East is East. Afghanistan, WTF?

[fightingquaker13]

I got in a bit of a debate on "The true face of Islam" thread. That led me to wonder what, if anything, would constitute victory in Afghanistan. I quoted a poem from Rudyard Kipling written in the 1890s when Britian was in the process of getting its ass kicked by the Afghans and Pashtun tribesmen in Pakistan. I won't offer an argument. Instead, I will simply submit a 110 year old poem without comment, ask you to read it, and look forward to your replies. The questions are these though. What do we hope to accomplish? Can We we do it? And is it worth the life of a single Marine? And to quote Rudyard (again written better than 110 years ago). Quote: But if he be passed the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then, 
For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal’s men. 
There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, 
And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen.”         20
Thanks
FQ13

  The Ballad of East and West
  
Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936)

OH, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,  
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat;  
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,  
When two strong men stand face to face, tho’ they come from the ends of the earth!  
 Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border side,         5
And he has lifted the Colonel’s mare that is the Colonel’s pride:  
He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day,  
And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away.  
Then up and spoke the Colonel’s son that led a troop of the Guides:  
“Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?”         10
Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar,  
“If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are.  
At dusk he harries the Abazai—at dawn he is into Bonair,  
But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare,  
So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly,         15
By the favor of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai,  
But if he be passed the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then,  
For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal’s men.  
There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,  
And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen.”         20
The Colonel’s son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he,  
With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell, and the head of the gallows-tree.  
The Colonel’s son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat—  
Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat.  
He ’s up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly,         25
Till he was aware of his father’s mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai,  
Till he was aware of his father’s mare with Kamal upon her back,  
And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack.  
He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide.  
“Ye shoot like a soldier,” Kamal said. “Show now if ye can ride.”         30
It ’s up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dust-devils go,  
The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.  
The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above,  
But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove.  
There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,         35
And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho’ never a man was seen.  
They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn,  
The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn.  
The dun he fell at a water-course—in a woful heap fell he,  
And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.         40
He has knocked the pistol out of his hand—small room was there to strive,  
“’T was only by favor of mine,” quoth he, “ye rode so long alive:  
There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,  
But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.  
If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,         45
The little jackals that flee so fast, were feasting all in a row:  
If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,  
The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly.”  
Lightly answered the Colonel’s son:—“Do good to bird and beast,  
But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast.         50
If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away,  
Belike the price of a jackal’s meal were more than a thief could pay.  
They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain,  
The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain.  
But if thou thinkest the price be fair,—thy brethren wait to sup,         55
The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn,—howl, dog, and call them up!  
And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack,  
Give me my father’s mare again, and I ’ll fight my own way back!”  
Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet.  
“No talk shall be of dogs,” said he, “when wolf and gray wolf meet.         60
May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath;  
What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?”  
Lightly answered the Colonel’s son: “I hold by the blood of my clan:  
Take up the mare for my father’s gift—by God, she has carried a man!”  
The red mare ran to the Colonel’s son, and nuzzled against his breast,         65
“We be two strong men,” said Kamal then, “but she loveth the younger best.  
So she shall go with a lifter’s dower, my turquoise-studded rein,  
My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain.”  
The Colonel’s son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end,  
“Ye have taken the one from a foe,” said he; “will ye take the mate from a friend?”         70
“A gift for a gift,” said Kamal straight; “a limb for the risk of a limb.  
Thy father has sent his son to me, I ’ll send my son to him!”  
With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest—  
He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest.  
“Now here is thy master,” Kamal said, “who leads a troop of the Guides,         75
And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides.  
Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed,  
Thy life is his—thy fate it is to guard him with thy head.  
So thou must eat the White Queen’s meat, and all her foes are thine,  
And thou must harry thy father’s hold for the peace of the border-line.         80
And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power—  
Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur.”  
  
They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault,  
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt:  
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod,         85
On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God.  
The Colonel’s son he rides the mare and Kamal’s boy the dun,  
And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one.  
And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear—  
There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer.         90
“Ha’ done! ha’ done!” said the Colonel’s son. “Put up the steel at your sides!  
Last night ye had struck at a Border thief—to-night ’t is a man of the Guides!”  
  
Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the two shall meet,  
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat;  
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,         95
When two strong men stand face to face, tho’ they come from the ends of the earth.  
  
 

 
CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD
 
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[BAC]

WARNING: Obscure reference to follow.


I thought by the title you were going to be singing a Thompson Twins song for us.

[red364]

WARNING: Obscure reference to follow.


I thought by the title you were going to be singing a Thompson Twins song for us.

Pardon me,  you're eclecticism is showing......   

[BAC]

Pardon me,  you're eclecticism is showing......    

They played at my school back in my college days.  Re-flex opened for them, but about 2 songs in they cleared the auditorium due to a bomb threat.  After what seemed like several hours they let us back in.  Re-flex never did get to finish their set.  Apparently somebody reaaaaalllllly didn't want to hear "The Politics of Dancing."  

Anyway, we got to see the Thompson Twins, it was good, yada, yada, yada.

[fightingquaker13]

Damn! And I thought I could drift a thread. Afghanistan? Ayone? Bueller? Bueller?
FQ13

[Sponsor]

[BAC]

Damn! And I thought I could drift a thread. Afghanistan? Ayone? Bueller? Bueller?
FQ13

I'd much rather talk about my favorite '80s bands.  Is "Tim" not one of the best albums ever?   

