Published: 24 September 2009

Dear Mr. Yon:

It is my pleasure to forward to you the attached copy of the amicus curiae brief which we filed with the United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit on behalf of the Special Operations community on Monday evening.

We believe that this unique brief has the potential to play an important role in the Court of Appeals’ consideration of Maqaleh v. Gates.  We are especially optimistic that the Court will value the insight that only veterans of Special Operations can offer as to the extremely adverse operational consequences that would flow from upholding the District Court’s decision.  Thank you for being an integral part of this effort.

It has been an honor to represent true American heroes in this matter.

Best regards,

David

Please click here to view the entire brief emailed by David Rivkin.

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Please click here to view the entire pdf from Fredrick and Kimberly Kagan.

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14 September 2009
Helmand Province, Afghanistan

With the war increasing, Air Force Pararescue has been crisscrossing the skies picking up casualties.

That’s the Green Zone of Helmand Province, the opium capital of the world.  Those fields are the great ATM of our enemies here.  The fertilizer used to make those fields green is the same fertilizer used to make countless bombs.

We are flying in a special U.S. Air Force Blackhawk helicopter to fetch a seriously ill British soldier.

In Iraq, many of the casevacs were done by ground forces.  In other words, if we hit a bomb or got shot, soldiers would load up the dead and wounded and rush them to the CSH (Combat Support Hospital or “cash”).  But in Afghanistan most of the fighting occurs outside the cities and far away from the base hospitals.  Rescue helicopters stationed at places like Bagram, Kandahar Airfield and Camp Bastion have been flying thousands of missions.

There are numerous helicopter rescue “services” in Afghanistan.  For instance, the British have MERTs (Medical Emergency Response Teams) that fly in a CH-47, and the U.S. Army uses Blackhawks as does the U.S. Air Force.  Special operations teams normally cover their own evacuations.

This U.S. Army rescue helicopter parked at Camp Bastion (Helmand) flies with the red cross symbol allowing the enemy to get a better aim at the helicopter.  Unfortunately, by displaying the red cross symbol, the helicopters are not allowed to carry miniguns or other large weapons.  This seems a rather questionable decision given that the Taliban and other enemies could not give a hoot about law.  It is unclear why the Army decided that a red cross provides more protection than miniguns.

These Air Force “Pedro” rescue helicopters have two miniguns each (total of four miniguns), and the PJs all carry M-4 rifles.  They do fire those weapons in combat.  In July, a helicopter swooped down during a rescue and picked up some wounded soldiers and then was shot down.  The second Air Force helicopter had to get the U.S. Army patients off the bird that had been shot down.  But there was not enough room in the second bird for the Pedro crew.  (No injuries.)  So the tiny Army OH-58 Kiowa helicopters flew out—Kiowas only seat two people and both seats were full—and some of the Pedro folks had to clip onto the skids and fly out like James Bond.

The damaged helicopter was left behind.  Bullets had hit a fuel line and caused the fuel to leak out, and so the pilot had no trouble landing, but the helicopter was now stuck in the middle of nowhere.  So after the Pedros rescued U.S. soldiers who then rescued Pedros, other soldiers flew out to rescue the Pedro helicopter.  The plan was to cut off the rotors and have a bigger helicopter use a cable to lift out the Blackhawk and fly it back to base.  But when the soldiers started using a saw on the rotors, sparks hit the fuel that had leaked and the Blackhawk burned to the ground.  The Army killed the Air Force’s helicopter.

The helicopters take hits.  On another mission in Helmand, an RPG shot through the tail but luckily it missed the transmission; if the RPG had hit the transmission, the entire crew likely would have been killed.  And so . . . those miniguns come in handy.  The gunners are great shots and can return accurate fire within seconds.

Some readers have gotten upset that I call them “Pedro,” thinking the name is secret.  The concern is welcome but not warranted in this case.  The Pedros don’t care and they even have a Pedro patch.

The Pararescue medics are often called “PJs.”  The SEALs, Delta, Rangers and Green Berets all hold the PJs in high regard.  Firstly, the PJs are among the best medics in the U.S. military (we have incredible medics—so that’s a significant statement).  Secondly, PJs go through just about any combat training available, ranging from HALO to mountaineering to scuba.  They’ve got scuba gear here at Camp Bastion and have had to use it to recover soldiers who were killed after the enemy blew their vehicle into some water.  In a different war, the Pedros would be tasked to rescue pilots who might be shot down hundreds of miles into enemy territory.

As we fly out to pick up a sick soldier, the door gunners and PJs test-fire the miniguns and M-4s.

When we get low, the PJs sit with their feet hanging out the doors so they can return fire, but up high they relax and take in the scenery.  That’s the Helmand River and part of the “Green Zone.”

The Pedro commander, Major Mathew Wenthe, said that Secretary of Defense Robert Gates had issued a directive that all casualties be evacuated and arrive at the hospital within one hour of the call.  Pedros intend to fulfill that directive.

The Pedro crews at Bastion have three helicopters but they only take two on missions.  Major Wenthe gave high credit to the mechanics who are constantly changing out parts, up to and including seven engines in the last few months.  The birds are ready, and that’s the first step.

There are two Pedro shifts who work 12 hours on, 12 hours off, with no days off during the tour.  The first shift starts at 0200 and runs to 1400 and the second shift takes 1400 to 0200.

Inside the TOC (Tactical Operations Center; the HQ), Pedro has a big board where reports from around Helmand Province scroll down.  If a British unit gets into a firefight, for instance, Pedro knows about the firefight within probably a minute because the messages are relayed to TOCs that need to know.  At least one person is always watching that screen, and so you might hear a pilot say, “The Marines are in contact near such and such.”  Or, “The Brits just hit an IED near Sangin.”

The casualties are classified as Category A, Cat B, or Cat C.  Cat A basically means the soldier is probably going to die, lose a limb, or lose his eyesight if not quickly treated.  Cat B is more like someone who’s gotten shot in the foot.  It’s a big deal, but not immediately life-threatening. Cat C might be some kind of non-life-threatening illness or a broken finger.

When the Pedro crews see injuries scroll down, they rush out to the helicopters like Batman and Robin heading to the Batmobile.  Really, you’ve got to get out of the way or they will knock you down.  Within a few minutes the rotors are spinning but the Pedros actually have not yet been tasked to go.  The British-run JHTF (Joint Helicopter Task Force) is watching the same information but they also have other assets that can be sent, such as the U.S. Army or the British MERT (Medical Emergency Response Team) in the CH-47.  The Pedros are always the first who are ready to go, but it might make sense for JHTF to send MERT because MERT is a bigger helicopter and so it flies faster than Blackhawks.  Plus, the doctor on the MERT can actually pump blood into patients, because when the patient gets shot or blown up, medics on the scene radio the blood types, and the MERT crew can actually fly out with the right blood.  Pedros don’t push blood but do start IVs.  However . . . the CH-47 is a big helicopter and is easier to shoot down, and so if the landing zone is going to be tight or under fire, it might be better to send Pedro. Yet much of Afghanistan is high and hot and the CH-47 can fly in thinner air than can Blackhawks.

While the JHTF makes a decision, Pedro is waiting with rotors spinning and all they need to hear is “Go Pedro.”  Thirty seconds later they are gone.  (The British MERT CH-47 flies faster, but it’s slower to start.)

Every day is a “National Geographic” day.  Afghanistan is incredible.

As we approach the LZ, the PJs pull on rubber gloves; the helicopter is subject to getting bloody.

This rotation of Pedros had done just under 400 missions in three months.  Similar crews in Iraq might do half a dozen missions in the same period.

These PJs have treated hundreds of patients and gone into dangerous areas every day.

Typical compound.

Afghan interstate system.

The Afghans call this the Dasht-i-Margo (Desert of Death).

The roads of nowhere.

Lone vehicle in the Desert of Death.

Some compounds are miles from the nearest neighbor, yet they still have walls.  Afghanistan is the land of a million Alamos.

When Afghans build a home, they start by building a wall.  When the wall is finished, they start on the home.

The pilots swoop in for the patient.  There is only one thing that British soldiers love more than mail and that’s Pedro.  When I told British soldiers from 2 Rifles that Pedro was going to take me, many British soldiers asked me to say “thank yous” to the Pedros.  The Pedros are a great morale booster because we know when we take casualties, Pedro is coming with miniguns and incredible medics.  When other helicopters are grounded by bad weather, Pedro goes.  When bullets are flying, Pedro comes in with miniguns blazing.  They also rescue Danish, Americans, and others, including contractors and Afghan civilians sometimes.

