Sands of Afghanistan

Author's Note

Sands of Afghanistan was wrtten in 2007 at the height of the British army's involvement in Afghanistan simply as a comment on the idiocy of it all.

In 2015 it was revisted again and was still going on. This engendered a more serious view. Now, in 2018, things are just as bad, if not worse. More was written on these events but are not published on this site. 

Sands of Afghanistan 1 

First encounter with Ginger Bones is as he warns his old battalion of a trap he is transported into todays military operations. 

Ginger Bones Saga  

                                                          First Contact

Ginger Bones looked out along the shimmering rock strewn track up to the stark Mountains of the Hindu Cush. The mid day sun beat down with killing rays creating a stifling heat. The Third Battalion Dragoon Guards would be along soon not withstanding the heat. They should be camped down but their Colonel wanted them up in the mountains before night fall. That way they could reach the Al-ask Ber station hoping to avoid tribesmen on the way.
 
Ginger Bones was dressed as a Sikh with long flowing red hair and a fine red beard. The army had agreed to change him from Scottish Presbyterian to Sikh so his hair and turban would protect him from the sun. Tribesmen thought of him as a red Devil, the Army thought of him as misfit, but he was dam useful as a scout, so turned a blind eye to his escapades.

He heard the jangling of spurs and reins as he saw the flash of light up ahead. A trap, an ambush, a warning, a welcome. In these mountains it was hard to know, and no-one dare take chances. He looked down the trail and could see the tops of the lances, he sighted on the position of the flash and realised that the lead horseman would not have seen it. He must warn them. Too late he saw the advancing tribesman. They moved easily from rock to rock.  His plan to climb up on a rock to warn the oncoming troops was now thwarted.  He would have to draw their fire, that was the easiest way to raise a warning.

He waited until the last minute, so that the unit coming round the bend would hear the warning shots and see the tribesman. He loaded his rifle. It seemed to take hours. Gunpowder carton, ball, ramrod, check the percussion. He leapt down onto the track, red hair and turban flowing in the wind, and dancing a mad dervish dance fired his rifle in to the air. The surprised tribesman, thinking he was the Devil, fired towards him.

He heard the whoosh but saw nothing, he was flung high in the air, it seemed as if a tornado had come down the trail from the mountain top. He heard a different jangle, this time of tracks grinding on the sandy soil. The high mast had the flag of the Dragoon Guards but these were not horses, they were monsters.

 He opened his eyes as water was being poured onto his lips.
  ‘You mad bastard, what you doin out here?‘ The Tribesmen, they would have you.’

The corporal looked at him oddly.’ And you goin’ to stop them with this, them and there Kalashnikovs!’

 Ginger Bones closed his eyes and passed out thinking there were some new tribesman in the hills. He was so right.

  Sands of Afghanistan 2                                                                       

Ginger Bones Saga

  The Khyber Pass

  Save the Regiment

 The 2nd Dragoon Guards made their way along the rock strewn trail in the heat of the day. Under the hard blue skies and the hammer of the midday sun they could not maintain their composure as a crack regiment and were dragging along in a state of exhaustion. They had avoided a skirmish with some hill tribesman by the aid of a madman who had appeared before them dancing on the rocks that had drawn the their fire.

 Some had seen him, others only heard his wild screams, and yet where was he now? The word went back that a red devil had appeared and suddenly the tribesmen had disappeared! The Colonel, riding up front, had seen, what he thought was an apparition. He turned to Dragoon Warrant Officer Turner, his right hand man, and made a hands open query. Through parched lips caked with the dust he muttered the words ‘Ginger Bones‘.

 The hill fort of Abes del Durae commanded the pass up into the mountains that divide Afghan from India and the Dragoon Guards had been ordered to take it to control any insurgency spilling over from the mutiny in India. It had seemed easy enough on the map at headquarters, but there’s a big difference between seeing and doing. Colonel Fitzgerald was new to India and had a lot to learn! His decision to press on during the heat of the day nearly lead to his undoing. They were headed into the dreaded Khyber pass, home of the Pashtun clansman who rejected all invading armies.

Ginger Bones saw the black shapes encircling the long trail of red jackets spread along the trail. The Dragoons were in danger of being picked off one by one. He had had a strange dream where mysterious forces of another nature was abroad, and he had been revived by a strange but familiar hand. He looked round for them in desperation. The Dragoons were riding into an ambush, and they need all the help they could get.

 He had loaded his musket in readiness but what target; could one ball change the course of events? Someone in the column had to be sacrificed. He chose the Colonel and fired.

The Colonel fell forward, the lead ball tearing a lump from his shoulder, but managed to get to his radio transmitter. ‘Alpha one hit. Action, return fire.’

With the opening of rapid fire raking the pass the Pastuns evaporated into the mountain side, And Ginger Bones disappeared with them.

‘Bloody Ginger Bones,’ muttered the Dragoon Warrant Officer, ‘I’ll ginger him when I get him.’

