Brewster’s counterinsurgency plan was succeeding.
One of the planned improvements to the new living arrangements was the installation of a trailer-like privy/shower building. With water pumped out of a newly drilled well, using power from new, more powerful generators, it was a little bit of heaven while it lasted—which wasn’t long.
The interior of the immense new FOB was ground to talcum-like powder by the heavy machinery and Humvees. It was “moon dust,” as I had experienced it at Delaram. The pump kept getting fouled with dirt, and the water wouldn’t stop running. The waste storage tank had to be pumped out nearly constantly. As a result, it was soon closed for use.
The showers had been heaven. Moon dust got into everything.
I regarded boredom as my greatest enemy, so I set to work on PowerPoints for the battalion’s intelligence section and for 3rd Battalion, 8th Marines (3/8), who would replace us. In so doing, I incorporated all the work that Slocum, Brown, and I had done. Then I set to work on an English-language version of the Afghan Constitution. I called that one “Afghan Law for Dummies.”
On August 10 I emailed “Uncle Frank,”
Things are pretty quiet here now. I think I’ve “worked myself out of a job” again. Looking around for some way to be value added. I plan on being home before Turkey Day to keep a promise I made to my now 84 year old mother. I promised I’d take her to see my brother and the grandkids and I plan on doing it. I don’t think she’s got much longer left.
Meanwhile, if things don’t pick up here (remember boredom is my enemy) I think I will start to make my way back to Bastion after September 1st. And if there’s nothing for me to do there, head home. Have to see what plays out in the next couple of weeks.
I get along great with every soul on this FOB, thank God. The [other contractors] are great—there’s two of them here and we kid around and cooperate with each other like you and I did. Lieutenant Brewster of 1st Platoon is a pleasure to work with/for.
So what’s new with you? Where are you and when are you going home? Maybe I’ll link up with you or something.
Terry
When I couldn’t think of anything else to do I sought out Lieutenant Brewster to see if I could help him with anything. He was buried in paperwork. He had to finish after-action reports, write up recommendations for medals for Marines, and perform a myriad of other duties frustrating to all officers. Fortunately I had been a Marine officer and knew what to do to help.
My birthday rolled around on August 20, and I turned fifty-nine. My brother referred to me as a “mutant” for being as old as I was in Afghanistan. I think “idiot savant” might have been more appropriate, but I accepted his judgment. Lieutenant Brewster, Gunny Mendoza, and others held a small celebration for me. I was given two birthday presents: a little rock to remind me of the hellish place, and a small piece of shrapnel from a five-hundred-pound bomb that had been dropped on the Taliban at Feyz al Bad. I still have them somewhere. They’re the best presents I ever got.
Visits to the subgovernor’s compound continued routinely. Although the battalion had received confirmation that the usual seven-month deployment had been extended to eight months, we could see the end of the tour approaching. Ever the statesman, Lieutenant Brewster assured the subgovernor that there would be a follow-on Marine battalion that would continue to keep the Taliban at bay.
For all the intrigue surrounding the subgovernor and his entourage, I enjoyed our visits to his place. His shady, green, irrigated garden with its fresh scent was a welcome change from the smell of burned dirt that usually greeted my nose. Realizing that our time with him was nearing its conclusion, and coinciding with the harvest, he invited us to a traditional Afghan feast.
When the day came, the lieutenant and I—along with Abdullah and a smattering of other local dignitaries—were seated on the ground instead of the usual table and chairs. Under the shade of his bower of grapevines, Ibrahim Khan had spread ornate Afghan rugs and cushions. Prior to the arrival of the meal, many diplomatic pleasantries were exchanged—all through an interpreter, of course. We pretended not to know that Ibrahim Khan and his party were playing both sides, and they pretended that they would miss us when we were gone. Breaking with my usual routine of saying little, I did my part to enhance the charade.
Since everyone was in a very good mood, we were asked questions that had probably long been on the minds of our hosts, such as, “How many tribes are there in America?” Brewster and I smiled at one another. There was no way a stratified tribal society, so isolated from the rest of the world, could understand America. We tried to explain, but I’m sure they didn’t get it. Taking a cue from Marines in Iraq, where the sheiks of Al Anbar Province finally decided that Marines were the strongest tribe—and decided to forge an alliance—we portrayed ourselves as the Marine Tribe. They could wrap their minds around that.
They still could not grasp that young Lieutenant Brewster was actually the man in charge. Finally, Hajji Mohammed “figured it all out.” He took me aside and said, “My brother-in-law needs a job” (working for a salary on the new FOB). I replied, “Why tell me? Tell Lieutenant Brewster.” He just winked and with a knowing look repeated his request to me.
I knew what had transpired. They had “figured out” that Brewster was a front man for me. I was obviously the man in charge—with my gray hair—and I used Brewster to run interference so I wouldn’t have to be bothered with the little things. Brewster and I both got a good laugh out of it. They really couldn’t conceive of a society like ours.
The main part of the meal was a sheep on a huge bed of rice. The sheep’s eyes were still in its attached head. They were considered a delicacy and were offered to us first. We declined gracefully. Sheep eyeball is still not on my “bucket list.” Each of us—surrounding the spread—would rip or cut off portions of meat and grab handfuls of seasoned rice. It was all done with hands alone. There wasn’t much that needed washing afterward. The meal was delicious. I ate until I felt I would burst.
I reflected on the journey that had taken me—via Colonel Thompson—from America to the world. It had been quite a ride.
18
Struck Down by the Plague
Unfortunately, I got horribly sick—probably from eating that food. The symptoms were nonstop dysentery. I couldn’t keep anything inside me. Even though the portable latrine was closed, I still used it. It had a real porcelain bowl to sit on and—more importantly—it was very near “Shady Acres.” Just the same, I barely had enough time to get to it. I would grab up bottled water to flush with, then sit for what seemed like hours. I couldn’t leave the place. When I did leave, it was to grab some more bottled water, then dash back. I couldn’t make it through a single night without repeated trips.
My stomach wouldn’t tolerate anything more substantial than saltines and sips of water without ulcer-like discomfort. I was a mess. “Doc Z,” our head corpsman, did what he could, but it wasn’t enough. I lingered on for the remaining days of August and into September, miserably hoping the next day I’d be over it. I kept getting weaker instead. It got to the point where I barely had it in me to walk the short distance to the latrine. I finally had to accept that I needed a doctor’s attention.
Gunny Mendoza arranged for me to fly back to battalion on one of the newly arrived choppers. I was damn glad I didn’t have to try to make it through thirteen hours overland. I don’t think I would have left the FOB if that had been the case. They could have just buried me there. One can’t keep stopping in open desert swarming with unseen enemies to do what I would have needed to do—and spend the time waiting for me to do it. I thanked God for those choppers from Iraq!
I didn’t expect to return to Golestan. We were originally scheduled to return home in October. Before I knew that the battalion would be extended an extra month, I had promised my eighty-four-year-old widowed mother that I would take her to see my brother and her grandkids for Thanksgivin
g. It was September and I thought I might as well just keep pushing to the rear—all the way back to the States. It seemed that all I could possibly do at Golestan had been done, and I didn’t believe the enemy would come back for another go at it.
I was weak from illness and really feeling poorly—so I didn’t have the strength to say good-bye to hardly anyone. I felt bad about that but I just wanted to drag myself onto the helicopter when it arrived and get to a doctor. It wasn’t the way I had hoped to leave the FOB. I was taught growing up to remain stoic in the face of illness or injury. The Marine Corps reinforced that mentality. “Suck it up and keep marching” was a common catchphrase. Therefore, I doubt that those around me had an inkling as to how sick I really felt.
When the day of departure came I could barely carry my gear onto the chopper.
I left the FOB on September 9. As I was leaving, Lieutenant Brewster gave me a three-page handwritten letter of thanks. With all he still had to do, and all he was responsible for, his thoughtfulness amazed me. I was blown away by what he wrote. There is no doubt in my mind that he will shake his head when he reads this, but I have it framed. It’s hanging on my wall:
Terry,
I want to take a moment as you depart Gullistan [sic] to say thank you. From the moment you arrived I was not sure what to think, and I’m not sure you did either. Our first meeting shall be remembered by me always and I am thankful we were able to see eye to eye by the end of that talk. From there all else grew.
