My Share of the Task(48)

                Afghanistan in the spring of 2002 had a slightly wild-west feel to it. Bearded Afghans and similarly groomed American and Coalition special operators mixed with conventional military made for an atmosphere of adventure and confusion. And Afghanistan was maddeningly difficult to understand. As CJTF 180 got oriented to our mission, it was rapidly apparent that a major task would be to develop an understanding of what was happening and what people and which forces were driving events.

                For most Americans, Afghanistan was a colorful, distant place. Once a destination for free-spirited wanderers, we later knew it as a brutal, mountainous battlefield between the Soviets and heroic tribal resistance fighters—mujahideen, or “holy warriors.” We knew that the Soviets had been beaten, but most of us didn’t know much else. Later the Taliban achieved dubious fame with their public executions and the demolition, in Bamyan Province, of ancient Buddhist statues. But until 9/11 few Americans ever contemplated fighting them.

                Even for the Afghans the place was confusing. The 1978 coup that replaced President Daoud with a socialist regime and the subsequent twelve-year civil war between the Soviet-backed Democratic Republic of Afghanistan and the mujahideen opposition had begun a series of events, culminating in the post-9/11 defeat of the Taliban, that turned much of Afghan society upside down. For Western diplomats and military forces, Afghanistan was a maze of mirrors, and we too easily framed issues or interpreted actions through our own lenses. And for many Afghans, appearing to be what Westerners wanted them to be was at least polite and often expedient. Like many others, I had a nagging feeling that a whole world of Afghan power politics—with ethnic groups jostling and old and new characters posturing—was churning outside our view. I felt like we were high-school students who had wandered into a mafia-owned bar, dangerously unaware of the tensions that filled the room and the authorities who controlled it.

                We launched an effort to understand and, where appropriate, influence. But we were poorly prepared to do so, tending to see the problem in military terms. We had Lieutenant General McNeill travel the country and engage various leaders. As he did, we leveraged the most effective tool at our disposal: Afghans imagined American power to be infinite. But our ability to develop the relationships that would produce long-term influence was limited. The strategy to help build Afghan institutions was well conceived, but the West’s effort was poorly informed, organized, and executed.


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                Later in the summer of 2002, I was recalled from Afghanistan to the Joint Staff. I wasn’t happy to be pulled from CJTF 180, particularly for the first assignment of my career in Washington, D.C.—and at the Pentagon. I’d avoided both for the twenty-six years I’d served, and I was disappointed to leave Afghanistan. But I knew John Abizaid, now a lieutenant general and director of the Joint Staff, had been behind the move. I trusted he knew what he was doing.

                Although my initial posting indicated I would serve as the J34, the joint staff director responsible for force-protection issues across the military, when announcement came of my selection for promotion to major general, Abizaid redirected me to be the vice director J3 (VDJ3). In that role, first under Marine lieutenant general Greg Newbold and later for an old friend, air force lieutenant general Norty Schwartz, I assisted the J3 with management of the large operations staff directorate.

                Before I returned from Afghanistan, Annie began to prepare for our move to D.C. We knew my job would involve long, often unpredictable hours, so to avoid a commute she decided we’d rent an apartment that was only about eight hundred meters from the Pentagon. Once settled, we quickly established a routine. I’d run very early each morning, shower, then walk the short distance to my office, arriving about 5:15 A.M.

                In the evening, I’d call Annie and she’d walk toward the Pentagon, meeting me halfway. As soon as we saw each other, we’d extend our arms out in distant greeting, a silly habit we’d taken from something Sam used to do when very young. We’d then walk back toward our apartment, normally stopping at the grocery store to buy premade salads for dinner. Once home, we’d talk while eating and soon go to bed. It was a life with distractions pared to a minimum.