One Million Steps: A Marine Platoon at War

by West, Bing

  The day after the flood at Fires in October, Boelk was killed and Lieutenant West was evacuated without his hand and leg. Morale was bleak. Garcia immediately took over, and his reputation bought him time with the platoon. They were willing to be led, if he stepped up. Instead of holing up at Fires, Garcia took the platoon on the offensive, showing that the Taliban couldn’t emplace IEDs everywhere. When a fight did break out, he called back to company, and Spokes Beardsley delivered two F-18s, demonstrating the overwhelming firepower on call to help them.

  The snipers became part of the platoon, bagging a kill a day on patrols with the squads. The kills made a huge difference. The IED is insidious because you cannot strike back. One-sided attrition drains the best units. In the legend of Beowulf, the man-eating monster Grendel lurks in the dark green forest. Similarly, the Green Zone had gained mythic stature as the lair of the ferocious Taliban. The snipers turned it into a hunting ground.

  On the daily patrols, the Marines shared the risk equally; any one of them could lose his leg or life. Through the daily kills, they shared the satisfaction of revenge. There’s no genteel way of putting it. They patrolled to kill, and they saw the results. Success provided the platoon with confidence.

  They slept in caves cut off from the world. Their isolation made them more dangerous. They had only one another, and their only outlet was to kill the Taliban. Abbate’s verve was infectious. “Hellasick” made a mockery of the Taliban. “Until that day” became the platoon greeting.

  The Thanksgiving battle was pivotal. The platoon ran to the sound of the guns, with the squads covering one another. Each squad leader—Esquibel, Deykeroff, Thoman, McCulloch—was a combat veteran. Mad Dog yelled for the gunships, and the gunships chopped down Belleau Wood. From that day forward, 3rd Platoon felt superior to the Taliban. The snipers carved stick figures on the wall, while every member of the platoon kept his personal count.

  At night around the fire pits, every member from an incoming patrol went over what he saw, what seemed normal and what seemed out of place. The platoon developed a shared awareness of the situation around them. When they talked, they were adding texture to a common mental map, with everyone contributing.

  In the first weeks, they had taken heavy casualties because they had no pattern recognition of the danger zones and likely IED hiding places. They named key terrain features like the Golf Course and Belleau Wood. When they stepped off, they had a collective image of the route they were taking and where they were likely to encounter opposition.

  The platoon had depth of leadership. Like wolves, they become accustomed to the routine of the hunt. When a leader goes down, another must step forward, be accepted, and be followed. Lieutenant West went down and Garcia took his place. Sergeant Abbate went down and Browning stepped forward. Third Platoon was never without an Alpha wolf, never retreated to skulk in their caves.

  The pressure of his peers motivated each Marine in the platoon. Once Garcia showed them that IEDs couldn’t be placed everywhere, the habit of aggressive patrolling solidified into a routine that no one questioned, because everyone bought into it. They believed their tribe could defeat any foe. Group spirit bound them together. During a fight, when Sergeant Dy riffed by shouting, “We’ll do it live! Fuck it!,” he was signaling confidence in the other squads. Move to contact, identify the fields of fire, improvise, respond ferociously, and move on.

  Men like Garcia and Abbate were born with courage in their genes. But how was courage transferred from one man to the next? Looking back, had Abbate been killed in the early October battle, the platoon might have spiraled down. By the time of his death in December, however, a social compact gripped the platoon: win every skirmish.

  With December came recognition. The platoon was proud it had been selected to move south during the cease-fire to clean out the sector called PB America. By that time, each squad had developed a tactical rhythm. Instead of being intimidated, the platoon looked forward to engaging the Taliban.

  When they returned to Fires in January, the outpost’s isolation increased their bonds. They had only each other. There was no administration, no daily emails from the families, no garrison tasks, no first sergeant with a list of chores. Unlike in the rear, they didn’t live two polarizing lives; they were spared the space capsule called the Internet. They could not escape to home by clicking a mouse. Outpost Fires was their castle, and beyond the gates lived medieval tribes that spoke a foreign tongue.

