINGLE to AUTO and pointed the AK at Musa’s middle. “Musa, we go. Now!”
For the next two hours, the Mujahideen ran back and forth between us and the mosque. The driver wasn’t available, then they couldn’t find the commander. Musa and the Mullah, yelling something about Allah, assured us that we were safe.
Finally, Farouk, the assault party’s commander, showed up and the three started shouting at each other. Some Mujahideen appeared with a radio that they set up several feet away from the truck. Farouk knelt down near it and started to transmit. After at least 15 minutes of communication in Pashto, Musa ran over and told me, “Bob, commander say we go now.”
Suddenly a driver appeared, and we climbed in the Toyota, followed by some other armed Mujahideen. Farouk ordered Mohammed and Musa into the second Toyota, then joined us in the front passenger seat.
LOST
It was pitch black, but the drivers had no problem following the snaking, rocky road. We were all prepared for a Russian ambush. We approached the village where our Khomeini-supporting assassins were holed up. The villagers had shot a series of flares in some sort of fireworks display and they arched into the black sky.
We drove on for four hours uphill on a sandy road. We arrived at no-man’s-land nestled away in a canyon. The Mujahideen jumped out and started climbing in single file. We had no choice but to follow.
The Mujahideen were pressing their luck, laughing as we chugged up the rocky path and across a muddy patch where a mountain stream flowed. We said nothing, numbly putting one foot after the other. Our boots were full of mud, inside and out. Williams threw himself down by the stream. scooping up water in his cupped hands.
The tall Mujahideen grabbed him. “Op ney! Lop ney. No water. No rest.” We were in danger from the Russians, and the Mujahideen were in danger from the near delusional, fatigued and murderous armed gringos.
Williams, over the edge, blurted out of the blue “BAHH BAHH!” Our guards, highly amused, started babbling even louder. I suggested that the Mujahideen carry Williams’ webbing and ammo.
“Fuck you,” he said. Then when he spotted another stream of water, he threw his gear at the Mujahideen.
“Salaam a Leikum. Allah Akhbar. Take this rucker,” he said. The laughing Mujahideen grabbed him by each arm and dragged him along. Suddenly, we heard the sound of a Massey-Ferguson that had stopped 50 meters ahead of us. We climbed into the tractor cart, hanging on for dear life, trying to keep our balance on the oily floor as the driver charged ahead to the commo bunker. We reached the top of the hill, climbed out of the cart and walked the last 500 meters. We passed out as soon as we hit the carpet.
In the morning, we were served our usual feast of sick sweet tea and cakes. We hadn’t finished when Musa ordered us to go to the vehicle that had just arrived. This time our limo was the tractor and cart that had brought us in there. Three Mujahideen in the cart were fingering their AKs. Mohammed helped us carry our gear to the transport and shook hands, smiling as we climbed up the cart’s sides. He stood and watched us until the driver turned the curve. We rattled up some hills and slid down some muddy trails. Rounding one of the hills, the driver came to a fork in the road. When the road branched off, we took the right fork and plunged into a bog hole.
Fanshaw jumped down to the muddy bog side and looked carefully at the tractor’s right front tire. The Mujahideen tried to rock the Massey free nonstop for a good hour, only to dig the cart deeper into the mud. Fanshaw, lean and muscular, stripped to the waist, grabbed a shovel from the cart and started digging up the mud in front of the wheel, but that only made things worse.
“Let’s walk,” he said, and we headed out for the next command post. It was only ten kilometers away. The Mujahideen told us the route to the Command Post was over an easy trail. Paul’s map showed a 1,000-meter increase in elevation as we marched up. We reached a valley that ran some 25 klicks to a high range of mountains. Musa led the pack. Fanshaw stopped, looked at a topographical map he carried, took out a compass and shot a bearing to the highest of the peaks across the valley. HalfWay up the hillside Musa spotted a small boy. “Wait here. I will go talk to the boy,” he said.
“Ask him how far to the CP,” I said as I rested my back against a rock. “Bob, he’s lost,” Fanshaw said. “We should be going north, not east. Look at this.
I glanced at the route Fanshaw pointed out. “Son of a bitch, you’re right,” I said, preparing to kill Musa.
Musa came back from talking to the boy and said, “He is a nomad. He says we go that way.” He pointed to a road that curved down northeastward, toward the valley floor.
“Bullshit, Musa. That’ll take all day, and we’ll be stuck on that road all night and tomorrow. Don’t forget we’re low on water and I’ve only got one canteen for the five of us.” Fanshaw tapped the canteen attached to his belt.
“No problem. We can go that way,” Musa pointed again to the winding road. I clenched my fist at the Mujahideen. “No, Musa. We go Fanshaw’s way.”
Musa shrugged and turned away, sucking on a blade of grass. Fanshaw took out his map and compass once again, checked the bearing to the peak and started off cross-country in determined strides. We figured we had originally gone in completely the wrong direction and were now 20 kilometers away.
Musa joined Paul at the head of the column, marching along without a care in the world, carrying the only AK in the group. We stumbled across scrub brush and rocks and into deep ravines and back up, having to grab branches to keep us from sliding down.
“Listen,” I said. It was the sound of jet engines. Musa shielded his eyes with his right hand, looking in the direction of the sounds. Hunter was the first to see them. He pointed and yelled. “MiGs! They’re dropping heat flares to stop the Stingers!”
