The Silence of War

by Terry McGowan

  Iran at that time was deeply concerned that moving Marines into western Afghanistan was a prelude to a two-pronged American invasion of Iran—from Iraq and Afghanistan. There was some concern that Iran might launch a preemptive attack into western Afghanistan. Since we weren’t preparing for an offensive in Iran, making that paranoid country more nervous didn’t seem judicious. Staff Sergeant Striker was in charge of counterintelligence, not me, so once I offered my advice I simply let it drop. However, I’m pretty sure he decided to calm Iranian fears by letting the “love-struck” spy call his “girlfriend” often.

  In addition to counterintelligence, two other Marine missions were going on—simultaneously. “Alpha” Squad—the rifle squad from Brewster’s 1st Platoon—had the onerous task of patrolling Delaram on foot and of training the ANP. It was the same squad I had run Range 400 with back in Mojave Viper. It was a plus for me that I knew those Marines from the States—particularly the squad leader—as I was welcome to go on foot patrol with them whenever I liked. I wanted to get outside the FOB at least once a day.

  Next, there were two full-blown mobile antitank units led by a first lieutenant who reminded me of John Wayne. Not that anybody was expecting Taliban tanks, but the battalion had the vehicles, so it used them. Lieutenant “John Wayne” was tall, athletic, and charismatic. He was an experienced officer from the Iraq campaign, and his Marines loved him. He was self-motivated and aggressively searched far and wide for the enemy. If we could have changed out his armored vehicles for horses I might have been in the presence of a cavalry troop inside a fort in the old Southwest. “John Wayne” and I got along famously. He welcomed me to go along with his patrols at any time.

  So I had plenty to do, and diversity of work to stave off boredom. All I needed was running water, indoor plumbing, a washing machine, air-conditioning, an Internet connection, palatable food, an absence of “moon dust,” cooler weather—and life would have been perfect.

  I went on my first foot patrol at Delaram, going out with Alpha Squad. Summer was nearly on us and it was a waltz through Dante’s Inferno. I hadn’t yet ditched my heavy bullet-stopping ceramic armor plates. Among them, water, my rifle, pistol, and full magazines, I was carrying quite a load for a fifty-eight-year-old guy in that indescribable desert heat. All that heaviness settled on the very top of my shoulders—the trapezius muscles. They adapted with time and built themselves up, but in the beginning, I was pretty sore. To the delight of “Brownie”—a young, very likable Marine—I never fastened the chin straps on my Kevlar helmet, letting the straps just hang. He referred to that as the “’Nam look.”

  Lance Corporal Curt Bartz was tasked by the squad leader to be my personal bodyguard my first time out. There were some interesting things during that patrol that really caught my attention as an investigator, so relatively frequently I stopped to examine minutiae and use my camera to capture details on the ground. Quite often it’s the small things that add up in the law enforcement world. Moreover, attention to detail was reinforced during my active-duty Marine Corps time.

  Unfortunately, frequent stopping meant falling behind the rest of the squad. Finally, I snapped out of my introspective analysis of the Afghanistan countryside and noticed that Curt and I were alone. Curt had never left my side. Nor did he utter one word of complaint or appear ruffled in the slightest. Bartz was a solid Marine and an Iraq veteran. That’s one of the things I liked about being with a Marine battalion. I knew he would stand by me if the “5th Taliban Horde” came over the hill.

  By the time Curt and I rejoined the squad, the squad leader was ready to head back. I pretended not to be as dog-tired as I was. Referring to me, the squad leader made some offhand comment to the effect, “Well, he’s still walking,” so I put on my best “game face.” I don’t know if I fooled anybody; I was dead beat and worn-out from the heat. Later, as I went on foot patrol more frequently, I became better accustomed to the physical demands. In time most came to regard me as a Marine—albeit an old Marine—or at worst, a halfway competent civilian. Then there was no more special treatment. I had a rifle just like everybody else. I was expected to take care of myself and those around me—just like everybody else. As far as I was concerned, I was back in the Corps.

  Often on patrol several ANP came with us. It was one of the ways the squad fulfilled its training mission. It enabled the ANP to see how Marines behaved while on patrol. Our squad leader wisely never crossed the river using the bridge. The river was wide but shallow, and we sloshed through the water. Since there was no way to avoid wet feet, we all just sucked it up and traversed it as if we were on dry land. There was one young ANP cop who must have thought if he ran fast enough he could cross it without getting his feet wet. It was highly comical to watch him. He sort of combined a hop and a run. He never did master the art of running on top of the water. He also never quit trying.

  When Staff Sergeant Striker augmented Alpha Squad outside the wire, it added an interesting dimension for me. He and I were always looking for something useful to his counterintelligence operation. Details can’t be revealed, but an anecdote is instructive. One day at the ANP station, Striker asked to borrow my camera. “Moon dust” had killed his. He meandered around for a while, then returned the camera. Back at the FOB he showed me a picture he had taken of the ANP second in command. Warning bells had gone off in Striker’s head about that man, as they had in mine. The man obviously didn’t realize his picture was being taken. He had a look on his face as though he were trying to bore a hole in someone’s head and see what was inside. It was not his baseline smiling look.

  When I saw that picture I asked Striker, “Who the hell was he looking at?!”

  Looking me dead in the eyes, Striker replied, “You.”

  I was always wary around that ANP leader. I never let him get behind me unless I knew Striker had my back. Only Americans knew my last name, and everybody called me by my first name. I was even introduced as “Mr. Terry.” Apparently my gray hair and lack of a name tape or rank insignia had generated a lot of interest from that particular ANP chief. His interest, in turn, generated heightened awareness from Striker and me. It was natural for people to be curious about me, but that man’s unease smacked of self-preservation.

  Every now and again, in the dead of night, one of our sentry posts would be shot at by a person or persons down in the river valley below. Fortunately, they never hit a Marine. Striker and I would join Alpha Squad the next day, looking for signs of the shooter or shooters. As had become custom, several ANP cops would join us. Two of our regular trainees were obviously and always stoned on opiates. I say “obviously” because unlike most abused drugs, which cause the pupils to dilate, opiates cause the opposite effect. The pupils become pinpoint small.

  Their behavior was another giveaway. The stoned cops were as annoying as stoned people anywhere. They decided they liked me and kept coming to wherever I was to give me a hug. They also kept calling to me in a language I didn’t understand, babbling happily about who-knows-what. The fact that they were armed with AK-47s didn’t contribute to any sense of well-being on my part. It was particularly irritating because, like everyone else on patrol, I needed to be alert to any sign of an IED or an ambush. My particular purpose being on those patrols was to focus my policing skills on looking for clues regarding the shooter or shooters. The cops were a major distraction. It goes without saying that I didn’t trust them one bit and tried as best I could to never let them get behind me. Often that wasn’t possible without losing contact with the rest of the patrol.

  Fortunately, Striker was always behind them, watching. He had my back.

  Stoned cops notwithstanding, we were fortunate we didn’t have the mission of training the Afghan Army. I had been told in the States that the Afghan Army was coming along nicely and that they liked Americans. All we had to do now, the brass had said, was to train the police. Then everything would be fine and the country could take care of itself. T
hat’s not what I saw in my little corner of Afghanistan. The Afghan soldiers on the other side of the FOB wall rarely missed an opportunity to hurl insults at the Marine sentries and to remind them that we were interlopers in their country.

  —

  In the meantime, “John Wayne” kept up his relentless hunt for the enemy. Second only to physical discomfort, monotony generates the greatest amount of misery on a deployment. I developed a pattern to help me with that. One day I’d go on foot patrol with Alpha Squad and the next day I’d roll out with John Wayne and his “cavalry.” Wayne searched far and wide for the enemy; he was spoiling for a fight. He’d set night ambushes—we had night-vision goggles, so we could see in the dark—and visit isolated towns and farms far from Delaram. The lieutenant was trying to run into the enemy head-on, forcing them to come to blows. Alternatively, he strove to develop intelligence as to their habits so he could figure out a way to get at them.

  He was the epitome of a Marine officer. He liked having me along so I could read the human terrain and give him my take on some of the people we interacted with. Often he, Striker, and I would put our heads together and try to figure out some way to ruin the Taliban’s day. I was still learning about the country and its people, so I’m afraid I wasn’t quite as useful as I would become in the not-too-distant future.

  We were definitely not there to eliminate poppy farming, but the Afghans couldn’t be sure of that, so they steadfastly denied any involvement. I got a really solid feel for baseline Afghan lying behavior while the lieutenant was interviewing an old farmer. The Afghan’s body English, his facial expressions, the tone in his voice—all indicated friendliness and sincerity. Surely he was telling the truth. Then he said he grew only wheat, not poppies. The field to our immediate left was a harvested poppy field. At my feet was a poppy plant. I picked it up and, smiling, showed it to the lieutenant.

  I learned that when they chose to, Afghans can lie very convincingly. But I also began to notice subtleties that would enable me to crack their “code.” I just needed a little more time. Knowing how people look while lying is a skill set a street investigator needs. It would come in handy later on.

  Meanwhile, intelligence reports came pouring in with ominous news. The Taliban had a suicide bomber lined up in Pakistan, and his target was Delaram. Some intel indicated the individual might dress like a woman so as to blend in better and be able to get closer to our patrols. One day while mounted—that is, in Hummers—a couple of us saw a “woman” covered from head to foot in a black Muslim dress complete with burqa and face covering. “She” was out at a time of day when women were usually not. “She” also moved like a man, in my opinion. We tried to get closer to get a better look, but “she” disappeared. There is no way of knowing if that was our guy or just some modest woman who made haste to get home when she noticed us watching her. But it added to the sense of unease that permeated life outside the wire.

  It also highlighted the complications of working in a country where it was considered bad manners to even look at a woman, let alone to approach one or to talk to one without her husband present. God forbid there was some genuine need to search her. None of the female issues would have been a problem at all if the enemy didn’t exploit our sensibilities and those of the Afghan people on the issue.

  As an example of the culture—in Iraq as well as Afghanistan—it was considered to be bad form to ask a man how his wife was, or how his daughters were doing. One could ask how his family was or even how his sons were, but to even mention a female was very rude behavior. Women were supposed to be invisible. One should not even “notice” a woman on the street. Naturally, I paid close attention—but only with my peripheral vision. We all did our best to conform to the dictates of the society in which we found ourselves.

  On foot patrol one day, through the dense, narrow streets crowded with people, a major who was assigned to the public affairs section was rapidly approached by a man with what appeared to be a detonator in his hand. The major recounted that he knew he had no time to do anything, and his heart stopped for a moment. It turned out that the man approaching was holding up a ballpoint pen. With his thumb on the retractor, it looked just like a detonator.

  Fortunately, it was another false alarm; it was also another example of stress outside the wire. Had the man actually been the suicide bomber we had been anxiously awaiting, the major wouldn’t have had the time to say good-bye. Half the squad and a score of innocent civilian men, women, and children would have been blown to atoms. I wasn’t too far behind the major. I would have gone to God without ever knowing what hit me.

  Finally, after I had left Delaram, the suicide bomber did in fact show up. Or rather two of them arrived. One detonated himself next to an armored vehicle belonging to the Spanish army. He didn’t scratch the paint, just made them wish there was a drive-through car wash somewhere nearby. The second blew himself up right outside the Alpha Squad leader’s Humvee. The explosion blew the front bumper off, and also made a nice, gory mess on the vehicle, but only the bomber was hurt. I’ll bet the occupants of the vehicle were more than a little shocked when the guy turned himself into pink mist. Our intelligence reports were quite correct.

  Naturally, I made friends while in Delaram. Lance Corporals Steve Paine, Bobby Harless, and Cody Peterson were fellow tentmates. They had also been friends for quite a while before winding up in my tent. The banter between Payne and Harless in particular was comical and entertaining in the extreme. Payne never let an opportunity to bait Harless pass. And Bobby responded with righteous indignation every time Payne did so. I have to admit I got in on the act.

  Everybody in that tent, except me, was awaiting transport to one of the platoon FOBs. Transport came when it got there—it could be a long time coming. In the meantime the Marines had no responsibilities, so they were constantly thinking up ways to amuse themselves. One Marine, in a state of utter boredom, lit himself on fire with alcohol-based hand sanitizer just to amuse the rest of us. It was uproarious. A couple of others got in on the act. Bored Marines are like lit cherry bombs. It’s just a question of when they will go off and how much damage they will do. Frequently, during downtime the antics in that tent reminded me of being a kid at summer camp. I think I was actually starting to enjoy myself in spite of the hellish heat and moon dust. I was adjusting to the discomforts, growing acclimated to the physical demands, and managing to enjoy a few good laughs every day.

  Reality came crashing down on our heads soon enough. On June 14 Sergeant Michael Washington’s vehicle struck an IED that killed him and three other Marines. Another Marine was very, very badly burned. The badly burned young Marine was a newly arrived replacement. He had left our tent at four o’clock that very morning. Although he had been with us for days, I hadn’t even taken the time to get to know his name. He mostly lay on his cot, with a book on his chest. He smiled a lot, I remember, but I took no notice. The initial reports indicated he suffered burns to his lungs. I believe he survived, but it was touch and go. If his lungs were burned on the inside, I can only imagine what happened to the outside of his body.

  Although I had known any number of law enforcement personnel who had died in the line of duty, I took Sergeant Washington’s death hard. He wasn’t the first 2/7 Marine killed in Afghanistan, but he was the first person I actually knew. I felt anger at anything and everything as I walked into a large empty storage box and silently cried. I also vented out loud to a couple of National Guardsmen who were cops in “real life.” They were older than the typical soldier or Marine, and they understood how it feels when a younger guy gets killed.

  I ranted while wondering why Sergeant Washington was where he was when it happened, since we all called that stretch of road “IED Alley.” I was angry that I hadn’t been in a position where I could have protested to him—or whoever ordered him to go where he died—that IED Alley was no place for them to be. I suppose a bit of survivor’s guilt was present. My duty, I
felt, was to keep young Marines alive. I had just failed in that obligation—or so I believed at the time.

  My mood changed completely. It wasn’t summer camp anymore. A grim, humorless determination replaced the lighthearted camaraderie that had begun to characterize the deployment.

  10

  The Alamo

  Colonel Hall frequently left the comfort and safety of his battalion command post (CP) and ventured far and wide to check on his troops. Therefore I got to see him, and talk with him, wherever I was—from time to time. In like manner, whenever a convoy was going back to the battalion CP from the Golf Company AO, it stopped at Delaram. I often hitched a ride with them and dropped in to see the colonel.

  During one such visit he expressed concern about the intelligence reports that were coming in concerning FOB Golestan, where Lieutenant Brewster was operating with an understrength platoon. The reports were dire. The enemy was believed to be massing with the intent of overrunning the Marine position. When the colonel told me he was actually worrying, I volunteered to go up there and see what I could pick up on my “street investigator radar.” He looked at me quizzically but approved my request. It was probably on or about June 15, the day after Sergeant Washington and his Marines were killed in action.

  Lance Corporal Brett Miquelon, a Marine from California, was part of the colonel’s personal security detail (PSD). Brett and I had become acquainted when we were all still back at KAF. With a face full of freckles and a shaved head, he stood out. He also stood out because he had an infectious sense of humor. Whenever Colonel Hall showed up, Brett was there also, and we would kid around. On the day I was leaving for Golestan, probably around June 16 or 17, the colonel and his PSD stopped at Delaram. Miquelon and I engaged in our usual round of mutually insulting tête-à-tête.