by J. F. Holmes
Now for the most part, the kuchis left us alone. It was mostly barking; sometimes they’d creep closer and closer toward us. But that was usually it. When the dogs watched us pass by, they lost interest. However, there were a couple of times they charged, and that resulted in gunfire. Reid had tried to back away from an aggressive beast, only to have it sprint toward him. I could see the Marine step forward and make himself bigger at an attempt to scare the dog back. Instead, it snapped its jaws and kept coming. At the last second Reid fired his M16 into the hound’s skull, and it tumbled end over end to a stop.
Another time in another village there was a massive black dog that charged our point man through the thick stalks of a corn field. Again at the last moment, the Marine saw the animal and pulled the trigger of his rifle. Five rounds snapped in quick succession, and everyone tensed up. Those of us who hadn’t seen what was happening expected Taliban. When we turned to look, we saw the huge canine limping away. There was a round in two of its legs that ran bright with red blood, another round had pierced its torso, and the fur was turning wet and matted. The kuchi whimpered in pain. Our point man, feeling sorry for it, put another round into the dog’s skull, ending the pain.
Each time we killed a dog, the nearby village elders rushed to our TCP demanding payment. At first they asked for tens of thousands of dollars. In the end, I think Gunny Alvarez gave them a couple hundred bucks. With that, the elders walked away pleased.
It wasn’t much at all. Afghanistan seemed like it would be quiet and uneventful.
Evans had noticed it first, on another nature hike by a village led by elder Abdul Malik. Abdul was one of the few Afghans we genuinely liked to deal with. The man always seemed to be smiling. He’d invite us in, and I’d drink tea and have short conversations with him through our translator, Aarash. Malik spoke about how he loved Americans. A couple years ago they’d killed the Taliban that had oppressed his village. Americans bought cigarettes from him. He would make them food, and soon the Americans gave him gifts as well. To keep up with the rapport, I’d try to bring him American cigarettes like Marlboro Reds, and bottles of water or candy for his children. Malik would then have his wife make food for my Marines.
I told Malik about a Key Leader Engagement, or KLE, that was occurring at the TCP. All the local elders were invited to participate, and Gunny Alvarez would try to build rapport. Malik gave his bright smile and said he’d attend.
Just after that visit, Evans pointed out a particular kuchi. Evans simply stopped in his tracks and faced the canine. “Woah.” We all turned to look.
Once you’ve seen one Afghan dog, you’ve kind of seen them all. But this one was…different. It just seemed—dark. Its eyes were a blur of black and emptiness, of red and hate. The canine bared its teeth, which seemed more akin to a row of daggers. They looked like pure ivory, clean and polished. Its coat and fur weren’t matted or dirty, or tanned with Afghan dust. Instead, it was pristine and black as night. Four powerful legs stood tense and ready, with dark sharp claws that dug into the ground. It growled, deep and guttural, and the noise seemed to boom and carry on the wind. Just looking at it sent a chill down my spine. Had I not seen it, I never would have believed anyone’s description of the beast. But that’s what it seemed like, more beast than dog.
It kept its distance from us. We never approached it, and it didn’t approach us. We just stared at each other for a moment, unsure who was the more dangerous. I kept my eyes on the beast, then motioned for our point man to lead us further; we still had other villages to visit and patrol. We moved away, and the dog stayed there.
We were approaching the second village when we came across it again. We heard it first. The bark dominated the air, louder and deeper than any dog we’d heard before. I admit, it even made me jump. We faced the source and saw it, then realized it wasn’t the same canine. It stood, defiant and angry, on a berm across a wide canal. This dog looked identical to the first, but instead its coat was a rich and full brown. Still the same rows of dagger teeth and claws, and the same empty, hateful eyes. Just different fur. It, too, eyed us and barked until we passed.