Sands of Afghanistan 3

Ginger Bones Saga

The First Skirmish
From then to now

High in the Hindu Cush Akbar Khan was recruiting tribesmen to revolt against the British. He had spoken long into the night and firelight was now flickering on the mountain walls. He spoke passionately of the love of the people of Afghanistan for their country. He spoke of the hatred for the British who had now taken over the main town of Kabul. He spoke of the bravery of the warrior tribesmen. He spoke of their fierce fighting spirit. He spoke of their families. He spoke of their homes. They listened impassionedly.

They were not impressed but listened with their customary politeness, stroking their long black beards. But he had not spoken of guns or money, they waited patiently. He, and they, knew this was the nub of the issue. He signalled an aid and unwrapped a weapon, it was the new Baker musket now being supplied to the British Army. A murmur of approval.

 ‘And with these we will cut infidel throats who have defiled our women.’

From a bundle he spilled shiny bejewelled scimitars onto the ground.  He picked one up and in a dramatic gesture cut the palm of his hand and shouted to the mountain heights, ’Are we blood brothers?’  ‘We are all Allah’s servants‘ they chanted and fired their muskets into the dark night.

 Ginger Bones had followed Akbar Khan into the mountains and had heard his entreaties, his promise of gold, his promise of power to the War Lords of the North. These powerful entreaties could lead to an uprising with disastrous consequences for the British. Something must be done.

                                                             **************************************
Kabul was a free city, but now occupied by the British. They lived a life based on different standards that offended the elders. They had their work cut out withholding the guerrilla war going on in the surrounding countryside.

The 2nd Dragoon Guards encampment was just outside the city. On a cold morning a strange figure emerged from the mountain mist and asked to see the commanding officer.

‘Why, if it ain’t Corporal Bones come back from the dead,’ exclaimed Warrant Officer Turner, ’I think your numbers up for shooting the Colonel!’ 

‘The tribesmen are preparing an attack, the Colonel must be warned.’

‘What attack?’

They both heard the clatter of a machine gun. A trooper stepped out from the command tent, ’Insurgents down by the west wall.’ ’Sound the alarm, signal HQ, call for air reconnaissance.’

 ‘Come on Bones grab that weapon.’

They ran to line of sand bags, throwing himself down the Warrant Officer opened fire. Beside him a red dervish fired what looked like an old musket, and drawing a scimitar raced along the line of sandbags screaming at the tribesmen, who melted away. Troopers in sand battle kit looked on, opened mouthed.

 ’It’s that damned Ginger Bones, I‘ll have him yet.’ 

Sands of Afghanistan 4

                                           Ginger Bones Saga

                                             Smell of Treachery

Akbar Khan was in a rage. His plan to recapture Kabul had been thwarted, added to which thirty warriors had been killed in a stupid battle with the British army. This puzzled him, it was not possible to kill so many skilled tribesmen who had fought so many times in the hills against other tribes. They were skilled guerrilla fighters, what were they doing making a head on battle with British military? Slowly word got back to him and one name kept appearing; Ginger Bones! Who was this Ginger Bones, who had so easily turned the tribesmen in raving lunatics, was he an agent provocateur ? He swore to find out.

Ginger Bones lay on silk sheets under the administrations of a silken beauty. He was dry and could not quell the thirst. He was hot and yet shivered. When ever he opened his eyes the room swam. He felt he was drowning. He was suffering from Laudanum hang over! There was the smell of musk as a cool vessel was placed between his lips. Long black hair swung down and brushed across his naked chest.

 ’Drink my Lord.’

He could not swallow and a finger was dipped into the liquid and smoothed over his lips, as his tongue came out to lick the finger it was slipped into his mouth and he sucked hungrily on it.

 ‘Enough of that you bugger, chuck that bucket of water over him.’

The Indian sepoy stood back as Warrant Officer Davidson threw the bucket of water over Ginger Bones, with some relish it must be said.

 ‘Well if it ain’t my old mate Gunga Din, welcome home!’        

 ‘Have you got a Corporal Jones here?’ queried an officer’s voice.

 ‘We’ve got a bag’o’bones, Sir, if that’s any use?’

 ‘It’s Corporal Jones the Colonel wants, so be quick about it.’ ordered the sterner voice of the Second in Command.

 In double time Jones was cleaned up and dressed up, and half carried to the Colonels tent.

 ‘Jones?’ a cultured voice queried.

  ‘Yes sir.’ trying his best to come to attention.

 ‘An Arab named Akbar Khan has been asking about someone  called Ginger Bones, he says you prevented the town from being taken by his tribesmen.’

 ‘Me sir, no sir, it was your..’ he hesitated, remembering his hallucination.

Then another thought crossed his mind, how did Akbar know where he was? He thought of the musk and the administering hands and smelt treachery.

Late that night two figures might have been seen leaving the camp. But only one was seen in the morning as a strange red devil disappeared into the surrounding mountains. A sepoy was found with his throat cut and a phial of Laudanum in his hand.
 

The scene now moves from the past where the mythical Ginger Bones saved the regiment to current times when a strange dervish figure appears to help the fighting troops from time to time.

