An Assault on Earth Day: How I Was Battered by a Colonel, Almost Got a Golden Shovel Thrown at Me, and Witnessed the Saddest Tree-Planting Ceremony of All Time—and Lived to Tell the Story

 

"Let this twig signify the relationship between our two countries ... and may we some day share in the fruit that is growing from the tree you stole from us."


We were told to meet at the office this morning at 9, even though Sunday is a late-report date.  The reason?  We had to “game plan” for our big tree-planting ceremony later in the day.  Tomorrow is New Year’s Day in Afghanistan, and it also happens to be Earth Day back home.  Some senator or congressperson got a bright idea that some of the billions of dollars we’re spending here should include money for the Afghans to plant trees.  Which, you know, makes a lot of sense in a country where there is no water and where kids right outside our gate are starving to death.  Next week we’ll be receiving a small budget to place tiny hand-knit sweaters on the squirrels that will soon call our trees home.  Anyway, for some inexplicable reason, my office got involved in this tree-planting fiasco, or what I like to call “Fraud, Waste and Abuse.”   We were given a small budget to procure trees for our Afghan Army lawyers to plant and make their country a better place.  I don’t know the budget, but whatever the figure, it was too much. 

   



"Look ma! No roots!"



Our office paralegal, MSgt Conger, worked with the Afghan “nursery” that was awarded the contract and arranged to have the trees delivered to the Ministry of Defense Headquarters.  One of the Afghan JAGs was put in charge of signing for the trees and storing them in a secure place until we could have a tree-planting ceremony today.  Somehow, one of the American generals here heard about the ceremony, and ever wanting to have his photo taken while holding a golden shovel, he decided to invite himself.  But it wasn’t enough that he wanted to participate – he wanted the Afghan generals with whom he works to attend, he wanted the Afghan media there, he wanted talking points, and he wanted a really really really shiny gold shovel.  All of this was coordinated through COL Knuckles, who didn’t really tell us what was going on – only to complain the general was trying to hijack the ceremony.  So anyway, COL Knuckles wanted us in the office bright and early to make sure we were all aware of what we were supposed to do … you know, because it has always been my experience that the best time to plan something is an hour before the event is supposed to start.

Unfortunately, since COL Knuckles has the attention span of a kitten, he spent our “planning time” telling us about an email that had been sent the night before – an email we had all already read – informing us that some gruesome photographs involving U.S. troops in Afghanistan had been leaked to the media (as part of the whole WikiLeaks thing).  COL Knuckles said these pictures were supposed to be really graphic.  He asked us if we had seen them, ignoring the fact that the photos haven’t been printed yet.  I joked that not only had I seen the photos, but I was the one who had sent them to the media.  His face went white and, with the seriousness of a funeral director, he said, “Where did you get them from?” 

  



"Oh yeah, um, these are your trees
right over here.  Best quality!"



We all snickered and I told him I was joking.  I had been sitting at my desk, and so I went back to work on my computer.  A second or two later, I felt something hard hit the back of my head.  It didn’t hurt, but it startled me … and when I get startled, I usually swear.  “What the hell was that?” I yelled as I turned around.  I noticed COL Knuckles wasn’t wearing his hat (despite clear regulations and guidance, he likes to wear his hat indoors).  His face was now an even paler shade of white.  I saw his hat lying on the ground, close to my chair; I figured that the metal rank insignia on his hat was what hit me.  I turned and looked at him and said, “Seriously, sir?”  When he didn’t answer, I repeated myself.  Now, I’m not entirely sure, but I could swear someone told me at that very moment to punch him in the neck.  I clenched my jaw and turned back to my work (OK, I wasn’t really working, I was managing our office March Madness pool).  I believe he apologized profusely, but I couldn’t hear him since the only thing I could hear was me trying to explain to the jury exactly how my pistol negligently discharged in Knuckle’s direction at the exact moment I realized a full-bird colonel in the U.S. Army thought it would be good idea to throw his hat at me.  He prattled on about how sorry he was, how he meant it as a joke, how he was going to light himself on fire.  I finally relented and told him it wasn’t a big deal – all the while trying to imagine being far away from Afghanistan, maybe on some exotic beach …. where I may or may not be holding a certain colonel’s head under water.

