My father still tells this story if anyone asks him why he never wants to meet other veterans. He swears this being the truth while we all interpreted his story as more of a metaphor. Despite my own opinion, I think this will be helpful for your blog as is:

There were 7 of us and two buggies. We were sent from the front to patrol a few settlements around a mountain range. We were given three days to visit locations, complete the report, and continue on with the next commands.

We were meant to show our presence and support to locals. We were a living proof that Americans are not intruders. They could think of us as friends.

Our reports had to consist of the quality of life in the settlements and most importantly, whether the locals were against US army. The headquarters wanted a full map of where islamists could hit us in the back.

They provided us with no comfortable sleep. We could ask locals, but none of us were stupid enough. We came to a solution of sleeping in buggies. 5 people could comfortably fit inside. We would take turns so 2 guys would be staying outside through the night.

The first sleep went smooth like that. We visited four villages on the first day and filled in the papers. Old Mac was the best at that sort of thing. Two guys could not write at all. Their hands were slightly trembling.

Those settlements could supply themselves. Our help not needed. We were asking to look kind. We had no excess food on us. If they declared a need, some charity would get them that food no earlier than two months later. Most locals would rather die than ask Americans anyway.

I had trouble going to sleep after my duty. I could hear Nez praying. I could not tell if he was awake or asleep. Sometimes he prayed in his sleep too.

On the second day, we had to replenish our water supply. We had far too little for such weather. We were provided with filters. Just needed some source.

Finding water in Afghan is not so easy. Most streams, springs and wells are treated as sacred monuments by people. Their grandfathers found them in the desert many years ago. If the water source dies, the settlement will die too.

Asking to use a well could cause a conflict. If we wanted water, we needed something completely natural. The mountain dwellers don’t tell their secrets that easily.

It was the seventh settlement we reached on that day. It was much smaller than we were getting used to see.

We were driving on a gentle cliff when we saw the first weird thing. On top of a rock stood a column. The same brown and grey stone as everywhere. A bit red. But it was not natural. About 6 feet high, looking upwards, into the blue desert sky. It was not a stone column that form naturally in caves or under cliffs. It was not something animals build for safety. A full-on carved pillar. Almost a perfect circle in its shaft.

Both drivers immediately stopped without cooperation. We waited for a while, expecting a separatist attack. But the mountain stood still. Ken stepped out of the car and approached the pillar. He felt the texture of it with his trembling hands. It was hot, scorching.

The pillar looked like it was always here. Just a part of the landscape.

We all touched it. Human interest. Only Nez didn’t want to. He felt weird around it.

Ken found a sign on the pillar. Carved with the same strength and carefulness as the column itself. We asked Mac to translate it for us. He knew a bit of local language.

“This is actually Arabic”, Mac choked out, “Welcome to the land of those who require.”

We had to move on. This village was even a bit higher up the mountain. Trees don’t grow for the most part. Some crooked shrubs. Even they look miserable. Like they would rather run away to the valleys and fields, but are bound here to sweltering hills.

Afghan houses are nothing like European or Eastern homes. Rows of stones kept together with natural glues. The more years they stand, the more they look like rocks. They settle into the ground. They slowly hide in the sand and earth. With the right technique, the smallest cracks close and after many years only the windows and the doors remind that this was made for humans. Whole settlements look like little hills on plateaus. The buildings look like the smallest particles assimilated them. The land assimilated the residents. And there is nothing left here for greedy human eyes.

We were driving through fields of whatever grains can keep up with this climate when the houses came into sight. It was an average village. A few dozen homes. We immediately saw their “church”. When Muslims can’t build a proper masjid, they still need somewhere to prey. Sometimes they just choose a location, sometimes they build these stone coffins. That’s how we called them.

These little buildings are a size of an average house, but usually there is only one room inside. It’s purely for their faith. It’s awful hot most of the day, but if people need to, they still come in.

These houses are full of symbolic artifacts and memorable items the whole village brings. The whole community owns this.

We drove past the coffin and down the street. The village had a very well-chosen location. The grains grew under the sun while the houses were partially under the cover of the mountain for the most of the day.

We saw the people. Average Afghans. They did not surround us, but there was always at least one person observing our presence. We stopped near a gentleman who seemed the friendliest and threw Mac out of the buggy. He could read and write the language, but speaking took visible effort.

The man was resting on his porch when Mac asked him who we could talk to here. Someone who could answer for the village. “Malik”, said the tired guy and pointed to a house at the end of the street. A bit bigger than average, but not the biggest in the settlement. On the door the word “Allah” was carved carefully.

An old gentleman and his wife greeted us. They knew well who we were and tried to be friendly. At the same time, getting rid of us was his priority. They seemed positive, but in their eyes, I saw only despair.