We picked up a British patient from 2 Rifles, one of my favorite infantry units.  The British are more sensitive about casualties than Americans (many Americans don’t care about photos if they are wounded, though some do).  Although I was not embedded with the Brits and so do not have to follow British rules, I respect the soldiers.

And so, without the patient’s consent (which was hard to get because he was in pain and the helicopter was loud and the PJs were working), these photos will not show his face.

The problem was apparently appendicitis.  The PJs went to work and at one point a PJ smacked the bottom of the patient’s right boot.  The PJs said that if his appendix is bad, smacking the bottom of his right foot should cause sharp pain in his abdomen.  And true enough, when the medic smacked his boot, the soldier winced in pain.

As we are flying back, vitals and other information are being transmitted back to Camp Bastion so that when we land, the right doctors and nurses will be ready.

The medical evacuation system is excellent.  Our folks work hand in glove with British and Danish back at the hospital.

During the flight, the PJs also put earplugs in the patient so that his head isn’t rattling from this very loud helicopter.  When patients are brought aboard, the PJs slide the doors shut.

This was an easy mission, but at other times there will be multiple amputations and KIAs and so the helicopters can get full.

British fire crews rush to grab patients.

The hospital is about 30 seconds away from the LZ and the PJs usually go inside so that they can do a handoff to the doctors.  Then we fly back to the runway about half a mile away, refuel, and get ready for the next call.

The motto of Pararescue: “That Others May Live.”  And they mean it.

Don’t mess with the miniguns . . .

The next mission took us to a Special Forces base where an ANA soldier had somehow managed to get shot in both feet.  It was lucky for him that he was with Special Forces; the Green Beret medics also are tops.  I’ve seen the Green Beret medics at work on countless occasions.  It’s bad to get shot, but if you must, it’s best to happen in the presence of Green Berets and to get picked up by Pedros.

Some Green Berets helped load the patient and then went back to whatever it is that Green Berets do out here.

The medic(s) on the scene already have prepped the patient, so the PJs don’t have to bandage him up other than plugging his ears, taking vitals and other tasks.

The pilots flew very hard and at times.

On the way back with the ANA soldier who managed to get shot in both feet, another call came so we diverted to get two more patients.

Americans lived down here before the Soviet invasion and built much of the irrigation networks.  The poppy has already been harvested this year and other crops are in the fields.

The other Pedro bird flies in to get the two patients.

We fly low and make hard turns.  The PJ has to crane his neck back just to see the horizon.

In combat, the Pedro can land and get a patient loaded in about thirty seconds.

The patients are loaded and off we go.  One guy had a tooth problem, and the other got bitten by a bat.

The last mission.  Just under 400 on this tour, and I had the honor of going along.  We’ll never know how many lives the Pedro crews saved this year in Afghanistan, but it was a lot.  A book could be written about their tour, but alas, this is likely about all the recognition they will ever get.  The two crews that I did missions with were:

Pedro 35
Maj Mathew Wenthe
1Lt Josh Roberts
CMSgt Rick Nowaski
TSgt Christopher Gabor
Capt Dave Depiazza
TSgt Tom Pearce
SrA Eric Mathieson

Pedro 36
Maj Mitzi Egger
Capt Adam Tucci
MSgt James Patterson
SrA Adrian Jarrin
SSgt Joe Signor
SrA Anthony Daroste
SrA Alejandro Serrano

The crews assembled and asked me to make their photo, but . . .

Just as they were starting to line up for the photo, a call came in and the helicopters flew away.

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08 September 2009
Helmand Province, Afghanistan

Just before the mission, soldiers form up near the memorial for our fallen.

The mission was simple.  Taliban had been watching FOB Inkerman and British patrols from various compounds and we were going to occupy those compounds and pick a fight with all comers.

The mission is set to begin just at sunrise, so soldiers use white lights because night vision will not be needed.  (We are still well within the base.)

The sounds: Muffled discussions, metallic clicks and snaps, and the sound of gear being stuffed into rucksacks.  A soldier can be heard taking a long inhale from a cigarette.  The tip grows brighter and he pauses; the tip dims and he exhales while quietly talking at half volume.

The task was very dangerous and we expected a fight.  Ross Kemp, the famous British journalist who shot a documentary here, did a fine job in catching the truth of the Green Zone.  Little has changed since Mr. Kemp came here; his work is as true now as it was then.   Every British soldier knows and respects Ross Kemp—not because he made them heroes, but because he told the truth.

As a mood-probe, I posed a silly question from the darkness: “Is this dangerous?”  Two soldiers burst into laughter, and a third said, “It’s stupid as shit, that’s what it is.”  The mood was good. It’s when you don’t get an answer that you need to watch out.

Leaving base, we pass the mortar pits where the crews are ready to support us with lethal fire.  A hundred meters away, the 105mm howitzers also are prepared, as are the Javelins and machine guns and grenade launchers on the perimeter.  Today, when the fighting begins, they will fire many shots.

It’s time to head to the gate by the 611 “highway” that separates the desert from the Green Zone.  FOB Inkerman is on the desert side, but just fifteen seconds’ walk from here begins the Green Zone.

The enemy owns the Green Zone and so platoons don’t push far from base.  The risk of being outnumbered and outmaneuvered is evident.  Some commanders might take issue with that statement, but the commanders here will not.  To any commanders who are distant and would like to challenge my claim that the enemy owns the Green Zone here, they might consider accepting my challenge: When an officer of the rank of Colonel or General is ready to walk from FOB Jackson to PB Wishtan to FOB Inkerman and walk back to FOB Jackson, please call and I’ll walk with you.

Yes, if they accept this challenge and spend the day to walk this route, their words will stick.  Yet today, even with so much immediate support from the mortars, guns and Apaches and jets, little imagination is required to envision losing most or all of a platoon within a couple miles of a base.

Despite all that, the morale of British troops is unmistakably good, which cannot be attributed to the terrible rations they eat.  After more than a month with British combat troops in the Green Zone, I hadn’t seen a piece of fresh fruit on a base, despite that we are surrounded by farms.

Riflemen Ben Taylor and Aaron Jones always seem ready to roll.  Moments before we head into the mission, I say, “Don’t worry men.  If there are any dramas, just fall behind me and obey my commands.”  Their eyes go wide, then Ben laughs loudly and Aaron goes “Kookoo, Kookoo,” while twirling a finger close to his ear.

We snap on helmets and enter the Thunder Zone.  Lance Corporal Johnston takes file behind Ben Taylor.   Two soldiers wearing at least three types of camouflage because the British Army has not properly outfitted its soldiers.  Missions here range from Brown Zone to Green Zone back to desert brown within minutes.  The soldiers need camouflage similar to what special operations folks wear.  British and American special operations folks use camouflage suitable for both environments.  It’s cheap and every combat soldier should have it.

We have so few troops that we cannot even control the veins of Green Zone.

As we step off base from FOB Inkerman, we are immediately subject to coming under small-arms attacks.

We walked off base, briefly along the 611 “highway” that runs just by that power line.  On the hill, just this side of the mosque, are approximately 35 men and boys.  They are watching us.  The speakers mounted on the mast above the mosque are used for the call to prayers.

Is it a security violation to print Google maps?  Those men up on the hill and the farmers in the fields see every move we make.  If this were the opening stage of the war, it would be a mistake to print such a map.  But not now.  The people here know exactly what we do and where we do it.  The people at home are in the dark, but not the Afghans.

We move through the corn and other crops under the eyes of the Afghan men on the hill.  Soldiers on point mark a possible bomb.

As the sun rises, the variation in from Brown Zone to Green Zone becomes evident.

Rifleman Jack Otter is in the file just behind me.  It seems that the most dangerous place in the file is at the point, but after that everywhere is probably about equal. The battle spaces around Afghanistan are very different.   Here at Inkerman, for instance, the fight is remarkably different than the fight four miles away at Sangin.  At Inkerman there are bombs, but it’s still mostly a gunfight, whereas in Sangin most of our KIAs come from bombs.

The opium has been harvested and these fields have been sowed with corn and other crops.  Farmers are not happy with this year’s opium prices.

The corn provides great cover for the enemy and for us.  Operating in the corn is like being aboard a British submarine while we cruise around for Taliban subs.  We can’t see more than a few meters, and so it’s particularly important to be quiet and try not to ruffle the corn stocks which jiggles the tassles.  Even in this kelp-like maize, we are subject to being hit by bombs.  There are so many IED attacks that it’s hard to keep track.  A special operations unit was attacked in late August resulting in one KIA, some amputations, and a soldier who lost his genitals, which happens more often than one might think.

