KANDAHAR, AFGHANISTAN – With the fat double blades of the helicopter churning air through the cabin, I looked across to see the tense faces of 19 and 20-year-old American soldiers. Under their Kevlar helmets, and dust goggles, and behind their bulletproof vests were sweaty foreheads and rapidly beating hearts.

Only one man, the Special Forces commando, seemed cold, his eyes unblinking and staring at an imaginary horizon as we sped towards the landing zone in the mountains of eastern Afghanistan.

The pilot held up 10 fingers… that meant 10 minutes until we would touch down and run out through the dust cloud created by our chopper.

A burst of machine gun fire and the smell of powder startled me. “Just testing the M-60’s,” a soldier yelled through my earphones as the tail gunner popped rounds in to a barren hillside.

Then, as the engines changed tone and the mud brick dwellings of the village came in to focus, our squad leader uttered a phrase oddly familiar to me: “Lock and load!”

That phrase has been my older brother’s mantra since he watched way too many Vietnam movies as a teenager. Through my childhood, I could count on him to say “lock and load” with a Hollywood ring every time he picked up his skateboard or closed the trunk of the car. Even though the young soldiers around me were loading rounds in to the chambers of their rifles, a sense of unreality swept over me. Ever since September 11, my generation has had the eerie feeling that life is imitating the movies. This mission seemed to have just the right mix of fancy toys, danger, and showmanship, to prove the theory.

Our briefing and rehearsal for the mission had been serious enough. Assembled under the 46 C (115 F) degree mid day sun in Kandahar, the commanding officer positioned us within a three-dimensional terrain map drawn in a field of dust. He moved us around and called out orders with the style of a high school football coach. Even his jargon mixed sports terms with military acronyms.

“After first down, chock 5 will set up the TAC near the LZ.”

During the briefing I learned that we would land outside the village of Malaksay, 5 km from the Pakistan border. We would be near two active Al Qaida camps, and we would sleep 2 km from the closest one. We would not attack the camps (the commanding officer and the soldiers were befuddled and upset by this). Instead we would enter the village, where a Special Forces soldier named Gene Vance had been ambushed and killed in May, two months earlier. The plan was to talk with the village elder, search the homes for weapons, and detain any suspected Al Qaida or Taliban types. A pallet containing bottled water, pencils, and medicine would be left behind- a “PSYOPS” or psychological warfare gesture intended to win over the “hearts and minds” of villagers with humanitarian gifts.

Once on the ground our Airborne infantry soldiers would link up with Special Forces living in the area and the Afghan soldiers working with them.

“If anything feels too risky, send in the AMF (Afghan Military Force) boys first,” the U.S. commander told the soldiers at the briefing.

“They aren’t expendable, but they are a lot cheaper than one of us.”

Like a group of football players, the soldiers would cheer “hoooah!” after each order issued by the commander.

“This is what you have trained for. I want you to go out there and be heroes. I want you to make America proud. Check?”

“HOOOAH!”

The briefing ended with a long series of commands issued and the loud enthusiastic “hoooah” replies.

Only one command was met with a less excited response.

“Once we have a detainee in custody and handcuffed, no soldier is to harm him. We do not beat prisoners. That’s what separates us from every other military force in the world. We are Americans, and even though these guys are as evil as snot, we don’t touch them once they are under control. Check?”

The silence was broken by only a few of the 200 soldiers mumbling “hoah.”

An antsy thirst for revenge is the feeling that unifies the thousands of troops locked on the Kandahar base. Many feel they are aimlessly sitting in dusty tents waiting too long for the occasional mission, which these days usually end up being bloodless. Playing Nintendo games and watching DVD movies is how they pass the time between duties in the crippling heat.

The Special Forces have a different perspective on these matters, and very different tactics that they use in the field operating under a shadow of secrecy. They aren’t protected by miles of barbed wire, and they don’t have as much down time. Their safe houses regularly come under attack from rocket fire. When they aren’t out plotting against the remaining Taliban, they are training Afghan soldiers, or building wells and offering medical care as part of the PSYOPS plan to win over villagers. Lately the incredible stress and intensity of their jobs has lead to some strange behavior. In June and July three Special Forces soldiers returned home and promptly killed their American wives after serving in Afghanistan. Two of them then committed suicide.

As far as treatment of captured prisoners is concerned, the talkative Special Forces commando attached to my unit always referred to the prison area where they hold captured Al Qaida and Taliban as “Camp Slappy.”

As in: “If the detainees don’t cooperate right away, then they go to Camp Slappy,” he briefed the younger soldiers.

The same friendly bearded Green Beret was happy to unload a few other secrets on me. He told me about opium tea parties and stockpiles of hashish at the Special Forces “firebases” scattered through out the country. So much for sitting around playing Nintendo.

Now as we were in the helicopter about to land near Malaksay, I was unsure if his steely 1000-yard stare was the Zen-like concentration of an experienced warrior, or a more psychedelic experience.

