Читать книгу Call of the Wild - Graeme Membrey - Страница 7
ОглавлениеChapter 2
First Movements ‘Inside’
(February 1991)
It was during the first month or so of my posting that I actually travelled inside Afghanistan and, like a kid in a lolly shop, I wanted to see and do everything, largely ignoring the dangers. One day I travelled with Kefayatullah and a team of nine support staff into the south-eastern area of the country to see some real demining taking place.
First we loaded up into four Nissan Patrol vehicles, each equipped with VHF and HF radios, as in the early 1990s satellite telephones were still huge, cumbersome affairs that were very expensive to buy and to use. Mobile phones were available, though without the functionality and service available today. Certainly mobile phone services were not available in these areas of Afghanistan back in 1991. However, the vehicles were all first class and, although not luxurious, very comfortable and reliable.
We headed out of Peshawar and into the ‘tribal areas’ after first passing a check post of Pakistani border guards that was located well to the south of the main border crossing at Torkham. The infamous town of Torkham remains a typical rundown, chaotic and dirty place that belies its own historical importance. It is the gateway from Afghanistan to the famous and somewhat infamous, Khyber Pass
The Khyber Pass cuts through the north-eastern part of the Spin Ghar mountains that run along much of the eastern border of Afghanistan, as an offshoot of the Hindu Kush mountain system. The pass connects Afghanistan with Pakistan, though is largely located inside Pakistan and is an integral part of the ancient Silk Road. It is one of the oldest known mountain passes in the world. Throughout history, the Khyber Pass has been part of the region’s military strategy and remains a major trade route joining Central and South Asia. Throughout history, a variety of invasions have been made through this fabulous pass, including those by Alexander the Great and Genghis Khan. The people of the local Pashtun clans, particularly those called the Afridis, have regarded the Khyber Pass as their own and levied tolls on travellers for safe travel until recent times. The Pashtuns are a broad tribal grouping of very Aryan-looking people, typically tall, good looking and incredibly fierce when put to the test. Pashtuns live throughout this part of Pakistan and across the border in Afghanistan.
The Khyber Pass is also located in the general area of the Pakistani Federally Administered Tribal Area (FATA) and it is here that Osama Bin Laden was thought to be hiding in 2001, well before his actual capture further inside Pakistan. The FATA is an extended region that reaches from the north-west Durand Line (i.e. the border with Afghanistan), south down to the Balochistan province. It has its own, semi-autonomous political influence in the national government.
For strategic reasons just after the First World War, the British built a railway through the pass between Peshawar and the Afghan border. Specific parts of the train line still operate occasionally, mainly as a tourist interest. And then, during World War II, the Brits also built large concrete tank obstacles commonly referred to as ‘dragon’s teeth’, along the Khyber valley due to fears of a German tank invasion into India. A number of these dragon’s teeth remain in place and can still be seen if you drive along towards the pass. Interestingly, the area is also connected with the local, highly skilled, counterfeit arms industry (I have fired many copied rifles from this industry, which are amazing to see!) and for the smuggling of various commodities, including narcotics from Afghanistan.
ooOoo
Well, we eventually passed on through the ragged hills that adjoin the Khyber Pass, as we moved deeper west into the tribal areas. Finally, we came to our assigned crossing point at a location way off the main roads, now in the mountains where a small, border check post was established. After some discussion in Urdu between our team and the border guards, we were let past. The road soon became unpaved, more broken and in total disrepair. It was clear from the facial expressions of the border guards that not many ferengies (or foreigners) such as me took this route, nor were the same high quality vehicles very often seen in this area.
At one point, just after passing the border guards, we paused on some high ground in the mountains and looked over a wide valley, with a clear track seen in the far distance. With my military eyes scanning the horizon I saw two Soviet vehicles, a T55 tank and a BRDM scout vehicle, destroyed and now stationary beside the track in the very far distance. On enquiring where we were, I was told this was now Paktia Province and yes indeed, we were inside Afghanistan.
I admit, even today as I write this, a smile emerges on my face and I can feel the eagerness yet that little bit of concern I had going into this ‘wild and risky’ place I had been told about and briefed about, back in Canberra what seemed like years ago. I looked at the two Pashtuns riding in the car with me, our driver and the administrative assistant, and thought of the hundreds of others working with ATC. They were a proud and good looking race of people whose history is something to be well read. Most of the men were tall and well-muscled with an athletic presence about them. They had Aryan looks with thick, dark eyebrows and an ostensibly strong nose. All had lengthy hair which was the style of the day and wore the mandatory Islamic type of beard that was thick, relatively long and almost always jet black. Typically they would wear some form of headdress, either a chitrali (or flat wool hat) or more often a turban tied around their heads. In fact, except for their main clothing, they really looked more like movie actors, or classic pirates, rather than Afghan deminers. For the local women, it was a little harder to describe their dress, as they wore the full fitting chador that was only open around the eyes, or more commonly they wore the burkhas, that completely covered their faces allowing only a small grid of cloth for them to see through.
Well, after I made the confirmatory radio checks back to our office in Peshawar and another to our HQs in Islamabad, we moved on down into the valley. This was followed by the Afghan driver calling on the same radio to the demining party who we were to meet deep down in this valley. This was the normal procedure whenever and wherever we moved in Afghanistan as, surely, there was no-one available or capable of coming to rescue us in any sort of timely manner, should an accident or incident take place. Communications by radio were, at that time, our most important asset.
Surprisingly the drive from our hill top viewing, down into the valley took almost an hour as the road quickly turned into a weaving and unpaved track that had seen no maintenance for many years. The vehicles bounced and crunched on every rock and into every pothole as I hung firmly to the side handles in the rear of the car. This trip, down into the valley was cumbersome and tiring for me though I was soon to get very used to this form of travel, as it quickly became normal for all moves in the country. Often, as will be described later, such journeys were far worse.