Land mine?  Nail?

The PKM is a common enemy weapon that packs a wallop.  It can penetrate our helmets.  Untrained fighters typically will fire high during night time, or in places of limited visibility such as in the corn.  Good fighters often use “grazing fire,” so that even when the enemy is lying flat the gun can get hits.  During our ambush on 20 August, four days earlier, the enemy had used good fire discipline and it was only due to pure luck that none of us were killed.  Our guys are better shots and more tactically sound, so whereas the terrain definitely belongs to the enemy, when firefights actually start, the smart money is on the Brits or Americans, not the Taliban.  They might kill a few of us, but if they stick around and fight we will wipe them out.

Lately the Green Zone has been flooded by the farmers and the fields have been muddy, yet today the irrigation had shunted and the irrigation ditches were mostly dry for this mission.  Sometimes the enemy plants bombs in trees, or stretches tripwires high so that antennas will catch, which is part of the reason why being on point is not always most dangerous.  Often, the point elements miss the bombs which then hit the main body.  IED strikes are not like the war movies where somebody gets shot, falls down dying in his buddy’s arms saying, “Tell Lara…cough cough… Tell Lara…I love her.”  And his buddy says, “No Jimmy, hang in there!  Tell her yourself!  Tell her yourself!  Don’t die Jimmy!  Don’t die you bastard!”

No, that’s not how it is at all.  After an IED strike you are using sticks to knock body parts and gear out of trees, and you are collecting arms, legs, and helmets splattered with brains.  Bodies get blown from one compound into another compound, and parts land on roofs.  Weapons are completely lost or shattered into pieces.  There is nothing romantic about the bombs.  It’s straight up combat.  Body parts we cannot find get eaten by dogs and nobody wants that, so we try to find every little piece—if time permits, and if there is enough light.  Lately, the enemy have often been killing more of us with the second bomb than the first.  After we get blown up and start collecting casualties, BOOM, other bombs start exploding.

There are loads of Fijian soldiers in the British Army.   The Fijians make good soldiers and they also are very friendly and easy to get along with.

When firefights start, maneuvering can be tricky; the “cleared” lane is only a few feet wide.

Nearing the objective.  We had split into several elements for mutual fire support.

As we approached the compound that was our objective, the point elements kept sweeping for bombs.  Often there will be a metallic ping on a corner.  I went around a corner a month or so ago, and found a sheer hole that might have been forty feet deep.  Just how many soldiers have fallen into holes in this country is unknown, but it’s got to be a lot.  Afghans are liable to dig holes just about anywhere, and you can bet that the holes will be unmarked.  The deep holes around here are wells.  Perfect tiger traps in the making.

We enter the compound and find this man.  He looked familiar.  As it happens, he had come to FOB Inkerman on 21 August along with nine other men, when an elder asked to be compensated for a generator that got shot on the 20th by a Javelin missile.  (I had photographed the Javelin shot and can confirm that the big fireball seemed to have come from a hit on fuel.)  Captain Ed Addington asked for his ID, and other details.  The man claimed not to know any Taliban, though of course he probably is part of the gang.  He seemed friendly and self-assured, and despite that he probably is the enemy, I would end up sitting with him for about an hour.  When he learned I am American, he smiled and said “Barack Obama President.”  The man said he had never heard of Michael Jackson.  Just behind the man is a hole that’s about 10m deep, and about 8m x 5m on the surface.  (About 30x25x15 feet.)  At the bottom was water.  The massive hole was dug by hand—about 4,000 cubic meters—and the whole hole was inside his compound walls.  I asked how long it took to dig that hole, and he said six men would need two months.

Information flow from locals is tantamount to zero.  There are some local sources, but on a scale of 1–10, information flow is probably about a 2.  The other 8 must go to the Taliban, though the more time I spend in the Green Zone the more I begin to think we are fighting the people in general, and not some small group of Taliban.  The British government insists that British must guard Kajaki Dam (just upriver from here) or the Taliban will destroy it because the Taliban does not want people to have electricity.  This is untrue.  The Taliban had years of control over Kajaki and never destroyed the dam.  British officials also tell me that it would do no good to build an electrical grid because the Taliban would destroy the grid.  This is patently false.  The power lines in this area – under Taliban control – are in fine condition.  The Taliban controls the electricity and shuts it off at night, along with cell phone towers in many places.  We generate the electricity and the Taliban collects money for wattage.

Water well in the compound.

The soldiers occupied the walls and watched for attacks, while I sat with the two men in the compound.

He was all smiles and then asked for his photo.  When the camera was brought to bear, he got the serious look.  The moment the photo snapped he was all smiles again and wanted to see the photos on the screen.

I counted five kids.  They never avoided us but never approached us and never smiled.  If the kids were a barometer of the house, this house did not like soldiers.

The children’s dollhouse also had walls.

The handmade dolls might have reflected a census of the household.

Even the dolls had sleeping mats.

The younger man watched the soldiers while holding a wrench that I figured was for hitting us if he got in the mood.  The soldiers found an ammunition carrier in the house but no ammo.

We had reliable information that the enemy was moving in on us.

Shots were fired by us on several occasions but the firefight had not yet started.

We kept getting information that the enemy was moving in on us.  The machine gunner in the background fired at men who were maneuvering in.  The soldiers were very confident that we would be attacked on the way out.  As we moved into the corn, a shot rang out and I fell flat and a soldier behind me said, “That was impressive,” and I said, “I told you I am always the fastest to the ground.”  Turns out it was just a warning shot . . . but nobody warned me!  A couple minutes later a proper firefight broke out and we were all on the ground but we were not actually in contact.  Another element was shooting at the enemy with machine guns, rifles and grenade launchers.  The mortars began firing and we moved to contact, and along the way encountered what appeared to be an IED laid out for us.  We went around and ended up with the element that was doing all the shooting.  The 81mm mortars and the 105mm howitzers were firing dozens and dozens of shots into a compound where the enemy had disappeared.

Lance Corporal Lee Casey stays on the gun.  After each firefight, the soldiers redistribute ammo so that the loads are more even.

Lance Corporal Gareth Prior

Lance Corporal Michael Pidgeon

Behind the dust is the compound we were hammering.  We got intelligence that some enemy might have been killed or wounded, so the British commander said, yeah, right, hold on.  Cease fire.  Let’s give them a chance to send a recovery party and when they’ve had time to get there, unleash again with the mortars and guns.  And so that’s what happened.  The next barrage was intense and on target.  Again, dozens of howitzer and mortar rounds landed inside the compound and a B-1B was said to be in the area, and there were hopes that we could drop a bomb in there, too.  No bomb was dropped.

After the fighting, we moved back to Inkerman, and along the way we kept getting reports that the enemy was trying to hit us with bombs they had hidden.  We got lucky this time.

More than two years ago, Ross Kemp, an outstanding British journalist, filmed a documentary series here.  I have recognized many of the scenes in his footage.  Little has changed other than it’s more dangerous here now.  If you want to see what it’s like here through a video camera – Ross Kemp and his crew have done an incredible job.  His facts and the tone were just right.

And that was it.  We came back to base and I received a message.   The British Ministry of Defence had canceled my embed.  Here we are, eight years after the attacks on 9/11, watching censorship creep in to “the forgotten war.”

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By Michael Yon

Helmand, Afghanistan - The West is losing this war. This has been obvious for more than three years. Less obvious is that in 2009, we are down to the wire. Gen. Stanley McChrystal and others will soon recommend to President Obama the latest treatment for a dying patient.

Meanwhile, allies and Americans are asking themselves why we are here. Some are saying that Al Qaeda is still here or is waiting in the wings to return to its home. Yet Afghanistan was never Al Qaeda's permanent home to begin with. Al Qaeda was just renting a little space here, just as it was renting space in places like Germany and Florida.

We must face reality: Our reasons for continuing are not the reasons we came for. We are fighting a different war now than the one that began in 2001. Today's war is about social re-engineering. Given the horrible history of Afghanistan, and the fact that we already are here, the cause is worthy and worthwhile.

The decisions facing us are perilous and immense. On the one hand, we desperately need more troops, while on the other increasing troop levels introduces a host of costs and potential traps.

