An Afghan errand

  As the attack was radioed in, we upped our pace to such a speed across the rugged terrain that I was thrown across the inside of our armored vehicle. Looking out of the tiny window to my side, all I could make out was a ridge of Afghan mountaintops see-sawing from side to side through a cloud of earth-colored dust. “Demon 26 this is Monkey 6,” the military radio was saying. “We’re still taking indirect, three o’clock at three hundred meters,” to which someone in our vehicle retorted on the internal channel: “Well, if you know where they are then fucking shoot them,” and to my surprise we burst into genuine but bravado-flushed laughter. We were on our way to make contact with the elders of Saray village, which sits geographically at the top of a valley but temporally much further away, in the throes of something I would