The jets were not visible, but the heat flares were easy to pick up— silvery-white smoke columns against the light blue of the Afghan sky. A few seconds passed, then a loud BOOM shook the earth. They were bombing the village. Hunter turned toward the distant peak marking the CP’s location and began to jog down the slope, shouting, “Come on! If those bastards catch us out here in the open we’ve had it!”
We ran after him running across flat terrain, slowing to a quick walk through heavy bush, and jogging along crumbling banks of dry gullies. We heard no more bombing, only the noise of jet engines. We scrambled up a small rise and ahead of us was a crude hut built of earth and grass, with two shepherd nomads sitting on the ground watching their sheep. At our approach, one of them got up to greet us. Musa shook his hand. “These nomads are sometimes spies for Russians. Don’t speak.”
We sat down and rested while Musa walked back. The old, wrinkled one motioned to his companion to go to the hut. He came back a while later, toting a large tin pitcher. He offered Musa and his friend a drink. They refused it and pointed towards us. He knelt in front of us and offered the jug to Fanshaw, who took a couple of swallows, then passed it to Hunter who did the same. Then it was my turn after which I handed it off to Williams. We chugged the no doubt bacteria-laden water down. Fanshaw filled our canteen, and we nervously started off again, watching our backs. We had one AK, no food, minimal water for five men and the barest of communication.
We stumbled along down another deep ravine. I kept asking how much farther we had to go before we would reach the CP. No response. “Do you understand,” I roared at Musa. “Yes,” he nodded several times. Williams called, “Robert, can’t you see he doesn’t understand a damn thing you’re saying?”
“Sure he does. Right Musa?”
Musa nodded his head. “Yes. Yes. No problem.”
I smirked at the nervous Williams.
“OK, Brown,” he replied, “ask him if he’s an astronaut.”
I did, and we waited for the response. “Musa, are you an astronaut?”
“Yes.”
“Ask him if he’s a brain surgeon,” Williams said.
“Musa, are you a brain surgeon?”
Again the happy smile, a nod of the head and a happy “Yes.”
We picked up speed as the sun began to set. Fanshaw, having replaced Musa as the guide, yelled, “Come on! You’ve got to hurry. If we’re caught out here at night with no water, no food and one AK, we could be in a world of shit.”
Musa nodded. “Yes,” he remarked.
We ran into another nomad with a small boy and a herd of sheep. Musa stopped them and, after a brief conversation in Pashto, the shepherd pointed straight ahead in the direction we were traveling.
“OK, not far,” Musa said, breaking into a trot.
We saw a familiar-looking hill facing a river and the small grove of mulberry trees that marked the CP area. Fanshaw urged, “You’ve got to hurry! We can’t go into the camp after dark; the sentries will shoot us.”
“Five minute break,” Williams begged.
“To Hell with the break. COME ON! If we were in the Legion, I’d tie a rope around you and drag your ass!” Fanshaw roared. He started trotting ahead, glancing over his shoulder to make sure I was still moving. Musa was well ahead of us, starting down a steep incline, when a shout sounded from atop a barren hill to our immediate right. Hunter stopped short and froze, his head turned toward the summit. A Mujahideen was pointing an AK at Hunter. The click-clack of a chambering round came faintly over Musa’s answer.
Musa and the sentry shouted at each other for a while. Hunter was still frozen in place. Fanshaw was kneeling and I wanted to spit my Skoal at the Mujahideen. Musa motioned us up the trail leading to the sentry. “No problem, everything fine. We go.”
Fanshaw led the way behind Musa, with Hunter bringing up the rear. Our ensuing feast of chai, oranges and cakes was as good as a big hunk of prime rib and baked potato and a couple bottles of wine this time. Fanshaw cursed Musa under his breath and Williams scratched the fleas attacking his tired ass. Tahir was nowhere to be seen, so Musa was sent down the hill to the CP building to find him.
He came back a few minutes later, smiling. “A vehicle will take us back to Quetta in the morning. INSHALLAH.”
Fanshaw walked up to Musa and put his face six inches from the Afghan’s. “Musa. We all go to Quetta tomorrow morning! No! INSHAL- LAH! We go!”
“OK, yes. No problem.”
At daybreak, we packed our remaining gear and finished our continental breakfast of chai, bread and cake-flies. Musa, who had slept at the CP, came to the bottom of the hill and yelled to us, pointing to a Toyota parked nearby. By the time we reached the bottom there were several Mu-jahideen gathered around the truck. Ramadan had not yet ended and the driver was kneeling on his prayer rug a short distance away. His back toward us, his head toward Mecca, he was deeply involved in prayer and oblivious to everyone. Finally, the driver finished his chanting and walked around the Toyota, opened the door and crawled in behind the wheel. He glanced up at some sacred flowers he had in the car and shouted, “Allah Akhbar!”
I got in next to the driver, Williams next to me. The driver cranked the engine and turned on the radio, and off we were to Quetta. The trip was long and dusty, but Quetta sounded like an oasis in the desert.
Tahir sent us a note explaining the reason he wasn’t able to visit us at the fort. Shortly after we had crossed the frontier into Afghanistan he was informed that by 15 May 1988 all his arms, ammunition and supplies would have to be out of Pakistani territory and inside Afghanistan, or they would be impounded. Presumably this was the Pakistani reaction to the massive explosion of an enormous ammo dump near Islamabad just weeks before, which was suspected to have been the handiwork of the Soviet KGB.
We made it out, swearing never to go back to that dreadful country. Until next year, that was . . .