The Silence of War Read online

  They all looked at him. He looked surprised. They were all dressed alike, in field uniforms. There was no cowboy hat on the lieutenant’s head, no spurs on his boots.

  I turned to the lieutenant and said, “You are from Texas, aren’t you?”

  He replied, “Yes, sir.”

  I then asked, “Did you tell me that?”

  “No, sir,” he answered.

  “Did anyone tell me that Lieutenant McKendree is from Texas?”

  Marines looked at one another, but no one said a word; they hadn’t.

  So, I said, somebody tell me how I can tell just by looking at the lieutenant that he’s from Texas. It got their attention. Everybody was trying to come up with an answer. There were a lot of creative guesses, some of them humorous (good thing the lieutenant had a sense of humor), but nobody hit on it.

  Finally I told them, I noticed the ring he was wearing. It was from Texas A&M University. I admitted there was a possibility that he was from another state and had simply gone to A&M, but I reasoned the probability was that the overwhelming majority of A&M grads were from Texas. Therefore I deduced he was from Texas. They got the point: deliberately notice and think.

  As Frank and I became ever more creative, we began naming the different teaching methods. I called that teaching technique the “rabbit in a hat trick.” For the most part there is something about everybody that enables a trained observer to deduce at least a little bit about the person. An obvious example is a wedding ring. Its presence most probably—though not necessarily—means the person is married. In pretty much every platoon there was someone who, by observation, gave me some information about themselves. One platoon, however, had me stumped. Frank was talking to them and I stood in the rear and gazed about. All I saw sitting about me was a sea of uniformity. I realized I was going to draw a blank.

  So I cheated.

  Marines these days wear name tapes on their uniforms. So I pointed to a sergeant who was dutifully watching over his squad for any nodding heads and, reading his name tape, asked a Marine who had been assigned to assist Frank and me where Sergeant Washington was from. Interestingly enough, it was Washington State. So when I asked the platoon, “How do I know that Sergeant Washington is from Washington State?” I got the same puzzled expressions I had gotten from Lieutenant McKendree’s platoon.

  One Marine guessed, “Because of his name tape?” That caused a ripple of laughter. I asked him if he thought I was from “McGowan State” . . . more laughter. I kept them thinking and guessing until I had made my point: deliberately notice and think. They were awake and interested. The game had accomplished its purpose, so I confessed. Sergeant Washington was amused, and since from that time on I would recognize him, we never failed to say hello when we passed each other.

  Sergeant Michael Washington was the first Marine killed in action (KIA) in Afghanistan whom I knew personally. When I got the word, I walked into a large equipment container, where I buried my face in my hands and silently cried.

  When I wasn’t in the field, I busied myself learning all I could about Afghanistan. I had gone into Iraq largely ignorant of the country and its people. Except for learning a little Arabic, I was mentally unprepared. I determined that this time I would do better. I was trying to learn Pashto—the language of the Afghans in the part of the country where we would be operating. I was also studying anything and everything else I could about the country.

  I worked at an office reserved for Frank and me at the battalion command building. It was a small room with one battleship gray desk and two similarly painted tables. It had three chairs and a wall locker. And that was pretty much it. The Marine Corps still painted all the walls a sickly green color. It was completely familiar.

  Since I was a continent away from home, living at the Holiday Inn, I went to work every day. It was a seven-day workweek. One Sunday, our intelligence officer, Captain Van Osborne, showed up with his father, Bill Osborne. My door was open, and Captain Osborne introduced us. He had work to do, so he left for his office immediately thereafter. Bill sat in one of our three chairs and struck up a conversation. It turned out that he had been a Marine captain and that we were pretty much contemporaries. We chatted amicably about the Marine Corps as it had been when we were on active duty.

