Come along for the ride, readers, courtesy of the New York Times:
"In Afghanistan, Hunt for Militants Can Be a Slog" by C. J. CHIVERS
ESPANDI, Afghanistan, Nov. 18 — First Lt. Aaron W. Childers stood before a doorway inside a mud-walled compound while an Afghan and American patrol searched behind him. Paratroopers swept metal detectors over the dusty ground, looking for buried weapons and ammunition.
A middle-aged woman, one of the compound’s residents, faced the lieutenant, speaking emphatically and waving her arms. A young woman beside her hid her face beneath a shawl. The lieutenant’s Afghan interpreter also hid his face, concealing his identity.
The interpreter told the lieutenant: “She says there is no Talibs. They have no Talibs here.”
Lieutenant Childers said, using the acronym for the Afghan National Police:
“Tell her we are going to be very respectful with the search, and the A.N.P. are going to be with us. If anything comes up missing while we are searching, please let us know.”
Lieutenant Childers is a platoon commander with the 82nd Airborne Division, engaged in the long, slow counterinsurgency campaign that the Afghan government and the United States hope will marginalize the Taliban and make Afghanistan capable of self rule.
Here we are losing ground and land to the Taliban, and the NYT is SPINNING THIS SHIT!
On this day, the platoon’s mission was to cordon off part of the village and capture Mullah Shabir, a low-level Taliban commander, and to search for caches of rockets or mortar rounds. In recent months, many had been fired from the village toward the command post of the platoon’s parent unit, the Second Battalion, 508th Parachute Infantry.
The paratroopers also hope to teach Afghanistan’s indigenous security forces, still an inconsistent lot, to work effectively and with each other. Of the 58 people in the patrol, 12 were Afghan soldiers, 5 were Afghan police officers and 7 were agents of the National Directorate of Security, Afghanistan’s intelligence service.
Yeah, AmeriKa has to GO EVERYWHERE and TEACH EVERYBODY!
Why don't you just give them tasers?
Under American tutelage, Afghanistan’s army and intelligence service have shown signs of improvement in recent years, American officers say. The police remain troubled by incompetence, corruption and sloth. The Americans watched the officers closely, aware that they might steal.
And we are teaching them, huh?
Teaching them to do that, right?
Un-fucking-believable!
Yup, AmeriKa -- home of the incorruptible!
After the police did a cursory walk through the compound, the paratroopers conducted a more determined search. Staff Sgt. Matthew P. Allen, the leader of the platoon’s second squad, moved through a dim stable, illuminating his way with a flashlight attached to his M-4 rifle. The air smelled of urine and dung.
He picked a path through the manure and searched stacks of firewood. Finding nothing, he returned to the courtyard and pulled off the black mask he had worn on the long walk here through the frigid November night.
He inhaled the clean air, and watched the paratroopers pacing on the compound’s roof, absorbing the rays of the rising sun. The first search was over. No sign of Mullah Shabir. Sergeant Allen’s eyes twinkled with mischief.
Sgt. Allen said to the platoon sergeant, Sgt. First Class David E. Banks: “Funny thing is, I don’t think we’ve ever found the Taliban.”
Sergeant Banks answered: “They seem to do a good job of finding us.”
In its eight months in Afghanistan, Second Platoon has been ambushed several times, and in about 10 firefights.
Sergeant Allen, referring to a rocket-propelled grenade: “You’ll be driving down the road, and be like, ‘Was that an R.P.G. that just flew by?’”
The Second Battalion occupies small firebases and outposts in Ghazni and Wardak Provinces, a region of mountains, high desert and steep-sided valleys between Kabul and Kandahar.
The area, the size of Maryland, is split by Highway 1, Afghanistan’s principal road. It contains a patchwork of villages, some friendly to the paratroopers, some apparently neutral, others heavily populated with insurgents and criminals who attack American and Afghan units and prey on passing traffic.
Lt. Col. Timothy J. McAteer, the battalion’s commander, said in an interview that the groups operating against the battalion showed signs of tactical coordination, using spotters with cellphones to tell the Taliban and bandits the direction of American patrols, or alerting them to trucks carrying valuable merchandise on the roads.
Yup, more organized, more coordinated! WE HAVE LOST!
YOU LOST in Afghanistan BUSH! LOSER BUSH!
The paratroopers often move on foot at night, hoping to evade the spotters.
On this patrol, they had approached Espandi after a two-hour walk in the blackness, stopping outside the village and sending teams to block escape routes. Then the Afghans and Sergeant Allen’s squad moved toward compounds where they had been told Mullah Shabir had been seen.
A dog had been barking madly as the platoon approached.
Now the paratroopers moved to a second compound. They found nothing there, too.
Outside a third compound, Pvt. Joseph Wheeler spotted a small metallic cone in the dirt. It was the fuse to a 107-millimeter rocket, the sort that had been launched at the battalion command post.
Had it been dropped before dawn, as insurgents spirited their weapons away ahead of the platoon’s advance? Or it had been sitting in the open for weeks? It was impossible to tell.
Inside the compound, an old man was patting a fresh layer of mud against a wall. He was Hajji Tahir, the father of Shir Agha, a fighter for the Taliban.
Lieutenant Childers: “We’d like to ask you a few questions about your son. We’re not going to hurt you in any way. You don’t need to be afraid.”
Hajji Tahir said he was not afraid.
The lieutenant asked: “Do you know where your son is?”
The man answered: “No.”
