The Silence of War

by Terry McGowan

  After returning to the States, I wrote an after-action report and emailed it to Lieutenant Colonel “Smith”:

  The commander, “Brigadier General Ahmed,” is an enigma. Appointed a colonel by the Ministry of the Interior [MOI], “General” Ahmed promoted himself. General Ahmed promised that he could stop the insurgency in [his area] without firing a shot and did so.

  Opinion: If this is in fact the case, Ahmed is the leader of the local nationalist insurgency movement.

  We were informed by Captain Jones that Ahmed spoke perfect English but pretended not to. This was confirmed by observation. Ahmed laughed at jokes spoken in English prior to their translation and answered questions put to him in English also prior to their translation. At one point he made eye contact with me and spoke in Arabic. I had the distinct impression that he was looking for some sign that I understood Arabic.

  Initially translation was conducted by a Sudanese national who did not speak fluent English. At some point into the conversation, an Arab-American from Detroit arrived. His demeanor was different from all interpreters encountered before or since. He took liberties in Ahmed’s presence, including positioning himself behind the general, smoking without asking permission, laughing, and making comments in English, all within the context of overly relaxed body English. Ahmed displayed no observable displeasure with the interpreter.

  Cautionary note: Although the differences in the interpreter’s demeanor might be due to his Detroit upbringing vis-à-vis the other interpreters encountered in Al Anbar, we must consider the possibility that something is not quite right and the interpreter is overly familiar with Ahmed for reasons as yet unknown.

  Although he said nothing about Colonel Ahmed for the remainder of our time together, Lieutenant Colonel Smith began to tell me that I should consider becoming a law enforcement professional (LEP). LEPs were not ordinary police. They were a group of “combat investigators” who had been recruited by a company comprised of former West Point officers. LEPs were considered to be an elite team who brought to the table what the military lacked: an indefinable “something”—“police intuition” plus years of real-world street investigative experience.

  At Camp Fallujah, Colonel Thompson and I had met three LEPs: two retired drug enforcement agents and one retired FBI agent. The retired DEA agents were working hand in hand with Iraqi police detectives, helping the latter to prepare their cases against insurgents who were about to be tried in an Iraqi court. The retired FBI agent was assisting the Marine chief legal officer in getting the civilian courts up and running in Al Anbar Province for the first time since the collapse of Saddam’s regime.

  I learned from them that LEPs were sprinkled throughout the Marine and Army units in Iraq, doing whatever they could to assist. Their mission was not etched in stone—they possessed the initiative to seek out various ways to be “value added.” Thus LEPs were involved in a wide variety of tasks dependent upon the supported military unit’s unique needs. Lieutenant Colonel Smith’s urging was of particular interest to me because the only time I felt adequate during this entire mission was when engaged in conversation with the LEPs. I knew I could be competent in that job. I understood them and felt that they understood me. It had been a pleasant emotional change.

  Next we drove through a place called Kubaisa. We had no business being there. We had no business to conduct there. Young Captain Jones, in charge of our escort, thought we might like to see the sights. He got lost.

  We ended up driving through narrow, winding alleyways, all teeming with people. At places the passage was so narrow we could not have opened the hatches (doors) on our vehicles. I felt particularly uneasy. Each vehicle had a turret on top, which opened into the cabin below. One Molotov cocktail (a bottle filled with gasoline with a lit rag stuffed into it), thrown from the rooftops above, could have burned us alive.

  Moreover, we were not endearing ourselves to the locals. Our long radio antennae were tearing down clotheslines along with makeshift electric and telephone wires. We were a real nuisance. We were dead-ended in a maze twice. That meant we had to slowly, painstakingly, inch by inch, turn around in the cramped alleyways. Worse, it meant we had to go back the way we had come. If any insurgents were waiting for us, there would be hell to pay.