I was sure that I wanted to stick close to him rather than the younger grunts as the Chinook touched down on to a rocky field dotted with clumps of Juniper trees. Statistically, it isn’t the enemy that I had to be scared of. The combination of “friendly fire” and accidents has killed more soldiers than the enemy has since this conflict began. During the Gulf War, the UN estimates 51% of Allied casualties were the result of friendly fire. On April 17 a U.S. pilot dropped a 500-pound laser-guided bomb on Canadian soldiers training just outside the Kandahar base.

The killing of the Canadians was a terrible mistake, but in the back of my mind I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone might think a nosey photographer would make a much better target.

Off the chopper in a storm of dust and adrenaline, I began kneeling and taking photos as the soldiers poured on to field and Apache attack helicopters crisscrossed overhead. Bad luck struck me early. I had brought two of every essential item in my enormous backpack. Two cameras, two pairs of underwear, two shirts, two Camelbak water reservoirs. The only thing I didn’t bring two of were trousers, and it was my trousers that ripped wide open as I stood up and ran across the field to a safer position.

Breathing heavily in the higher altitude, I tried to patch up the gapping slash in the knee of my pants with electrical tape between snapping photos of the soldiers and helicopters. After kneeling and ducking a few more times the repair was useless.

In addition to my concern about my fashionable appearance, I really had to pee. I had been gulping down water for the last two days to avoid dehydration in the searing heat. I was wearing a 17-kg bulletproof vest, a backpack full of food and camping supplies, and my camera bag and two cameras hanging over the front. Sandwiched between the weight was my bladder. It felt like a water balloon squeezed in a vice.

For my sake, bathroom planning could have been an integral part of the mission rehearsal. It wasn’t. Since soldiers occupied every single shrub, trench and tree in sight, and I couldn’t stand out in the open, I was forced to hold it.

The mental energy that I should have been spending looking for pictures and keeping myself safe, was slowly diverted to the excruciating task of bladder clenching.

After the soldiers had set up a command and communication center outside the village, I was assigned to a unit that lead me to the Afghan soldiers and Special Forces meeting with village leaders.

The Afghan soldiers were wearing New York Fire Department hats. I don’t know if anyone had explained what FDNY means when they decided that this was the best contribution they could make to their uniforms. The Afghans seemed very happy to have incorporated the hat in their ensemble that included green camouflage, the mandatory beard, and an AK-47 decorated with ribbons, reflective stickers, and the occasional plastic flower.

Before I could enter the village a call came over the radio that another unit had found a cave.

“Bring the reporter up here. We are going to search the cave,” the voice crackled.

A spooky 45-minute hike through a dry riverbed canyon and up a steep rocky ridge line brought us within sight of the cave entrance 400 meters away. The soldiers set up machine gun and mortar positions to cover a scout team that was sent ahead to check it out. The scouts took hours – three to be exact – before they radioed with their discovery.

The sun was approaching midday and after about an hour of silence waiting in the heat, half of the soldiers fell asleep. I seized my chance to find an unoccupied bush and unconditionally surrender to the hostile demands of my bladder.

To kill the time the soldiers teased each other, passed around photos of their girlfriends back home, and snacked from packets of military rations. Shade was scarce so we tried to slither under the cover of prickly bushes.

After the three-hour wait the scouts returned empty handed. The “cave” had been nothing more than a two-meter deep rock outcropping, probably used by goat herders to protect themselves from the weather.

Demoralized and sweaty we trudged back down from the ridge. I had completely missed the chance to photograph the meeting with the village elders, and the soldiers were disappointed not have found the enemy. Some of the unit commanders were starting to get edgy and aggressive with their men. They decided they would go back to the village and search homes.

The soldiers fanned out through the narrow alleyways between the mud brick walls that surround the humble peasant houses. Goats and chickens skittered out of the way as the infantrymen secured positions and started removing Afghans from their homes. A translator would explain the situation to the residents and have them wait under guard outside as each room was checked for weapons.

Most of the homes were filthy and livestock lived in close quarters with their masters. Possessions were sparse: a few prayer books, kitchen utensils, cloths and blankets. After five houses the search was frustrating. The soldiers had only found two 19th century flintlock-hunting rifles, an axe, and a broken pair of binoculars.

I was losing faith in the whole operation. What sort of intelligence had the commanders been acting on when they had decided we should fly out here to point rifles at a few malnourished sheep and confiscate farm tools?

But in the next house the situation changed completely. Only an old grandma and a few goats were home in the two-story mud dwelling, but the soldiers unearthed a stockpile of rockets in one of the rooms. Fifty-six rocket-propelled grenades were being lined up in the courtyard when I arrived. They were from Russian, Iranian, and Pakistani manufactures.