It made me nervous. I walked with my rifle a little closer. I think we all did. It seemed crazy, how unnaturally evil these two kuchis appeared. Nobody said a thing, though I’m sure we all thought the same. I’m sure we were all just a little bit scared, but we were Marines, and nobody wanted to admit to being afraid of a dog.
We visited the last village, then made our way home to TCP 2. That’s when Petty saw a third hound. This one, however, had more of a greyed coat. This dog followed us for some time, its daggerlike teeth snarled, and its eyes glared contempt into each of us. It kept a good thirty meters away from our patrol, but it just followed. Evans noticed as we approached other properties, the other kuchis would bark at us, then at the trailing beast. The beast ignored them, didn’t even give them a sideways glance. The other dogs seemed to back away and keep their distance. We had to keep a Marine constantly watching it, his rifle ready, in case it came sprinting. After twenty minutes, it stopped and turned away.
The rest of the patrol went on without incident, and nobody spoke until we were inside the protective walls of the HESCO barriers. I slid out of my gear and couldn’t help but think of those three dogs. Another chill ran down my spine. I shook them from my mind, but still grabbed my M4 and kept it close.
Reid broke the silence first. “That was weird.”
We laughed and chuckled. I could always trust Reid to break the tension. Soon, I had the squad going about the usual post mission routine. Cleaning and readying their rifles, ensuring their gear was set, drinking and replenishing water, then relaxing. The rest of the day the squad had to themselves to eat and sleep before taking over the TCP security duties at midnight. We would then rotate with First Squad, who were then on post. The next day First would be on patrol, while my Marines stood watch.
I made my way over to see Gunny Alvarez to debrief him on the patrol. Though nothing had happened, it was still customary to do so. He and Sergeant Mason, First Squad’s leader, were in our Combat Operations Center, or COC. It was a small room inside the mud compound filled with tables and folding chairs neatly displaying a military laptop, radios, maps, chargers, munitions, and everything else needed to keep our TCP running. They were both sitting and smoking cigarettes.
“What’s the word, Lake?” Gunny Alvarez asked as I came through a small doorframe. Immediately, the platoon sergeant extended a pack of cigarettes for me and I eagerly took one. The look on my face must have been enough, because he waited patiently while I nervously lit the tobacco and took a deep inhale. On the exhale I practically fell back into the wall.
“What happened to you?” Sergeant Mason asked, his eyebrows up in curiosity. He knew something had to be up for me to act like this.
“I’m not sure you’ll believe me,” I started, then took another pull at the cigarette. “There’s some fucking wild dogs out there.”
Sergeant Mason started to lean back and wave his hand as if gesturing the idea away.
“I’m telling you, Sergeant, we ran into these three dogs. Could pass for straight demons. These things were creepy; I’ve never seen anything like them before.” Their expressions debated amongst themselves.
I peered through the doorway and locked eyes with Aarash. “Aarash, come here for a second,” I called to him. The small, thin Afghan came and entered. “Aarash, you saw those kuchis, right? You ever see anything like that before?”
Gunny Alvarez and Sergeant Mason turned their attention to Aarash, and I could see the interpreter shiver slightly. “No, man. Never. We do not have dogs like that in Kabul.” His English came out heavily accented. “This is some backwoods country shit. That was some scary shit, man.”
I motioned with my hands to the interpreter to prove my point to my two senior Marines. They still looked confused, and I described the three incidents. By the end of it, they simply leaned and said, “We’ll keep an eye out.”
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sp; I couldn’t blame them; what could they do? What was I expecting them to do? In that moment, I felt silly and ashamed. Like I’d shown myself as a coward. But I think they believed me as well; the Silver Star I’d earned proved I was a warfighter and wouldn’t scare easy.
The rest of the day passed like any other. Reid and I teamed up to play Evans and Petty in a game of Spades. As usual, Petty put money on the line, and Reid agreed. Evans and I simply rolled our eyes and played. I’ve played so many times I can’t recall if we won or lost, but I know that was the last time. Later we tore through Meals Ready to Eat and traded the foods we liked and disliked. As the sun was setting, we gathered around my laptop and watched a movie. Some of the other guys from the squad joined us, and we smoked cigarettes.
