spoke broken English, could not call in fire support. But Talib and Williams would be together, so any confusion about command could be resolved on the spot. If everything went according to plan, the trip to Ganjigal would be a pleasant morning hike on a pleasant fall day.
At one point, Maj. Williams said, “I hope we can be back at Joyce in time for lunch.”
As we left the briefing room, I didn’t get that chance to corner Capt. Swenson; 1st Sgt. Garza pulled me and Team Monti aside.
“Gunny Johnson is replacing Meyer on this op,” he said.
Gunny Johnson handled logistics on base, doing endless paperwork. He was competent, even-tempered, and obliging. If Team Monti needed gear, he found it and shipped it to us. It was not unusual to rotate men on missions where low-level shooting was likely. Hearing a few rounds crack by once during a nine-month tour wasn’t too much to ask. Every Marine wanted to qualify for the Combat Action Ribbon. It would suck to be stuck on Joyce, and never qualify for the CAR.
Plus, I wasn’t popular at ETT headquarters on Joyce. Fabayo had told me several times that “our job as advisors was not to fight.” Headquarters considered me too headstrong. Maybe so, but on this patrol, we were going into a horseshoe-shaped valley with steep mountains on every side, with no trees or undergrowth for concealment, walking uphill for over a kilometer to reach two hamlets where every house was as hardened as a Normandy pillbox.
“I should be with my team, First Sergeant,” I said.
I was Team Monti’s tactician and gunner. In the dozen-odd scrapes we’d been in, I had burned through ten thousand rounds. I could clear misfires, coax malfunctioning breeches, and quickly swap out one barrel or one gun for another. I had walked fire onto targets at ranges from two hundred to seven hundred meters. On this patrol, I wanted to walk point in front of Lt. Johnson, not babysit the trucks in the rear. The four of us were a unit now.
Staff Sgt. Kenefick and Lt. Johnson agreed with me, objecting strenuously.
“We need Meyer,” Staff Sgt. Kenefick said.
“We’re a team, First Sergeant,” Lt. Johnson said. “It makes no sense to split us up.”
“The decision’s been made,” 1st Sgt. Garza said. “End of discussion.”
I tried to keep calm. I couldn’t be mad at Garza, as he wasn’t the one who had made the decision. I told myself it was my ego that was hurt. I was just steamed because I’d miss some shooting time. It was no big deal; the insurgents never fought from inside a village. Gunny Johnson deserved to go on a patrol. Still, why jerk me off the team? The ETT head shed at Joyce had pulled me out to shove my nose into it, to make me more of a team player, that sort of thing.
The more I stewed, the more upset I became. The mission brief hadn’t been thorough. The ridges around Ganjigal bothered the hell out of me. I couldn’t shake a bad, bad feeling.
I sought out Staff Sgt. Juan Rodriguez-Chavez, our motor transport chief. I had known him for five months. He didn’t stand on rank and we’d traded stories about growing up on farms. He had grown up on a ranch in Mexico. Having a similar approach to life, Rod and I had become friends.
He was in the eighth grade when his family moved to Texas, where he learned English, played football, earned good grades, and roped cows in rodeos. Our team called him “Hot Rod.” He laughed a lot, bragged about how smart his two daughters were, and kept all our vehicles in top condition.
“Rod, this mission is fucked up. If the shit hits the fan,” I said, “we’re going in. My team’s walking point, and they’ll get cut off. We have to go in and get them out.”
“Dakota,” Rod said, “don’t put this on Gunny Johnson. I heard him and Staff Sgt. Kenefick talking. They’re both upset you’re not with them.”
“I know, Gunny’s a good guy. I’m pissed about the whole setup. If they step in shit, they’ll need heavy firepower, and we’re back here. We have to be ready to push up that wash.”
“Devil Dog,” Rod said, “say the word, and I’ll do the driving.”
Having some sort of contingency plan now, I walked back to the advisor headquarters and briefed Lt. Johnson.
“If things get hairy,” I said, “I’m coming in. Rod will drive. Radio your coordinates and get down to the wash. Fucking climb in and we’ll haul ass back to the main body.”
He stared at me for a second, smiled, and burst out laughing.
“Meyer, you’re always thinking how to get into it,” he said.
He definitely was relieved. I did the fire planning for our team and then I was suddenly gone. Now I was promising I’d figured out a way to be there. The lieutenant was too good a leader ever to speak badly about anyone. He’d joke around about personality tics, but not in a way that undercut anyone’s authority. Still, he didn’t try to talk me out of it, or tell me to coordinate with Maj. Williams or Lt. Fabayo. My deal with Rod stayed inside Team Monti, and I took that as a green light. If there was trouble, Rod and I were going in.
The lieutenant and I lay down on the two couches in the advisor’s office. I could tell he was feeling better about the patrol because he wasn’t brooding or going over his notes. Instead, we talked and laughed about silly stuff. Maybe we had made too much fuss about another KLE.
While we were chatting, Fabayo, dressed in flip-flops, shorts, and a T-shirt, walked into 1-32’s tactical operations center to drop off our roster, called an equipment density list. Before a convoy leaves a base, all Social Security numbers and blood types are handed in to the duty officer.
In the TOC, a report about Ganjigal had come in via the brigade Internet. A Special Forces team reported that thirty-two fighters were moving from Pakistan to reinforce Ganjigal. Half an hour later, the video feed from an unmanned aerial vehicle showed a man with a mortar tube on his back entering a known safe house, two kilometers north of Ganjigal village. Ten minutes later, four more men entered the same house.
Fabayo knew nothing of these movements; the TOC at Joyce had not mentioned them. Such sightings at night were frequent, and few turned out to be serious. Even so, one of the observations came with this note: “Their movement is too organized to be locals; they have a point man, security element and overwatch. Locals do not move like this. They are utilizing terrain, stopping under cover and hesitating at all open areas.”
In fact, Qari Zia Ur-Rahman, head of the Taliban in Kunar Province, had perfect intelligence a day ahead of our movement. He had thrown away his normal tactics, gathered all the forces he could muster, crossed over from Pakistan, and headed toward Ganjigal. He intended to stand and fight from
Fabayo walked back to the advisor area. Neither Lt. Johnson nor I believed the small task force would roll on time. But we left the wire shortly after three in the morning, ten minutes late, which wasn’t bad.
On the way in, we talked about our plans for when we got back to the States. We came up with one super scheme: Lt. Johnson would volunteer to be the officer-in-charge of ROTC at a small college. Staff Sgt. Kenefick would be the senior NCO, handling personnel matters. He’d slip Doc Layton and me in as transfer students. The college might be a surf party school or a ski party school—we went back and forth on that.
Under a bright moon and gentle wind, we rolled the two miles north to the jumping-off point. I was in the turret. Staff Sgt. Kenefick drove; Lt. Johnson sat opposite him in the commander’s seat, monitoring the radio. Doc Layton sat behind him. Hafez, sitting behind Staff Sgt. Kenefick, changed our mood.
“Ganjigal is a bad valley,” Hafez said. “Very bad valley.”
“Stop saying that, Hafez,” Staff Sgt. Kenefick said.
Everyone was irritable because the team had been broken up. It felt unlucky.
“Meyer, it’s your bad,” Johnson said. “If you learned how to kiss ass, or at least not kick people in the ass, you’d be coming with us. But no, that’s not your style. So stay behind with the trucks and sip chai. See if we care.”
“Sir, don’t bust my balls. I’ll drive in to get you if your feet get sore.”
I reminded them of my plan with Rodriguez-Chavez.
