The Silence of War

by Terry McGowan

  When Brown, Slocum, and I put our heads together, weighed the facts, and formed a unanimous opinion as to what was going on, it was a safe bet that we were correct. Lieutenant Brewster may have been the only platoon commander in the Marine Corps with his own personal intelligence section.

  —

  One day Lieutenant Brewster went somewhere without me—that wasn’t usually the case. He liked having me in the background, watching, listening. I think I was probably on foot patrol with Bravo Squad when he left the FOB. Charlie squad went with him.

  Anyway, on the way back his vehicle struck an IED. Fortunately, only the engine was destroyed. The charge had been placed expecting a vehicle from the other direction and had detonated prematurely. All the same, the occupants of the vehicle were thrown about pretty badly. Brewster had a massive purple contusion on his thigh when I saw him next. He walked with a severe limp for days and had to have been in a lot of pain, but he never complained.

  I seriously doubt he was ever awarded the Purple Heart—for wounds received in action—even though he unquestionably earned it after that encounter with the IED.

  When Bravo squad went out on mounted patrol, I always rode in the same vehicle with Sergeant Holter. He and I had long since forged a rifle partner relationship. And he always led from the front. While all the patrol commanders were as careful as they could be about staying off roads or stopping to check on foot for IEDs at any choke points, what had happened to Brewster’s vehicle—and too many others throughout the battalion—could happen to any vehicle at any time.

  Holter was meticulous in choosing the route. Sometimes, though, we were forced by the lay of the land to cross some terrain feature at a place we would have preferred to avoid. When we came upon such a spot, Holter would stop the convoy and dismount by himself. Well, not exactly by himself; where he went, I went.

  Together we would walk the dangerous ground, eyeing it intently for any sign that the earth had been disturbed. Typically, he and I would split up. He would take one side of the road and I’d take the other. If there was gravel on the path, we’d brush it aside with our hands or boots until we were satisfied the ground below was concrete hard. From time to time, I would get down on my knees and poke with my bayonet—listening for the hollow sound it would make if it struck the wood that invariably surrounded the kind of IEDs we encountered in the AO. That would have been insufficient pressure to connect the copper plating and set off the charge.

  I was silently gratified that he trusted me with the enormous responsibility of discovering an IED before one of his vehicles carrying his Marines would strike it. Most of the time, he and I were certain the ground we checked was safe and we would get back in the lead vehicle and continue on. If we had been wrong, we—and unfortunately the driver and turret gunner—would pay for our error.

  Every once in a while, however, there was still some slight, lingering doubt. Whichever side of the road the suspicious spot was—his or mine—the last thing either of us would do was step on it. The weight of a man would have been enough to cause it to blow. It wasn’t a suicidal impulse. It was being ready to “take one for the team.” It was our responsibility to find the IEDs, and our young Marines ought not to suffer if we were wrong. Many times I recall holding my breath, then letting it go with a sigh of relief.

  What was probably strange about our routine—to anyone but another Marine—was that both of us would stand there. Really, there was no need for two of us to take the chance; one of us should have moved away. But we didn’t. We were brothers in arms, and we were in it together. We’d lock eyes; then whichever of us had just checked the spot would step forward.

  It was life as usual in Golestan.

  On one return trip from the subgovernor’s residence, we were traveling up a very wide dried riverbed that comprised the largest river in the region. Almost everyone used it as a road, and it would have been difficult for the enemy to decide where—on that wide expanse—one of our vehicles might wind up. Off in the distance ahead of us, Sergeant Holter spied one individual—in the middle of the riverbed.

  He was digging with a shovel.

  Normally calm, cool, and collected, Holter was electrified by the sight. Our driver had only recently come to the platoon as a reinforcement of sorts. Colonel Hall had shaken the battalion CP tree and sent us any rear-echelon Marines who fell out. Our driver was inexperienced. Holter gave a firm command: “After him!”

  The driver didn’t quite know how to maneuver the vehicle up and down the deep ruts and over or around the huge boulders that made up the riverbed. The individual who had been digging looked up—saw us—and started to run.

