In the Shadow of Greatness

by Joshua Welle

  In some ways, my job was a bit like an MBA case study analysis combined with Hollywood event planning and a layer of danger to boot; we typically had to fly at low levels in a UH-60 Blackhawk to support off-base missions. We were always trying to further General Nicholson’s vision and affect positive Afghan-led change. Our focus areas were power generation, water development, and agriculture value chains. In addition, whenever a visitor was expected from abroad, oftentimes a well-known news anchor or columnist, the CivMil Cell would be asked to brief him or her on the “southern strategy” which was a comprehensive approach to stability operations and unified military and economic operations—shape, clear, hold, build.

  As the workload increased for General Nicholson and my experienced British civilian boss, Philip Hatton, so did the output of the team. I frequently depended on skills I’d acquired at the Naval Academy for travel to remote outposts, dangerous convoys, and facilitating dialogue between Afghans and the coalition. When faced with a question at the Academy, we’d only been allowed five basic responses: “Yes, Sir.” “No, Sir” “Aye, aye, Sir” “No excuse, Sir.” “I’ll find out, Sir.” The most important lessons I’d learned as a plebe were resourcefulness and gumption, and they served me well on this tour.

  The CivMil Cell’s mandate allowed the creation of a strategy that exceeded the boundaries of the formerly dominant provincial mindset. Helmand’s provincial strategy had been controlled by the British prior to 2009, and their counter-narcotics, agriculture, and security strategy had stopped at a border that most Afghan tribes did not in any case recognize. Kandahar province was managed by the Canadians, whose country had a tailored approach to reconstruction. Uruzgon and Zabul were controlled by the Dutch and Romanians, respectively. Meeting with key provincial civilian leaders, we brought together coalition partners at every turn and began to reap the benefits. Our coalition team developed detailed energy and agricultural analyses used to formulate President Obama’s Afghan strategy documents, which would later unleash economic opportunities in Helmand and Kandahar and all the way to Spin Boldak, the cross-border town and economic center linked to Pakistan.

  As part of our analysis of the region’s resources, we took a closer look at the Kajaki dam, a strategic node for economic development in southern Afghanistan, but one that had had problems keeping the water flowing. Taliban fighters had planted improvised explosive devices along the roads leading toward the facility, and the Afghan government only had control of a five-mile radius of the facility. Our task was to assess the economic viability of the dam and prioritize its rehabilitation within the broader southern strategy.

  Our post-Soviet helicopter circled the dam and began its descent into Kajaki. Andrew Scyner, a Canadian development specialist, 1st Lt. Russ Grant, an Army reservist handpicked by General Nicholson from IBM Strategy, and Marcus Knuth, a Danish civil affairs officer, were all part of the project team. Upon landing, we were picked up by a convoy of dilapidated trucks and driven a mile to the generator facility. Defense contractors lined the helicopter pad and were perched on the back of pickup trucks, ever vigilant of Taliban fighters, who were no fewer than three miles away.

  For six hours we toured the facility. We went deep into the caverns of the sluicing system, along the bottoms of the fifty-foot generator consoles, and to the island tower eight hundred feet inward of the lake where the valve controls are managed. We were told that USAID had built the Kajaki dam in the 1950s and that a massive, electrical turbine generator had been installed in 1972. The foreman was Asad Fisulla, a fifty-six-year-old engineer who had been living and working around the plant since he was a teenager and could tell us what it had been like in the 1970s.

  The facility was showing its age, but I could tell it was still highly functional. With only one turbine online, generator output was at fifty megawatts for all of Helmand’s and Kandahar’s 1.4 million residents. If the Taliban could be stopped from siphoning off power and destroying power lines, output could be tripled. Power was needed for economic growth, and economic growth was needed to get young Afghan men away from the madrasas where they were training to be Taliban fighters. The NATO generals had to decide whether high casualties were worth the risk to escort the remaining material up to Kajaki to repair the dam.

