by alex seymour
Many of the children could never be regarded as optimally healthy. I was shocked at how many children were boss-eyed and cross-eyed. The custom was that villagers marry within their tribes and wider family. Inbreeding was obviously rife, the poverty endemic. Some children had open running sores on their faces and limbs, and they seemed completely unfazed by the writhing mass of flies that covered the sores. I gave a young girl a boiled sweet, and she smiled in thanks, and a few of the young marines with me recoiled, wincing as a black trail of assorted insects marched out in a neat line from her nostril.
One day an old man approached, and Gabby, our interpreter (terp), relayed his request: “When you get shot at, could you please try to show some restraint with your guns?”
The last time there had been a firefight nearby, three villagers had been killed. He understood, he said, that we needed to defend ourselves but begged us to not use grenades and antitank weapons when we were attacked and especially not when we had to breach the doors of houses in which suspects may be hiding. Gabby tried to reassure him that the level of our response would be appropriate to contain the threat and keep us alive.
The old man went on. If we knocked on doors with the intent of entering their compounds to make arrests of suspected insurgents, or to search for weapons and bomb-making material, to please give them plenty of time to hide their womenfolk. It was extremely important, he explained, that the women be completely out of sight of male strangers; if they weren’t then this would bring tremendous shame upon them—both the men and the women. It brought home a sad truth. This kind of patriarchal dominance really does exist. In our culture—in the businesses, schools, governments of Western societies—what would happen if women were not allowed to leave their homes unless accompanied by men? Society would grind to a halt. Gabby said he was tempted to condescendingly respond: “Sir, perhaps you might reconsider this ancient belief that your culture has imposed upon you. Does it really serve your community well?” Fantasy, of course. He relayed his real response, “Of course, sir. We’ll comply with your request.”
Our interpreters, native Afghanis, were worth their weight in gold. Most of them were well educated and lived in the fort with us. They accompanied us on every patrol, a vital linchpin between us and the communities for which we were providing security. Their job was not only difficult but dangerous. They faced vicious reprisals for helping us from those who felt they were at best collaborators and at worst traitors. Their identities were kept secret, because if the Taliban commanders discovered their real identities, they were murdered.
Speaking through our terp Gabby, an elderly man told us how grateful he was that we had come to protect his community. He understood, he said, that all the men in our patrol had flown thousands of miles and left their families behind to come here to protect his own family and village. His words turned out to be the only kind words I ever heard from the local Afghans.
It’s not like soldiers or marines expect to be thanked. Such thanks, if they were expressed to anyone, were most likely directed toward Yoda, our sergeant. He ran the shuras at our fort. Shuras were weekly meetings held with the local village elders to discuss security matters. Often, friendly farmers would bring us information of insurgent intimidation, although we couldn’t accept that intel at face value. Many of the locals lied about Taliban activity in the hopes of cashing in, believing we’d pay cash incentives for providing intelligence. We never paid for information. But that didn’t stop them from trying. We began to recognize the worst offenders and turned them away before they could even begin to plead their case. But good information was crucial, and the shuras were a place to get it.
In addition to running the shuras, Yoda had full responsibility for the day-to-day running of the fort. He was entrusted with the welfare of all of the marines. He had one of the hardest, most stressful jobs in the world. Aged thirty, with a killer intellect, he had to do everything the younger marines did physically, but he also had to plan and lead our day-to-day operations, both within the fort and outside it. He was responsible for enforcing standards and discipline—not easy, always walking a tightrope. I didn’t envy him in the slightest. We felt lucky to have him. He’d completed tours previously in Afghanistan and Iraq. This was his third on the front line, and from the beginning I knew he was extremely capable and intelligent. If he wanted to, Yoda could have done almost anything in any profession. He was extremely quick witted and had an excellent knowledge of how the corps operated. I was happy for him to lead. I’d already made the decision many months before to park my ego and let more experienced men take charge. For too long my civilian job had wrought stress of a different kind. I was here to help protect the local population from insurgents, watch the backs of the marines in my team. Simple . . .
6
Opium Blues
T wo weeks in to our tour, we had our first KIA (killed in action). I was in the sangar and heard a formidable explosion to the east. An IED had exploded and struck a patrol from L Company—my original old company. A young marine lost both his legs, and although the medics tried their best to save him, he bled out on the chopper back to Bastion.
One of the men, on his third tour, married with four kids, said, “I came into this world kicking and screaming, covered in blood and guts, and that’s exactly how I’m gonna leave it.” Clearly, I wasn’t the only one who, prior to getting here, had seriously contemplated the likelihood of dying here. If you do, the stress diminishes massively.
As we walked out for the morning patrol the next day, I was last man out. As he closed the main gate behind me, Taff—one of the older guys, exceptionally diligent and altruistic—said, “Be careful out there today.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some of the blokes went back to where the IED killed the marine from L Company yesterday. When they got there, they found body parts strung up in the trees by the Taliban to taunt us, hung out like trophies. Remind the lads that if they do find pieces of anyone’s body lying around, don’t touch them—they’ll be booby-trapped. It’s how those paras got killed a few months ago. Same kind of evil.”
