The Wolves of Helmand by Frank "Gus" Biggio

Author:Frank "Gus" Biggio
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Forefront Books
Published: 2020-11-10T00:00:00+00:00

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The British soldiers who were in Nawa before the Marines arrived called the mysterious spot on the map the “Rugby Ball.” As viewed in a satellite photo, it is a tan oval shape set off by surrounding greenery. The imagery we examined revealed dozens of cigar-shaped discolorations of various sizes marking the ground in orderly rows. Early intelligence reports suggested that the Rugby Ball was an insurgent staging area because drone surveillance often showed large groups of Afghans gathered there, usually at dusk. But one analyst proposed that the Rugby Ball was actually a burial ground, and that the frequent gatherings appearing in drone images were services for the continuous cycle of death Nawa experienced. Perhaps these were not the nefarious conclaves of scheming insurgents after all.

The Marines who first patrolled near the Rugby Ball after arriving in the district weren’t surprised to see a cluster of women surrounding a fresh pile of rocks. The colored streamers on the sticks that were wedged into the rock mounds sometimes made a snapping sound as they danced in the wind. Other times when there was no breeze to lift them, the streamers dangled lifelessly. The women’s rhythmic chanting penetrated the air. It was interrupted occasionally by a long, sad wail. We strode by, keeping a respectful distance, realizing that the cigar-shaped discolorations we’d seen on our satellite images were indeed burial plots.

As I glanced at the mourners kneeling beside a fresh grave, I saw that the pile of rocks where they were keening was not much longer than one of my strides. I slowly began noticing how many other piles in the graveyard were that small—how many were the same size as my son, whom I hadn’t seen in months.

I thought of the young boys and girls under those rocks and pitied them, knowing they would never see a sunrise, feel the sting of rain on their face, scribble a picture, read a book, or fall in love. Instead, they would just decay in their unmarked graves and ultimately be forgotten. Then I thought to myself that those who say death doesn’t discriminate have probably never been in a place like Helmand, where death too often chooses the young.

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