At midnight I took over the COC, and my Marines started their rotations on post. Nothing different, business as usual. The night was silent, and I couldn’t help but think about those dogs. I was certain we’d end up having to shoot one within the next few days. Or maybe Sergeant Mason’s squad would. Either way, they’d see them soon enough, and they’d know what it was I was talking about.
Without realizing it, I had my pistol in hand. The smooth contours of the M9 Beretta felt comforting. I knew I was only an average shot with the thing; Sergeant Mason could outshoot me any day, but it made me feel safe. To be perfectly frank, part of me wondered why I needed it, but Gunny Alvarez said all the squad leaders in the battalion got one. I imagined myself shooting one of those dogs with it, one coming too close and I’d draw the pistol fast like in the movies. Hopefully the magazine wouldn’t cause a notorious jam.
My rotation lasted for eight hours, long enough to wake First Squad and Sergeant Mason so they could get ready to step on their patrol. They had an easy one, just a quick hike around some of the nearby villages and back before lunch. They’d be around to help man the TCP when all the Afghans showed up for the KLE.
As morning came and went, the locals began to gather just outside our TCP. Almost all were elder men with long white or salt-and-peppered beards. They wore their traditional Afghan garb. Some wore black vests and battered dress shoes. Their faces were stoic, hard wrinkled, and strangely nervous. There were a couple younger guys, the old men’s bodyguards. They had AK47s slung behind their backs and chest rigs lazily wrapped around their bodies. I hated that. The ANP and one of our Marines approached the group, there were quick and hasty searches conducted on everyone, and the bodyguards were told to remove the magazines from their rifles. They complied, and this went along smoothly enough.
Gunny Alvarez and I met them in front of the ANP’s section of the TCP. We exchanged greetings, both Afghan and American. I offered cigarettes and water, while another ANP made tea. For the most part, I liked these KLEs. Sure, some of the demands or conversation points were ridiculous, outlandish, and strange. But I got to sit down and converse with these people. My last deployment, Reid and I watched from a security post as these were being conducted. I felt important; I could already hear the conversations I’d have with friends and family back home about this.
When we all finally sat down in a large circle, I recognized all the faces. But one was missing. Abdul Malik. I searched the faces again and only saw anxious and nervous expressions. “Malik’s not here,” I said in a quiet whisper to Gunny Alvarez. I saw the gunny’s eyes scan and come to the same conclusion. “He told me he’d come.”
“Maybe he’s late,” Gunny Alvarez said. Then he started the meeting.
Immediately, the Afghans began speaking. They seemed more organized than usual. One spoke at a time, his words spewed quickly, and the others nodded along. When he finished, another immediately began. Aarash tried to slow them down, his hands shot forward motioning for them to wait, but the elders kept going. Each one spoke more earnestly than the last.
“Aarash, what the hell are they saying?” Gunny Alvarez asked calmly. He was the pillar of professionalism, and I considered the staff non-commissioned officer a role model.
“Gunny,” Aarash spoke with a slight turn of his head to the Marine, but his eyes stayed glued to the elders. “These dudes keep asking when you will leave.”
My eyebrows furrowed and my head rocked back in confusion, I remember this because Gunny Alvarez stayed cool; he didn’t flinch or show any signs of emotion. He simply heard the words and began processing and solving. We had good rapport with the Afghans; no, we weren’t best friends, but we had working relationships. We gave them food and money and supplies. Now they wanted us out? It didn’t make sense.
“They say your job is done here. You can go. You should go. They tell us to go home. Even me, they want me to go back to Kabul,” Aarash said, his face visibly becoming more and more concerned.
I found myself hovering my hand near my pistol. I kept it tucked in the small of my back against my belt when I wasn’t wearing all my gear and holster. “Ask them where Malik is,” I said to Aarash. Gunny Alvarez’s eyes darted at me, and I remembered my rank and place, but instead of reprimanding me, he nodded his head in agreement.