Yet it seems certain the war will be lost if we do not significantly increase troops. While our enemies grow stronger, years will pass before Afghan forces can replace us. Enemies are gaining ground while we lose the goodwill of the people through disillusionment. In the mostly peaceful Ghor Province, for instance, development is scant and there are no Afghan soldiers.

I just spent more than a month with British combat forces in Helmand. Instead of concentrating on training and operating with Afghan forces, the British are involved in a daily struggle for tiny pieces of real estate.

Last December, Secretary of Defense Robert Gates told me in a private discussion while flying back to the U.S. from Afghanistan, Bahrain and Iraq, that his greatest concern is that we will lose the goodwill of the Afghan people. Gates is correct and my confidence in his judgment is high. Gates knows that our stock is still okay here, but clearly it is losing value.

The strongest indicator of progress will come in the form of cooperation from the people. In Iraq, especially in about mid-2007, I witnessed a tidal shift in cooperation from the civilians and largely from that was able to report that the surge was working, long before the statistics would support what might have appeared to be a wild claim.

During 2006 in Afghanistan, I witnessed areas where the population was alienated from Kabul and Western forces. Again, long before the statistics would support what appeared to be wild claims, I published 12 reports saying we were losing here. Analysts cannot feel the pulse through statistics; in this sort of war, statistics lag behind the realities. An observer must be on the ground to sense the pulse.

Pundits who are saying we should pull out of Afghanistan today, to my knowledge, are not here.

Having just spent another month with British forces in Helmand, today I am on my own in the same province. During the last month, our great allies the British lost dozens of soldiers who were killed or wounded. Cooperation from locals is almost nonexistent in many places. Interaction between civilians and British soldiers was nearly zero. The British treat the civilians very well, but being polite and respectful is not enough.

Without significant reinforcements, the British likely will be defeated in Helmand within a couple of years. My respect for British soldiers is immense. I have been in combat with them many times in Iraq and Afghanistan, including during the last couple of weeks and would go into battle with them today. Yet it must be said that the average British soldier has practically no understanding of counterinsurgency.

The enemies here cannot defeat the United States, but they can dissolve the coalition. Some allies are ready to tap out, while others are learning that counterinsurgency is difficult. The Germans, for instance, are losing in their battle space. To avoid watching the coalition melt away, we must show progress before the end of 2010.

Today, the war is still worth fighting, yet the goal to reengineer one of the most backward, violent places on Earth, will require a century before a reasonable person can call Afghanistan "a developing nation." The war will not take that long - but the effort will.

There are no short-term solutions to fix this place. We are planting acorns. Oak trees grow slowly.

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31 August 2009
Helmand Province, Afghanistan

The historical Afghan elections scheduled for 20 August were days away.   While the west mostly continued to vote for Afghanistan, the big question was, “Will Afghanistan vote for itself?”

The latest media wave splashed into the main voting centers in places like Kabul, Kandahar, Jalalabad, Herat and Lashkar Gah.  The larger cities only account for perhaps 20% of the Afghan population.  Whereas the easy and obvious stories are in the cities, a crucial and larger dimension—the other 80%—would unfold in the boonies.  Most Afghans would have no chance to vote.

The election was to be run by Afghans.  In theory and in practice this would be a recipe for disaster.  The strategic thinkers cannot be faulted for this; after nearly eight years of war, if the west were still running the elections, the elections and government would be a failure to begin with.  By comparison, the Iraqi elections on 30 January 2005 (less than two years after invasion) were run mostly by Iraqis.  In the voting of October and December of that same year, Iraqis had two more runs at the ballots, which were increasingly successful.  Afghanistan, however, is different.  This would be only the second election in history.

There are no good choices here.  Either we run the elections and the central government and in doing so undermine the same central government we are investing in, or we allow that central government to run the elections and probably watch it undermine itself.  But who knows?

We need more troops.  The leadership tells us that the Taliban and associated groups control only small parts of the country.  Yet enemy influence is growing, and so far, despite that we have made progress on some fronts, our own influence is diminishing.  For example, an excellent British infantry unit that I embedded with in Iraq and now Afghanistan, the “2 Rifles,” is staked out in the “Green Zone” around the Helmand River.  HQ for 2 Rifles is at FOB Jackson near the center of the map above.  There are several satellite FOBs and Patrol Bases, each of which is essentially cut off from the outside world other than by helicopter or major ground resupply efforts (which only take place about once a month).  The latest ground resupply effort from Camp Bastion resulted in much fighting.  The troops up at Kajaki Dam are surrounded by the enemy, which has dug itself into actual “FLETs.”  FLET is military-speak for “Forward Line of Enemy Troops.”  In other words, the enemy is not hiding, but they are in trenches, bunkers and fighting positions that extend into depth.  The enemy owns the terrain.

The British are protecting Kajaki Dam but otherwise it’s just a big fight and no progress is being made.  The turbine delivery to the dam, which I wrote about last year, was a tremendous success.  Efforts to get the turbine online have been an equally tremendous failure.  Bottom line: the project to restore the electrical capacity from Kajaki Dam is failing and likely will require multi-national intervention to bring it online and to push back the enemy.

We need more helicopters.  Enemy control of the terrain is so complete in the area between Sangin and Kajaki that when my embed was to switch from FOB Jackson to FOB Inkerman—only seven kilometers (about four miles) away—we could not walk or drive from Jackson to Inkerman.  Routes are deemed too dangerous.  Helicopter lift was required.  The helicopter shortage is causing crippling delays in troop movements.  It’s common to see a soldier waiting ten days for a simple flight.  When my embed was to move the four miles from Jackson to Inkerman, a scheduled helicopter picked me up at Jackson and flew probably eighty miles to places like Lashkar Gah, and finally set down at Camp Bastion.  The helicopter journey from Jackson began on 12 August and ended at Inkerman on the 17th.  About five days was spent—along with many thousands of dollars in helicopter time—to travel four miles.  Even Generals can have difficulty scheduling flights.  Interestingly, when I talk with the folks who reserve helicopter space, they say the Generals are generally easy-going about the lack of a seat, but that Colonels often become irate.

A helicopter finally was heading from Camp Bastion to FOB Inkerman, which is cut off from its own headquarters at FOB Jackson only four miles away.  The war and fighting can vary dramatically around Afghanistan.  In Sangin, the enemy uses mostly fertilizer bombs, which, along with normal leave schedules, has rapidly attrited the battalion to the point that replacements have been sent.  Conversely, four miles away at Inkerman, it’s still mostly a gunfight, though the use of bombs is increasing.  Inkerman sits on the desert side of “highway” 611 that goes from Highway 1 (the “Ring Road”) to Kajaki.  The 611 marks the border between the deadly Green Zone and the desert.  The road is almost completely controlled by the enemy.  Only tiny patches of the 611 are under serious NATO/ISAF influence.  Some will take issue with this statement; if they claim to be in control, they should readily accept the challenge to drive in an unarmored car in those areas they claim to control.

To help avoid being shot down, the helicopter approaches Inkerman from the desert side.  (In fact, two days later on the 19th, a similar helicopter was shot down near here.)  The Afghan road system is the human equivalent of ant trails.  After thousands of years of living here, the Afghans have not cracked the code on road building.  Many people will say that geography has been cruel to the Afghans, and that the mountainous, landlocked terrain is the problem.  Yet this does not explain away the success of landlocked, mountainous countries such as Austria and Switzerland, nor does access to the sea guarantee anything more than saltwater.  The meek have inherited this plot of earth because the strong don’t want it enough to take it.

Where liquid water can be found, so too can Afghans.

Some people point back to the “good-old days” in Afghanistan, when hippies could smoke hash and swim naked in the streams.  The good old days in Afghanistan did not leave much evidence of progress in the form of roads, architecture or written history.

The stories of foreign invaders do not explain away the great walls built around nearly every home and every mind.  The problem is not the terrain.  The problem is not that Americans and others supported the Mujahadin when they fought the Soviets.  The problem is not the artificial boundaries penciled in by the British all over Asia and the Middle East.  The people are backwards and many want it that way.  You can fly over a compound in the desert, miles from the next compound, and still it will have walls.  Afghanistan is the land of a million Alamos.

As the pilot brought the helicopter to the yellow pin called FOB Inkerman, an Afghan man had parked his car just near the front of the base on the 611.  He took out a shovel and began digging, hidden by his car, he thought, at a spot where a bomb had recently detonated.  A British soldier fired a warning shot and the man drove away.  An Apache helicopter eventually attacked the car out in the desert.  There he was, just within direct view of Inkerman, digging in a bomb.  This is typical of the larger situation.

