No Worse Enemy (15 page)

When he told the marines to look to their left and right, he was telling them to look at the M16 rifles they were carrying; that they always carried. It seemed odd in this age of laser-guided
missiles, remote-controlled predator drones, bomb-proof trucks and Apache Helicopters, that these marines would walk into battle with nothing but a rifle first used in Vietnam in 1963. I thought
modern warfare was supposed to be like a computer game – fought from a distance, sometimes from twenty thousand feet. In comparison, this felt gladiatorial.

‘Alright gentlemen. I’m not gonna make this long-winded, I’ll sum it up with this. It’s killed me every day since I’ve been here, fulfilling my duty, because
I’m away from the most important things in my life: my daughter and my wife. But every decision when I’m out there, for a split second it’s going to flash into my head that when I
go home to them, I want them to be proud of what I did over here. I don’t want them to feel ashamed because I’m the new Haditha story [in Haditha, in Iraq, US Marines killed twenty-four
people, including at least fifteen civilians, in retaliation for an IED attack]. I don’t want problems sleeping at night because I’m not sure that I did the right thing. I’m a
hundred per cent confident in each and every one of you. I couldn’t be more proud of you guys. I love you to death. Do yourselves proud. Do all the marines that came before us proud. We have
centuries of ethos built on marines doing the right thing when it mattered, so do them proud. Most importantly, take care of the marine on your left and right because three days from now
that’s really all that’s going to matter. Alright gentlemen, that’s all I got.’

There was another ‘Ooh-Rah’, but it was subdued. They were sure they would take Marjah but they were also sure that everything else Captain Sparks had talked about was bound to
happen. Someone would die. Someone would step on an IED. Someone would kill civilians by mistake. The rules and restrictions of counter-insurgency would make them so frustrated they’d
question the point of being there in the first place.

The Captain took the squad leaders to one side for another talk. ‘I’ve done all I can to help you out and I’ll be at the friction points to give you what you need. But this is
your fight. This is the best crew of NCOs I’ve ever seen, you guys are phenomenal. Just understand that you have all my trust and confidence. If the enemy manoeuvre on us: let them. Do not
get sucked in to one of their ambushes. If this thing goes kinetic, I guarantee you we will lose marines. Even if it doesn’t, based on the IED threat, it is very likely that we will lose
marines. It is up to you guys to honour the marines we lose by maintaining the focus in the right direction. Don’t let emotions control you. The fight is still there to be won. We have to win
the people. Trying to take somebody out for revenge, complaining about the ROEs or letting your marines go feral and crazy: that will significantly deteriorate the combat effectiveness of this
company. You are the barrier, you are the ones that will make or break us there. Treat these people like you would the victims of Hurricane Katrina or down in Haiti; just another bunch of people
that need our help. Then you’ll come out on top, I guarantee it. Let your guys relax but don’t let anybody go off on their own and worry about this too much. At this point, it is what
it is. The beautiful thing about being in our situation is, there’s no decision to make. There’s only one way out and that’s through it.’

A chaplain and two female marines arrived, carrying a guitar. Seventeen marines joined them in a corner, next to a metal container. In high tones, they sang ‘Shining in the light of your
glory’. ‘Pour out your power of love, as we sing holy, holy, holy. Holy, holy, holy, I want to see-ee you.’ It was surreal, although probably only to my godless English eyes. The
song was upbeat and full of joy, the kind you hear on American tele-evangelist shows where the people raise their hands in the air and collapse in tears of happiness. This happy-clappy music was
completely at odds with the grim task ahead. The deathly, dour hymns I might hear if I ever went into an English church felt more apt. The chaplain led a prayer: ‘Lord, we thank you for the
beauty of this day. We thank you for every day of life that you give to us. We thank you that we have bright sunshine and warm temperatures. Lord, we thank you for the chance to step aside from all
the preparation and all the busy-ness so we can focus on you for a minute just to listen to your voice and just to feel your presence. So Lord, I pray that you’ll come to us in this
time.’ The prayer was followed by a reading from Joshua, on being strong and courageous not because ‘we are anything special’ but because ‘our Father is there, he’s
holding on to us and he’s never going to let go’.

‘Isn’t that good news?’ he asked the marines rhetorically, then led another prayer.

‘Lord, whatever it is that we face in life, whether we’re trying to help a buddy or whether we’re trying to kill an evil person. Lord, I pray that we would know your presence
is with us through all of those things and all of those struggles that we face. Lord, I pray that you would fill us with your strength and courage so that we can fulfil the work that you’ve
set out for us. We just trust these things and we pray in your name. Amen.’

About midnight, we assembled at the spot where Captain Sparks had given his pep talk. There was no moon, so even when our eyes had adjusted to the dark, it was impossible to
make out faces. Most people hadn’t slept. The marines were tense, fuelled by caffeinated drinks, cigarettes, chewing tobacco and most of all, fear and excitement.

An hour or so later, in the freezing cold, we lifted our bags and marched in single file to the huge landing strip where CH 53E Sea Stallion helicopters waited to take us into Marjah. The
roaring sounds of the machines’ twin blades and engines made conversation impossible, so as we climbed on board and the helicopters took off, we had half an hour alone with our thoughts. I
pictured the morbidly determined faces around me wailing in pain from gunshot wounds or looking down in horror and suddenly realizing that the future without legs that they’d imagined was now
real. Everyone had visualised that life. I’d joked about it with my football team the week before, asking to play up front so that I might score a goal in my last game with legs.

The Taliban were rumoured to have three anti-aircraft guns in Marjah, so simply landing was a relief. As I walked down the ramp, the deafening blast of the engine was quickly swallowed by the
ferocious whipping sound of the rotating blades. Dust and heat hit my face as I staggered under the helicopter’s exhaust, then the freezing night air bit every piece of flesh that
wasn’t under several layers of clothing.

