Daud watched nervously as the choppers descended from out of the dawn sky, their giant blades thrumming ominously as they dropped closer to the ground, kicking up dust and beating back the green shoots of wheat now oscillating wildly before him. He turned sharply and made a quick retreat back into
his house, bolting the door behind him. Then, peering out from the corner of a window, he watched as the first pair of camel colored combat boots hit the floor, soon followed by numerous others, and prayed to Allah that he would be left alone. Moments later, there came a loud, insistent knock at the door. The men, he assumed were Americans strangers, the people he'd been warned not to co
operate with. They were joined at the door by a more familiar face, who put the stranger's short, insistent words into Pashtu so that he could understand their demands. But Daoud was finding it hard to concentrate, too distracted by the service rifles in their hands. Just a few weeks ago, men not unlike these killed a ten year old boy in Daoud's village. Just another of the tens of thousands of Afghan civilians that would fall victim to a war
of which they had no control. Caught in the cross fire between Taliban insurgents and the invading US and British forces, while Daoud in his own home did his best not to seem guilty of anything. The interpreter explained that the soldiers wanted to use his home for the next few weeks, adding that they would pay good money for it, but Daoud couldn't possibly agree. If word got out to the Taliban that he'd taken money from Americans, the consequences would
not be worth thinking about. Captain john Way's son sighed and looked about at his men, who were growing evermore skittish, stood out in the open, each passing second bringing them closer to the possibility of death. He and his men were Marines, members of the second Battalion, eighth Regiment, newly arrived in the region after spending two months acclimatizing at Camp leather Neck, the Marines primary base in Helmand Province
in South Afghanistan. The unit formed a handful of the four thousand new troops sent into Helmand as part of Operation Kanjar. The latest roll of the Dice in the US government's efforts to neutralize the Taliban's grip on the region. It was July twenty oh nine, and with all things going to plan, the war would be all but over soon. Daoud's village, Shades, was one of many similar sized rural communities clustered around the Helmand River in the Gamsa district
of Helmand. Although surrounded on all sides by endless miles of desert, here the land was rich and green, quite different to how many of the Marines had imagined Afghanistan to look. To some, it reminded them of the verdant countryside that surrounded their training base in North Carolina, though they were under no illusions of just how far from
home they really were. Out of the twenty most dangerous districts of Afghanistan, according to the US military, nine were located in Helmand Province, being as it was a vital asset for the Taliban on account of the vast, sprawling poppy fields that also mind the banks of the Helmond River.
The fields, which they cultivated for opium to help fund their operations, had flourished thanks to an extensive canal and irrigation system that had been constructed back in the nineteen fifties and sixties, largely with the help of significant US
government investment. The system had even been partially designed by the company Morrison Knudson, perhaps better known for building the Hoover Dam and the San Francisco Bay Bridge, just one of the many ironies that characterized this most messy of wars.
The attempt to commandeer Daoud's home was part of a new tactic to go from village to village, setting up out posts and establishing a visible presence throughout the region to try and root out any Taliban strongholds while simultaneously engaging with the local population in the hope of winning their support. For those like Daou, it is a fraught existence, struck between the harsh authority of the Taliban and the
ambiguous motives of the invading forces. For those like Captain's Son and his men, it is just the beginning of what must seem an impossible task, the first of many they will face together in the next seven months of their deployment. On this occasion, it ends with Daoud being forced to give up his home for at least the next two weeks. After local elders convince him to hand over his property. Daoud has barely finished loading the last of his possessions onto a cart when the Marines move in.
