One Million Steps: A Marine Platoon at War (17 page)

The running gunfight continued northeast for another kilometer. A third Taliban went down. Spokes Beardsley provided a section of two Cobras. When the gunships hit a few Taliban, a second section of helicopters flew over and joined in. Another Taliban went down. Harvest Hawk lumbered loudly onto station. As it flew over the battle area, one Taliban panicked and broke from cover. The Hawk belched and a forty-five-pound missile called a Griffin blew the man apart.

Geometry dictates firefights. The mortars and air permitted McCulloch to attack from 90 degrees. On this day, the Taliban gangs were strangely slow to grasp that. By continuing to shoot at the few Marines they could see, they were setting themselves up for repeated pounding from the air. Third Squad had counted seven Taliban bodies in the six-hour firefight and retrieved several weapons. But they were four kilometers northwest from Fires. If they took one casualty, it would take hours of fighting to get them out.

“
You’ve had your fun,” Garcia said. “Get your squad back here.”

By the end of the first week in December, interpreters listening to the enemy Icoms heard the word “Marine” mixed in with Pashto. In radio messages back to Pakistan, the Sangin fighters used sentences like “Marines run toward bullets,” or “Marines have more bullets than we have,” or “Why don’t you come over here and shoot at them!”

Third Platoon kept up the pressure. On December 9, 3rd Squad detained a man with a wad of Pakistani money and an Icom. Unable to understand what he was saying, the squad released him. Third pushed on and found two IEDs. When two men ran away, heading down a ditch, they shot them. Stashed nearby in a cornfield, the squad found Icom parts, a shoulder-fired antitank tube, and several rounds.

On December 10, 1st and 3rd Squads were clearing compounds when they were hit by a
hailstorm of bullets from a tree line. Esquibel called in the 60mm mortars. Then he and McCulloch sneaked along a compound wall to flank the enemy, who escaped out the back.

At the same time, Lance Corporal Palma, miffed at being left behind, grabbed a second Vallon from an engineer too hesitant to advance. Palma swept clear a path off to the flank, so that the machine guns could lay down a
base of fire without endangering McCulloch. Lance Corporal Xiong brought forward a 60mm mortar team by following
the trail of bottle caps dropped by Palma. The mortars put a quick end to the fight.

The engagement illustrated how the platoon had matured. The squad leaders worked out their own coordination in the midst of the battle. They had opposite personalities. McCulloch was exuberant; Esquibel was reticent. Esquibel was aggressive and measured; Mac was aggressive and unrestrained. To Esquibel, it was positioning his Marines to avoid harm, and then killing. To Mac, it was killing, and then positioning his Marines to avoid harm. Yin and yang.

That afternoon, company headquarters told all squads to return to base due to a “sensitive situation.” Secretary of Defense Gates was visiting the Marines in Helmand. The last thing the senior staff needed was for 3rd Platoon to be engaged in a major firefight.

“I will go back convinced that our strategy is working,” Secretary Gates told the press at Marine headquarters. “
Frankly, progress—even just in the last few months—has exceeded my expectations.”

In fact, there were two strategies, and Gates, a career bureaucrat, either straddled both or was too confused to distinguish the fundamental differences between them. The Marines were driving the Taliban out of Helmand. They were intent upon killing the enemy. Yet Gates had termed them “parochial” because they resisted being placed under the direct command of the military headquarters in Kabul (McChrystal).

“
Earn the support of the people and the war is won,” McChrystal, the top commander, wrote. “Strive to focus 95% of our energy on the 95% of the population that deserves and needs our support. Doing so will isolate the insurgents. Take action against the 5%—the insurgents—as necessary or when the right opportunities present themselves. Do not let them distract you from your primary tasks.”

Far from distracting, the Marines were focused on killing the Taliban. Clearly, there was a disconnect here.

In March 2009, Obama had approved what Gates termed “
a fully resourced counterinsurgency campaign … breathtaking in its ambition.” To undertake this “breathtaking” endeavor, Gates had appointed General McChrystal.

The general had previously commanded the 7,000 Special Operations Forces that specialized in nighttime raids to kill the enemy. But with the fervor of the true believer in the nation building Gates opposed, McChrystal demanded that the 100,000 conventional coalition troops focus not upon killing the enemy, but upon protecting and persuading the people to support the Karzai government.