  One turn around took so long that we passengers got out of the vehicles and spread out. Kids began throwing rocks at us. It was tense. I had a flash of inspiration—I took out my camera and gestured toward them, as if I were going to take their picture. It worked. The dropped their rocks and began to gather to pose for pictures.

  In broken English one of them said, “Meester, meester, take my peekture!”

  At the same time, I kept a discreet eye on their fathers, who were watching from nearby doorways. If the fathers called the kids inside, I’d figure something bad was about to happen. As long as the kids were allowed to stay, I reasoned, we were “probably” safe. And as long as I had a camera in my hands, the kids quit throwing rocks. I was later castigated for this by some members of my party. They seemed to think I failed to appreciate the gravity of the situation and was taking pictures like a lunatic tourist. Nothing could have been further from the truth. It was the street cop in me, acting creatively in a tough situation.

  In addition, there was an alleyway running perpendicular to the one we were in, and no one was covering it. I kept going down that alley to peer around the corner building across a large expanse of open ground to see if anyone was coming. It would have been the perfect place to attack us. An attacking force could have cut our column in two and forced us to fire into each other by being between the two halves of our convoy. It would have created an absurd friendly-fire scenario. Marine officer training hadn’t been wasted. It’s how I would have attacked us. It didn’t happen. We weren’t attacked. It was still nerve-racking.

  And either I didn’t make myself understood, or my critics didn’t understand what I had done. It was a perfect example of the synthesis of military training—tactical appreciation of our position—merged with the creativity of a street cop. I took heat for my actions. The whole camera bit made me look ridiculous to the others. I was rapidly becoming a persona non grata on this mission.

  But if I had to do it all over again, I would do the same thing. I remain convinced that it was the right thing to do at that time and place. We finally extricated ourselves and got the hell out of Kubaisa without incident. I believe that day was the most harrowing for me in Iraq. We were critically vulnerable to attack, and I knew it only too well. Fortunately for what remained of my self-esteem, Lieutenant Colonel Smith continued to encourage me to become an LEP.

  Finally we returned to Camp Fallujah for a round of windup meetings with the usual high-ranking Marine officers. This time, I wasn’t invited to attend. I had been officially relegated to irrelevant status. It was the coup de grâce to what was left of my morale. I do believe that Colonel Thompson was pained by this turn of events. He hadn’t seen the terminus approaching and thus had been unable to let me down easy.

  We left Iraq the way we had come in—via helicopter in the dead of night. By that time I had learned to deliberately dehydrate myself so the long flights were not so internally unpleasant. Finally we got a ride on a C-17. A C-17 is a huge aircraft, big enough to transport an M1 Abrams tank. It also had a lavatory. It thus endeared itself to me immediately. We flew in daylight and at such a high altitude that I could look out the window and see both the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers at the same time, with the cradle of civilization in between. It was an extraordinary sight, particularly when I realized that I had actually been on the ground on the banks of the Euphrates River in the not-too-distant past. Whatever else the trip had been, it had opened my eyes to the world of Colonel Thompson.

  Ultimately we wound up back at the Ali al Salem holding area, where an Army brigade had only just arrived and was marking time, waiting to deploy to Iraq. Although in actuality only a comparatively
short period had been spent in Iraq, I felt as if I had aged years. I suppose deep down I had. The trip, although bruising to my ego, had increased my sophistication immensely.

  I sat in the laundry room watching fresh-faced young soldiers who were so new to the Army that their gym shorts and T-shirts hadn’t yet had time to fade in the unforgiving sun. They really struck me as schoolboys away at summer camp. They teased each other and joked around as if they hadn’t a care in the world. I had the sad feeling that these “kids” didn’t know what they were in for. I felt a compelling desire to tell them something that might help them, but the words didn’t come. I sensed a vast gulf between us. It was a crevasse that couldn’t be breached. They would have to experience Iraq for themselves.

  At the time, the Army deployed for fifteen months. What I couldn’t have known then was that before those innocent “kids” returned to Ali al Salem, as hardened veterans, I would be in Afghanistan.