Helicopter landing site at FOB Inkerman.

Two platoons are stationed at Inkerman; meaning only one platoon at a time can leave the base.  Using one platoon to cover this area is like trying to water a football pitch with a drop of water.  The enemy fights just outside the base, even planting IEDs in view of the guard towers.  On my first morning at Inkerman, one of the platoons was outside the wire in the corn.  They came across tripwires and other booby traps.  The enemy was so close that soldiers could hear the enemies’ own radios crackling nearby in the corn.  A firefight ensued.  Machine guns and mortars were fired.  The white smoke is a screen launched by the mortars to help the infantry platoon break contact.  There are too few troops to fix the enemy and prosecute attacks.

Cleaning the mortar tubes after the fire mission.

Restacking unfired mortar bombs.

The platoon comes back to base.  Amazingly, despite the dire situation, British morale is high.  My respect for the men and women here only grows by the day.

The soldiers keep streaming in from the mission.  The Pentagon and British MoD spin lies (though I have found Secretary Gates talks straight), but veins of pure truth can be found right here with these soldiers.  The Pentagon and MoD as a whole cannot be trusted because they are the average of their parts.  There are individual officers and NCOs among the U.S. and U.K. who have always been blunt and honest with me.  Among the higher ranking, Petraeus and Mellinger come to mind, but for day-to-day realities this is where it’s at.  Out here.  Nothing coming from Kabul, London, or Washington should be trusted.

A recent controversy was stirred in the U.K. by my photos of British soldiers in the GZ (Green Zone) wearing brown uniforms.  There is some truth to the controversy, but in fairness to the British MoD, only part of the battles take place in the GZ.  Much of the fighting takes place in the deserts.  Even individual missions often alternate between the Green Zone and the Brown Zone, and so neither green nor brown is perfect.  The British SAS and American special operations forces are using camouflage that is more suitable for both environments.  It would cost very little to outfit these soldiers in better camouflage.

These men and women will never get the credit they deserve.

The women are medics, and they brave the combat just like the infantry soldiers.  But again, they will never get the credit they deserve, and so we joked that they should just let people think they spent the entire tour at Camp Bastion.  Who would believe that they were out there in the thick of it?  On this day, an Afghan man showed one of these medics a rash on his arms, but the medic carried no such medicines out into the fighting.  When medic Evans said she had no medicine, a young man picked up a big stone and was preparing to hit her.  Rhian instantly pointed the rifle at the man who put down the rock.

Still streaming in.

Another day in the war.

Finally they are all in the gate and nobody is shot or blown up this time, and I say a quiet thank you for bringing them back in one piece.

After each mission soldiers drop gear and go immediately into a debriefing to discuss what has occurred.  They discuss things that were done well, things that were done not so well, and there is discussion about how to improve before the next fight.  They talk about the performance of the enemy and any good moves or bad tactics used by the enemy.  They talk about any gear that may have failed or performed well.

The soldiers knew they were doing well and I knew it because they invited me on more missions than I could possibly go on while still being able to write.

Some things could have been done better—always the case even among the most experienced soldiers—so the soldiers talked it through, and after it was over they headed back to re-issue new ammo, clean weapons, recharge batteries for various gear, and prep for combat on a moment’s notice.

About three hours after the firefight, an Afghan man was brought to FOB Inkerman with the note above.  The note was signed with the name Dr. Haji A. Baqi, who the British said is a doctor for the Taliban.  (Not necessarily a “Taliban doctor,” but someone who definitely treats Taliban.)  The Brits said that Dr. Baqi gets medical supplies from the ICRC.  The referral says the patient was “SHOUTED BY GUN,” and judging by the small bullet hole it might well have been a British gun.

Normally, a correspondent would not be permitted to publish photos of a captured enemy (while embedded with British or U.S. forces), but this guy was not captured and he was not being detained.  He was not officially deemed the “enemy,” despite that his hands were soft and he likely was hit during that firefight.

The medical team: Nikole Cunningham, Rhian Evans, Jonathan Richards, Daniel Yeoman, all led by Dr. Gabriel Shaya, going to work on the suspected Taliban.  His only real problem seems to be the bullet hole (entry and exit) in the abdomen.  Luckily for him, he seems to have been hit by the same bullets used in American and British assault rifles (5.56mm), which lack the power to make the definitive hits caused by more powerful weapons.   The man was alert throughout.

Dr. Shaya tries to find a vein, but ends up drilling into the guy’s right tibia to deliver fluids.  This is Dr. Shaya’s first combat deployment.  On August 2nd the monthly convoy was moving up from Camp Bastion to resupply bases that no longer see fresh apples, fresh milk, or fresh anything.  The convoy had been harassed along the way and the enemy already knows the expected convoy routine, so they were busy with ambushes.  When the convoy passed by FOB Inkerman, Captain Shaya was on QRF (Quick Reaction Force) duty.  A nearby IED strike caused a casualty just near the base.  Captain Shaya loaded up with only two other soldiers into the Pinzgauer vehicle.  Darkness was falling when the total of three soldiers launched out of Inkerman and Dr. Shaya thought it was exciting to be on his first mission, but he also knew the dangers, having worked for three weeks at the Camp Bastion trauma center.  Shaya was sitting in the back and realized that if the Pinzgauer got hit with an IED, he might break his neck on the partial ceiling, so he shifted to sit under the open space.  He began to ready his gear to accept the casualty, when about five minutes into his first mission, BOOM!, the front of the vehicle apparently hit a pressure plate.

The explosion did not seem loud to Dr. Shaya.  Dust and smoke filled the darkening air as the vehicle came to a stop, and part of the truck fell onto Shaya.  His arms and legs were still attached but due to a partition he could not see either man in the front.  He shouted to them and they both responded and both were wounded.  The easiest, quickest way to the front was to crawl out the back and open the driver and passenger doors, but there might be IEDs because the enemy often plants bombs in clusters.  Dr. Shaya did not want to walk on the road until it had been cleared.  They were alone in the dark.  He didn’t even want to turn on his red flashlight.  He could climb over the top but did not want to be an obvious target, so he shouted to the front for them to use the radio to call for help.  The truck had no radio.

Dr. Shaya climbed over top to the front, but didn’t want to turn on his light.  Soon he saw a dim light approaching from down the road and he felt anxious.  As the light grew closer and closer the anxiety increased, and it came closer still until he saw it was the company Sergeant Major and some soldiers.  The anxiety evaporated into profound relief.  The soldiers opened the doors and Dr. Shaya saw that the driver’s lower right leg was gone, while the dashboard had crushed in on the passenger who was in great pain.  The driver was trapped by the steering wheel, and while soldiers tried to pull him out, Dr. Shaya, now between the driver and the passenger, tried to lift up the steering wheel and finally they got him out to a stretcher where Dr. Shaya had to screw into his tibia to administer fluids.  Dr. Shaya thought the driver was losing his will, and so he gave a pep talk and tried to keep him in the fight.  The other patient was screaming as he was pulled from the vehicle.  He was a large man and difficult to move, and continued to scream with pain as he was put onto a stretcher and the IV was inserted.  Three morphine doses later he was still in great pain due to a severely fractured femur, and as they drove in another vehicle back to base he screamed on the bumpy road.  Dr. Shaya was painfully honest with his recounting, saying that during the stress of his first combat, he had forgotten his weapon and medical bag on the damaged vehicle.  He was upset with himself that he could not administer more because of that oversight.  “The journey back seemed to take an eternity,” he said.  The British MERT helicopter was circling in the darkness overhead and when it landed at Inkerman, he ran off, helping with the stretcher, when he should have been preserving his strength for other casualties.

Dr. Shaya told me that when he returned to the medical tent, “When I got back, I was shattered (exhausted) and shaken.”  He began to pack another medical kit in case he had to crash out the gate on his second mission, yet now soldiers were arriving for treatment after the initial blast that wounded the first soldier, and only when all of that was done could Dr. Shaya relax, and begin to feel the pain from his own throbbing, bleeding elbow.

Combat is the cruelest teacher.  Dr. Shaya, who makes no pretense of being a combat soldier, had been five minutes into his first mission when suddenly he was alone in the dark with two seriously wounded men.

Dr. Shaya treating the suspected Taliban.  Maybe this was the guy who blew up the vehicle.

Soldiers examine the referral note, signed with the name Dr. Haji A. Baqi, wherein the suspected doctor of the Taliban describes symptoms.

