A Ghost Returns
General G was an old bandit. Out of all the Afghans I hung out with, he was one of my favorites.
I was his “advisor,” which was very laughable. I may have spent a lot of time in the country, but I knew nothing of fighting a shadow war throughout Afghanistan. He didn’t need me at all. He was an old communist from the Khalq faction, which means he not only survived the Taliban but also rival communists. Politics in Afghanistan is a full-contact sport.
But I grew to love him. The previous advisor was an incompetent moron who offended Afghans. A former FBI agent, he couldn’t poor piss out of a boot, as my Dad used to say. General G hated him.
So, I had a low bar to overcome. I accomplished this rather easily by smuggling booze from the Embassy (next door to Resolute Support HQs) and getting it to him. He liked beer, which was difficult to acquire in Afghanistan, though not impossible. He didn’t care if it was warm or cold. Beer. Yummy.
He had also been trying to get some horrible piece of equipment through customs for six months. It was completely unnecessary, and he didn’t really need it, but it was all he wanted from his advisor. His advisor failed, of course.
I got it to him in a month. I called a few Afghans I knew who could get it through customs faster. Beer + His Equipment = Rapport.
I learned a lot from him. He helped Americans interrogate senior Talibs at Guantanamo Bay. He took out thousands of Al Qaeda and Islamic State terrorists in the shadows. And when you play in the shadows in Afghanistan, you best come prepared to kill.
He was. He did. Because that’s what we wanted him to do.
After our eight-month rotation, I lost track of General G until I returned for my final push to Afghanistan in 2020. Through some contacts, we reconnected and had drinks together at the US Embassy during America’s fateful final year.
It was a blast. He had retired, teaching some classes part-time. The old bandit still liked to drink his beer, even though his son, a more pious Muslim than his old man, wouldn’t touch it.
Before we said goodbye during our final “meeting,” General G said point blank, “This will all come down. Do not forget about me when the Taliban comes.”
The old bandit wasn’t much for small talk. But he was right, of course. The Taliban was coming.
During the fall, I tried to get him out multiple times. I submitted him for a P1, but it was during the first year, which was a haze of trauma and despair. The moral injury of our betrayal was slowly hollowing me out. I don’t remember what happened to him. After a bit, he went black on comms.
I stopped trying when someone went black on comms for over a month. It was chaos. I was just triaging during that fateful year.
“General G is dead. Sorry, brother.”
Then I tried to move on. But he appeared in my dreams, nightmares, and then during the day. I would see him out of the corner of my eyes. I shook it off at first. But I saw him more and more. After I went to a mental hospital, I stopped seeing him.
But, then, in a fluke of coincidence that often happens to old warriors, I made connections from my shadowy past who informed me that General G wasn’t dead.
General G is alive.
The good news was that the US government had contacted him regarding his P1 case. He could leave for the United States. The bad news was that he couldn’t go.
Why?
Because his daughter died, and now he’s in charge of raising her children. His case does not cover them. They are not immediate family.
I will make some inquiries and do my due diligence, but he won’t make it. Maybe I’m wrong—I’ve been wrong before—but I doubt it. Death by bureaucracy.
Eventually, someway, somehow, the Taliban will kill him—and his nieces, too. You can guarantee it.
So what to do? I don’t know.
I’ll probably kick him some cash. Help him out. But I can’t get his hopes up.
Nevertheless, the old bandit lives.
And this American will stand by his side until he goes black on comms again, likely for the final time.
College World Series
Game three tomorrow, people.
I’m going.
I had a feeling both teams would split the first two games, so I held fire until the final.
The game starts at 1800 CST, which means it will be either the greatest or worst two-and-a-half-hour drive home ever.
But, these moments are fleeting, so I may never see it again in my life.
Sports G*ds have mercy!
Sir Lawrence Freedman
Sir Freedman is the GOAT. Seriously, if you want to get smarter about war, then read him. Although his writing is academic, I’ve always found it very approachable.
Those that demand Ukraine and its Western supporters work out what concessions will be offered to Russia to cut a deal to end the war, often claim that this will have to be done at some point because ‘wars always end with a negotiation.’ Despite its regular repetition, and however the Russo-Ukraine War concludes, this claim is simply not true. Not all wars end with negotiations. Some end with surrenders, as was the case with both Germany and Japan in 1945, or regime change, as with Italy in 1943, or cease-fires, which might require some negotiation but leave the underlying dispute unresolved, as with Korea in 1953. Even when there are negotiations intended to end a war they often fail.
Read the rest.
Will, just found your substack and really appreciate your candor. Save travels and Gig 'Em!!
The recommended piece by Lawrence Freedman is indeed first-rate. There's no one better than Freedman in the strategic studies field. No b.s.