The Silence of War Page 6

  Not surprisingly, I didn’t see a soul I recognized. There was an air of sadness embedded in that realization. It was the same place I had called home for two years, yet it wasn’t at all. In my mind I could still see the faces of the young Marines who had been my comrades in arms long, long ago, and I missed them. I won’t go back there again.

  In the meantime, I heard that a Marine battalion just had its deployment orders changed. They had been slated to go to Iraq, but now they were going to Afghanistan. They would be the first Marines to go back into that country since the initial invasion after 9/11. I could see that the war in Iraq was sputtering out and I believed the Marines would be pulling out soon. I reasoned that the commandant of the Marine Corps would not want his Marines sitting around, doing nothing, with a war going on somewhere else. I assumed he would side-straddle-hop them from Iraq to Afghanistan. Therefore, Afghanistan—or “the ’Stan,” as it came to be known—was going to be the place to be.

  I volunteered to go with that battalion, and my orders were changed from Iraq to the ’Stan. I was sent to my old stomping grounds at Marine Corps Base Twenty-nine Palms. I hadn’t seen the Stumps since 1978, but I was going back—thirty years later. It was home to the 2nd Battalion, 7th Marines (2/7)—my new outfit.

  I arrived at the town of Twenty-nine Palms at about 9:00 p.m. I intended to check in with the battalion the following morning. However, it’s almost neurotic how indelibly the Marine Corps has made its mark on me. For example, when I wear a civilian suit I still place my tie clasp carefully between the third and fourth button on my shirt, I still check my “gig line”—the vertical alignment of my shirt with my trousers, I still “blouse” my shirt—and I still remember BAMCIS.

  BAMCIS is one of those acronyms the Marine Corps loves. It helps green lieutenants remember things when their brains are shut down from fatigue. It stands for Begin planning, Arrange for reconnaissance, Make reconnaissance, Complete the order, Issue the order, and Supervise. I am still hyperfocused on the downright necessity of conducting a reconnaissance.

  So after obtaining a room at the Twenty-nine Palms Holiday Inn, my home for the next month and a half, I decided to conduct a reconnaissance of 2/7’s Headquarters Building. I got there about 10:00 p.m. My goal that evening was to pinpoint exactly where I was going to check in the following morning—nothing more.

  To my astonishment, Marines were still working—not usually the case at that hour. I had expected to find only a noncommissioned officer (NCO) on duty. With the clarity of hindsight, I shouldn’t have been surprised; the battalion had a lot to do and only a short time to do it. Until very recently 2/7 had been preparing for Iraq. Half the battalion and all the staff officers had deployed there before. Afghanistan, on the other hand, was a great unknown.

  I met the key battalion staff officers immediately—they were all still working. And they began briefing me—immediately. It was typically Marine Corps. Walk in the door and get to work. They liked the fact that I had been a Marine officer; I could understand what they were up against.

  We stood before a very large, detailed map of that part of Afghanistan that would be our battalion area of operations (AO). Since a reinforced battalion consists of about a thousand Marines, the size of the AO was intimidating. It was an area larger than the state of Vermont. I couldn’t see how one battalion could adequately cover Vermont. In addition, I naturally assumed that we were going to be deployed in the customary Marine fashion, with attached artillery, air, and logistical assets.

  Looking at that huge topographical depiction of mountains, valleys, rivers, and ridgelines with the eye of an experienced officer, I saw serious problems. I pointed out that even if we broke the artillery down to two gun sections, there was no way we could cover all the anticipated forward operating bases (FOBs). I also wondered aloud how tactical aircraft could cover our entire AO from the existing air bases and how long it would take air to arrive on station.

  The staff officers looked at each other with knowing half smiles. There would be no artillery and no air support. I think they appreciated the fact that I was stunned. This was not the long-established Marine Corps way of doing business. Additionally, I think my questions and suggestions pleased them. They had already asked themselves the same questions and had already considered the same remedies. I stayed around until after midnight, although I hadn’t even officially checked in yet. The staff was still working when I left.

