Outlaw Platoon

by Sean Parnell

  Chris Brown performing his legendary “Thriller” dance on top of his Humvee before a mission. Courtesy Robert Pinholt

  Chris Brown sliding down a mountain on his backside during the winter of 2006–2007. He always found creative ways to keep up the platoon’s morale. Courtesy Robert Pinholt

  Chris Cowan, better known as “the Constrictor,” putting his trademark headlock on Chris Brown. Courtesy Travis Roberts

  “You’re a member of this platoon now. Don’t fuck it up.” This was my initiation into the platoon at the Joint Readiness Training Center (JRTC) in Fort Polk, Louisiana. For days, I walked around the entire brigade with remnants of the word “cherry” written on my forehead. Courtesy Marcel Rowley

  Michael Emerick entertaining both the platoon and some locals outside of Malakshay during a lighter moment on patrol. Courtesy Robert Pinholt

  Specialist John Saint Jean, our “Haitian Hammer,” in the turret before he was wounded in action. Courtesy Travis Roberts

  Prior to deploying, I set the platoon up with a sponsor who sent us care packages. Here, Khanh Nguyen poses with his Christmas gifts. After healing from a blood clot in his brain caused by a bullet to the head, he managed to make it back to the Outlaws in time for the holiday season. Courtesy Travis Roberts

  Marcel Rowley, our platoon prankster, pulls security with his squad automatic weapon. This iconic image represents well our generation’s commitment to country . . . with attitude. Courtesy Josiah Reuter

  Part III

  The Summer of Discontent

  Ten

  The Gates of Mordor

  June 9, 2006

  East of FOB Bermel

  Outlaw country

  Somethin’ ain’t right, sir.”

  I looked over at Sabatke. “I know. I feel it too, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  The road ahead was dark and empty. We stood in the middle of it, our trucks behind us, and stared into the moonlit night.

  “Listen to that, sir. Not even an insect,” Sabatke said. We cocked our ears and strained to hear anything above our own breathing. Usually on nights like these crickets chirped, goat bells clanged in the distance, and jingle trucks rolled down this road at irregular intervals. I checked my watch. Twenty hundred—eight o’clock. Even at this time, we’d seen lots of traffic before on this road. So far tonight, not even a farmer with a donkey cart had approached us. This was the main road into Pakistan in our area, and it should never be this deserted.

  Sabatke shuddered. When he looked back toward our Humvees, I caught sight of the pentagram tattooed on the back of his neck. The sight made me grin despite my uneasiness.

  “Tree fucker,” I whispered, even though that was Baldwin’s pet nickname for Sabo. Baldwin frequently accused Sabo of being a Wiccan, earth-worshipping Druid. Sabo always growled at that characterization.

  “Satanist,” he shot back with a harsh whisper.

  Greg Greeson, my platoon sergeant, materialized out of the darkness. “Call yourself whatever you want, Sabatke. You’re still a goddamned Wiccan in my book.”

  “I prefer Satanist,” Sabatke growled a little defensively.

  “What do you think?” I asked Greeson.

  “Something’s not right,” he replied.

  “That’s what we said,” Sabo noted.

  “How long have we been here?” I asked.

  Greeson and Sabo checked their watches. “Couple of hours,” they said in unison.

  I thought this over. We’d been out for days already, moving from road to road, setting up these snap vehicle checkpoints in order to deny the enemy freedom to maneuver through the province. Usually we stayed in place for only two or three hours. After that, we’d mount up and go find another spot to do it all over again. The constant motion made it difficult for the enemy to figure out which roads were usable and did not give them the opportunity to mount an attack on us while we sat in a static location.

  I looked east toward Pakistan. Towering mountains capped by jagged peaks formed ominous black shapes on either side of the road. A cloud moved across the nearly full moon, which caused shadows to ripple across the nearby ridges.

  “Looks like we’re at the gates of Mordor out here,” I said, half to myself.

  “Why’s it always a fucking Lord of the Rings thing with you, sir?” Sabatke growled.

