Flowers from Afghanistan Page 6

  Travis wouldn’t say anything, and I was sure Glenn had my back, though reluctantly. Then there was Stockton, only two doors down. I’d been warned by Glenn that Stockton would pitch a fit and have Phoenix thrown out. Certainly, our standoff at the front gate had cemented his animosity toward me.

  I got up, poured some water in a bowl for Phoenix, and headed out the door. I quickly slipped my sunglasses on. A good, long walk before morning classes was what I needed. A walk and a plan. I always thought better on my feet than behind a desk. I turned down the same gravel drive we walked the night we found Phoenix. Smoke curled in the distance. The sharp stench of burned trash stung my eyes and nose. Ashes rose from the pit on a thermal wave and glittered in the bright sunlight.

  In the grand scheme of things, whether I stayed or not probably wouldn’t matter much to the people of Afghanistan. But it mattered to me. Maybe I had been too hasty in submitting my resignation. I didn’t want to lay down in defeat. I had to find a way to stay. I made my way back to the tent and pushed open the front door. It was strangely silent. Usually, Phoenix barked when he heard my footsteps. How much longer could I hide him? Time was running out for him, too. I opened the door to my room and stopped abruptly.

  Someone had been there.

  Phoenix sat in the center of the room contentedly chewing a tan and white athletic sock. I wrestled the sock from between his little needle teeth and turned it over in my hands. “Caribe” was stitched into the toe. I didn’t own any socks like that.

  I’d only been gone thirty minutes. Travis must have slid the sock under my door to keep the puppy quiet for me. He always had something up his sleeve. Another thing I’d miss, having friends who’d cover my back.

  I grinned and flipped the ragged sock in the air. Phoenix leaped after it and bounced off my mattress.

  My laughter echoed off the walls.

  ~*~

  “Since you’re going back to the academy, could you escort Gul to the barbershop?” The sergeant at the front gate consulted his clipboard.

  Crowded in with the students, Gul Hadi waited patiently at the gate with his son, Bashir. I was silent and stared at the father and son who stood so expectantly. At the sight of Bashir’s small frame and hopeful eyes, I remembered the feelings of panic I’d had in the barbershop and anxiously hoped they didn’t return. “Sure,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

  Gul, Bashir, and I started off down the gravel road.

  Students fell into step behind us.

  Gul ambled beside me. He was dressed in traditional Afghan garb, a knee length shirt, and baggy pants. He’d change into his work clothes, a tan polo shirt, and blue jeans once he entered the barbershop.

  The view was not so great of the city from that gate, but on my early morning jogs, I’d pass another gate and peer outside, anxious to take in whatever sights of the city I could glimpse from my protected position. We spent weeks inside these walls without venturing outside, almost like being in prison, only it was for our own protection. The only time we saw the outside was on transfers or to go home on leave.

  That morning I’d seen a parade of locals. One particular motorbike sported an entire family. The littlest guy looked as if he was six months old, dressed in a western-looking, red shirt and dark pants. He had a seat on a handlebar contraption. The older brother had what appeared to be the preferred place, in front of his daddy’s lap and right over the gas tank, his head covered in a white ball cap. Next came the father, sitting on the motorbike seat, wearing a blue western T-shirt, tan cargo pants, and sneakers. Last was the woman, whom I guessed to be the mother, sitting on what looked like the luggage carrier. She was swathed in midnight blue fabric from head to toe. I marveled at her composure, balanced on a swaying bike.

  I glanced over at Gul.

  What was his life like outside these walls? He seemed to sense my curiosity and contemplated me for a moment.

  “Gul, how far do you live from here?”

  “About five kilometers.” A smile creased his face. “How far do you live from here?”

  I chuckled and tried to do the math in my head. “About thirteen thousand kilometers.”

  He studied my feet. “Your boots wear well.” He said after a moment and grinned.

  “Likewise, your sandals.”