Before an explosives expert showed up to figure out what to do with them, one of the goats broke free and tried to start eating one of the RPG’s. I ran for cover as the hooves clinked against the weapons and it started nibbling at a corner. Luckily a soldier was able to capture the beast before its appetite detonated us.

After a few minutes some Afghan soldiers showed up in an over decorated truck to transport the munitions. I took pictures of them and one of them pointed at the big rip in the knee of my pants and started laughing. I did my best to communicate with gestures that I wanted to buy some new trousers and before long I had traded my wristwatch for a traditional shalwar kamis outfit. After the rockets were removed, I ducked in to the goat stall to try out my new duds.

The Afghans were clearly impressed by my new look. Smiles, thumbs-up signs, and cheers greeted me as I came in to view wearing the designer Jihad wear. After a few minutes I thought one of the Afghan soldiers might be acting too friendly. Having been deprived the sight of women for years by the Taliban’s repressive rule, a alarming proportion of Afghans have switched to homosexuality. They can be quite aggressive with their “affection” as I had learned a few weeks before when a prison warden in Kandahar had decided to hold my hand and proposition me through my translator.

What these Afghan men really fancy are young boys. Most of the warlords and high army officers are rumored to keep at least one boy for their sexual pleasure. Twice in the streets of Kandahar I had seen grown men fighting over a boy that had sparked a jealous quarrel.

According to the Special Forces commandos that I talked to, the trick to warding off these unwanted advances was growing a beard. If a man is old enough to have a beard, they aren’t interested anymore. However before I arrived, every journalist had warned me not to grow a beard so I wouldn’t look like a Special Forces soldier. The logic is that its better to get your ass pinched then get shot at.

Luckily I had sparked the Afghans to the idea of trading goods with the Americans and they were soon completely absorbed in this enterprise rather than staring at me. Watches, pocketknives, rings, and scarves were handled, admired, fiddled with and squinted at.

The Afghans were willing to trade an AK-47 for a nice Swiss army knife or a good watch, but there were no takers. A few soldiers traded small items before we moved on to the next house search.

Just before sunset many villagers came out of their homes to face Mecca for their evening prayers. It was dark by the time the house searches were completed and I would have preferred to be somewhere safe. All the Americans were equipped with night vision goggles except me, and they wouldn’t let me use my flashlight.

The thin crescent moon sunk below the horizon only a
few moments after twilight and left me stumbling behind the troops through a rocky riverbed in total darkness.

According to the plan we had rehearsed for two days, I was supposed to return to the command center for the night, but the whole program had been scrapped as soon as the soldiers had spotted the suspected cave entrance. They said it was too late for me to get all the way to the command center, so I would have to camp with a team doing perimeter security outside the village. We hiked through the riverbed for about an hour, stopping frequently, and then finally set down our heavy packs in a elevated clearing surrounded by a few trees.

Dinner consisted of randomly opening MRE (Meal Ready to Eat) packets in complete darkness and trying guess what was inside. I still couldn’t use my flashlight, so I fumbled open a package that turned out be raspberry flavored applesauce. Some of it spilled on my cloths and sleeping bag, but I couldn’t see to clean it up so I just ended up smearing it around and going to bed with sticky hands.

Exhausted, I fell asleep under a sky so crisp and black that the stars seemed to hover three-dimensionally over my head.

I hadn’t been asleep long when a loud explosion jarred me awake. I popped my head up out of the sleeping bag. I looked for a flash or any clue of what had happened. A second thud filled the air. It sounded like it came from the opposite side of the village.

I whispered to the nearest soldier, “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know. They’ll radio if they need us.”

Nobody else seemed to be concerned, so I went back to sleep, but the booming continued intermittently through the night unsettling my dreams.

I was the last person to wake up in the morning, and the sun was well up in the sky. All the soldiers had already packed up their gear and were ready to go. I hurriedly put on my shalwar kamis and began to roll up my sleeping pad.

After kneeling and rolling the pad, a group of soldiers a short distance off called out to me.

“We thought you converted. Were you praying?”

“Huh?” I wondered.

Then I put it together in my head. I was wearing Afghan cloths. I had unknowingly faced Mecca while I was rolling up my sleeping pad, and I had kneeled and bowed several times in the process. These guys were wondering if I was “going native” like John Walker Lindh.

I made some hasty explanations, and put a stop to the rumor before it could spread through the ranks. No need to have a bunch of armed men wondering about my allegiance.

With our packs on, we headed back to the helicopter landing zone. A soldier there explained the explosions of the previous night. They had been using their mortars to launch flares. He said the fireworks would have made “great pictures.”

Soon the thumping of the Chinooks could be heard in the distance. With sore shoulders and a lot less adrenaline I jogged through the dust on to the chopper. We took off and the village of Malaksay grew smaller and disappeared, leaving me only strange memories and a new pair of pants.

[photo reportage from Afghanistan]

[Copyright Tomas van Houtryve. Do not copy, archive or re-post without written permission. All rights reserved.]