I felt like we were here to bring a message they don’t want to hear, but expect. To move with us to victory. They should be a part of our approach. His eyes responded dim.

We made sure he will talk to others about us on the next gathering. Ken reminded us about the water supply. The headman seemed friendly enough.

“He says that we can go with those two men who lead the donkeys”, said Mac. It would be in about an hour. During that hour, we walked around the houses, trying to understand the locals. They seemed very reserved, but not aggressive. US can keep this settlement out of their mind.

“We chose the worst settlement to stay for the night. Moreover, to get water in”, Joe whispered to me on the side of the road.

“Why so?”, I genuinely wondered.

“You don’t notice? We’ve met two grannies today. That headman and his wife. That guy by the road. Those 9 men… There is no one younger than 30 here. They are miserable.”

“Maybe if they win on our side, they will come back to a free country?”

“You can hope so”

It was my turn to drive. We followed the donkeys down the mountain in our more modern vehicles. The sun was slowly disappearing in the valleys. The red sky. Soon, the other sun will come to keep us company at night and to keep us safe, to let us see. This red hotness will turn black. The stone will cool down and rest.

We saw a small stream between the rocks. This people believe this water given by Allah is safe. We will still filter it. We let the men go first. The other way around would be very impolite. Finally, Ken and Joe grabbed all the containers to fill them.

We were sitting in cars, when an idea came upon me. I grabbed Mac and we approached the two men.

“Mac, can you ask them where the kids are? There are few young people, but so few kids too?”

Both men changed in their faces. They slowly turned towards the valley and pointed there, in the desert. Mac stood puzzled. He asked something again and the men told us an advice: “Stay in your buggies this night and if you stay here for another. They will come.”

The men sat on the donkeys and slowly rode away. We came back to our containers full and began our trip for a good place for the night. I took a few glimpses at Mac and he was as pale as me. Kids in the desert.

We found a relatively safe spot about a mile away from the village. It was hidden behind a rock, but also allowed for an exit maneuver through a tight opening.

“Mac, what else did they say?”

“That there are kids and they miss those kids. They need those kids. That all of them stay at home at night these last few days. That’s all.”, Mac mumbled.

I turned around to the other guys resting on buggies. Something inside wanted to go into the valley and see those that come from it. Those that go up the mountain to the village so afraid of them.

“Buds, wanna do something this night?”, I asked trying to be inviting.

“Not the cards again.”

“No, we’ve got a way to help those people up the mountain. Like we were asked, right?”

“How?”, asked Nez. He seemed enticed about some act of charity.

“Those two “drivers” told us about the danger that comes from the valley.”, I answered.

“You want a combat with locals?”, Nez looked at me like I was the stupidest soldier of this generation.

“They think there are ghosts there or something.”, Mac finally intervened.

“So, we can show them that there is nothing. What do you think? They were really afraid if you didn’t notice.”, I continued.

“3 people will stay at the buggies. Better 4.”, finally decided Nez.

“If you want to try your luck – go on.”, said Ken.

“4 people then. Me, Nez, Mac, and… Joe, wanna go?”, I asked.

Joe raised his eyebrows. I knew he was tired. We all were. But he seemed like someone who also wanted to do something. By the end of tomorrow or a day later, we will all be on the frontline anyway.

“You like the weather, bud. You told me.”, I continued.

“I will go”, Joe responded.

I turned around to get into the car for some resources to take, but Mac blocked my way.

“I want to talk, son. Come with me to those bushes.”

I nodded.

The valley shined this night. A slight breeze burrowed into Mac’s thin mustache.

“I don’t remember saying that I will go on this trip of yours.”

“I thought, you also wanted to solve this.”, I murmured.

“No. I am not going into the desert in the middle of Afghanistan for some ghosts.”

I understood his position. He was scared like me, but not ready for a move. He was afraid of the frontline less than dying like an idiot unlike the rest of us.

“Mac, you are the only person who understands these people in their tongue. Please, we need you there.”

“If you want to beg an old man to be a fool, you should not even try.”

“You don’t want to help them?”

“If this is your help, then it’s worthless. Sorry, son.”

Mac moved to the rest of the group and I followed him.

“Nez, are you down to go if there are three of us?”

“I proposed so from the start, so I don’t care.”

“Joe?”

He looked at me like a puppy. He was almost forty. Strong black hair. His expression made me uneasy.

“Without Mac?”

“I can make up for him”, suddenly said Sam. Always so quiet and calm. Unexpectedly excited.

“Well, let’s go right now before it’s too late.”, I exclaimed.

We left the buggies behind us. Everyone armed with a gun for the worst scenario. We moved through the bushes until there were none. The desert continued. There were very few shadows now. Small rocks here and there.