  I realized that I was inspecting more than just a dam; I was inspecting the potential of a society to reinvent itself. Our team knew that reconstruction was desperately needed for the area to sustain any industrial development. In the end, we advised that the coalition subsidize generators rather than risk lives trying to clear the area leading to Kajaki.

  In the final days of my time in Afghanistan, when our team needed more troops, I was reminded of the real sacrifices of military service. General Nicholson often said, “Things in the South will get worse before they get better. There will be more casualties when the U.S. sends in more troops” The high-level briefings, the grueling trips to the outer provinces, and the fear felt while serving in a combat zone do not compare to the grief of having a comrade killed in action. During my tour, I watched more than fifty coalition troops flown out in caskets.

  In late June 2009, a West Point 2002 graduate and three soldiers from Crazy Horse Company died from an IED attack. A week later, a British combat engineer and friend, Ben Babbington-Browne, was lost in a helicopter crash outside Kandahar City. By the end of the month, July 2009, the surge of Marines who deployed lost their first soldier in Helmand province.

  The funeral ceremonies, or what we called ramp ceremonies, tore at my heart. Whenever one was held, no matter what time of day, the entire base would shut down to pay last respects to the fallen. In the early part of my tour, I attended several midnight formations in subfreezing temperatures. In July, ceremonies continued even though it was a blistering 115 degrees on the tarmac. The eulogies were read in the casualty victim’s native language, and we all saluted the heroes as they made their final taxi out of Afghanistan.

  I vividly recall the Dutch sergeant major barking with a thick accent, “Haand . . . Sal-oote.” Immediately, twelve hundred soldiers snapped upward with sharp salutes in honor of their fallen colleague. We sweat together as we held the salute. On my left was Jason Lewis-Berry, a Portland native who had left the moviemaking industry to be a State Department stabilization officer. On my right was Vicki Ferg, a Canadian reservist on a four-month rotation. Behind me stood Brian Madden, a USNA 2002 graduate, EOD supply officer, and the former star quarterback of the Navy football team. The composition of the group was surreal. How did we all end up here?

  It didn’t matter. We were reminded of our common purpose as we held a bicep parallel to the deck and a forearm canted at a forty-five-degree angle. As we listened to another nation’s national anthem, we were all swelling with sadness for a fallen comrade and pride in our service. The sacrifice would be respected and remembered.

  “Ready, Toooo. Troops—Fall out.” Time to get back to work, the mission must go on.

  PART V

  INTEGRITY, TEAMWORK,

  AND SACRIFICE

  It’s not what we eat but what we digest that makes us strong; not what we gain but what we save that makes us rich; not what we read but what we remember that makes us learned; and not what we profess but what we practice that gives us integrity.

  FRANCIS BACON

  “Integrity” is a technical term sailors use to describe a ship’s ability to right itself under the pressure of wind and sea. Certainly, the integrity of a ship can be threatened by enemy attack from the air, but the ship can also sink due to neglecting issues below the waterline. As with all things in life, it is often the unseen threat that is the most insidious. The unseen threat below the waterline—dust, rust, and unattended alarms—is the perfect analogy for the personal leadership challenges faced when no one is looking. As servicemen and servicewomen have all discovered, leadership, in the end, relies on personal integrity.

  Teamwork is a value needed in complicated situations. The best teams are formed through the t
raining, hard work, and dedication of its members. The concept of “team” in the U.S. military is at the core of its success as an organization. Not only do all the branches of service work together—referred to in military parlance as “joint”—but individual members often deploy in support of another service. Many from the Naval Academy Class of 2002 experienced this, serving as supporting members in Army units.

  Sacrifice is sometimes essential when integrity is tested. Nothing good is ever achieved without a little bit of pain, some sweat, and often some tears. The trials experienced leading up to triumph are often what make a big win so satisfying. A leader who has integrity will never sacrifice life or treasure unless there is the potential for much greater gain. A good military leader must also be willing to sacrifice his or her personal rewards in the interest of the country.

