My Last Deployment

When I tell this story I struggle to remember some of the details, sometimes I wonder if my mind has filled in the gaps with dreams, but one thing cuts through my memory like razor. The blood. More than the sight, the smell. After all this time the scent rips me out of the present and I find myself, for an instant, back at the compound, blood painting the floor and walls like abstract art as it pooled around piles of bodies.

I need to give some background before the story makes sense. When that happened I was a couple months into my third and what would be my last deployment to Afghanistan. I'm Afghani by heritage, but my folks came over as asylum seekers during the Soviet war. So aside from knowing Dari I'm basically your average Oklahoma hick. I drive a F150 I got when I enlisted. I don't miss deer season and I enlisted in the Army to get out of Oklahoma. Since I already knew Dari and scored an 88 on the ASVAB I got a pretty hefty signing bonus for a 18 year old kid and went into intelligence.

Intelligence was kinda ironic since I had a 2.5 GPA, but it was a pretty good gig as far as the Army went. I was usually either stuck at a desk or traveling through regions that were well controlled by either Kabul or American forces. In my first two tours I was in about as much danger as I would be if I had stayed in Oklahoma City. Worst I saw, until that night, was when an IED that knocked two wheels off an 18 wheeler. The guys who set it off got Brrrrrrt'ed well out of my eyesight, but I could hear it. It creeped me out a little knowing what that sound meant, but I guess those guys did want to kill us.

One of my key ops was translating for a Tribal elder named Ali near the Khyber pass. He held the loyalty of about eight hundred to a thousand fighting aged men and his influence stretched to the border of Pakistan. Getting him on the side of the government would be a huge win in securing the border of Pakistan and halting the supply of insurgents and weapons. Up until this point he wanted to play Switzerland. Really, if I were in his position I'd probably do the same thing. Choosing a side meant some of your people will die. Despite the fact I agreed with him, it was my job to try and convince him to join up with the government.

Over the months to years of my first, second, and third deployment we developed a good relationship. The insurgents coming over the border tried to link up with cells in other parts of the country so even though they were close they kept quiet in the region. His compound was pretty comfortable. It was set on what I'd consider a mountain, but the locals called a hill. Regardless of what you want to call it, the compound was a walled off fortress consisting of one large living space for the him with a door flanked by armed guards 24/7 that I was told was an armory. A few smaller buildings for guests, his security and a large courtyard area that was large enough for some badminton . The trail to the compound had to be trekked on foot meaning without air support, armor, or artillery the place was basically impregnable. There was a satellite dish that picked up stuff from the rest of Asia. During my time there I learned all the nuance to cricket and my deep knowledge of the sport didn't make me like it any more than when I started, but still, it was something to watch.

As far as other people in the compound, there were a number of armed guards that were always polite, but cold to me. They knew why we were there, and they didn't want conflict. I don't think they blamed me specifically, they knew it was my job, but I didn't win many friends. His family was a different story. He had one son and 8 daughters. For the region his girls had a long leash. They went pretty much anywhere in the compound, talked to men, weren't shy about giving their opinions, and were a lot better off than they would be under the Taliban. They were talkative, friendly, and the ones in their teens and twenties were flirtatious. I always acted stupid when that happened. The last thing I wanted was to be chased down the mountain by a hundred armed guards for getting too friendly with his daughters.

His son, Aakrama, was maybe the only guy there I considered a friend, even counting the rest of the Americans with me. He was smart as shit, spoke Dari, English, French, Russian, and about 10 Afghani dialects. I'm straight, but he was the prettiest guy I've ever seen in my life. If he had been born in London or New York he'd either be a movie star or a Nobel Prize winner. Seeing a guy like that being forced to keep an uneasy peace between the backwards fucks of the Taliban, the grotesquely incompetent government in Kabul, and the Americans who, let face it, could barely give half a shit about their country made me hate this conflict. It's a big reason why I'm so cynical today. Long nights went by with just him and me downing some Indian liquor and trading stories. Ghost stories were the big thing in the area. He told me hundreds, ones about evil men rejected by Satan and Allah wondering the mountains ripping the eyes from lone travelers, river monsters, and lots about the black Mosque. The Mosque stories were my favorite when I thought it was just a local legend.