  I enjoyed the game. Gul was about my age, and it was fun to match wits with him. We looked as diverse as two individuals could be, but wordplay rubbed out the edges of our differences until we appeared simply as men. People who wanted nothing more than to be left alone to live, provide for their families, go home to their wives, and a hot meal at night.

  Gul Hadi nodded and then added in Dari, “Kafsh-e kohna dar beyaabaan neamat ast.” He waited, knowing I’d take the bait.

  I walked past another two buildings and finally broke. “OK, what does it mean?” I asked.

  Gul Hadi smiled, revealing even, white teeth. “It means ‘Old sandals in the desert are a blessing.’ Even if something is old, it is a benefit if it works and meets your needs.”

  “Well put,” I said.

  “Toss it up for me, please?” Bashir held his worn soccer ball out toward me. Bashir’s command of English was admirable. I was embarrassed at how poor my Dari was compared to his English. I imagined hanging around GIs all day gave him lots of practice. I didn’t know how Gul managed to keep the boy from growing up too fast in this place, but evidently, the barber had pulled it off. There was an innocent trust in Bashir that was a short commodity in a place where families had to dodge roadside bombs just to get to market.

  “He wants you to toss the ball straight up in the air to show you his newest soccer skill. It is an honor for him to ask you, Mr. McCann.”

  I threw the ball in an arc. Bashir ran under it and played the ball with his forehead when it descended. The ball rebounded, and he ran to retrieve it.

  “Well done.” I clapped.

  “He practices his soccer every day,” Gul said, with pride. “And his English on anyone who will speak with him.”

  An MRAP sped around the corner, engine roaring and dust billowing out from under the mountainous tires.

  Gul called to Bashir, yelled at him to get to the side of the path, but the boy did not respond.

  The ball rolled closer to the road. Bashir was hyper-focused on his prized possession. His gaze never left the soccer ball.

  Gul and I took off running, tried to catch up to Bashir and pull him to safety, but the distance was too far. There was no way we would reach him in time. Gul’s anguished cries tore into my heart. I shouted until I was out of breath.

  Sophie would have said her God showed up because at the very last minute, Bashir’s gaze turned, and he saw the vehicle bearing down on him. He grabbed the ball, somehow trapped it in his arms, and made a dash for the chain-link fence. He bounced into the mesh just in time, out of the way of the speeding vehicle. The MRAP thundered past, coating us in a cloud of chalky dust.

  Gul ran up, took the boy roughly by the arm, and gave him a protracted scolding.

  I couldn’t blame him. My bones shook. I reached the two and handed Gul a bottle of water from my backpack.

  He spoke in Dari to Bashir, who obediently took a drink. Two small tears ran silently from the boy’s eyes, washing away the dust that clung to him.

  Gul patted down the boy’s frame and made sure he was whole. Then he took the soccer ball and tucked it under his own arm.

  We started silently down the path.

  After a few tense moments of silence, Gul turned to me. “A proverb.” His voice shook.

  I stared at him questioningly. “You want me to give you a proverb?”

  We both needed a diversion.

  “Yes, now you.” His voice wavered, and his hand was wrapped tightly around the hand of his son.

  I must come up with a witty saying to match his. I walked on for another ten feet or so, contemplating. Above us, a mottled sparrow dipped and rolled in the heat-thinned Kandahar air. I pointed. “A bird in t
he hand is worth two in the bush.”

  Gul appeared genuinely surprised and delighted by my proverb. He dropped Bashir’s hand and clapped enthusiastically. His body seemed to relax, and he took a deep breath. “We have a saying, ‘Yak teer, wa doo neshaan.’ It means, ‘one shot and two targets.’”

  A small bridge, those proverbs, but large enough for us to meet on. I took a deep breath and delivered Gul and Bashir to the front door of the barbershop.

  Gul gratefully shooed Bashir on inside the building and stopped to wave a hand at me. Bashir was nothing more than a rascal, not a ghost from my past.

  “Have a good day,” I said.

  “And you also.” Gul disappeared behind the smudged glass.

