But once again, the U.S. military chain of command had other plans.
CHAPTER 13
JIM’S VOICE SOUNDED TENSE over the satellite phone line from the U.S. base in Jalalabad. I got up from my desk in the noisy fifth-floor newsroom of the Washington Post and walked to an empty conference room where I could speak privately. It was September 2010, less than a month after Jim’s euphoric reunion with Noor Afzhal.
“I just got word that the battlespace owner is opposed to sending a team to live with the tribe in Mangwel. It turns out the conventional Army guys now get to decide where Special Forces teams operate,” he said.
In Afghanistan, the U.S. military had one chain of command for Special Operations Forces—the elite troops such as Green Berets and Navy SEALs—and another for conventional forces such as Army and Marine Corps infantry units. The conventional force commanders were the “battlespace owners,” they controlled the ground. Afghanistan was divided and subdivided into geographical sectors known as “battlespace,” and commanders at different levels approved where military units were assigned and how they operated within those sectors. They tended to be very territorial.
“The battlespace owners want to send us up north to a place called Marawara,” Jim went on.
“Marawara was where the 101st Airborne took heavy casualties this summer,” I said as I paced back and forth across the room. Soldiers from the 101st Airborne Division had fought for several days in June 2010 to secure the Marawara valley, one of the most contested parts of Konar Province. But when they left two weeks later the valley quickly fell back into insurgent hands.
“Launching this in Marawara would be a disaster,” Jim said. “The population there is divided between several different tribes. The insurgents are hunkered down and intimidating the people. The local leaders won’t even meet with us without preconditions, such as demanding they be given heavy weapons and vehicles. We would have to fight our way in.” Marawara stood in sharp contrast to Mangwel in Khas Kunar District, where the Mohmand tribe was relatively unified and anti-Taliban, and a degree of trust existed because of Jim’s prior ties with the village.
“Starting in Marawara makes no sense,” I agreed. “It risks short-circuiting the whole effort. That can’t happen.”
We knew there was only one option. Jim would have to somehow persuade his higher-ups to change their minds. I would help. I believed in his mission, and I didn’t want to see it or him put at greater risk by some ill-founded command decision.
In the four months since Jim had deployed, we had talked almost every day about his work with the tribes. I supported him however I could. I acted as a sounding board, brainstormed ideas, and helped articulate his recommendations in several assessments, including the first one that he sent in August directly to Petraeus, Central Command chief Gen. Mattis, and Special Operations Command head Adm. Olson. I couldn’t help but imagine, reading their responses, how shocked they would be if they learned of my behind-the-scenes role.
That role would quickly expand in September, when Jim and I decided that the time was right for me to make my first foray to join him in Afghanistan. Ever since the start of our relationship, when Jim spoke of bringing me to meet Noor Afzhal and his tribe, we had looked forward excitedly to this moment. We both knew instinctively that it was what we wanted, and the decision to execute was an easy one. Neither of us was a stranger to the war zone and its risks—we knew them all too well. The challenge was one of overcoming bureaucratic obstacles and restrictions that kept us apart given my status as a reporter and his as a Special Forces officer. I pressed for weeks to get official permission to report on Jim and other Special Forces personnel working on the local security initiative, but I was told there was a blackout on such coverage. However, I was able to gain approval for book-related interviews with U.S. military units located at the same bases in Bagram and eastern Afghanistan where Jim was working. For my initial trip—a reconnaissance of sorts—I decided to take a relatively brief, three-week leave from the Washington Post.
On a sunny afternoon in mid-September, I landed at the main U.S. military base in Bagram, Afghanistan, to carry out a series of officially sanctioned book interviews. Little did I know that I would also gain some critical intelligence for Jim.
A Marine lieutenant working for Jim picked me up at Bagram Air Field in a pickup truck and drove me straight through an internal gate to the Special Forces area known as Camp Montrond. Jim was there waiting. As soon as I stepped out of the truck, he gave me a big hug and picked me up off my feet. He was in uniform and we didn’t want to draw too much attention, so we walked side by side to his room.