The strategy was based on an impossible theory; indeed, Gates called it a “
fantasy.” Pakistan provided the Taliban with aid and a 2,600-kilometer sanctuary. Karzai had provided wretched leadership, giving the ten million members of Pashtun tribes no reason to risk standing against the ruthless and unpopular Taliban. On average, an American patrol passed through any given hamlet about once a week, while the Taliban came and went as they pleased. To provide real protection to the 5,000 Pashtun villages would require 200,000 Americans and twice as many helicopters. The resources were not adequate for the strategy, and Karzai opposed it.

According to COIN doctrine, the
main
American objective was to provide security for the tribes, thereby gaining their support. The
secondary
effort was “neutralizing the bad actors … in a discriminate manner.” This was gibberish. Only by killing “the bad actors” could security be provided. And even when the Taliban were killed by 5 percent of the military effort, the tribes were not persuaded to support the Americans. Survey after survey confirmed widespread Pashtun resentment of our troops.

When Secretary of Defense Gates said in Helmand, “our strategy is working,” it was impossible to know to which strategy he was
referring—destroying the Taliban or persuading the tribes to reject the Taliban.

On the 14th of December, Captain Johnson ordered 3rd Platoon to cease patrolling and return to base. Back at district headquarters, the farmers were complaining bitterly about the platoon. With the constant fighting, they couldn’t till their fields and it was time to plant the poppy. The Marines should patrol only every other day, they demanded—or, better yet, not patrol at all. Leave the district. We don’t want your “protection.”

Shortly after arriving, Lieutenant Colonel Morris had set up a council of elders to advise him and the district chief. The council included representatives from two major tribal confederations—the Panjpai, with a heavy Taliban influence, and the more moderate Zirak, whose strongest tribe was the Alakozai. Since the council included drug lords, even one called “Mr. Poppy,” and Taliban sympathizers, Morris was skeptical of its benefit. Of thirty-one members, fifteen were suspected of criminal or insurgent behavior. But at least it was an outreach tool.

Lt. Karl Kadon, the battalion civil affairs officer, was just as skeptical. He was spending $250,000 a month on projects, many aimed to help the poorest subtribes. He had no illusions about buying loyalty. In four months, the villagers had whispered the locations of only four small arms caches, compared to twenty-six discovered by combined Afghan-Marine patrols.

Kadon was vexed by the exorbitant costs Afghan contractors charged for simple jobs. It cost a million dollars to blacktop one kilometer of flat road, and a quarter of a million per kilometer for gravel. Like any powerful sheik, Kadon set aside a few days each week to dispense cash for war damages and to mollify petitioners selected by the district chief. Sitting behind his desk, the lieutenant worked
quickly, reviewing each case, and asking basic questions that often stumped the claimant.

“What is your name?” Kadon asked one farmer.

“Faisal Juzalay.”

“The name on your card is Gazalan.”

“He’s my brother. What difference does it make? You pay me $500. My brother had two goats and two rooms blown up.”

Kadon knew the tribes wanted the foreigners’ money, while reciprocating with nothing.

“Your rich brother gives each goat a private room? Go away. Come back with a better story.”

Skepticism about Pashtun honesty pervaded the ranks.

“Legitimacy in Sangin,” Lt. Col. Steve Grass, Kennedy’s deputy, said, “is the tribal acceptance of orders from whichever group can kill its enemies and reward its friends. About half of Sangin is on the side of the Taliban. The other half is waiting to see what happens.”

In the face of an illiteracy rate of 80 percent, erecting a durable structure of government in Sangin was like building sand castles at low tide. Before the Marines, the British had to deal with a district governor who couldn’t read or write. Such officials faked it by signing documents they couldn’t read, later denying their own signatures. Resolution would be reached, only to be disputed the next day. This led to constant reappraisals, with bargaining based upon the comparative strengths of the negotiators at each round. As if this weren’t exasperating enough, the true tribal leaders had long ago fled or reached a secret agreement with the local Taliban.

Afghan agreements with British or Marine commanders were temporary truces. No deal was considered binding a day or a week later. The residents of Sangin understood that the government had no enduring foundation. Here this year, gone the next. They considered no commitment sacred, sensibly aligning with whoever demonstrated power in their neighborhood or farming sector. Tribal and
parochial politics, beyond the ken of Westerners, were as ethereal and complicated as a spiderweb. Want loyalty? Buy a dog.

