Yesterday, it really felt like the job was finally starting. We started the handover with the other platoon, and from the smiles hidden behind a bunch of forcefully serious faces, one could tell that, for obvious reasons, they were happy to see us.
We were finally issued our field gear and ammunition. Frankly, having only one full magazine since I first stepped in the Afghan sand was a tad stressful to me. What if...?
We received additional mag pouches, night vision equipment, and other tactical gear for which , if I told you about, the gods of operational security would certainly berate me. I was issued a 9mm pistol, confirming my glorious status of commander.
At last, we are ready to start defending the camp against potential threats, which have been quite scarce for the past few years. The reason? The camp's Afghan security chief, a self-proclaimed colonel by the name of Tor Jan who once made it quite clear to three Taliban fighters who had just attacked the camp that the Kandahar Provincial Reconstruction Team was "under his protection", according to the Pashtun Wali, the tribe's code of honor. I will spare you the gruesome details, but let's just say, for conversation's sake, that the moniker he earned in the aftermath of an exemplary demonstration starring three hapless Muslim fanatics is...Skinner.
I'm looking forward to work with the Afghan National Police. So far, the ones I've met have been very friendly, and most of them speak in a broken yet understandable English. They're highly reliable in that most of them hate the Taliban with a passion. According to a friend of mine who will soon be back to the future, they will die for us. Those were his words, taken from one cop who said he witnessed the Taliban wipe out half his village, although that might have been an exaggerateed account as they have no basic mathematical skills, but you get the point.
The downside? They are dirt poor, and thus inclined to petty theft, which in no way undermines our trust in them. How can you blame one for trying to feed his kids? "Is that a night vision lens in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me? Just give it back, will you?"
The homeward-bound platoon we're taking over from told us to befriend them as soon as possible, and so I listened. I still have to get around knowing their names, which sometimes look - and sound - like a disorganized Scrabble hand, but I feel that seven months should be enough to accomplish this linguistic feat.
Gotta go now...My platoon warrant is screaming for another list.
We were finally issued our field gear and ammunition. Frankly, having only one full magazine since I first stepped in the Afghan sand was a tad stressful to me. What if...?
We received additional mag pouches, night vision equipment, and other tactical gear for which , if I told you about, the gods of operational security would certainly berate me. I was issued a 9mm pistol, confirming my glorious status of commander.
At last, we are ready to start defending the camp against potential threats, which have been quite scarce for the past few years. The reason? The camp's Afghan security chief, a self-proclaimed colonel by the name of Tor Jan who once made it quite clear to three Taliban fighters who had just attacked the camp that the Kandahar Provincial Reconstruction Team was "under his protection", according to the Pashtun Wali, the tribe's code of honor. I will spare you the gruesome details, but let's just say, for conversation's sake, that the moniker he earned in the aftermath of an exemplary demonstration starring three hapless Muslim fanatics is...Skinner.
I'm looking forward to work with the Afghan National Police. So far, the ones I've met have been very friendly, and most of them speak in a broken yet understandable English. They're highly reliable in that most of them hate the Taliban with a passion. According to a friend of mine who will soon be back to the future, they will die for us. Those were his words, taken from one cop who said he witnessed the Taliban wipe out half his village, although that might have been an exaggerateed account as they have no basic mathematical skills, but you get the point.
The downside? They are dirt poor, and thus inclined to petty theft, which in no way undermines our trust in them. How can you blame one for trying to feed his kids? "Is that a night vision lens in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me? Just give it back, will you?"
The homeward-bound platoon we're taking over from told us to befriend them as soon as possible, and so I listened. I still have to get around knowing their names, which sometimes look - and sound - like a disorganized Scrabble hand, but I feel that seven months should be enough to accomplish this linguistic feat.
Gotta go now...My platoon warrant is screaming for another list.
1 commentaire:
Salut Mec!
Content de te savoir rendu! Je savais pas que tu avais la plume aussi aiguisée en anglais, c'est étonnant! On publiera peut-etre ca un jour sous le titre "les tribulations d'une milice"
PO
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