The legend went that in the 9th century, during the Arab conquest of Afghanistan there was a temple to something in the Mountains. It had been worshiped for thousands of years, every year on the longest day they would scour the countryside to find people suitable children to be raised as priests, and every year on the shortest day they would do the same to be sacrificed. In return for the sacrifice the god of the temple would give blessings to the people. The legend says that during a large sacrifice thousands of years ago lapis lazuli suddenly sprouted in the mines like mushrooms. During the conquest and Islamination of the area a particularly zealous Imam decided to put an end to it. After a number of tortures and what not he found the location, ascended a steep mountain using a narrow path, and when he arrived he met, presumably exchanged pleasantries, and then burned the priests at the stake. They gutted the temple and turned it into a mosque.

Things were well and good, as the story went, for a few months until the winter solstice came around. Then as the sun was rising fire erupted from the old temple, the people in the village below heard the screams, smelled the smoke and throughout the day the Imams of the mosque shambled down the mountain, skin melting off, eyes a stiff white jelly on their blackened face, then died at the base of the mountain. Then when night fell screams rang out from the houses of those who most zealously converted. In the morning the survivors found the inhabitants of the houses skinned and ripped to pieces. There was a lot more about the black mosque, and Aakrama took a lot of joy in going into gruesome detail.

That's just how things went over there. A few days a week working out some kind of deal with his father then passing the nights with Aakrama and sometimes his girlfriend, Nazy, when she came up from the village. She was just as beautiful and smart as him. God damn, would they have had some pretty fucking kids. I do my best to focus on those memories. The memories of too much Indian liquor, of Nazy and Aakrama slow dancing to pirated Incubus songs, of the long nights full of laughter. I try and focus on that, but late at night, when it's just me in my shitty one bedroom apartment, when the streetlight next to my window buzzes like dying mosquito, I can't conjure those memories. All that fills my head is the blood, the blood and the smell of death.

That's basically how my first few deployments went. I was ready to head back when I came back for what would be my last one. I arrived in Afghanistan in mid December, I had a bag jammed full of stuff for Aakrama that he couldn't get in Afghanistan. I got him an Xbox 360, a bunch of games, some Adidas track clothes, and just some other stuff I was pretty excited to give him. I got Nazy some shit too, mostly DVDs and CDs of bands she liked and skater punk kinda clothes that she could really only wear in the compound.

When I showed up I expected roughly the same briefing that I had gotten before, but instead I got some seriously major news. Ali decided to back the Afghanistan government, he wasn't just going to stay neutral. He was going to let Americans set up FOBs (forward operating bases) inside his territory and provide us with his militia. In exchange we would build some infrastructure and provide him with 110 million dollars. Now this is where I went from “hell yeah” to “oh, shit.” In Afghanistan you can't just write a check or wire cash to a bank account. You physically have to deliver the cash and that cash was heading out with my unit. That means that along with the usual detachment of translators, like myself, and security we also had to carry about 100 pounds of 100 dollar bills. That much money attracts attention no matter how good your security. Every faction in Afghanistan would be after us if they knew we were coming and with how shitty the Afghani intelligence service is I'm sure someone would know we were coming.

Now, as I stated, I've never been in a firefight up until this point, I'm not tough, I'm actually a pretty big pussy all things considered. As if sensing my unease my CO went on to describe the additional security in our detachment. This time around it was going to be a joint operation between the usual support and about 20 first recon guys. Along with that we were promised air support would be standing by. All in all it was about 20 pretty damn good army infantry and 20 first recon bad asses in six APCs, an Apache in the air, and an F-22. In other words, if someone tried to hit us they would be fucked. This is along with the regular translators and support. At this point, I was feeling pretty good about our chances.