He doesn't take the money, telling them instead to make it known that he had no choice in the matter, and in many ways he didn't. Not far from Shades, another unit from the second and eighth are undertaking their
first patrol outside the wire. Among them is twenty year old Lance Corporal Charles Seth Sharp, Hailing from the town of Adairsville in northwestern Georgia, Sharp had been motivated to join the Marines, partly in an effort to bring structure and focus to his life and to make his family proud, but mostly by a desire to fight for those who
couldn't fight for themselves. While stationed in a rack the year before, Sharp made a strange request to his family, asking them to send him coloring books and crayons for Christmas. As he explained to his bemused parents, he wanted to give them to all the kids he'd met throughout his
time there. Only a few days before heading out on patrol, Sharp had written a letter to his grandmother telling her that he was about to take part in a mission that his grand children would learn about in history class, but Sharp would never live to have grandchildren. That morning, on his first patrol, his unit came under attack, and he was shot in the neck by an unseen shooter and died soon after, becoming the first US casualty of
Operation Khanjar. For many in the second Battalion and eighth Regiment, the time spent in Camp leather Neck had been a frustrating one. All cooped up together under one giant tent nicknamed the Circus Tent. Having trained for months building themselves up for action, the last thing they wanted was to be sitting around kicking their heels in the desert. Sharp's death was a harsh wake up call to the reality of combat and a brutal reminder of the true nature
of the battle they were engaged in. The Taliban were not a simple enemy to be routed and crushed through sheer might and will. There were no military compounds to storm or governments to overthrow. Theirs was a much longer game, characterized by stealth than surprise. Their presence felt not by
what you did see, but what you didn't. A movement in the tree line up ahead, or the improvised explosive device buried six inches under the ground and primed to kill, And even when they did finally make their presence known, they could just as quickly disappear, like phantoms, back into the landscape, each member often indistinguishable to the Marines from the many other people whose land they now stalked. As one Taliban commander was often fond of saying, the Americans
might have the watches, but they had the time. Of all the conflicts in recent years, it is little wonder that from out of this one tales of ghosts would emerge. You're listening to Unexplained and I'm Richard McClean smith. If you're an entrepreneur or independent professional, now it's the time to accelerate ahead of all your competitors, and I want to help you do just that. I got together with Proton, an app based all in one tool for small businesses,
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On the orders of their sergeant, the eight men, comprising a unit from Golf Company, second Battalion, eighth regiment jumped into the waiting armored trucks and sat anxiously as the gate was opened. Moments later, they were out beyond the perimeter wall, huddled together with the nervous energy of the recently deployed, the prospect of hitting an ied and ever constant in their minds. For some, this was little more
than routine. For others, like twenty two year old Lance Corporal Adam Wilson, this was their first assignment beyond the wire. Wilson looked out through the truck's dusty window at the alien landscape beyond, a mix of scrub and wheat fields, a far cry from his home city of Xenia, Ohio, while up above, a compatriot tended the truck's single machine gun,
surveying the horizon for any signs of a threat. Thank fleet, with only a few hundred meters to travel, it wasn't long before they arrived at their destination, the trucks skidding to a stop beside what looked like little more than a huge pile of mud. After quickly vacating the vehicle, the men took a moment to survey the place they would be calling home for the next sixty days, a small outpost set up about twenty meters high on the top of a strange dirt hill designated Observation Point Rock,
or simply the Rock. Being the highest point for some considerable distance, the rock was an obvious place to put an observation post from which any incoming enemies could be spotted long before they had time to reach the patrol base. Despite its relative closeness to the base, the facilities were basic at best, with no electricity, running water, or even beds to sleep in. As such, it was necessary to maintain a steady rotation of personnel to occupy the post.
Feeling thoroughly exposed and with the heat already beginning to rise, the Marines quickly made their way to the shelter of the compound above, where they were greeted by its outgoing occupiers, a group of Welsh guards from the British Army. Lance Corporal Wilson couldn't help contrasting the fresh faces of his fellow Marines with this tired, despondent group of men hastily
packing their bags, evidently in a hurry to vacate the place. Meanwhile, Corporal Jacob Lna, the units second in command, made his way along one of the few shallow trenches that had been carved out of the mound and surveyed the scene. The post was centered around a single machine gun that poked out of a small hutch on the west side of the hill. Some old magazines were littered about the place, while the remnants of a small homemade jim could just
be glimpsed from underneath some camouflage netting. Just then, Lina was startled by the bark of a dog, which revealed itself moments later, eager to meet the new arrivals. As one of the British soldiers explained, it was a local stray that adopted. Calling it ugly Betty, Lina promised to
