A-Top told me that they had intelligence that a Taliban spy was nearby and they were going to “talk to him.” The ANA version of “talking” usually began with intense intimidation; no one from this part of the world doubts the ANA’s sincerity when it comes to extracting information. If the subject refused to talk they would begin with forced sodomy. That act alone usually ends with the ANA getting whatever intelligence they need, but if not, it is followed by physical torture and maiming, more sodomy and finally a dishonorable death.
Though I had grown to admire their hardworking character and sense of honor, the ANA’s approach to certain things, like “talking” with the enemy, made it easier for me to dehumanize Muslims in general. Living with them was a process of two steps forward in friendship and then one step back.
I advised A-Top that I could not go with them if they were going to deal with an enemy spy in their traditional way. My interpreter explained to me how the translation of my son’s story had been taken and they wanted to help me regain my family’s honor. I looked around and saw a half dozen of my closest ANA friends looking at me with sad eyes, sad for my loss and with faces that were worn by the tragedies of their own losses. This was not just about me, they were going to regain their honor as well, and this was part of their journey too. My interpreter explained that for me to refuse this invitation would insult them and lessen my standing with them; there was no going back now.
We headed out of the FOB quietly but this time I was going without any other American soldiers. I was momentarily sick in my stomach, not for fear of what might happen outside the wire, but what would happen to me when I returned. Technically this was not the first time one of us had gone out with the ANA without other United States soldiers, but it was the first time that no other member of my team knew about it. We moved along a trail that led toward the river and eventually into a small village. There my interpreter informed me that the ANA had already caught and restrained the Taliban spy and were holding him off FOB so he could be interrogated apart from the United States ROEs.
We were met by two ANA soldiers that I recognized as we were led into the compound. The compound belonged to an older Afghan that I immediately knew to be the village elder. It seems that he too had honor to reclaim since the Taliban would take the local girls as wives and sell them to the Arab Al Qaeda terrorists. The Arabs would “marry” them for the time they were in country and divorce them prior to leaving, which would cause the girls and their family’s shame. Some girls were taken to their Arab “husbands” homes on the Arabian Peninsula to serve as unpaid domestic servants and sex slaves. This is yet another example of two steps forward and one step back for me and provided real context for why the Afghans despised all Arabs as much as they did.
The spy was dragged out to the courtyard and was dropped onto his knees in front of me. I noticed that they had tied his wrists to his ankles which served several purposes. It was impossible to run away in that position, it was uncomfortable for long periods and it made the threat of sodomy all the more real. He was a middle-aged Pashtu man dressed typically for that area. Yet there was something different about him, something sinister, more criminal than religious zealot. In my time as a police officer I had learned to read people by their eyes. I could read his well enough, this was not an Islamic warrior fighting to defend the faith. This was an opportunistic dirt bag playing for whichever team paid more and was most likely to win. I had met his kind before; he was a back shooter and a coward.
He appeared to be frightened until he saw my face and realized that I was an American. That must have calmed his fears somewhat, thinking that the ANA were going to turn him over to my custody. He also believed, and rightly so, that the Americans would not torture him and he would be taken to Bagram Air Base for questioning. I suddenly found myself in a position for which I was utterly unprepared. What did the ANA expect me to do with him and what was I willing to do to him? A-Top gave a command and three of the ANA moved to hold the spy down. “STOP!” I yelled at the ANA, which they did and looked at A-Top for direction.
My interpreter told me that if I did not do this thing the spy would not take me seriously; the enemy thinks that Americans are weak and cowardly. I told them that I did not need to rape a man to prove my manhood or my courage. I removed my 9mm pistol from its holster and walked over to the spy who smiled at me until he saw the pistol in my hand. Something that I had learned while in Iraq was that in most Muslim countries a pistol is the tool of execution. I had a hunch that he spoke enough English to understand me, so I asked who pays him and where is their compound. He refused and began to insult my mother; I shoved the barrel of my 9mm into his forehead and yelled my direction again. The ANA all took a few steps backwards away from the two of us; no one likes brain matter and blood splattered all over their clothes. I cocked the hammer all the way back and told him that I would count to three and pull the trigger. I counted to three, and then my pistol made a loud CLICK sound (I knew that I did not have a round in the chamber).
He broke and started to beg for mercy. I leaned forward and said, “you can talk to me now and I will send you to Bagram, or I will leave you with them. When they are done I will come back and I will shoot you myself, you have three seconds to decide. Three, two…” and then he cried out, “I talk.”
I holstered my 9mm and turned to see all of my ANA brothers looking at me like I had just slain a dragon. I explained to A-Top that after they got what intelligence they needed from him (without harming him) they should bring him to our FOB the morning after I returned. That way A-Top could get all of the credit for bringing him in and there would be no questions asked about my participation.
