THE MORNING AFTER the Shockers’ firefight in Maidan Shar, DeMartino called Hill and chewed him out over the incident. The EPWs were released the same day. It was the second catch-and-release incident in short succession. First, Signal Mirror guy and the dirty terp, now a group of armed men who had nearly killed Kris Wilson. What message was this sending to his men? Hill wondered. As important, what message was it sending to the enemy? That they could not only infiltrate Hill’s base, but fire on his men at will and without consequence?
Hill remembered his counterinsurgency training, where he’d learned to study and understand the culture of the people he was trying to help. The culture of Afghanistan is tribalism, gamesmanship, survival of the cunning. In a land perpetually riven by war, it is the shrewd man, not the honest one, who saves himself and his family, and preserves his line. Honor, in the western sense, is an impractical virtue. Instead, the greatest leader is one who can delicately navigate internecine tribal pacts, alliances, and grudges, some of which have simmered for centuries.
Tribal elders practice the art of the deal, playing both ends against the middle, family over tribe, tribe over sect, sect over infidel. To lie convincingly in the service of those loyalties is not dishonesty but finesse, sagacity, the mark of a strong horse.
Hill had come to Afghanistan forced to operate under the American illusion that everyone wants to live under democracy and the rule of law. That Afghanistan’s leaders would see the error of their ancient ways and cooperate in bringing their society into the twenty-first century.
Now, though, the looking glass had cracked, and seven years of war had produced an avalanche of data to the contrary—insider attacks, treachery among local and national leaders, and friendly attacks on American troops. But somehow that data had not entered the decision-making cycle. Somehow, facts on the ground were being reinterpreted to produce politically palatable results. In this particular case, the governor’s men had simply made a mistake.
Hill had noticed a change in the color of MAJ Faber’s daily reports. They contained more boldfaced, underlined phrases emphasizing unfulfilled requests for resources and support. Also, more summaries of TICs, or troops in contact. Three firefights off Highway 1. Four attacks on ANP stations around Wardak. Continuing rocket attacks on Airborne, with eleven rockets fired in one night, seven scoring direct hits.
Political instability was also on the rise. Governor Naeemi had warned that COL Shah and the National Directorate of Security could be trusted but that the Afghan National Police could not. Of particular concern was GEN Muzafarradin, the ANP’s top man in Wardak. Muzafarradin was in near-daily contact with Faber and Dog Company, and was read in on many Coalition ops. If he was dirty, D Co was incredibly exposed.
As the next few days passed, Hill half-expected someone from Battalion to make some overture of support. Kind of a “Hey, we know it was a shitty deal. Politics, you know.” Then, the attacker Wilson shot died. LTC DeMartino immediately launched an investigation to determine whether the Shockers were guilty of fratricide.
Hill was stunned. An investigation? To determine whether Wilson had committed a war crime by firing on a man who, after a warning shout, had tried to kill him?
Hill considered it an obscene violation of the covenant between the officer corps and NCO corps. Officers set direction and strategy, determined a desired end state, and led from the front when appropriate. NCOs, as much as possible, executed and took care of soldiers. Hill, for example, was a West Point grad who the Army had paid to receive a fancy education. But he had only eight years of active duty. His NCOs, meanwhile, had been in the Army for ten, fifteen, even twenty years. Most had only high school educations, but they were expert soldiers with multiple combat tours. If Hill didn’t have the moral backbone to underwrite their decisions, especially when they displayed textbook judgment and execution, what other stock did he have to trade in? What other capital did he have besides his men’s trust?
“Captain Hill!”
Hill was walking from the chow shack to his hooch when he heard Sammy calling him. He turned toward the FOB gate to see the terp walking up the dusty grade with a suitcase in his left hand and a package wrapped in brown paper in his right. Sammy had been on a five-day leave to Kabul. Hill walked down to meet him and the two embraced with the standard American-guy hug—handshake, pull in, a single, stern pat on the back, release. Over tours with three American units, Sammy had abandoned Afghanistan cheek kisses for social customs of the West. (Hill was grateful; in Iraq, “man kisses” multiplied the better you got to know a guy.)
He regarded the young interpreter warmly. Since Dog Company arrived in-country, he had rarely been away from Hill’s side. A combat commander’s terp is his eyes and ears. Hill was conducting a counterinsurgency in enemy badlands where he didn’t speak the language. He relied on Sammy to navigate the province and its politics. Without Sammy, he could not communicate. Without Sammy, he could not gauge cultural nuances that meant the difference between a treacherous tribal elder and an ally. Without his terp, Hill was dead in the water.
On a personal level, Hill’s relationship with Sammy lacked the weight of Army expectations. It was the only such relationship he had in Wardak. During quiet times on patrol, the two men talked about their families. Sammy adored his mother and shared about her often. Hill told Sammy about his wife, Lauren, how compassionate she was, how she’d changed him as a man. They also talked about the changes in the world, Sammy about his work with the 82nd Airborne and prior units, Hill about his tour in Iraq. Hill had succeeded in getting U.S. visas for his Iraqi interpreters, Fahmi and Jack, he told his terp. He planned to do the same for Sammy.
The terp held out the brown-paper package. “Sir, I got something for you… I mean, for your wife. My mother picked it out.”
Hill was taken aback. Sammy made more money than the rest of the terps, but not enough to buy him gifts. Sammy pulled the string that bound the parcel and it unfolded, revealing a green faux velvet dress ornately embroidered in gold.
“Do you think she will like it?” he said a bit shyly.
Hill struggled with his emotions. In a bloody, violent land, this was as soft and warm a gesture as he had seen. “This is too much, Sammy. Too kind.”
Hill took the dress and folded it back on itself to more closely examine the intricate embroidery at the neck and shoulders. He looked up at Sammy and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It’s perfect. I hope one day you can see her wearing it yourself.”
Sammy smiled. “I hope so, too, sir.”