 Sands of Afghanistan 5

                                                Soldiers in combat swear a lot - it is kept to the minimum  

Who's the Winner

‘Crump’, and again’ crump’, the sound of mortars. ‘Incoming’, the shout goes up. Dive down behind sandbags, like a child in a bed I wish I could pull the covers over me and be safe. ‘Again, ‘crump’, hell is that closer. Surely there’s not two out there quartering us? I squirm in the sand and pull a sand bag over my arse. I think my helmet and body army are OK, but hell who wants to bet their balls blown off! Sodding mortars. They come straight down, there’s no hiding from them. How did I get caught out there. Jesus this is stupid, know why? I had a grandfather in Vietnam and my father was in the First Gulf war! You’d think I had more sense. Jesus, they drilled into me don’t volunteer, and watch out for mortars. And here I am.

‘Jones, get back here.’ I look round, there’s that stupid lieutenant, been here a week and thinks he’s in command, what a prick, those Arabs out there are in command, we move when they let us. He keeps beckoning me. I hear that crump again. I don’t like the sound of that, it means they are close and they are coming in fast. I feel the blast up my legs, and a piece of shrapnel cuts into the sand bag above me.

Bloody hell , have I been hit? I put my hand down by my side, feels OK. Shit, I just want a hit enough to get me home. But God I need my legs. Where the hell are they? I feel nothing but sand. Strangely I shout out, ’Where are you Mother.’ As if she can help, but hell I would not want to upset her. And my dad, what would he say?  ’You stupid dog shit, what did I tell you.’ I can hear the words now. Wait, I can hear other words, somebody muttering in an Arabic tongue.

Hell, who is that? It’s pretty close. We were told back at base camp we were fighting the Taliban. We were put right by a master sergeant. ’OK you dog shit heroes.’ Hell he sounded like my dad. ‘Shoot any bastard in front of you before they take your balls off.’   I action that advice. I pull my M16 round poke it between the sand back and loose off three bursts. The muttering stops.

I sit at home on the veranda looking out across green fields. I’m a vet now. Hell I’m in a rocking chair, sometimes I have a great anger and I use the word ‘fuck’ a lot and rock that chair to break. Shit what a waste, I was proud of that well trained body, and now look. They had to drag me out cuss I hadn’t’ got any legs. Left them in the sands of Afghanistan!

In a more sombre moment I look down in the eye of my mind and see a boy sprawled across the sand, head blown away, a Kalshnikof in his outstretched hand. I’d blown somebody’s balls off alright. Then I think of two mothers, and cry. Where’s the winner in that?

Sands of Afghanistan 6 

Desert Patrol

The Last one alive

The .5 inch heavy machine gun drummed out its deadly message across the sands of  Kandahar perimeter. In bursts of 500 rounds per minute it had comforting protective feel to it. The young trooper who was sighting opened eyed felt the exhilarating surge that comes from being allowed unrestricted gun fire. He was targeting the enemy, an old enemy who’s ancestors had fought the British and had inflicted heavy and murderous casualties on them.

The trooper did not know this, and hence did not have their measure. Also he did not see that he was the enemy occupying their land. Trooper Jones was laying down defensive fire to cover the patrol that was going out to convert hearts and minds. He did not see the irony of this.

The patrol was on foot, the most hated. And like most soldiers knew that it was pointless. The gunmen just fade away and then appear at your rear, or not at all, it was an exercise in fear, they need do nothing, and you risk your life for nothing.

In a wadi not 500 metres from the perimeter wall of the air base black clothed tribesmen waited.  Since they effectively surrounded the air base they had no direct plan. It was simple, the infidels were cooped up in their air base, unable to come without facing fire, so it was just a matter of waiting.

The heavy machine gun kept pounding away, they saw it pick up dust close to the wadi. Jesus, the corporal in charge of the patrol thought, what‘s that idiot up to, he’ll cut us up in a minute. ‘Down‘, he shouted. They bit the dust as an answering burst of heavy machine gun fire cut across them to the perimeter wall, this was followed by the familiar sound of an AK 47. They were trapped between their own fire and the gunmen, with no cover. The corporal knew what was coming next, fucking aluminium boxes all the way home. The noise was deafening, suddenly there was a whoosh and the heavy covering fire stopped. God he knew what that was , a bloody Russian rocket launcher

 Jesus, what now, when he some prat dressed drssed in a highland skirt and a turban dancing about in the wadi beckoning to him. In a flash he saw a chance, and up and running shouted run you bastards run. He dived into the wadi, could it be a trap? He swung left and emptied the whole magazine of his SA80  along the length of the wadi and then it fucking jammed. It was the end. He started to cry when he realised he was the last one alive, and he has not stopped yet!

Communique; Desert patrol met heavy resistance and suffered some casualties. 
  

Sands of Afghanistan 7

Those of an imaginative nature can supply their own swear words

Reporter Down

‘Jesus ****** Christ, who was the *******bugger who devised this plan?’
‘You did sir,’ answered his subaltern.

There is nothing more earth shattering to hear the upper class give vent to their feelings.

‘Um, well its ***** useless, it’s all bloody useless, God knows what the objective is, and I haven’t the recourses to wipe an arse let alone subdue these Afgis.’

‘Yes sir,’ answered the subaltern without emphasis. ’You have a visitor.’ He hesitated, knowing full well what the answer would be. ’A reporter………from the BBC…he’s Welsh’

General Sir Herbert Fitzgerald, DSO CBE, commander of all the forces in Afghanistan, already a dangerous shade of red, turned purple.

