Border Police, a notoriously corrupt outfit. Appeals from some of the maliks in the valley led Mark to use his influence with ISAF; the ABP’s were moved elsewhere and Mark sent Solum and his men in to take over their post and convert it into the battalion’s most distant outpost. The enemy pretty much had their way while the ABP unit was around, but that was changing. “The chief seems to be reliable, then?”
Solum nodded. “He lost a grandson to the Tals in Kabul before we moved in. They hung him from the diving board of that swimming pool the Russians built.”
Mark remembered seeing that grim site when he arrived in the capital during his first tour. The Olympic-sized outdoor pool was built by the Soviets during their occupation of the country, but the Taliban drained it and used it for a gallows. Sometimes they didn’t bother to hang the victim; they just pushed him off the diving board to the concrete floor ten feet below. Bound and gagged as they were, not too many survived the fall. Those who did were shot where they lay.
“Maybe it’s time to pay that compound a visit, Ken.”
“My thoughts exactly, sir. I’ve got a mission planned for this evening. Care to come along?”
“I’ll promise not to get in the way. You’ll be in command.”
“Thank you, sir. We move out at 1600 hours. We’ll go through the village on the way. I plan to hit the enemy compound at 2030.” He folded up the map, then his shoulders dropped a bit and Mark heard a sigh.
“You all right, Ken?”
“Tracy…he’s my first KIA,” the young lieutenant said softly. He looked over at Mark with eyes that were raw, pleading. “That letter is gonna be the toughest I’ve ever had to write.”
Mark nodded, remembering the day in 1991 when he had to write one of those letters for the first time, from a dusty tent in southern Iraq. “It won’t be easy, Ken, but you have to do it. I wish I could tell you it’ll be the last one you’ll ever write on this job, but we both know it probably won’t be.”
“How do you deal with it, Colonel?”
Mark looked away for a second, remembering Specialist Eric Meyers, a gung-ho young infantryman from Arizona who had taken an Iraqi bullet in the first hour after Mark’s unit came over the border from Saudi. There had been more since then. Would it ever end? Would they ever be able to beat their swords into plowshares?
Only if the other guys agreed to do it, too, which meant it would probably never happen. There would always be work to do for Americans like Meyers and Tracy, dirty, nasty work, dangerous work in places like the one they were in now. He looked back at Solum. “You just do your job, Ken. That’s all you can do. Keep your men sharp, stay alert, and you’ll bring most of them home. That’s all we can ask of ourselves as officers.”
The lieutenant nodded. It was times like these Mark felt his heaviest responsibility, but he drew on the lessons he’d learned along the way, good and bad. It had been that way in this man’s Army since George Washington took command at Cambridge Common, July 1775. Mark remembered reading about that event at the Academy and had visited the marker in the Common near the Harvard campus. With a bit of a shock, Mark realized that Washington was only forty-three years old at the time, three years younger than he was now.
“By the way, Colonel, I heard from my uncle back home about that soldier you mentioned the other day, the one who was with your dad in Korea.”
“Oh?” Mark had told Solum about old Ed’s buddy. The young lieutenant said he thought he remembered the name and would check it out.
“Yes. Michael Solum was my great-uncle. My grandfather’s younger brother. I sent an email to my father, and he said Mike was his uncle. Dad asked me to give you his address so you can write him; he has some stories for you that he got from his father. From what he said, my great-uncle and your dad were pretty tight.”
Mark had to collect
Solum nodded. “He lost a grandson to the Tals in Kabul before we moved in. They hung him from the diving board of that swimming pool the Russians built.”
Mark remembered seeing that grim site when he arrived in the capital during his first tour. The Olympic-sized outdoor pool was built by the Soviets during their occupation of the country, but the Taliban drained it and used it for a gallows. Sometimes they didn’t bother to hang the victim; they just pushed him off the diving board to the concrete floor ten feet below. Bound and gagged as they were, not too many survived the fall. Those who did were shot where they lay.
“Maybe it’s time to pay that compound a visit, Ken.”
“My thoughts exactly, sir. I’ve got a mission planned for this evening. Care to come along?”
“I’ll promise not to get in the way. You’ll be in command.”
“Thank you, sir. We move out at 1600 hours. We’ll go through the village on the way. I plan to hit the enemy compound at 2030.” He folded up the map, then his shoulders dropped a bit and Mark heard a sigh.
“You all right, Ken?”
“Tracy…he’s my first KIA,” the young lieutenant said softly. He looked over at Mark with eyes that were raw, pleading. “That letter is gonna be the toughest I’ve ever had to write.”
Mark nodded, remembering the day in 1991 when he had to write one of those letters for the first time, from a dusty tent in southern Iraq. “It won’t be easy, Ken, but you have to do it. I wish I could tell you it’ll be the last one you’ll ever write on this job, but we both know it probably won’t be.”
“How do you deal with it, Colonel?”
Mark looked away for a second, remembering Specialist Eric Meyers, a gung-ho young infantryman from Arizona who had taken an Iraqi bullet in the first hour after Mark’s unit came over the border from Saudi. There had been more since then. Would it ever end? Would they ever be able to beat their swords into plowshares?
Only if the other guys agreed to do it, too, which meant it would probably never happen. There would always be work to do for Americans like Meyers and Tracy, dirty, nasty work, dangerous work in places like the one they were in now. He looked back at Solum. “You just do your job, Ken. That’s all you can do. Keep your men sharp, stay alert, and you’ll bring most of them home. That’s all we can ask of ourselves as officers.”
The lieutenant nodded. It was times like these Mark felt his heaviest responsibility, but he drew on the lessons he’d learned along the way, good and bad. It had been that way in this man’s Army since George Washington took command at Cambridge Common, July 1775. Mark remembered reading about that event at the Academy and had visited the marker in the Common near the Harvard campus. With a bit of a shock, Mark realized that Washington was only forty-three years old at the time, three years younger than he was now.
“By the way, Colonel, I heard from my uncle back home about that soldier you mentioned the other day, the one who was with your dad in Korea.”
“Oh?” Mark had told Solum about old Ed’s buddy. The young lieutenant said he thought he remembered the name and would check it out.
“Yes. Michael Solum was my great-uncle. My grandfather’s younger brother. I sent an email to my father, and he said Mike was his uncle. Dad asked me to give you his address so you can write him; he has some stories for you that he got from his father. From what he said, my great-uncle and your dad were pretty tight.”
Mark had to collect
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