The walk back to our FOB was somewhat surreal; I was not certain how to handle it or where it would take me. I decided to sit out on my make shift porch for a few moments to collect my thoughts before trying to sleep. It was then that I noticed my hands shaking uncontrollably. My muscles were twitching so fast that I had to put my cup of chai down. I was reminded of the scene in the movie Saving Private Ryan (Spielberg, 1998) where Tom Hanks character had the same type of shakes in his hands. My stomach sank as I realized that I had been lucky that night. What if the spy called my bluff? Would I have executed him or walked away? Walking away would have made working with the ANA impossible. They would have had no respect for me after that and what respect would I have for myself? I came here to kill the enemy of my country and my family. What would I become if I walked away from that? What would I become if I had pulled the trigger?
The morning came earlier than I would have liked, but it was satisfying nonetheless. One of our interpreters came to our hut and advised us that the ANA had captured a Taliban spy and wanted the American soldiers to send him to Bagram. I purposely stayed away from exposing myself to the spy again in front of my team. Our team contacted our CoC and we were advised to transport him to a closer FOB than Bagram so that he could be interrogated there. We later learned that after being “lightly” questioned he was not sent to Bagram but was actually released!
A-Top was furious when he heard and stated that he would never turn over a prisoner to the Americans again. In his context he could not understand why we would let a known enemy go free, “If you know he is your enemy then you kill him, otherwise he will kill you.” His logic made sense to me and it was times like these that I found myself conflicted by the actions of my own CoC. That has always been my issue with “Big Army.” It is driven far too often by the PC agenda of whatever administration is in charge and loses touch with why we are fighting in the first place.
The Tourists among US
I share this story with the hope that it demonstrates how aggravating and possibly dangerous some situations may seem at times, only so that we may laugh at them later. I made it clear to those I was serving with that I was not a tourist and had little time for those in uniform who were. A typical Army tourist was a career desk jockey who volunteered for Afghanistan because at that time it was considered sa
fer than Iraq. They arrive looking for the best rooms and chow halls and internet service. They have their pictures sitting on top of camels as if they were ever going to actually ride one. They are eager to get combat patches and ribbons but do not want to spend one night sleeping outside the wire on the ground.
That was fine as long as they remained close to the Flag Pole and left me and my men alone. Yet inevitably once we secured an area from a serious threat they would fly in for a few days of “combat duty.” Waiting until the long hard road of the mission was done and show up at the end in order to add this mission to the list of their accomplishments. We would then waste time escorting them on short missions while they were hoping that someone would fire a couple of shots over our heads. That was their ultimate reason for being there anyway, to file paperwork for a CAB and leave.
One such group arrived explaining that they were there to “help” us with our mission. Great, I did not have time to be a tour guide. These officers were instructed to follow my direction on that evening’s mission. Though they all outranked CPT Casey and me, we had been working that area for some time and knew best how to prepare for it. We explained that night’s mission especially in regards to gear. The trek to the site was far and difficult and wearing too much gear would be tiring and noisy. After all, this was an ambush.
That evening came and a few of our guests arrived in full battle gear wearing every piece of equipment the Army could have possibly issued. Regardless of the reason, our recommendations were not heeded. Frustrated, I spoke with CPT Casey and he suggested using “controlled failure” as a teaching tool. That is a term used when you allow someone to screw up to the point they learn from it, but don’t get hurt.
We moved out on foot breaking into three teams, one on each ridgeline overlooking the valley. Our team would secure a position behind a stone wall in the valley near the trail the enemy had used for night movement. My Terp shared with me that A-Top was concerned, he did not like taking these soldiers out, he thought they would get us killed. Yet he knew that orders were orders and we had no choice.
We walked for a few hours and settled into our position. This was an ambush which means sitting silently, any noise we make would be heard across the valley and give away our position. The two guests with me were offended when A-Top told them to “Shut Up,” he knew that much English. They stopped talking and the night rolled forward slowly and quietly. One guest asked me why we were waiting so long and I quickly responded with a deer hunting analogy. “You don’t walk into the woods five minutes before you expect the deer to arrive, you will lose the element of surprise.” There could not be anything strange or out of place or the enemy would know it and either retreat or take us by surprise.
I was sitting there staring across the valley listening for any sounds and scanning the moonlit skyline for any movement when it happened. A sudden bright white light flashed all around us. I was immediately blinded and hit the ground face down. I was certain that the enemy had spotted us and had shot out a flare to expose our position. I waited for the sound of gunfire to begin and desperately hoped that my night vision would return so I could return fire.
When I could see I looked up to see A-Top crouched down like a cat about to pounce leaning toward one of our “tourists.” I realized then that we were not under attack; one of our tourists was holding his camera with a dumbfounded look on his face. I asked him, “Sir, did you just take a picture?” To which he replied, “Yes, I wanted to take a picture of the river, was that bad?”
