Amish Sweethearts (19 page)

As they waited in line, Casey said to Zane, “Your beard is looking good.”

He smiled. “Yeah, well, it’s my first attempt.”

“Really?”

He nodded. He’d been in the Army since he was eighteen. It wasn’t like he could have grown one before then. As a civil affairs team, they were encouraged to grow beards to be more accepted by the Afghans.

“What’s with the mustache—or lack of?” Casey teased.

“It’s not doing so well.” He grinned. He’d shaved it in some weird symbol of solidarity with the Amish men he knew. The truth was, way back in Europe the Amish men didn’t grow mustaches because soldiers did. It was his small gesture, as a soldier, of honoring those who believed in peace and who had given up their homeland centuries ago to find it. He knew the symbol was also ironic, considering he
was
a soldier. But the small secret act of solidarity made him smile—on the inside, at least.

After they finished eating, he walked Casey back to her barracks in the rain and then pulled out his phone and looked at the photo of Lila again. He hadn’t brought a laptop or iPad. He didn’t want to pack one around. He had his cell and he’d buy a card for it, but only the calling would work—not the Internet or texting. He’d have to rely on the base computers to send an e-mail home—but at least he still had his photos.

He jogged to the service center and entered as a soldier stepped away from one of the desktops. Zane quickly sat down, pulled up his account, and drafted an e-mail to his parents, saying he’d arrived and everything was going well. He said it was cold, wet, and muddy, and that they’d go into the field in a few days. He hit Send, leaned back in the chair, and then decided he’d send an e-mail to Simon too. He pretty much said the same thing, but asked Simon to let him know when basic was done and how it went.

Again he considered sending Lila an e-mail. He clicked on a new message and typed in her address. Then he stared at the blank e-mail. What did he want to tell her? That he missed her? That he thought about her all the time? That he’d been crazy to join the Army but he felt good about the work ahead of him? That he wondered how long it would be until she and Reuben married?

It was time to put his wounded pride behind him. Perhaps they could be just friends.

He typed:

Dear Lila,

It is cold and muddy here. Lots of rain. We can see the snow on the mountains from where we are. We will soon be going into alpine valleys past those mountains to start our work.

I think about your family and wonder how your grandmother is doing. How it will be for all of you when Simon leaves. I remember all of our afternoons playing down at our fort as the happiest in my life.

He stopped. He hadn’t written anything about her at all. Not even a birthday greeting. He pressed his hand against his thigh. And he wouldn’t. She’d be more apt to reply if he kept things general.

Please e-mail me back when you can.

Zane

He clicked Send, logged off his account, and pulled his phone from his pocket, flipping through his photos to the ones of Lila once again.

The civil affairs team flew over the mountains during the night to avoid detection, landing at their forward-operating base camp just before dawn. The place was much smaller than Bagram, with a single airstrip, a handful of concrete buildings, tents, a mess hall, a clinic, and a small commissary. There was also a market where Afghans sold colorful scarves, linens, skullcaps, and baskets.

By the time they smelled bacon cooking in the mess hall, the sun was rising. Zane stopped at the entrance and turned east, toward Pakistan. He shielded his eyes. They had been warned they could expect rocket attacks—and firefights—but hopefully only around the fenced perimeter. He was definitely in a war zone.

After breakfast, two MRAPs—Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected Vehicles—arrived for their trip to a village up in the mountains. When their Afghan guide appeared, Zane greeted
him in Pashto, but the man didn’t respond in the extended Afghani greeting Zane had been taught to expect. Instead he responded in English with a gruff “Good morning.” He didn’t seem to have an accent, and he’d obviously spent a lot of time around Americans.

Grant elbowed Zane and laughed. The guide rode up front with the driver, and the rest of them, including the other three women from Casey’s female engagement team, strapped into their seats. Sarge sat next to Zane and leaned his head toward him. “We should meet the Afghan translator by this afternoon. He’s a respected elder in the area. We’ll give you some time to get acquainted and figure out how much you can understand. As we work I need you to listen in on his conversation with other leaders and see if you think they’re trustworthy.”

Zane nodded.

The sergeant turned his head, but then added, “I’ve worked out furloughs. You’re going home the middle of May.”

Zane had hoped to go home much later than that. He didn’t mean to grimace, but he must have.

“I know,” Sarge said. “We’d all rather go home during the last half of the deployment, but Grant needs to go in July because of the baby, and I promised my wife I’d be home by the middle of August, when school starts for our kids.”

Zane glanced at Casey.

“She’s going home the end of May. You could see if she’ll trade with you.”

Zane shook his head. “It’s fine.”

Sarge nodded. “Thanks.”

All the windows in the MRAP were tinted green and bulletproof. Through the years the Army had progressively added more armor to the Humvees, and those improvements more effectively protected soldiers from being injured or killed, but the MRAPs did an even better job. The side windows were nar
row and high, and Zane was lucky enough to have one next to him. He was tall enough to see out of it onto the hills, which were brown and dry—more like Texas than Lancaster County. Dust billowed up and into the adjacent fields and some seeped into the vehicle, drying his throat.

The villages they passed were small, with walls made from mud and stone around them. The homes were made from mud too. As they gained altitude, juniper and yew trees appeared. He knew in the spring, from his studies, that honeysuckle, currants, and rhododendron would bloom. The landscape grew greener and more rugged as the vehicle continued to climb.

Zane thought back to the tough job Sarge had of scheduling everyone’s furloughs. It wasn’t that he wanted his leave to be during the second half of his deployment to make the deployment go faster. He just didn’t want to go home so soon. He didn’t want to have to avoid Lila again. He didn’t want to worry about Simon and wonder how Adam was really doing and see the worry in his parents’ faces. If he’d left his truck in Texas, he could go there instead, but that would hurt his family. He could go see his grandfather in Seattle, but that would offend his parents too.

He’d met a soldier in Bagram who’d gone to Australia for his furlough. He said the last thing he wanted to do was go home to the U.S. during his leave—it would only make him more homesick. Zane wished he would have thought of that, but again, it would hurt his parents. The guy he’d talked with was in his midthirties and single. His parents probably weren’t as engaged in his life as Zane’s tried to be in his. He sighed and leaned back against the seat, shifting his thoughts to the translator he’d soon be meeting.

He hoped his Pashto was good enough to understand him in the field as he spoke with other Afghans. His thoughts drifted to what he’d learned about Afghanistan during their preparation.
It wasn’t the uncivilized place some people thought. It had a rich history, shaped by trade routes and the Silk Road. Advanced civilizations had been established very early in the country and then decimated again and again by invaders. Through the centuries elders had to decide whom they would form alliances with, and their decisions were usually based on which side would most likely protect their families.

A couple of hours into the trip, the driver of the second vehicle, the one with the commander’s team in it, radioed that the women in the other FET group needed to stop.

Grant rolled his eyes. “I knew this would happen. Traveling with women is as bad as traveling with kids.”

“Keep it up, Turner, and you’ll be hitchhiking back to base,” Sarge said.

The women in Casey’s FET group rolled their eyes, but Casey didn’t respond, and neither did Zane. All four women pulled their scarves over their heads, though, clearly ready to get out. A few minutes later the driver pulled over next to a group of conifer trees. The women darted behind them first, and then most of the men took a turn. The guide stood beside the vehicle and smoked a cigarette. Zane thought about his dad when he returned from Iraq and how he’d smoked for a while. War had all sorts of consequences. He couldn’t help but wonder how it would affect him.

“When is that mustache going to grow in?” Grant teased Zane.

“What do you mean?” Wade asked. “I saw him shave it the other day.”

“You’re kidding.” Grant shook his head. “You get weirder every day.”

Zane smiled and walked back to the MRAP. After they crawled back in, most everyone dozed until the MRAP came to an abrupt stop at a village. Sarge got out with the guide.
Zane craned his neck to see out the window. A man wearing a turban and
perahan tunban
, the traditional men’s tunic and loose pants, came to the gate in the wall. The scrubby trees along the wall dipped in the wind. The ground wasn’t covered with snow, but piles of it were pushed along the stones. Sarge zipped his coat and pulled the collar up to his ears.

Zane dug his stocking cap and gloves from his bag. They were on an alpine plateau, and it was clearly going to be cold.

A few minutes later the sergeant returned. “We’ll all stay in this village tonight. In the morning the other team will go on to the next village.”

Zane’s team disembarked, except the driver, who drove the MRAP around to the back of the village, outside the wall.

Sarge pointed to an empty house made of mud bricks and directed the team to get settled, but then he motioned for Zane to follow him and the guide. Zane heaved his pack onto his back and quickened his step. If he’d been sane—instead of blinded by both love and rejection—almost three years ago when Lila told him to go away, the farther the better, he never would have found himself in Afghanistan. But he was glad he had. It was unlike any culture he’d ever seen or even imagined back then, and he never would have studied Pashto otherwise.

A barefoot boy darted out in front of them. A goat, tied to a post, bleated loudly. Ahead a woman stood in the doorway, holding her scarf in front of her face.

A sense of purpose welled up in Zane. He was connected to these people. They were created in God’s image. It was a village of families, not unlike the Amish—except these people’s lives were constantly threatened, while the Amish lived in peace. He said a silent prayer, asking God to bless their mission.

The village consisted of about fifteen homes. Zane knew
the families were all related in some way, connected by blood and culture and religion. Not unlike the Amish. Except, again, for the violence around them. And, of course, the difference in religion. The woman he saw tending to two children wore a hijab, a veil, and not the enveloping burqa. He’d been told their dress would probably vary from village to village.

The guide pushed open a door to a house and entered. Sarge followed, and then Zane. Two men sat on mats on the floor, around a teapot, and they held cups in their hands. The guide motioned for Sarge and Zane to join them. “
As-salaamu’ alaykum
,” the older man said, as the guide sat down.

“
Wradz mo pa kheyr
,” Zane answered.

“What did you say?” Sarge asked.

“It’s an afternoon greeting.”

The older man smiled. He wore a skullcap and the traditional clothes.

“
Zama num Zane Beck de
,” Zane said.

“Your name?” Sarge asked.

Zane nodded.

“I am Jaalal,” the old man said with a bit of an accent. “And we can speak in English. I studied it as a young person and have been using it regularly for . . . the last eleven years.” Obviously other Americans had been working in the area before them.