  Greeson chortled at that. “Better than that Harry Potter shit you’re always trying to get us to read, sir.”

  I ignored them both, though I was going to say that the cloud-borne shadows moving across the trees looked like Dementors. But I figured if I did say it out loud, I’d get teased mercilessly, and I couldn’t make it too easy on my NCOs.

  Instead, I said, “It is too quiet. Here’s what we’re going to do: Sergeant Greeson, you stay here while I take some of our dismounts forward and set up an ambush on one of the slopes overlooking the road.”

  “Roger that, sir,” Greeson said.

  “If they’re up to something, maybe we can catch them by surprise.”

  Greeson responded with a long, slow “Uhhuuuuh.”

  “Jesus, you sound like that guy from Sling Blade,” I quipped. Sabatke thought that was quite funny. He did his best Billy Bob Thornton: “I don’t reckon I’ll be killin’ no one no more, uhhhuhhh.”

  “Fucking Wiccan.”

  “Satanist, goddammit.”

  I refocused us. “You got my back on this, right?” I said to Greeson.

  His eyes met mine. “Sir, I always have your back. Even when you don’t know it.”

  Two years ago, I’d have been drinking with my college buddies on a night like this. Now I’ve got Sling Blade telling me he’s got my six in the middle of a Lord of the Rings moment on the other side of the planet. Part of me wanted to hug Greeson. Part of me wanted to just shake my head at how surreal my life had become.

  “Okay, I’ll take Baldwin’s squad. Let’s move.” The three of us dispersed. I grabbed Pinholt, and together we went to find Baldwin, who was standing by our rigs with the rest of his men.

  I briefed him on the plan. He offered a few suggestions, then formed his squad into a wedge. Down the road we went, keeping silent, moving swiftly in the moonlight. We pushed east until an inviting slope appeared off to one side of the road. Halfway up, we found good cover and set up our ambush. While the men spread out to find good fighting positions, Baldwin, Pinholt, and I stayed together in the middle of the squad’s line. Baldwin scanned the road with a new thermal imaging scope that looked a little like an old-fashioned spyglass. With the moon up, our night-vision goggles functioned very well, so I felt confident that if anyone came down the road, we’d be able to see them long before they saw us.

  The men grew still, straining their senses in order to detect the enemy’s presence. Once again, we didn’t hear so much as an insect.

  Baldwin, who lay on his stomach on the other side of Pinholt, muttered, “This is really weird, sir.”

  Pinholt agreed. All of us had our hackles up. That sort of silence just didn’t happen in Afghanistan. It was becoming oppressive.

  A few more minutes passed. I struggled to stay alert. We’d been out four days, working day and night. All of us were smoked, filthy, and reeking.

  Pinholt chose that moment to say, “This is fucking creepy.”

  “Pinholt, that may be the first time I’ve heard you swear,” I said.

  “You’re a bad influence, sir.”

  “Finally I have some influence.” Now, if I could only get him to drink coffee . . .

  We grew quiet again. Sleep threatened to overtake us.

  “Something is definitely up,” I muttered, thinking about Galang and his inscrutable intentions.

  In the darkness, I heard Baldwin whisper, “Good, goddammit.”r />
  Pinholt asked, “Why good?”

  Baldwin said, “Maybe these fuckers will attack with Bin Laden in command so I can bring his head back to the States on a platter.”

  Exhaustion mingled with tension created the perfect stage for a laughing fit. Pinholt succumbed first. He was always quick to laugh anyway and tended to spool up to near-hysterical proportions on a normal day. He tried to conceal it, but his efforts only infected me. Soon the three of us were alternately giggling and shushing one another, like brothers on a camping trip.

  This was an ambush line, and we were professionals. The moment ended swiftly, and we reset our game faces. We settled down to wait in silence.

  An hour passed, and we didn’t hear a thing. Finally I’d had enough. I keyed the radio and called Greeson. “We’ve got nothing. You?”

  His voice had returned to its normal sleepy Sam Elliott. “Nothing, sir.”

  “Moving back to you, then.”

  “Roger.”