Aarash spoke in Pashto.
Something was wrong; the elders didn’t speak. Their eyes darted back and forth to each other, and there was a long moment of silence. Finally, one cleared his voice and spoke. I didn’t know what was being said, but it wasn’t right. Just moments before they had spoken without pause or any equivalent to an “um,” but this guy kept tripping over his words. His wrinkled hands shook.
“Malik is sick,” Aarash said, his own face expressed his confusion.
“Why do they want us to leave?” Gunny Alvarez asked.
Pashto went left and right. We waited patiently for Aarash to translate. “They keep saying the same thing again and again. Marines should go home. Job is done. They are asking us to leave. They really want me to go back to Kabul.”
There wasn’t much more progress than that. After twenty minutes of the same thing, Gunny Alvarez offered them some more water bottles and cigarettes, then said goodbye. The elders once again nervously eyed each other, got up, and left. I didn’t wait for them to leave. I got up and went to the COC, where Sergeant Mason was waiting with a cigarette.
“That was weird,” I said, my mind still very aware of my pistol.
Sergeant Mason, who hadn’t seen any of the KLE, simply shrugged his shoulders. “Sounds like another day in Afghanaland.”
I chuckled nervously. “How’d your patrol go?”
“No weird dogs.” Sergeant Mason leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. His tone said he’d believed me, he simply hadn’t seen them. Part of me wished he had, while another part of me thought he was lucky. Just thinking about those eyes and teeth sent another chill up my spine.
Gunny Alvarez came into the COC then, and immediately lit a cigarette.
“What do you think that was about, Gunny?” I asked, reaching for my own pack of smokes.
“I think we may be looking at Taliban activity coming into the area.” Gunny leaned back against the cool mud wall and exhaled a cloud of tobacco. “The fighting in Sangin is still going pretty strong, might be enough to encourage some jihadists to start making moves down here.”
Sangin. The Marines in Third Battalion, Fifth Marines were getting into gunfights almost every day there. The casualties were mounting. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wished I was there. But the rational me was thankful I wasn’t.
“Alright you two, don’t fuck around on your patrols. Keep an eye out. Lake, I want you to head south tomorrow and investigate closer to the river,” Gunny Alvarez said and pointed to a map hanging on the wall. His finger circled around a bend in the Helmand River. “If I were going to try and get fighters in this area, it’d be here.”
“What about Malik? Shouldn’t we check him out?” I asked.
Gunny didn’t budge; his eyes stayed glued to the map. “Nah, you were there yesterday. We can’t form a pattern for the Talibs to hit us with an IED.”
“Roger that,” I said. He was right.
“COC, this is Headhunter,” I said into the handmic of my PRC-152 radio. Headhunter was the callsign the Marines had collectively decided to name our squad. I wasn’t the biggest fan, but the name stuck. “Radio check.”
“Lima Charlie, Headhunter. Happy hunting.”
With that, I motioned for Reid to get his team moving. Reid then turned and waved his arm for the point man to step. Everyone became serious and tense. Rifles were held a little higher, and eyes scanned harder.
The first hour went by quickly. I think everyone being on edge made the Marines focus more on their surroundings than the passing time. We’d made our way through fields, over canals, and through villages. Everything felt the same. The women tended to things around the compounds, some of the children were playing outside with sticks and stones, older boys worked the fields, and dogs gave the usual barks and growls we were accustomed to.
Hour two went by much slower. The heat was starting to get to everyone this time; it was hotter than usual. The sun was beating us down and draining everyone’s energy. For the most part we were used to it, but today it was much more prevalent. I gulped down one of the two water bottles I carried, crushed the plastic, then stuffed it into a cargo pocket. I saw Petty pour some of his water down his neck. I found it amusing that his wet combat top looked no different from the sweat-soaked uniforms of the other Marines.