The Silence of War

by Terry McGowan

  If further confirmation were needed, we discovered brand-new holes carved in adobe buildings with piles of spent cartridges on the ground. The town was spared, and people were grateful. They knew the Taliban were deliberately trying to entice us to cause casualties among them.

  Marines won their respect that day.

  After a long and unhurried hunt in Golestan, Brewster led us back to the FOB. I was delighted at the reduction in weight I had managed to effect by ditching the armor plates, and loved the long brim of my soft cover as opposed to the Kevlar helmet. It shielded my eyes from the sun nicely and kept my head much cooler. Unfortunately, the lieutenant—still marvelous with his gracious manners—turned to me and said,

  “Terry, the next time we go out expecting to make contact with the enemy, please do me a favor and wear your Kevlar [helmet].”

  At least he had finally called me “Terry.”

  I promised I would. In my Marine Corps world a request is still an order, no matter how tactfully it is phrased. Thankfully, he didn’t realize that I wasn’t wearing my armor plates. I never wore them again.

  I knew I had come across as stern to the lieutenant when I first arrived at Golestan, so I didn’t want to miss this opportunity to tell him what I thought of his leadership during the battle and its aftermath. I unequivocally approved. He had remained composed, clear of thought, and courageous throughout. His tactical decisions were flawless. I don’t recall exactly what I said to him, but I’m certain that I made those feelings known. “Captain” McGowan’s final words were words of praise.

  From that moment on, I ceased to be a “captain in disguise” watching over a young lieutenant, and became Brewster’s aide-de-camp. Our working relationship continued to improve steadily throughout the remainder of the deployment. Moreover, we evolved into friends. I was content; FOB Golestan was in good hands.

  After about thirty-six hours of heightened wakefulness, I managed to take a nap. It was a good thing, since the lieutenant had the entire FOB standing to all that night. I was back with Compton and Davidson in the shithouse bunker.

  I’m sure the Taliban were disappointed that their attack the second night was foiled by the sound of a drone overhead, but they were no more disappointed than we would have been had we known they were coming and had turned back. The previous night most of the garrison was asleep when they struck. That night, we were waiting, all of us—awake, alert, manning the defenses—and itching for another go at it. Had they come at us they would have walked into a perfect firestorm of shock and awe. Not even the proximity of the clinic would have helped them. They would have been slaughtered.

  —

  Much later—back in the States—I learned more about the mystery in the sky that night. Unknown to any of us at the time, Lieutenant Colonel Hall made sure we had Harrier (Marine fighter-bomber) support the night following the attack. Since there was only one Marine Harrier squadron in Afghanistan at that time, it had to have been borrowed from the Twenty-fourth Marine Expeditionary Unit (MEU) being held at KAF. What the drone we heard overhead saw was our position about to be swarmed with more than a hundred men setting in place for another attack. When the drone was brought in lower for a better look, the enemy heard it and bugged out. By the time the jets arrived, they were gone.

  Naturally, we were more than a little vigilant in the ensuing days after the attack, but things remained quiet. Patrols, both mounted and on foot, were increased. The Marines were doing up to three patrols a day—and strengthening defenses in between. They were nearing exhaustion. But no one complained, and all did their duty. After the attack I had firmly resolved to remain at Golestan. I sent for the gear I had left at Delaram. It would arrive by convoy whenever a convoy arrived. I had been living out of a small pack and in the clothes on my back for more than two weeks.

  During this postattack period Brewster demonstrated exceptional creativity in planning his patrols. One night after dark—and soon after the attack—Bravo Squad was sent out to circle wide and sneak into a position behind Russian Hill. I went with them. While the armored vehicles and Marines waited out of sight, Sergeant Holter and I sat at the topographical crest of the hill. We could see for miles in every direction. Our night-vision goggles gave us a terrific leg up over Marines from previous wars.