  —

  The next day—February 8, 2008—I returned at 8:00 a.m. I formally checked with the executive officer—the second in command. Tall, broad-shouldered, and with a shaved head, Major Lee Helton looked like a walking recruiting poster for OCS. Although his countenance was fierce, I found him to be a warm, friendly guy. Soon after, I attended a staff meeting led by the battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Richard Hall.

  Colonel Hall stood about six feet tall and was built like an Abrams tank. His shaved head and piercing eyes created the image of a professional warrior who would have been equally at ease conquering a kingdom as he was leading a battalion. His intellect impressed me immediately. My law enforcement intuition began to tingle. I wondered if he was handpicked for Afghanistan and his battalion just came along with him for the ride.

  I very much liked the fact that I was back with the Marine Corps. And unlike my time in Iraq, I was an embedded part of it, not just traveling along, not just being escorted. I was a bona fide member of the battalion, albeit technically a civilian. I say technically because in my heart, I was, and still am, a Marine. It didn’t take long before most members of the battalion accepted me as such.

  Shortly after the meeting, the colonel stuck out his hand and introduced himself. I knew right then that I was going to like the man on a personal level. Gone was the piercing stare, replaced by a gentle, good-natured smile. He told me that he had heard all about me from his staff and that I had made a good first impression. After our introduction, he invited me to his office for an in-depth talk. I recall that I kept looking at the floor self-consciously. It was a sign of the deep respect I instantly felt toward him that I did so because I’m not shy by nature. Generally, I’m forward and aggressive.

  He informed me of the battalion’s mission and asked my opinion. I gave it to him straight. I had picked up on many problems we faced during the discourse with the staff officers the night before. Some of my concerns were born of military training. Others came from law enforcement investigative logic. It all sat well with him. I think he had already reached the same conclusions.

  Over the better part of the following year, I was always pleasantly surprised when I would point something out to the colonel, only to discover that he had previously seen the object of my concern and had already taken steps to deal with it.

  The essence of our mission was to train the Afghan National Police (ANP). I was instantly and strongly opposed to the idea. I felt that the only reason they were still alive is that they either were Taliban supporters or had made some kind of accommodation with them. Otherwise, I reasoned, the enemy would have killed them long before, since they represented the government the Taliban was trying to overthrow.

  I didn’t trust the ANP one bit. I told the colonel, with a bit of dry humor, that if he ordered me to train them I would do so, but the training would be:

  “This is a bar of soap. Don’t eat it. Put it down. We’ll talk more about it later.” I didn’t want to teach them anything they could turn around and use against us.

  Many battalion commanders are brusque and businesslike. They have no time or patience for humor. Not so with Colonel Hall. Our personal relationship began well and continuously improved over time. My initial perception of him never changed. I worked for him for almost a year, in the States and in the ’Stan. I still admire and respect him. If he summoned me right now, I would drop everything straightaway and march with him to any corner of the globe.

  Of course, I made it clear
that I would help train the ANP if so ordered. As a Marine officer it had been inculcated into me that my job as a subordinate was to make my superior right by my actions, even if I believed he was wrong. That was as much a part of my personality as BAMCIS. For his part, I will never forget something he said repeatedly:

  “Never let me fall in love with my plan.”

  What he meant was, if I saw something about his plan that I had reservations about, I was not only allowed to challenge it, I was expected to. That’s not typical of a Marine battalion commander.

  But then Richard Hall was anything but typical; 2/7 was in good hands.

  Shortly after the meeting, I met another LEP, a retired San Diego cop named Frank Canson. Frank was a good street cop; I could tell that just from talking to him. Some things can’t be faked. Frank’s sense of humor was superlative. Comedy is an absolute essential when times get hard, and sharing tough times with Frank was almost pleasant as a result. I thoroughly enjoyed his company. Frank had never been in the military, so he had a lot of learning to do before we headed to Afghanistan. He had never been around an M16, for example, even though that was going to be his personal self-defense weapon. But it was impossible not to like Frank, and everybody helped him out.