A-Top was now only a few feet away from him and all I could think was, “A-Top will kill him and I will have to bury the body!” A-Top froze for a moment looked at me and said, “Mission Bas (finished)!” My Terp stated that we were to head back to the base, the mission was over. While walking back I explained to the tourist why that was such a bad idea but that I would not mention it to the others in his group, I did not want to embarrass him. When I returned and briefed my commander I overheard the tourist telling the others what he had done and laughing about it. I wished A-Top had strangled him! He just did not get it. The leaders of the other two teams came to me and asked what had happened. One stated that, “The entire valley lit up, we could see all of you like it was daytime.” Unfortunately this scenario would be repeated on too many occasions throughout my tour. Such is the burden of working with tourists and civilians in uniform.
Chapter Eighteen
Back to Yellow Dog
I NEVER RETURNED TO FOB GILLIGAN, but I have seen pictures of it online since it has become a “real” FOB occupied by Big Army with walls, a chow hall and electricity. There was never a lack of missions, adventures and aggravations at FOB Gilligan, but I miss those days the most. Even though our living conditions were Spartan at best, we were masters of all that we surveyed. We answered to and depended on no one but our own team. We grew beards and wore the gear that we needed to wear, not what some distant ICT decided we must wear. We lived with the Afghans as they lived, and ate goat and fresh food every day. We talked about family, friends and the hope of better days to come. We were exhausted from night missions and daily patrols, yet even now I would go back if I could. Maybe it was the sense of being able to address any problem head on as creatively as we needed and the realization that we mattered at least on that small piece of Afghan rock.
Once we accomplished our mission, our orders changed and we traveled back to Yellow Dog for some badly needed equipment maintenance and showers. Although easier access to the internet was a welcomed change, the chow hall food was not. After eating the fresh unprocessed Afghan food my system did not appreciate the greasy Army food. We stayed at YD for a time working with the ANA on basic infantry tactics and logistics.
Another SF team arrived with specific orders to work directly with our ANA Company. It seems that Afghan President Karzai wanted to put an Afghan “face” on American missions, especially those executed by our SF units. Since we had already developed a working relationship with the ANA the decision was made to attach myself and some of the other embedded advisors to this SF group directly.
It would not be long before we were outside the wire again to “pick a fight.” I thoroughly embraced that mindset, as a warrior it was my intent to seek out the enemy and kill them, if this was not our mission then send us home. Compared to my time traveling across Iraq in convoys hoping that we did not get shot at, our mission now was just the opposite. If the enemy shoots at us we know where he is.
Throughout the rest of my tour we went on “long walks” several times with the SF and ANA. Some missions were more successful than others depending upon the weather, terrain, Muslim holy days and interference from our own CoC. Another benefit of being attached to the SF meant that they could pull rank on our CoC and save us from being stuck on the base just to become typists. I was always amazed by the liberty the SF had to work as they needed too with whomever and with whatever they needed.
When they first arrived at YD they inquired if there was anything we needed, I stated that we were short on ammunition because our CoC literally stated “We were not in a combat zone.” This specific officer believed this and would only allow us to carry the bare minimum of ammunition regardless of the fire fights we had already been in. The SF leader led us into a metal conex full of weapons and munitions telling us to take whatever we needed. Before us was a collection of almost every type of rifles, pistols, and explosives. We were never without the ammunition and supplies that we needed again.
Fire in the Valley
One of our long walks led us into a fire fight that had an enduring impact on me. My ongoing struggle with my Christian faith and my attitude toward our Muslim enemies was pushed to the edge during this mission. We were moving down from our temporary base through a village market on our way to a girls’ school a few miles ahead. While passing thru the market we dismounted and shopped our way through it. This tactic was much less disruptive to the locals, winning hearts and minds when we spent money on food, fuel, et
c.
I did not expect trouble while passing through the market since standard experience was that the enemy would not shoot at you with women and children present. While discussing the price of diesel with a local vendor I was startled by the sound of rapid gunfire coming from the tree line. I also heard the sound of bullets hitting metal vehicles, a sound I learned all too well from my previous tour to Iraq. I heard the alarming sound of people screaming as they fell to the ground or ran into the buildings. One of the most vivid sights was the look I saw from one older man; I caught his look of desperation. I became angry that these cowards would place these innocent people in harm’s way, using them as shields. This was Iraq all over again.
All this happened in a split second, as I was moving with my Afghan soldiers and my (SF) team. We quickly determined that two Afghan soldiers had been shot and our medic was on them instantly as they dragged them out of the street. We left a rear security team at the market and began to move around the buildings toward the creek. We were now in an elevated position and saw the enemy, approximately twelve men, moving into the village below. When I saw them I hated them. I wanted to not just shoot them, I wanted to kill them. My team consisted of two Afghan squads, two SF and an interpreter. Another team began a flanking movement to the west; the north and east was a steep mountain range, so we were trying to push them into a box ravine.
After we crossed the creek and climbed the embankment into a field looking out toward the village, we were engaged by small arms fire. We moved to cover and returned fire as they retreated. We took off running, crossing the field in two wedge formations. As we closed in on a building they opened fire again over a four-foot wall. There was a mother and two small children lying down in front of the wall. While under fire, two Afghan soldiers grabbed the children and led their mother to our rear.
Purple Hearts & Wounded Spirits Page 10