On this trip and all subsequent trips I wore the traditional shalwar kameez clothing of the Afghans and Pakistanis. It was a long-sleeved shirt that was left outside the trousers and hung to about midway from the knee to the hips. The trousers (shalwar) were massive and at first comical, as they were five times the width of normal trousers. They were secured by a thin rope much like pyjamas, though this loose material was largely hidden by the long shirt (kameez). It was comfortable to wear and was set off by a chitrali cap which is woollen and flat on top and rolled up at the sides. In later trips I also grew a beard, though I looked more like Red Beard the Pirate than a local Afghan.
Once in the valley, we drove past the T55 tank and the BRDM that I had seen earlier. They had both been destroyed at least a couple of years before, though remained basically intact. I felt like I desperately wanted to get out and climb all over them, though I knew well the hazards of landmines in these areas and that I should do no more than look at them through the car windows. Incidentally, our drivers passed these war machines with barely a side glance and, again, I was soon to understand why these machines were now nothing more than scenery here in Afghanistan.
We drove on for an intolerably long time along the rough, unpaved and barely tracked routes, across the valley floor heading north west, to our night destination. We must have travelled for 2–3 hours since entering the valley floor and it was now late afternoon and still we were driving. I knew driving after dark was prohibited by the UN, though I had assumed only because of driver safety. However, I was to learn on my next trip that night-flying aircrafts from the Afghan Air Force often bombed moving vehicles at night and this was the real reason for the restriction.
In these days of 1991, the Afghan government was still communist and this government remained the enemy of the mujahideen groupings that operated throughout much of the country. They had been fighting the Soviets and the Afghan government for almost 20 years and this war continued. We, the deminers, would often look like mujahideen because of our dress and grouping of thirty to forty bodies at one time. From an informant’s perspective, or from a combat pilot’s perspective, we must have definitely looked like mujahideen.
There were surprisingly very few other cars on our road as we continued to drive and I guess we passed only about three to four vehicles heading towards us, with about the same going our direction. All were beaten up, old Toyota pick-ups, mostly filled with armed men, though we also saw a few of the very old Yak 4x4s, which were Soviet era vehicles and resembled those seen on WW2 movies. As a military guy who had studied Soviet military machinery, aircraft, ships and vehicles for several years without ever actually seeing any, the T55, BRDM and these Yak 4x4s were a real treat.
Well, by this time, it was nearly 5 pm and definitely getting somewhat dark, quite quickly. There was low cloud cover that day and the available light was rapidly disappearing. I heard Kefayatullah talking on the radio a little earlier and he told me that our demining crew had been expecting us for lunch, but we were far too late for that.
By just as the clock struck 5 pm, we turned a rocky corner and a small but well-developed village was clearly seen. The village was very typically Afghan with high mud walls surrounding the various compounds with their large, heavy wooden gates. A few trees grew alongside the dirt road and noticeably more grew inside the compounds. Of course, much of the village was in disrepair or had been damaged by shelling and fighting.
There was almost zero activity to be seen in the town itself, except for a few men walking along the sides of the road with AK-47 rifles casually draped over their shoulders. The shops were all closed by this late hour and few cars were to be seen. The Paktia River passed to our eastern side and was a rushing torrent as the winter snows were still melting and, even so far away, continued to affect this area of the country.
A few minutes later we pulled up outside a series of wooden doors as armed men in shalwar kameez and rifles, opened the doors. We motored inside where I saw it was a huge compound with a great number of mango and almond trees growing. The main building was made of mud and timber but was two stories high, strong-looking and obviously from a design and construction style of perhaps a thousand years before. Outside was a small but growing group of men, deminers I assumed, one of whom stood out. He was a tallish man of about 40–45 years of age with a very dark, closely cropped beard that was obviously dyed, and a Chitrali cap. He came over and embraced and hugged Kefayatullah warmly as we got out of the vehicles. Others from our cars were embracing friends and the warmth of the reception was amazing. The senior gentleman, whom I later came to know well and greatly respect, was engineer Habib. He spoke no English but it made no difference to him that I was neither a Muslim, an Afghan, nor that I could not at that time speak Persian. He was a very smart and broad-minded gentleman who was, surprisingly, a well-known and highly respected mountain artillery commander from his mujahideen days prior to becoming a demining supervisor. Engineer Habib shook my hand and embraced me and I immediately knew I had met a man of great interest.
In Afghanistan there are two major and official languages: firstly Dari (or Persian which is very similar to Farsi from Iran) and Pashto, which is the language of the Pashtun tribal people of the east and south of the country. Those folk from Kabul city typically know Pashto but speak and write Dari as their day-to-day language, whereas many Pashtuns may not speak fluent Dari, particularly those who hail from near to the Pakistani border where Urdu is the official language. In the central and northern areas of Afghanistan, Dari is common, but so too are many other languages such as Turkmen and Uzbek (based on Turkish) and Tajik, based on Dari. But a collection of tribal languages that date back into the millennia also permeates the land, including Balochi, Pamiri and Nuristani. Some forty languages have been recorded as spoken throughout the country and yet that still doesn’t include English! It all sounds a little complicated and indeed it is. Though to make it easier, Dari and Pashto are officially the two national languages with all the others being just part of the diversity and complexity that makes up Afghanistan.
By now it was about 5.30 pm, or perhaps a little later and we all went inside for the ubiquitous formal greeting and cups of chai. I was placed beside Kefayatullah and he beside engineer Habib, the three most senior spots on the carpeted floor that I quickly became used to sitting at. The other staff sat to our left and right largely depending on their seniority.
As the general banter and standard complimenting continued, three huge, somewhat scary looking men entered the room. However, to my surprise they displayed the most humble of manners and started to lay out plate, after plate, after plate of wonderful local foods. The men trod gently across the matting on the floor in front of us, always bent down to maintain their humility, as they placed out the food and poured each of us cups of tea. They didn’t look at anyone in the eyes, except if they were spoken to. They appeared, whilst performing these acts of submission, to be extremely humble and accommodating. This type of behaviour, from grown and mature fighting men, never ceased to amaze me throughout the country although it was a cultural issue for them and never seem to be demeaning in any way.