  Something, though, struck me as familiar about him. We finally figured out that we had seen each other at Civil War reenactments back east. I used to be a reenactor and he still was. That was the beginning of a most fortuitous friendship. Bill wanted to help. He volunteered to sift through scores of articles in newspapers and on the Internet that related to Afghanistan and email me the pertinent ones. His tireless assistance and intelligent editing of material enabled me to wrap my mind around the country and its people; his aid was invaluable, particularly when I was in the field and away from sources of information.

  Bill’s willingness to help did not end there. Later, in Afghanistan, he—and other fine Americans like him—went above and beyond the call of civic duty.

  4

  Mojave Viper

  Eventually predeployment training evolves into something known as Operation Mojave Viper. Mojave Viper is a carefully orchestrated battalion-size training exercise that includes everything a battalion going to war should be proficient at—from tactical questioning of people in a war zone to live fire on the move. But it was more than simply training; it had a built-in evaluation process with permanent personnel as well. They are known as “coyotes.”

  Frank and I were split up. We were each assigned to a different rifle company. I was assigned to G Company, known by the military phonetic for G as Golf Company. One day, I found a new way to be value added. Two Marines from each platoon in each company were the designated intelligence gatherers. They were known by the acronym CLIC Marines. CLIC stands for company-level intelligence cell. I watched two of them question a role-playing coyote. The role player was depicting himself as an Afghan civilian with information—if the CLIC Marines could ask the right questions.

  I stood slightly off to the side, watching and listening. After all, this was my forte. Dark-haired Lance Corporal Kyle Howell, about six feet, four inches tall, lean and muscular, did most of the talking. His partner, Lance Corporal Zach Wolfe, exactly six feet in height, had blond hair and was lean and tough-looking—even for a Marine. Both had previously deployed to Iraq, where Zach had been slightly wounded and received the Purple Heart. The small scar the wound had left on his face enhanced the look of a battle-hardened warrior. They had both been in firefights, and both had been awarded the Combat Action Ribbon. They had been together a long time and were natural partners.

  After only a cursory exchange, Howell turned to Wolfe and said, “Well, that’s all I’ve got. You got anything?” To which Wolfe replied, “Nope.”

  The Marine captain in me could be restrained no longer. Like a pit bull watching a mailman impetuously stride up the walkway to the mailbox, the “captain” slipped his leash and attacked. I pointed at both of them and said with unquestioned authority, “You—here—now!”

  I continued. “That guy wants to give you everything, including a ten-digit grid coordinate to Osama bin Laden’s cave! Get back in there and . . .” Counting on my fingers, I rattled off a list of questions for them to ask. When they were done the “coyote” told them they had done a great job. If only questioning people was that easy, I thought. Silently I sighed.

  I called them over to a pile of rocks big enough to sit on and that was out of earshot of everybody else. Dusk had arrived, and night falls quickly in the desert. It didn’t matter. There was no time to waste. We were on an accelerated push to Afghanistan. I gave it to them straight. I said, “I don’t have time for ‘nice-nice.’ You guys sucked. Now let’s work on improvement. It begins now.”

  I took on the role of “Afghan civilian” and told them to ask me questions. When both of them drew a blank, I’d reverse roles. One of them became th
e “Afghan” and I asked the questions. I could always break up the impasse and get them talking. Then we’d switch back. Back and forth it went. I had just discovered a previously unthought-of niche for myself.

  Whenever we had spare time, throughout Viper I’d get them together and work on their tactical questioning skills. I included other Golf Company CLIC Marines from other platoons. Throughout the role-playing there was instruction: I explained human nature and what motivates people to talk. I offered tried-and-true advice on both how to tweak the memories of cooperative individuals who thought they couldn’t remember anything else, and how to crack uncooperative people who didn’t want to talk.

  I knew I was making progress when, late one night, Howell ran over to where I was trying to sleep. He was all excited. He said, “This shit really works! I just got Zach to admit he was in love with [she shall remain nameless]!” I smiled to myself and thought, “Well, that’s not exactly how I intended him to use the skill sets I was teaching, but at least he’s getting it.” Then I drifted off to sleep.

  I saw a need. I did what a self-motivated LEP was supposed to do—whatever it took to enhance the battalion’s mission. There was no such thing as CLIC Marines in my day. I didn’t even know they existed. So I had to imagine what they would be up against in Afghanistan. I drew on the Iraq experience only to discover that in Afghanistan, things would be much different. Looking back, a good deal of what I taught was not useful in the ’Stan. For example, I trained them in evidence collection, by the numbers, and a host of other details that are important to intelligence gathering and prepping for a trial. None of it was of any use in Afghanistan. All of it would have been extremely useful in the Iraq I had come to know.

  Sometimes I was pleasantly surprised at how creative they could be. Having explained the concepts underlying fingerprints, Lance Corporal Matt Arguello asked me if it were possible to raise fingerprints using only fine desert dust. I admitted I didn’t know, so we tried it. The results weren’t too impressive, but his thinking “outside the box” was.

  When Frank and I met up again I told him what I was doing and he jumped right on the bandwagon with the CLIC Marines in the unit he was assigned to—Fox Company. For the remainder of our time in the States, Frank and I were usually not in the same place at the same time. But in the ’Stan we would work together again, at least for a time.

  Meanwhile, I relished being back in the Corps. One day a Marine was going to receive the Silver Star for heroism in Iraq. The Silver Star is the nation’s third-highest military honor. The entire battalion would be drawn up in parade formation—reason enough to come out of the field. Marine Corps regulations state that any honorably discharged Marine who served during wartime may be known by the highest rank achieved during the war, and may also wear the uniform on special occasions—with the caveat that the former Marine had to be within weight and haircut standards. I had been a captain in the Reserves during the First Gulf War, and I wanted to go to the ceremony in uniform.

  The battalion staff captains were highly enthusiastic. Captain Osborne gave me the exact location of the regulation that allowed it. The battalion executive officer (XO), Major Helton, had misgivings. Thanks to Captain Osborne I could point him straight to the pertinent regulation. The XO and the sergeant major put their heads together and finally decided that it was allowed.

  One of the captains, who was about to be promoted to major, gave me a pair of his captain’s bars. I donned the desert “diggie” camouflage field uniform that Marines wear these days and pinned on the bars. Major Helton “volunteered” to accompany me to the ceremony. I realized that was his eminently tactful way of saying, “Okay, you can go, but don’t leave my side.” I smiled inwardly and complied without complaint.

  “My” CLIC Marines were ecstatic when they saw me. They gave me good-natured grief about the way my sleeves were rolled up. They called it “the gunny roll.” The sleeves weren’t neat enough to suit them. All the same, it was a real motivator for them to see me in uniform—as it was for me to be there in uniform.

  Colonel Hall saw me and came over, smiling. I snapped to attention and saluted—for the first time in many years. He returned the salute. It felt good. He quipped something to the effect that I looked better than some of his officers. Inwardly, I beamed. I was back.

  We returned to the field and continued with Mojave Viper. One of the most difficult of the training activities is named for its range number: “Range 400.” It is a company-size, live-fire, “shoot and move” assault in full gear. Machine guns fire live rounds overhead and Marines fire live rounds from advanced positions while responding to orders from their squad, platoon, and company leaders.

  Body armor, rifles, full magazines, water—the weight added up. And it involved running up and down hills—rocky, irregular, tough desert terrain; it takes a lot of cardiovascular fitness. I asked the Golf Company commander (CO) if I could participate. Before he answered one way or the other, I explained that we both needed to know if I had the physical stamina to do this stuff. If not, then now was the time to find out so I wouldn’t be a burden on Marines where we were going.

  I saw the company gunny in my peripheral vision. He was beaming. I heard him mutter a phrase I would often hear him say, “Now, that’s what I’m talking about!”