There were so many different sensations, sounds and forces that it was impossible to tell which way you were being pushed and whether the pain was burning or freezing. I waded forwards,
half-blind. Through one barely-open eye I caught glimpses of camouflage uniforms, hands gripping rifles, shuttered eyes, straining legs and arched backs, sharply-drawn muscles where clothes were
blown tight against skin. Over it all, debris and dirt whipped up from the ground lashed against our faces and bodies. It was a relief to have landed without setting off any IEDs. But it was a
struggle to stay upright, let alone tread carefully; every step was filled with dread.

Marines shouted each other’s names or grabbed limbs blindly, shouting: ‘who’s this?’ Then I was suddenly aware of marines falling around me. They fell sharply, sideways
and backwards. They didn’t get up but writhed around on the ground, like flipped woodlice. Suddenly, the choppers were gone and I could hear again. The falling marines had slipped in the mud
and because they were carrying so much on their backs, they couldn’t get up without help. There had been no shots and no IEDs. There was only silence, freezing wind and an impenetrable
blanket of darkness.

After unfolding a temporary bridge and crossing a canal, everything calmed down. The squad leaders got their men together and by about 4.30 a.m., everyone had started moving in the same
direction. Then, the buildings around us suddenly awoke. Cockerels started crowing and dogs barked. Was this when they normally started? Or had we set them off early? Did everyone in Marjah now
know exactly where we were? Were they watching us? I could hear every noise the marines made: boots being pulled from the icy mud, rifle metal hitting the equipment attached to almost every part of
their bodies, deep breathing and whispered radio conversations. Then, in concert, a mad, rhythmic chant, fast, repetitive and threatening, blared from the speakers of the local mosque. It was a
disturbing sound, nothing like the call to prayer. The speaker seemed to be working himself up into a frenzy. I was later told the message was: ‘The Infidels have landed, get your
guns’.

As the light strengthened, I saw marine snipers climbing on to a nearby roof, looking through the sights of their rifles. There was an almost constant metallic hum from jets high overhead. I
found myself kneeling next to Wesley Hillis, a lean, skull-faced young corporal with a cold, quiet authority.

‘Right now we’re sweeping for IEDs, hoping we don’t step on anything’, he said quietly. ‘It’s a very slow process with this many guys. Everyone’s
aggressive and wanting to move fast, so they’re forgetting the basics. But everything will straighten itself out. The light’s coming up and we’ll get more comfortable and this
terrain won’t be whipping us so bad. We just sit and wait.’

He took off his anti-ballistic visor, wiped it clean and seemed to think, I’ll be honest with the reporter. ‘This is really fucked up right now. I wish the sun would come up, people
would start shooting and then we’d fix ourselves. Most fucking grunts don’t understand slow and methodical. That’s what these IEDs do, they take us away from our game plan. We
have to swap up our tactics and play a chess game. It’s not chequers now.’ He stood up and walked off.

In the gathering light, I saw we were spread across an open field. If Taliban fighters were waiting, we were completely exposed. Some squads went down on one knee while others moved slowly
forwards. If they had radios, they talked to each other constantly. If they only had rifles, they constantly looked through their sights, scanning every inch of ground for movement.

‘Hey, Morrison. You see that bright flashing light at your two o’clock?’ whispered Corporal Hillis. We could see a long straight road ahead, lined by trees on one side. Hillis
could see two men moving along the road. ‘They definitely know we’re here now. They’re just walking around watching us, like we’re the zoo. But they know where the bombs are
and we don’t, so we still have to take our time.’ He looked again. ‘I don’t know if the people are going to help us or if they’re still on the side of the Taliban.
They could be onlookers, they could be forward observers for mortars. It’s an uncomfortable situation.’

I asked him what kind of reaction he was expecting. ‘From what I’ve got it’s kind of mixed. The people don’t know any better, so they’ve been on the side of the
Taliban, under that iron fist. We’re just trying to show them the right way and hopefully they’ll choose sides. But we can’t have this being a safe haven for any type of fighters
or terrorists.’

Most of the marines’ legs, arms and backpacks were soaked through with the cold dark mud we’d lain in. As everyone started to spread out, I followed Hillis, who’d become a
reassuring presence. Hillis was in charge of a four-man machine-gun team, following 1st Squad, led by Sergeant Matthew Black, one of the few marines who didn’t look at all nervous,
didn’t try to look tough, but wore an almost cheeky grin. Soon it was just me and about twenty marines, walking to the long straight road up ahead.

Hillis said he saw two more men at one end of the road, which had a huge ditch, about twenty feet wide and twelve feet deep, running alongside. The ditch would have been a perfect trench if
there hadn’t been a filthy stream running along the bottom. The marines struggled to jump the stream, climbed up the other side, then lay down and scanned the horizon through their sights.
‘Where are these motherfuckers at, man?’ said one.

We had two Afghan soldiers with us. One, nicknamed Rambo, had the Afghan flag draped over his shoulders, with the bright red part covering his left arm. ‘Look at the fucking
asshole’, said one of the marines. They told Rambo to lie down, like they were doing. The ANA had issued green camouflage, rather than desert, so the red flag only made him stand out a little
more than he would have anyway. The other Afghan soldier was digging into the road with a knife, at what looked like an IED.

The road and ditch were perfectly straight. In one direction was a petrol station, in another, several compounds surrounded by high walls. The marines saw men moving around outside. Lying side
by side and looking through their rifle sights, they described what they could see.

‘There’s a possible IED up there.’

‘Who’s this guy on the right?’

‘See the one closer to us on the right?’