Lions of Kandahar (4 page)

Recognizing these inherent shortfalls in strategy and in the conduct of warfare, the members of our Task Force 31, or TF 31, and its commander did our best to establish a strategy by defining the desired end state, determining a series of goals, and then deciding on the specific objectives that needed to be accomplished to achieve those goals. The commander then directed the integration of all subordinate units under his command to abide by this strategy. He also ably recruited ISAF and coalition support by building rapport with
the unified commands of southern Afghanistan, the Afghan National Army, and the local governmental officials. This small strategy created by an SF task force would be nested and synchronized with the overarching national goals of the United States and the fledgling government of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan. Now, at least, we had a plan that reflected what the bigger picture should or would look like and we worked feverishly toward implementing it. This was a mere micro picture of what needed to be established across the entire country.
^*

A simple Thai proverb says it all: “How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.”

The following is the direct guidance we received from the 1st Battalion, 3rd Special Forces Group (1/3 SFG) commander on all SF operations to be conducted in Afghanistan in 2005–06:

Whether it was training in the United States or conducting operations in a war zone, Bolduc clearly articulated to all of his subordinates what he expected to be done. He wanted them to have no doubt what to accomplish in the execution of their orders—and also in the absence of orders. There would be no ambivalence. Love him or hate him, the men knew what to expect. The following are excerpts from the desk-side brief that was personally given to all of his soldiers:

Trust was the base of the triangle. We were expected to be able to look in the mirror, not out the window. Confidence and familiarity with even the smallest tasks established this. Competence was next. There was always an expectation to focus on the fundamentals, understand the psychology of war, and do the right thing. The final and most crucial ingredient was discipline; discipline in yourself and in your soldiers. To Lieutenant Colonel Bolduc, discipline was not about power, it was about the judicious use of authority and responsibility. Special Forces had a boatload of both.

We were expected to conduct the preparation and training for war as skillfully as we would execute operations themselves during war.
During deployments we would often find ourselves passing this concept on to our ISAF and coalition counterparts. It is not hyperbole to say that we were expected to go anywhere, anytime, anyplace, and be prepared to do damn near anything.

Next to Shinsha, Bolduc looked like a kid. Shinsha is an absolute bear of a man, with a round face, huge hands, and strong and broad dark Tajik features. Unlike most Afghans, he wears a thin, well-groomed beard that he says is just long enough to keep the Pashtun tribes off his back.

I had barely gotten the words “Good morning, sir,” out of my mouth when Shinsha recognized me. He came straight over and threw his arms around me. I am not a small man by any stretch, six foot one, but he easily picked me up in a bone-crushing hug and feigned two kisses on both cheeks.
Holy crap
, I thought,
he may have cracked a rib or two
. Bolduc, understanding the importance of our relationship, winked and walked off.

“It is good to have your long beards back in Afghanistan,” Shinsha said. “Long beards” is a nickname given to Special Forces by the Afghans, a mark of respect in its comparison to the beards of their elders.

I was truly glad to see him. He and I had a long history. We’d fought together in 2005 and 2006 and had broken the back of the Taliban in Kandahar Province. Shinsha would proudly boast that “the Taliban could not stop to piss in Kandahar Province without us showing up that year.” Unbeknownst to him, this statement was essentially true. Captured Taliban had said much the same. He jokingly referred to the Taliban as
“shuzzuna”
—women—in Pashto.

We’d spent many hours talking strategy and learning each other’s languages over strong green and black tea. He still spoke only a smattering of English, and my Pashto was equally as bad. Since we were just out of earshot of the commanders, I asked him how things were going in Kandahar.

“What is the situation, my friend?” I asked in broken Pashto.

“No, no, no things good here in Kandahar,” he said in heavily accented English.

Shinsha never minced words and painted a bleak picture. Taliban fighters were operating inside and outside the city and more fighters arrived daily. The Special Forces units that replaced us after our last rotation focused most of their efforts doing night raids and did not have sufficient time to build rapport with the population. This was not their fault; the directive to move only at night came from higher headquarters. Shinsha said the Taliban now dominated the daylight hours. I knew and respected members of the other Special Forces group as both friends and professional colleagues, but Shinsha’s news worried me.

Last year we had rarely encountered resistance inside the city except for suicide bombers. We had run across the Taliban on patrol near mountain passes, but rarely in the city. When Shinsha’s battalion had completed its training, we immediately started raiding Taliban safe houses. Eventually, the raids grew into full-scale attacks. My team hit targets up until the week before we rotated out. The constant pressure had driven the enemy deep underground or out of the province altogether, and we had passed our strategy to the incoming replacements. Eight months later the Taliban resurgence was obvious to everyone. Their progress was steady and methodical. Fighters based in the villages around and inside the city now attacked the ISAF coalition and measured its response. I wanted to know how all of our work had been reversed.

