The Silence of War

by Terry McGowan

  It was there that I met one of our forward air controllers (FACs), captain Eric “D-Ring” Terhune. While shaving one morning, he became the first person to recognize the Marine officer’s sword that’s tattooed on my left shoulder. As a former enlisted Marine—a mustang—he had seen lots of moto tattoos, but mine was the first of its kind he had ever seen. He was highly personable and an attachment from outside the battalion—as I was. D-Ring and I had something in common. We became fast friends.

  As a treat for a job well done, the battalion had steak night, and each Marine was allowed two beers. Long, long ago, in the very same desert during a similar respite from training, I had learned that it’s very difficult not to become dehydrated in the desert. Also that a dehydrated man and alcohol do not mix. At that time in the old days I became intoxicated on very little beer. Thirty years is time enough to forget the lesson, however.

  I sat with my CLIC Marines. Since Camp Wilson was a short drive to the main part of the base, which had a PX where beer was sold, and since I had my car parked at Camp Wilson, Howell reasoned there was simply no good reason why we “elite few” should be limited to two beers. He really enjoyed attempting to find “good reasons” to do things his way; he was a lot like me in that regard, and I liked him for it.

  I said, “No way.”

  After one beer, my dehydrated body was feeling pretty good. Howell persisted. I still said, “Nay, nay.”

  After two beers I was beginning to think I understood how that Tarawa Marine felt when he joined my squad lo those many years ago. I was back with a squad, by God! One of the guys didn’t want his second beer. I took it off his hands.

  After downing it, my desiccated corpus decided Howell was something of a genius, and I probably had a duty or something to keep the tradition of zaniness alive in today’s Marine Corps. I decided to show this new generation of Devil Dogs what it was like in the old days.

  In short, I got loaded on three beers. My judgment went out the window.

  —

  I knew I couldn’t drive—I’m grateful I had that much sense left—so I tossed the keys to Howell. At his height and weight, consuming only his allotted ration of two beers, he was safe behind the wheel. Off the two of us went to the PX. I sat in the car with our rifles, bayonets, and other items that flat out didn’t belong there, as he bought the beer. Then we returned to Camp Wilson, where Wolfe and Lance Corporal Dave Blizzard were waiting for us.

  The four of us piled in my car, in the Camp Wilson parking lot, talking, joking, telling stories about the Corps then and now, while rocking to Flogging Molly on my car stereo. Flogging Molly is an Irish rock band that was very popular at the time.

  All was as delightful as could be until somebody said, “Hey, isn’t that a car pulling in the parking lot?” It was.

  “Who the hell could that be at this hour?” someone mused.

  “HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, IT’S THE SERGEANT MAJOR!!!”

  Geez, even I was scared. Sergeants major report directly to St. Michael the Archangel, whose duty is to keep Satan squared away in hell. St. Michael rarely gets involved—that’s why he has sergeants major. We all ducked. I killed the music. And then, peeking timidly over the darkened dashboard, my blood froze. Howell, Wolfe, and Blizzard had left their rifles outside the car and leaning against the front fender. I saw my life flash before my eyes.

  “Please, God, make those rifles invisible!” I fervently prayed. My prayers were answered. Invisible rifles are the only explanation as to why we would live to see another day.

  After that near-death experience the party was over.

  The next day God exacted payment. I was reminded how hungover a man who was dried out by the desert could be.

  5

  The Odyssey

  The advance party was scheduled to leave the United States for Afghanistan on March 25, 2008. Major Helton would lead it; Lieutenant Colonel Hall would follow with the main force a little later. I volunteered to go. The major wanted to know what an LEP—essentially only an adviser on law enforcement matters in his eyes—would add to the mix. I knew I would be much more than that. My real job was to find a way—any way—to be value added. It’s a very flexible concept and difficult to articulate.

  To make matters worse, I had no solid idea of what my personal mission was. The battalion had to find some way to train the ANP, but I had still not been ordered to do that by Colonel Hall. Therefore, I had to discover for myself what my duty was to be, get Colonel Hall’s blessing, and march on from there.

  As a street law enforcement officer for twenty years I had learned to read the human terrain. I could look at many people and tell what they were up to. First, though, I needed to get the feel of the country. I needed to establish baseline behavior for the typical Afghan. Otherwise, how could I recognize atypical behavior? The sooner I got started, the sooner I could produce some results. But truth be told, I had waited my whole life for this; I couldn’t wait to go.

  I must have gotten my point across somehow, as the major decided to include me. Although I had only volunteered myself, he also included “Uncle Frank.” Frank was good-natured about this turn of events, even though he would have preferred to have gone with the main body. He lived in California and he enjoyed spending his weekends at home with his wife.

  I didn’t get much sleep the night before leaving. The U.S. Army had been fully involved in the mountains of eastern Afghanistan for a number of years. But 2/7 was heading for the western desert. That area was a great unknown. And unlike Iraq, where I was a member of a group of protected VIPs, this time I was a full-fledged part of a Marine battalion.

  I wasn’t as nervous as I had been prior to leaving for Iraq, and I was thankful I had been there. I knew what it felt like to be in a place where an unseen enemy wanted to kill me. I think that had been an unconscious enervating source of stress for me while in that country. Even so, once again I had to come to terms with the prospect that I might not be coming home.

  —

  When I was a young law enforcement officer, decades before, I was cognizant of the possibility I could be killed in the line of duty. Rather than worry about it, I made my peace with God and resolved never to think about it again. For the majority of my career, I never did. Whenever it did cross my mind, I turned again to God.

  Prior to leaving for Afghanistan, I revisited my Creator and put myself back into His hands. That being done, I never worried about dying while over there. Although every day upon waking, and especially “leaving the wire,” I reaffirmed that I was in His hands. I’m not saying I was never afraid, only that if He wanted me, I was ready to go. I didn’t worry about dying. I felt that—at fifty-eight—I had lived a good, long life, and if it was my time to go “home,” there was no tragedy in it. Losing the young Marines, on the other hand, was heart-rending. It was deeply painful when it happened. Life for them was just beginning.

  I drew a pistol and an M16 from the armory. They would be in my possession almost continuously until we returned to the States. I had carried a pistol every day of my working life in law enforcement, so I was quite comfortable wearing it—and shooting it. The M16 and I became part of each other when I was on active duty as well as during my law enforcement career. I even owned my own AR-15—the civilian version of the M16. Therefore I was intimately familiar with both weapons.

  Most Marines preferred the M4 short-barrel collapsible-stock version of the M16. It was lighter and shorter than the standard M16A3, which made it much easier climbing into and out of a Hummer. All the same, I asked for and got the M16A4. My rifle was longer than an A3. It had a solid stock and extra-long barrel. It weighed a good bit more, but I was “Old Corps,” and I wanted a weapon that could really reach out and touch someone. During active duty I had been inculcated with the “one-shot, one-kill” mentality of a Marine rifleman. Contrary to what is depicted in the movies, it was always one shot at a time. The firing might
be rapid, but it was not “spray and pray.”

  We assembled in the chilly predawn darkness at the designated departure point. Many wives, mothers, and girlfriends were in evidence, saying their good-byes. About half the battalion had already done a combat tour in Iraq. They were confident they could handle what lay ahead. The other half was new to the Corps, and they hid their apprehension as well as they could. From here on out, I’d be wearing the same desert “digi” camouflage uniform as the rest of the battalion. With one annoying difference—where the “U.S. Marines” tape should have been, mine read “DOD Civilian” (DOD stands for Department of Defense). As a man whose dog tags were older than most members of the battalion, that stuck in my craw. I was a MARINE, by God. I cut the offensive tape off shortly thereafter.

  We were transported by bus to an airfield, each of us alone with our thoughts. When we got to the airport it was still the wee hours of the morning. I was surprised and delighted to see a large number of older men and women who were there to wish us well before we deployed. Thoughtfully, they provided us with cookies and soft drinks. Though tired, sleeping was out of the question due to the predictable nervous jitters.

  We loaded aboard a commercial jet that had been leased from some never-heard-of airline. It was a large white aircraft, and I managed to sit in one of the first-class seats. The extra room was a godsend on the particularly long flight. We spent the next forty-eight hours on or near that plane before we finally disembarked for a couple of days. The captain and crew were all Americans and very cheerful. They treated us very well, feeding us sandwiches and soft drinks pretty much anytime we asked for them.

  First we flew from California to Iceland. We got off the plane to stretch our legs while it refueled and walked on wet tarmac to the terminal. I didn’t see much of the country, as the weather was overcast and foggy. However, I immediately noticed a tremendous scent of cold and snow. It seemed to smack me in the face the instant I got off the aircraft. I was born in the North and am no stranger to winter weather, but this was different. The air was so cold, so crisp, so moist—and so unforgettably clear. It bombarded my senses like winter never had before.

  There was only one Icelandic official present, and he wasn’t much of a conversationalist. It was too early in the morning for other airport employees or travelers to be out and about, so there was no opportunity to interact with native Icelanders. I was disappointed, as I have always been fascinated by the treasure chest of history and legend surrounding that country. But at least I got to breathe Icelandic air and walk through Iceland’s puddles on an Icelandic runway. I would have loved to have stayed for a few days, but it doesn’t take long to refuel a plane, and we were quickly called back.

  When we reboarded the plane we flew nonstop to Budapest, Hungary. We again debarked and entered the terminal. This time we had to walk through metal detectors under the watchful eyes of several Hungarian security police.

  One snack bar was open, but the line was so long that most Marines didn’t have time to buy anything before being summoned back to the plane. Once again, there were no civilians about—except an overwhelmed snack bar employee. It was still too early in the morning. I ambled off by myself in the terminal—I’ve always been a rebel like that—and decided to shave in one of the lavatories. We’d been on the plane about twenty-four hours by that time and a shave felt good. Refreshed, I found my way back to the others.

  One Hungarian guard gave me the evil eye as I approached the group from a direction other than where I should have been. Part of my reason for wandering off was to test the security of a once enemy country. During the Cold War, Hungary was Communist, and I had been an FBI agent. Old habits die hard.

  After many more long hours aloft, we finally landed in Kyrgyzstan. I had never even heard of Kyrgyzstan prior to landing there. During the Soviet era, it was one of the Communist satellite countries. In fact, we landed at a former Soviet Air Force facility. Now known as Manas Air Base, it is a major U.S. Air Force conduit into and out of Afghanistan. This was as far as the civilian airline would take us. We would be billeted at Manas until military transport aircraft could be arranged to take us the rest of the way.

  Kyrgyzstan had instant appeal for all of us. We were surrounded by steep, picturesque, snowcapped mountains. I noticed green pastures with grazing horses in the valleys below as the plane decreased altitude prior to landing. It reminded me of pictures I had seen of Switzerland. When we debarked, the air was crisp and clean-smelling. Not as starkly noticeable as in Iceland, but crisper and cleaner than anyplace I could recall at home. The weather seemed just perfect, very spring-like, with green grass beginning to grow not just in the valleys, but everywhere. The sun was shining. I didn’t doubt it was subject to extremely cold winters, but in that present moment, it was idyllic.

  We were bused from the landing field to the base itself. As we drove, evidence of prior Soviet occupation was arresting. Many of the buildings outside the U.S. sphere were drab and dreary-looking. There were still high concrete walls with rusting barbed wire strung across the top. The present-day Russian Air Force had a jet fighter base only about forty miles away. That knowledge was not exactly comforting to a prior Cold War veteran like me. I had trained for years to kill those people and had resigned myself to what seemed to be inevitable—I would die in the process.

  U.S. Air Force officials held on to my and Frank’s passports. They were concerned that we might slip off the base and into a nearby town for drinks. Being a former federal lawman, willingly putting myself into a place where Russian agents might be lurking, or that Russian pilots might be visiting at the same time, was about as unlikely a prospect for me as anything I could dream of. But apparently some civilian contractors who had passed through before us did exactly that. To make the eventuality even more unlikely, neither Frank nor I had civilian clothing. We were definitely staying put.

  Although the officers were assigned private quarters, and Frank and I were accorded officer status, we decided to stay with “our” Marines. All the Marines were housed in one gigantic dome-shaped tent covered in yellow waterproof material. The yellow color gave the interior a bright, cheerful air. The space was completely open and furnished with row upon row of bunk beds. I picked a bottom bunk in the very corner. At night I could hear the wind howl outside and the tent covering quiver and shake. It was strangely comforting while snuggled inside my warm sleeping bag in bed.

  We stayed at Manas for several days. They were undeniably the most pleasant days of the entire deployment. Frank and I enjoyed trips to the PX and to a little shopping area where native Kyrgyz sold items of interest to all the Americans who passed through. The Kyrgyz were very Oriental-looking. The girls working in the shops would cover their mouths with their hands and giggle for seemingly no reason at all. I had the feeling, later confirmed, that Genghis Khan had passed this way. His Mongols left their mark on the inhabitants.

  There was also a gourmet coffee shop outside an Internet café. The shop sported an outdoor gallery. Frank and I and several Marines enjoyed endless hours sipping coffee in the beautiful spring-like weather while sitting comfortably on the veranda. The Air Force thoughtfully played pop music over the base PA system. Within sight of us were male and female Air Force personnel playing volleyball in stylish Air Force gym attire. I would wistfully think back to Manas many times in the coming months while enduring grim living conditions in the Afghanistan desert.

  The Internet café was a real treat, since email was the link to home and the world. It was a pay-for-time establishment run by young, obviously Russian men and women. Unlike the other locals we had seen, they were completely European-looking. There were no Mongol ancestors in their family trees. They were on an American military base through which passed, into and out of Afghanistan, countless thousands of American servicepeople. If it wasn’t a training ground for the Russian secret police, it should have been. Logically, they’d have been interested in what the gray-
haired guy was sending and receiving, so I kept it as bland as cardboard.

  All too soon, it was time to leave. We flew in a C-17 fitted with row upon row of seats. The trip to Afghanistan took several hours, but those wonderful C-17s have lavatories. We landed at Kandahar Airfield. Although it was only March 28, the heat that greeted us as we opened the doors of the aircraft was oppressive. Immediately upon stepping outside onto the tarmac, sweat began to pour from my body. In many respects the burnt brown mountains surrounding the base and stifling heat reminded a lot of us of Twenty-nine Palms in the summer. Since it was still springtime, I knew that summer would really cook. In only a few days we had gone from winter to spring to brutal summer heat. We had had no time to acclimate.

  But we had arrived in Afghanistan.

  6

  Kandahar Airfield

  Kandahar Airfield—known as KAF—was an extremely large base completely surrounded by impressive defenses. It was so large that when the enemy tried to rocket us, it was pretty much a foregone conclusion that their indirect fire would fall short. KAF was home to a variety of nationalities and branches of service. American soldiers and airmen, Canadians, British army and Royal Marines, Germans, Danes, and Dutch were already there upon our arrival. Now, for a time at least, U.S. Marines were added to the list.

  Unfortunately, there was no more room for us in any of the “civilized” areas, so new ground had to be broken. But first it had to be swept for mines left by the Soviets during their ten-year war to add Afghanistan to the list of Soviet “republics.” Areas that had not yet been swept were cordoned off by barbed wire with a sign that read ominously, “MINES.” We were warned to stay on roads and not to wander off onto vacant land. A hasty tent city was built on the north side of the airfield.