I thought being the lead translator for this kind of op would look pretty good next time I was up for rank. If this went off I could get to E-6 before the end of the year. That bubble popped just seconds later when my CO pointed to Jack in the back of the room, standing silently. I should have known that they wouldn't let this whole thing rest on the abilities of a 26 year old me. Instead they called up the big guy. Jack was the only person I've personally met that as smart as Aakrama, but unlike Aakrama Jack was ugly as day old shit. His face was pot-marked with acne scars of what must have been a hellish adolescence. His leather like face was crooked and asymmetrical, ears stuck out too far, and it didn't help that at this point it looked like he hadn't slept for at least a day. He looked like hell, but there was probably no translator in any armed service in the world who had more experience. He spoke every language from North Africa to Pakistan. He had worked in Somalia, Egypt, Afghanistan, Iraq, Kuwait, and probably a dozen other countries he didn't talk about.

Jack was an intimidating guy for only being 5'9. Even after you get passed his fucking miserable looks, in his eyes you could see he had seen more action than all the first recon detachment with us put together. He was quiet, intense, and unlike me who was as American as baseball and fried snickers, he went full native. He converted to some weird sect of Islam ages ago, not Sunni, Shiite, or even Ibadi, but some kind that only survived in the forgotten areas of the Islamic world. He didn't talk about his religion, but from what I gather his interpretation of Allah would not win him many friends. Despite the fact he looked like a Halloween monster I was glad he'd be there. Infantry are cool, but having a guy with your same MOS who had seen shit was reassuring.

After the briefing and quick preparations we were off at dawn the following morning. I was crammed into a Striker with Jack and 7 other support guys. I knew a couple of the guys from my previous deployments but most were new. We shot the shit, got to know one another, and made jokes about the money that I we had gotten the privilege to transport. It wasn't lost on us how fucked up that 9 guys had to go hand over more money than 100 men like us would ever see in our entire lives to help fight a war no one wanted. Over all, most the trip was pretty uneventful. It was a long ride to the Khyber pass, but we had enough force to royally fuck up anything that tried to intercept us. Everyone was pretty laid back, well as laid back as you can be transporting over 1/10th of a billion dollars. Everyone except for Jack that is.
He sat in his seat, closest to the door and kept his eyes locked straight ahead, the only moment was the slight adjustments to his posture caused by the bumps in the terrain. He kept his rifle clenched in his hands and drowned out the conversations of everyone around him. I tried to watch him out of the corner of my eye just to see if he would blink. He never did.

We arrived right at sunset. There was no derivable path directly up to the compound so the ascent had to be done on foot. The wheel men of the Strykers parked in the flat dirt field that had become the unofficial parking lot for the Americans and we all started to spill out. The sweet fresh air was a stark reminder of how bad we all must smell. I leaned in to sniff myself as and stretch my legs when everything started to go to shit. Two of the APCs erupted in flames and small arms fire snapped away at us from the compound. I was frozen. I expected for us to be hit, hell I was prepared, but I wasn't ready for it to be coming from there. I knew people up there, I had a god damn friend up there. It was like a punch to my chest that took all the air out of my lungs.

As I was standing there with my dick in my hands Jack pulled me behind our Stryker before I caught round to the head. I heard our infantry return fire. Basic training finally found its way back into my brain and I took up position as well. We were in a bad spot. Small arms were raining down in torrents punctuated with explosions from RPGs. The Strykers are hardy, but even they couldn't take much more of this shit. I poked my head up to see what were were dealing with and to see if there's anywhere I could concentrate some fire when I saw them. Ali's daughters streamed from compound down the steep hillside towards us. I couldn't hear what they were screaming, but as they came down they were chewed up by the fire coming from the compound. God damn, they used to be so beautiful, they were funny, they were smart, and in that moment they stopped being anything.

I was able to see where the fire was coming from. It was entirely concentrated on the two guard towers on each corner facing us. I don't know if I was the first one to call it in, but I reached for my radio and got a hold of the Apache. I gave them targets and moments later those towers were flaming rubble. With the explosion the fire ceased. I knew this wasn't Ali's work after what happened to his daughters. Someone got inside and set this up. I hoped Ali or Aakrama were still alive, maybe being held for ransom.