  Holter shouted, “HEAD HIM OFF!” The driver did his best. It wasn’t working.

  The runner was heading for a village on the opposite side of the riverbank. Once he got there, he could have disappeared. Without a moment’s warning, Holter was out of the vehicle and running after the man on foot. Alone. The rest of the patrol was strung out way behind us, and ours was—as usual—the lead vehicle.

  I was mortified. “Holy shit! Let me outta here!”

  The doors of an up-armored Humvee are strongly locked with levers—to keep angry crowds from opening them. They also weigh a ton because of the armor, particularly if the vehicle is canted due to the nature of the ground, as it was in the riverbed. I struggled to get the rear door of the vehicle open. I had to push it with my leg. It took too much time. I ran just as fast as I could to catch Holter, but he was about to run smack into that village—all by himself. Hell, it could have been the headquarters of the 5th Taliban Horde, for all I knew.

  It was bloody hot. I was running with boots, rifle, ammo, water, and other gear in soft, yielding riverbed sand. Not easy for a fifty-eight-year-old guy. Fortunately my body didn’t realize how old it was. Holter got there first, but I kept coming on. Whatever was going to happen, we were in it together.

  As soon as the lieutenant—probably in the second or third vehicle—caught sight of what was going on, he issued the appropriate orders. The column swung into action. They came up fast and formed a protective 180-degree semicircle around us, then quickly dismounted.

  All the same, it took time. The first man I saw covering us was Scott Brown. He had been in the second vehicle. Scott positioned himself, alone, off to the left, behind cover and watching. Calmly and carefully watching—everything. Now there were three of us.

  As I’ve written before, sometimes even when nothing happens, it’s pretty nerve-racking. This was one of those times.

  Our suspect was a frightened young boy, probably only about twelve or thirteen years old. He had been out playing in the dirt when he looked up and saw us. Worried about what we might think, he dropped his shovel and ran for home. We had to wait for one of our terps to come up and translate for us, but some kinds of communication are universal. It was clear that the man with the boy was his father. Several old gray-haired elders arrived as well. Their expressions were of concern but without fear.

  The boy’s father bore the look of fathers everywhere—his son was terrified and crying. He wrapped his arms around the boy in a protective gesture. His countenance remained calm and serene. The lad was only playing—that was clear. His posture and expression told me that he was not worried. The boy was too young to have been planting IEDs by himself.

  Although a sergeant outranks a corporal, Sergeant Holter is a prime example of what has been described as “the strategic corporal”—that is, the “lowly” NCO who wins or loses insurgency wars where they are fought, down in the dirt. Holter took it all in, arrived at the appropriate conclusion, and conveyed through the universal language of facial expression and body English that all was well. It was a simple misunderstanding. The arrival of the interpreter just put the finishing touches on the piece.

  I had learned as a young rookie cop that things aren’t always the way they seem. But a trigger-happy soldier or Mari
ne might have shot the boy while honestly believing he was a “fleeing felon.” Instead Holter chose to put himself at risk—by rushing off alone into an Afghan village—rather than “shoot first and ask questions later.”

  I’d cover his six o’clock any day.

  Soon after, recalling the movie Tombstone, about Wyatt Earp and his friend Doc Holliday, I began to call Sergeant Holter “Wyatt.” I was his Doc Holliday and would remain so for as long as I was in Golestan. Some friendships can only be understood in context. And wartime friendships can only be understood by those who have been there and formed them.

  Not long after, a civilian bus, traveling down the same dry riverbed, struck an IED. Several civilians were killed, including the bus driver, and others were injured—some seriously. The injured were treated by our corpsmen, led by Hospitalman First Class William “Doc Z” Zorrer. It was the first time there had been a fatal IED attack in our platoon area of responsibility. Slocum, Brown, and I put our heads together.

  The head of the ANP—occupying the same mud FOB that the ANCOP had left—was a man we didn’t trust. “Abdullah” wore a perpetual “felony look” on his face. Nothing about him inspired confidence. We three believed he had connections with the Taliban, and we believed he knew about the IED. It was meant for us, of course. Not happy about the deaths and injuries of innocent civilians and frustrated at the subgovernor’s lack of governance, Lieutenant Brewster made a trip to “Ibrahim Khan’s” compound. I accompanied him along with others.

