The village was the epitome of utter, heart breaking sadness, sitting on  a small hill, not far from the Pakistani border. This was Paktia Province, Afghanistan, and the villagers were hardened, survivors of constant warfare, brigandry and just plain, good-old fashioned poverty. When the patrol, slowly made their  way into, the village, the tribal elders, battle-scarred, swarthy skinned, Pathans, with henna-dyed beards, Khyber knives tucked into their waist-bands, rifles slung over their shoulders came out to greet the Americans and share tea and  nan-bread with them just as their grandfathers and great-grand fathers did, when the British fought here back in the 1880s and 1919.

Robert, who was sitting in the open turret of the lead vehicle, immediately began taking pictures.A Staff-sergeant with a penchant for history, Robert was in his element, having recently read a book about Alexander's campaigns in what is now, Afghanistan, 2000 years. It was while, he was photographing a tribal elder chatting with an officer, that his eyes fell on her, Tall, beautiful, with skin that was light brown, green eyes that burned with the fierceness and grim, determination of a Pathan woman. Though, she had a scarf covering her hair, Robert could tell, she had raven, black hair, and her saffron coloured 'Panjabbi' , which was the usual, knee length dress and trouser ensemble worn by the women, made her stand out, from the other women. Robert, fell in love and his driver,a freckled-faced, female, soldier, from Georgia, quietly told him, that the woman was part of  a U.N. medical team, working in the province.

Robert,had to work fast, since the patrol was just saying overnight before moving onto the next village. Pulling, a stained, Pashto- English dictionary, from the cargo-pocket of his, equally, oil-stained, filthy battle-dress trousers,Robert, slowly made his way towards the woman, who was tending the needs of a small, child, covered with sores. Sensing, his presence,the woman half-turned and spoke in Dari, to a male, U.N. worker standing nearby.The man, dressed in jeans, a khaki shirt and sandals, spoke arrogantly to Robert and said that the woman, was busy. Robert countered in Dari and pretty much told the man to "F-off".The man, who was from the U.S. embassy,grew upset and walked towards the first American officer, he could find to file a complaint.The  woman laughed lightly, and in broken English, asked Robert, his name. Barely able to speak, Dari, a nervous, and very excited, Staff-sergeant, thumbed through his dictionary, struggling to find the correct response, until the woman pointed at the name-tape on his kevlar vest. She pronounced his last name, in a sweet, sing-song voice touched with the slight  hint of an English accent.

Robert correctly guessed that she may have stayed in England for a while before coming back to her country as a United Nations worker. She continued working on the child and, Robert, suddenly remembered, that he was a certified Combat Life Saver or CLS as they were known and hurriedly made his way back to the MRAP to recover his medic bag. Planting it on the table, he opened up the olive drab back-pack and began taking out bandages and anti-bacterial creme. The woman, winked her eye at Robert, who found himself unable to speak. His driver, walked over and chatted with the woman in fluent Dari and gave Robert the thumbs up.

Not knowing what his freckled-faced, driver had said, Robert again attempted to communicate with the woman, who gently touched him on his hand and whispered her name to him. Some of the tribal elders saw that and showed their displeasure, by displaying angry scowls, and muttering obscenities. Robert, looked at one of them and began caressing the M-4 rifle, that was painted in a sand-coloured tone, driving home, a veiled threat.    

It was full moon that night and the patrol and laagered the vehicles in a defensive circle at the edge of the town. Robert was sitting on the roof of the house being used by the U.N. workers, pulling security with two of his soldiers and an Afghan soldier attached to them. In the distance, they could hear the crump, of mortar rounds, detonating as Taliban fighters engaged an outpost near the Pakistani border. It was a lovely night indeed, and the moonlight so bright, that there was no problem reading a book. She slid quietly next to him and shared a chocolate bar with him. It was a Cadbury bar, and Robert hadn't had one of those since he was child living abroad in Trinidad. No word was spoken as they stared at the sky and at each other, smiling and yet feeling a sense of apprehension. Robert, pictured her being abducted by the Taliban and stoned to death or being burned alive, while she pictured him being vaporized by an IED on some dirt road. After a few hours of practice, Robert finally told the woman his name in somewhat, passable Dari.

"I know."She replied in English, "Ýour friend told me, but it sounds better coming from you." 

Robert was stunned and didn't know what else to say except continue devouring the chocolate bar. Under the moonlight, giggling quietly, they both practiced phrases from Robert's battered, dictionary and then silently, as she appeared at his side, she departed. Vehicle engines were being idled which meant it was time to get ready for another day of patrolling. Robert took his spot in the turret, double checking, the 240B machine-gun and his M-4 carbine. His driver and the vehicle-commander went over their maps, the  assistant gunner took a hurried piss at the side of the MRAP.As they drove out of the village, his driver, casually mentioned to Robert over his headset, check to check his email when they got to the patrol base.He didn't think much of it, until that night, as he sat in the dimly lit MWR tent, checking his e-mail on his laptop. It was a quick note from Sabia, (for that was her name), which was  written in English: "Love has no borders."