“You serious?”
“Deadly.”
“Jesus fucking wept.”
The gate closed behind us, and I was on the wrong side of it. If you’re not completely paranoid, then you’re not contributing to the team. Paranoia is a virtue here, especially on night patrols. Many nights, usually between the hours of 1 and 4 a.m., we’d stake out the compound of a suspected Taliban commander. We’d patrol up almost silently, then use night vision optics to get as near to the target as possible in the pitch-black darkness. We’d used the same tactics in Northern Ireland. Once we had eyes on the target, we took turns rotating the surveillance equipment, keeping watch for nefarious activity. The slightest sound would set dogs barking, so the rules for survival and success were no light, no noise, and, once we were in position, no movement. After several hours, satisfied that all the right intelligence was fed back, we’d extract silently and patrol back to Zamrod.
One time, in total darkness, we crept around the wall of a compound and had gone to ground to take a two-minute breather. A villager came out and crapped in the stream outside his house. He had no idea that he had eight sets of eyes boring into him less than fifteen feet away.
Everyone was suspect. Guys would train their red-dot laser sights on the backs of oblivious local men who came within a few meters of our lay-up point until they were satisfied that the men weren’t Taliban out laying IEDs under the cover of darkness. They were usually just innocent workers padding home after irrigating their fields.
Daytime patrols were no easier. After an arduous seven-hour patrol in 115°F heat—I had been carrying the heaviest ECM kit and by three in the afternoon had drunk seven liters of water in an effort to stay hydrated—a local told us that the previous night the Taliban had planted a bomb on Two Hundred Street, a heavily populated street less than three hundred meters from our fort. We positively ID’d the device, a
t least ten kilograms of explosives planted specifically to target 43 Bravo. Yoda called in the EOD (bomb disposal) team, and they detonated it safely, causing a huge explosion. It was an eerie feeling knowing that your personal daily movements were being closely tracked and a concerted effort had been made to try to kill you. No one else from our unit came around here. That bomb was specifically set to target me and my friends.
The root cause behind the IEDs and sniper fire was deadly beliefs. People on both sides of the conflict were dying as a consequence of these beliefs. The same night of the KIA, while on sangar duty, I was given a lecture by a devout Muslim. Gabby was visiting his family for a few weeks, and so another terp was filling in. I hadn’t yet learned the new guy’s name, and I knew he didn’t know mine, but now here we were sharing the sangar tower. He knew he had me cornered. Unprompted, he launched into a speech, with complete sincerity and an attitude I can only call devout, about the truth and superiority of Islam, claiming that most of the innovative technology that millions of people around the world enjoy had first been written about in the Koran, back in the seventh century. Islam, thus, had incredible foresight, which was yet another reason why Islam was, in his words, the “one true religion.” With wide-eyed earnestness he suggested that I seriously consider becoming a devout Muslim—right away, today even. His reality bubble plainly was very different from mine. As this joker rambled on proselytizing, I thought, Why do so many Christians and Muslims want to convert everybody to their way of thinking? What is it about these desert religions that makes them do this? Haven’t they heard of, or understood, the meaning of tolerance? Can’t we just be different? Do they realize that if I invented Christianity from scratch today and then tried to get people to believe me and follow this new religion tomorrow, how ridiculous I’d sound?
The new terp fell silent, smiling inanely, obviously waiting for a response. Considering his words for the tiniest fraction of a moment, in that sliver of time I thought many things: It was the middle of the night. I was still working after a long, hot day of patrolling. The threat of being blown to pieces, day in and day out, was a real concern. Extremism and fundamentalism had brought us to this godforsaken province in the first place, and now this man was trying to convert me. This was bullshit. I nearly grabbed him by the scruff of his raggedy Afghan neck and launched him twenty-five feet out of the sangar tower, headfirst. Luckily, fate stepped in, and he was suddenly called away to the other sangar to interpret the request of a farmer whose land bordered the fort. Just as well, because I knew the shit-for-brains wouldn’t have liked my answer.
Ahead of deployment, anticipating the generation gap between me and my team, I attempted to generate some social value to integrate as innocuously as possible. To boil it right down, I offered material bribes. I brought two team hammocks, money to play poker, new music (courtesy of DJs Pete Tong and Annie Mac), several sets of iPod speakers, a Solargorilla charger for everyone’s iPods, and two hundred quality movies loaded onto a hard drive for communal use with each man’s laptop. Several American HBO TV series were loaded onto various digital memory sticks ( The Sopranos, The Wire, Breaking Bad, Game of Thrones, Entourage, and Modern Family) . The episodes were often watched back-to-back by the men in between patrols.