  The company commander agreed, and I was sent to 1st Platoon, which was commanded by Second Lieutenant Benjamin Brewster. Lieutenant Brewster stood about six feet tall and was athletically built. His comportment was reminiscent of military officers of a bygone era. That is, he was unfailingly polite under all circumstances. It took a very long time before we became comrades enough for him to cease calling me “Sir” or “Mr. McGowan.”

  Lieutenant Brewster explicitly told me not to fire my weapon, since I had not yet had an opportunity to sight it in. I was fine with that. At fifty-eight, I was testing my fitness level, not my expertise with the rifle. I just wanted to see if I still had the stamina to move under combat conditions.

  The leader of Alpha Squad, to which I was attached, glanced furtively as the lieutenant walked away and said, “You can shoot if you want to.”

  Had the lieutenant not been explicit, I would have. I knew I could shoot safely. I had been an assault team leader on SWAT and was a firearms instructor in the FBI. I had plenty of high-speed, intense training and shooting time behind me. I knew there was no way my rifle was so out of whack that I would have been a danger firing it despite my not having had an opportunity to sight it in.

  But the lieutenant had given an order, and I had to set the right example for his men.

  I realized that, like most second lieutenants, Brewster was brand-new. His squad leader, in cautiously countermanding the lieutenant’s order, was expressing a lack of confidence in his platoon commander.

  The squad leader was a combat-savvy veteran of Iraq, and he was correct—technically. But like it or not, Brewster was in command of that platoon. And like every second lieutenant, he would have to earn the respect of his subordinates. I wouldn’t make it any harder on him.

  I had to obey his order.

  I couldn’t have known it at the time, but Lieutenant Brewster and I were destined to work together again in Afghanistan. He was to be in command of the FOB I supported. It’s good that I didn’t disobey him. We might not have been able to work together if I had.

  Howell and Wolfe were ecstatic. I was fifty-eight years old and about to “kick my own ass,” as they put it. They painted my face with camouflage grease. Lieutenant Brewster took one look, smiled slightly, and, with the impeccable etiquette he unfailingly displayed, said, “Sir, please don’t do that again.” I was the only member of 1st Platoon with a painted face. Howell and Wolfe were from 2nd Platoon.

  Before we started out, one of the coyotes, not only noticing my personal camouflage, but my age as well, asked another, “What’s with that guy?” The other responded, “Former Marine—moto.” Moto
meant “motivated.” That was explanation enough.

  It was tough going, but I discovered that I could still do it. I knew that it would be necessary for me to be fit in Afghanistan. I had no intention of remaining “in the rear with the gear” if Colonel Hall would allow me to move forward.

  I ended up offering to help one of the Marines I was moving forward with. He had asthma and needed to suck on his inhaler. Wordlessly I wondered what he was doing there. I felt he should have been medically disqualified from deployment. But that was “outside my lane,” so I said nothing about it. Anyway, noticing his difficulty, I offered to carry his pack. He was embarrassed and declined. I didn’t mean to make him self-conscious—it was a genuine offer of help—one Marine to another. But what the heck—to him I was an old man, so of course he was uncomfortable.

  While with Lieutenant Brewster’s platoon, I also met the Bravo Squad leader, Sergeant Lance Holter. Roughly six feet tall (when you’re my size—five foot, eight inches tall—everybody seems to be at least six feet) and wearing glasses, Sergeant Holter was very supportive of my efforts to teach street awareness to his squad. As a result, I spent more time with them than with any other squad.

  In time buddying up with Sergeant Holter and his squad would prove to be a real godsend.

  —

  Finally Mojave Viper ended, and we all were billeted in Quonset huts at a place in the middle of the desert known as Camp Wilson. Quonset huts are long, one-room, dome-shaped metal buildings that became popular during World War II. They are quickly and cheaply built. Most of the Marines shared a single hut with a heck of a lot of other Marines, much like the squad bay of my OCS days. I shared one with a small number of officers.