  For his part, it was obvious from the outset that Frank genuinely cared about the young Marines. He wanted to impart to them what he could to help them stay alive—his “street awareness.” Almost immediately, Frank and I began to coteach classes. We put our heads together and decided what the guys needed to be familiar with, and how we would present it to them. It was a daunting challenge. It takes cops years to learn the things we wanted them to know, but we had only a few short weeks.

  When one of us was talking, if the other had a point to make, the transition was seamless. It’s rare that two people can develop that kind of rapport, but Frank and I did. His wit was invaluable when teaching. There is nothing that can make a class interesting like a good laugh. I also use humor when teaching. So I don’t think too many of the Marines were bored when Frank and I were standing in front of them.

  His fatherly fondness for the young Marines impressed me so much that I used to say that he was everybody’s uncle. I even introduced him to groups of Marines as “Uncle Frank.” Before long, that became his battalion nickname.

  Frank and I drew gear just like any other Marine. We got what they got. When I drew a cornucopia of equipment from the supply section, I exclaimed, “I hope I get issued a lance corporal to carry all this stuff!”

  I stated, not from exaggeration, that what I drew as an individual was more than what was distributed to my entire platoon when I was on active duty. I couldn’t carry it all to my car—I had to drag it. The Marine Corps has never been so well equipped—possibly in its entire history. When I joined, the Corps had a saying about itself, “We have done so much, with so little, for such a long time, that we can do anything, with nothing, forever!”

  I left at least half of the issued gear securely locked in my car at Twenty-nine Palms; it never went to Afghanistan with me. Another 25 percent stayed in the rear in the ’Stan. Not knowing what I was getting into, I had lugged too much junk around with me in Iraq. But I had relearned the lesson I had originally grasped when I was on active duty: travel light. If I couldn’t eat it, drink it, or shoot it, I didn’t want to carry it.

  The only exceptions to that rule were two comfort items I had been introduced to by Colonel Thompson. I brought a light, warm, highly collapsible moderate-weather British army sleeping bag. The bag was easily secured to the outside of my field pack. During cooler weather I had an equally warm, equally collapsible British army jacket that was also effortlessly secured to the outside of my pack. They came in handy from time to time in Afghanistan.

  As had been the case in Iraq, I often needed them to stay warm while inside due to excessive air-conditioning, although too much air-conditioning was never a problem once we left the rear.

  Frank and I went to the field with the battalion during March. Being out in the desert for training wasn’t a new experience for me, although I hadn’t been there in three decades. Being out in the desert during winter was.

  Gone was hell without the flames. In its place was bone-chilling cold. I was amazed. That was a side of Twenty-nine Palms that I had never experienced before. Dingy leaden skies hung overhead where the flaming orb of the sun ought to have been. The wind, which blew superheated air in the summer months, must have originated in the Arctic. It blew hard and incessantly and seemed to pass right through me, carrying with it the debris of the desert: sand. In the summer I was sunburned, in the winter I was windburned. Either way exposed skin turned red. I’m still not sure which season I prefer. I suppose both are equally bad. The desert is as inhospitable in winter as in summer; only the temperature changes.

  Fortunately, Marines get issued much better gear than they did in my day. The old-style field jacket, even with the liner, was a very poor cold-weather jacket. The under and outer clothing Marines have now are vast improvements. Most importantly, the winterweight sleeping bags—along with an insulated inflatable sleeping pad—actually keep a man warm at night. The pad kept the wintry ground from working its way up to one’s body inside the sleeping bag. We didn’t have anything remotely like that when I was on active duty. I trembled through too many nights back then. I still shivered from the cold pretty much all day long, but at least I could look forward to being warm at night.