  I had brought a pair of high-powered binoculars with me to Golestan, and I had them with me that night. Holter and I took turns using them to intently scan the approaches to the FOB. Even with night-vision goggles men on foot might slip into an attack position if we weren’t careful. Brewster’s plan was obvious to me. If the enemy attacked the FOB, Bravo Squad—automatic weapons mounted in turrets atop armored vehicles—would swoop down on an exposed flank.

  At about 2:00 a.m.—with only approximately two hours of darkness remaining at that latitude—Brewster ordered Sergeant Holter to daringly sweep down into the town and cut into the last concealed position from which an enemy could have massed. There really wasn’t much time left for the Taliban to mount an attack that night, but Brewster was taking no chances. As always—not knowing if all hell would break loose—we were primed and ready for what might come. When no contact was made, the squad was ordered back to the FOB. The sun would soon be up.

  13

  The Outside World

  Although our only source of electricity was a generator, we did manage to get an Internet connection going. It would be sporadic at best for a good bit of the time, but it was something. To an old Cold War Marine like me, it was unbelievable. We were on the opposite side of the world from home, so emails were nothing like real time, but we could pretty much write back and forth in about a day.

  Bill Osborne, the former Marine whom I had met before we left the States, resumed sending me information about Afghanistan that he had gleaned from the Web. Only now it contained a lot about us—the battalion. I really had no idea what was going on outside Golf Company, and it was great to get some news.

  Bill sent me an article from a Marine Corps publication written by Corporal Ray Lewis, who was a combat correspondent for his MOS. I had met Ray before pushing out and remembered thinking, “Wow, we still have ‘combat correspondents’—flash to World War II!” Corporal Lewis wrote about Lieutenant General Helland’s visit to Delaram. It was interesting to fill in the gaps and realize how things were progressing where I had left. The article was illuminating. Now we were augmented by soldiers, airmen, National Guardsmen, and civilian contractors who specialized in police operations. That last part tickled me. “Uncle Frank” and I had been with the battalion even back in the States.

  The general went on to say that 2/7 was the first to go out at the platoon level in an open environment with the bad guys right outside the gate; I could sure identify with that part. The article concluded by noting that General Helland had convoyed to FOB Delaram and described it as one of the unit’s most austere locations. I grinned when I read that. By this time I had come to think of Delaram as one level to the rear.

  In my mind, there was no question. FOB Golestan was the tip of the spear.

  From Bill, I also learned that Fox Company had a real fight on its hands going house to house, clearing a Taliban-occupied town known as Now Zad. I knew those guys, of course—the company commander was a heck of a nice guy, as was the first sergeant and company gunny. I knew the executive officer, all the platoon commanders, and many of the NCOs and other Marines.

  Lieutenant Pat Caffery, an engineer by MOS and my tentmate from KAF, attached himself to Fox. Pat told me later of the company-size night attack they had made. It sounded like something we used to train for back in active-duty days—except now they had night-vision goggles, which enabled them to see in the dark. Fox Company was able to take about half the town. They just didn’t have enough men to finish the job. There were no civilians living there—they had long since left—and the Taliban hung on tenaciously. The Marine battalion that relieved 2/7—3rd Battalion, 8th M
arines (3/8)—would finish the job. So for the rest of the deployment, “Fox” and the Taliban went nose-to-nose continuously.

  I heard about Commander Jim “Fighting Doc” Hancock, a U.S. Navy doctor, and how he got his nickname at Now Zad. He had pioneered an extremely far-forward surgical “operating room” atop an armored seven-ton truck. Then he personally went on foot to find wounded Marines. On occasion he had to shoot his way to them. I heard that he was credited with two confirmed enemy dead in his zeal to save young Marines.

  Much later on, when I was back at the battalion CP at British base Bastion, I spoke with Fighting Doc. He told me that he had realized pretty early on that the usual tent setup wasn’t going to work too well at Now Zad. Worse, the trip to KAF or Bastion would take way too long. Knowing there would be a need for immediate trauma care, he improvised. He decided that a large heavy metal shipping container would have enough room for his surgical team and himself and would provide good protection. He had one put on the back of a seven-ton truck and then decided what he wanted placed inside. With the help of a team of welding contractors, it was done. The cost: “a couple of bags of Starbucks.”

