The Silence of War

by Terry McGowan

  Thin olive-drab-colored nylon cord was strung anywhere and everywhere, and wet clothes were thrown over it. If anything, the wind blew even harder at Golestan than it had at Delaram. As a result, fine particles of sand were power-driven into hanging laundry. I’m convinced my uniform could have stood up by itself once it was dry. Periodically clothes would be blown off the line, where they would lie drying in the dirt until someone picked them up.

  By some miracle there was actually a lone tree inside the FOB. It survived because of its proximity to the hand pump. Runoff water nourished it. Its branches were decorated like a Christmas tree with socks and underwear. Little things take on exaggerated importance in a world as severe as the Afghanistan desert, and that tree came to mean a lot to me.

  Sadly, it was right next to our mortar emplacement, and it was cut down. It interfered with the angle of fire. I missed that solitary tree. All the same, I would not have traded it for the mortars. We only had two 81mm tubes and one 60mm, but they did wonderful work for us when the time came.

  —

  The world began to heat up almost immediately after sunrise and only got hotter as the day wore on. Marines worked hard making good use of the sandbags and razor wire that had just been delivered. Extra wire provided a welcome buffer between us and the bulletproof “clinic,” and the claymores were set up facing in that direction. A sandbagged bunker was constructed atop the concrete latrine, which also faced that worrisome area of approach. Claymores are detonated by a “clacker” connected by wire. The clackers were placed inside the new emplacement, which immediately became known as the “shithouse bunker.”

  Quietly Gunny Mendoza took me aside and asked if I would man the shithouse bunker. He wanted someone with maturity hovering over the claymore detonators. I was only too glad to agree. I had already identified that bunker as the key terrain inside the FOB. Not only did it face the dreaded “clinic,” but also, turning around, one could see the entire interior of our position. Whoever held it controlled the core battle space. The emplacement included boxes of fragmentation grenades, an M240 machine gun, and lots of extra rounds. A handmade wooden ladder was the only way to access it. Kick the ladder over and whoever was up there was in about as good a defensive position as one could find.

  I would have gone there anyway. Privately I had cautioned Payne, Harless, and Peterson that if things fell apart and their leaders were dead, they had to hold that bunker. If the enemy had already taken it, they had to take it back. No one could survive inside the FOB if that critical terrain was lost. I promised that if I were alive, that’s where I would be. Things started to improve.

  That was good, because the place still reminded me of the Alamo.

  I got in the habit of going on patrol with Sergeant Holter and Bravo Squad pretty much every day. Some days we went out by vehicle and swept the area around Golestan; some days we walked through town. They often went out twice in a single day, and in the beginning I tried to do the same. But at fifty-eight years old, I really didn’t want to burn myself out. I kept it down to one patrol a day. To lighten the heavy load I was carrying, I ditched the bullet-stopping armor plate that covered my back. I stowed it under my cot. That helped a little. Nevertheless, by midafternoon, I was nearly worn-out. I would pull my Marine eight-point cover (cap) down over my eyes as I lay on my cot and take a siesta. I called it a prerogative of an old man.

  Initially some of the squad would turn to me and ask what I wanted them to do. It was natural, given my age and their knowledge of what my rank had been. I always pointed to Sergeant Holter and said, “There is your squad leader.” Sergeant Holter, a veteran of the Iraq War, proved himself time and again to be an outstanding Marine NCO. I had no qualms whatsoever about following his lead.

  I soon morphed from being an “old rifleman” to being Sergeant Holter’s “rifle partner”—meaning I covered his back. Instead of being assigned to a fire team, I went with him. It was eminently logical, since an interpreter, called a terp, always accompanied him, thus enabling communication with the locals. Being within earshot of the terp I was privy to the superabundance of verbal information being exchanged. I was also welcome to interject with questions whenever I felt the need. It was the right place for a street investigator like me. It was why I had come to Golestan.

  Besides, I really wanted to cover his back.