Winning a guerrilla war means getting out in the hinterland and not just showing, but convincing the population that your side is the winning team. Working by, with, and through the local population and indigenous forces is not optional. It is the essential key to success. Moving away from that holistic approach represents a fundamental breach in counterinsurgency operations, leading to major setbacks. For whatever reason, the pressure had not been kept on the Taliban
rurally; the focus had switched mostly to raids and operating exclusively at night. We couldn’t afford to take this approach anymore.

Shinsha and I agreed to meet later, and I hustled into the headquarters. The first thing I noticed when I walked in was the memorial wall. The list of our fallen soldiers now almost reached the floor. I stopped and ran my fingers across the names and closed my eyes so I could see their faces and hear their laughter. I fought back tears for my friends. It happened every time I came back.

Farther down the hallway, an eclectic assortment of dozens of modern rifles and rocket launchers hung side by side along the wall. Most were taken from weapons caches or dead enemy fighters. As on the memorial wall, I noticed a few new additions. But I put aside my nostalgia when I got to the door to the tactical operations center and keyed in the new pass code.

The TOC looked like the bridge of a starship. Several large screens displaying Predator feeds filled the main wall, with an even bigger screen that tracked every unit in southern Afghanistan. Everything was monitored by TOC drones, soldiers who buzzed around the room or huddled over laptops. Most of the time, they sat facing their monitors on a raised semicircular platform that resembles an altar. Each soldier, dressed in brown T-shirt and desert uniform pants, had a specific job. One might work supply requests while another coordinated aircraft and another coordinated artillery fire. The whole room revolved around the battle captain, who acted as the conductor of the orchestra of war.

The planning and intelligence office sat off the right side of the main room. I walked over and knocked on the door. Trent, my unit’s intelligence sergeant, met me with a somber look on his face and led me to a seat.

Maps and pictures of possible targets covered every inch of the wall. A large table cluttered with laptops and intelligence reports ran through the middle of the room. Intelligence analysts sifted through radio intercepts, satellite pictures, and tips from Afghan locals,
trying to build a clear picture of what was going on in southern Afghanistan.

Trent’s assessment of the situation didn’t differ much from Shinsha’s. “This place is about three months from going under,” he said.

He outlined a series of setbacks. When we left Kandahar after our last rotation, the Taliban were afraid to come into the city, and we seemed to be one step ahead of them. Now we were outnumbered and losing ground fast. By the end of the brief, I felt sick to my stomach. The sickness quickly turned to anger. My team now had to fight for ground we had already taken. Kandahar was the prize—strategically vital to both us and the Taliban.

The third-largest city in Afghanistan, Kandahar has been fought over for centuries. Since the time of Alexander the Great it has stood at the crossroads of trade routes to five major cities: Herat and Gereshk to the west, Kabul and Ghazni to the northeast, and Quetta in Pakistan to the south. With its airport and extensive network of roads, the city served as a center for the mujahideen resistance during the Soviet invasion and was the one-eyed Taliban leader Mullah Omar’s hometown. When the Taliban captured it in 1994, it became their capital.

“Trent, please tell me exactly what the hell happened in the six months we were gone,” I said.

“Seems the enemy moved in too fast and we lost a lot of the rapport we had built with the civilians and leadership,” he said sharply.

It was our job now to rebuild it and keep the Taliban from reclaiming its power base.

PICKING A FIGHT

H
eading back to the hut to brief the team, I saw “Ole Girl”—the same truck that I had been using in Afghanistan since 2005. Brian, my communications sergeant, had given her the name.

This truck and I had a rough history. She had taken more than her share of bullets and shrapnel and I quickly matched some of her battle scars to mine. Slowly and smoothly, I ran my hand along her hood. I glared at a bullet hole just below the front windshield. The year before, my team had gotten caught in an ambush near the Pakistan border. I didn’t notice the hole until after the fight. I pulled out my Sharpie and retraced the faded words “MISSED ME BITCH” I had written then to commemorate another close call.

For me, Ole Girl symbolized American strength. She was big, powerful, and dependable. In her belly, she carried some of America’s finest warriors to battle. Her antennae flew a three-by-five-foot American flag so that the enemy could see who was coming for them. She was a force to be reckoned with and my comfort blanket.

On my way back to the hut, one of the battle captains from the
TOC stopped me. The team we were replacing had arrived from Kandahar to pick us up and escort us back to the firebase. Shef, the other SF team’s leader, stepped out into the blinding sunlight. He looked rough, tired. We’d gone through OCS together almost ten years ago and traded places at the same firebase earlier in the year. The past rotation had been hard on him and his team. They’d lost two good men in a valley outside the city. I could see that the loss of his teammates had taken its toll.