“When was the last time you saw your son?”
“Some men came and took him and he joined them. I am old and I am alone. My son does not help me. I have not seen my son. But if I see him I will arrest him.”
Lieutenant Childers was polite but unconvinced, and said to the interpreter: “We don’t want his son to get killed in the fighting. Can you ask him to call us when he sees his son?”
Hajji Tahir agreed. Then he said he would make chai, or tea, for the platoon. He excused himself and walked away.
Capt. Benjamin H. Klimkowski had accompanied Lieutenant Childers’ patrol, to help supervise the Afghans. He was also trying to assess the village.
He asked Lieutenant Childers: “You buy it?”
The lieutenant said: “I don’t know.”
Sergeant Allen had paced near the conversation with Hajji Tahir while his squad searched the yard. He cradled a rifle. The hand grip of a 12-gauge shotgun jutted from his backpack.
Sgt. Allen flashed a grin and joked: “You know, right now he’s gone to another house to tell his son to run. His son was making the chai.”
Hajji Tahir returned with tea.
At the next compound, which contained a house surrounded by a withered vineyard, a woman approached the paratroopers after the Afghan police walked through. She said that after the Afghan officers had left she found that she was missing 500 Pakistani rupees, worth about $8, from the box where she kept her money.
News of her accusation spread through the patrol; Afghan Army soldiers appeared disgusted. One chambered a round in his Kalashnikov rifle and strutted menacingly toward the police officers; another leveled his rocket-propelled grenade launcher at them.
Lieutenant Childers intervened, and herded the police officers back inside the compound. They stood against the wall.
Lieutenant Childers: “This can’t happen. We can’t have the police stealing from the people.”
At least, not where we go. At home, it's o.k.!
And if it's a defense contractor, oh, well!
He made an offer: return the money and continue on the patrol, or face a search and a report to their supervisor. The police officers said they did not take the money. They looked less humiliated than insolent and bored.
The patrol was held up for about 30 minutes while Sergeant Allen led the police officers around a corner and searched them. He found nothing; the lieutenant had 500 rupees given to the woman at his own expense. Then he jotted down each of the officers’ names, to put in a report later.
The police rejoined the patrol.
Lieutenant Childers: “This wasn’t in my job description.”
Sergeant Banks: “Tell me about it.”
Sergeant Allen’s squad moved off to search an orchard at the other side of the village.
The other paratroopers and the Afghans gathered at a fortress-like compound with towers at its corners.
Staff Sgt. Frankie M. Manglona, the leader of the platoon’s third squad, had brought his paratroopers there ahead of the sunrise. They had taken positions in two towers and watched over the patrol throughout the morning.
Now the sun was hot. As Staff Sergeant Allen’s squad searched among the spindly trees, Sergeant Manglona scanned the area through the scope of his M-14 rifle.
Children clustered under the tower, looking up. They grinned and pointed.
Sergeant Manglona, as he peered through the scope to see if anyone was creeping up on Sergeant Allen’s squad: “The people are really friendly. I don’t trust them, honestly.”
Look at this!!! FRIENDLY PEOPLE up in those hills.
As I SUSPECTED ALL ALONG!
And WE GOT NO BUSINESS UP THERE KILLING THEM!
NO BUSINESS!!!!!!
And yet Johnny murderer here doesn't trust them?
Think they trust your murdering ass?
He rolled up a sleeve, exposing a black bracelet. It had been engraved with a name: Sergeant Dustin J. Perrot. He had been killed on June 21 by a roadside bomb. “He was a real good guy,” he said, watching the exposed members of his platoon.
Staff Sergeant Allen’s paratroopers had found machine-gun ammunition and the wrapper of an R.P.G. in the orchard, apparently discarded during a firefight another unit had had in the village earlier in the month.
Now they were walking toward Sergeant Manglona. They entered the tower, exchanged cigarettes and drained canteens.
Uneventful patrols defy ready measurement. Mullah Shabir had not been found. The Taliban’s local leader could be watching calmly from a window, under the village’s protection, or he could be far away.
The patrol’s ambition was shifting from hunting for him to seeking intelligence and potential allies. But which of the villagers were potential allies? Which were foes? Were most of them simply pragmatic — saying whatever they needed to say to men who stood before them with guns? No one knew.
And how many of them end up dead by us? FOR WHAT?
The patrol found its way to the village’s bazaar, where a group of small shops were clustered around a mosque. The American officers began to interview shopkeepers and elderly men.
Lieutenant Childers: “We are here today in Espandi to make it safer.”
A man with a white beard nodded after the sentence was translated: “Thank you.”
The lieutenant: “There are reports of people bringing rockets and weapons here.”
The old man answered: “We don’t know about this.”
The lieutenant: “We heard they come from outside the village and fire them and leave.”
The old man: “If we hear of anyone bringing rockets and weapons here, we will capture them and bring them to you.”
The elderly men and the lieutenant settled into a conversation; the old men said the village could use another well. The lieutenant said he would see if could arrange to have one dug. He thanked the group and stood up and gave a signal to the patrol.
The paratroopers stood and filed away down the alleys, their patrol nearly at an end. In all, they would spend 12 hours walking this day, at an elevation above 7,000 feet.
A short while later they slipped out of the village and into the barren flatlands, where old habits of the infantry took over and they dispersed into a wide formation and began the long walk home in the fading light."
Why are we even there, readers?
Why are we killing these people for no good reason?
And the western media have the nerve to describe as losing war like this:
