The Taliban had obviously tunneled under the road from the cut in the riverbank. That explains why a veteran like Jamie didn’t see any signs of digging. There weren’t any—on the road, at least. And the path of least resistance for the explosion was back out through the tunnel that had been dug. Even if it had been filled back in, the earth had to be looser and more giving than the concrete-hard, sunbaked road surface. Most of the force of the explosion had gone away from Jamie. Enough force remained to pick him up and toss him as it had. It’s the only explanation for his being alive.
It must have been quite a blast—he told me it had been determined that the charge for the IED was not one, but two 155mm artillery rounds. That’s significant. Clearly the enemy had intended on destroying an armored vehicle.
When I got back to Bastion I sent another “human interest” story to the folks back home. It read,
Well as you probably know I was “in the rear” getting my health issues straightened out. I’m back at battalion now, and am seriously considering requesting to return to 1st Platoon. The “tug” is like gravity, it pulls me back.
Anyway, while at the battalion’s transient tent, I met young Lance Corporal Jamie Nielsen from outside Indianapolis. He was just making his way back to the battalion, and Echo Company, from the hospital at Kabul. It seems that on August 15th, near Sanguin, in Helmund province, he was on foot when an IED went off and nearly sent him to the next life.
A quiet, soft spoken, blonde haired young guy, he is very friendly and very much wanted to talk about what happened. He was not in the least boastful, or fearful. He just wanted a quiet talk. The green and black 550 cord “bracelet” he wore around his wrist told me, visually, that he had been in at least one firefight (probably more) and had been hit by at least one IED. I don’t know if that’s a universal tradition, a Marine Corps tradition, or simply a battalion tradition, but that’s what the “bracelets” mean.
Jamie is lucky. That’s a massive understatement. The IED was comprised of two 155mm artillery shells wired together. That’s a lot of boom. Fortunately, in an effort to defeat his purpose of spotting disturbed earth, the enemy had tunneled under the road from a nearby dry river wash. My analysis is that the path of least resistance for the explosion was back out towards the river, not up through the concrete hard sun baked roadway where he was standing. And the blast seems to have pushed him away, carrying him on the shock wave, rather than turning his insides into jelly. It launched him quite a distance but he’s still alive. Had he been inside a Humvee, he, and the others, would have likely absorbed enough of that massive blast to kill them all.
He was partially blind and nearly deaf afterwards. Today he has all of his vision and 40% of his hearing back. He’s optimistic of regaining the rest of his hearing. He has only a small several inch scar on his face to show for the incident.
Thanks be to God.
We held the memorial service for Sergeant _______ today. He was a mechanic in H & S Company. He was 29 years old, married, and the father of 3. An IED killed him a couple of days ago. Three others were wounded in the same blast.
This is no police training mission.
Terry
—
Shortly after the Ramp Ceremony I decided R&R was over. I had been so damn sick for so long—but now I felt good. So good, in fact, that I wanted to get back to my guys at Golestan. I was starting to worry about them. I think the Ramp Ceremony had something to do with that.
20
Return to Golestan
It had taken several weeks of healing time to finally feel 100 percent. My stomach had been savaged by whatever had gotten to it. I caught a rare daytime flight back to Bastion. There waiting for the aircraft’s arrival was Zach Wolfe. He had been promoted to corporal and was reassigned to the battalion command post. He was the driver. It was good to see him again—I hadn’t seen him since I left Bala Baluk in what seemed to be almost a lifetime ago.
On September 23 I wrote to one of my cousins,
Well they ruled out all the horrific stuff that they were testing for, like HEPATITIS, GALL BLADDER DISEASE, and GALL STONES! It’s a torn up stomach from the wicked stomach flu that swept the FOB (thank the friggin flies, the National Bird of Afghanistan) which I believe was followed by a bacterial infection in the stomach. After antibiotics and now taking all the friggin ulcer med stuff I feel fine again. They said it would heal up in one to two months. Meanwhile the meds keep me OK.
