J. A. Napper

 Our potbelly stove flickered and puffed its final surge of heat from its gaping mouth as a cold wind blasted through our tower. Black smoke plumes saturated our 6-foot by 4-foot (1.8 by 1.21 meters) guard tower. Most thick soot settled on the floor, but a layer of black camouflage covered our bodies. 

Hector shouted. “Dang!” He allowed several colorful words flow from his mouth. “Freakin Army spends millions on all kinds of junk—all crap, just like this heater!” 

I laughed at my team member as he smacked his uniform and danced around the small guard tower like a crazed baboon. “At least we had a few hours of heat. Could’ve blown up on us instead of showering us with soot.” 

Mercado sighed and cleaned soot from his face with a baby wipe. “Yeah, yeah.” 

Our tower was on the east side of our FOB (Forward Operating Base). A family compound sprawled across the base of a mountain to the right, a graveyard to our front, and a small village to our left.

My platoon finally started guard rotation, and I welcomed the cycle with open arms of relief! We recently spent a little over a month conducting operations in Eastern Afghanistan, and freezing my butt off in a guard tower was more appealing than dodging bullets. 

Hector positioned his M249 SAW (Squad Automatic Weapon) into its place. The weapon reflected the moon’s light, but I couldn’t see his dull face from the black soot. He grumbled about the stupidity of the deployment until words eluded him. 

I nudged Hector’s arm as I took my position beside him. “Four hours down, eight to go. Just think, the sun will pop up just there.” I pointed to a family compound on our right as he sighed. “After that, we can shower, eat, and sleep.” 

Mercado grumbled something in Spanish as he scanned the area for any movement.  “Sure, a shower will be nice—if the water doesn’t stop. That’s our luck.” 

“We did get that care package with tons of baby wipes.”  

Hector spouted more Spanish. My knowledge of Spanish is limited, but I know my fair share of curse words, and he flawlessly used them. 

The next couple hours crawled by like a man trudging to a gallows—it was excruciating. The sun finally peaked his orange head above the ridgeline and covered us with his warm blanket. The warm rays took me to another place and time, far away from Afghanistan.

BANG!

The loud sound jolted me from my thoughts, and I robotically began scanning my sector for movement. 

“Hector! Are you okay?” 

“Yeah!” He adjusted his helmet and swung his SAW towards a small figure to our two o’clock position. I heard a metallic click as his thumb flicked the weapon’s safety to fire. 

I quickly scanned our sector for insurgents. However, a small figure, silhouetted by the sun. I peeked through my scope and saw the daunting enemy. A small boy waved in unison with his clothes as they flapped in the wind. 

I tapped Hector’s back. “Hold your fire. It’s a kid.” 

“That pendejo almost knocked my head off with a rock!” 

I laughed more than I should have, but Hector’s anger was a bit comical. I picked up our binos and focused on the child. The source of the bang became apparent when the boy started walking towards our location. 

A tan piece of material wrapped around the boy’s right wrist. The rest of the material dragged on the ground behind him as he strolled closer to us. Concertina wire divided our FOB from the wildlands. I recognized the material as a homemade slingshot. The little guy reminded me of David as he faced Goliath. 

“Ah-mair-ee-kah!” The little boy shouted at us while waving his right hand with his palm downward. He wanted us to meet him at the wire. 

Mercado sat like a stone and looked at me. “I’m not going. Fuck him.” 

I grabbed my gear, climbed down a ladder maze, and exited our Conex tower. “I’ll go. Just cover me.” 

The child smiled as I approached the wire. He held out his hand and offered me his slingshot. I took the biblical weapon and sat my assault pack on the ground. I sensed the lad wanted something in return, so I opened my assault pack and fished out an MRE (Meal Ready to Eat). I tossed him the meal. A huge smile full of teeth appeared as he studied the package. 

The boy patted his chest like Tarzan did when he introduced himself to Jane. “Sabra Jahn.” 

“Chris,” I responded as I replicated the boy’s movements. 

No, my name is not Chris. I gave him that name for Operation Security (OPSEC). I didn’t know if insurgents sent the child. So, I kept any identifying information to a minimum. 

Sabra Jahn smiled. “Kr-eee-ss!”

I said, “Sabra Jahn.” He looked happier than any child on Christmas morning.

From that day forward, Sabra Jahn became my friend. I often lifted him over the fence and allowed him to sleep in our tower whenever our guard rotations began. He brought me gifts, and I reciprocated the gesture. 

We often conducted local patrols in his village, and a shadow named Sabra Jahn followed me each I time entered his town. I often wonder if he lived to see twenty years old. I often wonder if my actions changed his perspective on life and the USA.