Charlie Wilson did not, as the eponymous movie would have it,
singlehandedly force the U.S. government to aid the Afghan Mujaheddin
in killing Commies and liberating their country from the Soviet grip.
Ronald Reagan and Bill Casey, and a large handful of congressmen and
senators, dedicated staffers, and a few good people in the
national-security apparatus all had a hand. But Wilson did pull strings
and push buttons, at the right time, and make important things happen,
while imbuing the cause with raffish Texan charm. And, most important,
he pushed back hard against the permanent bureaucracy at the CIA that
had chosen the wrong guys to back, and the wrong way to back them.
I only met Charlie Wilson once. It was the late fall of 1988, and he
had come for a small event at a camp near the Khyber Pass. This was
shortly before the Soviets were to leave Afghanistan, and the small,
far from impartial expat press corps was unhappy that the USG had not
provided appropriate arms to the Mujaheddin, who were going to have to
conduct a more regular, less guerilla-like effort shortly. Wilson had
been pushing to give them that weapon — the Oerlikon field cannon — for
years.
So, there was a ceremony for him. A couple of hundred
Muj were assembled, including party leaders who wished to honor a man
they knew was their benefactor. Pakistani ISI minders were there to
monitor things. The consul general was there to report back what the
rogue congressman might say. There was a speech. But what I recall most
vividly is what happened when Wilson’s girlfriend, a Miss Texas, got
out of the bulletproof Toyota Pajero. Miss Texas towered above the
average Afghan refugee. She had long, light-colored hair, and she was
wearing a snug pink angora sweater, which showed her curves to
devastating effect, there in the land of the burqa. Local American
officials rolled their eyes. Journalists snickered. And then a
“security situation” ensued as a wave of repressed Afghan men surged
forward to touch this American goddess. Wilson was amused.
When things calmed down, he got up to speak. He promised the assembled
Muj the anti-aircraft guns they needed, to thunderous shouts of
“Zindebad [long live] America!” “Zindebad Charlie Wilson.”
The guns didn’t arrive any time soon.
Charlie Wilson was one man, who, for complicated reasons, fell in love
with the Afghans, and devoted himself to forcing spineless American
bureaucrats to take a stand in the final battle of the Cold War. He
made a real difference. But, ultimately, he couldn’t beat the cautious
Agency men who were happy with half measures. And that is why we are
back in Afghanistan now.