  He told me that it “saved lives, no doubt about it.”

  Fighting Doc estimated that a couple hundred Marines were treated within about a hundred meters of the fighting—the trauma unit was within two to three minutes of the front line. No one who got there died. The good doctor was rewriting doctrine for shock trauma platoons when I spoke with him. He decided that current doctrines don’t favor this particular war zone.

  “If we don’t get to the wounded fast enough, they’re dead,” he said, and “we’ve got to push the trauma unit to the front.”

  Fighting Doc had to use his rifle straightaway. It was on his first patrol. The terrain was bad, and he knew that the usual casualty evacuation vehicles or helicopters couldn’t have gotten in there.

  So he decided to go on a patrol to see for himself what Marines and Navy corpsmen were up against. He immediately realized that if they took a casualty in that environment, it would get really serious very quickly.

  The patrol turned a corner and got hit by heavy ambush; immediately two Marines were cut down. Fighting Doc saw one of the enemy stand up with an RPG, aiming at Marine machine guns. He couldn’t get anybody’s attention, so he put two rounds in the Taliban’s chest. He was pretty close—only about 150 meters.

  But he explained that he “grew up a country kid, so I’ve been shooting since I was old enough to walk.”

  Fighting Doc recounted that June 23 was one of worst days “of my life as a physician.” It was at Now Zad. The first casualty lost both legs; then another casualty lost his legs shortly thereafter. Doc remembers that he had to “get to those guys to stop the bleeding.”

  An IED went off under the lead vehicle. When it blew, Doc was up to six casualties. So he and Fox Company’s first sergeant and a corpsman “tried to get to the kids with their legs blown off.” They no sooner got to the makeshift operating room when he heard another explosion: another IED had just blown off yet another Marine’s leg. Doc recalled, “I just knew we were gonna die right there.”

  Somehow they made it through the heavy fire.

  Meanwhile, as Doc went back to treat yet another casualty, a Taliban gunner showed himself. Doc put two in his neck.

  He was treating a casualty inside his homemade emergency room when the vehicle struck yet another IED. The blast threw him around pretty hard. It knocked him out. It “took a while” to get his senses back. While he was unconscious, a Navy nurse handled a Marine who had his intestines blown out.

  The Fighting Doc and six other Navy medical personnel all got the Purple Heart that day.

  All wars are different . . . and in 2/7’s vast area of operations, I realized that each company’s war was different as well. The battalion was really spread out.

  We began to eat dinner in a hastily constructed mess tent made of the usual olive drab canvas but with a wooden floor and homemade tables with benches attached. The tent kept out a good bit of the dirt we had been ingesting with every meal. Something called “T rations,” or “T rats,” as we referred to them, made their appearance. T rats were aluminum foil trays of precooked food. Invariably dinner was chicken and rice. I mean it was always chicken and rice. Standing in line I used to quip, “I wonder what’s for dinner. Gee, I really hope it’s chicken and rice!”

  Of course it was. I used to love chicken and rice. Now I never want to see it again.

  It sounds delicious, and compared to C rats or MREs, it was. But thinking about it, it was only marginally better than roadkill. Truthfully, if the label hadn’t said chicken, I wouldn’t have been sure what I was eating. It was some kind of meat, I supposed, although there were times when I thought they had changed things and served fish and rice. Nope, it was still chicken; I read the label. The rice didn’t move, so I figured it really was rice—probably. It didn’t matter; I would have eaten it no matter what it was.

  I was hungry. I was always hungry.