  There were two kinds of Afghan police—the ANP, or Afghan National Police, and ANCOP. ANCOP stood for Afghan National Civil Order Police. They were the elite. Unfortunately, there were only a relative handful of them in the entire country. During formal training of the ANP, ANCOP would rotate into the ANP’s districts and hold things down until the ANP returned, nicely trained and equipped—theoretically.

  When I got to Golestan, the ANCOP were in residence. Although my initial impression of the inadequacies of the ANP never changed, it didn’t take long to realize that ANCOP were a completely different breed. Comparing them to the ANP would be like comparing Marines to the Boy Scouts. Well led, intrepid, and highly motivated, they earned my respect as well as the respect of the Marines around me. In time we even learned to trust them. That was a gift never bestowed upon the ANP.

  They were all battle-hardened veterans. Their leader was a major. Of average height and build, he had streaks of gray in his black hair and beard. His countenance exuded confidence without arrogance. He appeared dignified but approachable. He issued orders quietly with the poise of one who was used to being obeyed. His men obviously held him in high regard.

  The second in command was a lieutenant who spoke very good English. He was a member of the Tajik ethnic group. The Tajiks are a minority of the people who comprise the Afghanistan population, the majority being of the Pashto tribe. Like many Tajiks, he had a somewhat Oriental look about his eyes. Taller than average and with a slight mustache, he was very friendly and also highly competent. He inspired his men. They loved him. I came to like him very much and regarded him as a friend.

  I was a real anomaly to the ANCOP, as the lieutenant explained. They were amazed at my gray hair and obvious signs of age. Standing five-foot-eight, I was still lean and in pretty good shape. Weather-beaten though my face was, I looked a lot younger than my years, but still a bit too old to be out doing what I was doing. As we all got acquainted, the lieutenant translated the question that seemed to be on everybody’s mind: just how old was I?

  When I told them they appeared astounded. They all started slapping me on the back and with broad smiles spoke to me in a language I didn’t understand. I got the impression, though, that it was the functional equivalent of “good man!” The lieutenant then told me that his men had just nicknamed me “the strong man.” Maybe if his English had been perfect it would have come out differently—I was surrounded by young Marines who could’ve lifted up a car to help someone change a tire; I needed a jack.

  It was as amusing to Bravo Squad as it was to me.

  Joint patrols with ANCOP were a pleasure. They did not need us to train them. They were highly capable from the start. Moreover, their presence legitimized our being in Afghanistan. We were there to assist the rightful Afghan authorities and not to enforce our will on the inhabitants. It was their country and we were helping them to police it and keep the enemy at bay. As long as they were with us, people could not say that Americans were there to conquer. People everywhere were much friendlier toward us when accompanied by them. In addition, they spoke the language. The populace was a good deal more forthcoming with information for them than for us or—later—for the ANP. ANCOP were professionals, whereas the ANP I encountered were anything but.

  The people respected ANCOP, but not the ANP. If the ANP were nearly as good, the war would be won.

  As a consequence of the excellent working relationship we developed with ANCOP, we jointly patrolled far-off villages. We got to interact with communities who otherwise might have hidden themselves at our approach. Together we vigorousl
y sought out the Taliban. Acting on tips garnered from the common people, we searched for hidden trails over the mountains and unknown water sources. We expanded our patrols on an ever-widening arc around the FOB. The knowledge of the terrain thus garnered would stand Marines in good stead when the ANCOP were gone.

  They also made it clear that they were in charge. On one occasion, in a remote village, a member of the local population behaved with obvious disrespect toward them. They displayed their disapproval by arresting him on the spot. One of our Marine leaders thought they were being a bit too harsh on the man and sought to intervene on his behalf. The English-speaking lieutenant firmly let him know that this was their affair, not ours. They were the police, not us, and they would handle things their way. In the end, having received an apology from the miscreant, they “unarrested” him and let him go. It was as it should be; it was their country, not ours.