After the violence we started counting the casualties. All together we lost 7 and another 11 were wounded. The op turned from diplomatic to rescue real quick. The 25 of our fit infantry started up the hillside to secure the target. The total lack of incoming fire meant that who ever got it in their heads to ambush us didn't expect a couple hellfire missiles. While the medics patched up our wounded I made my way up into the courtyard. The destruction from the missiles fucked up the place beyond recognition, the walls and towers were just a memory, there was heavy damage to a few of the smaller buildings, but Ali's house was still standing and mostly unharmed. I made my way passed the still smoldering wreckage and mangled bodies. There was one man, pinned under a couple thousand pounds of concrete, his face black, and eyes melted. It reminded me of the black mosque, but at that second I told myself that's just what a hellfire does, and that son of a bitch deserved it.

The infantry were still clearing the yard when I made it to the front door of Ali's house. I knew I should wait for these guys before I did anything stupid, but god damn it, I liked Aakrama, I liked Nazy, hell, even Ali was cool in a lame grandpa way. If they were still alive they wouldn't be much longer if there was still a kidnapper alive with them. I won't forget the smell as I opened the door. The rancid, metallic smell. There are times in life, times where your brain can't process what it's seeing so you look at what's happening, right in front of your face, like it's a movie in another language. My brain short circuited when I saw the blood and bodies and parts of bodies. Dozens of the compounds staff and body guards were gutted and quartered like jackrabbits. Blood was an ocean on the floor. Maybe a minute went by, maybe it was only a second but I was snapped back to reality. I started calling out “Aakrama!” I wheezed through the stink. “Nazi! Ali!”

I approached the pile of gore and I finally saw them. I could only tell it was Nazi by her Misfits T-shirt. She was laying on top of Aakrama. His skin had been flayed from his face, but I recognized his his beautiful blue eyes that now bulged from his skinless face. Scattered around were pieces of Ali mixed with what had to be a dozen of other men. I paused, chunks of the MRE I had for lunch and bile spilled from my mouth on to the floor as I fell to my knees. Vomit and tears streamed from me as I tried to cry through it all. I didn't hear the infantry come in until one grabbed me by the arm and stood me up. I really didn't know him, but he was one of the marines, he tried hard to keep his composure and move me outside until they could secure the building, but he stumbled over his words.

This was before ISIS, before the gross slaughter deranged men and women inflected on one another while freebasing religion. The Taliban would kill, sure, sometimes even kill you in gruesome ways, but this was beyond anything ever reported. I stood there a long time. I don't really know how long, but that memory is scratched into my brain with a rusty nail. When I came back to my senses the room was crowded with what must have been everyone who made it through the fire fight except the wounded and a couple medics. One of the Army infantry burst through the door, he held a man with what I thought was face paint, at gunpoint in zip tie handcuffs.

“Move motherfucker!” the private first class shouted at the man in face paint. “What's this motherfucker saying?” he said as he kicked the legs out from the bound man, he spilled to his knees at my feet. I looked in his face and I saw it wasn't paint. It was burnt black, his eyes melted into white jelly staining his charred cheeks. I hesitated for a second, “Ask the faggot.” the private said. I shook off superstitions and just told myself he somehow managed to survive the Hellfire, and it was perfectly normal for him to be this fucked up but I didn't believe it.

​

“Who are you?” I asked in Dari. He opened his mouth and the most alien sounding shit I've ever heard in my life came spewing out. It was a language of vowels, screams, guttural noises. It chilled me to my bones. I shook my head in confusion, the private pulled his pistol and pointed it at the back of the burned man's head when Jack shouted, “Stop!” He approached, squatted, and brought his hideous face to the only person in the country who looks more fucked up. Jack started making similar noises, back and forth they went, it started slow, but as they continued it was less a conversation than a song.

