Reading Abdul Salam Zaeef: My Life with the Taliban:

In the early 1980s the ISI began to run a special weapons training programme for the mujahedeen. The new weapons, so we were promised, would allow us to destroy Russian tanks and shoot their helicopters out of the sky. Mullah Mohammad Sadiq chose me along with several other mujahedeen to take part in the training programme. We went to Sayyaf’s office in Quetta where Commander Abdullah, the head of the office and responsible for south-eastern Afghanistan, introduced us to Pakistani officials.
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Pakistan was very different from Afghanistan. In Kandahar, at the fronts and in the midst of battle it was hardly important which faction you were with; the mujahedeen would support each other no matter what. Among the different Taliban and semi-Taliban fronts people were especially known for cooperating as equals and brothers. It was only later in the jihad that factional and tribal disputes erupted; Mullah Naqibullah and Sarkateb Atta Mohammad frequently fought with each other, for example. Across the border, though, the factional politics were everything.
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The course had a theoretical component that was held in a classroom, and a practical one that took place with the actual weapons to hand. The theory introduced basic weapons handling and maintenance, the different parts and problems of target calculation, range and impact. We would study from 7 a.m. to 12 noon. In the afternoon I would read or review the day’s lessons. The theory section lasted for ten days before we actually got to handle the weapons.
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The entire area was barren; there were no houses or gardens, only some barracks that looked like a military outpost. Some five kilometres away in the mountains to the north we could see a white object shaped like a square. There were BM41s, BM12s and a few rockets on the ground outside the barracks. The Pakistani instructors were sitting on a bench in front of the building. We were ordered to stand in a line and the instructors explained that we were going to use the weapons in practice. This, they said, would be our first chance to actually fire the new weapons that would help us to destroy the Russian helicopters and tanks.

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A man was standing by the road. He told us that the Russians had come through earlier with tanks and transporters. They took the same route as you are planning to take, he said. There might be an ambush ahead.
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I remember feeling dizzy as I knelt next to the water; it was like I was dreaming. Only two days before, twenty-three of Hajji Babai’s fighters had been martyred in a Russian ambush here. I stood up and after a few steps two PK19 tracer bullets whizzed through the air close to my ear. There was another burst of gunfire. Nazar Mohammand and Mir Hamza were hit and fell to the ground. Another PK bullet pierced my torso at the waistline. The Russians fired Roshanandaz and RPGs; grenades and bombs exploded all around us; smoke and dust filled the air. For a second it felt as if doomsday had come upon us.
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I was brought back to Pakistan. Seven or eight days had passed since I had left.