April 2002
Up rose the hand holding the swagger stick. It came down with a swish and a snap. The young Afghani, Muktar, an assistant camp cook, grunted and jerked as it caught him on the bare thigh. He was bent over Captain Ned Nessel's bed in the captain's sixteen-by-sixteen general purpose tent within the fences of the small Gamma Delta Marine base near Gardez in Afghanistan's Shah-i-kot Valley. The bed wasn't very substantial but he probably was the only one in the camp that couldn't better be termed a cot. The Taliban had just been run out of the region and the small contingent of Marines had been left at this somewhat makeshift camp to help keep them away.
Muktar was eighteen. He was very accommodating to the American Marines, and Captain Nessel and a few others in camp appreciated the accommodation. The trousers part of the young Afghani's Perahan Tuban was off his legs and in the dirt next to the bed. The back of the tunic part was pushed up over his buttocks. Nessel was mounted on his ass, high, pressing the young man's cheek to the bed with his left hand on the back of Muktar's neck. He was switching the young man's flanks as he doggy fucked him, but he wasn't putting much force behind the strikes. Muktar was scrabbling at the blanket on the bed with his left hand and had his right, under his belly, stroking himself off.
With a little cry, he came. Moments later so did the captain. Nessel released the young man and moved to the washbasin to wash his shaft off, as a whimpering Muktar gathered up his trousers and headed for the closed flap of the tent entrance. A sergeant who was "in the know" was standing outside the entrance, keeping everyone else away.
"No, dress first," Nessel hissed at the Afghani servant from across the tent, and, still trembling, Muktar stopped, pulled on his trousers, exited the tent, and hobbled as best he could toward the kitchen tent. The camp commander was only twenty-nine. He was a hard-bodied, vigorous and virile U.S. Marine. Luckily for Muktar, who was accustomed to taking men's cocks, Nessel was also a handsome devil.
Nessel dressed in his day uniform and came out of the tent. He nodded to the hunky and buff black sergeant, Sylus Simon, who nodded back. The captain looked out toward the chain-link fence next to the entry into the camp compound. Sergeant Simon drifted away, on longer needed to be on guard duty at the captain's tent flap. He was one of Nessel's compatriots in sexual preference. He had enjoyed Muktar himself before, and would be accorded opportunity to do so again.
Young Afghani men came out every day to line the fence of Gamma Delta Base near Gardez, Afghanistan, in the shadow of the Hindu Kush Mountains near the border with Pakistan. It wasn't supposed to be known that a U.S. Marine base was even here, although it was more a small temporary-building and tent camp. But of course the locals knew. So did the remnants of the Taliban terrorists that only recently had been moved out of the area in organized force. The Americans wanted the terrorists to know the Marines were there. The base was there to proclaim continued U.S. presence and prevention of the reawakening of Taliban in eastern Afghanistan.
The Afghani youths came to sell whatever goods or services to the Marines they could, and they continued coming because, in their loneliness and boredom, the Marines encouraged the visits. The young American soldiers bought a few trinkets and they dispensed cigarettes and coins and, occasionally, outdated ration packs—and, of course, smiles and a bit of chit chat. Sometimes a few men ventured outside the fence and played a form of American baseball, touch football, or soccer with the young Afghanis.
Although the young men were there constantly during daylight, not being permitted to be there when the sun was down, the Marines came out to the fence on very erratic schedules, ever aware of the possibility of terrorist attack. In fact, the major job of the twenty-nine-year-old base commander, Captain Nessel, was to be ever mindful of base protection and the possibility of terrorist attack. He took this job very seriously.
Still, this was both an isolated and danger posting, and he had his fetishes, as did a few of his men, which were accentuated under these conditions. His fetishes included a sexual attraction to eighteen-year-old youths, males becoming men in musculature but still with some of the smooth-skinned flexibility of youths and a willingness to take command. Such fetishes festered in the Afghan desert. And he was ever mindful of the possibility of serving that need, even out here in a remote region of the world.