[PegLeg45]

Gunga Din was better.

[tombogan03884]

Tom to the rescue  !
I will get your thread back on course  
As to RK's poetry I prefer these 2

The Widow At Windsor
 
     'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor
With a hairy gold crown
on 'er 'ead?
She 'as ships on the foam -- she 'as millions at 'ome,
An' she pays us poor beggars in red.
(Ow, poor beggars in red!)
There's 'er nick on the cavalry 'orses,
There's 'er mark on the medical stores --
An' 'er troopers you'll find with a fair wind be'ind
That takes us to various wars.
(Poor beggars! -- barbarious wars!)
Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor,
An' 'ere's to the stores an' the guns,
The men an' the 'orses what makes up the forces
O' Missis Victorier's sons.
(Poor beggars! Victorier's sons!)

Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor,
For 'alf o' Creation she owns:
We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame,
An' we've salted it down with our bones.
(Poor beggars! -- it's blue with our bones!)
Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow,
Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop,
For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown
When the Widow at Windsor says "Stop"!
(Poor beggars! -- we're sent to say "Stop"!)
Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow,
From the Pole to the Tropics it runs --
To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file,
An' open in form with the guns.
(Poor beggars! -- it's always they guns!)

We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor,
It's safest to let 'er alone:
For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the land
Wherever the bugles are blown.
(Poor beggars! -- an' don't we get blown!)
Take 'old o' the Wings o' the Mornin',
An' flop round the earth till you're dead;
But you won't get away from the tune that they play
To the bloomin' old rag over'ead.
(Poor beggars! -- it's 'ot over'ead!)
Then 'ere's to the sons o' the Widow,
Wherever, 'owever they roam.
'Ere's all they desire, an' if they require
A speedy return to their 'ome.
(Poor beggars! -- they'll never see 'ome!)

Rudyard Kipling


The Young British Soldier
 
     When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier ~OF~ the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You ~must~ wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier ~of~ the Queen!

Rudyard Kipling

As for your questions, We have no real clue what we are doing in Afghanistan beyond some fuzzy idea of "spreading Democracy". With out a clear purpose there is no possible way we can achieve goals that we have not even defined yet.
To rephrase that, Because our government can not face the worlds harsher realities. ( sometimes the whole purpose of diplomatic violence is simply to smash stuff and kill people as a method of showing that messing with you is a bad idea, For example, the seizure by US Marines of the Korean forts at Wanson in 1863, or the British "Punitive expedition" to Afghanistan that Kiplings poems were inspired by )   under the guise of bringing a failed form of "mob rule" to a culture that has never submitted to ANY central government, we have placed ourselves into a conflict that we have no way of wining and can't find a way out of.
The only sensible thing to do is pull out now, here are my reasons :
Bush's stated goals in 2001 were the killing and capture of as many AQ members as possible, "getting" Bin Laden, and removing the Taliban from power.
The number of AQ operatives reduces this to the level of special Ops and Police actions against individuals, such as the Brits used in Ulster.
The Taliban are no longer the government. Becuase the "Taliban" are in fact the "Tribal Militia" of the Pashtun tribe the only way to "eliminate them" would be to exterminate 1/3 the populations of both Afghanistan and Pakistan.
A new government has been in power for several years now and seems to have achieved some level of stability, it is beyond time for us to let Afghans reach Afghan solutions, (usually involving pay offs and killings    )
Our Government seems to think they are dealing with the Brit or French Parliaments, when they are in fact dealing with the Mafia, or MS - 13. No matter how long we stay eventually Karzia will have to make a deal with the Taliban to include them in the Gov. and an Amnesty for participants, and us leaving any way.
What will follow will be an under ground settling of accounts that will see some reaching great wealth all of a sudden and others reaching room temperature even quicker. then they will return to their traditional level of low scale civil war.

[bulldog75]

FQ the only way to stop them is to kill them. They refuse to get along with others.

I was that which others failed to be. I went were others feared to go. I did what others failed to do. I asked nothing of those that gave nothing and I accepted the thought of eternal lonliness though I should fail. I accepted all of these for you. At least I am proud of what I was a soldier. Unknown.

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat. Theodore Roosevelt

[fightingquaker13]

FQ the only way to stop them is to kill them. They refuse to get along with others.

I was that which others failed to be. I went were others feared to go. I did what others failed to do. I asked nothing of those that gave nothing and I accepted the thought of eternal lonliness though I should fail. I accepted all of these for you. At least I am proud of what I was a soldier. Unknown.

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat. Theodore Roosevelt

I 100% agree bulldog. Here's the thing, why are asking them to do this and BTW, what exactly are we asking them to do? I know you never liked BO and I am liking him less by the day, but I hope you agree with me here. One of the first meetings he had with the joint chiefs he asked what  the objective was, what was the benchmark for victory where we could start drawing down? The answer was several versions of "Its never been spelled out precisely what the exact nature of the end game is sir". If it had been me, I would have been tempted to start shooting people. We all know why we went there. What I, Obama, the GOP, and the Pentagon don't seem to know is why we're still there and what we want to accomplish more than what we have already (which is chasing out Bin Laden and his one eyed landlord, Mullah Omar, to quote Maureen Dowd). As far as a punitive expedition, we've done a bang up job. If we want a strong central government in that country that remotely reflects our values? Well.......I Just don't think we should waste our finest on a fools errand and unless and until someone gives me a good answer to what "victory" over there is, I really don't want send another soldier to die.
FQ13