  I could see that the lieutenant was getting pretty frustrated with the subgovernor. The man served tea and conversation under the shade of his “backyard” bower, but nothing ever changed. Brewster couldn’t seem to get the man to actually do anything. This time—possibly still in pain from his own IED encounter—Brewster was pretty pointed in conversation. He wanted to know what Ibrahim Khan knew about the IED that had nailed the bus.

  Abdullah was present. Both adamantly denied any knowledge whatsoever. I just sat and listened. The subgovernor mumbled that IEDs were one of the reasons he stayed home even though his job required him to be in Golestan.

  As soon as we stood up to leave, while everyone was putting on their gear and grabbing helmets, Ibrahim Khan and Abdullah looked positively relieved. Their change in expression told me they had been holding something back. I knew from experience that a moment like that was pregnant with opportunity. Their guards had been up, but now they felt safe. They had just let down their defenses. Looking straight at the subgovernor, I spoke for the first time during the meeting.

  “I just have one question.” Everyone stopped and looked at me.

  “Why didn’t you tell the bus driver where the IED was?”

  Before he could stop himself, Ibrahim Khan gestured toward Abdullah and said, “Well, I told him!”

  Brewster looked like he had been slapped. Ibrahim Khan immediately realized he had just screwed up. Brewster was livid. He fairly shouted, “YOU KNEW! YOU KNEW AND YOU JUST SAT HERE AND LIED! YOU KNEW AND YOU DIDN’T TELL US!”

  Ibrahim Khan and Abdullah started passing the buck back and forth between themselves.

  “I told him”—gesturing toward Abdullah—“that it was the brother of—”

  “Well, I was conducting an investigation,” stammered Abdullah, as their self-serving back-and-forth continued.

  I didn’t say another word.

  Crucial events were beginning to stack up one atop the other.

  From that point on, Brown joined Slocum and me as we began to piece together a flowchart of who was in cahoots with whom in the Golestan area. Before we were done, we had connected two local tribal chieftains—one of whom was the subgovernor—with two separate Taliban warlords—the chief of police (Abdullah)—and many other key people in the area. It was standard police work. Like in small-town America, the cops figured out what was going on. Naturally, the chart was given to Lieutenant Brewster. But I made sure the intelligence section at battalion also had it after I left Golestan; they were ecstatic. It was the kind of intangible work LEPs were supposed to produce.

  For his part, Abdullah seemed concerned that he might be turned over to some heavy-handed special operations types. He began to fall over backward trying to convince us that he was really our ally. Soon after, at another meeting held adjacent to the FOB, his cell phone rang. He excused himself and walked outside. When he returned, the soul of innocence, he blurted out:

  “That was (a ‘Taliban warlord’ ) who wanted to know what Marines were presently doing in the town he was hiding out in.” Brewster was flabbergasted. Charlie Squad was on patrol in that town.

  I smiled to myself. The Taliban clearly regarded Abdullah as their informant. And he was trying to convince us of his loyalty by telling us about the call. To an experienced investigator, used to interpersonal machinations, it was beautiful. I had some ideas about how to use him. Unfortunately, that would have been “outside my lane.” The issue passed out of my hands and into the hands of those who were tasked with such matters. The details are classified.

  All the same, Slocum, Brown, and I quipped privately, “Nice. The Taliban have Abdullah on speed dial!” Cops have a matchless sense of humor.

  Trying to lighten his own mood, Brewster asked Abdullah jokingly, “When was the last time you heard from a ‘different Taliban war lord’?” Not the sharpest tool in the shed, Abdullah replied, “Oh, I haven’t heard from him in over a month.”

  The lieutenant hadn’t expected that answer; he was just kidding. Taking it all in, I just smiled. We really had this guy’s number.

