by Bing West
Like a darting hawk, a Kiowa flared upward, peeled to the left, and swooped down, hovering alongside the compound.
“Negative,” the pilot said. “It’s a shiny cooking pot hanging on a clothesline.”
A few minutes later, Staff Sgt. Valadez, in the north observation perch, spotted an orange panel on the roof of a compound on the south side of the wash.
Pale Horse darted over in his Kiowa.
“Negative,” Silano radioed to us. “It’s an ice cooler.”
Rod eased the truck up to the top of a crest to get a better look around. We were worn down and testy with each other. The day had gone on for a few months. In the turret, Fabayo was firing in two-round bursts.
“Vary the rate,” I snapped at him. We didn’t need another jammed gun.
“Shut up!” he yelled, kicking at my head. “I’m a lieutenant and you’re a corporal. Don’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m telling you,” I said, “the gun will jam if you keep that up. What will your dumb ass do then?”
It was no more personal than one lineman yelling at another in the heat of a football game.
Where are they? Where is my team?
“Why are we sitting here, doing nothing?” I yelled at Swenson.
“We’re waiting for reinforcements,” Swenson said.
“That’s bullshit!” I said. “The Army’s not coming. They haven’t come all day and you know it.”
We had reached our snapping points, physically worn down and mentally fatigued from constantly reading the maps, figuring out and calling ten-digit grid coordinates to one set of pilots after another, trying to come up with a search pattern for combing a hundred terraces. Emotionally, we were tapped out—a captain, a lieutenant, and a corporal squabbling, with no idea where our four lost brothers were and furious that we were out there on our own, treated over the radio from the TOC at Joyce as if we were a nuisance.
With two Kiowas constantly buzzing overhead, the enemy fire had decreased. I thought it was time to move into the damn village. Swenson was silent for a moment.
“All right,” he said, “we’ll move up. You sit tight.”
We hadn’t gone far when we saw another wounded Afghan off to our left. I got out to get him when a PKM dialed in on me. Seeing that I was pinned down, Pale Horse came to my rescue, making repeated strafing runs until the enemy fire stopped. I got the wounded man into an Afghan truck and ran back to our truck.
The TOC had known for hours that my team was missing. That key information had finally trickled up the chain of command. How could it not, since every helicopter entering the valley was searching for the team? Eventually the word reached a three-star general hundreds of miles away. This prompted a declaration of “personal recovery” or DUSTWUN (duty status whereabouts unknown). The Special Operations Command responded immediately by dispatching Apache attack helicopters and Air Force helicopters with para-rescue jumpers, or PJs—an elite force of tough commandoes.
Chapter 14
TEAM MONTI
By eleven in the morning, helicopters were swooping in low from different directions. A big Blackhawk was hovering low to the ground to our right front. The pilots thought they had located my team and were trying to land an Air Force para-rescue team. After an orange smoke grenade was pitched out to mark the spot, PKM fire narrowly missed the chopper. To avoid being shot down, it swung away without landing anyone. The pilot tried from another angle with the same result.
“Highlander, this is Pale Horse. That smoke is attracting too much incoming. I’ll mark the spot by hovering above it.”
Our Humvee was idling in the wash. Fabayo was firing at the south ridge, where a PKM was still shooting at some Askars. There were only a dozen compounds on the knob of South Ganjigal off to our right, with small terraces spread out like a fan in front of the compounds.
Maybe, I thought, the team retreated back into the houses. “I’m going to search those compounds,” I said.
“Stay buttoned up,” Swenson said.
“They’re my team,” I said, “and I’m going to find them, not sit here wasting time.”
“I’m an Army captain, Corporal,” Swenson said. “I’m giving you a direct order. Stay in the damn truck. We’re all here to find them. It’s not just you.”
The rebuke stung, because I knew he was right. Climbing up the terraces and busting down compound doors—with no one watching my back—I wouldn’t have lasted long. I sat where I was and fumed. Steam was coming out of my helmet.
I was pissed at this long-haired captain, the way I’d sometimes get with a coach. I didn’t like what he was saying, but I didn’t disagree with his right to say it. I didn’t know what step I could take next. Swenson was the outsider. He lived in a different camp. He didn’t even know our names, where we were from, or what military skills we did or didn’t have. He was our leader, and yet he didn’t know us. We hadn’t even been introduced. I didn’t know how to get through to him.
I did know he had gotten the Command Group out and plunged right back into the fire. We were in this together, sitting there in a tense, silent standoff. We watched as Silano, the lead pilot, brought his Kiowa down to a few feet above a trench and hovered there.
“Highlander, we’ve spotted five bodies …”
I’d heard all I needed. I jumped out the door and sprinted across the field to the right, opening some distance before Swenson yelled at me. I ignored him, knowing he’d be right behind me. A PKM shifted to me when I was halfway across the terrace. I hopped over a terrace wall and fell into a deep, well-constructed trench.
I landed next to Gunny Johnson, and my heart stopped. He was lying on his back with his arms outspread, his eyes open but never to see anything again on this earth.
A few feet farther on, I came across the body of an Afghan interpreter who had traveled with our team. I felt sick to my stomach. I knew what I would see next.
Lt. Johnson lay on his back, with his eyes closed. He looked peaceful, despite the entry wounds in his right shoulder. Doc Layton lay on top of him, with medical supplies scattered around. I rolled him over. Doc had taken a three-round burst in the right cheek.
Off to the right, Staff Sgt. Kenefick was lying facedown, his GPS with a busted screen clutched in his left hand. His mouth was open and full of dirt. I think he was yelling out his grid location—the numbers I heard over the radio four hours earlier—when he was shot in the back of his head.
The team was wiped out. Their bodies were stiff and cold. Most of their gear was gone—weapons, helmets, radios. The 240 machine gun was missing, but Lt. Johnson’s pack was full of linked ammo. No one had fired the gun I was supposed to be carrying.
I had never believed it would end like this. My mind refused to accept what I was seeing. Hour after hour, I had imagined them holed up inside a stone house, shielded from RPG blasts, exchanging gunfire with dushmen who knew better than to rush them.
Swenson was standing above the trench. We were taking random incoming and he was watching for movement among the houses. He talked into his radio for a few seconds, then bent down and picked up some of the team’s gear. He didn’t say a word. He left me alone with them.
I hoisted the staff sergeant over my right shoulder. He was heavy and I fell once. He landed on top of me. I got up and carried him to an Afghan truck, carefully tucking him into the open bed. I stood there for a minute, suddenly beat. As I turned away from the truck, Hafez put his hand on my shoulder.
“The Askars say you carried out their dead. Now, they want to help you.”
Five or six of us returned to the trench, while the damn PKM kept shooting at us. I carried Gunny Johnson back; the Askars took Lt. Johnson and Doc Layton. Swenson lugged back the rest of the equipment.
After six hours, it was over, and I felt as empty as a balloon without air. Hafez took me aside.
“They have gone to a better place,” he said. “Don’t cry. The Askars will take it as weakness.”
No way I was going to
cry. But at that moment, I didn’t feel like killing anyone, either. I wasn’t angry or bitter, just deflated and exhausted, as though I had run a marathon and couldn’t remember why I wanted to do it. I was too damned tired to stand.
Still taking fire, we left the valley in a convoy of about four trucks. Rod stopped near the casualty collection point, where we talked with Capt. Kaplan and Cpl. Norman, who had walked down from their observation post. Staff Sgts. Valadez and Miller radioed that they were coming down from their perch, too. Everyone was accounted for. We had shuttled in and out of the valley five, six, or seven times that morning, depending on which of us you asked. It was all a fog. No senior American officer or pursuit force had come forward from Joyce. Capt. Swenson said he would stay to wrap things up.
Hafez and I climbed into the back of an Afghan truck carrying my dead brothers. I held Staff Sgt. Kenefick with my left hand, and Lt. Johnson rested on my right arm. As we bounced down the track, we passed villagers returning to Ganjigal. Some started to laugh, pointing at my dead friends. I reached for my rifle.
“Don’t,” Hafez said, holding my arm. “Not worth it.”
* * *
When we arrived back at Camp Joyce, I walked into the battalion aid station to get the body bags. Maj. Williams rushed up and clutched at my body armor.
“Tell me they’re not all dead, not all of them.”
“They’re all dead,” I said, removing his hand.
I walked outside, where my friend Sgt. Charles Bokis was waiting.
Bokis said, “I’ll give you a hand.”
We walked back to the bodies. Sgt. Maj. Jimmy Carabello, the top enlisted man at Joyce, hastened up and put his hands firmly on my shoulders, trying to steer me away.
“You don’t have to do this, Devil Dog. My guys will make sure it’s done right.”
That wasn’t how to end it. If I had died, I’d want Lt. Johnson and Staff Sgt. Kenefick to put me in the bag.
“I’ll finish it,” I said.
Bokis and I carry the bodies into the back next to the freezers, take off their battle gear, and dig through their pockets, marking items for shipment to their families. I take a chevron from Staff Sgt. Kenefick and attach it to my dog tags. Funny, we had started out not liking each other a thousand years ago.
We clean them up as best we can, wiping the blood and dirt off their faces, taking off their field gear, straightening out their camouflage uniforms, and placing each in a black body bag. We mark the name at the head, drape an American flag over each bag, bow our heads in prayer, and drive them to the helo pad.
Chapter 15
DAB KHAR
After the helicopter had taken my brothers on their first leg home, an Army captain took me aside and asked how I was feeling. She was a psychologist who meant well, asking me to fly back to the main base at Bagram to “decompress.” I expressed my thanks and turned away.
Sgt. Maj. Carabello, who had been watching me, took me over to his hooch and offered me his cell phone to call home. I didn’t want to talk to my dad. What was I supposed to say? That my brothers were dead and I was alive? I shook my head no and started to leave.
“Devil Dog, wash off that blood,” he said. “You’ll feel better.”
In a latrine mirror, I see a blood-streaked monster looking back at me. I’d shoot without a moment’s hesitation if I saw that face outside the wire. My cammies look like rust and my red hands feel like sticky glue. The copper smell of blood hangs on me. I slosh hot water all over me. I make a mess of the floor.
In the battalion aid station, an American Army doctor had treated seven Afghan troops for bullet wounds, two for concussions, and two for RPG and rocket shrapnel. He had evacuated another nine with more serious wounds and set the two dead aside for burial. I walked a few hundred meters to the Afghan side of the camp, made my way to the makeshift morgue, and helped to tidy up two dead Askars.
After that, I drifted over to the Afghan mess hall, dumped some rice and carrots on a cardboard tray, and climbed up to the roof. Hafez came up, with several Askars behind him. We didn’t say much as the sun went down.
When I arrived at Monti the next day, Lt. Kerr told me he had wanted to throw up when he heard how the TOC had stiffed us. All the soldiers at Monti felt the same way. They all offered to help pack up my guys’ personal belongings.
“I appreciate it,” I said, “but they’re my brothers. I have to do it.”
When I walked into the hooch, all the gear was scattered about, exactly as we had left it. Lt. Johnson’s skimpy PT shorts that we all kidded him about were on his rack, Doc Layton’s CDs on the table, and Staff Sgt. Kenefick’s computer on his rack.
Maj. Williams had sent Bokis and Staff Sgt. Richards up to Monti with me. Together we sorted, marked, and stored the belongings of my brothers. After that, I walked outside, fidgeted around, and finally went into the ammo bunker to count up our munitions and keep myself busy. I heard a gunshot over at the burn pit and what sounded like my pup Annie yelp, then another gunshot.
There was an order to shoot all dogs on base, but the 1st sergeant in the ops center had assured me Annie would be fine. Still, after the shots, I walked outside and called for her.
A sergeant was rounding the corner with his shotgun slung.
“That wasn’t my dog you shot, was it?” I asked.
“No, it wasn’t yours,” he replied, trying to get around me.
“Let’s make sure,” I said.
We walked around the corner, and I looked at her lying on top of the burning trash.
“You motherfucker,” I said, “how about I lay your stupid ass down and shoot you? She was giving you kisses and wagging her tail while you carried her over here and shot her twice, wasn’t she—you piece of shit!”
“First sergeant ordered me to do it,” he said.
“He did what?” I said as I walked off.
I stormed down the hill, looking for the man. Gunny Kevin Devine, Kerr’s platoon sergeant, saw me and fell in step beside me. He knew what had happened.
“Be cool, Devil Dog,” he said. “Don’t fuck up your life.”
The 1st sergeant who had killed Annie was standing outside the ops center, smoking a cigar, with a stupid smirk on his dumbass face. As I headed for him, Gunny Devine, who had twenty pounds of muscle on me, grabbed my shoulder. He made it plain he was going to wrestle me to the ground. I settled for smacking the sandbag next to the 1st sergeant’s face, and Devine pulled me away before I committed a court-martial offense.
It probably wasn’t a good idea that I was bunking in the hooch. Bokis and Sgt. Richards were good company, but I didn’t want them to think they had to babysit me. The first few days back, I avoided even trying to sleep. As long as I was awake and doing something, I thought I was okay.
Each night, Kerr and Devine led their platoon—a platoon of strong men—through hours of pain in the weight room, and they dragged me along. My muscles were burning and Kerr was yelling for one more lift and then another. The pain was a relief. It stopped my thinking.
After the others showered and turned in, I’d wander around the quiet base, visiting with the Askars in the sentry tower, improving my Pashto. A few new advisors moved into the hooch. I never got close to them. My bad. I was standoffish—didn’t feel at ease with them. I didn’t want any new friends.
As to Ganjigal: Some Special Forces teams entered the village in the late afternoon, many hours after the ambush. By then, the Taliban had collected their dead and wounded and hiked back into Pakistan.
Ganjigal was one of the deadliest small-arms battles of the Afghanistan war. We lost five advisors. In addition to Team Monti, Army Sgt. 1st Class Westbrook had died of his wounds. Eight Askars were killed and thirteen seriously wounded by rifle, machine-gun, and RPG fire. Enemy losses to small arms were probably of a similar number. There were no IEDs, no bombs, and very few artillery shells. Bullets caused most of the casualties. Ganjigal was a mountain fight from an earlier century.
The Taliban l
eader, Rahman, crowed over the Taliban radio about his great victory. But the American and Afghan commanders decided not to launch a retaliatory raid; they didn’t want to draw attention to our defeat and to the lack of fire support. I thought their passive approach was wrong. If you were a villager anywhere in Kunar Province, what would you think after Ganjigal? We should have hit back at a Taliban camp.
The Askars decided they could not trust the Americans to support them. So they didn’t want to patrol unless they were accompanied by U.S. Army soldiers, not just advisors. As for the Americans, Capt. Paco Bryant, the commander of Dog Company, didn’t want to send his soldiers into a village like Ganjigal if they weren’t going to hold it.
“As soon as you leave, it will be back in enemy hands within two or three days,” he said, “and that’s not worth a soldier’s life.”
The U.S. high command decided that any patrol into a capillary valley like Ganjigal required helicopter support, and a PowerPoint brief sent to battalion and brigade headquarters. As a result, the pace of patrolling by Askars and by Americans dropped dramatically.
Finally, I had another chance. Col. Daniel Yoo, the senior Marine advisor, paid a visit to Monti. I knew he had come a long way to check up on me, and I appreciated his thoughtfulness. We were talking in my hooch when an alert came over the tactical radio: an Army convoy had been ambushed north of Monti. Lt. Kerr and Capt. Bryant, the company commander, were on their way to assist.
I looked at Col. Yoo, who nodded in agreement. Minutes later, Yoo, Bokis, Staff Sgt. Richards, some of the colonel’s guys that came with him, a dozen Askars, and I were headed out the gate. We drove a few miles north and stopped at the top of a rise. On our right was the Kunar River. On our left was a towering ridgeline. Two hundred meters to our front was a narrow valley called Dab Khar, a favorite ambush site—steep sides, narrow roadbed. I had fought there before, alongside Staff Sgt. Jeffords.