As much as I want to get back [home], and I can go in about a week if I want, I’m really feeling a tug to stay. It’s the bond that developed. My guys might be going back out into the fight again and if they do, I want to go with them. I don’t know if I can get back there or not, I figure it’s in God’s Hands. If He wants me there, I’ll get there, and if not, I won’t.
I had been prepping Lieutenant Colonel Hall that I might decide to return to the States early, so when I checked back in with him and asked to return to Golestan, he seemed surprised. Pleased, but surprised. He was going to fly up in a couple of days, and I asked to join him on the chopper.
Bright and early I sent the following email to the West Side Soldiers’ Aid Society folks:
For those who might not have gotten the word, excuse me I’ve been up half the night and am groggy. I got the OK from the Battalion Commander to return to 1st Platoon. Should be there in two to six days. Just can’t leave ’em.
The attached photo is of two 19 year old professionals. Alex “Sean” Allman, Indiana, left, and Devin Benz, Seattle, right.
God I’m getting old. I was 40 when they were born.
After receiving a request for more information on Allman and Benz I wrote back,
Alex Allman is “Little Red” who was blown off his perch by an RPG near miss the night they attacked the FOB. He’s been chomping at the bit to get back to the platoon ever since (he has). Devin Benz has been in at least 3 nasty firefights. He was with the squad that got ambushed when Zequeida and Boucher got it. They’re both only 19. Now that’s amazing.
Except . . . they’re Marines.
And Hickey and Boucher and Nielsen and countless others. These guys just do the amazing and it’s routine and ordinary to them. Admiral Nimitz had it right when, after Iwo Jima, he said, “Extraordinary valor is a common virtue.” That’s still true today. I thank God for the opportunity to be with these guys.
Thanks again to all of you for supporting these young MEN.
Respectfully,
Terry
Then I emailed “the Steve” at FOB Golestan,
I’m COMING back! Got the aminus dominus [Marine slang for “blessing”] from the Big Guy this morning. I PREFER to roll with Bravo [Squad]!!! (Somebody needs to cover Sgt. Holter’s six . . . that’s MY job). I will be there in no more than 6 days, maybe sooner. I finally feel good again.
Oooh rah!
McG.
I drew my rifle from the armory, but my pistol was no longer available. It hadn’t lasted long—it had been issued out almost as soon as I had returned it. I climbed back into uniform and flew with the colonel. By this time the ambient temperature was downright pleasant during the day, and was getting a bit chilly at night. Inside “Fort Apache” a team of Marine combat engineers was constructing plywood buildings to house those who would be spending the winter. Not 2/7 Marines, of course, but those who would take over.
Shady Acres had been torn down, and in its place stood a nice, wood-floored, wooden-roofed plywood “rest home.” I greeted Dennis and Scott and moved back in. Lieutenant Brewster was surprised to see me, as were the other Marines.
Bravo Squad was billeted inside its own plywood barracks—surrounded by high Hesco barriers against IDFs. I spent many hours playing 500 Rummy with the guys I had been with for months and the new guys who had been sent as replacements. The platoon had been reinforced and after a few additional days of patrolling I became more convinced than ever that the Tali
ban would continue to avoid us.
During this period Lieutenant Brewster left a guard on the FOB and tactically deployed about seventy Marines to the top of “Russian Hill.” We all took group photos. The view during daylight from that old fortified position was extraordinary. Scott Brown and I rode up and back in an ANP pickup truck. It was a long, steep climb, and we opted for an old man’s perk.
At about this time I had a remarkable conversation with one of the local merchants—through an interpreter, of course. He was one of the principal shopkeepers on the main dirt street in Golestan, and we had spoken with him many times throughout the deployment. On this day he seemed uncharacteristically happy. I remarked, “You’re pretty chipper today. What’s up?”
I will never forget his reply. “Because you guys are here, I could shave today.”