  The heavy rains of February gave the platoon a break by soaking the IEDs. On different occasions, four Marines avoided losing their legs when they set off low-order detonations.

  In March, with the end of tour approaching, Garcia lived up to his nickname of Juggernaut by keeping the pressure on sectors like P8Q. The platoon yielded none of the ground that it had seized.

  “It would have been easy to slack off,” Sibley said. “But the lieutenant was the same hardass all the way to the end.”

  In summary, 3rd Platoon’s cohesion was due to inspiration (Abbate), leadership (Garcia), firepower (Beardsley), aggressiveness (McCulloch), steadiness (Esquibel), and raw spirit (Myers). The mission centered on patrolling until shot at, and then returning fire until the firefight was won. The strategic rationales—building a nation, installing a turbine at the dam, winning over the Sangin tribes—were at best flimsy. The platoon went forth to fight and kill the Taliban.

  The platoon bought into Garcia’s rule: do your best. They didn’t care where each had come from, or would go once back in the States. On their tiny island called Fires, they had only one another, and one million steps to walk.

  “We fought,” Yazzie said to me, “because we were so pissed off about everything.”

  Yaz always looked for the clearest explanation. As he drives his macho truck to Laguna Beach, he might laugh at Aristotle’s take on the platoon’s spirit. But I doubt that he will deny it.

  “We become … brave,” the philosopher wrote 2,300 years ago, “by doing brave acts.”

  Finish every fight standing on the enemy’s ground.

  Tarawa, 1943. (Sgt. Tom Lovell, USMC)

  3rd Platoon, Kilo Company. (Lt. Victor Garcia)

  Col. Paul Kennedy. (Bing West)

  Brig. Gen. Larry Nicholson. (Bing West)

  3/5 in Fallujah. (Bing West)

  3/5 note on Fallujah bridge. (Bing West)

  Cpls. Jordan Laird and Jacob Ruiz on the first patrol. (Cpl. Jordan Laird)

  Patrol Base Fires. (Bing West)

  Flood at Fires, October 14, 2010. (Sgt. Christopher Carlisle)

  Tense before a patrol. (Bing West)

  A farmer asking for aid. (Bing West)

  2nd Lt. Victor Garcia and Sgt. Philip McCulloch. (Bing West)

  The sniper wall. (Bing West)

  Sniper Cpl. Jacob Ruiz. (Bing West)

  McCulloch on patrol. (Bing West)

  Sgt. Clint Thoman. (Lt. Victor Garcia)

  Sgt. Alex Deykeroff. (Lt. Victor Garcia)

  LCpl. Arden Buenagua (KIA) and Gunnery Sgt. Christopher Carlisle. Note the murder hole. (Sgt. Christopher Carlisle)

  Carlisle is hit. (Sgt. Christopher Carlisle)

  Medevac for Carlisle lands. (Sgt. Christopher Carlisle)

  Carlisle and Buenagua evac. (Sgt. Christopher Carlisle)

  Cpl. Armando Espinoza is hit, Thanksgiving. (Sgt. Christopher Carlisle)

  Sgt. Matt Abbate and Cpl. Jordan Laird, Thanksgiving. (Cpl. Jordan Laird)

  Cobra and Huey, Thanksgiving. (Bing West)

  Marines thank F-18 squadron. (Capt. Joe Dadiomoff)

  Sgt. Joe “Mad Dog” Myers. (Bing West)

  The Green Zone. (Bing West)

  Taliban taunt with flags. (Bing West)

  Machine gunners. (Bing West)

  LCpl. Colbey Yazzie. (Bing West)

  Yaz cuts an IED wire. (Bing West)

  Yaz cuts away a pressure plate. (Bing West)

  Yaz detonates an IED. (Bing West)

  McCulloch with a pressure plate. (Bing W
est)

  A patrol leaving Fires. (Bing West)

  A Taliban outpost. (Bing West)

  Marines shooting, Sangin. (Bing West)

  3rd Platoon under fire. (Bing West)

  Breaching a Taliban fort. (Bing West)

  The author’s village in Vietnam. (Bing West)

  Poppy in Sangin village. (Bing West)

