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To: Haim R. Branisteanu who wrote (134048)	11/12/2001 1:19:41 PM
From: JHP	Respond to of 436258

MONDAY NOVEMBER 12 2001 'These aren't Afghans I am killing' BY IAN COBAIN IN SAREGH, AFGHANISTAN FOR the fourth time in as many minutes we dropped to the bottom of the narrow trench, curling up like foetuses and giggling like madmen as the growing screech above us signalled yet another incoming Taleban shell. The noise petered out and the half-dozen Northern Alliance troops huddled in the trench fell silent, then sighed as the shell thudded harmlessly into the riverbank a few hundred feet in front of us. Muhammad Ghawm and his comrades leapt out of the trench and stood astride the stony escarpment from which they had been watching the most ferocious aerial bombardment and artillery exchange they had seen in years of war. “Perozi!” Abdul screamed in Persian — Victory! — and a childlike smile of delight spread across his face. As Alliance forces swarmed over the hills and through the ravines of northern Afghanistan yesterday, galvanised by the fall of Mazar-i Sharif the day before, a savage battle was under way to wrench the Taleban from their strongholds in two mountain ranges west of the city. From the Ozom Kotel hills behind us, Russian-made 130mm fieldguns could be seen firing in pairs. Moments later the shells soared over our heads with a sinister rumble to crash into the Kalakata Ridge beyond us, where thousands of Taleban troops had dug in to fight a hopeless rearguard action. Two ageing T54 tanks trundled slowly up the side of the escarpment to join in the bombardment and fired round after round into the Taleban positions. One of their commanders, Abdul Dian, yelled above the din: “These aren’t Afghans I’m killing, they’re all Chechens and Pakistanis.” In Russian, he added: “I’m having a wonderful afternoon.” Then came the first airstrike. A B52 approached from the south and laid a stick of 500lb bombs along the top of the ridge, tearing up colossal clouds of debris. A second bomber appeared and circled languidly without dropping anything, the vapour trails from its eight engines leaving figures of eight in the clear blue sky. Next came the FA18 Hornets, too many to count, peppering the hillsides with cluster bombs, then more B52s. In a hamlet beside the escarpment, life went on: an old man prodded a donkey laden with sacks of rice; three women trotted down the street in their bright red burkas; small boys darted between the mud-walled houses, pointing at each other, shouting: “Bam, bam.” Suddenly, to our left, a Taleban armoured personnel carrier broke cover and went scurrying away across a small plateau, and a cheer went up from the Northern Alliance ranks. Two clouds of dust halfway up the ridge marked the points where the ground troops where beginning to advance. As the £20 million jets weaved back and forth across the skies, a horde of men and boys were going to war in rubber boots and rotting Soviet combat jackets, some on foot and some on horseback, with rocket-launchers mounted on the backs of rusting flat-bed lorries and ancient Kalashnikovs gripped in both hands. We advanced over land that had been pulverised by the bombers for more than a week. The 7ft-deep Taleban trenches were deserted but for scraps of clothing and the odd cooking pot. The reek of death and cordite was everywhere. The Taleban were still clinging to the top of the ridge last night and putting up a dogged resistance after being reinforced by soldiers driven out of Mazar-i Sharif, many of them Arabs, Chechens and Pakistanis, but it was a mismatched contest and every shell they fired was answered by a sustained barrage. The Northern Alliance troops began shouting and singing and clapping each other on the back. Then, as I was walking away from the gunfire to find somewhere safe to sleep, a Taleban shell exploded among a group of resting soldiers, killing one and seriously wounding three. At the cramped field hospital tent there was no electricity, few drugs, and the drip tubes hung from holes in the canvas. Amid the sobbing and the moans, Atiq Shamim, the surgeon, swatted away the flies and began operating on a man on a rickety iron bed, his only light coming from an oil lamp held aloft by a male nurse. One man had lost his right foot and all his fingers. Another had a gaping wound in his right hip. The corpse lay on a wooden table in the corner, covered in a heavy blanket. One of his friends, a boy of no more than 17, entered quietly and stood at his side. After a few seconds the boy slipped his hand under the blanket and held the dead man’s hand. Then he quickly raised his other hand and wiped his eyes, hoping that I had not seen his tears. Copyright 2001 Times Newspapers Ltd. This service is provided on Times Newspapers' standard terms and conditions. To inquire about a licence to reproduce material from The Times, visit the Syndication website.

To: Haim R. Branisteanu who wrote (134048)	11/12/2001 4:41:22 PM
From: RocketMan	Respond to of 436258

Remember this story? Hijackers came from U.S.-friendly Arab states By MATT KELLEY Associated Press Writer WASHINGTON – Most came from Saudi Arabia or the United Arab Emirates, two of the Arab countries most friendly to the United States. They said they were pilots, or airplane mechanics, or students, or tourists. Many claimed to work for Saudi Arabian Airlines, a government air carrier. multimedia.belointeractive.com