AFGHAN BLUES

by Richard S. Ehrlich

In response to an invitation to relay some of the press corps' anecdotes from Afghanistan, here are some from a 25-day stint covering the final Soviet troops withdrawal:

Two weeks before the Russians' February 15, 1989 deadline for their last soldier to be out of Afghanistan, Kabul was reported to be a city near starvation, tormented by guerrilla bombardments, snowstorms, a panicked populace and scattered bread riots.

As a handful of hacks boarded a plane in Delhi, word went round about who cleverly brought what in terms of their own food (Indian peanut butter, sardines) and the odds of being shot down as the plane infamously spirals down into mile-high Kabul, ringed by mountains and possibly guerrillas itching to fire a US-supplied Stinger missile.

The ultimate worst-case scenario, which had everyone brooding, predicted that after the Soviets leave, the rebels would rocket Kabul International Airport, preventing any escape (the press included) and all communication lines would be sabotaged blocking anyone filing the siege and eventual overrunning of Kabul with scenes of sacking, etc.

Graphic variations on these scenes included all remaining journalists with their "throats slit" by mobs hunting suspected Russians.

As a result, many of the male reporters began growing beards "to look Islamic."

Though Kabul always remained relatively safe despite the dire warnings, Western and many Eastern embassies evacuated their staffs.

California-born US Charge d'Affaires John Glassman -- who kept a plastic replica of an AK-47 assault rifle in his office which he would introduce by saying, "You know what I think of the press?" and then wave it about while making shooting noises -- solemnly lowered the flag amid a heavy snowstorm and said his farewells.

But the US Embassy evacuation of about 14 people was delayed one day by snows.

Glassman privately retorted, "I have a Harley Davidson under the US Embassy, so nothing is going to stop me from getting out of Afghanistan. If I can't fly out, I'll ride right through mooj territory and out through the Khyber Pass to Pakistan. Every biker in America will cheer me."

It would have been an awesome sight, Glassman on a chopper hurtling down the road past Jalalabad, but they flew out the following day after the Marines drained as much as they could of the diplomatic drink stash, according to embassy ribbing that morning.

The Soviet press corps and Russian embassy staffers who were due to stay in Kabul long after February were the most torn by the suspense, intrigue and looming possibility of their being murdered by mobs.

Amid glasnost and desperation, they sometimes opened their homes and military bases to reporters.

Clamping on grimaced smiles while obviously drunk on too much vodka and Bulgarian beer, they would lament the needless "genocide" of innocent Afghan civilians being killed by Soviet forces and admit to having become anti-war during their years posted in Afghanistan.

One Soviet journalist, busily packing and calling for his pet German Shepherd dog which was trained to sniff out rebel-laid land mines, glanced around his suburban-style Kabul home, which he stripped down to a few tables, chairs and cheap paintings.

"I am only moving into the Soviet Embassy for safety," he said.

"My boss asked me if I wanted to leave Afghanistan, but I told him no, because I want to stay on and continue my work. It is my duty. I will stay one year more. It will be difficult for us.

"There are various predictions of how the situation will be. It may be awfully bad, moderately bad, not so bad or even good. So, let us see. It is impossible to guess anything, so why we worried about it?"

He was recently wounded in a rebel attack during a press trip in eastern Afghanistan, and he showed off horrible scars on his thigh where shrapnel ripped into him. Of course, his bravado thinned.

"I have a whole arsenal, including hand grenades which I hate," the Russian journalist said.

"But I need it because one day the rebels are going to come for me."

Then laughing in an almost painful way, he raised his glass in a toast and added, "I have already cut off my balls and put them in the refrigerator so I can hand them to the mujahideen when they arrive!"

The United Nations Staff House, meanwhile, was generous in a different way.

They opened up their club for the press to dine at which was a welcome change from a stark diet punctuated by the Stalinesque, dilapidated Hotel Kabul's "chicken roast," an increasingly expensive bazaar-bought Russian caviar, orange juice from Florida (via the Philippines) and Soviet-supplied "Chernobyl cheese" -- our nickname for what fortunately didn't glow in the dark and tasted fine.

The UN then dug a deep hole in the yard in front of the Staff House to hide in.

Very ingeniously -- "We learned this in Lebanon" -- they dropped in an entire lift van which they filled with beds, electric heaters and telecommunications equipment and then buried it so the top was level with the surrounding yard.

The only tip-off was a satellite dish on top and an approach lined with sandbags.

The one major press mishap during the withdrawal was when a French reporter was shot in the rear by an angry Soviet soldier apparently trying to scare him and two other approaching, camera-shooting French colleagues who accidentally stumbled on Russian soldiers illegally selling off some unidentifiable goods to an Afghan blackmarketeer.

The journalists kept clicking off photos until a Russian soldier fired once, into a nearby snowdrift, followed by two other bullets as the reporters retreated to their car.

The third bullet injured the journalist after apparently ricocheting off the inside of the car's door.

A worse fate may have been in store for UPI's Adam Kelliher who was later being led by an Afghan soldier through knee-high snowdrifts towards a hill where the press corps were gathered after a two-mile hike to watch a demonstration of outgoing artillery.

Suddenly, Adam's escort stopped in an especially deep snowdrift.

"There are land mines here!" he told the startled reporter who could see he was being randomly led across an attempted short-cut.

Eventually, the soldier coaxed UPI a few steps further only to yell at him again, "Mines!"

Nerve-wracked, they survived.