look after it for them. Ordinarily, this would be the point at which the previous group took a moment to go over a few details about the local landscape, sniper spots to look out for, or any individuals they might want to be suspicious of, but the Welsh guards offered no such courtesy, preferring simply to clear out as quickly as possible. There was one piece of advice, however, that they were willing to impart should the men dig any it might be best to put it back where they
found it. The Marines soon made themselves busy settling into their new home as they quickly got down to the business of determining sentry shifts and figuring out the most comfortable places to get some sleep. With temperatures routinely hitting close to forty degrees celsius, finding ways to stay in
the shade would also be vital. As the last of that first day's light ebbed away and the hazy, pink and bluish hues of dusk descend it, the men could be thankful to have made it through the day without incident. That evening, Corporal Lena took first watch at the machine gun, gazing out at the complicated mix of homes, fields and fir trees dotted before him, the shadows growing longer and longer before dissolving momentarily, only to later re emerge under
the gentle light of the moon. Not far to the south, Lina could just make out the old, rusted shells of two Soviet era tanks half buried in the earth, remnants of a past both distant yet inextricably linked to Lena's own presence. Thirty years later and only a few hundred meters away. The tanks were as alien to this landscape as Lina was, each of them brought here by the same winds that had left so many unwitting people sprawling
in its wake. Lina scanned back across the fields, almost willing for something to happen, doing his best to stop his mind from wandering. It was always difficult being on watch in such places of isolation, trying to tow the line between staying alert to any possible threat while simultaneously trying your hardest not to allow the ability of such a threat to overwhelm you. Lena was just eyeing the lip of a nearby ditch when a burst of static blared out of the outpost's radio, causing him to jump,
catching himself. Lena turned to face it, anticipating an imminent communication from the patrol base. Then the radio crackled again, a muffled voice just about audible swimming around in the thick of it. Lena grabbed the device and fiddled with the controls, switching it back to the required frequency. He called up the bass and asked them to repeat the message, but the voice at the other end was confused. They
hadn't sent a message. Lena looked again at the radio, then apologized for wasting the bass operator's time and turned back to the gun. Moments later, the radio crackled into life again, and once again Lena heard that strange muffled voice. Listening closer, he soon realized it wasn't speaking in English, it was speaking Russian. Perhaps the radio was picking up someone else's transmissions, he thought, giving the radio a thump.
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attention soon turned to fortifying their position. Most pressing of all was the fact that, with the exception of a few well placed sandbags, nowhere offered significant safety from most potential lines of enemy fire. Though some trenches had been dug in and around to compound, none were deep enough to bring you lower than the parapet without crouching, And so it was one morning that Corporal Lena and Lance Corporal Wilson along with one other compatriot, began the arduous
task of rectifying the situation. The clatter of shovels scraping dirt rang out through the camp as the men battled against the rock hard ground and the ever rising temperatures. As Wilson paused for some water, Lena dug his shovel in once more, only for it to clang against something buried a few inches under the surface. Lena threw down his shovel and pulled a thin, tangled strip of metal from the ground. Then he blew off the dirt and
held it up to the light. It was hard to tell what it was exactly, an old piece of shrapnel, most likely, suggested Wilson. Lena nodded in agreement as he tried to read some strange markings that had been etched onto the side of it. It looked like syrillic. He thought back to that strange radio transmission from the night before, but thought better of telling Wilson about it lest he
sound like he was going crazy. Half an hour later, with the men having hardly made a dent in the trench, Wilson slammed his shovel into the ground, unearthing a small sunken space about two feet wide beyond it. Spotting something within it, Wilson reached inside and pulled it out, then recoiled in horror. It was unmistakably the leg bone of a human. Wilson's colleague grabbed it from him and goofed around with it, but neither Wilson or Lena saw the
funny side. Remembering suddenly those final words the British had said to them, if you dig anything up, you should probably make sure to bury it, Lena grabbed the bone and put it back where Wilson had found it, having got back to the task at hand. Moments later, Wilson found another fragment of bone. Then Lena did too. In fact, the more they digged, the more bones they uncovered. It soon became clear why the previous occupants had preferred not
to dig any deeper. They were camped on a graveyard. As news of the gruesome discovery made its way through the group, it was hard not to be a little unsettled by it. Even in the height of war, such things rarely fail to make the skin crawl. Perhaps it was all the talk of the bones, or perhaps it was the strange remoteness of the location and the unending cycle of boredom that comes with occupying such a post. Either way, something of the place was beginning to seep