Inevitably, I fell into something approximating a surrogate dad role for some of the younger men. During downtime between patrols, I’d have one-on-one’s and offer alternative career advice over a coffee to these disgruntled grunts who were trying to seize back some semblance of control in this mire of adversity. I felt obliged to remind them of their good characters, give them encouragement that they’d succeed in their future roles outside, out of the marines. When you have no control, you get thirsty for options. I was touched to see how modest and insecure some of the lads were about striking out, making their mark outside the military. Bish wanted to be an ambulance paramedic but was sure that he wasn’t good enough, despite his real-world experience as a combat medic, a first-class assault engineer, and a stack of good A levels. He sat crumpled on his canvas camp bed, morosely staring down at his battered boots, as I said to him, “Trust me. After serving two tours out here on the front line by the age of twenty-two, armed with the qualifications you’ve got, you will be taken seriously. For fuck’s sake, you’ve had to scrape bits of suicide bomber off your face as part of your service to your country. You have to have faith that you can do it, mate. People will put their trust in you. Jesus Christ, if I was hiring for the role and you were a candidate, I’d hire you in an instant!”
Others in their early twenties were bright and quick witted with aspirations to go into business but had few qualifications. So I’d try to coach those that were interested about how to acquire the skills and experience to earn a consistent six-figure salary, ethically, within five years. But what I couldn’t guarantee, of course, was whether this would make them happy. Some listened attentively; others weren’t interested at all.
Taff was twenty-nine and keen to know how getting married and becoming a father would add a new dimension: Would it really be worthwhile? Lee was our corporal and his son was just two years old, and so he wanted to know what he had to look forward to as a father to an older boy. I ventured that all young boys really just want their fathers to be exciting. It struck a chord, and he nodded thoughtfully.
The sergeant major would pay us a visit every few weeks, give us an operational situation report, and piss everyone off by telling the marines to shave their beards off. Once business was concluded, the real business began. He had a knack for finding every man’s insecurity, sticking a verbal knife into it, and turning the blade slowly. He had the impeccability and wit of a professional overtly in control: he owned every scenario he was embroiled in. Mere rank was a preoccupation for mortals; his charisma transcended it, effortlessly trumping all the ascribed hierarchy, an unmatched master of man management. I couldn’t help but shake my head and smile in private admiration.
I once read that sleep is the opium of the soldier, and this is true. I woke up one morning dreaming that I was on patrol, bringing up the rear as tail-end Charlie—the last in formation. I heard gunfire and instinctively ducked. Slowly, the sound of gunshots got louder and louder as the enemy approached our position. Then I awoke from the dream, startled. I still heard gunfire. J Company was coming under attack again to our east. The sounds of the gunfight had invaded my dream.
Gunshots and the crump of artillery were constant. Later that day while on sangar duty, I saw two Apache helicopters attacking some compounds to our east, their fearsome guns spewing death and carnage. Dust and rubble rose up from the explosions. As they circled around and around their target, they looked like two huge deadly vultures.
By late May, Gabby was in need of another morale boost. With increasing frequency I heard him muttering, “I want to go home.” He missed his family, and within the next few days, he was lucky enough to be granted leave. He was relieved by Dashim, a muscular twenty-two-yearold. He settled in well, had lots of energy, and was always smiling. We became friendly, and he soon referred to me as his brother, despite the fact that I was old enough to be his father. He was one of twelve children, his mother a physician and his father a senior officer in the Afghan army. Because he was from an educated family and well educated himself, having successfully studied for and obtained a degree from a university in Kabul, he was significantly Westernized. Convenient for us and exactly the kind of man we needed.
But he hated Helmand. He held an open contempt for the locals for whom he was tasked to interpret; he viewed them as ignorant and bigoted and considered himself urbane and civilized. He often referred to the young men who tried to trade information—usually always false information—for cash as “fucking lying bastards.” His English was that good.
He loathed the Taliban as much as we did. He held strong opinions about them: their methods, objectives, and long-term strategy were all part of an intellectually stunted worldview. He knew full well that because he served as our in
terpreter, he was considered to be a traitor by many of his countrymen, and he felt that if he didn’t have our protection, within ten minutes of leaving the fort he’d be captured, tortured, and shot. When I asked him why he became an interpreter since it was such a risk, he said that he wanted to do some good and to stand on his own two feet. He’d moved here from Kabul, which is just about the only thing he talked about with real fondness, and had aspirations of bettering himself. He sought respect from his family. Based on his backstory it was easy to see he had family issues to resolve, that it was important for him to bring honor to his family and, vitally, receive it from them as he matured. He spoke of the time he was working in a barbershop, and one day he’d smoked opium before beginning to work on a customer. While clipping the man’s hair, he spotted a beautiful woman passing by in the street.
“I fell instantly in love,” he said.
But instead of approaching her tactfully with a smile or asking someone for an introduction, he abandoned his customer midhaircut and ran after her. When he caught up with her in the middle of the busy street, he somehow, and for some reason I could never fathom, grasped her, forcibly bent her over, and tried to insert one of his fingers into her rectum. As you might expect, this scene ended badly for him. The woman shrieked and screamed, and the police were called. To compound matters she was a fully qualified lawyer and now a most displeased one. Dashim was arrested in full view of his boss and all his customers. His mother had to come down to the police station and bail him out. He admitted that it had been mortifyingly embarrassing. I didn’t doubt that for a second, as I nearly fell over laughing. No wonder he felt the need to regain his family’s respect.