  Because it was such a long and arduous trip overland, the powers that be began to resupply us by parachute—I mean shades of World War II. A C-130 propeller aircraft would fly over a drop zone outside the FOB and kick pallets out the back. The chutes would open and the sky would be filled with floating stuff. It really reminded me of old war movies. Our ground-air controller, Staff Sergeant “Obnoxious” Wells, talked to the aircraft and coordinated the drop. We were in “Apache” country, so first the drop zone had to be secured. An outer ring was set up with armored vehicles.

  To my way of thinking it was more fun than watching bored Marines pit camel spiders against scorpions in gladiatorial contests inside the wire, so I accompanied Wells pretty much every time a drop came in.

  One can only acquire just so much via cargo plane, however, and the corporal who hovered over the food in the mess tent scowled menacingly if anyone took anything like a full plate. Besides, if we ran out, I wondered if the guys at the end of the line would have to go without. I know I never took as much as I would have liked. And with all the walking we were doing, we were burning up a lot of calories. I was rapidly losing weight, and so were the guys around me.

  So on one particular stomach-rumbling day, I emailed Bill Osborne, “The rations we get ‘way out’ here just don’t provide enough. We’re all skinny as hell.”

  That set in motion a chain of events that was nothing less than extraordinary.

  You may recall that Bill and I had met when we were both Civil War reenactors and that he still was. In addition to reenacting, however, he and his wife, Becky, belonged to a group out of Milwaukee called the West Side Soldiers’ Aid Society. It had been founded in 1862 to assist wounded Union soldiers who came home from the war. The society had been resurrected from the dustbin of history in 2003. Patricia Lynch, also a Civil War reenactor, was a volunteer at the Milwaukee Veterans Administration (VA). She was moved by the many wounded returning from the war in Iraq and reached out to her Civil War reenacting circle for help. They became today’s West Side Soldiers’ Aid Society (WSSAS). They are still dedicated to the ideals that motivated the original society of 1862. When they’re not actively helping at the VA they continue to do living histories and attend Civil War reenactments. Bill told them about us, and they wanted very much to help. They adopted FOB Golestan.

  Bill wrote back and told me to get him a wish list of what we would like. He reported that the WSSAS was solidly on board, and conventional Civil War reenactors were already contributing money for food and postage. The Internet connection at that time was in the staff NCO tent. I looked up from the computer where I had just read Bill’s message and told Gunny Mendoza what he had said. The gunny was enthusiastic. On the spot, I emailed back:

  Hi Bill,

  The Gunny is sitting here and I just popped the questions to him. He said any kind of dry seasonings, mustard! Ketchup! Garlic a
nd the usual suspects—INSTANT PANCAKE MIX! A skillet . . . to throw on a grill or fire. BBQ sauce (I’m typing as he speaks) the hot wing sauce, VINEGAR would be huge. Food—Doc [Hospitalman First Class William “Doc” Zorrer] is napping. [I’ll get with him later.]

  We asked for other impossible-to-get things too—things that didn’t always come in family-sent care packages in sufficient quantity, such as socks. We could never get enough socks and there was no PX to buy them. Then, once the ball got rolling, every time a C-130 would start kicking pallets out the door, we knew the WSSAS goodies were floating gently to earth. It was Christmas over and over again.

  Bill also asked me if I wouldn’t mind writing about some of the guys of 1st Platoon. He felt it would really help the folks back home if they could get a feel for the young men they were supporting. I began to send what I called human interest stories, focusing on one, then another of the Marines at Golestan. Within the limitations of security, I would also tell them what was going on. Those human interest stories became the seeds that grew into this book.

  We were very lucky to have Corporal Terry “Cookie” Huggins at our FOB; he was actually a trained cook. He made the most of the stuff that was sent. With some seasoning he could even make chicken and rice taste like—well, almost like—chicken and rice. For my part, ketchup makes anything taste good. Chicken and rice with ketchup—yum!

  I made an Internet introduction and put Gunny Mendoza in direct contact with the home front. Not too long ago, I got an email from WSSAS member Tom Arliskas. He and his wife, Terry, are key members of the group. Tom wrote about those days: