DATELINE: Bagram Air Force Base, Afghanistan November 9, 2007
Yesterday in Afghanistan an Air Force lieutenant colonel and I started one of those “well I don’t know anybody and I’ve got to waste some time” chats. We were in the midst of a large crowd –a whole lot of chatting going on about life back in Kansas and how great it is in California. I could tell the man was tired. We talked for a bit, about Texas, about the Air Force. Then the momentum shifted, you know, when eyes connect and a bit of soul is exchanged. He started telling. He told me what he was seeing in combat — lots of action in the Himalayas, in the passes, airstrikes everyday on active Taliban. He’d put bombs on target –danger close missions with US infantry in contact– and he’d used his gun in strafing attacks, a Strike Eagle airman’s means of direct action. But it was getting to him, be said, the relentlessness. He’d fly a mission, get hits, lots of hits, successful strikes in the jargon, but the next day there’d be another mission and more of these thugs on the ground. What more can I do? When and how’s it going to end? The American people, how long can they keep it up, sustain this war?
“You’re tired,” I said.
He nodded, a brief nod.
Then I told him there was no choice. There are those bearing the burden — for example, him– and those who don’t. Unfortunately, with a few stellar, brave exceptions, only the US military has shown up for this war, and you’re one of those who’ve shown up and shown up again. But show me the alternative? You show me the alternative, given our circumstances, and we will do it. But consider our circumstances, our planetary circumstances. Afghanistan is a desperate, dusty hellhole with altitude, poverty, and little else. An Afghani expatriate –an LA millionaire in the engineering business who went back as a translator in 2005– told me that his “old country had been poor but beautiful until 1973. ‘73– that’s when the civil war started. Thirty years of war — the worst courtesy of the Russians and the Taliban– had savaged the place. You know, ash and dust. Now, once upon a time we could ignore those suffering in the planet’s hard corners. Oh, we could send them a few bucks and the Lefties could bitch about colonialism and capitalism but the hard corners were isolated. A threat to security? Only nuns and missionaries and you are your brothers keeper types thought so. Well guess what — the nuns were right. 9/11 changed that deceptive calculus. Distance? Colonel, there isn’t any distance. We learned that the destruction of New York and Washington started in the backwaters, of Afghanistan, of Somalia. Technology has done it. We can’t escape one another, for good and for bad. Jet transports, like the ones out on the runway at Bagram, put you on the other side of the globe in 14 hours. The internet doesn’t require description. East Asia shares diseases with Africa within days, if not hours. And special weapons? Nukes and nerve gas make every tribal war an international crisis. Goodbye Tokyo, Moscow, or Miami– because a sophisticated tribesman at war with his eternally despised neighbor decides that demolishing the global economy would make everyone pay attention to his neglected, forgotten grievance. Tyrannies keep breeding this insanity. The only solution is consensus, wealth-producing societies, where everyone gets a say and everyone has a buy-in. If it sounds like democracy then call it that. It’s sustainable stability, ever evolving sustainable stability when people police terrorists and don’t promote them. That’s a long struggle, and struggle may be a more apt word than war. But achieving it is so difficult. It takes more than military power, we know that. he politics and economics will be decisive, but as long as the thugs are willing to kill we must fight. Is there a substitute for courage? If there is, show it to me.
He looked at me, the dreadful nearness of it.
It’s on us, man, I continued. And I don’t like it. I didn’t like it during the Cold War. Remember 1983? The same creeps who’ve quit now, quit then. Reagan was a warmonger, going to start a nuclear war in Europe my responding to the Soviets deployment of theater nuclear missiles. The defeatists said the Cold War was our fault, we were the threat. Then the Berlin Wall cracked and that jackass calumny disappeared as Marxism’s Eastern European wreckage emerged in drab, polluted, horrifying, undeniable color.
This war follows the same arc, with the same defeatists adding new nouns to old verbs and adjectives. But it’s a war of liberty versus tyranny and they’re shilling for the tyrants.
It doesn’t matter if you and I don’t like it. We know the stakes. Here’s one of the ultimate “it doesn’t matter if you don’t like it” stories. I was in graduate school at Columbia in the early 80s. I took several German lit classes taught by the former department chairman, Mrs. Halpert. In several of the classes we had an auditor. He was an American millionaire who went by Fred and sometimes Fritz. In September 1939 when the Nazis invaded Poland he was 19 and in the Polish Army. Poland was defeated, beat to hell. Fritz (”I sometimes go by Fred”) slipped out of Poland via Hungary and made it to Great Britain. In Britain he joined the revived Polish army — the free Polish Army. In 1944 he returned to Europe in the Polish armored division armed by the British, serving in the division’s armored recon battalion. After the war ended he returned to Poland, but in 1948 left after the Communists took over. The man lost his country, twice, once to Hitler and the second time to Stalin. He took up permanent residence in the US and ended up making a lot of money– but he was still waiting, persevering in his own quiet, able way. He took German lit classes as a lark. Dr. Halpert let me and did so gladly. See, Dr. Halpert and her mother were German Jews — Berlin Jews– who escaped in 1940 on the last boat out. She also lost her country to Hitler, albeit in a different way. Fritz the Pole was a hero she understood — a man of her own generation who could audit her class anytime. I was 28 and in grad school after a four and a half year gig in the Army. Over a cup of tea in the West End Cafe, Fritz told me that I was the only student in the class who understood them both. he others? “Maybe some day they will understand,” Fritz said with a wink.
Now that’s a burden nobody wants but Fritz got, I told the fighter-pilot. I think about him and Dr Halpert every time I think we’ve got it tough. Beating Hitler took six years (39 to 45) and beating the Communists took another 34 (45 to 89). Was it worth it?
I don’t draw a direct comparison between the War on Terror and the Cold War, but they are both nasty, heavy, unwanted burdens. If anything, the War on Terror is more intricate. Right here at Bagram — dozens of fighters, lots of transports. transports– this is a war of economic development, of economic connectivity. What a complicated task. But given the technological compression of the planet, can we quit?
The fighter pilot crooked his finger and said to me “Come here.”
We left the big metal building and the crowd and walked across the street toward the control tower. On the way to the tower he said “You went on active duty in Iraq a couple of years ago didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I replied.
We went into the control tower, a squat Soviet artifact slapped with thick white paint bristling with au courant American electronics. We went up to the second floor. In the staircase the fighter pilot said “We’ve a sign in the squadron that says “The mission, fuckhead, is supporting the 18 year old with the rifle.” We know that we’re here to put bombs on bad guys so they don’t kill American soldiers.”
That sign wasn’t on the door but then we were entering a staff office, not the squadron headquarters.
On the desk was a picture of a young US Army second lieutenant. The pilot picked it up. “That’s my son. He just finished armor officers basic.”
I recognized the patch on the young man’s shoulder. Thirty years ago I served in the same division.
“Some day I may be flying strikes to support my son,” the pilot said, his voice soft steel.
I choked up. So did he.
“Thank you for what you do,” I said. “And for producing a son like that.”
We tracked back down the stair case and into the dust caked street.
“You ever fly in an F-15?” the pilot asked.
“No, but I’d like to.”
“Next year, back in North Carolina. You get to North Carolina and we’ll see if we can get you on a plane. I just want you to tell my squadron what you just told me.”
“The Columbia German class story?”
“The whole thing,” he said. “The whole thing.”
“You got a deal,” I replied.