I know enough about language, I like to think anyway, that I know when a question is being asked and answered versus whatever fucked up shit they were doing. They had to be finishing each other's sentences based on what I had heard, then when they were done they both spoke the same words. I'm not sure the English alphabet is equipped to describe it but the best way I can describe it is the word Tic followed by the sound of a bleating goat then a heavy bass that I didn't think the human vocal cords were able to produce. Once they finished speaking, Jack calmly took out his pistol and shot the man in the head. Blood poured from his blackened face and mixed with the viscera already staining every inch of the floor.

“What the fuck?” I said to Jack. He looked me in the eye, I could see the exhaustion in is grotesque face and he emotionlessly explained that they were there to kill us, take the money, and make an example out of Ali. Jack said the men had the compound surrounded and were waiting to kill anyone who left the main building. Pretty much everyone immediately called bullshit on what he told us. The infantry and other support personnel weren't stupid, we knew he was saying some fucked up shit. One of the marines swung the butt of his rifle and hit Jack square in the face he staggered backward but didn't fall, blood gushed from his nose, but it was already too crooked to tell if it was broken.

The marine who just rocked Jack started taking charge. He ordered all the remaining infantry to lead a retreat out of there back down to the Strykers and to wait for evac. I thought it was about the best plan I've heard so I took position with my rifle to follow the people who know what they were doing back down the narrow path and out of the hell we found ourselves in.

When they opened to the two main doors leading into the court yard a moonless night had fallen. We got there in the early evening, we had three hours before the sun would set all the way, I thought there was no way in hell I had been in there that that long. I pushed the thought out of my head. I saw pretty much everyone else try to do the same when they made the realization. They were professionals and despite the fucked upness of the situation they spilled from the house with the kind of intent and efficiency you'd expect from seasoned soldiers. They covered the corners, kept an eye on every angle of attack and quickly made it passed the collapsed guard towers. That's why when they started to burst into dark red and blue flames I didn't recognize exactly what had happened for a long moment.

In an instant everyone outside the big doors was screaming, trying desperately to pat out the fire or rolling on the ground in a vain attempt to quell the piercing blue flames. I heard the ammo in their spare magazines go off like popcorn. I slammed the door shut when one of the ignited rounds passed inches from my head. My heart pounded, my vision pulsed and I slumped down and thought I was having a heart attack. In hindsight it was just a panic attack, but I was sure I was going to die. If not from my heart popping then from whatever the fuck I found myself in.

When I faded back to the whatever the fuck was going on I realized I was alone except for the pile of bodies and blood. I stood up and leveled my rifle. Aside from some futile return fire I popped off at the ambush I hadn't done any shooting outside of some hunting back in Oklahoma since basic. I moved from the atrium to Ali's room, in a stark contrast to the room adjacent, it looked untouched. Books and papers were undisturbed, the furniture was upright, and the .45 Ali kept on his desk remained exactly where it had always been. It didn't make sense, if the Taliban led an assault they wouldn't have gone without a fight.

While I was puzzling over the mystery and simultaneously trying not to shit myself in fear I started hearing the same kind of singing Jack and the burned guy had serenaded us with from the wide open armory door. I can't tell you why I did it, but all I can say is that a feeling of peace washed over me as I was drawn to it. I let my rifle fall to my side and walked through the threshold. I felt my heart beat slow and my breathing became almost tantric.

In my calm state I looked around and saw this wasn't an armory. The stone work was old, mosaics depicted religious figures something modern Islam forbids, but was very common in the early church, and the crescent moon and star rose from every wall. Looking back, when I realized I was walking through the black mosque I can't tell you why I didn't feel scared, it was more like the feeling you get when you remember a word that was on the tip of your tongue. Just an “Oh, that's neat.” feeling.

As I moved through the opulently decorated building I saw scorch marks peppered the artwork. They were strange and angular, uniform in the shape of a tall human thing with stretched arms and legs. Still, the singing drew me in further, as it grew so did my feeling of contentment. I knew whatever I was approaching was where I was supposed to be. The fear was replaced by anticipation. A weird, longing even. Like I was walking into a happy childhood memory.