Backside of the referral note.

The 129th ERQS (Emergency Rescue Squadron), flying a pair of HH-60G Pavehawks, launched from Camp Bastion to retrieve the suspected Taliban who was deemed a “Cat A” casualty.  Category A means the patient requires immediate evacuation.  Total flight distance (given the route) from Bastion to Inkerman back to Bastion would be about 100 miles.

Among the British combat soldiers in Afghanistan, Pedro is the only thing more popular than mail.  When friendly forces are in need, Pedro will come anywhere, anytime, during any weather, and their helicopters have gotten the bulletholes to prove it.  The United States Air Force runs the only rescue service that will always be there, no matter what, no matter that there is no moon for flying, or the dust is too heavy for everyone else, or you are in a firefight.  American Army helicopters in Afghanistan fly with the red cross on the side.  Flying with that symbol makes it illegal for our people to carry weapons.  The decision seems ridiculous; the enemy will only use the red cross for an aim point.  While the Army flies armed with a red cross, Pedro flies with miniguns.  And they bring some of the most highly qualified medics in the entire U.S. military–which is saying a lot.  They bring miniguns, and powersaws to cut soldiers out of MRAPs or other twisted hulks, and scuba gear when troops and gear are lost to the water.  If our people can manage to get there, Pedro can manage to get them out.  Pedro rescues people every single day.

The lead aircraft, Pedro 35, brings two pilots, a gunner, a rescue officer, a flight engineer, and two PJs (elite “rescue specialists”; these men are a story unto themselves).

When Pedro 35 landed at FOB Inkerman, the two PJs along with the rescue officer, Captain Dave Depiazza received the patient while British soldiers brought the suspected Taliban toward Pedro.  The PJs like to meet the ground troops outside to make sure the patient is properly categorized, assessed, and loaded.  One challenge with some ground troops is that they will rush the helicopter during a “brownout” and start to load the patient feet first (or headfirst), when the PJs might need the patient the other way; the PJs want the head near the lifesaving airway equipment, and since helicopters vary in configuration, the PJs need to take control early to save seconds.  They want to spend no more than 30 seconds on a hot landing zone; the aircraft do take hits but they have been lucky so far.  (A Pedro from Kandahar Airfield was shot down in July.  Luckily all survived and kept doing missions, but the helicopter was ultimately destroyed during a recovery mission that went awry.)

Sometimes Pedro 36 comes in first, but this time Pedro 36 flies top cover while Pedro 35 loads the patient.

Pedro 36 racetracks low watching for ground threats.  The door gunners can—and often do—return lethal fire in a couple seconds.

Pedro 36 roars low and then both disappear and head back to Camp Bastion.  When the Pedro 35 landed near the Bastion trauma hospital, Senators John McCain and Joe Lieberman happened to be visiting the hospital as the PJs helped unload the suspected Taliban.  (Just the day before, when I had spent some hours with the Pedros before heading back out with British infantry, one of these same PJs said he would clean the operations center for a week if he could meet McCain.  I said to him, “Fat chance you’ll get to meet with McCain,” and so imagine the PJ’s surprise when he carried the suspected Taliban into the hospital and accidentally ran into Senators McCain and Lieberman, and shook their hands.)

The war is a busy place and far too much happens out there than can possibly be explained.  Llater that night, a platoon launched on a mission to raid several compounds.  I was invited on the mission on 18 August but did not go due to the usual writing-crunch and impending elections, and so during breaks I sat in the ops center and listened to the radio calls.  The raids unfolded, and after half a night the soldiers brought back six suspects, one of whom had run from the soldiers and urinated on his hands to remove explosives residue.  The terrain had been rough and the night was dark and so two soldiers busted their ankles.

Major Ian Moodie, commander of B Coy 2 Rifles, guaranteed me that in the morning there would be a gaggle of locals, including elders, who would arrive to demand release of the prisoners.  Major Moodie said this problem is exacerbated by the helicopter shortage; if he could get the prisoners extracted as soon as they were captured, he would be able to say that the prisoners had already been moved and there was nothing he could do, but already in the past he had decided to release prisoners to cool tensions.

Later in the day of 19 August, locals arrived to demand release of the six.  All were released except for one, who was finally picked up by a helicopter on the evening of the 19th, the day before the latest historical Afghan elections wherein Abdullah Abdullah and Hamid Karzai had reached the showdown to decide who would become the President of one of the most primitive countries on Earth, but one that probably gets more international press and attention than Japan and Germany combined.

As the helicopter lifted off with the prisoner, the JTAC who talked the helicopter in said to me that “Axle” Foley, another JTAC four miles away in Sangin, was about to call in a bomb from a B1.  The fighting had begun and it was not even election day.  Taliban in the area were threatening people to stay in their compounds and not vote.

On the afternoon of the 19th, before our election-day mission on the 20th, “Snowy” meticulously cleaned every speck of dust off his weapon.  He disassembled the magazines, cleaned the springs, and individually cleaned each bullet.

Snowy then counted every last bullet—twice—and I joked that if his weapon failed the next day, cleaning would not be the issue.  The weapon was ready, it seemed.... Meanwhile, my BGAN satellite communications gear was malfunctioning on the evening before the election.  Hours would be wasted before it was ascertained the satellite gear was officially broken.  Murphy’s Law was in effect for all guns and gadgets.  I’ve come to a remote base and can report what others are not seeing, and the crucial link was broken at the crucial moment.

At about 2245 a rocket banged and zoomed overhead but missed the base and exploded seconds later somewhere out in the darkness.  Orange illumination rounds drifted down nearby and in the far distance, some casting long, flickering shadows.  Radio chatter at the ops room said that an SAS (British special forces) helicopter had been shot down north of us and one troop was wounded, and that the enemy was moving toward the crash site which was still occupied by British soldiers.  I headed to bed because the mission on election day was likely to include serious fighting.  The alarm was set for 0330, but by midnight there had not been time to get a wink.  Just after midnight, having seen no less than 10 meteors streak through the darkness above, sleep came.  The alarm sounded and I pulled out of the cot, already dressed for the mission, and pulled on the boots in the dark.  Sometime around 0400, there was a distant thud as the helicopter that had been shot down was destroyed.  (An officer later said that two bombs were used, but I heard only one.)

By 0436, the soldiers were ready to launch on the mission and there was time for a few images on this historic day in the middle of nowhere.

The soldiers had erected a memorial for lost comrades.

Metal detectors and other gear were tested.

It was time.

The mission began.

Suspected bombs were marked along the way.  Dozens of them.  The metal could be anything from an old bullet to a nail.  For years, the enemy has seen us with the metal detectors and so are making bombs with LMC (low metal content).

The soldiers on point with the metal detectors have an incredibly dangerous job.  They must watch for all sorts of ambushes, high and low.  The enemy uses command wires, pressure pads, trip wires and radio-controlled devices.  Some people say the enemy bombs are cowardly, as if we are in a gentlemen’s duel.  Others might say IEDs are no more cowardly than our using B-1Bs and A-10s.

Election day begins.

Our mission was to move to an over-watch position to prevent Taliban from harassing voters on their way to Sangin.  Most people in Afghanistan would not have a chance to vote even if there were no Taliban.  British officers told me that between here and Kajaki, for instance, there were no polling stations.

Fatal funnel: the enemy often plants bombs in walls, or simply throws grenades over top.

Often after ground has been “cleared,” soldiers far down the line get blown to pieces.

Open areas make us less predictable for IED strikes, but now we are extremely vulnerable to machine-gun, RPG fire and other weapons such as B10 rockets.  Luckily they are terrible shots with mortars.

If we get ambushed, the only cover is accurate return fire, but the enemy of course tries to hide their firing positions.

Nobody from either side was dead yet.  Not here, anyway.

We reached our objective; an occupied compound that British forces had used three times before and this boy was waiting.  Afghans often stand with an arm behind their back, or they walk up and down steep mountains in the same fashion.

Nearby compound with a possible IED at the corner.

Several sections occupy different compounds giving us better arcs for mutual fire support.

The opium had already been harvested and the poppy bulbs were hard and dry.  How many bulbs does it take to buy one bullet?  The drug dealers are getting rich, and so a strong central government is a natural enemy.

As we occupy his home, this Afghan boy plays like he is killing us with a rifle and then wants to see his photo.

The man of the house says he is worried that on our fourth stay, the Taliban will think he is collaborating and will kill him.  Asked if he will vote, he says no, and that nobody in this area will vote because the Taliban will kill them.

