The Silence of War

by Terry McGowan

  The gunny kept us middle-aged cops in the information loop. The ambush had been sprung, some people were wounded. No more details were available. The radio chatter was typical of a unit under intense fire. We continued to wait. Finally we noticed tracers arcing up at about a forty-five-degree angle from the direction the patrol would have to come. I thought they must be ricochets. Then we could hear gunfire. The returning patrol was running a gauntlet. They had been ambushed twice more.

  The two lame ducks in the shithouse bunker were more interested in the fireworks in the sky than watching the still dangerous avenue of approach to the west. Slocum, an Army lieutenant, told them to turn around and pay attention. One of them wise-assed something in response—and I went from zero to ninety, straight into Marine officer mode. I dressed them down with near ferocity. I was in no mood for insubordination. They turned around and paid attention.

  When Brewster and all got back, there was plenty of commotion at the corpsmen’s post. The wounded turned out to be ANP. Miraculously, no Marines had been killed and none wounded badly. But several of the ANP were seriously wounded. Doc Z and his guys did their best. No one died, so their best was good enough. An emergency medevac helicopter landed just outside the FOB and took the wounded to the hospital at Bastion. It was about a forty-five-minute flight.

  The fifteen-year-old ANP kid was unrecognizable. All three had been literally beaten to a pulp. The Taliban are savages. They are religious Nazis. What they do to their own people is inexcusable even in war. It sickens me that they do it in the name of God.

  The boys from Bravo Squad filled me in. It had been quite a show. The enemy had used the bodies as bait, all right. The bodies were where the majority of the incoming fire was aimed at. Fortunately the Taliban don’t have night-vision goggles, or things would have been worse.

  Sergeant Holter was everywhere at once. His normally calm and quiet demeanor was gone; in its place was a Marine NCO caught up in the passion of war. Lance Corporal Bryan “Davey” Davidson had to scramble for a rifle—another Marine snatched his by mistake when the firestorm broke. Corporal “Grandpa” Joe Billington—so named because he was an old man in his late twenties—outdid himself. He was a hero among heroes at all times, using his 60mm mortar in the handheld mode with deadly effect—but he outdid even himself this night.

  The ambush began shortly after dark from about three hundred meters away. The enemy opened up with RPGs and PKMs (a different type of machine gun). There were twenty-two ANP with Brewster and Bravo Squad, and they were caught out in the open. Billington did his best to organize the ill-trained ANP to return fire, but with little success.

  Scott Brown and I would later describe trying to organize and control ANP under fire as “herding cats.” The term caught on around the FOB.

  Lieutenant Brewster ordered the ANP bodies recovered before pulling back. Billington backed his Humvee into the kill zone, where machine-gun fire was raking the area. The rest of the Marines returned fire with fury in an attempt to gain fire superiority. Billington’s turret gunner blasted away at the unseen enemy as Billington—with no regard for his own safety—made multiple trips over fifty meters of fire-swept ground with some ANP to recover the bodies. He was grazed by a machine-gun bullet in the right arm but ignored the wound. When Brewster learned that Billington had been hit, he radioed his concern.

  The corporal’s reply to Lieutenant Brewster was at once classic Marine and typical Billington, “Sir, I don’t have time to bleed.”

  As the patrol headed back to the FOB they were again ambushed. RPG and PKM fire from multiple positions inside houses swept the column. One ANP truck—they only had Ford Rangers, not armored vehicles—was struck by an RPG. Four ANP were seriously wounded. Once again Corporal Billington positioned his vehicle within the kill zone and loaded the wounded ANP into a trailer he was pulling.

  Lieutenant Brewster put Billington up for the Bronze Star with combat “V.” It’s the fourth-highest medal for bravery.

  When the enemy opened up on the column for the final time—inside Golestan itself—Brewster ordered his automatic weapons to fire above the houses; that was the cause of the tracers Slocum and I saw. The lieutenant didn’t want to cause innocent casualties by firing back at an enemy hiding among the people. He hoped the muzzle flashes and the sounds of automatic weapons would help to suppress the ambush.

  All in all, we had been lucky.

  Within the next day or so, a roving detachment of MARSOC—Marines Special Operations Capable—unexpectedly arrived. Commanded by a major, they were a handpicked group. They were part of the Marine Corps’ contribution to the Special Operations Command, along with Army Special Forces and Navy SEALs. To a man, they wore uncharacteristically long hair, and all were sporting full beards. That was the easiest way to tell a MARSOC Marine from any other. It wasn’t just for show—they operated behind the lines in out-of-the-way places. They needed to be able to blend in on foot from time to time.

  This group—like all the MARSOC groups about which I was aware—came and went like clouds before the moon. What they did and where they went were none of my business. It was definitely above my pay grade. They had arrived out of nowhere and planned on staying a few days to rest and perform preventive maintenance on their vehicles. The rugged Afghanistan desert could really tear up one’s means of transportation. Most of ours were out of service for repairs.

  Individually the MARSOC Marines were older, bigger, and stronger and of higher rank than the average Marine. They were also friendly to a man. There was no putting on airs or a holier-than-thou attitude in a single one of them. They reminded me of British Royal Marines that I had had the pleasure of meeting back at Bastion.

  Our war was ratcheting up in intensity. In less than a month the platoon had been in two major battles with the Taliban. The rest of 2/7 was slugging it out as well. Bill Osborne continued to keep me up to date on the news from the “outside”—including my own battalion. The casualties of 2/7 were up. Way up.

  One of the news articles he sent referenced someone from the Marine hierarchy saying “This is no training mission.”

  Whoever said that was a master of understatement. But at least higher command had finally figured it out.

  During the evening of August 1, 2008, I sent an email to Lieutenant Colonel Jack McMahon, USMCR (Ret.). He saved it. He just sent it back to me. It read,

  Jack:

  Well, its 2100 [9:00 p.m.] here and no white light—even this computer screen is dimmed. I just watched—from inside my mud-walled hooch—the movie We Were Soldiers with Mel Gibson. When it came out in the theaters in 2002, I had to walk out a few minutes into the movie. I never did watch it. I realize now that it was guilt I was feeling. I could have made it to ’Nam just before they pulled out. I became a cop instead. I guess I always felt guilty about that.

  Well, now I can watch it. I balanced the computer on my chest as I lay on my cot inside my mud hooch. A few meters away was the bunker I helped defend for three hours about a month ago. There’s still empty shell casings just lying around on the ground. Everywhere. There’s incoming shrapnel tears in the cammo netting where a lot of my empty brass got ejected when I came out from cover for a better shot at the enemy on the hill to our north that night.

  And a few meters away from where I lay is the wall they might have come over, and might tonight. Or tomorrow. I’m sitting at the corpsman’s computer in dim light, no white light after dark, in my OD green shorts, T-shirt, flip-flops, and M16. It’s right by my side. Just in case. Right under the bunker is the shithouse. There’s about two feet between the back of it and the mud wall. That’s where I cried on 19 June when my two buddies got killed.

  Recently the platoon commander very politely said, “Terry, next time we go out and expect to get into a firefight, please wear your Kevlar [helmet].” He didn’t know I had already taken the SAPI plates out of my carrier. Too damn heavy for quick movemen
t. And Bravo squad sergeant always picks me to ride in his vehicle when we go on mounted patrol. He and I are the lead vehicle and IED catchers. I get out with him and walk in front to check for IEDs. We scratch around in the dirt together, and I poke things with my bayonet, listening and feeling for the tip to hit a hollow-sounding piece of wood . . . then we look at each other, and step right on the spot. One last check before we let the vehicles come on. Taking one for the team, so to speak.

  Not bragging. You know me better than that. And not suicidal. It’s just the way things are. Got a job to do. Finally doing it. Finally. After all these years.

  So now I can watch We Were Soldiers. I guess I finally earned the right.

  McG.

  16

  The Battle at Feyz al Bad

  The next day—the morning of August 2—was exactly one month after our first combat with the Taliban. It was hot, but not as hot as the day would get. I was enjoying a little casual time. Wearing only desert camouflage Marine trousers, a regulation olive drab T-shirt, and a pair of flip-flops, I had declined to go out with Bravo Squad earlier.

  I was relaxing in the shade of the staff NCO tent, chatting with Staff Sergeant Justin “Obnoxious” Wells and Hospitalman First Class “Doc Z” Zorrer. After the soul-searching email I had written the night before, I felt like taking a day off. The squad was somewhere near a town called Feyz al Bad.

  The staff NCO tent is adjacent to the command post. Suddenly the lieutenant emerged from within. What he had to say shocked me as probably nothing in Afghanistan had—before or after. Bravo Squad was under attack; there were two casualties. We didn’t yet know how badly the wounded were hurt. We also didn’t know who they were. But they were in trouble, and we were going to get them. I felt extreme anxiety for the injured.

  I am Irish by ancestry. In my family there seems to be a touch of what the Irish call the “Sight.” To an American that means extrasensory perception. I spoke of it as my “sixth sense” when I climbed the mountain alone. Just the evening before, as I passed Lance Corporal Jeremy Boucher’s cot, with him on it, the Sight kicked in. I had the strong feeling that he wasn’t going to be with us much longer. I wasn’t sure if that meant KIA or WIA, and my rational mind dismissed the notion out of hand. The lieutenant’s announcement brought it screaming back into consciousness.

  Boucher—pronounced “Boo shay”—was known to one and all as “Butcher,” which is how they read his name tape, or affectionately as “Badass Bobby Butcher.” Just nineteen years old and freckle-faced, he didn’t look the part, but he really was a badass. He came to Afghanistan with no prior Iraq experience and had already proven himself in two major engagements, not to mention numerous patrols.

  I knew in my soul that he was one of the casualties. I was forty years old when he was born. To me he was just a kid. And losing kids was not what I had come to Afghanistan for. I had to get up there. Hell, I shouldn’t have taken the day off. I should have gone with them. I felt intensely that I should have been under fire with them at that very moment.

  Most of our vehicles were down. We didn’t have enough transport to make it to Bravo Squad. General Patton once said that he had one motto, “Audacity, audacity, always audacity!” Lieutenant Brewster was the soul of audacity and knew what had to be done. We would march across the dry riverbed and take the ANP trucks. Although they were merely Ford Rangers, with no extra armor, they could seat five inside and more in the bed of the truck.

  If one of them struck an IED, everyone on board would be killed. Brewster was putting himself at serious risk if anyone had wanted to second-guess him. But there was no time to waste on niceties—such as getting permission from higher up. He would worry about repercussions later. Silently I approved. It was so—well—Brewster. And it was Marine leadership as I had always known it.

  Then he lowered the boom. Knowing how I felt about the squad, he took me aside.

  He said, “Terry, I’m sorry. There’s just not enough room in the vehicles. You’ll have to stay behind.”

  I would have followed on foot.

  I immediately grabbed Scott Brown—our ANP trainer—and asked him if he was going with the ANP. Of course he was. “Got room for me?” I asked. He said yes.

  I rushed back to Brewster and told him. With a slight smile, he approved.

  That was good, because I really would have walked.

  We were major-league lucky that MARSOC was there. We needed the extra help. The Taliban were numerous and pressing Bravo Squad hard. Although a major outranks a second lieutenant considerably, the MARSOC major volunteered to follow Brewster’s battle plan.

  I ran back to my cot to get my gear—and my boots. This time I would fight with boots on. In my haste, I forgot my night-vision goggles. “What the hell?” I thought. “It’s only morning. It’s broad daylight and will be for many hours yet.”

  Before the day was done, I would miss them sorely.

  We crossed the riverbed on foot and marched boldly into the ANP compound. Abdullah didn’t have time to bow out—not that we would have cared if he did. Personally I felt it would be poetic justice if he were killed by one of the Taliban. The lieutenant commandeered as many vehicles as he needed and set off with the main Marine force. Scott Brown and I followed with the ANP.

  Scott is as cool and unflappable a warrior as can be found anywhere. A native Texan, he and I started the trip in the bed of a truck with one ANP and a swivel-mounted machine gun. It was rough going—off-road and at speed. We were getting bounced around pretty hard. The ANP gunner was young and inexperienced. He tried to sit on the edge of the truck bed. He nearly got bounced clean out several times. Although we didn’t have an interpreter, it was uncanny how Scott could make himself understood with gestures and facial expressions. He got the young guy to sit down.

  Then Scott turned to me and said, “Hey, what could be better? We’re off-roading and going hunting! All we need now is beer and country music!” Despite the seriousness of the situation, I laughed. I was glad he was my partner. I was also glad to be riding. I really didn’t want to have to walk.

  After being bounced around unmercifully for a while, Scott decided that we had had enough of being cargo. Still without benefit of an interpreter, he managed to get the vehicle stopped, and the passengers into the bed of the truck. We took their places inside the cab. The driver didn’t speak English and Scott didn’t speak Pashto, but hey—details. He managed to make himself understood. I still don’t know how he did it, but he kept the driver going where Scott wanted him to go.

  Just us two Americans, surrounded by ANP, without an interpreter, we gave new meaning to the term “herding cats” that day.

  While we were racing to their aid, Sergeant Holter managed to get his badly shot-up vehicles, with wounded, extricated from the ambush. There wasn’t a tire with air in it, nor a vehicle that hadn’t been riddled with enemy bullets. Fortunately, the up-armored Humvees could withstand small-arms fire. They had met up with Brewster and the lead elements of the relief column just south of town. There, helicopters extracted the wounded. I would learn the particulars of what had happened when we were all back at the FOB. For the present, I still had no idea what was going on with them.

  The Taliban were holding a fishhook-shaped steep-sloped ridgeline south and west of the village of Feyz al Bad. Brewster’s plan was to assault up the nearest ridge, at the bend in the hook, taking it by fire and movement—then work his way down the ridgeline, clearing it as he went. Some of the MARSOC vehicles, along with Scott, myself, and the ANP, were designated the left flank. On the way to our position, Scott and I started taking incoming small-arms fire.

  We both kicked open our doors to return fire. Unfortunately, neither of us could tell where it was coming from, so we fired back at wherever we thought the enemy might be holed up. A rock ledge here, a depression in the ground there—at least we were doing something besides catching lead.

 
When we got to the farthest part of the fishhook, Scott and I and the ANP dismounted and took cover in a dry riverbed up against the bank. It was about three and a half feet or so high and provided cover of a kind. We were still taking incoming, and we still didn’t know where from. So we continued to return fire wherever we thought an enemy might be hiding. A couple of MARSOC vehicles—two or three, as I recall—were down on the left flank with us but behind us on higher ground farther from the base of the ridgeline we faced—it was the tactically sound place to be. Scott, I, and the ANP were the extreme left of the left flank.

  Scott was about as lighthearted as a man could be. The enemy fire wasn’t terribly accurate—they hadn’t hit any of us—and I found myself laughing at his jokes. One of the ANP carried an RPG launcher. Unfortunately for his buddy, he really didn’t know how to use it. Nor did he have the sense to tell anybody that he was about to fire the damn thing. They make quite a racket when going off. He managed to hit the mountain, I’ll give him that much, but not where it would have done any good. And he blew out the eardrum of his buddy. The man had clear fluid tinged with pink blood flowing out of his ear.

  All the while dirt was kicking up sporadically and inaccurately around us. Somehow Scott and I found it all highly comical. We were surely insane. We still didn’t have an interpreter, but somehow we managed to communicate with those guys. We tried to tell the guy with the ruptured eardrum to come to our FOB for medical assistance when we got back. He needed it.