As this wonderful loading of food was laid before us, I admit I was starving as we had left Peshawar at about 10 am and I hadn’t eaten anything of substance all day. There was roast chicken, meat (I foolishly thought was lamb, but as would become usual, was goat), rice, more rice, tomatoes, onions, and flat bread the size of a rugby jumper. After a quick Islamic prayer, we began to eat. As was to become the norm, I was encouraged to eat by all those around me. If I paused to catch my breath, another leg of chicken or a pile of rice was pushed in front of me. Now, please understand, I’m not so tall, but I can be a big eater and this late afternoon or early evening, I really ate my fill. I washed down the goat meat with green tea (chia subz), chomped on the chicken pieces and swallowed rice like water. The cooked potato and the salad dishes all took my fancy as did the kabab meat, the flat naan bread, the local yoghurt and the fruits.
By now I was pickled and more than a little bloated. I had eaten my fill and now felt ‘fat and happy’, which is an old saying of a great friend of mine, Geoff Long, from my home town of Frankston, Victoria. However, the time was now around 6.45 pm and it was very dark outside. The plates and the uneaten morsels of food were removed by the ‘scary men’ acting as waiters and we all smiled at each other contentedly. The talk now was only in Dari and as I didn’t understand it at this time, it was a bit boring and I was feeling somewhat sleepy, though I needed a wee. I asked for the toilet and was duly shown the outside. Toilets are nightmares in Afghanistan as anyone who has travelled deep into the outback areas of similar countries can attest. The stench and the practice of squatting is not something I have ever gotten used to, even though I have served in similar conditions for many years and continue to do so. But, I ventured into the WC and was at least successful, if not comfortable.
After my little ‘toilet adventure’, I thought I’d have a quick walk around the compound to help let my stomach settle and perhaps work off a few of those first 5,000 or so calories. As I walked down beside the river that I had heard clearly from the main building, it was dark and I realised the compound had no eastern walls, or perimeter fencing, for the most of it, as the river made this boundary itself. I guess after 15 minutes by myself, two armed men quickly came out of the darkness and startled me. They came up quickly in the darkness and began talking rapidly to me in Pashto as neither of them spoke English. They were guards for the compound and kept indicating for me, through gruff sign language, to go back to the main building. I kind of took this as being a bit overzealous, but as they seemed quite agitated, I duly walked back with them. At the main rear door, Kefayatullah and one of his men were standing and looking out towards me as I returned into the light of the porch. Kefayatullah appeared somewhat nervous and told me quietly and off to the side that I had to stay indoors. Once inside I asked him why, and he explained that there were a significant number of Salafists in this village area and more close by. As you may be aware, Salafists are known to be highly fanatical and religiously intolerant groups of people, often from outside Afghanistan. They had been responsible for the killings of many internationals in the past two or three years. On that note from Kefayatullah, I very well stayed indoors!
By now I was starting to feel tired and sleepy, as again we all sat in the central dining area on the floor. I was almost ready to ask where I would be sleeping, when in came the scary looking guys again, together with more plates of chicken, rice, salad, fruit, goat meat and more rice. “Ummm, what’s going on,” I asked with some in trepidation and the simple answer from Kefayatullah was, “Dinner!” Unbeknownst to me the earlier feast I had gorged upon was the belated lunch and now, only about two hours later, we were expected to eat again. I told Kefayatullah that I was totally full and couldn’t eat another thing. But once he explained the rituals of local custom, I was somewhat forced to sit back down and again eat. To be honest, I did remember Kefayatullah telling me before we ate ‘not to fill myself up too much’ (sic), but I obviously hadn’t listened. So now I had to feign hunger as my stomach was almost ready to burst. I did eat a little bit of meat and a little bit of salad to be polite, but no bread or rice could again enter my mouth. Of course, others at the dinner kept encouraging me to eat and I had to bluff my way through the affair. What an effort! Then, after these plates and trays had almost been cleared and the chai was being served, I realised that I had to take another serious look inside the fearsome toilet. My stomach was overextended and I needed to release its burden. Oh dear, it was not a happy time out there is the putrid, dark and cold toilet. My stomach ached from the over-consumption and I started to feel quite ill. But, eventually I made it back after several deep rumbling and echoing burps … and a lot more.
Back inside the main building I was soon shown my bedroom for the night and nobody seemed to notice, or be interested in my rock hard and swollen tummy. With very little delay I soon stripped down and lumbered into bed. My first thoughts were of a very difficult night of potential stomach problems, though the excitement of actually being inside Afghanistan and now fundamentally on my own as an Australian Army officer, quickly absorbed my mind and soon I had drifted off to sleep.
Surprisingly, that night I actually had a blissful sleep. I’m not a good sleeper at any time and with a gooey tummy, I was sure I would be up half the night visiting that horrible toilet. But not so, and in fact I had a great sleep, wrapped in a Persian blanket on a thick bed of carpets, on the floor in a small room by myself. Most of the others were in the larger rooms collectively where the snoring was dreadful, although no-one seemed to mind.
I woke up early the following morning, at 5 am or so, thankfully feeling good in the stomach. After a broad stretch and a yawn, followed by a brisk walk outside to clean my face and scrub my teeth in the river nearby, it was inside for yet another feed - this time on eggs, rice, bread and more rice.
