Just outside of Ab Gach, in the Northwest panhandle of
Afghanistan between Tajikstan and Pakistan.
November 11, 2001
It's fucking freezing here. I'm sitting on hard, cold dirt
between rocks and shrubs at the base of the Hindu Kush mountains
along the Dar 'yoi Pomir River watching a hole that leads
to a tunnel that leads to a cave. Stake out, my friend,
and no pizza delivery for thousands of miles.
I also glance at the area around my ass every ten to fifteen
seconds to avoid another scorpion sting. I've actually given
up battling the chiggers and sand fleas, but them goddamn
scorpions give a jolt like a cattle prod. Hurts like a bastard.
The antidote tastes like transmission fluid but God bless
the Marine Corps for the five vials of it in my pack.
The one truth the Taliban cannot escape is that, believe
it or not, they are human beings, which means they have
to eat food and drink water. That requires couriers and
that's where an old bounty hunter like me comes in handy.
I track the couriers, locate the tunnel entrances and storage
facilities, type the info into the handheld, shoot the coordinates
up to the satellite link that tells the air commanders where
to drop the hardware, we bash some heads for a while, then
I track and record the new movement. It's all about intelligence.
We haven't even brought in the snipers yet. These scurrying
rats have no idea what they're in for. We are but days away
from cutting off supply lines and allowing the eradication
to begin. I dream of bin Laden waking up to find me standing
over him with my boot on his throat as I spit a bloody ear
into his face and plunge my nickel plated Bowie knife through
his frontal lobe. But you know me. I'm a romantic.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: This country
blows, man. It's not even a country. There are no roads,
there's no infrastructure, here's no government. This is
an inhospitable, rock pit shithole ruled by eleventh century
warring tribes. There are no jobs here like we know jobs.
Afghanistan offers two ways for a man to support his family:
join the opium trade or join the army. That's it. Those
are your options. Oh, I forgot, you can also live in a refugee
camp and eat plum-sweetened, crushed beetle paste and squirt
mud like a goose with stomach flu if that's your idea of
a party. But the smell alone of those "tent cities
of the walking dead" is enough to hurl you into the
poppy fields to cheerfully scrape bulbs for eighteen hours
And let me tell you something else. I've been living with
these Tajiks and Uzbeks and Turkmen and even a couple of
Pushtins for over a month and a half now and this much I
can say for sure: These guys, all of em, are Huns. Actual,
living Huns. They LIVE to fight. Its what they do. Its ALL
they do. They have no respect for anything, not for their
families or for each other or for themselves. They claw
at one another as a way of life. They play polo with dead
calves and force their five-year-old sons into human cockfights
to defend the family honor. Huns, roaming packs of savage,
heartless beasts who feed on each other's barbarism. Goddamn
cavemen with AK 47's.
Then again, maybe I'm just cranky.
I'm freezing my cock off on this stupid fucking hill because
my lap warmer is running out of juice and I can't recharge
it until the sun comes up in a few hours. Oh yeah! You like
to write letters, right? Do me a favor, Bizarre. Write a
letter to CNN and tell Judy and Bernie and that awful, sneering,
pompous Aaron Brown to stop calling the Taliban "smart."
They are not smart. I suggest CNN invest in a dictionary
because the word they are looking for is "cunning."
The Taliban are cunning, like jackals and hyenas and wolverines.
They are sneaky and ruthless and, when confronted, cowardly.
They are hateful, malevolent parasites who create nothing
and destroy everything else. Smart. Pfft. Yeah, they're
real smart. They've spent their entire lives reading only
one book (and not a very good one, as books go) and consider
hygiene and indoor plumbing to be products of the devil.
They're still figuring out how to work a Bic lighter. Talking
to a Taliban warrior about improving his quality of life
is like trying to teach an ape how to hold a pen; eventually
he just gets frustrated and sticks you in the eye with it.
Snuffle will be up soon so I have to get back to my hole.
Covering my Tracks in the snow takes a lot of practice but
I'm getting good at it. Please tell my fellow Americans
to turn off their TV sets and move on with their lives.
The story line you are getting from CNN is utter bullshit
and designed not to deliver truth but rather to keep you
glued to the screen through the commercials. We've got this
one under control.
The worst thing you guys can do right now is sit around
analyzing what we're doing over here because you have no
idea what we're doing and, really, you don't want to know.
We are your military and we are doing what you sent us here
You wanna help? Buy some fucking stocks, America.