  3

  An End and a New Beginning

  We turned in our gear and reentered the civilian world. The group split up, everyone making their own way back to London or the States. Colonel Thompson and I spent one more luxurious night in the plush hotel that had housed us on our way into the country, then flew together back to the United Kingdom on British Airways. We flew business class, which was indistinguishable to me from first class.

  The colonel and I drank gin and tonics—it seemed appropriate, since the drink was so British. The colonel pleasantly quipped that I should “take my antimalarial medicine.” I believe that the Brits during the heady days of empire had used gin and tonic as such. I took his advice, and sure enough I didn’t get malaria.

  Colonel Thompson went home for a few days, and I spent the time in a lofty Holiday Inn near the heart of London. The hotel was circular, and every room overlooked Greater London. The view was spectacular. Unlike the stereotype of English weather as cold and rainy, the sun shone brilliantly and the air was pleasantly cool without being cold. Spring was in the air, and I could smell moisture. I believe that is what struck me as the most pleasant sensation: the smell of moisture. It was quite a contrast from Iraq and Kuwait.

  Everyone I met was polite and friendly. I made friends with all comers, from taxi drivers to grocery-shopping housewives. Being an English-speaking country, it was familiar enough to be pleasant and yet it was foreign and therefore exciting. I played the role of tourist and visited the usual places: Parliament, the Royal Palace, Big Ben, and so on. I even took in a first-rate play in London’s primary theater district. I hadn’t seen a play since I was a young man. It was marvelous.

  Most importantly, I didn’t have to be concerned about my safety. There would be no IEDs going off. There were no sullen stares from people who would have liked to have seen my burned remains hanging upside down from a bridge.

  It was a wonderful interlude before the ax fell.

  I was gently and politely terminated. I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t. I had been window dressing after all. The mission was being funded by the U.S. Department of Defense, and an American face—other than an active-duty Marine—was required. My résumé made me the perfect choice to secure the necessary funding. This explained why no one had seemed to be interested in what I had to offer. I had served my purpose.

  I was crushed.

  I was too old to serve in uniform—by far—so it seemed that I was at the end of the line. It was a line that had begun with officer candidate school in 1975. I returned home filled with frustration. I had been learning quickly. I knew I had more to contribute. Perhaps with a different assignment I could be of service. It depressed me greatly to think I had just had my last chance.

  —

  Then one day, completely out of the blue, I received an email from Lieutenant Colonel Smith, the intelligence officer who had looked at me strangely in Colonel Ahmed’s office and to whom I had emailed my after-action report. The email tersely informed me that they had just arrested Colonel Ahmed.

  There really was no reason why he should have taken the trouble to notify me. I had never received an email from that officer before, and have never heard from him since. But he helped to rebuild my battered self-esteem.

  At last I realized why he had encouraged me to become an LEP. Apparently I did have something to offer to the war effort, just not as a part of the particular team I was on. I thought about the LEPs I had met in Iraq and realized I had missed a golden opportunity to do something I was actually qualified to do: I hadn’t gotten any contact information.

  Fortunately, there was Colonel Thompson. He had.

  My mentor had, indeed, been looking out for me. He saw my potential as a law enforcement professional and had obtained personal contact information from one of the LEPs we met at Camp Fallujah. Then he emailed it to me when I had been home long enough to recover from the wounds inflicted on my psyche.

  There is nothing like the personal touch to get things rolling, and since the LEP contact and I had met in Iraq, there was a certain boost in the application process. It was detailed and time-consuming all the same. The folks who ran the program were picky. They wanted to be sure I met their qualifications. I had the pleasure of speaking with two gentlemen who had been FBI agents as I had, and our mutual recollections of insider-only locations and jokes made the procedure easier. There are some things that only an insider could possibly know.