When the hallway ended I was greeted by a wide domed room, intricately carved with repeating patterns and imagery from the early Islamic church. In the center of the room I saw Jack on his knees, hands folded in prayer. Standing above him was a black thing, like a shadow with long limbs looping in impossible ways. It raised one of its arms and beckoned me, smaller arms sprouted from its hand and they did the same.

​

I don't know how I did it, but my rifle that I was holding by my side in one hand went off. I guess I must have had my finger still on the trigger and seeing the thing, whatever it was, caused the smallest of involuntary reactions. The gun shot rang out and pain jolted through my body from my foot. What was happening all came crashing down on me. I turned and ran, dropping my rifle as I went. I would later find out I had shot off my middle toe.

I sprinted through the old tunnel and through Ali's immaculate bedroom. As I bolted from into the atrium I slipped and struggled to get to my feet. My vision was cloudy and my hands slick with the blood I had to wallow through. I careened through the courtyard, charred unrecognizable bodies of marines and army infantry were twisted in scenes of agony. When I had made it nearly back to the strykers I felt the heat and saw the flames engulf me I forced myself to keep moving forward, and then, nothing.

If not for the smoldering clothes and third degree burns on my back and arms you'd never know I was on fire. The two medics who stayed to take care of the wounded rushed to me. I remember babbling something, telling them not to go up there, to call for evac. I guess they listened to me because when I woke up I was dressed in bandages lying in a Kabul hospital.

The following days I was pretty out of it on painkillers so I don't really remember the entire process. I know I had to debrief. Then do it again and again. I was the only survivor of what had happened in the compound and I guess my story didn't make a whole hell of a lot of sense. When what would be the last debrief happened I was getting pretty god damn tired of it. I was still bedridden with the burns, every conversation was just me repeating this crazy shit, and I just wanted to go home. I reluctantly agreed when all I wanted to do was get another morphine drip and pass out.

I was surprised when the guy who walked in was wearing civvies. He was balding, clean shaven, wore a white button up shirt, a new haircut; He looked like an accountant and introduced himself as Mr. Johnson. When you work in intel you end up working with quite a lot of alphabet guys. I'm usually pretty good at picking which ones. The FBI come in like John Wayne. NSA usually kind of a slob as as far as government workers go. Mr. Johnson was a spook. The CIA guys are always the ones who look like they belong there, doing something no one should give a shit about. Any one not directly related to the op would think he was there to do my taxes.

We got talking, it was more like a round of therapy than a debrief. He knew the right follow up questions to ask to get information out of me I didn't even remember I knew. It was cathartic. At the end he informed me I was getting rank, I would be given a purple heart and bronze star, an honorable medical discharge, and a cash bonus. I might not be smart, but I'm not dumb, I waited for the strings to show up, but he just tucked some papers in his briefcase and got up to leave. I stopped him, I asked him what he wanted, if this was to shut me up.

He just laughed. He told me the streets were always full of vets who talk about shit like this. Then before walking out he said, “From the founding of this country to the Philippines, WW2, Korea, Vietnam, and now vets from the Middle East. War has a way of drawing things out. The darkest forgotten things that live on violence and anger. He took a long pause before he continued, and it's always been in the best interests of people who run into it to remember it's all in your head, if you think it's real, well, it will be real to you.” With that he left and fucked off to where ever spooks live.

I was in the hospital for another week, went through the rank ceremony the day I could walk, and was back in Oklahoma a week later. It's been years and I still think about what Mr. Johnson said. That if I let it it'll be real to me. I tried pushing it all out of my head, but the dreams are always there. Usually of the mosque, the bodies, the blood, but sometimes something new. Places that I know are old and the things that are there. Catacombs that smell of decay, sea caves with writhing walls, twisted forests full of following eyes and in each one the singing. It's real to me no matter what. I read, shortly after this whole thing had happened, that Afghanistan found a trillion dollar deposit of rare earth elements so maybe it's just not real to me.

Submitted August 27, 2019 at 02:06AM by LostSergeant https://ift.tt/2U55s6p