  I pulled in my flank security, and we set off back to our makeshift checkpoint. When we reached the rest of the platoon, Greeson and I talked the situation over.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “No. Not even heat signatures from any of the villages around here. No cooking fires. Nothing.” I replied.

  He glanced around. “Sir, I feel like we’re being watched.”

  Sabatke joined us and agreed. “You and me both.”

  “Let’s get out of the low ground, sir, and establish an OP somewhere we can tuck in tight for the night.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s take a look at the map.” Ten minutes later, we’d found a hilltop a few kilometers behind us that was a good location for the platoon. It overlooked the road. In the morning, should the enemy start using the road, we’d be able to hit them from the high ground for a change. As an added benefit, the slopes appeared steep enough to protect us should we get probed during the night.

  We mounted and set off to find the hill. A few kilometers down the road, we turned onto a narrow goat trail that wound its way up the north side of the hilltop. I dismounted and walked the trail with Baldwin’s squad in the lead, our Humvees inching along behind us. The trail was rugged and dotted with razor-sharp chunks of shale. Several times I slipped and fell, catching myself with one hand. Baldwin’s men struggled along as well. A few went down hard, suffering cuts and scrapes on the jagged edges of shale that jutted out of the soft earth. We maintained noise and light discipline, saying nothing while relying on our night vision to guide us. That soon failed us, as our eyepieces fogged over. We flipped them up and kept going by the light of the moon.

  Halfway up, our lungs burned from the exertion with ninety pounds of gear on our backs. We were up around ten thousand feet, and some of the men began to suffer from altitude sickness. A few threw up. Sweat poured off me. My lungs felt like a four-alarm fire. With each step, I willed myself not to fall out. I couldn’t do that, not in front of my men. They had to see their platoon leader as bulletproof and unflappable, able to endure far more than anyone else in the unit. Even after May 7, I could not be seen any other way.

  When we finally reached the top, I took a knee and gasped for breath. Head down, rifle on my knee, I sucked wind in the darkness. Thirty seconds of that, and I looked up to see if anyone was watching me. Sure enough, I could make out the shadowy forms of Sabatke, Baldwin, and Campbell walking toward me. Sergeant Waites trailed behind them, looking tense.

  No weakness. Never show it. I tried to control my breathing to make it appear normal. I rose off my knee to greet them standing erect.

  They weren’t having any of my pretensions. Campbell reached me first, a big grin on his face. “Hey, sir. Can’t you hack it?”

  “Why don’t you play a game of hide and go fuck yourself, Campbell,” I whispered.

  Campbell elbowed Sabatke in the ribs. “Check it out. LT here’s having trouble handling a little hill!”

  “Hey, I’m here with ya, aren’t I? And I didn’t see either of you walkin’!” I retorted.

  “Everyone shut the fuck up.” That was Greeson. He’d come up behind my squad leaders and looked angry, tired, and impatient. We’d run out of near beer. I was worried about him.

  “Sir, please put out the priorities of work. I’m fuckin’ tired.”

  I thought it over briefly. “Security, weapons, rest cycle, and food.”

  Greeson nodded. “Roger, sir.”

  “Anything for the squad leaders?” I asked him.

  He regarded Sabatke, Campbell, and Baldwin. “Yeah. Tell your guys that if I catch anyone sleeping in the turret, the hajjis won’t have to kill them. I will.”

  My squad leaders exchanged nervous looks as Greeson walked away. I heard Baldwin mutter, “That man is in desperate need of a cigarette.”

  “Sergeant Greeson, can we make sure the men get some rest tonight?”

  “Sir, quit being a Joe hugger. We got this.”

  “Roger.” I felt a little stung by that. I cared about the men; it was part of my job. Part of my job was also to recognize when exhaustion and hunger made everyone crusty and not let that affect us. I think Greeson saw the effect his words had on me. It had not been intentional. He slapped my shoulder and said, “Sir, you got other things to worry about. I got this, okay?”

  I chuckled and shook my head, thinking that it was simply Greeson’s way of saying “Let me handle my business.”

