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Pete Law: 22 Jan 2003

22 Jan 2003

Paul,

My God, Paul, but where to start? I am sitting in a stinking, Afghan prison somewhere in the forsaken land. It has been almost a week. I survive on the things I find in this tiny cell and the rainwater that gathers under my door. They have allowed me to get a letter out via the Red Crescent (the local Red Cross here) and I will write quickly.

When I last wrote you, the three of us had finished an all night jaunt that was not without its own dangers. I put Pedro and Lady under the shade of a large fig tree and I did a recce of the local trails in an effort to solidify my plan for the night. Having found a suitable trail, I went back to my fellow travelers and rested my eyelids.

I awoke at about 8pm local. It is dark here at about 6pm and I was surprised that my exhaustion had allowed me to sleep through the sun's retirement. Nevertheless, I first awoke Pedro, and then Lady and we had some dry biscuit and rice water so as not to bring attention to ourselves with flame, fire or smoke.

We were on the trail by 9pm and we all grinned at one another at how flat and fast our little dirt trail had become. Lady pulled with a ferocity unknown to other canine breeds. Pedro's gold-capped tooth gleaned in the moonlight as he occasionally looked from under his hefty packs, smiling at me. I had stuffed a fanny pack with vitamins and trail mix to help lighten Pedro's load for this night's work and the pack rode high on my buttocks, chafing at my skin. I pushed on with my friends.

All was well until about 1:15am. Without warning we walked into (what I realized a moment later as) a French ambush site. I tried to call out, but it was far too late. We were in their kill zone. I realized with a sudden rush that my inattentiveness might have just cost all of us our lives. I closed my eyes and waited for the sound of their weapons; waited for the bullets to tear apart my skin.

It was not to be. Out of the well-concealed ambush position, the French soldiers came walking out slowly, their hands on their heads. Their commander was crying and the rest of the men fell to their knees with hands outreached for mercy. My French is rusty, but I could understand that they were surrendering.

Now Paul, you know my disdain for the French. I had been left high and dry by these people too many times in Algeria, Guyana, and Indochina. The list goes on and on. The, "French Army" is probably the biggest oxymoron used in modern language. Cowards, all them. It was just too much. Rather than explain my situation, I absentmindedly took advantage of it. I guess I broke.

That this French officer and his ten well-armed men would surrender to a man, a dog and a boy, well, it was too much. Not thinking, I slapped the young officer about the mouth and ordered Pedro to collect their arms. An unspoken word to Lady had him sitting on his haunches, ready to attack.

Pedro collected the weapons as instructed. I took a FAMAS bull pup rifle and stuck a heavy pistol in my belt. Pedro looked ridiculous as he shouldered a carbine, but I let him, feeling pride in this savage boy as I looked at the sorry lot before me. When would the French ever learn that they had no stomach for this? We rifled through their packs and found some cheese, some wine and an immense quantity of quality sleeping linen.

We took most all of the food and drink and we tied the Frenchmen up with their sheets. I made a sand smock for Lady out of a fabulous twill and Pedro went to work on one sheet, making a large, French flag of surrender. We all got a pinch out of that. Pedro is quite a card.

I took pictures with the disk camera and chuckled as Lady found good use of one Frog by making him a pee post. Pedro snuck a few swallows of wine while I was not looking and caused great consternation when he began firing the carbine and howling like a wild animal. I made a mental note that Pedro was a fine servant and a hardworking friend, but he simply could not be trusted with the grape. I wrote the event off to youth, but I would not make that mistake again.

We left the French tied to trees along the little forest road where we had been walking. I knew that they would be okay. Someone would find them and they would live, cowards though they be. We were in a fine mood. The three of us had captured a French patrol, no one was harmed and we had weapons to protect us on our journey. Ah, but life was grand for that moment.

It was not to last. Within hours, the three of us were captured, not an hour from where we had left the Frenchmen. It seems that (as our bad luck would have it) an Afghan patrol found our unhappy prisoners and radioed ahead for our capture. There was a heroic scrap that I cannot even begin to describe right now, but, in the end, we were all put under lock and key.

We are up on serious charges. Pedro committed some rather heinous acts in my defense and is facing the hangman. My hands did terrible things and I know the piper will need to be paid for my instinctive defenses. I have not seen Lady since our capture, but she was brilliant in my last conscious thought, separating flesh and springing from man to man, frolicking in the blood.

Enough. I can tell you more later. Andre, the ex-Soviet prison guard is calling for me. I can hear Pedro yelling out. He is being put to some physical test or another today. I tell you, it is an unsavory spot that we are in.

I will write again when I see this lovely Red Crescent girl again. Right now she wants this letter, and she will get it. When she leaves, she departs with my only hope of freedom, you dear friend.

P. Law

Last modified about about 9 years ago.

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