‘That’s all I need, B*** B**** C***and a sheep ***** as well! Christ what do they think this is, Thompson tours! Give me that prepared statement, then….,’ a devious smile came to his face, ’Offer him  the chance to go out with a patrol, they can’t resist that……….’ Then, he looked almost human, ’Isn’t there a Scots patrol going out, send him with them. OK, wheel him in.’

Evylin Thomas was not one for the front line stuff, he was more at home in the studio following the cue card reader, but he could not turn that offer down, even Kate Aide had not done a patrol.

 He was introduced to the Jocks and off they went in their snatch Landrovers. Usually they give reporters the grand tour, but he was special, well he was Welsh and they could afford to lose him. They turned off the main drag onto the back streets. Dark men in turbans and long cloaks stared belligerently at them. Women in full burkas glided along, turning in to narrow alleys as soon as they saw the Jocks. They had a reputation for not being too sensitive when searching for weapons.

The first land rover skidded to a halt, the others fanned out behind onto the pavements knocking stalls over and scattering any Afgis sitting there. A woman in full burka was kneeling over a child in the road, blood pouring from its head. Evens, in the last Landrover, was bundled out and pushed up against a wall by a burly Jock.

A bearded man stepped out of a doorway, AK 47 in hand. Without warning Jock sprayed the wall with bullets, a stray one ricocheted off the wall and caught Evens on the back of his hand. Without ceremony he was bundled into the Landrover. The woman and child gone they sped back to camp, flying the red cross.

 Thomas wore his sling proudly as he reported from war torn Afghanistan. Sir Herbert Fitzgerald was well pleased, at least some things went to plan.
  
   

Sands of Afghanistan 8

The Real Taliban

Reporters Intelligence briefing - Kandaha

 The Taliban were simply religious leaders who became freedom fighters in the war against the Russians. It is important to know that they are made up of different factions, under war lords, but came together to rule the country through their capture of Kandaha and Kabul. They were a unifying force but unfortunately for the Afgahns adopted a severe form of Sharia (Islamic) law which forbade many things we would take for granted and even introduced public executions.

 Their seeming control of Afghanistan was fabricated to some extent. Civil war still went on, and what is called the Northern Alliance are anti-Taliban and continue to fight them. At heart, the Taliban, whilst adopting severe religious rights, are a band of cut throats, totally untrustworthy, and  fund themselves from their drug trade.

 NATO now has the job of containing them, but it is dangerous to move outside any secure area - you cannot recognise your enemy. Do not have any dealings with them - your life will always be in danger.

End of briefing.

 Mullah Dadullah Akhund is the best known and most feared Taliban commander operating in the south for his extremist beliefs, psychopathic savagery and love of self-promotion. Mullah Omar, the spiritual leader of the Taliban, sacked him as commander of Taliban forces in Bamiyan because his methods were considered was too brutal.

 There are DVDs of Dadullah leading his men into battle, posing with machineguns and personally beheading six men he accused of spying for the Afghan government.

 Forces of the brutal Dadulla captured an Italian reporter and his Afghan translator two weeks ago whilst they were reporting on life in an Afghan village. Dadullah chose to release the reporter. But despite the efforts of the translator’s friends Dadullah had the translator beheaded in the presence of the reporter.

Intelligence debrief was to the point; Do not mess with Mullah Dadulla

Sanda of Afghanistan 9

Socks

Dear  Mum,

 Things are not too bad here. We are not having a lovely time as you might imagine. I had been promised a tent, but that has not been forthcoming, so I am sleeping where I can. I am still with me old mate Ginger, you know the one I was telling you about, who got stuck in the loo. Well they are really just holes in the ground , they are a bit whiffy, well anyway he slipped and fell in. They thought he had gone AWOL, but he was just in the shit, much like the rest of us.

You know they said it would be like a holiday camp, and think it was some Scottish prat who said that it was unlikely that a shot would be fired in anger. Well if the crap that keeps coming in here is anything to go by there’s a lot out there who are more than a little upset.

 I find that really they do not like us one bit, and we have been sent here to save them from the Taliban, but no one seems to have told them, so when we go out on patrol they take pot shots at us. Plus the fact that the bloody fools are prepared to blow themselves, and us, up.

They go to paradise where there are twenty virgins for every man, no one has said what the women get but I hope its twenty for our sqaddies, well I mean we deserve something for sacrificing ourselves for our country, mind you what could be under those burkas is anybodies guess. Some of the boys who have been to the local brothel have come back with some scary tales, I’m more bothered that my tail may be scarred so I keep well clear.

 We are supposed to win ‘Hearts and Minds’. It’s a funny thing those who keep telling us that never come with us to do it. Our patrol was involved in a little hearts and minds strategy the other day. We were invited in for tea, well  they call it tea, more like piss to be truthful, when this sweet little Arab maid, I think granddad called them bints, you know from his time in Egypt.

I should have listened to him; came in and started to strip, you know seductive like, when she got to her bra her big tits turned out to be stun grenades. You should have seen the panic, I laugh now, but Ginger, who it seems was more experienced in these matters, reaches out and rips them off and slings them on the floor. Too late, the blast stuns us a bit, we are OK but its blown my boots off and ruined my socks. I’ve been to the Quarter master’s stores and he says the Army have run out of socks. Please send some urgent like.