  The sailor or soldier deployed for six to nine months three times in four years is but one example. These young men and women truly give their lives for country, even if not through death. They spend weeks and months away from spouses and children, setting aside the comforts a normal life in service to their country and the Constitution. The dark sides of these sacrifices are broken marriages, posttraumatic stress disorder, depression, and estrangement. All are part of the sacrifices sailors and soldiers make while serving and the burdens they continue to carry after service.

  The greatest sacrifice is for those who, as Lincoln described it, give their “last full measure of devotion” to the United States. It is impossible to understand fully how a mother or father feels when a military chaplain arrives at the door to announce that a son or daughter has perished on the battlefield, how a young widow copes with the news of the loss of her partner, or how a toddler grows up never knowing the guiding touch of his mother’s or father’s hand. The men and women in the armed forces know the risks when they sign up to serve. They also know that if they don’t do it, there might not be anyone else ready and willing to fight so their families can continue to experience the American way of life.

  Sacrifices for Country

  Alex Katauskas

  It was early afternoon, but it was already getting dark. I looked down and inspected my Class A green uniform one last time. I had spent the preceding hour obsessing over every insignia, ribbon, and rogue thread. Infantry insignia: centered five-eighths of an inch below the notch on my collar; U.S. insignia, captain insignia, unit crest, all meticulously placed within an eighth of an inch; ribbons pinned exactly an eighth of an inch above my left breast pocket. I’d used a Bic lighter to burn off the fraying threads that Navy folk call Irish pennants or IPs. I finished by using a roll of packing tape wrapped around my hand to remove every fleck of lint.

  Never before, for an inspection or ceremony, had I cared so much about the minute details of this, my uniform, and never before had I felt so clearly the honor that it conveyed. Had the moment not been so heavy, I would have smiled at a job well done. I knew, however, that in this uniform on this day I would conduct the most difficult mission of my young military career.

  In the fall of 2004, I transferred from the Navy to the Army and went from being a lieutenant junior grade to being a first lieutenant. After completing Infantry Officer Basic Course, I moved to Fort Richardson, Alaska, near Anchorage. In Alaska, I served as a rifle platoon leader in the 3rd Battalion, 509th Airborne Infantry. A few months before my unit deployed to Iraq in the fall of 2006, I was selected to be the battalion rear detachment commander for the first half of the battalion’s yearlong deployment. This was not a duty that I had requested, and I felt guilty and a bit disappointed that I would not be accompanying my unit into combat (at least not initially). As rear detachment commander, I would serve as the commander of all those soldiers who were to remain behind, whether for medical, disciplinary, or administrative reasons. I was also supposed to train replacement soldiers who reported to the unit throughout the deployment. In addition, I would serve as the liaison between the deployed unit and the Family Readiness Group (FRG), consisting of spouses and family members. This meant sending out information on the unit when available and trying to help any FRG members with problems they were having. Lastly, I had to serve as casualty notification officer, which would prove to be my most challenging duty.

  As a casualty notification officer, I would be notifying the families when their soldiers had been wounded or killed in action. In the case of a wounded soldier, I would make a telephone call. When a soldier from our battalion was killed in action, I had to notify the family face to face, dressed in formal Army attire, with an Army chaplain present. I dearly hoped that I would not have to perform this duty, but in my gut I knew it was pretty much inevitable. The Army gave me some training on casualty notification, but there is only so much that you can learn on paper. Performing the duty itself turned out to be a whole different challenge, one for which nothing in my previous military experience had prepared me.

  My first killed in action (KIA) notification came a few months into my unit’s deployment, in the winter of 2006. It was a Sunday afternoon when I received the call from the U.S. Army Alaska Casualty Assistance Center that Sgt. Brennan C. Gibson had just been killed by an improvised explosive device (IED) while on patrol in Baghdad.

