About the Book
Title: The Hooligans of Kandahar
Author: Joseph Kassabian
Genre: Nonfiction / War Memoir
During the peak years
of the Afghanistan War, a group of soldiers is dropped by helicopter into the
remote mountains outside of Kandahar City. Mismanaged and overlooked by
command, how they survive is largely up to them. In the birthplace of the
Taliban, some men lose their sanity, others their humanity. They are The
Hooligans.
Written in the months
and years following his deployment, Joseph Kassabian recounts his time in the
isolated and dangerous country of Afghanistan. Pulling no punches, The
Hooligans of Kandahar is a sobering, saddening, and often sarcastic first-hand
account of America's War on Terror.
Links
Amazon (Paperback): https://www.amazon.com/Hooligans-Kandahar-Joseph-Kassabian/dp/0692754695/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1496313455&sr=8-1
Book Excerpt
Generally, when our squad went on patrol for hours at a time, we would
set up Observation Points, or OPs. OPs were areas that were slightly defensible
and allowed us to watch a large area while remaining concealed from sight.
That’s what the manual says about OPs, anyway.
What we really used them for was to duck away in the night
for a few hours and take turns napping. A few soldiers stood watch while the
others removed their overbearing gear and lay down in the dirt to catch a few
minutes of much-needed sleep.
The official mission was to watch over a Taliban “rat
line,” or trail used for smuggling weapons into the area. We had watched the
ratline and raided various houses in the last few months and found nothing. We
were all pretty sure that the ratline didn’t actually exist anywhere outside of
Scream’s head.
Since Scream was adamant that something was going to happen in that
village, he kept ordering us to sit in the darkness and stare at nothing.
We established a primary OP on an elevated ridge that
overlooked the trail that Scream was certain was a pathway for whatever
nefarious deeds the Taliban did at night. During our first ten-hour watch of
the area, Walrus—who was one of the laziest people I’ve ever met—found a couch
in one of the cornfields. He dragged the furniture up the ridge and into the
OP, giving the position its name.
It was at that OP that some of us older soldiers had
to teach the other guys the art of soldiering in the pitch darkness. Smoking
without being seen became a skill. You could easily see a cigarette’s lit
cherry over a mile away. If you weren’t careful, you could give away your
position while feeding your terrible vice.
You could stick your cigarette and lighter into your ration
bag to light it. Then cup your hand around your mouth and cigarette when you
need a hit to conceal yourself from whoever wants to blow your face off in the
middle of the night. A few of us switched from smoking to chewing tobacco for
night patrols. The first few times I tried it I puked on myself.
There was only one guy in our squad who didn’t smoke or dip—Slim, but he
made up for it in the states with a drinking habit that would make Hemmingway
suggest rehab
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