Love Barney.     PS, and some for Ginger
 

Sands of Afganistan 10

The Green Green Grass of Home

 There is no green in Helmut province. There is no green anywhere to be seen. It is brown, brown, brown. It is sand and rock. It is dust and dirt. It swirls up at the slightest provocation. The worst is the sand wind. It comes from nowhere, there is no way to know it’s course. Things stop, including our weaponry. It can jamb any mechanism. No one seems to have thought about it. It can get everywhere. The only protection is clothes you are wearing, well what the locals wear.

We have military uniforms that frankly are useless in these conditions. What we really want is the long cloaks and head scarves that the locals wear. Not only are they cooler, as their loose fitting allows air to circulate, but when the sand wind comes you can hunker down and wrap it all around you, but that would be going ‘native’!

And naturally they have Kalashnikovs that can withstand anything. We have the SA80 the most effective weapon in world, when there’s no sand in it! So when that  rolling sand wind comes we are buggered. They just lay low with the AK47 on ready. If they see us first we are dead.

Now we do not want to be dead, we want to be where the fields are green and the girls are sweet, and the sharpness of a beer can quench the thirst. You see we have no purpose. We are not enduring all this misery to protect our country or families, we have been sent by uninformed politicians, and frankly feel deserted by our own countrymen back home. Nobody gives a shit.

Our section was out yesterday to so call quarter a suspect Taliban stronghold. Taliban, Tajik, Uzbek, Pashtun, who the hell are we fighting, what a joke? The unmistakable sound of an AK 47rattles out. We all that love that Clint Eastwood film where he fires it and says those immortal words, ‘This is the AK-47 assault rifle, the preferred weapon of your enemy‘  and a great cheer goes up.

We rake the mud huts with all the fire we’ve got, and drawback so as not to get caught in their cross fire. Who knows who we’ve killed, fathers, sons, mothers, daughters. We have reached that most dangerous stage of a soldiers tour of duty, we are unforgiving! We were once civilised, that is western culture civilised. We believed in that inner thing that makes us think that we are cultured, caring, and value fair play. Now we are isolated in our horrors, and on the brink of madness, that trigger is so easy to pull when you have no conscience.   

Henman gets knocked out in the second round at Wimbledon and there are lamentations! I’d give them lamentations! We listen to the news. ‘On a military strike against insurgents several were killed. There were no civilian casualties.’ Really, who’s to know? Is that a dust devil I see? I hunker down and think of the green fields of England, waiting for that familiar sound of the ‘preferred weapon of the enemy’!

Take me Home

Sands of Ahfganistan 11

                                                          Obituary

 ‘We should be proud of our boys, they are the best, they are well trained and they are keeping us safe.’ 

 Shit, that fucking gun has jammed again. I lay full length on the rocky terrain looking for what cover I can.

 ‘They are doing a damn good job and we should be proud of them.’

 My friend Roddy had his head blown off yesterday, he went home in a sack yesterday in the belly of a Globemaster. Funny that, the only way to get home. He used to sing ‘fight the good fight’. He was from Cardiff, you know, and he was a good singer. What will they sing in the Chapel tonight?

 ‘There have been two more casualties in Afghanistan. The next of kin have been informed.‘

 We had a church service from the Padre, and do you know what he spouted? ’Yea, though I walk through the valley of death I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me, my rod and my staff.’

 The Ministry of Defence should have paid attention to that when they ordered up this crap equipment cuss I am in the valley of death right at this moment and if they were here I’d stick  this fucking useless rod right up their arses.

 ‘You boys are upholding the best traditions of the British army, you are well trained and will do the job you have been sent here to do.’

 I wonder what that could be, no one’s actually told me.

 ‘You are here to win their hearts and minds, and save them from the insurgents.’

 Yea, yea, it’s ball first, then hearts, and then stop them growing their main income - poppies! Some hope! We are the insurgents!

 Bollocks, so much for the soft soap, it’s soldiering first, and we have learnt that you kill the other guy to save yourself. It’s not a crusade, its kill or be killed. Bullets start to pick up dirt in front of me. I pull a smoke grenade out of my body clip and hurl it as far as I can. I know this will give my position away, but I hope to pull back under the cover of the smoke.

 ‘Looking at things realistically we could be in Afghanistan for thirty years.’

 Thirty years! That means my son could be here. I am petrified. I think of his well formed body torn apart. I rage up, too late; I am running through the fields of barley with him in my arms, I hear a welsh choir singing Land of My Fathers. All is blackness. A Globemaster takes me home.

 ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ - What an obituary!  
 

Sands of Afghanistan 12

Mexican Stand-Off

  The town was broken down, and deserted. A band of weary warriors  established a perimeter behind defensive walls and waited. Bandits roared through the unoccupied streets swearing to wipe out these infidels.

 It seemed so easy - roll into town, befriend the natives with a few chock bars, fix their broken down sanitation, raise the government flag, and go. But the bandits did not see it that way, and so the battle started. It seemed there could be no doubt about the outcome!