Climbing around these compounds takes its toll.  One can only imagine how many bones are broken.  Often, the entrances of the compounds are laced with explosives, so the soldiers blow a “mouse hole” through a wall, or use ladders to scale, and so the enemy now places booby traps atop walls.  Again, some people will say it is a “security violation” to say that the enemy places bombs atop walls, as if the enemy doesn’t know that the enemy has placed bombs atop the walls.  People will say it’s a security violation to say that we use ladders to climb walls, when every day countless thousands of Afghans see us with ladders.  We’ve been fighting this war for nearly eight years.  The enemy knows we listen to radios, cell phones, and just about anything else we do.  It’s the people at home who do not know.  The enemy has learned our tactics and psychology.

Joseph Etchells had been killed nearby almost exactly a month ago, on 19 July.  “The Kopp-Etchells Effect” dispatch was written partially in Joe’s memory.  Several times, the events of Joseph’s loss were recounted to me, in clear hopes that important details would be told.  I said not to worry, it will be told.  The missing details were that soldiers had complained about not having enough ladders to scale walls to avoid dangerous compound entrances.  During a mission the soldiers needed to get over a wall but were without a ladder, and so Joseph Etchells volunteered to go through the entrance, where he stepped on a pressure plate.

The compound we occupied on election day was littered, partially with batteries.  Soldiers do not throw away old batteries, but collect them in boxes because the enemy digs through trash to collect batteries to make bombs, but just as often something like this is benign.

Afghans in this area typically live with their animals.

Many believe that the Pashtun people are one of the lost tribes of Israel.  If true, some Taliban might actually be descended from Jews, which would be one of the most severe ironies of humanity.  Some branches go off and earn Nobel Prizes and unravel the secrets of the universe while advancing humanity by leaps and bounds, while another turns malignant and doesn’t know how to build a road.

The FST (Fire Support Team) goes into position over-watching a road leading to Sangin.  The mission is to prevent any roving bands of Taliban from interrupting voters traveling to Sangin.

The family keeps two myna birds whose wings have been clipped, and the Hazra interpreter tells me the birds can talk.  I tell him that birds of similar appearance, also called myna, are sold in America.  “What if the bird says, ‘I love Mullah Omar.’” I asked the interpreter.  “Then we must shoot it!” he answered.

The heat increases and the soldiers wait.

The first customers arrive.  Maybe they are a probe.

The men are searched.  If others were planning to come down the road on this day, none do.

A radio call said there was an IED strike nearby, in the area of Patrol Base Wishtan, which would be on or in the area of Pharmacy Road (the subject of the latest dispatch “Bad Medicine.”)

Later we learned that two soldiers were killed at Wishtan: Sergeant Paul McAleese, 29, and Private Jonathan Young, who was 18.

According to the BBC:

They were killed while on a routine foot patrol near the town of Sangin, in Helmand province, on Thursday. Their families have been informed.

Their deaths bring the total number in Afghanistan since 2001 to 206.

Lt Col Nick Richardson, spokesman for Task Force Helmand, said: "It is with deep regret that we report the deaths of two soldiers in Helmand Province.

"Our deepest heartfelt thoughts and sympathies go out to the bereaved family, friends and comrades of these brave soldiers."

The MoD said the deaths were not connected to Thursday's presidential elections in Afghanistan.

Every mission here on the 20th was connected to the elections.  The idea that the losses were not connected to the elections seems off, not that it would make a difference to the fallen.  Yet the slights and spins, often for no apparent reason (even if not the case here), undermines the messengers.

There would be much fighting around Afghanistan this day.

Men were watching us and roving around at a distance of about 900 meters.  Sniper Keiran Jones is told to fire a warning shot.

Fighting was kicking up in the distance, and FOB Inkerman was starting to get attacked.  Out in Sangin the fighting would last all day.

Rifleman Keiran Jones keeps his eye on the target while rolling the foam earplugs.  The man watching us is wearing a white dishdasha and a white turban.

BAM!  Keiran Jones launches a bullet from the .338 rifle, which cracks just a few feet away from the “dicker.” (Watcher.)

Another FST member has already recorded coordinates for targets and is ready to start a fire mission using mortars or the 105mm howitzers.

Rifleman Keiran on the scope.  The snipers would fire about half a dozen times this day, and not all were warning shots.

Steady…

BAM.  Dust fills the air and reflects off the morning sun.

Re-chamber.

Steady…

BAM.  More dust.

The snipers are cleared to kill a man, the same one who has been watching us, as he peeks his turbaned head around a corner about 900m away.  The shot is difficult because Keiran is in a tough and painful position to shoot from.  I joke that they need to do “sniper yoga” and Jones replies with a chuckle, “No shit.  It’s a stress position.”  Both snipers stayed in positions that were agonizing for their legs and backs.  There were no good places to get a relaxed shot.

Keiran Jones aimed for the man’s head and BAM!  The supersonic bullet that could kill an elephant raced toward the target.

Keiran was very upset, thinking he may have missed, though others thought he might have hit the man.  The shot would have been an easy shot if Kerian were prone, but the muscle stress in the growing heat was adding up.

The snipers stayed for hours up in that sun, sometimes taking alternating breaks, but they were in competition to get the enemy.

Like dueling banjos.

I sat in between them for about 20-30 minutes and all three of us were aching from the positions, though my position was far easier and shaded by one of the snipers.

They stayed at it.

Jones, drenched in sweat, takes a micro-break.

Fighting continued in the distance over in Sangin.  We saw bombs drop and the mortars and howitzers were firing dozens and dozens of rounds, while the Apaches were hammering away with their cannons, and launching about 30 rockets through the day.

The compound and our soon-to-be ambush spot.

CPT Ed Addington keeps an eye out.  We could hear firefights but other than the snipers peeling off some shots, we were not in contact.

We were not trying to hide.  The Brits wanted everyone to know we were there.

A jet drops a bomb in the Green Zone.

Down inside the compound, soldiers began to try to compress themselves into any sliver of shade but the shade kept shrinking.  Though we had occupied the compound, soldiers respected the house by staying outside.

The dog looked thirsty but when I tried to give him water, he launched out like the Killer Rabbit on Monthy Python.  If not for the rope around his neck, there might have been a death match.  The dog seemed completely insane, as if he had been attending al Qaeda seminars.  The soldiers couldn’t believe that five minutes later, little Cujo was still viciously growling.  I slid the water close enough but by several hours later he still never took a sip.

Medic Nikole Cunningham goes into firefights in the middle of bomb-laced country.  Nikole said her family thinks she never goes on missions.

The family was long gone, but two boys came back and fed their grandfather (apparently) who was very old and stayed with us.

The plan was to stay all day, but we were told that by late afternoon, only 245 ballots were cast.  And so it was decided that we should head back before dark, which would make it easier for us to avoid IEDs, but more difficult to avoid ambushes from machine guns and RPGs.  No matter what you do. . . .

Everybody expected an ambush.  The enemy had had most of the day to cook up something.

Off we went, down the middle, taking chances with the machine guns, RPGs and other rockets, but avoiding the more likely IEDs for the first leg.

The Taliban is in complete and uncontested control of the nearby power station.  We don’t even have enough soldiers to take and hold the power station, and so the enemy controls the on/off switch, and they charge locals for power.  While we generate electricity up at Kajaki, the Taliban makes money off it.  It’s no wonder why the Taliban laugh at the idea of negotiating.

The thought went through my head, “If I were the enemy, I would ambush us right. . . . ”  ZIP, SNAP, CRACK, CRACK, CRACK!

Their machine-gun fire was accurate and we all dove to the ground.

ZIPT!  SNAP SNAP! Some bullets hit between this soldier and me.

There’s Snowy, who had cleaned his weapon with surgical care.  He had wiped down every bullet and every millimeter of the magazines.  His weapon was working just fine.  For now.

Sapper Cameron Baldry starts to get up, and I think, “Why is he getting up?” Bullets were snapping by.

The soldiers often complain that when they hit the dirt, some of the bulky radio frequency gear they carry gets in the way of their helmets.  When soldiers are down in the dirt they cannot aim their weapons because their faces are stuck in the ground.  So Baldry rolled into a sitting position to return fire.

Meanwhile behind me, Snowy’s weapon began to malfunction.

I was making video when a soldier fired a Javelin missile which impacted close to the nearest compound.

This is where untrained fighters usually crack and run away in a jumble.  British soldiers, however, are well-trained.  While some provided covering fire, others peeled off in an organized fashion.

