How about a nice hot cup of chai?

"This chai is excellent." I'm gritting my teeth and wishing for a cup of coffee, but the concept of coffee doesn't exist in Afghanistan unless you're on a U.S. military installation. My host, the Kandak (battalion) commander, is smiling at me. I wonder if it's his inside joke to get westerners to drink chai. We are sitting in a valley with tall hilltop surrounding us. We didn't quite understand the concept of breaking out the chai pots in the middle of a TIC (Troops in Contact), but this is their kandak, not ours. I was further mystified when a heaping plate of meat, rice, chickpeas and vegetables was placed in front of me with radio reports coming in of an ambush of one of his companies. "Sit, eat. You must rest." I don't have time to rest or eat. "Sir, what about the ambush on 2nd Coy (Company)?" I'm trying to make the point that he has troops in danger and he needs to command and control his elements and be able to push out battalion assets such as his Quick Reaction Force to respond to enemy contact.

Casualties. My interpreter turns to me and says, "So the radio just said that they took casualties. That's bad dude." I'm still eyeing my heaping plate of food with suspicion and notice a growing population of flies swarming around my plate. "Sir, my suggestion to have medics on standby and the Quick Reaction Force rolling out now. Also reports of casualties need to be submitted in the proper 9-line medevac format. In order for your medics to be prepared, they have to know what they're dealing with." I take a step back. It's time for the Kandak commander to act. He squints his eyes at me and says, "Sais." My interpreter turns to me and says, "The commander says that this is a good plan and he will do it." I turn to my interpreter and say, "Sais means ok, where are you getting that he said all that?" My interpreter just laughs. I was not as amused as he was. "Dude, it's not real life. They're just training. You should eat your food before the flies do." I can't even begin to voice my displeasure.

Prior to deploying the kandak, they had to go through a semi-rigorous process by which their performance would be evaluated. It was training but it was also real life as well. The night prior, mortars were fired at us from the vicinity of the area we were training. I'm looking at my glass of chai and plate of food with a withering gaze mostly because I was hungry but didn't feel that I could eat at this time. From the distance, I saw another convoy approach our tactical assembly area and then I saw a few Americans a number of British soldiers jump out. Then out of one of the vehicles strode a lanky British officer who lit a cigarette. I knew that it was a General. After making pleasantries with some of the Afghans, he walked over to the ANA kandak commander and me and after greeting the kandak commander, turned to me and said, "You know of course that any failure on the part of this kandak is a failure for you too." No pressure. No, none at all. I smile weakly and say, "Sir, I think they'll do ok." I'm half-hoping, half-pleading that this will be a reality. Casualties roll back into our perimeter and the medics begin to treat them. "So how do you think your kandak is doing?" The General is directing that question at me. "Uh, I think they're doing pretty good. They reacted well to indirect fire and quickly evacuated casualties and re-established their perimeter." I put my best face forward. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure how well this validation is going, but I am optimistic.

The British General departs and we continue to complete the validation. More chai is brought. I drink more of it. We've all been awake since around 4 AM and anything to stay awake is a godsend. We sit down and drink more chai. I ask the kandak commander how long he has been in the Army. He tells me 25 years. I tell him that he's been in the army almost as long as I've been alive. He laughs. I try to laugh, but my sunburned face and chapped lips can only make a grimace. I drink my chai and wait. Reports come that 2nd Coy has assaulted through a near ambush and moved to set up a vehicle check point and is searching vehicles now. All right, well at least that's progress.

We sit down again and have more tea. Scattered radio reports indicate that vehicles have been searched and bombs and other illegal weapons materials were found in the vehicles searched. The first of my guys come back from their advising role. They look exhausted, sunburned and sweaty. I ask the commander how he thinks the mission is going. He squints at me and says (through my interpreter), "I think it's going very well. I think we'll pass." I smile and say "hoobish" or "Good." I know that he's working hard to make sure that his kandak passes. I'm hoping for the best. I tell him, "Sir, we honestly hope your kandak does well and while we enjoy working with you, we hope that someday that your kandak will be proficient enough to operate without us." He smiles and says, "Tasha kor! (Thank you) We hope so too."

The sun is setting and I talk to the Kandak executive officer and advise him to make a phased withdraw from the Tactical Assembly Area leaving security in place as the rest of the kandak withdrew. He agreed in principle. In practice, everyone made a mad dash to the vehicles and drove away leaving me speechless. It wasn't what I envisioned and I thought that they had agreed. There's a lot more work to be done.

I'm sitting in the chow hall and I notice one of the evaluators talking with the Colonel who oversees all of the training of ANA forces. After the evaluator walks away, I ask the Colonel if our kandak passed. His executive officer who is sitting next to him gives me the Roman "wavering of the thumb" motion and the Colonel smiles and says, "53%. Your kandak has been validated and will deploy soon." I'm elated, stunned and slightly amused. We give the good news to the Afghans. I'm offered more chai. I take a big swig from the glass and promptly burn my tongue.

"Your vehicle will lead the convoy." The kandak's vehicles are lined up and ready to move and I'm standing in the dark talking to one of the American officers who oversaw the training. "Do you know the way?" I swallow hard. Not really. "We'll figure it out sir." I try to beam confidence but doubt clouds my thinking. I sort of know the way, but not entirely. Our vehicle moves to the front of the convoy. One of the sergeants I worked with gives me a hug and says, "Be safe out there." Thanks. For some reason, the hug isn't awkward at all - maybe it's that the body armor protects from any real physical contact. We roll out of the gate and our communications equipment fails immediately. Perfect. I try in vain calling any station on the net to no avail. So I don't know the way and our communications equipment is down. I tell the guys in my vehicle to load their ammunition and be ready for an engagement on the road.

The way is dark. The streetlights that work shine dimly on the street. We're moving forward and the fear is getting the best of me. Every moving vehicle looks suspicious and could be a potential suicide vehicle-borne improvised explosive device. I let this fear come out in some of the internal conversations in the vehicle. It was my great failing on the mission - allowing fear to spill out to my guys. It was my least proudest moment in Afghanistan so far. We are all on heightened alert and we continue moving down the road. I hear a flickering on the radio and momentarily, my hopes are buoyed but quickly dashed when I try a radio check and fail to hear anything in response. We continue on.

Our vehicle is still moving. Nothing has happened yet. Cars drive on the wrong side of the road. It's sometimes hard to distinguish between those people who are bad drivers and those who might pose a threat. Nothing happens. We make a turn down another road. We see a glittering palace that resembles a casino. I ask my interpreter about it. He tells me it's a wedding hall. I tell him that it looks like pictures of Las Vegas. He asks me what that is. We keep driving in silence.

Still nothing. It's hard to believe that we haven't been noticed, but nothing has happened. We are driving down dark roads, making turns around large rotaries and suddenly we're inside the Afghan base. I am elated. The pit of fear in my stomach dissipates. We are safe. The rest of the vehicles of the kandak begin parking. I see the kandak commander. I go over to him, shake his hand and say, "Congratulations on a successful deployment!" He slaps me on the shoulder multiple times. "Tasha Kor! Tasha Kor! Would you like some chai?" No, I think this time I'll just be on my merry way. We make plans for our next rendezvous and we drive back to the American base.