  “Roger that, Sergeant Greeson.”

  Bowlegged, he headed off to make sure the men were squared away. I took a long pull from my CamelBak. The water felt glorious on my parched throat. Slowly my heartbeat returned to normal. My breathing became steady and even. Around me, my squad leaders went to work establishing a 360-degree perimeter with our five trucks. The gunners received their sectors and fields of fire. Each Humvee would kick out a couple of dismounts to help buttress our perimeter. Should we be probed tonight, we would be able to meet any attack from any direction.

  I walked the line, talking with the men. Over the months, I’d come to know a lot about them—their hometowns, their friends and families. The great thing about small-unit leadership is the enormous bond so easily shared between the leader and his young warriors. It is a great strength, and in a fight I’d come to count on every one of them. At the same time, I knew there would come a point when I might have to order one or more of them into certain death. And I wasn’t sure I could do that. That’s the crux of the role of a lieutenant. The mission must transcend the bond. But for me, sometimes the familiarity was hard to overcome.

  I reached the first Humvee. Bray stood watch behind his heavy machine gun. A blue-eyed, blond-haired hulk of a kid from Louisiana, he was two hundred and ten pounds of sculpted southerner. He spent every second off duty in the gym. He also had the soul of a warrior, something he had proved on May 7.

  “How ya doin’, Bray?” I asked. I noticed he was drinking a GNC protein shake. He sucked those down like most of us drank water.

  “Good, sir, you?”

  Never show weakness. I was smoked and sore, my feet blistered and crotch chapped from all the walking. “Livin’ the dream, Bray,” I said.

  I wandered to the next truck in the perimeter. This one was my own, and Chris Brown manned the turret’s machine gun.

  “Hey, Brown, what’s up?”

  “Just waitin’ for my next copy of King magazine, sir,” he replied with his Memphis accent. Chris loved to be in the mix with the rest of the men, but his soft eyes revealed a huge heart to anyone who looked close enough. At times I worried about him. He tried hard to be a warrior, and he was, but it didn’t come to him naturally, as it did Sabo or Bray. At times I thought he cared too much, and that made him vulnerable.

  I kept it light. “What is it with you and that rag?”

  “Those chicks are hot, sir!”

  I shook my head
and laughed. “Okay, Brown, you gonna be able to stay awake?”

  “Hell, yeah. I’m good to go, sir.” He sounded surprised that I’d even asked.

  I gave him the thumbs-up sign and continued walking the perimeter. When I encountered Emerick, I couldn’t help but ask him about his latest creation.

  He was eating an MRE next to his rig, but he reached inside and showed me another variant of “demon orgy.”

  “You know, Emerick, you’re on to something there. There are a few more in this version,” I noted.

  “Thanks, sir. Wanted to get the facial expressions just right,” he added. “I’ll probably redo it,” he mused.

  “You’re gonna be famous someday, Emerick. And I’ll get to say, ‘I knew him when.’ ”

  “You think demon sex’ll sell?” he asked.

  “You’ll be able to print your own money with this stuff.”

  We chatted a little while longer. He had everything well in hand. After a moment I moved on to the next rig.

  Greeson and my squad leaders had established a tight ring on the top of the hill. We had plenty of cover and concealment, as conifer trees blanketed the slopes and the crest, interspersed with sharp-edged boulders that looked like something out of Land of the Lost. Sabatke’s Humvee anchored the north side of the line. In the middle, facing east, was Baldwin’s rig, whose turret held the fearsome M2. Come morning, if we saw any enemy movement on the road below us, his vehicle would be the tip of the platoon’s spear. Beyond it about fifteen meters to the south was Sergeant Waites’s vehicle.

  Waites had continued to be a challenge for me during our first five months in country. Once, when his rig had been on point during a patrol, we took a wrong turn and I had tried to contact him on the radio. He hadn’t answered my repeated calls. Finally, I’d had to dismount and run forward to stop him. When I’d pounded on his door and asked him why he wasn’t responding over the radio, he’d answered, “Sir, I don’t need no radio. Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen out here.”