  1st Squad, 3rd Platoon, 2011. (Bing West)

  Combined Action Platoon, 1966. (Bing West)

  Yazzie, Garcia, West, McCulloch. (Bing West)

  Three waifs in HiMars. (Bing West)

  A Sangin sunset. (Bing West)

  Approaching sector P8Q. (Bing West)

  Lts. Tom Schueman, William Donnelly (KIA), Cameron West (WIA), Victor Garcia. (Lt. Victor Garcia)

  LCpl. Juan Dominguez’s wedding. (© Nelvin C. Cepeda/U-T San Diego/ZUMA Wire)

  Lieutenant Colonel Morris and Sergeant Major Bushway. (Lt. Col. Jason Morris)

  Acknowledgments

  Will Murphy, executive editor at Random House, combines two remarkable skills. First, he can sense the major themes of a book before the writer has uncovered them. Thus, Will is able to provide guidance that saves the author a huge amount of time and angst. Second, Will moves at rapid speed in the editing process, not hesitating to point out what is trite or poorly written. Mika Kasuga, as assistant editor, is super efficient. She follows through on every task, keeps every deadline, and keeps accurate track of a draft in its convoluted iterations as I daily or weekly change what I have previously submitted. Fred Chase edits sentences and paragraphs with a dexterity that captures the essence of a narrative’s arc. London King is always full of good cheer and shrewd advice as she arranges interviews about the book. In sum, in the writing, editing, and publishing of book after book, it is a pleasure working with the Random House team.

  Teresa and Mark Soto teamed with Patty Schumacher, mother of LCpl. Victor Dew (KIA), to edit an excellent compendium of articles about the fallen, entitled The Story of the 3/5 Darkhorse Marine Battalion in Sangin, Afghanistan. Similarly fine work about Helmand Province was done by Ed Marek on his website, Talking Proud. Special thanks to Jim Binion, Matt Abbate’s stepdad, for his understanding and support.

  Conversely, official sources proved disappointing. The command chronology of the battalion could not be found, and the military mapping bureaucracy stoutly resisted sharing unclassified maps readily accessed on Google. Worse still, all records of troops in contact—indeed, practically all written communications during the Afghanistan war—were transmitted via a classified network called SIPRNet. All data were automatically stamped Secret. While the Pentagon provides generals and former secretaries of defense access to the records and expedites declassification, this courtesy is not provided to civilian historians. This means that a generation of writers will lack access to basic materials. My special thanks, then, go to 3rd Platoon and Kilo Company for taking the time each evening in the field to keep a hand-printed, unclassified diary of the day’s events.

  On a personal note, I extend my heartfelt thanks to my loving wife, Betsy. I know she has wondered over the years about luck and odds, yet never once has she expressed apprehension. Trip after trip, book after book, she is encouraging, understanding, and supportive.

  Appendix A

  ADDRESS BY LT. GEN. JOHN KELLY, USMC

  (To the Semper Fi Society of St. Louis, November 13, 2010)

  Nine years ago four commercial aircraft took off from Boston, Newark, and Washington, with men, women, and children—all innocent, and all soon to die. These aircraft were targeted at the World Trade Towers in New York, the Pentagon, and likely the Capitol in Washington, D.C. Three found their mark. No American alive old enough to remember will ever forget exactly where they were, exactly what they were doing, and exactly who they were with at the moment they watched the aircraft dive into the World Trade Towers on what was, until then, a beautiful morning in New York City. Within the hour 3,000 blameless human beings would be vaporized, incinerated, or crushed in the most agonizing ways imaginable.

  In the darkest times Americans seek refuge in family, and in country, remembering that strong men and women have always stepped forward to protect the nation when the need was dire. Our enemy fights for an ideology based on an irrational hatred of who we are. We did not start this fight, and it will not end until the extremists understand that we as a people will never lose our faith or our courage. America’s civilian and military protectors both here at home and overseas have for nearly nine years fought this enemy to a standstill and have never for a second “wondered why.” They know, and are not afraid.

  Their struggle is your struggle. They hold in disdain those who claim to support them but not the cause that takes their innocence, their limbs, and even their lives. As a democracy—“We the People”—and that by definition is every one of us—sent them away from home and hearth to fight our enemies. We are all responsible. I know it doesn’t apply to those of us here tonight but if anyone thinks you can somehow thank them for their service, and not support the cause for which they fight—America’s survival—then they are lying to themselves and rationalizing away something in their lives, but, more importantly, they are slighting our warriors and mocking their commitment to the nation.

  Since this generation’s “day of infamy” the American military has handed our ruthless enemy defeat after defeat. But it will go on for years, if not decades, before this curse has been eradicated. We have done this by unceasing pursuit day and night into whatever miserable lair Al Qaeda, the Taliban, and their allies might slither into to lay in wait for future opportunities to strike a blow at freedom. America’s warriors have never lost faith in their mission, or doubted the correctness of their cause.

  Yes, we are at war, and are winning, but you wouldn’t know it because successes go unreported, and only when something does go sufficiently or is sufficiently controversial, it is highlighted by the media elite that then sets up the “know it all” chattering class to offer their endless criticism. These self-proclaimed experts always seem to know better—but have never themselves been in the arena. We are at war and like it or not, that is a fact. It is not Bush’s war, and it is not Obama’s war, it is our war and we can’t run away from it. Even if we wanted to surrender, there is no one to surrender to.

  Our enemy is savage, offers absolutely no quarter, and has a single focus and that is either kill every one of us here at home, or enslave us with a sick form of extremism that serves no God or purpose that decent men and women could ever grasp. Given the opportunity to do another 9/11, our merciless enemy would do it today, tomorrow, and every day thereafter. If, and most in the know predict that it is only a matter of time, he acquires nuclear, chemical, or biological weapons, these extremists will use these weapons of mass murder against us without a moment’s hesitation.

  I don’t know why they hate us, and I don’t care. We have a saying in the Marine Corps and that is “no better friend, no worse enemy, than a U.S. Marine.” We always hope for the first, friendship, but are certainly more than ready for the second. If it’s death they want, it’s death they will get, and the Marines will continue showing them the way to hell if that’s what will make them happy.

  It is a fact that our country today is in a life and death struggle against an evil enemy, but America as a whole is certainly not at war. Today, only a tiny fraction—less than a percent—shoulder the burden of fear and sacrifice, and they shoulder it for the rest of us.

  The comforting news for every American is that our men and women in uniform, and every Marine, is as good today as any in our history. While some might think we have produced yet another generation of materialistic and self-absorbed young people, those who serve today have broken the mold and stepped out as real men, and real women, who are already making their own way in life while protecting ours. They know the real strength of a platoon.

  It doesn’t matter if it’s an IED, a suicide bomber, mortar attack, sniper, fighting in
the upstairs room of a house, or all of it at once; they talk, swagger, and, most importantly, fight today in the same way America’s Marines have since the Tun Tavern. They also know whose shoulders they stand on, and they will never shame any Marine living or dead.

  The chattering class and all those who doubt America’s intentions and resolve, endeavor to make them and their families out to be victims, but they are wrong. We who have served and are serving refuse their sympathy. Those of us who have lived in the dirt, sweat and struggle of the arena are not victims and will have none of that. Death, or fear of death, has no power over them. Their paths are paved by sacrifice, sacrifices they gladly make … for you. They prove themselves everyday on the field of battle … for you. They fight in every corner of the globe … for you. They live to fight … for you, and they never rest because there is always another battle to be won in the defense of America.

  We Marines believe that God gave America the greatest gift he could bestow to man while he lived on this earth—freedom. We also believe he gave us another gift nearly as precious—our soldiers, sailors, airmen, Coast Guardsmen, and Marines—to safeguard that gift and guarantee no force on this earth can ever steal it away. Rest assured our America, this experiment in democracy started over two centuries ago, will forever remain the “land of the free and home of the brave” so long as we never run out of tough young Americans who are willing to look beyond their own self-interest and comfortable lives, and go into the darkest and most dangerous places on earth to hunt down, and kill, those who would do us harm. God Bless America, and …