  I watched the glass door slowly close until Gul’s face was replaced by my own reflection. Our cultures intersected, there in that unusual place. I expected to go to Afghanistan to work, to help build a viable government, yes, those things. But now I was drawn to people who were not my own. Each day I caught a glimpse of their struggles, hopes, and dreams.

  11

  I stopped in the hallway to brush the dirt off my clothes. I was late for class due to our battle with the MRAP. I opened the door slightly and looked in the classroom.

  “I’d like to introduce our guest speaker today, J. Samuel Reynolds.” Travis waved Reynolds over to the lectern.

  The more I interacted with our students, the more I enjoyed their company. They had quick wits and they easily conjured up smiles. They especially loved seeing themselves on camera. The days I carried mine to class, slung around my neck on a canvas strap, they’d crowded around, each vying for his turn to have a picture made. It surprised me. In the age of smart phones, they found a picture so novel. I decided it wasn’t the technology that entertained them; it was posing for a photo. I paused at the door to our classroom, maybe for the last time, and glanced at my watch. All this introspection wouldn’t get our class going. The thought that this could be one of my last classes seared my conscience. I shoved the classroom door open a little more forcefully than necessary.

  Travis jumped when the door bounced against the wall.

  I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring nod and slinked back against the wall so as not to interrupt the proceedings any further.

  The speaker crossed the room. I recognized him from the breakfast line in DFAC Saturday.

  Travis held his hand up for silence, and the students complied.

  Reynolds strode up to the podium and took over. “I’m here to instruct you on IEDs, the protocol for their detection and disposal.” He nodded.

  Travis turned on the overhead. The fan whirred to life. He then took his place beside me, leaning against the wall. He flipped off the light switch so the images would be clearer on the mustard-colored wall.

  “What’s up with you today?” he whispered sharply out of the side of his mouth.

  “I’m angry. That’s all. I’ll get over it.” I let the words slide out from between clenched teeth.

  “At what?” Travis asked.

  “A system that forced me to choose between integrity and a student head count. At the man who rigidly enforced those rules.”

  “Stockton?”

  “Yeah. I love my job more each morning that I roll out of my bunk. Thanks to Stockton it doesn’t look as though there will be many more days of that.”

  “I know. Stockton’s been a burr under everyone’s saddle here. Even before you came to camp.”

  “I’m mad at myself, too. I fell right into a trap. Glenn warned me.”

  “He did,” Travis whispered.

  A knock at the door interrupted Reynolds’s speech on how to detect wires in the roadway.

  The class was momentarily distracted.

  I jumped to the door and cracked it open.

  Sergeant Thorstad’s six-foot-two frame loomed in the doorway.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Good. You’re the one I was looking for. Come with me.” Thorstad pulled the door open wider.

  I could feel the question from Travis even without turning around. But I didn’t have the answer either. I exited as quickly as I could to let the students refocus.

  Reynolds cleared his throat and returned to his material.

  “Colonel Mark Smith wants to see you in his office,” Thorstad said.

  “What’s it about?”

  “Haven’t a clue. I was only instructed to get you.”

  It was never a good thing to be called to the colonel’s office. My stomach twisted.

  Our boots echoed off the hard tile floor as we made our way down the hallway.

  I automatically swung my sunglasses down off my head to cover my eyes from the blast of light that was sure to hit us as we exited the building. We swung the door open to frenzied activity, a sharp contrast to the echoing classroom.

  Four-wheelers steered their way down the gravel path that looped through camp. The constant rumble of generators and roars of diesel engines from MRAPs and Buffaloes made conversation difficult. So I didn’t try. I studied Thorstad as he marched ahead of me with those ground-eating strides of his. I admired his style. He was younger than me but already seemed so self-assured. He was completing his third tour in Afghanistan and had the war-weary countenance to prove it. Still, I admired his sense of purpose. The irony was that I wouldn’t complete an entire tour before returning home.

