The Fatigue of Death

Afghanistan 2008 three month activation.

Colonel Joe Black studied the old Afghani’s eyes. The man looked ancient, his real age hard to tell. People aged early in Afghanistan. It was an unforgiving country. Absent the reports of terrorists, the village was typical for southern Afghanistan, a cluster of small buildings around a central smooth rubble road with the obligatory smattering of sand.

The old afghani leader stood alone at the edge of the village. He was dumbfounded when Joe stepped from the shadows to confront him. Colonel Joe Black, aka The Master of Shadows, aka Cali Master, aka The Gunslinger, those were just a few of the many things Joe was called over the years. Every one of Joe’s sixty years was evident in his deeply weathered face. He stood about 6 feet tall with thick grey hair and unnaturally radiant blue eyes. As the afghani looked into those eyes he was frozen in place, a cold sweat of apprehension spreading through his veins. In those radiant eyes the Afghani could sense scales of justice sifting and cataloguing everything around him.

Joe wore a long dark blue US Calvary Officer’s surtout drawn back and clipped to his belt on each side. A double row of gold buttons down the front drew lines to a pair of old west revolvers. They were custom 40 caliber double action 1875 Remington Outlaws. Under the upper portion of the greatcoat, were two shoulder holstered semiautomatic pistols attached to a burnished leather vest with extra clips and ammo. Loose bullets for his revolvers hung in dual bandoliers crossed over his chest. Added, almost as an afterthought, were two 12 gauge double-barrel shotgun pistols angled slightly down across his waist front and rear. The ensemble was an eclectic 1870s calvary uniform complete with khaki calvary officer’s trousers featuring a satin side stripe and burnished leather riding boots.

It was in fact, the same uniform Joe’s grandfather wore the day he refused General Custer’s orders. He told him, to go to hell, he wasn’t murdering women and children for anyone. Things didn’t work out as Custer planned. Joe’s grandfather regretted the loss of so many brave soldiers and warriors, but couldn’t bring himself to feel anything for Custer.

The village buildings were cousins to structures you might see in the American southwest. Except, the American southwest was a series of tan, and khaki shades while Afghanistan was mostly harsh shades of bleached bone with occasional scorch marks. Everything had the feel it was dead, just lingering around and baking under the sun. Not all of Afghanistan looked that way. There were areas with raw natural beauty. But here, this was death and bleached bone. Living here should be punishment enough. It was surely punishment for the Americans and their allies sent to the area.

Terrorist had come to the village months ago and more or less taken over the place. They seemed to believe their brand of law and judgement was more than fair. Maybe it was for men. If you were a woman, decidedly not. The first thing they had done after their arrival was stone a woman. Evidently it was the woman’s fault one of their brethren had raped her.

Maybe there were reasonable points of view somewhere in the Afghanistan struggle, but many of the roving bands of terrorists were just criminals. Like many criminals they sought to blame others for their own evil.

Joe was told the afghani gentleman understood English. And so he asked. “Where are the terrorist?”

The Afghani gentleman pointed to the right. He could have pointed anywhere, terrorist had taken over the entire village. Lately he had come to believe all outsiders were enemies. Every single one of them. He thought, if only they’d all leave. What do they want with this place anyway? Everybody hates this place. They make me hate this place.

The Afghani had seen young American special operatives take on Afghani fighters. None like this one, an old weathered man dug up from history. This was bizarre.

That’s when the killing started.

Colonel Joe Black walked forward, his arms moved like blurs as fighters poured out of buildings from left to right. Joe walked through the village raining death on everyone with a gun, except women and children. It was over as fast as it started. Within ten minutes and a reload there were fifty-two dead Afghani terrorists, two injured women, and three injured children. The women and children were nursing sprained or fractured wrist from guns shot out of their hands. 

The Afghani never left his spot, frozen in place from the moment it started. Before he realized it a troop transport rolled in. Then a separate Humvee arrived. The separate Humvee picked up Colonel Joe Black and departed while a Recon Marine Major dropped out of the troop transport with a group of marines and noticed the Afghani, staring, frozen in place. Pointing, the Major said, “That’s a zeta - one operative. You don’t mess with those guys, nobody does. We stay far clear of them. They’re like death machines. They bring them in, turn them loose and it’s over.”

Death machines, thought the Afghani, that’s an apt description. He’d never even seen his hands move. Just a blur of motion followed by falling bodies.

Force Reconnaissance Marine Sergeant Lupin, aka Jimbo, looked over at the zeta - one operative he had just picked up. Jimbo was an Apache American about 5’ 9” tall with a lean muscular body, he was a dangerous man in his own right. With the stealth and the natural grace of a cougar Jimbo often slipped in and out of these villages collecting intelligence. Occasionally he was forced to dispatch men. Here and there and in firefights he had killed his share of combatants and yet, Jimbo had never seen anything like these zeta-1-operatives. Mostly he despised them. This one, Colonel Black, was different. His age, the way he dressed, everything about him. It reminded Jimbo of an old calvary scout his people talked about. Deadly, but never raised a weapon outside a battlefield. In the time of Jimbo’s great grandparents, many Apache families had hidden just trying to stay alive. They’d often watched as that old scout with gray hair and radiant blue eyes just lead the troops past them with only the barest nod of recognition. He was the only one who knew they were there and he never fired on families simply hiding & trying to eek out a living. Now, this man, Colonel Joe Black, from the shocking cobalt blue eyes to the thick gray hair and even the uniform, was like a living embodiment of the stories Apache grandparents passed on to their children & grandchildren. Those stories, a recent addition to the lengthy oral living history of the Apache Nation.

For months Jimbo had dropped off and picked up zeta-one operatives. Colonel Joe Black was the oldest zeta-one Jimbo had ever worked with, and based on what they said about him, the deadliest. Usually the zeta- one operatives were busy calculating their bounties by now. Joe just seemed tired. As they were driving along Jimbo asked, “How did it go?” Jimbo already knew, having watched the drone video. He was just curious what this operative would tell him.

When the thoughtful young man beside Joe Black asked how it went, Joe replied, “It went horrible just like every other time. Just because the government authorizes you to kill, then sends you on missions where it’s inevitable, doesn’t mean you want to. You always hope they’ll put down their weapons and surrender. They seldom do. Usually they just start shooting. You don’t even get a chance to talk. Death is a horrible ugly business.”

After a bit of silence Joe continued, “I’m sure you’ve realized all that. Look, I’m actually retired. They initiated a temporary recall ordering me to come as support for reconnoissance operations. I’m guessing it’s prep for that troop surge they keep talking about. Today was my last operation. I’m shipping back home and back to retirement. You’ve been a good kid these past few months. When you get out, if you’re tired of killing, look me up in southern Colorado. I’ll get you on with me as a ranch hand. It’s beautiful country, good work and out of the mainstream.”