  15

  The Trap

  About a dozen new cops fresh from ANP training in another province showed up at Golestan. One was a fifteen-year-old boy. He looked about twelve. I couldn’t believe anyone would put a uniform on someone so young. His uniform was about ten sizes too large for him and it made his small frame seem even smaller. In a country where men generally wore beards, his smooth face really stood out. The kid looked innocent and homesick. He was in over his head. I think he missed his mother. He and two men from the same village asked to go home on leave. Abdullah granted their request.

  On July 29, while on foot patrol in the hot, dusty streets of “downtown” Golestan, Scott Brown and I listened intently to Sergeant Holter’s radio. We could hear a conversation between the lieutenant and the chief of police. Abdullah had just notified Lieutenant Brewster that all three—including the “fifteen-going-on-twelve-year-old”—had been beaten to death by the Taliban. Their bodies were lying in the dirt in the center of the town where they had lived and gone on leave. I could only imagine the grief of the poor boy’s family. Abdullah wanted Brewster to get them.

  Scott Brown and I looked at each other. “NO WAY!” we both said to each other. “It’s a trap!” Abdullah was trying to play both sides, but he was a Taliban informant, no question. Scott and I were relieved when Brewster told Abdullah to go get them himself—that the dead were his men.

  Upon returning to the FOB, I was even more relieved to hear that the lieutenant planned a mounted patrol to a distant village. By this time I had been out on enough patrols around the platoon AO to develop a pretty good street cop feel for where the bad guys were—and where they weren’t. I expected no trouble where Brewster was going. I believed the trip would be uneventful and my presence would not be needed.

  The day was a scorcher—as always. And coming off foot patrol I was wrung out—as always. Scott and I decided we had earned a nap. Somehow he had liberated a chocolate cake. He pulled it out from under his cot and we both had a delightful snack—chocolate cake and warm water—yummy. Then it was off with our boots and sleep.

  —

  We awoke to the distressing news that the lieutenant had changed his mind. He was going after the bodies after all. Abdullah—for all his insistence—declined to go at the last minute. He wasn’t feeling well, he said. He sent along a number o
f his men. Scott recognized the names from his intimate work with the ANP. They were people Abdullah didn’t like.

  We were thunderstruck. Slocum concurred. When Slocum, Brown, and I were in unanimous agreement, I cannot recall a single instance in which we had been wrong. It was going to be a bad day.

  Gunny Mendoza was still at the FOB. Brown, Slocum, and I let him know we were sure the bodies were cheese in a mousetrap. Most likely the trap was set for Brewster. But it was possible that what the enemy really wanted was to weaken the FOB by siphoning off manpower so they could accomplish what they had failed to do a few weeks prior: overrun the place. Brewster and the other survivors would be thirteen hours behind enemy lines with no ammo resupply, no water, and no gasoline. They’d have been in serious trouble.

  The gunny ordered all Marines to stand to. Scott had squirreled away a couple of ANP machine guns—RPKs—and these he set up in tactically sound places around the FOB. We didn’t have enough men to man them, but at least they were ready if needed. The gunny ordered some mop sticks to be sawed down and painted black. They were placed at intervals around the FOB. From a short distance away it would look like the FOB was bristling with machine guns.

  Slocum and I manned the armored vehicle atop the heavy metal storage box that the Army had used when the FOB was attacked on July 2. Two green rear-echelon Marines who had been sent from battalion by Lieutenant Colonel Hall were posted in the “shithouse bunker.” Scott built a little sandbagged position on top of the box where Slocum and I were. He had one of his RPKs there and was ready to use it. We were all facing the most vulnerable side of the FOB—the stone-walled clinic and the wood line. Then we waited. Slocum, Brown, and I knew what was going to happen. We just couldn’t be sure where.

  Several hours into darkness Gunny Mendoza sent us word that all hell had broken loose where the lieutenant was. So now we knew where.

  Anxiously we waited, still standing to. It was possible the Taliban would still attack the FOB. I feared the worst for Brewster and those Marines with him. The lieutenant had taken Bravo squad with him. Although Sergeant Holter had heard what Brown and I said while listening to Abdullah earlier that afternoon, he was a Marine. He would not challenge the lieutenant. But they were my guys. If I had had the slightest idea they were going, I would have gone with them—if I couldn’t have talked the lieutenant out of going in the first place.