The Taliban, religious Nazis that they are, would have beaten him if he didn’t let his beard grow to the prescribed length. I thought, “The freedom to shave . . . it doesn’t get any more fundamental than that.”
The boys’ school was still open. The girls’ school was still open. School supplies were coming in from folks back in the States. Men were shaving. People were glad to see us and to stop and talk when we went on patrol. Kids with big smiles swarmed us everywhere. The Taliban had pulled back out of reach.
Brewster’s counterinsurgency plan had succeeded.
I hung around the FOB for a while, maybe ten days or two weeks, before finally realizing that there really was no good reason for me to remain any longer. My job there was done. I believe Lieutenant Brewster wanted another crack at the Taliban, but my street investigator instincts, honed by the time I had spent at the FOB, convinced me that 1st Platoon’s war was over. I felt “my guys” were safe. It was okay to leave them.
The battalion commander had only stayed for a couple of days, so I arranged to fly back when the next helicopter brought still more reinforcements. It was already October, and I intended to keep my Thanksgiving promise to my mother. I needed to turn my thoughts to home.
This time I said good-bye properly.
21
Going Home
Back at Bastion once again, and feeling well this time, I searched for a way to be “value added” one last time. Aside from making sure the intelligence section had everything I could give them, it was a stretch. My work was done. Happily, “Uncle Frank” showed up. He had grown a full beard and sported a deep tan. He looked just like an Afghan interpreter. From a distance that’s what I thought he was when I first saw him. We still enjoyed each other’s sense of humor and got caught up on what stories we each had to tell.
I fell into a routine of working the night shift. It fit in well with the rest of my tentmates’ schedules. Typically I’d be up all night, and then sleep most of the day—warmly ensconced inside my sleeping bag with the hood secured around my head. All the tents were super air-conditioned. Outside, the temperature was still very hot. Dinner was breakfast. And dinner—now that I could eat—was marvelous. The British dining hall was large and outstanding. I started to gain some weight back. The prolonged illness had taken its toll.
The lines out the door were typically long but worth the wait. One evening incoming IDF landed only about a hundred meters away—an unbelievably long shot. It hit right on the path I and others took walking to the chow hall. Fortunately, it was a dud. I would have taken a picture of it, but moon dust had long since killed my camera. Luck or Divine Providence—it should have killed several people.
As a result, though, the Brits had to “stand to.” And that cleared out the overwhelming number of men eating or waiting to eat dinner. American Marines were overjoyed. The prodigious lines shrank to nothing, and we feasted while our British cousins kept us safe.
I resumed my habit of hanging out near the PX, reading in the cushioned comfort of the coffee shop and surfing the Internet. I had noticed that outside the PX/coffee shop area, little cliques of British soldiers—each from the same regiment, as evidenced by their shoulder patches—would stand around chatting. I recall as I passed these small groups that I couldn’t understand a word anyone was saying. We—Americans and Brits—are two peoples divided by a common language.
Their officers were the exception to the rule. I had no trouble conversing with them. Particularly given the difference in slang, I decided that American was a dialect of English. I also noticed an absence of commingling of American Marines and British soldiers. I didn’t sense any hostility in the air, but Americans stayed with Americans, and Brits stayed with Brits.
Finally a contingent of British Royal Marines arrived to replace an outgoing regiment, and all that changed. Once the Royal Marines arrived, all I would see were numerous small groups of American and British Marines chatting with each other. Everybody was curious about life in the “sister service” and life at their respective homes. It was heartwarming. There is a noticeable comradeship between Marines, whether British or American.
Uncle Frank and I had come over to Afghanistan with the battalion executive officer as part of the ADVON—advance party—and we received word that we’d be going back the same way. Preparations to pull out got under way. During this period I had a long talk with Colonel Hall. I made sure he had every piece of intelligence I had gleaned, all the PowerPoints I had compiled—some strictly humorous—and every photograph I had. I still couldn’t bring myself to drop the dime on the Golf Company commander, but I was sure the colonel knew something wasn’t quite right with the man.