  Senior officers had been telling me that a KIA was inevitable and to be prepared for it, but how does one do that? It felt as if I had a hole in my stomach; at the same time, a slight feeling of nausea came over me as I considered what I would have to do next. I checked and double-checked my Class A green uniform to make sure that it was in immaculate condition. Pride in the uniform, whether Navy, Army, Air Force, or Marines, takes on a lot more meaning after those you serve with die while wearing it. It represents the ideals and values that they died to protect. Even if no one had noticed a flaw in my uniform, I would have known, and that was unacceptable to me.

  I drove to the Casualty Assistance Center at Fort Richardson to receive my briefing. There I met the chaplain who would accompany me for the notification. He was a lieutenant colonel who had done this quite a few times. In the briefing, we learned the specific circumstances of Sergeant Gibson’s death and received the script that we would read to his wife. I had memorized it already and knew the procedure, but since this was the real thing, it was good to hear it one more time. We also learned that Gibson had a child who had been born shortly before he deployed. We then drove the white government SUV to Mrs. Gibson’s home. She lived in post housing on Fort Richardson, so the entire ride lasted only a few minutes. I would have appreciated a longer drive during which to collect my thoughts, although I doubt any amount of time would have been enough.

  The evening was young, but in the Alaskan winter it was already dark outside. When we arrived at the house, we could see that Mrs. Gibson had friends over for Sunday dinner, most likely other wives from our battalion. I thought this was a good thing, since at least she wouldn’t have to be alone after the notification. We parked the SUV in front of the house and walked up the steps to the front door. I saw through the window that one of the other wives saw us coming. The look on her face told me she knew why we were there. We rang the doorbell, and the sergeant’s wife opened the door. We had met briefly at one of the FRG meetings, so she knew who I was. It took her a moment to realize what was going on. I asked if we could come in.

  She did not cry at first, but stood, expressionless, in a state of shock. I asked her if she wanted to sit down. She said yes and had a seat at the kitchen table. The two other wives who were there gathered around her for support. One woman, whose husband was in the same squad as Sergeant Gibson, asked if anything had happened to her husband. I knew that he had been injured but did not know the details. When conducting a notification, the families of those killed in an attack must be notified before the families of the injured are notified. I told her that I believed he was injured and that she would be receiving a notification over the phone with the details. She was visibly shaken by this news, but she did her best to comfort her friend. I then took a deep
breath and recited from memory the notification script:

  The Secretary of the Army has asked me to express his deepest regret that your husband, Sgt. Brennan C. Gibson, was killed in action in Baghdad, Iraq, on 10 December 2006. While conducting a combat patrol, his Humvee was struck by an improvised explosive device. The secretary extends his deepest sympathy to you and your family in your tragic loss.

  I barely got through the notification without my voice cracking; my stomach was in knots. She had started to cry as I read the script—not sobbing, but tears flowed down her face. The truth was setting in, but she was trying to be strong. The chaplain then sat at the table and talked with her for a bit. He offered to stay as long as she wanted, but she declined the offer, saying that she had her friends there and that she wanted to call her family. I think she wanted us out of the house as quickly as possible, which was understandable. We departed and drove back to the Casualty Assistance Center to deliver our report. My first KIA notification had been completed, and I hoped I would never have to do another one. It had been worse than I had imagined, and I don’t think there was anything that could have prepared me for it.

  About a month later, in January 2007, I received a call that another of our soldiers had been killed in action. This time it was Spc. Jeffrey D. Bisson of Vista, California. He was killed when his vehicle struck an IED in Karma, Iraq, on January 20, 2007. He was twenty-two years old. Specialist Bisson had been a soldier in my platoon, one of the thirty-seven soldiers for whom I was responsible, when I was a platoon leader in A Company, 3rd Battalion, 509th Infantry (ABN). He was a really quiet guy, a good soldier. I also knew his wife, an outspoken woman not yet twenty years old who would often come to the battalion rear detachment office to visit. The day before I received the call about her husband, she had brought brownies to my rear detachment office for the soldiers working there.