  In December 2007, while I was visiting friends in chilly Utah, a call came. It was a retired Army colonel—a combat veteran from the Vietnam War. He was the man who made the final decision. I sat on a cold bedroom floor, nervousness exacerbated by the temperature. He had a training slot coming up very shortly, so he was going to interview me on the phone. I knew that the hardest part of the evaluation would be to convince him that I was worth accepting without sounding pompous. I prefaced my verbal remarks by acknowledging that challenge. He said nothing. I felt uneasy.

  I knew he could hear tension in my voice, so I admitted my anxiousness right up front and told him that this assignment was important to me. He asked why, and I told him the truth. Our country was at war. It was the beginning of what might prove to be the defining type of warfare of the twenty-first century, a war of terror and counterterrorism, and I wanted to be a part of it. I had never served my country during war, and I wanted the chance now.

  Moreover, I believed I had unique qualifications to help shape the war to come. I was a walking synthesis of military and law enforcement experience. The colonel was decisive. He said, “You’re hired.” I then volunteered to be assigned to a Marine unit, and the colonel agreed. Unlike the Iraq venture, where it was a come-as-you-are party, this outfit had a very informative, comprehensive training curriculum prepared. Conducted at a sprawling upscale location in northern Virginia, it left no doubt in my mind as to what was expected of me. It also reinforced my conviction that I was well suited for the LEP position.

  I believe that everyone I met who was associated with the group was a retired high-ranking Army officer and graduate of West Point. I was introduced to more generals than I had ever met in my life. I affectionately referred to them collectively as the “check signers.” They were the very epitome of professionalism. Although the days were long and there were no weekends off, I thoroughly enjoyed their schooling; it was well thought out and properly presented. The weeks seemed to fly by. When the training was concluded, I got orders back to the 1st Marine Division. It was just a bit more than thirty years since I was last assigned to the division, and I was elated. It wasn’t over for me after all!

  The Marine Corps had its own LEP training plan, which was conducted at Camp Pendleton. While there, I reveled in walks down memory lane, marveling at the things that had changed during the intervening decades, and the things that hadn’t. Oceanside, the town just outside the base, was a much more entertaining place to hang out in than it had been when I was on active duty. There were many shops that sold things th
at would be useful overseas.

  I bought what I knew I could use and ignored what was useless—which comprised the majority of the stuff I had lugged around all over Iraq. I had learned a lot more in that country than I had realized at the time.

  I returned to my old regimental area. It was strange and wonderful to see the very same barracks that my Marines had inhabited lo those many years ago; they had been new then. It was also extraordinary to see the latest construction—an Olympic-size swimming pool. Southern California gets hot in the summer, and many times, finishing a run, I would have loved a quick dip. Unfortunately, the pool didn’t exist in my day.

  There is a mountain surrounding the regimental area which we used to call “Sheep Shit Mountain.” Its name was derived from the aftereffects of sheep flocks brought there to graze by picturesque Basque sheepherders. It was a steep up-and-down mountainous trek, and I used to love to run it. Way back when—in my midtwenties—I would run it twice. or only once if I was wearing a heavy flak jacket. Each leg was two and a half miles. Now, at age fifty-eight, I just had to try it again. I did it, but one leg was enough—without the flak jacket. It was more difficult than I remembered in 1978.

  Gravity had to be the reason. Somebody had turned it up.

  There was also a brand-new obstacle course. It had to be new. The wood hadn’t yet had time to become worn smooth by the bodies of countless Marines passing over it. Splinters were problematic. The obstacle course, known to Marines as the “O” course, is standardized throughout the Corps. I always loved it. Well, not always. At officer candidate school I dreaded it, but once I was in shape, I learned to love it. I think some kind of physical fitness “Stockholm syndrome” kicked in. Anyway, I just had to try it again. Once more, I found I could still do it, but the obstacles seemed higher, the air seemed to be thinner, and gravity was even higher still. In short, I wasn’t twentysomething anymore. I was fifty-eight.