“Are we going even further?”, Joe asked.

“We should not. You are right. If we wait, we wait here.”, I nodded.

We sat on the ground and stayed in complete silence. I felt at that moment as if I’m somewhere so far away. In something huge that is of cosmic scale. And I’m so deep. I will never get out.

“Look!”, Sam whispered.

Seven figures walked from a side of a hill far away. Too small to be adults. Too small to be even teenagers. Kids should go to school and be ready for life. Like my kids will be.

They walked, but were getting closer. They were walking right to where we were standing. But really? How will I even talk speak with guys? What could I do other than watch?

Another minute and they’ll be here. How long are we waiting already? How long more we’ll have to wait?

Seven kids stood in front of us. Under the moonlight I could see their bodies. I didn’t know a human body could look like that. Greasy fur of dirty color was growing on seemingly random places. It was thick and flowing like spring moss. One of them had fur on his arm. Another – an arm and a leg. Thick claws were where the nails would be. One of them had a patch of fur than began near the nose and ended somewhere near the ear. The eye of the boy was sickly brown; pupil twice the normal size.

They stood covered in small shadows. Watched us with unblinking eyes.

No one wanted to talk. Sam then said something stupid. Something you would say to neighbor’s kids coming home on Sunday morning.

“How are you feeling, boys?”

The middle one said something in local. But that word I knew well. Heard it before.

Hungry.

“We ask, how are you feeling? You are not scared? Huh, boys?”, I tried to keep the conversation going.

He pointed his small finger at me.

“American?”

“Yes”

The boy spoke English then. His mouth just imitating the words. Not his tongue.

“Men who leave glass where they step on sand. Your religion of missionaries and ash. We have my own God.”

“God is everywhere, kids”, Nez thought to say. Of course. I still don’t understand why we even started that.

“My God is here.”, said the boy.

“What is your god exactly?”

“My God is as bright as the sun and as tall as mountain.”

“What is the name of his?”

"His name should be said only in respect. Because he always listens. He always does. Kamal, tell him.”

“About which one?”, a kid on the left replied with the same broken language. He had a stick in his hand. The kind kids pick up and walk with just because it’s cool.

“The true one.”

“We were playing. All 7 of us. We were hiding and I was seeking. Anywhere, in town or not. Not far, so mother is not mad. Then my uncle was walking home. We were not allowed to go that far, but we did. We were sitting in the bushes. Giggling. Poof. And my friends fell to the ground. Uncle was scared. They could not even scream.”

“There are no rabbits in Bible, are there, man? An animal too small and peaceful to get remembered by God.”, the middle kid intervened.

They both articulated almost every syllable with their hands. Like a kid telling a fantastic story.

“You are not muslims”, said Nez.

“Your God can do anything, but my God can be everything.”, the boy exclaimed, “He is so much more.”

They moved away from each other a bit, creating a small opening in the row. There, in the shadows of their backs was a body.

I could see a body in an awful pain. Its combusted limbs. The cut-out tongue. It looked exactly at me from the darkness. It was so scared. There saw a snake on its belly. White wet snake. The umbilical cord. Its eyes wide open stared into mine. Then, it opened its mouth next and tried to say something. The blood was dripping. But all its words were just gunshots. Skin so young and milky. It kept doing that sound again and again instead of talking or screaming.

The guys started running back to the buggies.

“You see now?”, the boy laughed, “You see?”

I took off. It won’t get me. I repeated it again and again.

I ran the whole way back. I felt alone in the desert for the first time in many months. As soon as I was behind the rock, Nez hit me. I fell on the ground, already being out of breath. I was exhausted.

He grabbed me by my shirt. All I did was grab him in return.

“Why that thing was looking at you? Not at Joe. Not at Sam.”, he cried not from deep hate, but more of despair that came of a need to rationalize all of that, “You know them?”

I could not look away from his eyes. Fear.

“I am father, Nez. My daughter is coming into this world any day. And I will not greet her. I will only see this desert and these people.”

“I knew what you are.”, said Mac. “A traitor. A fucking jester.”

“What about America?”, asked Joe.

“I want to die for America. Not this land. Not these people. These are not my people. I am not dying for nobodies.”

“Fucking moron”, said Mac, “Leave him guys. He is useless. How you did not see?”

“Ah, right?”, I exclaimed, “Then what about Sam? Just fucking weirdo. Came with us out of nowhere. Talked to them like friend. Doesn’t surprise you?”

But everyone was silent.

We all returned to the frontline. Nez was shot in his lung and died slowly on the ground. So the guys from his group told me. Joe died too. Not even on a battlefield. A rock fell on his head from a cliff.

I still cannot feel my left hand, but I am alive.