“This is kind of awkward, isn’t it?” he said, flashing me a smile as we tried to appear casual while soldiers walked by saluting him.
Jim was in Bagram putting together a detailed tribal strategy for eastern Afghanistan. In coming days, I helped him pore over documents to map out the key tribal areas. We also spent hours crafting official memos laying out the argument for Khas Kunar versus Marawara.
Jim briefed the Khas Kunar plan and won support from his Special Operations commanders—including Bolduc, head of the CJSOTF-A, and Lt. Col. Donald Lovelace, commander of the Special Operations Task Force–East (SOTF-E), which oversaw Special Operations Forces in eastern Afghanistan.
But opposition persisted from the battlespace owner, Col. Andrew Poppas, who had to approve the plan. Poppas was commander of the 101st Airborne brigade responsible for Konar and other eastern provinces. Like many other conventional commanders, Poppas tended to be fixated on areas of enemy concentration. A large influx of fighters had flowed into Marawara and other parts of Konar Province from Pakistan as insurgents stepped up attacks in the east. Poppas believed the enemy grip on Marawara was threatening Konar’s capital, Asadabad.
I wanted to see the area for myself. On a cloudless morning in early October, I flew by helicopter to a small U.S. base in Konar where the battalion that fought in Marawara was stationed. Surrounded by steep mountains, Forward Operating Base Joyce was regularly hit by insurgent fire from recoilless rifles and other weapons. From there, I joined the battalion commander, Lt. Col. Joel Vowell, as he and his men patrolled on foot through the Taliban-held Dewagal valley as part of an operation to rescue a kidnapped British aid worker, Linda Norgrove.
“We didn’t expect the volume and intensity of the fighting,” Vowell told me as we stepped along a rocky streambed. There had been a 200 to 300 percent increase in attacks in his area compared with the previous year, Vowell said. He often felt his battalion was stretched too thin. “I’m out of Schlitz everywhere on combat power,” Vowell said. “God help us if we hit an IED or are attacked.” Both Vowell and Poppas were determined to keep up the pressure in what they considered a decisive area. So when they learned they would be gaining a Special Forces team, they wanted to send it to Marawara as a combat force.
Jim was more focused on identifying friends than foes. His strategy was based on local people inviting U.S. teams into an area, where they would build relationships, establish security, and expand outward from there. Given the tremendous weight of personal relationships in Afghan culture, Jim’s history with the Mohmand tribe was a huge advantage. Yet Poppas didn’t seem to grasp that, and repeatedly asked Jim why he wanted to work with the tribe in the same area where he had operated in 2003.
As the tug-of-war intensified over where Jim and the team would go, I unexpectedly got a front-row seat as I interviewed more American officers. One day Brig. Gen. Stephen Townsend, the deputy U.S. commander for eastern Afghanistan, took me on a daylong trip to see military operations around the region. On one stop, our helicopter landed at the U.S. base in Jalalabad, where Poppas had his headquarters. Townsend brought me into a briefing in Poppas’s office. Right off the bat, Poppas, who knew nothing about our relationship, started talking with Townsend about Jim.
“Jim Gant wants us to put a Special Forces team here, in Khas Kunar,” Poppas told Townsend, pointing out on a large map the district
where Mangwel was located.
I suddenly felt as if I were a listening device planted in the room. I kept quiet and zeroed in on every word Poppas said.
“He’s passionate about what he does. And I respect that,” Poppas said. “But Khas Kunar has less enemy activity. It’s not where I need that extra force right now.”
Townsend nodded.
“Where do you want to put the team?” Townsend asked.
“I need them here, in Marawara, at the District Center,” he said. “This is one of our biggest trouble spots, where we slugged it out in June. We have to keep up the pressure, and get some Afghan forces in place,” he said.
“Done,” Townsend said. “Marawara it will be.”
This is bad, I thought.
But then Poppas spoke again. “It’s not quite that simple,” he said. “The Special Operations folks are saying that if they can’t choose where the team goes, they won’t send it to Konar at all. They may be bluffing, but if it comes down to that, I don’t want to lose the team altogether,” Poppas said.