 Corporal Ginger Tucker was on the first watch when it started. There seemed hundreds of them advancing down the street. There was no need to raise the alarm, the sound of AK 47’s brought everybody on alert. He opened fire immediately. The racket was horrendous. SA 80’s firing off over the mud walls, and from a slightly elevated position Stinky Johnson was letting loose with the machine gun. Their nerves were stretched to breaking point. Could they hold them off? And then it stopped. Tucker breathed a sigh of relief and looked down at his hands. They were shaking uncontrollably, his mouth was dry and he tried to take a swig from his water bottle but he could not hold it to his mouth. And they came again. It was mayhem, and yet no one was hit!

 Night followed day and the attacks were unremitting and yet they held on. Every type of weapon was used against them- rockets, grenades, mortars, and, worse, recoilless rifles. The unsureal world of constant battle and fear took over. There comes a moment when you become a warrior. This means you are an automaton. Death is of no concern, and they had entered this zone. They called for backup, they needed serious assistance, food and water was running low, but none could get through.  Death was knocking on their door, it was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.

 Where was Ginger Bones - they laughed sardonically amongst themselves? Rumours of this mystical saviour had made its way round the units. Tucker’s bones ached, his eyes were red, and his face was drawn in stone, his hands shook no more. A beard had formed on his face which now was a shade of ginger. His cloths were ragged, and he had disguarded all his webbing, he now looked the part of the ancient tribesman. Nothing could touch him.

 He was awakened by an enormous bang. He was so enraged at this  intrusion on his sleep that he leapt onto the parapet and fired madly at the advancing figures. The slaughter was indiscriminate. Ginger Bones had returned! A relief column made its way into the town and the sad little band was relieved. It made no military or political sense, it was just a Mexican Stand-Off. 
 

Sands of Afghanistan 13

Kepal Pass

 Azil Kamil stood on bluff over looking the marine commando camp at Kepal Pass. It was still dark  but strands of dawn sun were beginning to stretch across the sky from the east. The cold of the night lingered on and he drew his cloak closer around him. He waited patiently for lights to come on in the camp.

What fools these soldiers were, how they gave themselves away. He had watched them for many nights and knew their movements. Going to their ablutions, making their way to the tent that housed the cook house. Changing their guards, but not their positions. Assembling ready for a patrol. He fingered the cold metal of his AK47 and relished the thought of the trap he was going to spring on them.

Strangely he did not hate them, why didn’t they just go home to their families. They were capable but without spirit since they were not fighting for their homeland. They were not as proud as he was. He gave the signal and his tribesmen moved forward to cover the pass.

 A caravan of camels came to a standstill at the entrance to the pass. They were carrying what looked like bales of cotton. The pass would take them high over the Hindu Kush down into Pakistan. Azil knew that the commandos could not let this go without checking it. He had calculated the timing very carefully, he needed the camel train to be well up the pass before a patrol could catch them.

He hoped that the high walls of the pass would make it difficult for aircraft to cover them. He needed to entrap the commandos so that they would have to send for reinforcements. They wanted war and he was going to give them it. How he wished he had their aircraft, how different things would be then!

 The commandos had seen the camels and were mounting a patrol. They followed the camel train up the pass, soon they were enclosed by the high walls of the pass, but they realised their danger too late. A vary light lit up the darkness of the pass and they were trapped as mortar and machine gun fire rained down on them. They signalled for back-up.

Foolishly a Challenger tank was sent with support troops. This was soon stopped by a anti tank rocket. And so Kepal Pass became the killing field for the Ghengi tribesmen. The clatter of a helicopter was heard. It swooped high over the pass but could give no aid. There was no target.

 The morning sun caught a cloud that turned into a bearded face. A sign from Allah. Azil ordered the firing to stop. Murder was not in the the Koran. The commandos saw a figure, silhouetted against the cloud, who waved a long barrelled rifle as he turned and departed. Were they saved by the mystical Ginger Bones, who can say, but that night the few survivors prayed to their savour, and for a safe return to their families. They never knew how lucky they were!
 

Sands from Afghanistan 14

Ode to an East Anglian

 The broad flatlands of East Anglia are far removed from Helman province in Afghanistan. It is a place of soft virtue where dykes run straight, cross farmlands, out to the Wash to drain the fertile soil, where the sea is held back by high banks that are under constant threat. The Queen has her summer home here at Sandringham and the countryside changes to low rolling hills down to Thetford forest.

Along the coast the quaint seaside towns have an old fashioned air. It is where country men still exist in the traditional work of the land and sea, and yet these men of easy stock have been turned into warriors in the harsh arena of war. Wives, families and girl friends are left to fret as their men are called to arms. In peace it is a laugh, in war it is a heart wrenching ache as news broadcasts are watched and letters are received with a certain amount of misgiving. And so they went war, all, thrown into a cauldron of fear and visceral excitement.

 The harsh reality of war is no easy thing for men of the soil, to kill or be killed is its trade. The blindness of it all is the worst part. Not knowing where the foe may be, even who he is? When will the next attack come, where will the bullets fall?

A foot soldier is the most exposed, there is nothing between him and death. Worst it is a lottery. He does not know the battle plan, and in the case of Afghanistan there isn’t one. Quell terrorism? Old hat. Stop the drug trade? No chance. Ensure the proclaimed Government has control over its provinces? Impossible.

Destroy the terror gangs, loosely known as the Taliban? No Way! It is now a war of attrition. Soldiers of the Anglian regiment are learning what that means!

From their own Website

 Soldiers from ‘A, Norfolk’ Company set off on an operation overnight, carrying up to 80lbs worth of equipment such as heavy machine guns, mortars, and under slung grenade launchers, as well as supplies. At dawn they approached the Taliban positions.

The soldiers came under attack from small arms fire and rocket propelled grenades, which continued throughout the day. Despite severe fire fights the Taliban were destroyed or managed to escape from the area.

 ‘This  was an important operation to clear out Taliban strongholds from where experienced fighters have been launching attacks on ANA patrol bases around Sangin, and preventing essential reconstruction and development taking place.’

 ‘Ha, Ha, Pull the other one!’ says a pissed off squaddy!

Letter home.
 We are the canon fodder fighting their war now. The ideals have gone, it is now kill or be killed. And I am sick of it. My heart is yearning for you and the sweet comfort of our home. Give my love to little Johnny
   A soldier in a foreign field.
     Corporal Jones - 1856

Sands of Afghanistan 15

It Doesn’t Add Up

 ‘Doesn’t it strike you as distinctly odd,’ said Holmes apropos of nothing as he sat reading the Times.
 ‘Indeed,’ replied Watson, who was concentrating on writing up his diary.
 ‘It does not add up.’

 Holmes laid the paper on his desk, and stared out of the window onto a gloomy Baker Street being swept by a London Smog.

 ‘You see, how many will die today, do we know, too many or too little?’
 ‘Because of the smog?’ queried Watson.
 ‘No, no, in the war. It’s a question of information, like a jigsaw, does it fit together to give us the full picture. I don’t think it fits.’

 Watson looked up, giving Holmes his full attention, as an old army man he felt he may be able to offer some valuable insights.
 ‘What to you mean?.’

 Holmes’ lean face took on a lean introspective air.
 ‘There are not enough casualties.’
 ‘We seem to be killing plenty. They are casualties don’t forget. And they are a ferocious gang, but our troops are superior, I’m sure of that. We should be thankful that there are so few home casualties.’  commented Watson with some ire.

 Holmes turned to him with a somewhat mournful air.
 ‘Are Watson, dear fellow, how I wish that to be, but it is a question of statistics. Look at the smog, we have the numbers, one hundred die every day, yet in the rolling plains of a country we know very little, our regiments, fighting a skilled adversary, suffer only a handful of casualties. Is the London smog more deadly?’

 ‘But Holmes, we are there to rebuild, and to bring peace to a troubled land who have been tortured by murderous cutthroats under a religious banner. You cannot compare it to a London smog!’

 ‘Death does not distinguish between the smog or the casualties of war. Sadly it’s a question of the numbers. I read that a force of sixty men were ambushed by the cutthroats, as you call them, coming under intense fire, and only three were killed. And sadly by our own forces, a terrible mistake. I am aware that God is on our side, but does he throw a protective mantle around them. Is the foe so inadequate that with its intense firepower it cannot hit any of our troops? Are we being kept in the dark. Sadly the numbers do not add up.’

 Watson, defeated by Holmes incisive assessment, turned back to his diary wondering what horrors it might contain in the future.   

Sands of Afghanistan 16

Blue on Blue
(Euphemism for being killed by your own side!)

 War is easy to start, it seems to have a volition of its own. It is amazing how it can stem from some slight, or from imagined threat. Unfortunately it has a life of its own, and tragedy. The stupidity is that it starts on the premonition you will win and it will solve something without taking into account the other side. You don’t expect it will come from your side!

 Afghanistan, ah, Afghanistan! Tribesmen, easy meat for a well trained army. Um. Boys really, who can’t speak the language and know nothing of the customs, who are not trained in the special needs of countering a guerrilla force. What guerrilla force?

‘The people will welcome us because we will free from the yoke of the Taliban, a fanatical religious group. They will rejoice, they will welcome us with open arms.’  Will they hell as like!

 Intelligence - means knowing where the enemy are and what they are doing. The bane of all generals through the years. 

 ‘There is a reported Taliban force at Gasi dem Drobi. Command wants you to engage them, and free that village.’

 The major in charge of the battalion views this with alarm! The only way is by foot, carrying all the equipment for an engagement! They assemble knowing this is a death mission! Not reported was that the Taliban held the village with superior firepower. These boys from the flat fields of Anglia were pinned down by a fire storm. They were terrified, and called in for air support.

 The American air force base at Lakenheath is also in East Anglia, the home of the crew of the F15 called from Kandaha air base to support the ground troops.

They scrambled for the mission without sufficient briefing. They had map coordinates, but no ground controller. The MOD had seen fit not to supply them to our troops.

 They came in low and fast, too fast. The thunder of their jet engines filled the air with menace, the sound rebounding of the surrounding hills. They could not be seen by troops cowering low in a waddi, completely disentoriated by the fire being poured on them. A 500 lb bomb missed its intended target and dropped close to the beleaguered troops killing three and injuring many others. It was a debacle.