  —

  The ANCOP were stationed in what used to be the Soviet FOB across the east-to-west dry riverbed from the Marine position. Their site was much nearer to the grove of trees than was the Marine FOB, but it was where the Soviets had put it. It was there, so it was utilized. Besides, it was fully enclosed by high, bulletproof adobe walls. In that regard they were better off than we were. Nor did they have the bulletproof “clinic” to contend with. The inside was rather primitive, and I doubted that much had changed since the Soviets had abandoned the place. They slept on old spring beds with shabby mattresses. Sadly, the ANP were due back to Golestan soon, and the ANCOP would be leaving. Before they left, however, they would prove their battleworthiness.

  We had no way of knowing it, but even then the Taliban were approaching in force. They were coming over the mountains on trails too narrow for anything but a man on foot with a donkey. Our reliance on vehicles was a hindrance. It was rather like the cavalry versus the Apaches in the American Southwest. Our vehicles kicked up a huge dust cloud sure to be seen when still miles away, and the Taliban were secure in their mountain strongholds. It would take time to move as much ammunition as they would need—with no modern conveyances—to staging areas near the chosen point of attack, but they had all the time in the world.

  The dogs of war were moving in for the kill.

  —

  Work on the FOB continued. One sergeant, a skilled carpenter, preferred to work at night, when it was cooler. Sleeping through the sound of a skill saw tearing wood, and the loud “whump” of a board flatly hitting the ground wasn’t too difficult as tired as I was. However, a generator was kept running day and night to power the command post and provide minimal light for working. Since the FOB was very small, there was no escaping its constant noise. The fumes were pervasive as well, and I began to wake up with headaches. I believed it was due to sleeping in close proximity to the exhaust, so I started looking around for another place to bunk.

  I felt myself a member of Bravo Squad and sought out their company for typical Marine banter when duties provided an opportunity. It was natural, therefore, that I’d look to their billeting area for my new digs. They were quartered in a six-room adobe structure with dirt floors and covered by a thatch-and-mud roof. That another nation’s army had been in residence there in the past was obvious by the name painted on one side in large white letters BLOCAO EL MALO. We guessed it meant “The Evil Blockhouse” or something. It seemed appropriate.

  There wasn’t much room left inside, but Sergeant Holter and the squad were all for the move. The guys enjoyed busting on the “old man” as much as I enjoyed busting back. Fortunately, there was a National Guard lieutenant from my home state of New York in residence. A cop in the “real world,” he belonged to a Military Police unit and was exiled to Golestan to help with the ANP when they returned. Six-foot-two or so, comfortably middle-aged, and naturally bald, Lieutenant Kyle Slocum graciously shared his hovel with me. It was much less hot inside—brutally hot but less so—and farther from the generator.

  One night Lieutenant Brewster decided to call an unannounced readiness drill. It was late, and any Marine not on guard duty was asleep. Suddenly the call went out, “STAND TO!” Practice makes perfect, and the initial chaos was replaced by swift execution after a few more such drills. I climbed the ladder to the “shithouse bunker” and joined Bravo squad’s lance corporals Bryan “Davey” Davidson and Rory Compton. Brewster ordered a head count over the radio. As position after position called in, it was our turn.

  Compton had the radio. He confidently replied, “Two Marines, one civilian.”

  I went off like a mousetrap.

  “CIVILIAN!??? CIVILIAN!??? I WAS A MARINE BEFORE YOU WERE BORN! MY DOG TAGS ARE OLDER’N YOU ARE! HELL, MY DOG TAGS ARE OLDER’N YOUR DADDY! I MIGHT BE YOUR DADDY—IS YOUR MOMMA GOOD-LOOKIN’?!”

  It was typically Marine, totally good-natured, and Compton knew it. Even so, when Brewster held his next drill and called for a head count, Compton called in,

  “Two Marines and uh, uh, uh . . . TERRY!”

  Okay, I could live with that.

  Lieutenant Slocum and a couple of soon-to-be-leaving Army officers and NCOs occupied an armored truck bed that had somehow been placed atop a huge metal storage box. It was right next to the “shithouse bunker,” although separated by a chasm of about eight feet. It too faced the west, in the direction of greatest concern, the “clinic.” That made for a total of four fortified positions now capable of fighting an enemy from that direction. I was beginning to breathe a little easier.