“Understood,” Townsend replied. “I’ll work on it for you at my level.”
Thank God, I thought. Poppas had unwittingly just revealed his bottom line.
We left the meeting, and as soon as I could I called Jim in Bagram to pass on the intelligence.
“You won’t believe this,” I said, relaying the conversation I’d just overheard. “You need to tell Lovelace and Bolduc to stick to their guns and tell Poppas they will withhold the team unless it goes to Mangwel in Khas Kunar. If they do that, Poppas is going to give in. He wants a team no matter where it goes.”
“Damn, Ann—that’s great news,” Jim said. “I’ll go brief Bolduc now.” I finished my interviews and headed back to Washington.
Soon afterward, the conflict between the two chains of command was finally resolved in a meeting between two senior U.S. generals, Brig. Gen. Miller and Maj. Gen. Campbell, commander of the 101st Airborne Division. Energetic and affable, Campbell was the senior battlespace owner for all of eastern Afghanistan. As Jim’s former battalion commander he valued Jim’s expertise. The team would go to Khas Kunar.
By late October, Jim was back in Mangwel, laying the groundwork for the local security force. He was working with a Special Forces team from National Guard’s 20th Special Forces Group, led by Capt. Geoff Burns. Burns based his team, Operational Detachment Alpha 2312, four miles down the road from Mangwel at Combat Outpost (COP) Penich. Penich was located at the foot of a mountain that allowed insurgents to target it easily with mortars and rockets. Insurgents had infiltrated the Afghan Border Police unit that manned a checkpoint near the top of the mountain overlooking Penich, and the police helped direct attacks on the outpost. It was a glaring but not unusual example of the corruption of Afghanistan’s national army and police forces, and underscored why Jim and many other American officers did not trust them. Indeed, some of the heaviest resistance to the plan to recruit local tribesmen to protect their villages came from national police officials. They argued that the weapons, funding, and training should go to their own force instead. Burns helped lobby provincial and local Afghan officials to support the plan, and negotiated how many men would be hired from Mangwel and surrounding villages.
Then one night in November, a Chinook helicopter flew into the base at Penich carrying the first shipment of guns for the tribal force, formally called Afghan Local Police: three hundred AK-47s, twelve hundred magazines, and about fifty thousand rounds of ammunition. Jim was ecstatic. He knew one could never underestimate the importance of guns and money to the tribesmen. Not only was the modern rifle the ultimate symbol of prestige to them, it was akin to life itself. Since the proliferation of arms factories in Pashtun tribal regions in the late 1800s, crude rifles emerged as a decisive factor in the tribes’ prosecution of raids and blood feuds that were vital to their self-preservation. Jim invited Noor Afzhal to view the weaponry, leading him by the hand to a shipping container and opening a wooden crate full of Kalashnikovs. If Jim’s loyalty and friendship had paved the way for his return to Mangwel, the delivery of the guns sealed it for the tribe.
Later that month, Jim and Burns arranged a meeting with Afghan district and provincial officials and a large group of tribal elders to formalize the plan. Miller also attended the meeting, called a “validation shura.” Understanding the tribal elders’ inherent mistrust of the government, Jim gathered them first outside in the courtyard. Squatting with them in a circle, he told jokes to set them at ease and then reassured them that they would choose and oversee the local men armed under the program. Just then, Miller walked through the courtyard. At first he didn’t recognize Jim, mistaking him for a tribesman. He walked through again and did a double take.
“Jim?” he asked, lifting his eyebrows in surprise.
“Hey, sir, how are you?” Jim responded, standing up.
Miller smiled and walked back into the building.
A few days later, Jim was in Jalalabad when an email popped into his inbox, subject line: “Kudos.”
“Great job,” Miller wrote. Jim had earned a degree of trust and respect from Miller, who better appreciated the talents that came along with Jim’s outspokenness. To Jim, who operated so often in the gray, outside conventional military bounds, support from his chain of command was critical.
In December, Burns and his men started training the first groups of Afghan Local Police for Khas Kunar. Soon afterward, Jim was given the go-ahead to move into Mangwel with his own small team. But far from the handpicked group of Green Berets that Adm. Olson had asked Jim to muster two years before, Jim was assigned a hodgepodge group of soldiers from a Kansas-based infantry battalion who were completely unprepared for the mission. It would be the biggest leadership challenge he’d ever faced.
CHAPTER 14
IN TEN YEARS OF covering the Pentagon beat, I’d met hundreds of military officers. Many were talented, brave, and smart, but none seemed as single-mindedly driven by the love of his men as Jim. In the winter of 2011, as he prepared to lead a new team, I wondered what gave Jim that quality. Bits and pieces he’d shared with me from his past came to mind, like the sepia family photos and scrapbook clippings about his high school basketball career.
One story was especially heartrending. As a young boy of about four, he liked to play in the dirt lot and irrigation ditch across the street from the duplex where he lived in Las Cruces, New Mexico. But his father, James Karl Gant, told him not to, saying he could be hit by a car crossing the road. Gant, a school teacher and principal, strictly disciplined his only child, whom he called by his middle name, Kirk. One day Gant arrived home and caught his son playing with a toy car in the empty lot. He walked over, picked him up, and carried him back across the street to the side of the duplex. Then Gant went back to the dirt lot. “Kirk, come here,” he said. But as soon as the boy went to him, Gant grabbed him and beat him. “I told you never to cross the street again!” he yelled, and took him back to the other side. Then Gant returned to the lot. “Hey, buddy, I am over here now. It is okay, you can come over,” he coaxed. Jim went to his father. His father beat him again, even worse, dragging him through the dirt. Then he carried him back across the street. “Okay, Kirk,” he said. “It’s all right. I’m your dad. I wanted to teach you a lesson. You can come back. You can trust me,” he said. By then the boy was sobbing, but he did what his father asked. Gant, frighteningly calm, struck him again, and took him back. At last, his father stood on the other side and for about ten minutes begged the boy to come to him. The boy stared at him, tears streaming down his face, but didn’t move.
Jim told me that as a child he never felt his father loved or even liked him. His father wanted him above all to be tough, psychologically and emotionally, and made him earn everything he ever got. He was also ultracompetitive. He never once allowed Jim to beat him in any games, not basketball, not marbles, not even checkers. “He never said ‘Good job.’ He never said ‘You are getting better.’ He never really
said ‘I love you.’ ”
Years later, after Jim left home and went to war, he and his father mended their relationship and became extremely close. At the most critical points of his adult life, he said, his father was there for him. Once his father even traveled all the way to Afghanistan for two weeks to spend time with Jim and meet Noor Afzhal. His father admitted he’d made mistakes, and Jim gave his father more credit than anyone for helping make him the man he is. I had to agree.
When Jim was in elementary school, his father goaded him to fight other children. “Don’t come home if you lose a fight,” he’d say. One night his father and some friends got drunk and forced their sons to scrap with one another. After a few rounds, Jim had pinned an older boy on the ground, clearly defeating him. But his father urged him to keep hitting the bloodied youth. When Jim refused, his father grabbed him and mocked him.
Then one summer day when Jim was twelve, his father approached him as he shot baskets in the driveway of their one-story, blond-brick house in Hobbs, New Mexico. “Son, take care of your mother,” he said. Then he hugged him, said goodbye, and drove away. Jim sat outside on the sidewalk by his front door for three or four hours, holding his basketball and crying.
For the next year after his parents split, he watched his mother, Judy, barely able to get out of bed. She broke down sobbing every day. For five years she didn’t celebrate Christmas or other holidays. She blamed herself for not standing up to her husband. Then, finally, she got better. Seeing his mother slowly pull herself out of deep depression was Jim’s first real lesson in courage. “I saw my mom push through the kill zone, wounded, and continue to fight,” he told me. Jim and his mother were baptized together. He grew fascinated with the Bible, read it several times through, and tried to live by its teachings. For more than a decade, he did. “I didn’t smoke, I didn’t drink, I didn’t use bad language. I tried very hard to be a good Christian.”
American Spartan Page 15