into the men. Two weeks later, Corporal Austin Hoyte celebrated his twentieth birthday. That night, it was his turn to take machine gun duty. Growing up on a farm back in the States, he was used to the quiet and had thought nothing of being stationed out at the rock for sixty days. But back home the quiet was something to be cherished and revered. Here it was only ever a vacuum for the worst thoughts to infiltrate. It was a quiet that spoke not of wistful hopes and dreams,
but only of things lying in wait. When suddenly the quiet was broken by horrifics, Hoyt scrambled for his night vision binoculars and scoured the perimeter fencing below, assuming someone had been caught in the razor wire, But the fencing was completely empty and untouched. Luring the binoculars to the ground, Hoyt gasped at the sight of a large humanoid shadow darting out across a nearby field. Moments later, it was gone. Just then, Wilson and Lena burst into the machine gun post,
clutching their M four rifles. They'd heard the scream two. With no choice but to head out and investigate, the three of them cautiously made their way to the perimeter fencing and stepped out beyond the wire. But after a thorough scout of the surrounding area, the men found nothing. After only four weeks. Lance Corporal Zolnick can't quite put his finger on it, but it's clear that something in
the mood of the men has shifted. Taking machine gun watch that night, as all the stars of the desert emerged one by one from out of the sky, he soon finds his mind wandering to thoughts of family and loved ones back home. Phoning home is a rare event at the best of times for military personnel, but being stationed out here, it will be months before he is
able to speak to any of them again. For many service personnel posted all over the world far from home, especially with so many being barely out of their teens and in young relationships and marriages, it can be all too easy to let the separation eat you up, and equally so for those left back at home, whether in loving relationships or deteriorating ones. Not knowing if they might ever speak to their parts or relatives again, many preferred not to call home at all to avoid the pain
of hearing their loved one's voices. Others are reluctant to make any promises of future calls, just in case they are unable to fulfill it. Zolnick took a swig of water to perk himself up, and slapped away at another giant moth that was buzzing about his head, when suddenly he felt the unmistakable sensation of a cold breeze across his face, followed by what sounded like a voice whispering to him from out of the darkness. Zolnick spun round,
looking about. Who's there, he said, but there was no reply. It was only then that he noticed just how cold the air had suddenly become, and then the whispering voice came again. Zolnick jumped, God, damn it, that isn't funny, he said, still looking about. Then the sound of footsteps approached, crunching in the dirt outside. Zolnick froze at the sound of them as they drew near, then moved up to the top of the mound above the machine gun post.
Assuming with relief that one of his colleagues had finally come to join him, Zolnick grabbed his m fore and ran out of the hutch. Hoyt, is that you, he said, as he looked up to the top of the mound,
but no one was there. Doing his best to suppress the rising fear, Zolnik ran back inside and pointed his gun toward the stretch of land at the base of the mound and hurriedly scanned it back and forth through his thermal scope, when suddenly he spotted the white thermal outline of a figure standing about a hundred yards from the outpost. Moments later, Lance Corporal Hoyt arrived to relieve Zolnik of his duty, finding him clearly rattled by something.
That someone there, insisted Zolnick, but when he looked again, the figure was gone. Hoyt took a look through his own scope and then through the night vision binoculars, but saw nothing. I guess they're gone now, said Hoyt, before patting Zolnick on the shoulder and telling him to get some sleep. Is there something interfering with your happiness or preventing you from achieving your goals. Better help will assess your needs and match you with your own licensed professional therapist.
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slash unexplained that's better help dot com. Forward slash Unexplained joined the over one million people taking charge of their mental health with the help of an experienced professional. Better Help wants you to start living a happier life today. Over the next few days, Zolnick seemed unable to shift something from his mind. With his condition rapidly deteriorating, the
sergeant made the decision to have him transferred out. As one day bled into the next, the men on the rock seemed to become more and more unten that from the stritches of life on Patrol Base Hassanabad. Beards were left unshaven as some of the men took to sitting about shirtless in the oppressive desert heat. It was sometime around thirty days into their posting that Corporal Lena was back on night watch at the machine gun, with ugly
Betty sat by his side to keep him company. It had just passed one thirty am when Betty sat up suddenly and began barking furiously into the night. Lena grabbed the night vision binoculars and scanned the fields below. As Betty's barks grew louder and more insistent, Lena caught sight of a figure dressed in pera Hanno tumban about two hundred meters away, standing completely still, that appeared to be
staring directly at him. Lena grabbed hurriedly for his thermal scope to pinpoint the figure's position, but when he looked again, the figure had gone, taking the night vision binoculars again, he gasped at the sight of the same person, now standing a hundred meters closer on the verge of firing a warning shot. Lina grabbed his m for and looked down the thermal scope to find the figure again, but
