Beyond the Point(74)

But today, Ebrahim’s face was all business. The man across from him wore a white shalwar kameez, frayed and dirtied on the edges from his long trek into the Army compound.

“Does he have documentation?” the JAG officer asked. “A receipt? Any kind of evidence?”

The interpreter repeated the question in Pashto, and the offended Afghan man answered vehemently in the affirmative, pushing his photo and a piece of paper across the table. The paper was covered in writing, but Hannah couldn’t help but think the ink looked fresh. She’d only been asked to attend this meeting because the finance officer attached to their unit was down with some kind of stomach bug, but she suddenly felt way out of her league. The room felt tense, like the man was about to explode with rage.

“He says it’s a receipt,” said Ebrahim.

“What does it say?” the JAG officer asked. “Is it a receipt?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Ebrahim continued, “It says he purchased the cow this year for two hundred U.S. dollars.”

Without thinking, Hannah laughed out loud, forcing the JAG officer to scowl. She felt mortified at her accidental lapse in decorum, but there was no way this man had paid that much money for a cow. For many Afghans, two hundred U.S. dollars was enough to feed a family for a year! She looked at Ebrahim for some sign of recognition. Some mutual understanding that they were being swindled.

“Pay him,” the JAG officer instructed Hannah after looking over the paper. Then, looking at Ebrahim, he said, “Thank him for coming. Tell him we hope this makes up for his loss.”

A bead of sweat ran down Hannah’s temple as she passed an orange envelope of cash to the man across from her. He accepted the envelope haltingly, as if a woman’s hands had soiled the funds. When he pulled the cash from the envelope, he began to argue with the translator again. Ebrahim shouted in return, his face reddening, as if he were scolding a child. Hannah noticed he pointed toward the door, but the Afghan man refused to leave.

“What’s he saying?” Hannah asked.

“He says without the cow, they’ve missed out on income,” Ebrahim answered, exasperated. “He demands another two hundred dollars.”

Wide-eyed, Hannah turned to the JAG officer, stunned. Surely the U.S. Army wouldn’t be extorted by a petty thief. He probably didn’t even own a cow in the first place! And even if he had, $400 amounted to a half year’s salary in Afghanistan. Would the JAG officer really enable this man to quit his day job? Military Intelligence was clear on what unemployed men spent their days doing—and it wasn’t milking cows. It was fighting alongside the Taliban.

“Do it,” the JAG officer ordered.

And Hannah followed orders, sliding another $200 across the table. But this time she didn’t laugh.

“BAD DAY?”

Hannah looked up from her plate of gray meatloaf topped with red sauce to see Private Murphy staring at her. He kept shoveling food into his mouth, but she knew from the tone of his voice that he actually cared. He tapped his fork on the table and went back to his plate, stacked high with mystery meat.

“Suit yourself. But it’s got to go somewhere, ma’am.”

Pushing her food around her plate, she realized her eyes must have looked as heavy on the outside as they felt in her head.

“We paid a local guy four hundred dollars today for a cow that probably never existed.”

Private Murphy grunted.

“I feel like I’m just wasting my time here,” Hannah said.

“You could always come to the clinic,” he said. “We could use an extra set of hands.”

The week before, at the exact same table, Private Murphy had told Hannah about the medical center outside of FOB Sharana. The battalion that had lived at the FOB the year before had set up an old containerized housing unit, or CHU, a few hundred yards beyond the base to act as an emergency room for locals. Afghans traveled, sometimes for days, to get there. The rectangular clinic was outfitted with medical equipment—old stretchers, IVs, first aid gauze, and a dwindling stash of Medihoney, a medical-grade honey product for the management of wounds and burns. They weren’t doctors, but with the training they’d received in the military, they knew more than most. The battalion commander, Colonel Markham, allowed them to go out on Saturdays between building assignments.

“So you treat mostly burns?” Hannah said.

“Yeah. I guess it’s common here for parents to burn their children as a punishment,” Private Murphy said with cold indifference. “Last week, a father brought in his seven-year-old son. He’d disobeyed somehow, and as punishment, he’d dipped his son’s arm in kerosene and then lit a match.”

“Oh my God.”

“It’s pretty messed up. But they won’t take the children to an Afghan hospital.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one, the closest hospital is in Kabul. It would take about a week to get there. Plus, Afghan doctors would amputate. We’re not equipped to do all that. So we do the best we can. Try to save the limbs. The parents like that.”

“I want to go,” Hannah said.

“No you don’t. It ain’t pretty.”

Hannah stared him down until he relented.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY, Hannah woke at 0530, slung her weapon over her shoulder, and slipped out of her room into the rising sun. Colonel Markham, Private Murphy, and three other soldiers waited at the FOB gate, and once Hannah had joined them, Markham waved to the soldier on guard. A heavy concrete door clicked loudly and swung open, then closed behind them.