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            Officially embedded as a journalist in the 30^th Infantry Regiment of the 10^th Mountain Division out of Fort Drum, N.Y., I ate like everybody else, but was in a privileged position to use my eyes and ears. Not having to man a weapon, read a GPS or give commands, I did nothing but observe. It was great.

            I was surprised at the speech Colonel Freddy McFaye gave to the Afghan villagers after a Predator strike went awry and killed two children. “We are sorry about the misguided drone,” he droned, sharpening a Gerber army knife on a wet stone. We had transported two sheep to the village in the back of a camo-painted pickup truck. The Colonel was preparing to slit their throats in ritual sacrifice. ”These things happen,” McFaye said, referring to the drone strike. Peering at his bloodshot eyes, I suddenly realized he might be having a bad day.

            There was something feral about the way he kept sliding the knife edge—scritch! scritch! scritch!—along the satiny surface of the wet stone. He seemed preoccupied, definitely not in the moment. Maybe sheep aren’t his thing.

            This was one fly-blown village: Traditional mud huts, stone walls, raggedy kids and turban-toting, bearded men in pajama pants and jerkins. Women in mobile tents, replete with airholes, armholes and peepholes, did the honors while the men crouched in a semi-circle and considered McFaye’s attempt to make a sacrificial offering of atonement.

            “Although a soldier, I too have children,” he declared. I was relieved to see he was back on message. “I have seen death up close and personal,” he continued, pausing after each thought so “Charlie Boy,” our young, enthusiastic translator could deliver the message in Pashto. I always felt “Charlie Boy” was too young for the job. Today didn’t help.

            I crept further into my leggings. The chill on the mountain top was making me start to hate Afghanistan.

            “The point is,” I suddenly heard McFaye’s booming voice shout as he gathered up a ewe and in one swift motion sent its soul heading toward the hereafter, “I too know what grief is about. I have grieved comrades in arms lost in combat,” he insisted, wiping the knife distractedly on his trouser leg. I winced at the glistening red blood on the camo-colored cloth.

            This wasn’t going well.

            “The point is, I know what it is to grieve,” McFaye told us. Sitting stolidly, the tribal elders looked doubtful. I wished they knew the Colonel I know, a natural  leader, concerned and compassionate about his men. Someone who exudes command presence, his troops will follow him to the far corners of any valley hellhole. He was, for the moment, however, dead on his feet after spending three solid days and nights videoteleconferencing with the Washingtonistas. They seemed determined to “educate” the Colonel on what he’d done wrong and the implications the strike will have on their poll numbers and the Fourth Estate.

            He seemed noticeably relieved to finally leave the VTC behind and come out here to make it right with the villagers.

            “McFaye is a good guy!” I wanted to shout, but held my water. He was the professional. Who was I? Joe Hollywood.

            “I once had a tin whistle,” McFaye explained. “I lost it, as a kid. I grieve for it still. Of course, that can’t compare to your children… May you be fruitful and have many more,” he said, finishing up. “Fortunately, you can replace children. A tin whistle, once lost, is lost forever.”

            I’m not sure the analogy went home with the Afghans. Maybe the imagery wasn’t something they could relate to. “Charlie Boy” may have botched the translation. The villagers accepted the second sheep, unmolested, still kicking and braying. We gathered together what little we had to carry, got back into our vehicles and roared out of there.

            Mission accomplished.

            Sort of.

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