“
There was a pledge from the elders,” Maj. Gen. Richard Mills said, “that fighting would cease by insurgents against coalition forces and foreign fighters [Pakistanis] would be expelled from the area.” In return, the Americans would cease patrolling, release a murderous bomb maker, provide money, and allow the tribe to patrol its own area.

In mid-December, Kennedy and Morris decided to test the cease-fire proposal. Maybe some fence-sitters would side with those Alakozai sheiks who resented the local Taliban leaders. Maybe they’d actually kill some of the pricks. Of the six district governors in Kennedy’s area, one was disreputable and three added no value. Sangin had one of the two decent governors. A cease-fire would raise his stature with the tribes. And it would show good faith
with the British, who were keen on the idea.

Day 64. 384,000 Steps

On December 15, Kennedy agreed to a cease-fire limited to Kilo Company’s area. The Alakozai would have a few weeks to prove themselves. With patrolling suspended, Morris shifted 3rd Platoon three kilometers south to clear a sector called Patrol Base America. Third Platoon was pleased it had gained the reputation of being a go-to unit. Browning’s sniper section and the reservists, however, were not pleased that they had to remain behind to defend PB Fires.

Six hundred meters southeast of 3/5 battalion headquarters at FOB Jackson, the zone called PB America consisted of two square kilometers of tree lines, tangled underbrush, and deep canals. Marines on the staff at Jackson warned 3rd Platoon that PB America’s terrain was treacherous.

The dividing line between the Marines and the Taliban inside PB America was a road called Carrot. An hour after arriving on December 16, Garcia initiated a reconnaissance across Carrot. First Squad began by launching a seventy-foot detonation cord. When the cord exploded, it set off a few IEDs and opened a safe lane. The explosion also startled some Taliban waiting in ambush.

When they opened fire too early, 1st Squad pitched out a few smoke grenades. Grabbing a Vallon, Palma rushed to the point position and led the squad forward. Seeing this, McCulloch swung 3rd Squad around the southern flank, while Garcia called in a mortar strike. The Taliban, squeezed between the two squads, pulled out.

The next day, 3rd Platoon again crossed Carrot, with India Company providing a forward observer team. The team picked out two Taliban spotters in a far tree line and called in artillery and F-18 gun runs. Under cover of the strafing, Sergeant Dy led 2d Squad into the smoldering underbrush. They found one body with a battery pack and an AK with a grenade launcher attached to the barrel. Searching farther into the bush, Dy stumbled onto a concealed canal. In the shallow water, a body was bobbing up and down, an AK barrel pointed skyward. When Dy dead-checked the body, Garcia yelled at him.

“Don’t waste rounds,” Garcia shouted. “He’s a stiff. He’s not breathing water.”

Dy waded in to retrieve the AK. But instead of the sweet-sick stink of death, he smelled fresh fruit. The backpack of the corpse was stuffed with oranges crushed to mush by 30mm slugs. Under his man-dress, the dead man was carrying an Icom radio and a flashlight with a red lens for night work.

Second Squad pushed ahead to a mosque that was searched by a few Afghan soldiers. Waiting outside, the impatient Marines poked around and uncovered a cache containing an RPG, two rockets, IED materials, and several hundred AK rounds. When Delany, the Texas-bred-and-loving engineer, blew the cache, the detonation set fire to
some corn stalks. Ignoring the flames, Delany was casually walking back to the squad when
an IED cooked off. As he scampered safely away, the Marines broke out laughing.

Garcia shook his head.

“You go home in a body bag,” he shouted, “and I get an investigation. Stop fucking around.”

In high spirits, the platoon moved into an abandoned compound and raised the American flag. LCpl. John Payne, twenty-one, also from Texas, decided to pose with an AK while sitting on a donkey. The donkey responded by drop-kicking him into a wall. Payne planned to be a history teacher. At the least, the donkey would figure into a geography lesson.

On December 17, Battalion 3/5 suffered its twenty-first killed in action. LCpl. Jose Maldonado, twenty, of Mathis, Texas, had been a star football and baseball player in high school. More than anything, Jose had wanted to fight for his country.