You have been a tremendous help throughout your time here. Your service to me as my sixth sense was invaluable. The countless hours you have spent debriefing, questioning, and compiling info has saved me a ton of leg work, and supported the platoon’s operations. The initiative you displayed towards learning Afghan law has helped tremendously.
I have appreciated your wise counsel, and listening ear. You have walked a very fine line well, and you have my gratitude. Between you and Lt. Slocum I felt overwhelmed at times, but you both reassured me of your intentions and good will. When you told me I did well after the attack on the outpost that meant the world to me.
You have been in contact with [under fire with] my Marines twice and I’m sure that you have all the old man stories you could want. You performed well on both occasions, and I’m sure learned some things about yourself. I have two moments that shall forever be seared into my mind. One is of you in flack and no shirt atop the post on the morning of the attack with a smile ear to ear. The other is of continually looking down into the wash in Faydz Abad [sic] and seeing you “herding cats” as the enemy’s fire was falling everywhere.
Thank you for the power points [sic] you have compiled. It will benefit the follow on unit very much.
For everything, I appreciate your hard work and personal initiative. You have been a vital piece of [our] platoon, and you will be missed.
Benjamin Brewster
—
That same day, I arrived back at the British base at Bastion. The choppers made one heck of a difference. Fortunately, there was a vehicle waiting and I didn’t have to walk. I’m not sure I could have. I was a lot sicker than I let on. I had held out for as long as I could at Golestan, hoping to get well on my own.
I was assigned a bunk with a real mattress inside a large tent with Captain Van Osborne, Bill Osborne’s son, and other officers I already knew. It would be days before I’d actually see Van—he was always at the front somewhere in the thick of things. I didn’t want Bill to worry, so I didn’t tell him that at the time. If Bill thought Van was safely tucked away behind a desk, so much the better. It was my first taste of air-conditioning since leaving Bastion many months before. I was glad I still had my British army sleeping bag. Without it I would have frozen to death inside that tent.
I checked in with one of the battalion doctors almost immediately, and it was arranged for me to be seen at the British hospital. I had to wait a couple of days for an appointment, and I still couldn’t eat much. But Bastion had a small PX, and they sold Ritz crackers and real milk! After living on saltines and water, this was a step up. It was also the first time I drank real milk in months. I bought it by the liter and drank it all in one sitting.
The PX was about a quarter mile away, and I had to drag myself to get there. I was still very weak. Along the way I stopped at every latrine and Porta-John that I passed. It was the only way I could go anywhere. Often I would spy a Porta-John up ahead and quicken my pace so I could make it in time. During my middle-of-the-night trips I didn’t always make it. Fortunately, the PX sold underwear in human sizes.
Next door to the PX was a small gourmet coffee shop and reading room combined. It had books sent by caring British citizens for their soldiers to read, and there were enough good titles to keep me happy. It also had deep-cushioned leather chairs to sit in. Each day I would savor the crackers and milk, then—never too far from a number of Porta-Johns—settle into a comfortable chair and read.
The base Internet trailers were very near there as well. Feeling too ill to do much of anything else, I passed a good bit of time on a computer. Fast, reliable Internet was a huge treat. On September 10 I sent another “human interest” story to the home front:
His name is Daniel Flynn Hickey. He has red hair and stands about 6’1”. He’s lean, not overly muscular, but I wouldn’t want to pick a fight with him. He’s obviously got Irish roots with his name and hair, but he doesn’t talk about them, so he’s probably not too aware. He’s a quiet, soft spoken all around nice guy, who I’d be calling a “nice kid” under other circumstances. He’s probably about 21 plus or minus a year. He has an infectious smile and soft spoken manner. The “nice guy next door” type.