The Taliban cheered as they made their retreat.

 A tragic error brought about by misjudgement and lack of ground control. Anglia on Anglia this time. The irony of that not lost on the intelligence section who were the real culprits. The badly injured had no time for such thoughts. Loss of limbs is for ever!
 

Sands of Afghanistan 17

 Behold a pale horse and the one that sat on him was death and Hell followed with him.

Pale Rider

 I saw the light, it came from an open window. I wondered at it, how could it be after all the darkness. Was it a release, was it trick meant to break me? I knew not the time of day. My interrogation had gone on for a long time, I think. There’s the trick, not to think.

They had persisted a long time, were they weary of it I wondered? Could they break me? Had they already done so? In the end it does not matter. You see they went too far. I was not myself, what I mean I was detached, no, worse, I was broken.

There was nowhere to go. There was nowhere to hide from the pain. They had tortured me. Stripped bare, they had laid about me with a long stick. They smiled as I tried to cover myself. It is hard to be strong when you are naked. Funny that. I felt disgraced.

I was going to say that pain is a funny thing, what I mean is its infliction is funny, odd how it hurts then it doesn’t hurt. You cry out in its immediacy. To be stoic is of no account, there is only so much you can stand before you cry out in pain. I cried for mercy but it was of no avail.

It was of no avail. It was of no avail. There seemed no end, and then there was that ray of light! What could it mean. Was I at the end, perhaps that was heaven opening its portals for me. I prayed for an angel.

Where was God? Whose side was he on? Not mine. I sat on the cold, cold concrete floor. I was naked. Naked before God I thought, how appropriate.

We come naked into the world, and it looked as if I was going to depart naked. I heard the preacher - Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and he will make your paths straight. Yer, he has certainly made mine straight, straight into this cell. A Chinese proverb came to mind - A fall into a ditch makes you wiser.

I tried to smile at that, but my lips were swollen, my face was a mass of scars, they had applied that rod so diligently, maybe they thought of themselves as artists. Was I just their canvas. Wise, I would be a bloody genius, Nobel prize material!

I followed the light. It was becoming brighter. It was moving across the wall. I shielded my eyes. What I saw made my heart quail. Had I not suffered enough? There was no more I could stand, but there before me was the Revelation of the old book of the bible. I remembered my childhood, the fear the old time preacher had put in our hearts.

The pale rider smiled his ghoulish smile. I stood prepared for hell, for that would be a release. The walls fell apart and there was a strange flutter of wings. A strange bird was in the sky. A helmeted God wrapped his arms about me - You are safe now. The pale rider dissolved into a cloud, and the Chinook rose high chasing it’s shadow.

Authors Note

That is the end of this saga. I hope it has interesteded you, and entertained. For those of you with no knowledge of Afghanistan and its tragedy take take note of the frustration of it all - Beware the call to arms!

Postscript

1838, British Intervention in Afghanistan

 To ensure the welfare of India, the British must have a trustworthy ally on India's western frontier. British arms would be used to suppress rebellion and buy the support of tribal chiefs. The British denied that they were invading Afghanistan, instead claiming they were merely supporting its legitimate government "against foreign interference and factious opposition"!

 An army of British and Indian troops reached Quetta by 1839 and a month later took Kandahar without a battle. The British then attacked the fortress of Ghanzi, achieving a decisive victory over Mohammad's troops who fled with his loyal followers across the passes to Bamian in the north!
 
                                                1970 Civil War

 Since the late 1970s, Afghanistan has suffered a continuous and brutal civil war: the 1979 Soviet invasion of Afghanistan and the 2001 Us Invasion of Afghanistan in which the ruling Taliban government was toppled.

 In 2001, the United Nations Security Council authorized the creation of an International Security Assistance Force (ISAF). This force, composed of NATO troops, has been involved in assisting the government  in establishing authority across the nation.

 In 2005, the United States and Afghanistan signed a strategic partnership agreement committing both nations to a long-term relationship. In the meantime, about 40 billion US dollars have also been provided by the international community for the reconstruction of the country.

2007 Losing the Battle

⦁ Afghanistan is the largest drug-producing region in the world. A record-number of opium crops have sprouted in Afghan fields this year, fuelling a multibillion-dollar trade.

⦁ Opium production in the south, where provinces are hit hard by Taliban insurgency, has exploded into unprecedented numbers. Helmand province alone accounts for more than half of the national total of opium fields, with 103,000 hectares under cultivation.

⦁ The government has lost control of this territory because of the presence of the insurgents and terrorists, whether Taliban or splinter al Qaeda groups, Now the drug trade produces money to help fight the insurgency.

⦁ It's difficult to win the hearts and minds of people when you're plowing up their agricultural fields every season and they have no other way to feed their families.

⦁ British troops are involved in this losing battle.

2018 

I am sad at heart, the horror still continues. 

In 2014 NATO formally ended combat operations in Afghanistan, however they continued  to give support. As of May 13,000 remain without any plans to withdraw!

The death total is overwhelming for so little reward.

4,000 soldiers and civilian contractors

Over 15,000 Afghan national security forces

31,000 civilians

Who will shoulder this burden or are they just 'Footsteps in the Snow'