  I already knew that cold weather can dehydrate a man just as hot weather can. The difference is that one doesn’t necessarily feel thirsty. In my case, when I began to get a headache, I knew I was dehydrated. I heated water with a chemical mix that came with our rations, and then mixed it with cocoa powder. I drank tepid cocoa until the headache subsided; I couldn’t get the cocoa any warmer than lukewarm.

  MREs (meals ready to eat), disparaged by the Marines, were first-rate cuisine compared to the “C rats” (C rations) that Marines of my era were issued. The MREs were much more palatable and contained enough calories to help a man’s body stay warm and keep him going mile after mile, day after day. As was the case when I was on active duty, I ate them cold. Except when making cocoa, I never bothered to heat either type.

  During some of the tactical training I got to watch brand-new second lieutenant platoon commanders maneuvering their platoons. I had to stop myself from stepping in and offering advice. I was not a captain anymore; I was a civilian. They had their own captains who did the teaching. It was difficult for me. I had already learned many a hard lesson during my time in the Marine Corps and knew what to do. But I remained silent. That would have been stepping outside my lane. Besides, they didn’t need my help.

  Even so, there was the occasional company executive officer who enjoyed a discussion on tactics. I brought the Cold War template to the present-day table. There wasn’t a significant difference of opinion. Terrain drives tactics, then and now. And we all agreed that the new enlisted Marines had to become much more aware of their surroundings. Clues as to the whereabouts of IEDs were deliberately planted in the training environment. They were all too often missed by inexperienced Marines.

  During lulls in the tactical training, the platoons would be rotated, one at a time, to an area where Frank and I were waiting. We realized that it took street cops years to become really proficient at instantly reading what I came to call the human terrain. To make the point I would ask each assembled platoon if it would be possible for the Marine Corps to teach a bright young cop how to be a Marine in a one-hour lecture. It was a rhetorical question, and their animated replies in the negative were expected. I told our Marine students that the challenge was no less difficult for Frank and me. We were expected to almost instantly impart knowledge that realistically took years to acquire.

  But “Uncle Frank” and I were apprehensive because the young Marines’ lives depended in part upon our being able to do so. It was a deadly serious
responsibility, and we felt it keenly. We put our heads together in bull sessions every day, seeking ways to improve our delivery so as to hasten the process. We did our very best. I hope they knew that.

  Having been a Marine was a real help. I understood Marines. I knew how to talk to them. I passed the word that I was a former Marine because I knew that carried weight; they would be more likely to listen to what I had to say. After one class a Marine told me that they already knew I was a former Marine before I told them, “Because when we bust on civilians they get pissed. You just laughed and busted right back.” “Busting chops” is an art form in the Marine Corps.

  I appreciated the fact that the guys sitting on the ground around us were bone tired. I had been in their boots. They were training in numbing cold, day after day, with little sleep. Class time was a wonderful opportunity to take a nap. Most wore sunglasses, and their body armor propped them up. They could be snoozed out in a minute and nobody would know. I couldn’t blame them. One of the civilian instructors who spoke before Frank and I did would have put me to sleep if I hadn’t been standing up.

  Their platoon sergeants and squad leaders were constantly yelling out names and telling Marines to “Stand up!” because it was obvious to them that the Marines in question had fallen asleep. Frank and I noticed too, but we decided on a nonpunitive approach—we kept their interest. Frank was a natural-born comedian. He kept their attention with his incomparable sense of humor; nobody wanted to sleep through his punch lines.

  As for me, I made a game out of class. Since the whole point was to raise their awareness of the human terrain, I would pick out somebody I knew nothing about and tell the platoon something about him. Something I could only have deduced through observation. Then I would ask the platoon to tell me how I knew. Everybody woke up. Many participated. For example, referring to one platoon commander, I asked his platoon, “How do I know that Lieutenant McKendree is from Texas?”