We eventually left the office and walked over to MoD HQ.  The grounds at MoD are actually quite nice, with grassy lawns and flower beds.  It’s the closest thing to a park you’ll find in Kabul.  We got to the area where the Epic Afghan New Year’s Day/Earth Day/Make Afghanistan a Better Place Tree-Planting Extravaganza was to take place.  There was a wheelbarrow next to the holes that had been dug, and the wheelbarrow was full of dead tree limbs.  I thought the Afghans were going all out, having even pruned the nearby trees in anticipation of this momentous occasion.  Except, those dead tree limbs were the “trees” that had been delivered by the contractor. 



About to be assaulted by the Canadian. 
They're a very violent people.



  

Most of them didn’t even have roots – and some had clearly been torn and twisted off a once-living plant, probably one growing in some Afghan JAGs’ backyards.  I mean, these things were twigs – they made Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree look robust.  The little old Afghan man who had been sent to dig the holes or plant the trees or whatever it is little old Afghan men do explained to the interpreter that these were the best trees of the lot.  COL Knuckles shrugged his shoulders and started wondering where the media should be and where the generals were.  Capt Hafemann – the Marine JAG I work with – and I started snapping photos as the Unintentional Comedy Scale threatened to reach 100 for the first time in history.  Capt Hafemann asked COL Knuckles what he thought of the trees.  “I don’t think,” COL Knuckles said, “I do.”  COL Knuckles then asked me for the fifth time of the morning whether BYU had won its basketball game.

The American general eventually showed up with his security detail, which was outfitted for the Battle of Fallajuh even though we were a stone’s throw from Camp Eggers.  And of course, the general drove over to MoD even though it’s a 10-minute walk from camp … and naturally, his vehicle is outfitted with a general’s placard so everybody can salute him as his team drives him one block.  So much for keeping a low profile.  Two Afghan media members showed up and, while I don’t speak Dari, I’m pretty sure they made a few jokes about the rootless twigs we were about to stick in some much-too-large holes.  I’m pretty sure the Afghan papers are going to run with this tree story.

  



Some random Afghan dude, me, and
Capt Hafemann.  And our twig.



Once everyone was assembled, one of the Afghans sang an Islamic prayer.  I just hope Allah is a god of miracles because those twigs are going to need the help.  After the prayer, General Nooristani said something about the trees signifying the support the coalition had given Afghanistan, and how these twigs would grow just like the partnership between America and his country.  The American general didn’t have much to say – mostly because COL Knuckles forgot to prepare any talking points for him.   The general did mention that he’d like to someday eat the fruit of the twig (Nooristani had claimed it was an almond twig).  I wanted to tell him, Sir, don’t hold your breath on that one, but I’d already had a senior officer throw something at me and the general was holding a shovel. 

One of the Afghan JAGs took one of the better-looking twigs and dropped it in the hole.  He had to hold up the twig as Nooristani and the American general filled the hole (it took a while, given the lack of roots) with their golden shovels.  Everybody smiled and some photos were taken.  The American general couldn’t get out of there fast enough, but apparently before he jumped into his armored vehicle, he pulled COL Knuckles aside and laid into him, ripping him for not inviting the other Afghan generals, not preparing talking points, or not making sure the trees he was to plant actually had, you know, freaking roots.  How do I know this?  Well, after the general sped off, my boss assembled us to tell us he’d been yelled at.  I’m not quite sure what he hoped to gain by telling his subordinates this, other than to make us feel bad.  He did sort of look like a puppy that had just been swatted with the newspaper for having peed on the carpet.  I didn’t apologize for anything, but I did appreciate his announcement since it gave me something to write about.  And it reminded me of that scene from A Christmas Story when Ralphie’s teacher goes on and on about how terrible everyone should feel for having pressured Flick into sticking his tongue on the frozen basketball pole.

  



The general, wondering why
he's about to plant a weed.



I finished up the day doing COL Knuckles’ job.  I won’t bore you with the details, but he spent a good portion of the day doing Dari lessons on Rosetta Stone, wandering the camp in a futile attempt to find out whether he could mail home some antique guns he was thinking of buying, and telling us he was probably related to a Salt Lake Tribune photographer.  Because of these activities, he didn’t have time to submit a couple of required reports to our chain of command.  Fortunately, I had anticipated that he’d spend the day telling us stories about the time his little brother threw him down the stairs and how his wife was mad that he had spent so much money at the women’s bazaar (I’m not making this up), so I had already done the reports a few days before and held on to them.  He told me I was doing a great job and that it would be reflected in my performance report.  Never mind that he doesn’t write my performance report … or that at this point my report will be a sentencing exhibit at my manslaughter trial.  I suppose the comment was a good gesture, kind of like sticking some dead tree limbs in the ground.