  I glanced up at the deep blue, cloudless sky, visible above the green, sniper-fabric covered fences that surrounded our academy. The razor wire was a reminder not everyone wanted a stable police force in Kandahar. Taliban would just as soon see police fail or come under their corrupt control. We provided the means for our students to take freedom into their own hands. Freedom. My mind turned to the problem of Phoenix’s freedom as well. Getting him home nagged me. I’d be shipping out soon. Colonel had read my e-mail.

  Maybe Phoenix was one of the reasons I was being called to Colonel Smith’s office. Stockton not only prompted my resignation, but he also threw me under the bus concerning Phoenix.

  We entered the building housing Colonel Smith’s office, and I paused at his door. I quickly straightened my polo shirt and pushed my sunglasses back on top of my head before rapping on the hollow wood door with what I hoped sounded like confidence.

  “Come in.” Colonel Smith’s voice vibrated through the door.

  “Good morning, Colonel.”

  He rose from his chair and extended his hand. “Please, take a seat.”

  My scalp tingled and my chest grew tight. I was never one for beating around the bush. Just give it to me quick, like pulling off a bandage. I sat awkwardly on the edge of the scratched wooden seating.

  “Let me get straight to the point. I understand you turned in a letter of resignation.” He clasped his hands behind his neck and leaned back.

  I exhaled. It wasn’t about Phoenix. It was preliminaries for releasing me. “Yes, sir.”

  “I was perplexed when your letter came across my desk, McCann.” He leaned forward and toyed with a pencil-high American flag mounted on a wooden dowel. He straightened the flag, aligning it with a similar-sized black, red, and green Afghan flag mounted on an identical wooden dowel next to it. Seemingly satisfied with their placement, he leaned back, looked me in the eyes, and searched my face for a reaction to his statement. “I’ve been impressed with your professionalism since you came to camp. I interviewed your superiors and received nothing but glowing reviews from them. That was why, when you requested to leave, I felt I needed to personally investigate the situation.”

  I didn’t know what he was getting at, but I nodded my head. At least, he’d had enough faith in me to do an investigation. At least, I could carry that home with me.

  “Sergeant Wisler was interviewed, and it was determined you were following academy protocol.”

  That was good, at least the truth was out, and I could go home with my head high.

  “Yes, sir. I feel we owe it to the students to hold KTC to a hi
gh standard.”

  Colonel Smith relaxed back in his chair. “I couldn’t agree with you more. As a result of that investigation, Lieutenant Stockton has been reprimanded, and the student in question has been expelled. The reason I called you to my office is to ask you to withdraw your letter. I hope you’ll stay on with us. I’m trying to build a team based on integrity, and I like the work you do.” He leaned across the desk waiting for a reply.

  Happiness welled up in me, and I jumped to my feet and extended my hand. “Thank you, sir.”

  Colonel Smith stood, grasped my hand, and shook it firmly. “Then I will consider the matter closed. Welcome back to Kandahar Training Center.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said again, not knowing what other words should come from my mouth. Thank you seemed inadequate for a second chance to prove myself, to show Sophie I loved her by paying off our bills, to pay my penance for Little Mac. I tried to exit the building with dignity, but I wanted to run unshackled like Bashir, I wanted to bellow at the top of my lungs like a wild man. I’m back, Camp Paradise.

  12

  “McCann.” The soldier waved a small package in the air.

  I pushed my way to the front of the crowd and eagerly took the white USPS box. Sophie’s handwriting flowed on the outside. Back at the tent, my mouth watered at the thought of what she’d shipped.

  Travis tried to push his way into my room. “Did Sophie send you something?”

  I slammed the door in his face. He knew my wife only sent heavenly stuff. With one deft swipe of my knife, I sliced the tape along the side of the box. A bag of pops spilled out and what looked like two pounds of lime jelly beans, my favorite. And a box of homemade cinnamon rolls. All that treasure didn’t hold any value compared to what I sought. I dumped the rest of the contents on my bed, shuffled through the pile. My hand wrapped around an envelope. Sophie did things old school. I peeled open the envelope, and an aroma of blackberries and woods filled my nose. I didn’t read the card. I’d save it for tonight when I wasn’t being bothered by Travis. I shoved it under my pillow.