The Silence of War

by Terry McGowan

  Scott and I finally gave up shooting at rocks and just let the enemy drop rounds on us. I always went on the “big world, little bullet” theory anyway. I figured there was a greater chance of being struck by lightning during a storm than getting hit that day, and I began to size up the position we were in. The fishhook-shaped ridgeline was about eight hundred meters high and ended suddenly and steeply to our left front. It ran roughly north to south. About two hundred meters north of us, on our left, a smaller, sugarloaf-shaped ridge ran east to west.

  Right about then, straight to our front and on the summit of the eight-hundred-meter fishhook ridge, a Taliban with an RPG leaped to his feet and fired off a rocket at us. He missed by a mile. Then he jumped up, waving his arms and yelling something. If he was trying to entertain us, he succeeded. Scott and I thought it was hilarious. He kept it up, alternating between waving his arms and shooting an occasional rocket. We tried to time his movements. One of us would aim carefully and say, “I wonder if he’ll jump up . . . NOW!” BANG. “Nope. I wonder if he’ll jump up . . . NOW!” BANG.

  I began to wonder what was going on in this crazy fool’s mind. Suddenly it dawned on me that he might actually be trying to hold us in position. His antics might be designed to keep us where we were. The Taliban are known to turn flanks and maneuver into the rear. I mentioned it to Scott, who optimistically quipped, “Well, at least we have cover.”

  I responded with “COVER! COVER! WHAT COVER? I’M YOUR COVER. THERE’S NOTHING TO MY LEFT!” It was all said with a degree of hilarity. We really were having way too much fun for guys getting shot at.

  The sporadic fire seemed to slack off, and I couldn’t help but wonder why the turret gunner in the nearest MARSOC vehicle didn’t try to take the guy out. So I decided to take a walk and chat with them. A corporal in the rear seat told me later of their impression when they saw me walking toward them.

  “We looked out and saw you coming and said, ‘What the hell?! Who is this old guy? Does he think he’s out for a walk in the park? Doesn’t he see the bullets kicking up dirt around him?’”

  Truth is there wasn’t that much incoming and I just didn’t have a lot of confidence in Taliban marksmanship. I figured if they hit me it would be an act of God or an accident. Provided they were aiming at me, of course. My concern up against the dry riverbank was that they’d aim at Scott and hit me by mistake.

  So they opened the rear hatch and said, “Yeesss?”—with a tone of incredulity. I said, “Hey, do you guys realize there’s an RPG position on the topographical crest of that mountain there?”—pointing at it. They replied “Yeesss,” whereupon I said, “Oh, okay,” and turned to walk back to Scott.

  I didn’t ask them why they weren’t shooting at it, and they didn’t say.

  I hadn’t gone very far when that damn RPG gunner popped up and fired one off right at me. I could see the smoke trail clearly and hear the WHOOOSSHH as it went over my head. It exploded, if that corporal is to be believed, about fifteen meters from me. If so, I was really in luck (or God still had plans for me), because that’s inside the casualty-producing radius of one of those things.

  Well, I admit it did take me by surprise, and my reflexive response amazed even me.

  I flipped the guy “the bird” and yelled at the top of my lungs, “FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! YOU CAN’T HIT SHIT!”

  . . . and just kept walking back to Scott. I’d be damned if I’d give the enemy the satisfaction of seeing me run. An old guy has his dignity to preserve.

  I will admit, however, that I was straining to look out of the corner of my eye at that mountaintop. If that guy had popped up again, I figured he’d be able to adjust his aim. I was fully prepared to take off like a jet—blue flame out my butt and all!

  In an email exchange between Scott and me last summer he wrote:

  Best memory ever—you walking through a dry riverbed, RPG rounds landing only meters away from you, and you’re calmly walking and shooting the finger back. Good times.

  I replied,

  I wasn’t as calm after the RPG as I appeared—I was looking out my ear if that fuker [sic] had popped up again I’d have run like hell!!!

  Scott wrote back,

  Well then, you fooled me! I thought I was seeing a reincarnation of Stonewall Jackson himself, or you possibly practicing for another Civil War battle reenactment!!

  That RPG gunner really had pissed me off, though. I gave serious consideration to working my way up the mountain and taking him by surprise—that is, until I realized there wasn’t so much as a baseball-size stone to take cover behind if he popped up and saw me before I got there. I’d have been a sitting duck. I’m crazy sometimes, but not stupid.

  As we stayed crouched up against that riverbank, time passing slowly, I began to consider that we just might be there all night. I sorely missed my night-vision goggles, and I wished I had brought even more ammo than the 330-plus rounds I had started out with.

  Fortunately, Brewster was fighting his way along the ridge by then and the enemy was forced to abandon their position. The MARSOC major appeared at our location and informed us of the master plan—it was time for us to make an end run. In addition to not having an interpreter to help us “herd cats,” neither Scott nor I had a radio. We had been just playing everything by ear. It’s amazing what one can tell about the dispositions of fighting forces and progress just by listening to the sound of gunfire.

  Anyway, the major, a MARSOC gunny, Scott, I, and our “herd of cats” started out around to the left of the fishhook. The major repositioned a couple of his vehicles north of the worrisome sugarloaf ridge, and that protected our flank. We began the climb up, toward the RPG position. Along the way we found corroboration of the enemy’s presence: discarded water jugs, some ammunition, and other evidence of a fighting force.

  When we crested the ridge, stretched out below us was the rather large village of Feyz al Bad. Between us and it was a mud-walled compound. It was typical of all the Afghan compounds, an adobe house surrounded by walls. We approached it from the elevated side of the mountain.

  The MARSOC gunny, whom I had become pretty tight with back at the FOB, assumed de facto command. He positioned me with the ANP along the wall in a covering position. Then he, the major, and Scott scaled the wall to secure the house. The ANP were their usual selves. It was time for a smoke break and some cheerful banter. They weren’t covering anybody.

  Just before hooking around to the front of the house, the gunny looked up at me. His eye contact told me I was where he wanted me to be, doing what he wanted me to be doing—watching—ready to provide covering fire.

  Then they disappeared from sight.

  As soon as they were out of sight, three Taliban, farther down the slope inside the outskirts of the village, AK-47s in hand, darted from cover and ran into some leafy trees. I lit the place up firing where I figured they would have gotten at the last course and speed that I had seen them. I have no idea if I hit them.

  The ANP decided they wanted to join in the fun and started shooting up an irrigated cornfield a couple of hundred meters to our right front. I had no idea where Brewster was, or what his plan was—for all I knew his Marines could be moving through that high corn, clearing it of the enemy. Therefore I couldn’t allow them to continue shooting. I had a devil of a time getting the ANP to stop.

  About then the assault team reappeared with a solitary old man—the occupant of the house. The old man was freed and allowed to return to his home. I told the gunny and the others what I had seen and where I had last seen them. We held where we were, and Scott took over working with “the cats.” There was a lot of activity in the village below us and beyond. Clearly Marines were pressing the Taliban from the south. Several MARSOC vehicles were repositioned behind us, with their turret gunners ready to provide overhead fire.

  Right then I spotted a Taliban with an AK-47 running from north to south. Since he w
as running in the direction of Brewster’s main force, I knew he was still in the fight. Unless he suddenly had a change of heart, he was a threat to Marines. I said to the MARSOC gunny, “Look there.” He said, “Where?”

  I said, “Way over there, the opposite side of the valley, about eight hundred meters.” The gunny still couldn’t see.

  I said, “Watch for my dust” and squeezed off a single shot. Although I had been elevating my weapon, the round still felt short. But the gunny now saw the enemy.

  I took more careful aim, adjusting for greater elevation, and led the man, as I had learned to do while hunting running deer. I squeezed off a shot. Although an M16 has very little recoil, it does have some. Just enough so that at the instant the round leaves the barrel the target is obscured by the rifle.

  The gunny said, “I think you got him.”

  I said, “I don’t know. He’s still running.”

  The man had jumped into a narrow, dry wash. I never did ask the gunny why he thought I had shot a man who was still running. Maybe he saw the guy lurch or something that I couldn’t see in that moment. It was a pretty long shot, and the round was probably near the end of its terminal velocity—meaning it was getting pretty weak. The Taliban might’ve said “Oww” when it hit and run faster.

  The lieutenant saw me shoot from atop the ridge, and later he told me it was about a thousand-meter shot. I was glad I had chosen the long-range M16A4 back in the States. Even so, it took a lot of “seat of the pants” shooting experience. I was aiming at a small cloud.

  A moment later, an M40 (a 40mm grenade “machine gun”) from one of the MARSOC vehicles filled that wash with bursting grenades. A cockroach couldn’t have gotten out of there alive. Some of the MARSOC Marines said a total of five Taliban had taken cover in that wash.

  To our right and higher up the ridgeline where the RPG position had been was a solitary body. Knowing my law enforcement background, the MARSOC gunny asked me if I wanted to check it out with him. It wasn’t morbid curiosity; we needed to check the body for any intelligence information he might have on him. We left the cover of the adobe wall and walked over. As we drew nearer, I thought I was looking at a mannequin instead of a corpse. The complexion was all wrong and the skin had the appearance of wax.

  Closer examination revealed the gruesome wounds that had taken this man’s life. He had bled completely out, hence his color. A pocket search revealed he was a Pakistani. He had come for jihad. I hope he came to die in jihad, because that’s the only glory he got. He wasn’t going back to Pakistan with tales of heroic deeds done—ever.

  Since the Taliban never leave dead or wounded behind for us to find, the body’s presence was telling. The Marines had forced the enemy to retreat in great haste. Marines nicknamed the corpse “Bernie”—after the hit movie Weekend at Bernie’s, where one of the actors was supposed to be dead.

  After a time we linked up with Lieutenant Brewster and the main force. Together we entered the outskirts of the village, securing it compound by compound in an ever-widening perimeter. It was movement to contact in an urban environment. If the Taliban had chosen to contest our advance, it could have gotten ugly. Even reinforced by MARSOC, we were still pretty shorthanded.

  We probably secured about a quarter of the village when the lieutenant ordered a halt. He was co-coordinating MARSOC, his Marines, and the ANP—plus we finally had air on station. Without a radio I don’t know who was flying the jets, but they were overhead. Scott and the ANP stayed back—as per the lieutenant’s orders—and took care of the civilians we encountered. The women were allowed to stay in their homes, but the men were watched. I stayed with Brewster. I decided at that point that I ought to cover his six o’clock.

  The sharp, loud CRACK of a single .50-caliber round breaking the sound barrier over our heads was heard periodically. There was a MARSOC sniper with a .50-caliber rifle on the ridge Brewster had cleared. He was providing overhead cover for us below.

  We were stopped at an arrow-shaped intersection of sorts near a wall that encircled some kind of irrigated—and hence green—park. The arrow pointed straight at our middle. Whenever I can’t see what’s going on, I get nervous. So I peered over the wall to be certain the Taliban weren’t trying to get close to us. They weren’t.

  The lieutenant, probably even more concerned for my safety than I was for his, very politely said, “Terry, please get down.”

  I was starting to love that guy.

  The lieutenant, with his radio, was privy to all the intelligence information about the enemy’s movements—as could be gleaned from aircraft, the MARSOC sniper, and every Marine unit involved. He decided it was time to pull back. The enemies were numerous and were massing in the center of the town for a counterattack. Aircraft couldn’t engage because of civilians in the area, and where we were was definitely not suited for defense.

  Besides, the lieutenant had stripped the FOB of every available man—Gunny Mendoza and Lieutenant Slocum had to be holding their breath—and Brewster was concerned it might be attacked while we were away.

  The civilians the ANP had been holding were released to return to their homes. We began to disengage. The Marines to the south of us were still fighting, and the jets screamed overhead. When I got back to the compound near the crest of the ridge whence we came, I could watch the jets in action. Numerous Taliban were spotted running inside a compound outside the village on the east side—a good distance away. It was isolated, believed to be unoccupied by anyone but the Taliban, and I watched a jet score a direct hit with a five-hundred-pound bomb.

  Think big boom. Really big boom.

  From what I could gather by sights and sounds, we had overlapped the fishhook-shaped ridge that partially surrounded Feyz al Bad. Marines engaged the enemy to the south, some held the high ground to the west, and Brewster and the rest of us entered the village from the north. The enemy was squeezed into the center of town.

  Pulling back from north around to the west, ultimately to link up with the forces in the south, was a complicated maneuver. It had to be done fast, before the enemy could realize what we were doing. A retrograde movement is inherently dangerous. We moved out quickly but efficiently. Scott and I herded the cats while the Marines, who were all combat veterans, performed with their expected excellence. It was rapidly approaching dark as we linked up with all our forces south of the fishhook.

  In the rush to get moving, I wound up in the same ANP truck as Abdullah. I was the only American. Scott was in another vehicle. It’s just the way things played out. Scott asked me if I was all right with the arrangement—we both knew Abdullah was a rat—but he gave me a radio so I could call for help if needed. So I said, “Sure.”

  I sat in the rear seat right behind Abdullah, who drove. We were driving in pitch dark. I missed my NVGs badly. If Abdullah thought he was going to hand me over to the Taliban, he was badly mistaken. Quite possibly he could have left the column and nobody would have noticed. But I had a plan. I was watching him closely. His body movements, the tone in his voice, although unintelligible, everything about him and the ANP sitting next to him in the front seat. At the first sign of his driving off on his own, I would have put my pistol to the back of his head. If he didn’t immediately understand 9mm, I’d have pulled the trigger without hesitation.

  It really was that simple.

  We returned to the FOB, to the immense relief of the gunny and Slocum. They had broken out the black-painted mop handles again, but they were holding down the fort with even fewer men than the last time.

  Back at the FOB, that night and the next day, I learned from Bravo Squad what had happened. As the patrol moved up a wash system, it was ambushed by a much larger Taliban force from the surrounding hills to the east and south. Long-range machine guns firing from two directions— located several hundred meters away—began raking the vehicles with automatic fire. An RPG team about fifty meters to the south stood up and be
gan engaging the Marine vehicles. Their rounds missed but were way too close for comfort.

  When all hell broke loose, Lance Corporal Jonathan Zequeida, a fire team leader, made a split-second decision that nearly cost him his life. He got out of the armored vehicle. A machine-gun bullet struck him in the upper part of his leg, breaking the femur. A broken femur is extremely painful. Worse, with the hatch of the Humvee open, another machine-gun bullet entered and struck Lance Corporal Jeremy “Badass Bobby Butcher” Boucher in the leg. The kid was manning his machine gun in the turret. He ignored the wound and kept firing.

  In an email to Bill Osborne and the home front sent shortly after I had left 1st Platoon for the battalion command post, I wrote,

  Jeremy (is his real first name but everybody called him “Bobby” for reasons known only to God) is a lance corporal. I don’t have any contact with him. I never got his email address before he was suddenly removed from us, and he’s one of the few in his generation that don’t have Myspace.

  I just had coffee with the battalion commander (I have “pushed back” to the Brit base at Bastion). We were marveling at the young Marines and their courage and commitment to each other. Jeremy is a case in point. Even with a bullet through his leg he wouldn’t leave his machine gun. The squad was in a very tight spot. And he refused medical treatment until his more badly wounded buddy was taken care of. Then he allowed himself to be treated WHILE STILL MANNING HIS GUN and didn’t leave it until the medevac chopper arrived to take him and the other casualty off.

  Extraordinary courage was ordinary for Lance Corporal Daniel Hickey as well. Hickey got out of his vehicle and rushed to Zequeida’s aid. Zequeida was writhing on the ground in pain, and Taliban machine-gun rounds were spraying all around him. Ignoring the incoming fire, Hickey scooped Zequeida up like a doll and stuffed him back inside his armored vehicle—slamming the hatch shut. Then he did something truly noteworthy.