Photograph courtesy of Lt. Rajiv Srinivasan Lt. Rajiv Srinivasan works with Afghan National Army officers to build his outpost in Kandahar in October 2009.

ZHARI, Afghanistan — My eyes broke through the dried crust between my lashes. I was freezing, curled in the fetal position on my cot with an Army-issue sleeping bag wrapped around my body. I didn’t know where I was. I had never woken up here before. I tried to gain a sense of my surroundings using only my peripheral vision.

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The room was dark and damp. I looked at the indigo light on my digital watch. 0608. Where was I? …

“Gah!” I shuddered like a little girl as a fat drop of arctic water fell on my face from the leaking roof. It was enough to purge me from any further attempt at sleep, and an ample reminder that, “Oh yeah…I live with the Afghan National Army now.”

The Afghan Army’s Combat Operating Post (COP) is about the size of a football field. Large puddles of stagnant water cover the dirt terrain of Kandahar Province. On each corner of the complex there are guard towers riddled with shrapnel and spotted with machine-gun fire from previous fighting seasons. On the north and west flanks of the compound are empty dirt fields encompassed within separate barriers. It was October 2009, and these fields were where our unit would soon make our home.

I’ve never built a room before, much less been responsible for building a whole outpost. The only thing I’ve really ever built in my life was a few bookshelves for my Eagle Scout project back in high school … and even then, I didn’t do most of the work.

The good news was that I had a first sergeant with some seven-odd deployments under his belt and a strong vision for the COP.

“Task one when you’re building any COP…it’s not food, ’cause we have M.R.E.’s,” he said. “It’s not water, we can bring that in. And it’s not showers, we’ve got our baby wipes. We are lucky to fall in on a COP with sufficient barriers and outside protection. Right now, task one: gravel.”

Yep, it all starts with gravel. Who would have thought that tiny rocks could do so much for your quality of life on a COP?

It begins with the rainy season. A thick layer of gravel over the ground keeps the mud at bay when it starts to rain. It prevents water from stagnating, preventing future problems with mosquitoes, and thus disease, come summertime.

Gravel keeps the dirt from flying all over the place on windy days, allowing for a relatively clean maintenance environment for our vehicles. Perhaps most importantly, when it comes to helicopter landing zones, rotor wash can form huge blinding sandstorms and throw lighter stones at one’s head at fatal speeds. I think I’ve already had enough of that for one year.

Task One is clearly gravel, but to get there, you need to go through Task Zero: connecting with a trustworthy and reliable Afghan provider.

I decided to start with Capt. Nasrollah. I approached the parlor where I had met with him the other day.

“Asalaamu Aleikum,” I said with a cordial left hand placed on my chest; a sign of welcome both in the Arab world and in Afghanistan.

“Ahh! Al-Hindustani!…The Indian!” the captain replied back. He was sitting comfortably with the battalion executive officer, the signal officer and a few of their soldiers lounging beside him. None of them budged.

“So, are you all from the same part of Afghanistan?” I asked a general question to the group, doing my best to change the topic.

“No. We are all from different parts,” replied Lt. Hasan. “I am from Khost, but I went to university in Kandahar.” His actually being a college graduate explained why his Urdu was so perfect. He clearly had studied in college. “Maj. Akhbar is from Ghazni,” said Lieutenant Hasan, pointing to the executive officer.

Major Akhbar, well over six feet tall, was technically in command of the battalion, as the actual commander was visiting his higher headquarters in Kandahar City. His angled mustache and constant five o’clock shadow gave him the appearance of a mama grizzly waiting to pounce.

“Captains Nasrollah, Kalay, and Lieutenant Aleem…well, they are from ‘out of town,’ ” smirked Lieutenant Hasan. Each of those officers stared deep into my eyes with sadistic grins to see if I could understand their implication: they were all former officers in the Mujahedeen.

Photograph courtesy of Rajiv Srinivasan Lt. Aleem sits for a meal with Lieutenant Srinivasan

“Ah…that’s…that’s amazing!” I stuttered. Part of me was a little cautious.

This wasn’t about respect anymore. It was about trust. I could watch their eyes retelling my every move and word since I set foot on this post. They had been sizing me up this entire time.

I felt like a lamb surrounded by a herd of wolves, teasing me by keeping their fangs at bay.

And then I remembered. Captain Kalay and I had already had our introductions. He still thought I was a spy. It was good to know that I had found the source of their speculation.

I felt a soothing moment of relief that quickly ended as Lieutenant Aleem suddenly reached into his holster, pulled out a 9-millimeter pistol and pointed it at my head.

“Bang, bang!” he shouted, laughing hysterically as he lowered the weapon. I looked around to find only blank stares from the other Afghan officers around me. Lieutenant Aleem grabbed the weapon by the receiver and handed it to me. I took the pistol and instinctively cleared it. It wasn’t loaded.

“You know this weapon? It is Desert Eagle. Very famous. You must know it.”

I was too busy trying to pick my stomach out from my intestines. I took deep breaths.

“Did that guy just pull a gun on me?” I asked myself.

I smiled. “Yes, of course I know Desert Eagle,” I replied, showing as little hesitation as possible.

If I was going to earn the respect and trust of these men, I had to stand tough, regardless of their ridiculous protocols. These men were each 30 to 40 years old and had spent the better parts of their lives fighting Soviet and Taliban armies from their land. At age 23, I had barely fought off the chicken pox.

I could feel myself regressing into a childish state as I continued to endure this overwhelming and intimidating debacle.

“Wait a minute, Rajiv,” I began to give myself a mental pep talk. “I am the one with the American flag on my shoulder. Your C.O. isn’t here. You’re the only American officer on this post. This is my house. I own this place!” I needed to grow up and act like it.

Lieutenant Aleem’s silver Desert Eagle pistol still rested in my hands. I gripped the receiver and began to hand it back to him.

“Lieutenant Aleem, I’m excited to be working with you and the A.N.A. here,” I said, as he reached out for his weapon. But I tightened my grip, forcing him to pause “…but if you ever point a weapon at any American’s head again, we’re going to have some serious problems.”

My eyes remained fixed in a dead stare with his. I let go.

“But it wasn’t loaded!” Aleem smiled, trying to laugh it off.

The burly executive officer, Major Akhbar, yelled at Aleem in Pashto and followed it with a harsh slap on his head. I waited patiently for them to finish.

“Lieutenant Rajiv,” Lieutenant Aleem sighed, “I am sorry. I will be more careful next time.”

“Mah Mushkilla!” I smiled, “No problem!”

“No problem!” yelled out Captain Nasrollah, ecstatic that he could now participate in the conversation with his one complete English phrase. We all laughed.

“Lieutenant Rajiv, I can tell you are good person,” Major Akhbar said. “India is strong friend of Afghanistan. Anything you need, my men and I will help you.”

“Thank you, sir,” I replied kindly, “Now that you mention it, I’m in need of a grader and some gravel.”

Rajiv Srinivasan, of Roanoke, Va., is a lieutenant in the United States Army. He served 12 months as a Stryker platoon leader in Afghanistan’s Kandahar Province and returned to the United States earlier this year. His previous posts on At War can be seen here.

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