Growing Up Bin Laden - Jean P. Sasson [135]
When I arrived at the base in the Kabul mountains, I could see Massoud’s men facing my father’s men. The fighters on the front line were set up with machine guns and other close-range weapons. There was an artillery line directly behind, between the front line and the base. I spotted some functioning Russian tanks left over from the last war, camouflaged by tree branches and grasses and hidden in corners on some of the flat areas. Tank battles were not too common, which was disappointing because I had a few tank operating skills and like most teenage boys would have relished a chance to drive one of those tanks.
I saw massive supplies of weaponry, from stinger missiles to machine guns to artillery. I was amazed at the complexity of the war, for like most people I had imagined that the war in Afghanistan consisted of guerrilla warfare. But the battle lines were drawn in much the same manner that I imagined the huge forces had faced off during confrontations between world powers. Seeing the vast array of highly trained men manning mostly modern equipment, I remembered hearing that after my father and his soldiers had joined with the Taliban, the military professionalism he had learned during the ten-year war with the Soviets had completely altered the conduct of the present conflict.
The battle had quietened upon my arrival. For the first five days I mainly observed, thinking that being on the front lines was not the worst thing that could happen to me. There were occasions when I would fiddle with my portable handheld receiver. Most of the soldiers on the front line had one. The common soldier’s receiver was not sophisticated, like the ones used by my father and the high-ranking leaders.
I was bored, and found that if I took my time, I could generally find the band being used by Massoud’s men. I began engaging them in conversation, asking them where they were from, and other non-military chatter. Of course, I never relayed that I was the son of Osama bin Laden, or those men might have made a fully fledged attack to capture such a prestigious target, little knowing that my father would do nothing special to bring about my release.
Once I asked a friendly soldier, “Why are you trying to kill us?”
The Massoud soldier replied, “I have nothing against you. This is a war over land. We have orders to shoot anyone on the land. You are on the land. I will have to shoot you if I get the chance.”
That soldier was speaking the truth. Every warlord wanted to rule the country. Although there was a shortage of homes, hospitals, schools, food, clothes, and other necessities, there was no shortage of warlords, each striving to assume the top position. Yet another bitter war was the result of a group of stubborn and uncompromising men.
The front line around Kabul linked to a village area. Modest huts dotted the mountainside. Since many of the houses had been deserted due to the close combat, my father’s soldiers opted to sleep in the huts rather than hunker down on the stony ground. During the sleeping hours, my father’s soldiers stationed lookouts along the mountain trail. The night came when it was my turn to serve as a lookout, for my father had sent word that I should be treated no differently from any other soldier. “No better, no worse,” was his order.
Almost instantly after positioning myself at an advantageous lookout point, I felt the whistle of a bullet fly past my right ear. Then a second bullet soared past my left ear. Soon many bullets were flying. Enemy soldiers had spotted my position. With bullets zipping past on both sides, I couldn’t settle on which way to jump.
I’m still not certain how I avoided being shot. Conceivably the moonless night skewed the enemy’s marksmanship, or perhaps my figure was so fixed in place that the enemy shooter concluded that his target was a mountain rock. My soldier comrades finally heard the racket and crept out to join the battle at the precise moment