One Million Steps: A Marine Platoon at War (12 page)

A majority believed the Pashtuns were untrustworthy, either because
they were aligned with the Taliban or because they were intimidated by them. When a Marine patrol approached, the women and children ran away if there were Taliban fighters nearby. The villagers knew the Marines would respond with heavy fire. For the Marines, the hasty evacuation by families was a reliable early warning system that ambush was imminent. At the same time, the fields nearer to Fires grew heavily populated once the Taliban pulled back. Cows, sheep, and donkeys were everywhere. The Marines could walk in the hoofprints of the animals, safe from IEDs, until they were beyond sight of the sentry towers.

Third Platoon was finding about one IED a day and averaging four firefights a week. With no intelligence offered by the farmers, their demands for payment for war damages went unheeded. The Marines directed complainants to the district governor’s office and walked on. As they went from compound to compound, they occasionally met families genuinely glad to see them, while other farmers scowled and turned their backs.

As for the enemy, 3rd Platoon believed the Taliban were better fighters than the Afghan soldiers, but not by a wide margin. They didn’t view the Taliban as terrorists like Al Qaeda, dedicated to attacking America. They knew Afghans were fighting to determine the future of Afghanistan, not the United States. In like fashion, the Marines related their daily struggles at Fires to the cause of defending America.

“I know that body counts are not a measure of what we want these days,” Major General Mills said. “But I can tell you that with the heavy casualties that they [3/5] have suffered, they have inflicted ten times that amount on the enemy.”

In the theoretical world of benevolent counterinsurgency, the general wasn’t supposed to talk that bluntly. The metaphysical mission was to persuade the Pashtun tribes, rather than to kill the enemy. As the top commander through mid-2010, General McChrystal had laid down a strict rule.

He wrote, “I wanted to take away any incentives that might drive commanders and their men to see killing insurgents as the primary goal.”

McChrystal had previously commanded the Special Operations Forces that focused on killing. As the overall commander in Afghanistan, McChrystal divided tasks. The SOF—7 percent of the force—were dedicated killing teams, while the conventional forces—93 percent of the force—were to avoid killing.

“
Military history must never stray from the tragic story of killing,” wrote the eminent historian Victor Davis Hanson. “To speak of war in any other fashion brings with it a sort of immorality. Euphemism in battle narrative or the omission of graphic killing altogether is a near criminal offense of the military historian.”

In Afghanistan, that omission from the battle narrative became a direct order.

“
I directed all units to cease reporting … insurgents killed,” General McChrystal wrote.

Small teams of Special Operations Forces were praised for killing Taliban leaders, while conventional forces were treated differently.
McChrystal even supported a proposal to award medals for “courageous restraint” to grunts who did not return fire in populated areas.

David Petraeus took over in the summer of 2010. He diligently kept in touch with many unofficial sources and received a torrent of complaints about onerous restrictions. His solution was to quietly pass the word that the chain of command below the top had interpreted McChrystal’s Tactical Directive too literally. Thus he avoided rebuking McChrystal by revoking his directive, while signaling that he wasn’t going to be a hardass about enforcing it.

The platoon was fortunate in having firm commanders. Colonel Kennedy and Lieutenant Colonel Morris supported the platoon. Lieutenant Garcia received no cautionary “guidance” from above. It remained the judgment call of those on the patrol when to shoot and
when to refrain. The squad leaders were mature; all had combat experience. All also had a wife and children waiting back home. They weren’t cowboys, but they didn’t want to place the pieces of their Marines in body bags.

Day 33. 198,000 Steps

On patrol in sector Q1C, 1st Squad hacked through heavy vines for two hours to approach a mosque from a safe direction. Inside the small building, the Afghan soldiers found two shovel heads, three illumination flares, six mortar rounds, two Icom battery chargers, one kilo of opium tar, a small bag of blue powder, electric wires, cleaning gear for an AK, and vials of animal medicine. While they were searching, a man drove up on a motorcycle, watched them for a few minutes, and drove away. As they were leaving an hour later, he drove up again. When the askaris yelled at him to come over, he hastily drove away.

A Marine shot at him and he leaped off his bike, disappearing into the undergrowth. The patrol pursued, bursting into a nearby compound and finding blood splatters. The owner dragged out a slaughtered sheep. He said he locked his gate at sunset and minded his own business. He added that since he was poor, the Marines should give him money.

Whatever the man knew, he wasn’t divulging. The Marines weren’t detectives and the translator, Rocky, had no interrogation training. Insisting he was lying, the askaris wanted to beat him until he talked. The Marines vetoed that, but saw no sense in dragging him back with them, since the district governor was sure to release him. Lacking any better option, the Marines left the compound. This was typical. Unless they had absolute physical evidence, the Marines did not make an arrest.

Day 34. 204,000 Steps

On November 15, LCpl. Clay Cook of 1st Squad shot a man talking on an Icom. Some farmers brought his body to Fires. Since he wasn’t from the area, they wanted the askaris to bury him. The askaris jeered and yelled at them to leave. The farmers walked a short distance back down the road, dug a grave, dumped in the body, stuck a piece of cloth atop a pole, and went back to their fields.

Day 36. 216,000 Steps

Thoman was leading 3rd Squad through the P8S sector, HiMars, where Marine artillery had wrecked several compounds. A few families were scraping by, too poor or outcast to leave the ruins. When a poor farmer held out his hand, Thoman took out a piece of waterproof paper and scribbled a note saying damages should be paid. The interpreter, Stevie, told the farmer to take it to the district governor.

At another farm, women and children huddled in a corner. Their father had been killed; they had been bombed a week ago and were afraid the Marines had come to kill them. Thoman signed another chit, requesting payment for fourteen pomegranate trees. Next to the children, the Marines found two car batteries with wires attached, wrapped in plastic. They threw them into the canal, but did not take back the chit.

The Marines knew they were dealing with a miserable situation. One entry in the platoon log for mid-November read, “
At bldg 23, family came out. Took pictures of man, of house, his kids and elderly woman. Claimed to be his mother who[se] husband had been killed several months ago. Elderly woman acted unhappy with our presence.
All lns [local nationals] saying they were afraid we would kill them. Also a woman at bldg 18 with no husband and young kids said she had to move there because her house had been bombed 10 days ago and the kid’s father had been killed. She was their grandmother.”

The Marines were neither friendly nor hostile to the farmers. The grunts were focused on the fight and detached from the people. The poverty was stark and most farmers asked for something. The violence was also as pervasive as it was hidden. You could get blown up anywhere, but you couldn’t blame the farmers for staying silent or fearing the Marines. The grunts gave candy to children, returned grins if farmers smiled, and walked past those who didn’t.

Capt. Tim Nogalski, 3/5’s intelligence officer, treated Afghan professions of loyalty with skepticism. Government officials, tribal sheiks, merchants, drug dealers, mullahs, Taliban, and farmers had four years to perfect their lines with the British before the Marines arrived. No promise, oath, or pledge of allegiance could be taken at face value.

“It’s impossible to assess the number of enemy,” Nogalski said. “The Taliban can’t coordinate enough fighters to attack a single Marine platoon. But on the video screen, I watch whole neighborhoods evacuate enemy casualties and carry away the weapons. I can’t differentiate the people from the Taliban.”

The intelligence of real use to Nogalski were target packages compiled from informants and electronic intercepts. In the past month, Objective White had been killed. Objective Black was a psycho who had killed his own father. Objective Kassidy was a traitor inside the Alakozai tribe who was trying to assassinate the top sheiks. Objective Wondra was the shadow district chief who had captured three sheiks last summer. In return, the Alakozai had kidnapped Wondra and released him in return for their sheiks. The score was one enemy leader down, and three to go (unless others replaced them).

Day 38. 228,000 Steps

Lantznester, the SAW gunner, and LCpl. John Payne were covering the rear of a patrol, watching an old man who had walked outside his compound wall, followed by several boys. After the Marines filed by, he gestured to the boys, who scampered out into the field, yelling back and forth and looking at the ground. When one boy shouted and pointed at the scuff marks left where the Marines had passed over an irrigation ditch, the old man grabbed a shovel. From several hundred meters away, Lantznester watched him through his telescopic sight.

“Sergeant Dy,” he called over his mike, “that farmer looks shady. He’s digging an IED hole on our back trail.”

“Light him up.”

Several Marines opened fire. The man collapsed and the boys ran inside the compound wall. The patrol continued on.

“Our counterinsurgency training in the States was good,” Lantznester said. “We were taught to help the people. But it didn’t work out at Fires. The farmers didn’t like us foreigners. Our terp, Stevie, was great. He’d kick the Afghan soldiers in the ass when they needed it. He warned us when atmospherics in the fields were turning bad and he’d argue with the farmers.”

Every American platoon had a Stevie, an Afghan youth with quick intelligence and determination who taught himself English watching TV soaps, signed on with a contractor, and was sent to the grunts, the bottom of the translator totem pole. After a few months or years eating, sleeping, fighting, and straining to improve his pidgin English, Stevie employed
fuck
as adjective, verb, and noun with the same facility as any grunt. The Stevies became Americans. They thought like the grunts, swaggered like them, looked askance at Afghans, and desperately hoped to earn a Green Card. Without Stevie, 3rd Platoon
was deaf and dumb. With Stevie, well, at least somebody yelled back over the captured Icoms at the Taliban.

Day 39. 234,000 Steps

At mid-morning on November 20, 3rd Squad was patrolling in Sector P8Q, always dangerous. The point man, LCpl. Carlos Garcia, stepped on a pressure plate that shredded both his legs. Ignoring the danger, LCpl. Kyle Doyle and others ran forward to strap on tourniquets. Doyle, twenty-one, from California, had joined the Marines after reading that they were a brotherhood. Now his close comrade had been struck down.

“Carlos was praying as we were running with him,” Doyle said. “Time was going slow and fast for me.”

The immensely popular engineer was carried back to Fires and medevaced as a double amputee.

Second Squad returned to P8Q and found another IED. The squad also destroyed a cache of ammonium nitrate. A man riding by on a moped paused to shoot at the patrol, and then drove off. The squad found a second IED, with wires to a battery. Getting another hit on the Vallon, the Marines probed with their knives, digging up the head of a dog with a metal collar.

Banshee 3, a sniper keeping overwatch with the squad, saw a man with an Icom pop his head out of a compound. A few minutes later, he reappeared with a shovel, dug cursorily for a few seconds, looked at the Marines, and ducked back inside. After he repeated this twice, Banshee 3 put a round into his chest. Before leaving P8Q, 2d Squad uncovered and destroyed a third IED.

Several hundred meters to the west, Lance Corporal Gorcie, walking point with 3rd Squad, stepped on an IED and was evacuated.

Day 40. 240,000 Steps

The next day, 1st Squad attempted to conduct a census. The war in Afghanistan would have ended in a few months had the Taliban worn uniforms. Instead, by posing as civilians they walked right by American soldiers. Biometric tracking and databases were standard in the States; anytime a car is stopped, the police run an immediate check. The Chicago police carry handheld devices that send fingerprints over the airwaves and get a response in minutes.

To do the same in Sangin, 3rd Platoon was given a brick-sized computer called HIDE. The idea was to enter the names, photos, eye iris, thumbprint, location, tribe, and family members living in every compound. While the concept made sense, the HIDE was clunky and poorly designed, requiring twenty minutes to enter too much data about each person. The Marines considered biometric patrols worthless, because HIDE never provided them with a positive hit. Worse, spending an hour at one compound gave the Taliban time to set up an ambush.

Sure enough, after 1st Squad lingered at a compound, they received harassing fire from a tree line to the east. A fire mission was called in. In an adjacent field, three small children were standing rigidly next to two adults. Suddenly a man ran out from the trees, ducked behind the kids, and backed across the field, keeping the children between him and the Marines, who canceled the fire mission.

Through their high-power scopes, Banshee—the snipers—had watched similar scenes. When a man walked among those working in the fields but stopped to shake hands or exchange greetings, the snipers knew he was not a local. If he became uneasy, he moved closer to the farming families. Browning saw one man balance a child on the handlebars and another on the backseat as he drove away on his motorcycle.

First Squad continued northeast, passing through the P8S sector where sheep the size of ponies were grazing. In P8S there were compounds with steel doors on sliding tracks and black-and-white TVs in the living rooms. The Taliban shadow district governor lived in a house in P8S, decorated with bright Persian rugs on wooden rather than dirt floors. But he was never home when the Marines came calling.