Of course he did—he fired the CO not long after.
At any rate, realizing that Lieutenant Brewster had not had the benefit of guidance from his captain and being certain that the company CO would not do Brewster justice—by way of recommendations for decorations—I requested permission to recommend the lieutenant for the Bronze Star with combat “V.” Colonel Hall smiled wryly and said, “Well . . . title it ‘Witness Statement’ as opposed to ‘Recommendation.’”
I grinned. I wasn’t the company commander and I was technically a civilian. I really didn’t have the right to formally “recommend” anybody for anything. But I cranked five pages of reasons I believed Brewster should be decorated. Before I left the country I gave it all to Major Helton.
What I wrote is reproduced in the appendix.
The ADVON left for home two weeks later. Major Helton had led it into Afghanistan, and he also led it going home. We had arrived in Afghanistan on March 28, and we left it on October 28. Seven months had felt like seven years. I was glad to be going home. And although I hadn’t yet realized it, I had changed a great deal.
After a ridiculously scrupulous examination by an Army MP, wherein every single piece of clothing and gear had to be laid out for inspection, we packed it all back up again. He was acting on behalf of the U.S. Customs Service, so I guess I shouldn’t be too hard on him. He did his duty efficiently, and if I had been his commanding officer I would have been pleased. Past wars saw all manner of contraband smuggled back to the States by returning GIs. This middle-aged sergeant—probably a National Guard soldier and cop in the “real world”—was taking no chances. I guess I was getting a tad anxious to get home.
Once inspected, our seabags, flight bags, and anything else we were bringing were taken from us to be loaded onto aircraft. We wouldn’t see any of it again until we were back in the States. I was back to my one lone pack. I was okay with that. I had lived out of that one pack for weeks at a time. All my material possessions of any worth fit inside it. I still use it. We carried our rifles, as they had to be handed in individually back in the States.
Unlike previous generations of returning veterans, we were not allowed to bring back any war souvenirs. I mean nothing. Not even a spent cartridge from a firefight—I was greatly disappointed about that. I thought they would make great presents for my brother’s kids. Fortunately, and unbeknownst to me at the time, a single spent cartridge from the repulse of the T
aliban on July 2 had somehow wound its way into one of the crevices inside my pack. I hadn’t been the one who fired it, but it would do.
We climbed aboard a C-130 and flew from Bastion straight to the Manas Air Base at Kyrgyzstan. I hadn’t expected the direct flight out of Afghanistan, since coming into the country we had entered by way of KAF. Kyrgyzstan was as wonderful as Uncle Frank and I had remembered it. It had been the opening days of spring when we last saw that small country, and it was the beginning of fall when we returned. We all piled into the same marvelous big bright yellow canvas tent with its metal skeleton and endless bunk beds with mattresses. Rifles were staged under guard, and we were free of them. Frank and I retraced the pleasant steps we had taken months before and drank gourmet coffee at the same shop. It was grand.
That evening all the Marines were actually allowed into the Air Force Club. We were restricted to two beers each, rigorously enforced by the Air Force, but at least they let us in the door. Marines have a fearsome reputation and are particularly feared when alcohol is involved. But everyone, officer and enlisted, was in great spirits. I tried my ever-loving best to acquire more than my allotted two beers. I even offered a ridiculous price to buy one of the beers one of the other Marines was allowed, but to my dismay there were no takers. It had been a long seven months. I had forgotten what a beer tasted like.
A third beer really wasn’t necessary. I was half pickled on two. I bumped into the Golf Company gunny at the club. I hadn’t seen him since Baqua. He had a strange and serious expression on his face. I remembered him as being thoroughly professional, but upbeat. I thought he was mad at me or something, so I asked him about it. He seemed genuinely surprised by my question and he answered, “I’m not mad at anybody. Why?” It was the look on his face. I decided he had lost too many fine young Marines. If he wasn’t angry—and the man wasn’t shy—he would have told me. He was feeling intense at leaving without them.
The Silence of War Page 27