  We couldn’t have known it then, but when Lieutenant Brewster ordered a makeshift stand constructed for the Stars and Stripes, it was a last touch.

  Since I had packed a standard-size Marine Corps flag with me, I offered it to be flown next to the national banner. They were to be planted side by side atop a hollow-shell partial Hesco barrier on the east side of the FOB. It really was hollow—there had been no time to fill it. Hopefully the enemy wouldn’t know that because it wouldn’t have stopped an incoming round from a BB gun.

  Unfailingly gracious, the epitome of an officer and a gentleman, Lieutenant Brewster offered me the privilege of raising the colors for the first time. I was the “senior Marine” present, he said.

  For about four months out of the year, the wind in western Afghanistan blows strongly and continuously. It’s called “the season of wind.” The strong, constant wind kept both flags flying straight out every minute of the day. Clint Eastwood, Tom Hanks, or Steven Spielberg couldn’t have asked for more if they were making a movie about the place. It was all the more dramatic because it was real.

  Pretty much every night I would lie on my cot, staring up at the mud-and-thatch ceiling, before falling asleep. Every once in a while a clump of dirt would fall. I felt a low-grade fear in the pit of my stomach and I often thought that I could never watch a movie about the Alamo again without realizing that I knew how those men felt. Or rather, how they felt before Santa Anna showed up.

  Like them, I knew we were in a vulnerable position. Like them we were relying on adobe walls and thrown-together defenses in case of attack. Like them, we were hoping to survive and make it home. Every night since arriving at Golestan, I wondered if our fate would be the same as that of the men of the Alamo. Wearing only boxers, I drifted off into an exhausted sleep, cooled by a pool of my own sweat.

  Although it had been my intention upon arriving at Golestan to remain only until the next supply convoy, then return to Delaram, I had already changed my mind. How could I live with myself if the FOB was overrun after I left? Like the Alamo, there would be no survivors. I decided to stay. It may sound trite, but the truth is I felt it would be easier to die than to live with the knowledge that I had abandoned all those fine young Marines just to save my own old hide.

  At 11:30 p.m. on July 1, 2008, I quit watching a movie on my laptop, which was balanced precariously on my chest, and laid the computer down. Slocum was sleeping the sleep of the just and snoring slightly. The man w
as a rock. I dozed off pleased with the knowledge that I didn’t have to get up early the next day; I could sleep until the heat woke me.

  An hour and a half of downtime was all I got.

  12

  The Attack

  I bolted awake. “What was that?” I asked myself. “Was that our carpenter sergeant working late again? Did he just drop a flat board?” I sat up on my elbow and listened intently. I looked at my watch. It was 1:00 a.m. on July 2.

  WHUMP! WHUMP! “Okay, I know what that is!” It was the sound of rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs) slamming into the sandbag-reinforced adobe walls.

  As I jumped up barefoot and half naked on the dirt floor I yelled to Slocum, “WAKE UP! THIS IS IT!”

  I pulled on my pants—although in retrospect I don’t know why I bothered—strapped on my war belt with pistol and extra rifle magazines, and yelled at Slocum again, “WAKE UP!” Then I threw on my tactical vest with the “Secret Squirrel” logo proudly displayed on the front, grabbed my Kevlar (helmet) and rifle, and gave Slocum one last chance to fight for his life.

  “WAKE UP!”

  “Umm huh?” he stirred.

  “STAND TO! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!”

  Marines were already blasting away with rifles and machine guns. RPGs were still hitting our perimeter.

  Slocum is the most unflappable man I have ever met. He nearly slept through a war.

  I bolted out the entranceway of our room and heard Compton yelling at the top of his lungs, “Should we set off the claymores?!”

  I thought, “Holy Christ, they must be coming over the walls!”

  Still barefoot and bare-chested, I ignored the rocks under my feet and climbed the wooden ladder to the shithouse bunker, where Compton and Davidson were manning their guard post. Muzzle flashes from enemy machine guns and AK-47s lit up the woods to our northwest like fireflies on a summer night, but I saw no human wave coming from the clinic. Davidson was manning the M240 machine gun. Compton turned to me.