The Silence of War

by Terry McGowan

  The Marines needed and requested as I remember, socks, spices for cooking, lip balm, anything that could be mixed with water to eat like soup, “pancakes” and pots and pans to cook with. The West Side went to work. Donations poured in, sundries, candies, and everything requested was packed up and sent out to the “FRONT” . . . the WSSAS had their own personal group of Marines—they belonged to us—and we made sure our Marines were taken care of.

  The gunny had been in touch with Tom, who still remembers:

  Gunny Mendoza and his Marines just got back from a patrol and he told his men to get something to eat. They were tired, hungry, dirty, and miles from home. MREs were on the menu again. . . . Gunny Mendoza heard a commotion in their bunker, he walked in and saw heads bobbing and elbows working to shovel in the “PANCAKES”—“Where the hell did you get pancakes?”—the Marines pointed to the boxes from the “West Side Soldiers’ Aid Society.” There, have some Gunny. Mendoza went outside. Tears came to his eyes. I [Tom] talked to him afterwards on the phone and only he really knows why a Gunny would get so emotional. I guess it was the feeling that his Marines were not going to go hungry—eating “PANCAKES” in the middle of Afghanistan.

  Bill’s wife, Becky, told me that Patrick Lynch’s ninety-three-year-old mother and Becky’s three-year-old grandson used to help with the packing. From three to ninety-three—that was quite an age spread. I felt humbled at the realization that these total strangers cared so much. I also felt—and feel—deep gratitude. They were taking care of “my kids.” I cared about those young Marines. I realized how much the home front was involved on a special level when I received an email from Laura Rinaldi, another of the WSSAS key people and VA employee:

  I as an individual, and occasionally with groups, had often contributed items for troop packages, or money to ship them. You feel good about doing it, but could only wonder at who was receiving what, if they really needed it, or if they received the packages at all. This was the first time that the “troops” had names and faces. This was the first time that we had a firm picture in mind of the types of goodies that would really be welcomed by these young people. We were on a real mission when we hit the stores this time!! And to find out immediately what the reaction was to the smell of pancakes on the griddle—made me cry . . . still does!

  The irony struck me like a thunderbolt. There we were, fighting in the most modern war to date, with technology I couldn’t have dreamed of thirty-five years prior when I was an active-duty Marine, being supported with food and essentials—by the Civil War Soldiers’ Aid Society. The past and present, the Civil War and the Afghanistan War, collided and coalesced at a tiny, obscure military post in the western Afghanistan desert. The conduit between the two conflicts was the West Side Soldiers’ Aid Society.

  Helping hands had reached across time.

  14

  Counterinsurgency

  The lieutenant had a pretty clear idea of what he wanted to accomplish in his platoon area of operations (AO). It wasn’t merely keeping the Taliban at bay, or even pursuing and defeating them. He had straightforward notions of what it would take to win the war, and that was COIN—counterinsurgency operations. First among COIN principles was security for the population. That meant we continued to hunt for the Taliban and push them farther and farther away from the village of Golestan.

  Second, he wanted to get the Afghan governmental officials reengaged in running their own country. They had pretty much gone to ground years before, but they still held their positions, even if it was in name only. In furtherance of that aim, we made an unannounced visit to the residence of the subgovernor. The man, and all Afghan civilians hereafter mentioned, will be known only by a nom de guerre.

  “Ibrahim Khan” was the hereditary leader of one of two tribal subgroups that dominated the platoon AO. Unlike the tribes of Iraq, Afghanistan tribal leaders did not have autocratic power. They exercised control through personal influence only. Ibrahim Khan lived far to the south of Golestan in his own private compound. Everything was still made of baked mud, but he had a fine-looking irrigated garden behind his house. It was beautifully green and provided the ambience from where we would sit and talk—under shade-providing grapevines. I loved visiting that place. He even had corn growing.

  Ibrahim Khan was reputed to be playing both sides.

  We had been told that he had been host the previous evening to one of the two principal Taliban leaders operating in the Golestan valley. Therefore, our unexpected visit created quite a stir. He didn’t know whether we had come to take him away. He was an older man with gray in his hair and full beard, and had fought in the war against the Soviets along with his longtime friend “Hajji Mohammed.” (Hajji throughout most of the Muslim world refers to an individual who has made the “hajj,” or trip to Mecca. In Afghanistan it was often a simple title of respect.)

  Despite being equally old, equally gray, and somewhat overweight, Hajji Mohammed met us armed with his AK-47; he never left Ibrahim Khan’s side.

  Notwithstanding his suspicions about the subgovernor, the lieutenant demonstrated a level of statesmanship that is rarely found in one so young; he hid his reservations well. He also managed to remain in charge despite the fact that his leadership status was completely mind-boggling to the Afghans. In that country, gray hair rules. Time and again the subgovernor would look at me—with my gray hair—and appear confused. Brewster was doing the talking for all of us Americans. In time, they would get used to it. Meanwhile, the lieutenant assured them that our visit was purely social. We had come to get acquainted only.

  Introductions were made over chai—Afghan tea—and small talk was the order of the day. I was introduced as Brewster’s “political adviser.” Not to be outdone, the subgovernor introduced his AK-47-toting friend as his “security adviser.” The old veteran of the war with the Soviet Union regaled us with tales of his days fighting the Communists. I knew he was trying to impress us with his status as a warrior so we would think twice before attempting to make off with his comrade, but his stories were entertaining and I enjoyed them.

  They were particularly in character coming from a guy holding an AK-47.

  When it became obvious that we really were going to leave as peacefully as we had come, the subgovernor heaved a barely perceptible sigh of relief. He gushingly invited us back for more social visits. Brewster set the date for the next one.

  While I realized that for us to show up unannounced was anxiety-producing for Ibrahim Khan, having him know when to expect us was a source of stress for me. I didn’t trust him a bit. Of course, he was playing both sides. He couldn’t know who was going to win the war, and his life depended on his making the correct estimate. As the tribal leader he couldn’t just stay neutral. The Taliban had to be making demands on him. Moreover, in time I would come to recognize that most of his tribe was pro-Taliban. Nothing in war is safe, however, and throughout the deployment Brewster took calculated risks—as was required of him.

  When the date of our return arrived, all of us were ready for anything. In spite of my concerns, we arrived safely. Our appearance this time was greeted by a greatly relaxed subgovernor. Even Hajji Mohammed was unarmed—and we were introduced to other subdistrict functionaries. They had been invited by Ibrahim Khan.

  It was the beginning of a long series of visits that would enable us to wrap our minds around the substrata of the valley we were trying to calm. For Lieutenant Slocum and me, it also became the first step in the creation of tribal maps and personality flow charts that would show the interconnectedness of the key players in the AO. In short, Slocum and I would get busy working together as investigators.

  The most important introduction, for Slocum and me, was to one of the assistants to the subgovernor, “Hamid Khan.” He was a man well versed in both the law of Afghanistan and the demographics of the Golestan valley. We would spend countless hours together, the three of us, in hot, stuffy rooms or in the shade of hot, stuffy
alcoves, working through an interpreter. In the end, we possessed an excellent map of every single rural community in the huge valley, with the name of the village written in both Pashto and English. In addition, the tribe to which each village belonged was color-coded.

  More importantly, after countless visits, often by silently listening, we were able to identify the two principal Taliban leaders and their “civilian” associates. We prepared a typical law-enforcement flowchart that demonstrated at a glance their relationships to one another. All of that came much later. But it began with this visit.

  If traveling to the subgovernor’s compound was stressful, leaving it was worse. To claim plausible deniability I realized it would be in his best interest if we were attacked after the visit, not on the way. My “street radar” convinced me that he was under intense pressure from the Taliban, and I felt there was at least a fifty-fifty chance that we would be attacked during the return trip.

  But the lieutenant was no fool. We carefully made our way back to the FOB by an entirely different route than the one on which we came. An ambush would have been impossible. And we stayed off roads nearly all the time. It made for a long, jarring, bone-banging ride, but none of our vehicles struck an IED.

  As was the case traveling to and from the subgovernor’s compound, Bravo squad didn’t always patrol on foot. Often we ranged far from the FOB, searching for signs of the enemy. To exist in the desert, one has to know where the water is. Whether it will come from one of the widely dispersed settlements with wells or from a hidden spring, no one travels very far from water. Especially the Taliban, who walked on foot over the burning mountain ranges. If we could find the hidden springs, we might be able to surprise the enemy.

  Like the cavalry in the old Southwest, we were hampered by our means of travel. You can’t drive up a donkey track. And like the Apache, I knew the Taliban would spot our dust cloud from miles off. Since no lookout could just sit on sizzling hot rocks and live for long, I reasoned they must have a place of shade as their lookout posts.

  One day Sergeant Holter was acting on a tip about the location of a spring along a hidden Taliban-traveled path. We searched a number of areas by vehicle and on foot. We came upon a remarkable patch of green grass hidden from ordinary view. There was no water in sight, but there had to be water somewhere—there was no other explanation for green anything in that arid environment.

  Looking up, I spied a cave. It was halfway up a rusty brown burnt rock mountain, and from it I knew one could see for miles in the direction of our FOB. It would afford shade to a lookout. Between the green spot and the cave I felt we were onto something. I just had to climb up there.

  It was a steep climb over loose rocks hot to the touch. I would need to lighten my load even more than I already had if I were going to make it. So I left everything behind except for my war belt with pistol and a couple of spare magazines for my rifle. Our squad corpsman, Mike “Doc” Foley, watched the stuff. Wearing only my soft cover for shade and carrying only my rifle, I stuffed a couple more M16 magazines in my cargo pockets as an afterthought. Better too much ammo than not enough.

  Then I started the ascent. The squad had fanned out along the base of the mountain looking for any sign of the enemy. In the distance our vehicles were spread out, with only the drivers and turret gunners. The latter would provide covering fire if any of us needed it. It took some doing, but I managed to climb to an elevation equal to the cave opening. I was behind it; if anyone was inside, they could not have seen me. That was good because I was blinded by the fierce sun, and trying to look into the darkness within would have been futile. I had to know.

  I slung my rifle over my shoulder and drew my pistol. If anybody with an AK was waiting, I’d have maybe an instant to get off a couple of quick shots provided I rushed into the cave with no sound of my approach. The rifle would have gotten in the way. At the last moment the gravel rock gave way beneath my feet and started a mini-landslide down the rock face. I knew I was in for it if anyone was home, but I had to know. So I threw myself into the cave anyway.

  It was empty.

  It was also a shady place with a perfect vantage point for a lookout. I could see even farther than I had thought I would be able to when I had been on the level plain below. I could also see a natural cut in the mountain that could be used as a path upward and over the top. I had no radio, yelling would have been foolish, and climbing all the way back down to tell Sergeant Holter what I was doing just didn’t seem like the thing to do. It had been a knuckle-scraping, hot-rock-blistering climb. I didn’t want to do it twice.

  So I did what I always do—I just went. I figured if the enemy was watching, the odds were still in my favor. Up to that point I hadn’t seen much from the Taliban that resembled marksmanship. They seemed to prefer the “spray and pray” method of shooting. So I kept one eye out for the nearest cover—large boulders in most cases—and cautiously made my way up the mountain. It was an intense and exhilarating experience. I was alone in Apache country.

  I must have been crazy. I liked it.

  I felt certain an enemy would miss with an opening volley unless God willed it otherwise, and I’d be behind cover before they could get off a second shot. I was coiled up inside myself like a spring. I noted a covered and concealed way to get back down the mountain with every step I took. It all took quite a period of time while I was watching, listening, and feeling for the presence of the enemy. As I neared the top of the mountain, I had to decide whether to continue on over. As badly as I wanted a look at the other side, my sixth sense was talking to me—loudly. I felt that I was being watched. Maybe it was just my imagination—I knew that at the time—but I have learned over time to trust my instincts.

  Being shot dead was not the worst thing that could have happened. Being taken alive was. I was mentally prepared to save my last pistol shot for myself if it came to that. As a prisoner I would have had zero chance of survival. Therefore, I reasoned, it would not really be suicide. If I were wrong, I’d have to hope that God was as loving and understanding as I believe He is.

  I kept going. I had long since gone out of sight of any Marines below, including the turret gunners. I was really on my own.

  Finally the radar pings inside my head were insistent. My way up the mountain had taken so long that if there had been Taliban anywhere near, they would have been able to predict where I would crest the peak. There might not be any time for me to do anything as I went over. As curious as I am by nature, and as desperately as I wanted to know if the long-searched-for trail was on the other side, I did an abrupt ninety-degree turn and scrambled up an adjoining finger of rock outcrop.

  There may not have been an enemy within a hundred miles of me. I’ll never know this side of heaven. But as crazy as I sometimes think I am, I don’t believe I’m stupid. It would have been stupid to continue alone.

  The tension was as thick as London fog. It’s like that in a war zone. Even when nothing happens, it’s tense.

  Figuring that if I had been under observation the Taliban would have been setting up for a live capture at the point of logical cresting, I also felt reasonably at ease working my way along that mountainous finger. All in all, I did a large inverted “U” and scouted the many draws and fingers that opened themselves to my view from the new vantage point. I realized I had been gone a very long time. And I decided I ought to head back. As I started making my way back down the mountain, a far piece from where I had originally gone up, I thought I could hear Sergeant Holter calling my name.

  He was.

  Good old Lance. He was calm and collected when I got back. He would have been well within his rights to chew me out good for going off like that, or to have reported me to Lieutenant Brewster as an idiot. But I always knew he trusted my judgment—as I trusted his. He took my absence in stride. I told him what I found, and what I didn’t. Then we mounted up and returned to the FOB. It was nearing sunset.


  Nothing had happened. But it may have been the most exciting day I spent in the ’Stan.

  The last few members of the Army left the FOB, leaving only Lieutenant Slocum in their place. He and I still shared the same space. With the other soldiers gone, the “room” across the “hall” was vacant. I briefly considered treating myself to private quarters when a new arrival took up residence there.

  Scott Brown had spent time in the Army and then worked as a cop for ten years in San Antonio. As such he fit right in with Slocum and me. All three of us were way above the FOB average in age and had police street experience. We saw eye to eye on many things. About five foot ten or so and powerfully built, Scott had fiery red hair with a full, flaming beard to match. He reminded me of a Viking. I could envision him carrying a battle-ax.

  Scott was a heck of a nice guy, and it didn’t take long before he was immensely popular with the young Marines. He was employed by a civilian corporation, different from my own, whose mission was solely to train the ANP. He had been sent to us because ANCOP had pulled out and the ANP had returned. They were to be his primary responsibility. He brought a lot of specific experience about working with them and he had no illusions regarding their capabilities—or lack thereof. Slocum and I were relieved that we wouldn’t be saddled with the ANP burden by default.

  Brown was incredibly savvy in battle tactics and patrolling. I often wondered if he had been a member of one of the Army’s elite units. I never asked him and he never said. As fearless as he was ferocious-looking, he and I would often go on patrol together in the weeks to come. It was great having another pair of street cop eyes outside the wire. When it came to the “human terrain,” we both could read between the lines.