I guess you’re now starting to see, like I was, that the Afghans eat mainly rice. Well, when they can, they do. But the giant flat bread, naan, and black chai are really the primary ingredients when items are short. I’ll admit I can live on tea and naan and almost did too, many months later, which is described in another chapter to come.
ooOoo
The rest of the mission went fine, and I was always thinking I must have looked like a small child running through a toy shop as I was completely overwhelmed by the sight of all this mostly functional military equipment and machinery. The trip was also inter-dispersed with several interesting moments, like when I was asked to fire the AK-47 rifle by one of our local guards. These types of events became quite common during my following five years in the country. It often started with me innocently asking questions about the weapons hardiness and how often they needed to clean them, etc., as in the army we were always told that the AK-47, often referred to as the Kalashnikov rifle, was an extremely resilient weapon and needed very little care. Well, that certainly was true and continues even today. The AK-47 and the huge variety of copies that are manufactured around the world continue to be the working man’s choice of firearm for combat. You can own an AK-47 for twenty years and never really need to pull it apart and clean it. Firing the beast basically clears out any dust, or rust, and the silly thing just keeps firing. Born out of the early 1950s and designed by Mikhail Kalashnikov, hence the name of the weapon and the initials (i.e. Avtomat Kalashnikova), it has become the most popular rifle in conflict. It is extremely cheap to manufacture, because of its simplicity in materials and design, and requires very little training to fire. With an effective range of over 300 metres due to its basic iron sights, it is also short in length and therefore effective for urban terrain fighting. Although much heavier than modern combat rifles and not generally suited to fixing electro-imaging sights and bright torch lights and other accessories, for the basic fighter, it remains highly effective. So, when asked to fire the Kalashnikov, I eagerly accepted and shot many rounds at nearby trees, large boulders and other objects. The local guards all watched me intently as they thought I’d have no idea about firearms. It was my army training that had taught me to receive the weapon, check safety was on, take of the magazine, cock the weapon to expel any rounds from the chamber, then release the working parts, replace the magazine, cock the weapon, set the firing distance on the sights and then check the backdrop of my target, select my aiming point and then actually hit the target. It was simple and rehearsed through years in the army, but to these local former mujahideen, my actions were inspiring. The four with me at this original time just goggled at me as again I cleared the weapon, and handed it back to its owner is a safe condition. Looking over my target area as I left, I saw the guards all pointing and talking about my shooting and weapon handling. It was a little bit of an ego thing for me, but to be honest, all I did is what I would expect any soldier to do, whenever given a foreign weapon and then being challenged to hit specific targets.
During the third or fourth day and after finishing my first visit to the active minefields, an interesting issue in the use of a particular booby-trap, by the Soviets, became a subject of conversation with the deminers. Surprisingly, I was to hear this many more times during trips into Afghanistan and more often in Peshawar. The strange and sometime manipulated perceptions of landmines and landmine clearance really began in those early days of the late 1980s and the very early 1990s. In fact, the thought of intentional booby-traps targeting kids and women became such an issue within our demining efforts that a large amount of the effort was afforded in dealing with these varied views and ideas.
The first time I heard of this subject was on this Paktia mission, shortly after the deminers and I had returned to the ATC camp. As we were unloading our kit and making ready for the following day, one of the deminers held up a Russian MUV fuse, which did not have any explosive detonator attached to it, and said it was a common booby trap for kids and that everyone should be careful if they saw one. I looked in amazement at this deputy team leader of the deminers, but I didn’t say anything just then, as I was a little confused. I do remember saying to myself, “What the heck is he talking about?” as I walked back to my room to take a wash before dinner. But, I thought I had better check this out before opening my big mouth straight away.
As I pondered the issue later that evening, comments I had heard well before, came back to me. Claims that explosive pens had been produced just to attract children and adults to pick them up seemed to solidify in my mind. It was clear that the MUV fuses developed and deployed by the Soviets had some unintended features that, to the untrained eye, may make them appear ‘pen-like’. But the design of these fuses was simple. They were designed for functionality; to fit into an explosive device or landmine. Thin, long and metallic, perhaps they did have some minor similarities to pens, I supposed.
The MUV fuses have no explosive charge in them, only mechanical parts that initiate a mechanical movement of a firing pin. A separate explosive detonator can be screwed onto the MUV fuse and in turn, this is used to detonate other explosive charges. If being held in the hand when this detonator explodes, it will definitely tear off fingers and cripple a hand. The fuse itself, even when attached to the detonator, has several specialised safety pins and wire connection ports that really do not make it look much like any sort of pen I have ever seen. But, the MUV fuses were used in large numbers inside Afghanistan as they had a variety of purposes, like much of the Soviet era equipment, including being placed in a hand grenade or a variety of landmines … or even real booby-traps. Often used in minefields, the MUV fuses and their attached detonators might get left behind solely by accident, or perhaps after being removed from a device. But they were not intended, by design, to be used as booby-traps for children or any other civilians. Neither were they developed or designed to resemble anything like a pen; they just do (a little!). As this was one of my early trips inside Afghanistan, I was still learning a great deal, but it was clear to me that the item was clearly a fuse only and certainly not a stand-alone booby-trap.
But other perceptions on the issue of landmines and subsequent items were perhaps even more concerning. And most of these were based on rumours, incorrect information reports and false allegations about how the explosive components were designed and used. When I first arrived in Pakistan and started to understand the issues facing ATC in their mine clearance operations, I also came to hear of many of these inaccurate reports. It was common for the uninformed - or for those attempting to deliberately criticise the concepts of ‘war fighting’ landmine use, or perhaps explicitly the Soviets - to say that explosive devices were shaped like toys or pens and used to attack children and women. This was largely untrue though perhaps, like in almost all types of warfare, some minor elements of either side may have manipulated certain devices for their own means. Certainly this was not a regular or a planned issue from the Soviets as I understood it, or the mujahideen, or the CIA, or any other of the major actors in the Afghan war of 1979–1989.
In a similar vein, the PFM-1 butterfly landmine is an extraordinary-looking device, in a bright green or sandy colour that can appear toy-like, though this is not its intended design or deployment. It is a small plastic device of about 120 millimetres in length and 60 centimetres in width, with a fusing tube along the centre of about 20 millimetres thick. The fusing tube, with its metal rim, holds the fuse and actuator. Both sides of the PFM-1 are similar and are shaped wing-like. Though one is thin and of just hard plastic, whilst the other is eight millimetres thick and holds a liquid form of explosive. The hard wing aids this air-delivered landmine as it flutters down to the ground; they are deployed out of canisters from war planes and helicopters in groups of 122 mines all packed together. The explosive in this small landmine is liquid so that, when stepped on the liquid squeezes into the actuation (or fusing) tube and the device detonates. The results typically end in the loss of much of a foot, or hand. I know that kids did pick these light green landmines up, thinking they were toys, but again the design and deployment was not meant to lure children to them. Interestingly, they can be picked up safely by the hard plastic wing and carried away for other use, or for destruction. However, if the holder puts any significant pressure on the explosive wing, it will detonate. So a young boy or girl, is theoretically able to pick up a live PFM-1, then hand it to another and perhaps even to another. It is then inevitable that one of these light touches will eventually detonate the device. A Kiwi fellow called Fred Estall, who would become a good friend of mine in the following year, also worked in the UN landmine program but was located in Kabul throughout 1991 (more of Fred later). Fred had one of these small, bright green PFM-1 landmines, which was all emptied of any explosives, defused and inert. He kept it on his key chain as a war ‘souvenir’ and basically forgot it was there. One day on his return home to New Zealand for R&R (rest and recuperation), Fred was carrying his small, inert landmine cover on his keys when disaster almost struck. It was at the Amsterdam international airport, where he was stopped and then searched and question about the device. It was at the very first security check post and Fred was taken straight into custody for several hours. Well, poor Fred not only missed that flight from Amsterdam, but he spent the entire night in the airport as a ‘guest’ of the airport police, as it was very hard to convince them of why he had the inert landmine in the first place, and how safe his disarmed version actually was. He eventually got back home to Wellington, two days later than anticipated, and he was of course, sans PFM. Perhaps in today’s world, poor old Fred might have been charged with attempted terrorism, but in the early 1990s, he was just inconvenienced and had his wrist slapped.
Some western military explosive devices can also appear to be ‘civilianised’. For instance, I have the casing of a large Italian anti-tank mine, called the TC-6. This plastic, well-constructed, anti-tank mine, looks just like a big, plastic ice cream container. Later in Kabul, I often used it as an ice-block holder at parties we held at my house and nobody gave it any notice.
There are also hose explosives used by the Australian Navy Clearance Divers that look nothing more than very heavy, garden piping, though are full of a flexible, high explosive. I used large numbers of these hose explosives, all conveniently screwed together by their integrated caps, up in the far north-east of Australia many years ago. This was during a testing exercise for new underwater demolition supervisors when we destroyed vast quantities of old bombs, rockets, missiles and torpedoes on Triangular Island. The island is uninhabited and used by the navy for explosive ordnance disposal training. These islands were all stocked with their non-native goats in the early 1800s to provide ‘food insurance’ for the survivors of shipwrecks of days gone by. Located at the far edge of the mighty Great Barrier Reef, ‘Triangular Island’ is quite beautiful and spectacular. I went there with Navy Clearance Diving Team 2 in the late 1980s and we ate several of these goats we had shot. The accompanying Navy chef cooked them in ammunition tins over an open fire and they were extremely tasteful. But, two Malaysian sailors who were also on this particular course, took great joy in separately cooking and eating the testicles of the male goats, though I admit I couldn’t join them in that.
ooOoo
As the technical adviser to ATC, I was required to do anything and everything. This included drafting and preparing the final version, including correcting all the English, of the monthly and annual reports and the regular donor submissions. It also included the clarification of those perceptions on landmine misuse, or more specifically, booby trap usage as described above. This was not always as easy as it sounds and at times was downright Bolshi as some individuals and groups seemed to want to use and manipulate these perceptions. They did so in order to either gain greater funding for their particular cause or further pressure the new Russian Government, now that the Soviet State had collapsed. Yet, I was also responsible for the major presentations we had to give to confirmed and potential donors and the interested media. All this, of course, came on top of my missions into Afghanistan that were about to increase in their duration and frequency.
ooOoo
In my first months at ATC we were located in an old large house in the western area of Peshawar and every room was turned into an office, as was fairly normal for NGOs at the time. It was still 1991 and although it doesn’t seem so long ago to me, in reality it is getting close to 30 years ago now. The building we had was very run down and smelly, and Kefayatullah initially seemed to be a strange guy, though always polite and friendly to me. It took me some time to get to know him, but we developed a very close bond over the coming months. We really came to respect each other and enjoy each other’s company.
I did not have an office at first and so I was assigned to, and took over, what was probably the lounge room when this was a house, even though this was also being used by people waiting for Kefayatullah, or for some other purposes. I seconded the back corner of the ‘lounge’ and had it fitted with a desk, computer, chair, pin board and a filing cabinet. It became a real office, though in an unreal location. I remember not long after this, and not long before we moved to better accommodation, it was the month of Ramadan when there are restrictions on eating and drinking during the daylight hours. To overcome this, I got a large roll of red ribbon and pinned it to the floor in a wide arc around my ‘office space’. Then, on the pin board behind me I fastened a large sign saying ‘Ramadan Free Zone’. I wouldn’t and couldn’t do that these days, though at that time in Peshawar and among all those hardened Muslim fighters who were now deminers, I always got a laugh and it was a well-accepted joke. Better still, I was able to drink tea all day long whilst everyone else was fasting.
In early March 1991, ATC was required to submit the annual report for their demining operations of 1990. It was actually due in January, but as I didn’t arrive in country until about mid-January, ATC just let it slip and now the headquarters were demanding the report. I found out shortly later that this was a hugely important document that was to be read by all the donors and a wide variety of diplomats and other senior persons from many parts of the world, and it was now two months overdue. The donors were typically UN Member States, or governments, and these funds enabled the UN Operation Salam, and therefore the demining program and ATC, to continue to function.
To be honest, the first I actually heard of the lateness of the ATC annual report was on a Tuesday morning at the regular OCHA meeting, when I was asked by the program manager, in no uncertain terms, “Where is the ATC Annual Report? It is late!” Casually, I said I had no idea but I would find out, thinking this was probably a very minor issue of the document being lost in the paperwork and all I’d have to do, would be to re-send it. However, I very soon found out nothing had been done, except for the collection of basic data. By late that afternoon, after confirming the urgency of the document, I set to work on developing a complete annual report, for a period when I was not even present, based on reams and reams of varied data and poorly written mission reports. Further, the annual report had to be finalised, signed by Kefayatullah, and delivered in Islamabad by Thursday for transmission to New York by Friday morning. That was in just two days’ time! Talk about ‘Mission Impossible’.
Luckily, in those early 1990s days, the ‘word processor’ was available, but it was not anywhere near as efficient or easy to use as the steadfast laptop, desktop computer or iPad of today. This was a giant machine attached to a really loud, but very slow and cumbersome printer, precariously well-known for failure. I had minimal experience in these machines given that until very recently, all Australian Army units still employed a number of civilian ladies to type major documents. Access to, and use of, word processors were not that common in early 1991.
With Kefayatullah’s great support and total reliance on me, we started to have the reports translated and I bogged into the English versions and a host of other documents to start to prepare the report. That night I stayed at the office until about 2 am gathering and collating the facts and relevant photos that I thought we could use to present this information in a factual but readable manner. The next morning, I was in the office at about 6.30 am and my eyes burned from the lack of sleep.
ATC seemed to think that I was the best and perhaps only person able to do this report and so they all left me to my own devices, though I did get assistance and support from the administrative officer (Wali Sahib) and of course Kefayatullah.
By the Wednesday afternoon, I had collected what I needed and was ready to start writing. I hopped on board the enormous word processor machine and started to type. But, the ‘delete’ button sometimes didn’t delete, the ‘left and right’ buttons failed often and the ‘cut and paste’ function typically left me with a portion removed but nothing pasted, or every word lost. I was pulling my hair out and redoing large sections of the document sometimes two or three times. I can remember walking back into my house just after 2.30 am that second day too.
Thursday morning was my third and final day to get this report finished, signed and sent to Islamabad. Again I crawled out of bed very early and was in the office at the dreaded machine at about 6.30 am. I swore, belted and cursed, and printed dozens and dozens of draft versions of the document throughout the day. But finally, and to my great relief, late that afternoon it was finished. I had checked and re-checked the spelling, the formatting and the style and was happy to have this version sent to Islamabad and New York. Kefayatullah was ecstatic and hugged me warmly. He looked through the report and a huge smile came to his face and again he hugged me. With his signature and mine, the administrative staff who had been told not to leave the office, made forty copies of the report, bound them and then, on Thursday evening, the completed annual report of 1990 was on its way to Islamabad via an ATC driver. We had done it, well, to be honest, I had done it and I feel quite proud to have done so.
By late on Friday morning, the senior management of Operation Salam at the OCHA headquarters in Islamabad, had read the report and all were very impressed. ATC was given a great response from it.
ooOoo
But this was a short and fleeting episode of the support required for ATC in those days. Another requirement was for me to manage the delivery of presentations to the international community. This was often done by grand presentations when disabled Afghans would be presented, speeches made and demonstrations given. In the first of these presentations, we planned to make it more theatre performance than formal presentation. I had the tents set up so that about 50 visitors were to be seated under cover and we ensured cooling fans were placed appropriately. We also ensured that the stage area was not too high or too low, and that the drinks and snacks were ready to be put out, but would not interfere with any presenters. I planned to use some of our actual deminers as well as noise and equipment on stage to help deliver our underlying message to all: Afghans needed to return home but couldn’t because of the threat of landmines; ATC was the primary force to right this wrong situation. So, we got seven, big, tough-looking deminers and staged their entry into the main tent.
As part of our plan, after all the visitors were seated and the initial speakers had finished, we would announce we were to now have a short speech from one of the deminers. In fact, as he walked through the seated group to the front, a loud bang would be heard, frightening visitors and having our deminer act as if he had trodden on a mine. I would then talk the crowd through the activity as three deminers were to come along the walkway. They had to appear to be demining the ground in an effort to rescue our ‘injured’ deminer. They would find another two buried landmines (we had buried earlier, obviously without explosives) before clearing around the injured deminer, lifting him and taking him to the rear. It was here that our medical team would rush in and simulate treating him, before moving him off. All sounded great and we actually rehearsed this simulation several times until the acting and the timing was just about right.
On the day of the presentation, as the tents started to fill up, I met a number of ambassadors and other senior folk and all seemed to be in good cheer. I was looking forward to the secret act we had prepared and were ready to present. Slowly, the visitors found their seats and many more were standing at the back when the OCHA staff started the presentations. First, an administration lady from the New York headquarters gave great insights into the hard and dedicated work of the ATC deminers and made reference to some of the facts and figures in our previously approved annual report. She also spoke about our sister agencies, namely the Mine Action Planning Agency (MCPA) and the Office of Mine Awareness (OMA), which provided the initial land surveys and the landmine awareness education and training. This woman, who I really did know very well, seemed to enjoy being up in front of such senior people and went on, and on, and on, and on. She was at the microphone for a good 45 minutes or more before handing over to one ambassador, from the Netherlands, who was responding on behalf of the international community. He was an eloquent and concise speaker who soon stepped down and the head of the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) stepped up. On this went for another hour and a half with these multiple speakers. The visitors were now boiling hot and perspiration was everywhere as the late morning turned to early afternoon and the heat of Islamabad steadily rose. Soon several people were squirming and some had stood up and moved to get a drink from our stand outside. Others were actually leaving as it became almost unbearable in the heat by the time Kefayatullah made his speech, even though fans were blowing air around. When it was actually my time to speak, as the last speaker, I saw the anxiety on the visitors and the distinct but mute calls to let them ‘out of here’. I made my speech extremely short and then invited our deminer to the stage. As planned, he walked up to near the stage and an explosion rocked the tents. But this was a huge and deafening thump that almost threw people off their seats. I almost fell over too, as it was far louder than planned or expected. A couple of ladies screamed and several folk jumped up and turned to get out of the area fearing our theatrics to be a real explosion. I tried to steady everyone over the microphone and we got some calm, but it was no longer a ‘steady ship’ and our activities fell somewhat flat, though were still appreciated by some. All clapped at the mimicking demining accident and response, then everyone left in rather a hurry. Not what we had initially planned, but we were really beaten by the heat and the droning speeches made by far too many, for far too long. I found out later that the deminers who were supposed to use a single pyrotechnic on the ground just outside the tent, thought it would be ‘too quiet’ and so put three of them, bound together, in a tin rubbish bin and then covered it with the lid. Unbeknown to the people inside the tent, the rubbish bin was completely destroyed and the lid landed some 50 metres away. A couple of lessons needed to be learned here, I quietly thought.
In the following days, we had a mix of comments about the presentation, ranging from ‘realistic and fantastic’ to ‘too loud and inappropriate’. Still, I think it was a worthwhile program and we did something similar three months later. This time though, the demonstration was made indoors, where the air conditioning eased the stress and specific time limitations were given to each speaker, whilst our simulated explosion was much more controlled. All our following presentations to the international community were very well received and the donations kept piling in. So much so in fact, that ATC was able to increase our demining teams by 60% by the end of that year.
ooOoo
Following the ‘varied reviews’ of our first major presentation described above, Kefayatullah was probably happy to see me go back into Afghanistan … although he never mentioned it. Nangarhar Province was my next chosen site and that’s where I headed to, straight after all this commotion had settled down. The Nangarhar mission was to be a short trip and although my usual tasking was to review the operations of the demining teams, this time I went specifically to make a quick evaluation of the three variant ‘mine detectors’ ATC was using. It was the first step in our overall assessment of metal detectors, on our way to selecting a singular model for issue to all demining teams. More on this is mentioned later in the book.
ooOoo
As I have mentioned earlier and perhaps you may notice through these readings, fitness for me is a way of life and something I’m motivated and proud to do. Almost every day, or at least five times a week, I exercise. To me it’s a part of my life and a passion. When I was a little younger, this passion was bordering on extreme and I became very successful in sports. I’m not a huge, classic build; in fact I’m stocky and muscular and have a ‘low centre of gravity’ that makes me about 170 centimetres tall, or five foot seven inches in my running shoes. Not a tall man by any means, but certainly able to keep up with any persons in my range. But, that’s bye the bye. During this mission into Nangarhar, I was staying at the demining site for about ten days and the one thing that was hard to do in Afghanistan was to exercise. At times I felt as if cobwebs were forming inside me as I yearned to go for a run, or hit a punching bag.
I remember at this compound, there was a young man of about 30 years of age who was a chowkidar, or watchman, for the demining teams and he was on an ATC contract. He was disabled, with an entire missing leg and he wore a stiff prosthetic. Each day, either late in the afternoon or early in the morning, depending on our schedule, I would run up and down the length of the compound. I measured the distance, and it was only about 55 metres long. But I figured if I ran its length, up and back, only five times, then that would be just over half a kilometre. If I did that seven times, it would be nearly three and half kilometres which would be a good run and I could inter-mingle it with some sprints and some normal running. So, that’s what I did basically each day for that mission. I also found a large rock that I used for chest presses and some local bricks that I had found to use for shoulder and biceps exercises. I worked out a full routine, which is something I would continue to do in several other countries.
As I was doing my running and strength exercises one morning, this young chowkidar guy with his stiff artificial leg watched me. I thought he was interested in joining me but realised he couldn’t. After three days had past, one evening when I had finished, I went and got one of our Peshawar staff and then returned back out to this young chowkidar. All of our conversation was through translation, as although my Dari was reasonable, it was not good enough for the conversation I thought we might have and besides, he was a Pashtun here in Nangarhar and may not have been too good at Dari.
We sat on the veranda area of the main building in this partially abandoned compound and called the chowkidar to join us. As we chatted, I eventually asked how he lost his leg. With openness, he said he had been shot high up in the thigh and his complete leg was amputated by a local doctor. I assumed he must have been hit in the femoral artery area, as he said it was amputated then and there, in the field four years ago. He had woken up in a hospital in Peshawar not knowing why he was there or why he was in a bed. His name was Mohamad and he told of the sad and too frequent situation where a deminer or mujahid would be injured, then drugged unconscious and operated on, only to wake and wonder where they were, not knowing of the damage they had received. As he spoke his eyes watered just slightly and I felt for this guy. I asked how he got his artificial leg, as many in this region didn’t have any and were bound to crutches or wheelchairs. He said that an Australian NGO had provided it to him and that he was very happy to have it. But I had seen him walk and noticed he had a bad limp. I asked if the leg was a good fit and why he limped so badly. He said that his leg stump had altered over the years and now it was just a little too small for the prosthesis. It gave him pain when he walked for more than a few minutes. He also said he used to be a very good soccer player as a younger man. This reminds me now of an incident near Kabul in 1995 when the Taliban were gaining significant strength there.
I had been coming back from a visit to the south-west of the city when we drove past a barren soccer pitch not far from my home in Kabul city. A gathering of men were standing and squatting around someone on the ground and a few were running back and forwards to the road. We were forced to slow right down to avoid hitting them and it was then we realised a young boy had been injured or was ill. A man running back to the gathering saw us looking and yelled at our car that the boy had just been shot by a Taliban militant. He asked whether we would help. So we pulled the car over and ran to the crowd. On the ground was a young lad of only about 16 years of age. He was covered in blood from his waist down to his toes. Nobody really knew first aid, so I used my multi-knife and cut his trouser leg along its length looking for the bullet entry. It was high on his hip and with the amount of blood I knew it was his femoral artery. I grabbed the cloth from an old man squatted alongside and pushed hard with my fist against the area of the bullet hole. The boy was almost unconscious but groaned at the pain. I guessed we were 15 minutes from the ICRC hospital in Kabul and so whilst pushing to stop the bleeding, I got my driver to bring the car into the playing field and tried to explain to the gathered group that this was serious and life threatening. If badly damaged, a femoral cut can cause you to bleed to death in just ten minutes. Once the car arrived, we put the boy on the back seat, had two of the friends jump in with me in the back and another in the front as we sped off to the ICRC. My driver called the UN radio room and told them about the incident and got them to call ICRC. When we arrived I was still forcing my fist against his upper thigh as the doctor and attendants ran to our car. Blood was everywhere. The doctor asked me a few questions in English then said, “Well done,” and took over the treatment of the boy. I never even heard the boy’s name, but I know that he had his leg amputated right up against his hips with the smallest stump you can have. He survived, but it was not a happy ending. I also found out why he had been shot. As he and his friends were playing soccer, three Taliban drove up in a car. They got out and said to the boys, “This was no time for playing when you should be answering Allah’s will to fight.” The young victim had said something to the effect that this was just for fun, and so they shot him. Nothing more than that.
Anyway, my chowkidar in Nangarhar in 1991, was apparently always eager to see me exercise even though he wished he could also do what I did. Well, I thought, I can assist here. I noted that his leg no longer fitted his prosthesis and jotted that to my memory. I had recently been told of another NGO which was using the soft rubber from the inside of run-flat tyres from old Russian armoured vehicles to create new forms of prostheses. This could possibly help this guy I thought, but at the time I told him he could join me during my exercises any time. He patted his false leg and said in Pashto, “Maybe four years ago, but not now,” and laughed. But I persisted and said I understood he couldn’t run, but he could do the strength and stomach exercises almost the same as I did. We spoke about this for over an hour. In the end, he was really keen to join in and to learn what he might and might not be able to do, though he had basically done zero exercise since his accident.
Early the next morning, my one-legged chowkidar greeted me with a look of suspicion and concern. I indicated through simple hand signalling that I would do my run first and then we could do some strength exercises. He smiled broadly and nodded his head in understanding. He then sat and watched every meter I ran. Finally, I stopped and grabbed my big rock and bricks and we sat together as I tried to explain our exercise routine, as I saw it. First, we needed to check if he could do some of the exercises, then once we were happy, we would start. He eagerly agreed and I admit he really looked keen. So, I went through the chest presses, the shoulder presses, some bicep curls and some triceps exercises and push-ups. He could do each one easily and he seemed to gain confidence. I then indicated the sequence for the exercises, chest, arms then abdominals, and we started. I admit that once I start a series of exercises, I usually lose all knowledge of what’s happening around me as I slip into my personal ‘zone’, but with this guy bursting with enthusiasm I was spellbound. He had removed his shirt and he pushed and shoved those rocks and bricks like there was no tomorrow. I kept thinking he would stop and so I kept going at my usual standard and encouraged him to keep going and to work harder. He did, and I feel he forgot about his handicap for the next 45–60 minute as we both sweated and strained that morning. I was as proud as could be to see his effort and his desire to get himself fit once again. When we finished, I was really beat and clearly so was he. At that moment one of the administrative assistants walked around the corner and I grabbed him to help me translate what I was saying. I told Mohamad, that not tomorrow but the following day he would be very sore all over. We both laughed at that and he said he’d be fine, but I knew better. I told him even if he was sore the next morning, he must do some more exercise to get rid of the lactic acid that will be creeping into his system even as we spoke. I then had to leave to get ready for the day’s business at the demining sites so we shook hands and promised to meet again the next morning.
The next morning he was ready again, though after a bit of a laugh he admitted his arms and chest were already sore. The administrative assistant also came out to join us. I did my run with him as Mohamad exercised with the heavy stone and bricks and when we had finished running, we all did more chest, arms and abdominal exercises together, including countless push-ups. Although Mohamad was already very sore from the previous day, he clearly forgot about that once he started and really worked hard once again. I showed him some more variants of those exercises and by the end of that week, he was really looking bright. Together the three of us designed and built a chin-up bar that Mohamad could use. His arms had gotten very weak and he could only do five or six chin-ups at any one time when I left, but I am sure he could do plenty these days, if indeed he kept his exercise regime going. I was overjoyed to have been part of this young man’s renewed interest in fitness when he had once thought his life had finished. Certainly, that’s not the case if you put in the effort, have the interest and a little bit of luck on your side. I also made inquiries about the new rubber prosthetics at the NGO but was told there was a year-long waiting list already. Nonetheless, through constant bartering, I got Mohamad’s name put on their register. Although I never heard if he got his new leg, I am sure he would have at least been contacted once his name came up.
Since those days, I have watched with interest as people make do with what they have or don’t have. I sometimes think about how my life would be, had I been shot in Afghanistan or if what happened to this chowkidah had actually happened to me. I still pray I would be energetic enough to start an exercise regime if it had. I recall being badly injured at football in Australia, unable to join in the training and exercise, and how that pained me in those days. I had an operation on my hip back in 2008 after damaging the cartilage covering the head of the femur bone after a long hard run. The operating doctor told me at the time, that I would never be able to run again. I asked about running on the soft sand of the beach and he said, “Listen carefully Graeme, if you want this resurfacing to last you for the rest of your life, don’t run. Walk as hard and as fast as you can, but don’t run.” I have basically kept to that and haven’t run much. Though on occasion I can’t help it and if I am down the beach, I almost always fall into the trap of going for a 2–3 kilometre run. I understand the concerns and the realities of my hip, but it is just too much to bear, never being able to run for fitness or enjoyment any more. I nowadays work out on the cross trainer machines that really do make you suck for air, though there is almost zero pressure on the hip joints. At times, I hate to admit, I actually have dreams when I go for long and tough runs. But, I guess life is far too short to sit, worry and dwell about the negative impacts that hit all of us, at some point in our lives, in one way or another.