Thus, he didn't discourage the presence of the Afghani youths at the fence line, and he often walked the line himself—searching and assessing opportunities.
One day while walking the line he stopped across the fence from a handsome, slim, dark-haired and -eyed Afghani youth who was displaying several Afghani oriental prayer rugs he wished to sell to the soldiers. Rugs from this region did, in fact, have high resell value in Europe and the United States, so they were a good buy. At the side of the young man was an ornately decorated wooden shoeshine box. Nessel stopped because the young man was quite handsome and had smiled at him in a certain way as he approached and had called out, "
Lutfan gilemhoi zeʙoi maro ʙixared, ustod
—Please buy my beautiful carpets, Master."
Captain Nessel understood enough Tajik, which was one of the major languages of the region, to know that the young man had rugs for sale. Many varieties of good-quality Afghani carpets, many types that would sell well in the States, were available here. He could see that the ones the young man had were Bukhara rugs of very good quality. Of even more interest to him, though, was the ornate wood shoe shine box inlaid with brass fittings.
Truth be told, however, of even more interest to Captain Nessel was the fine-looking Afghan youth.
It was unusual for one of the youths to be enterprising enough to offer a useful service rather than rugs and trinkets for sale. Polished boots wouldn't be a big deal out here in a remote area of Afghanistan, except that this was a Marine base. The soldiers did, in fact, spit polish their boots to a high gloss. They were judged on the shine of their combat boots.
The young man had seen that the captain seemed more interested in his shoeshine box than in the rugs. He looked down at Nessel's boots when the captain stopped in front of him and then, with a strategic pause further up, raised his face to look into Nessel's. The gesture wasn't lost on the captain. The youth's gaze had paused at the Marine officer's crotch. Nessel only stopped briefly in front of the Afghani youth that day, but he came out to the fence at nearly the same time the next day, and the young man, with his rugs and shoeshine box, was there. This time the Marine captain was carrying a swagger stick. Again he paused in front of the young man selling the rugs during his walk down the line.
The boy called out the boot shine offer, "
Lutfan gilemhoi zeʙoi maro ʙixared, ustod
" again as the captain approached and Nessel stopped in front of him again. A couple of Marines had come to the fence with him. They had open cigarette packages, and Nessel directed that individual cigarettes be given to the youths other than the one he was standing in front of through the opening between the metal links of the fence. He kept a full pack himself in his left hand. He held the swagger stick in his right and periodically flicked it against his right leg.
After a pause, he spoke to the young man. "
Ba man qolin lozim nest. Ammo ojo şumo mexohed mūzahoi maro sajqal dihed? Nomi şumo cī? Tu cand sola
?—I don't need a carpet. But do you want to polish my boots? What is your name? How old are you? Christ, I don't know if I said that right," he added.
"I speak English," the young man said, and it was, indeed, passable English. "I understood you, but we can speak in English. My name is Isaad. I am eighteen-years-old. Yes, I want to polish your . . . boots. I give very good service."
Nessel smiled at the young man's declaration that he was eighteen. He would have guessed as much. He was very pleased he was right. "Why is it you speak English?"
"My father once worked at the American embassy in Kabul," Isaad said. "My family loves America. We would do anything for America, Master." He looked up into Captain Nessel's face then, and the Marine officer saw what he wanted to see in the young man's features. Was that an accident that he had dropped a hand over his genital area?
"Perhaps tomorrow or the next day," Captain Nessel said. "Come again and maybe I and a couple of more of the soldiers here might be interested in your services."
"I give very, very good services, Master," Isaad said. "You will be very, very pleased to use me. I have a friend who can speak for me. His name is Muktar. He works in your kitchen."
"We'll see." Nessel said, giving a little smile at the mention of the local youth who he occasionally was banging—and who no doubt told this friend of his as much. He gave the young man a long look and turned to walk away, but then he turned back. "You have looked at my swagger stick a couple of times."
"Yes, Master. I have seen how you strike it against your leg. It attracts attention."