once more they had completely vanished. In a panic, Lina was just about to alert the others when he felt the heavy tap of fingers on his shoulders. The sergeant's signaled to let him know that he is standing behind him. With a sigh of relief, Lina spun around, only to find that he was completely alone. In horror, he grabbed once more for the night vision binoculars and hurriedly scanned the surrounding area as Betty continued to bark, But once
again Lena found nothing. Despite his fears that he'll be judged but best unfit for duty and at worst insane, After forty days of strange, inexplicable experiences, Corporal Lena finally decides to confide in his colleagues, telling Wilson and Hoyt about everything that had been going on. Having expected them to poke fun at him, it is with some surprise when both of them revealed that they too, had been
experiencing ghostly, inexplicable events. Then Hoyt thought back to the night that Zolnick had seemed so spooked right before he decided to transfer out. Clearly it had been happening to him to the men agreed to keep it between themselves for the time being, eager to see out the remainder of their posting and get back to the main base. Through it all, they could be grateful for making it through scathed, with or without the mysterious goings on. On their last night at the post, it fell to Lance
Corporal Wilson to tend the machine gun. Sat up there alone in the cool night air, Wilson repeat it over and over to himself that it was just one more night, and by tomorrow it would all be over. No more whispering voices, no more ghostly figures glimpsed out of the corner of his eyes. When suddenly all hell broke loose. Wilson barely had time to react as the cacophonous sound
of machine gun fire rang out all around him. Stumbling back into the hutch, he was joined almost immediately by Corporal Lena, yelling for him to tell him where the fire was. Coming from, but Wilson didn't know it all happened so fast. Then an almighty woosh went up into the air, the sound of a rocket propelled grenade being launched close by. Lena shouted for Wilson to get down, and together they braced for impact, and then nothing, only the silence of the desert save for the melancholic ring
of a distant cowbell. Wilson and Lena staggered to their feet, utterly confused, and stared out into the night. After sixty days, Corporal Jacob Lena, Lance Corporal Adam Wilson, and Lance Corporal Austin Hoyt returned to patrol Base as Sanabad and rejoined the rest of their compatriots from second Battalion, eighth Marine Regiment.
All three of them returned home alive. Others, however, who'd spent time with them on the rock, were not so lucky, leaving Lena to wander that perhaps it was their uncovering of things in the earth there that had placed a curse on them In many ways. However, the men had been cursed a long time before they ever made it to Observation Point Rock, caught up in an unwinnable war, their valiant efforts forever fated to be beaten back against
a complex tide of history and circumstance. By the time the reports of the strange goings on at the Rock were first published in a twenty oh nine Times article written by Tom Coglan, the rumors were old news among many of the troops that had the misfortune to come by it, and over time a picture began to emerge
of oblique and haunting history. One local scholar suggested that the hill had once been an ancient fort built some time in the eighteenth century, under which a series of tunnels had been constructed, before later becoming a sacred shrine
to many of the local communities. At some point in the nineteen eighties, it is thought to be occupied by soldiers from the Soviet Union, who fought a long and bitter battle alongside the People's Democratic Party of Afghanistan, the ruling power at the time, against a number of militia
groups intent on overthrowing them. Some claim that early in the conflict, Nasim A Kunzada, the fearsome commander of one such militia group, captured the rock along with the soldiers occupying it, and had them more beheaded on the spot than later buried where they fell. Others have suggested they were in fact members of the Afghan Police Force in time, helped with funding from the United States government, who, like the Soviet Union, were keen to be the dominant influence
over the area. The Soviet Union and the PDPA were eventually defeated by the militia forces. By then, however, those forces had merged into a fragile coalition, often lumped together under the term Mujahadeen. It is from this group of people, in one way or another, that Osama Bin Laden Al Qaeda, and ultimately the Taliban would emerge, and well, you know
the rest. In the Soviet Afghan War of nineteen seventy nine to nineteen eighty nine, it is estimated that around fifteen thousand Soviet soldiers were killed, with anywhere between half a million to two million Afghans also thought to have been killed. Since two thousand and one, war in Afghanistan has claimed the lives of roughly two hundred and fifty thousand people, among them four hundred and fifty seven UK Armed Forces personnel and two thousand, three hundred and seventy
two US military personnel. An estimated seventy one thousand Afghan and Pakistani civilians are also thought to have lost their lives as a direct result of the war. If you enjoy Unexplained and would like to help supporters, you can now do so via Patreon. To receive access to add three episodes. Just go to patron dot com Forward Slash Unexplained Pod to sign up. Unexplained, the book and audiobook, featuring ten stories that have never before been covered on
the show, is now available to buy worldwide. You can purchase through Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Waterstones, among other bookstores. All elements of Unexplained, including the show's music, are produced by me Richard McClain smith. Please subscribe and rate the show wherever you listen to podcasts, and feel free to get in touch with any thoughts or ideas regarding the stories you've heard on the show. Perhaps you have an
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