He’s the Marine who left the relative “safety” of his armored vehicle to pull Lance Corporal Zequeida from the machine gun swept mountainside where he had gotten shot through his femur. A broken femur is a painful injury. Very painful. And it’s perilously close to the femoral artery. Too much thrashing about on the ground and the jagged bone edge could have severed the artery that the bullet, thank God, missed. A severed femoral artery will kill a man in a VERY short time. And, of course, Zequeida, whose wife was imminently expecting their first child, would most probably have been shot again and again, had he remained where he was.
I like to “tease” Hickey a bit by always calling him by his full name, DANIEL FLYNN HICKEY, whenever we meet in passing. He just smiles from ear to ear. I asked him if “Flynn” was his mother’s maiden name. He said, “no” it was from his father’s side. Last time I saw him, he was covered in dirt—desert dirt called “moon dust” by Marines. It’s got the texture of talcum powder. Daniel Flynn Hickey was just about to take a well-earned shower. Unfortunately there was no water. I broke the news to him. He just grinned and said “OH NO!” I said, “Oh yeah.” And he went on his way without a murmur of complaint.
But I digress, on that same day, 2 August; he didn’t get back into his armored vehicle. He took his light machine gun, between the Zequeida vehicle (where Boucher was also hit and still shooting) and opened up on Taliban PKM (medium machine gun) positions an estimated 50 meters away. 50 meters is up close and personal. It’s probably about 55 footsteps away. Daniel Flynn Hickey “suppressed” the enemy fire (which is Marine-Speak for “either I’ve already killed you, or if you pick your head up I’ll blow it off for ya”). The other Marines were in a tight spot but Daniel Flynn Hickey came through.
He just continues to do his job, standing post, going on patrol, filling sandbags, whatever. And is as quiet and unassuming as ever he was. He’s a Marine. He just did what Marines do. If anybody called him a hero, his face would turn as red as his hair. Well there’s another little bit of 1st Platoon, Golf Company, 2nd Battalion, 7th Marines for y’all. I have a picture of him but I’m on the base computers at Bastion and can’t attach it. Maybe some other time.
McG.
Neither the battalion doctors nor the British docto
rs at the base hospital could find anything wrong with me. At about this time the unstoppable dysentery finally abated and I could handle real food—nothing fancy. But my stomach was killing me. Mindful of my age and all the things that might have gone wrong with me, the Navy doctor at battalion decided to play it safe and send me back to Kandahar Air Field (KAF) for more tests. The hospital at Bastion was too small to have the facilities necessary.
On September 15 I wrote to the home front:
I’ve been sick with God knows what. Had it for weeks. They’re flying me to Kandahar hospital tonight for tests. They’re checking for 1) hepatitis, 2) gall bladder disease, 3) gallstones. Personally I think its 4) an ulcer brought on by eating local food, subsisting for months on heavily over spiced crappy rations, and the stomach flu that went through the entire FOB. But we’ll see.
Still weak, I turned my weapons in at the Marine armory. I didn’t think I’d need them anymore. Bastion was vast, and its defenses seemed more than adequate. Besides, I didn’t think I’d be pushing forward again. Before I left, I wrote to my brother:
I caught a chopper out of Ft. Apache and am now back to the Brit base called Bastion. Might be able to Google it if so inclined. When I first got here it was the most austere place I’d been to up to that point. Right now it feels like heaven. It’s a friggin RESORT! I had been living under a blue tarp up against a giant sandbag wall. Ahhhh. I just ate real mashed potatoes for the first time in three months!!!! Will definitely be home for Turkey Day and maybe as early as next month.
Comfort is relative. It dawned on me that I had gotten used to the heat. It no longer bothered me. In fact, I barely noticed it.
Slowly my strength was starting to return. My stomach was still in an uproar but I was able to eat a bit more. I got a ride to the helicopter terminal and checked in with the Brits who ran the place. Then I waited for the chopper to arrive. As had been the case in Iraq, all unnecessary flights were made at night. Having endured so many bone-jarring, teeth-rattling, cramped, endless hours in the back of Humvees, I was truly starting to like flying. We landed at KAF at 1:00 a.m. It had taken two long days overland to get from KAF to Bastion. It took about forty-five minutes to fly back.
The Silence of War Page 25