At this point another Javelin was launched and can barely be seen in this photo.

Impact: I’d never seen a Javelin explode like that.  Usually they are like gigantic hand grenades, but this one looked like a bomb from a jet.

What in the world did he hit?

A fireball gathered and left a mushroom cloud.

None of us knew what had been hit, but of course there was speculation that the Javelin had found ammunition or bomb-making material.  Maybe a tractor, I thought.

We went to a nearby compound that was empty and I stayed low near the front thinking this was the real ambush and that a cluster of bombs was about to kill half of us.

A soldier dropped his pants to see where he had been hit.  Apparently a bullet had sent a rock into his thigh.  The fire truly was accurate.  We truly were lucky that several of us did not get hit.  Meanwhile, other soldiers were checking ammo levels and doing redistribution as needed.  After every firefight, the Brits (and Americans) check for wounds, redistribute ammo, and check critical gear.  Two or three British soldiers asked if I was okay.  Meanwhile, leaders would consult maps, develop SA and figure out what they wanted to do next.  It cannot be stressed enough to check your buddies for wounds.  Soldiers have often died because in the adrenaline rush and cascade of survival juices, or sometimes simply because they are still fighting, troops don’t realize they are badly wounded, and so they bleed out and die.

Being just a writer, it’s not my domain to intrude, but after every drama I closely watch their uniforms and hands for blood.  All the soldiers are well trained, but some are still just teenagers and so you start to feel responsible for the younger ones, especially.

Sapper Cameron Baldry, a twenty-three-year-old soldier from 2 Troop, 11 Field SQN of the 38 Engineer Regiment, pointed at me exclaiming something like, “Did you see those bullets hitting between us!  They were striking right between us!”  I chuckled, saying yes, it was close, and those guys are good shots but we got lucky.  Baldry’s antenna had been shot off but he didn’t get shot.

We headed back to FOB Inkerman, avoiding many markers for potential IEDs.

Aircraft could still be heard, and there was fighting in the distance.

Marker.

Marker.

Fighting continues to our left, but it’s in the far distance.  To our right about a thousand meters away someone is using a signal mirror, probably tracking our movements.

The heat and the weight cause some soldiers to pause, and finally we are back on base and somehow got away with no fatalities or even injuries.

There is no telling how much ammo was fired by 2 Rifles elements in Sangin, Wishtan and elsewhere, but the soldiers from Inkerman fired at least 1,100 rounds of 5.56 (rifle and link), 800x 7.62mm, 3x Javelin, 133x 81mm mortar, 172x 105mm howitzer.  The Apaches fired about 500x 30mm, 28x flechette rockets and a Hellfire.  Someone dropped 2x 500lb bombs and a British Tornado strafed, while American A-10s and Belgian F-16s also joined up.

Too much was going on to keep up, and in fact the base had been hit while we’d been gone, destroying someone’s sleeping space.  Soldiers on base had identified at least one firing point and kept eyes on, and we got back just about the time I saw John Loughday and Simon Wagstaff trying to kill someone with a Javelin as the enemy occupied a firing position with what soldiers identified as a B10 rocket laucher.  The first Javelin failed, and so they grabbed another and launched.  With six seconds of flight time to that target, the single enemy saw the messenger coming his way.  Instead of praying he made a run and I heard the explosion.  The men radioed down from the tower, “Hello Two Zero this is crow’s nest.  Good strike one enemy dead.”

The day kept going but a man can only record so much.  My sat-gear was broken and so there was no way to file a detailed account of the election day, which in this area was a failure.

The next morning, on the 21st, ten men showed up to the FOB to talk about the generator that he said had been hit by the Javelin missle during the ambush yesterday.  The soldiers had previously been to his compound and confirmed that he had a nice generator, which now apparently was the victim of a Javelin missile and had gone out as a fiery mushroom cloud.  As a heat source, it would have stood out as a nice target to lock the Javelin onto.  As a side note, the man said they had gone to Sangin to vote and had voted for Karzai.  Yet we had watched his compound all day and nobody had left it to travel to Sangin.  Furthermore, three days later, I was present when the same platoon occupied a compound of the man wearing blue (above).  On the 24th, he said he had not voted.  We occupied his compound on the 24th because British soldiers thought it was being used by the enemy.  Yet here he is on base on the 21st, part of the party asking for money for the blown-up generator.  On the 24th he said he didn’t know any Taliban and had only been here for a month.  He spontaneously said he knows that Barack Obama is the President of the United States, but when asked, did not know who Michael Jackson was.  On the 21st he was on base, while on the 24th I sat with him for about an hour while we waited for the enemy to square off for a fight.  (And there came another firefight.)

On the 21st, the elder said the generator cost about 70,000 Afghanis, or about $1,400, but the most that could be paid from this base was $300.  The inanity of it all is difficult to fathom in one sitting.  We were taking machine-gun fire, apparently from his compound or that area, but he had no information about the Taliban.  Probably because he is Taliban.  We blew up his generator and now he wanted to get paid.

Later the evening of the 21st, soldiers held a ceremony for recently lost comrades and the next day they were right back out there in combat.

On the 22nd there was business as usual.  A patrol was out on the road and a man was driving toward them on a motorcycle.  The daylight was fading and a warning shot was fired but the man kept coming so a soldier went lethal and shot to kill, grazing the man’s arm.   The man didn’t realize at first that he had been shot, or where it had come from.

As with young American soldiers, nobody seems to believe that a man cannot hear a warning shot while he’s riding his motorcyle, or that he can’t see soldiers wearing camouflage during the last rays of daylight.  Despite being in countless firefights wherein we often have great difficulty identifying firing positions (such as two days earlier when machine guns were nearly hitting us), many young soldiers think that firing a warning shot is enough.  We all know that snipers who are in hiding fire only one shot to avoid conveying their firing position.  Warning shots mean nothing to an old man who needs glasses, who is riding a motorcyle at twilight in an area where gunshots are more common than frogs.  So a small piece of flesh was stripped from his arm and the man got off light.

The world kept turning and on the 24th “Bad Medicine” was published just after midnight Eastern Standard Time, and that morning before sunrise the soldiers were going on a dangerous mission and I went along.  The result was a firefight and much mortar and cannon fire using prox fuses, delay and airbursts into the enemy position.  Though we had information that the enemy was trying to get us with IEDs, we escaped getting blown to pieces.  When I got back to base, there was a message from British MoD that my embed had been canceled (about one month before we had agreed it would end) without warning.  The message and timing were clear enough.  “Bad Medicine” was published, and I was out.  The soldiers at 2 Rifles were astonished.  The MoD gave the reason that it was unfair to the journalists who were clamoring for spots, but my sense was that MoD had created a convenient excuse that was kept in the chamber, and now they had pulled the trigger.

I responded to the MoD:

Thank you for the message.

The precipitous decision by the MoD to cancel my embed after today's dispatch is unfortunate.

The sudden reversal after today's dispatch -- apparently a publication that did not sit well with the MoD -- will cause me significant headaches.  As you know, there are many balls in the air, and the MoD has effectively shoved me out of the way.

Please forward to Ltc Richardson that the message was received.

Michael
----

And so that was it.  My last day with the British 2 Rifles had ended the same as it had ended in Iraq.  In combat.  I’ll miss the British soldiers.  They constitute a truly professional force–if dangerously underresourced.  It has been my honor to accompany them in combat.  In theory I would do so again anytime, but in practice this will be the last time MoD will have a chance to cut me off in mid-flight, wasting much time and resources that should have been devoted to telling the story.  Barring a guarantee from a British General Officer that something like this will never happen again, my days of covering British operations are over.

On Sunday morning, 30 August, the United States Air F]]> http://www.philiplawlor.com/precision-voting/feed 0 http://www.philiplawlor.com/the-kopp-etchells-effect-part-ii http://www.philiplawlor.com/the-kopp-etchells-effect-part-ii#comments Thu, 27 Aug 2009 03:44:18 +0000 Michael Yon 27 August 2009

My embed with British forces has ended.  Will be out with U.S. forces for the foreseeable future.  After that, will strike out alone into the wilds of Afghanistan.  There are two more stories in the pipeline about the British soldiers I was with, who were in a couple of firefights.  The bullets got pretty close.  The events are worth recounting.  Unsure if I will be able to complete those dispatches due to the time wasted with the sudden ending of my embed.  Am attempting to publish at least one.  The soldiers deserve both, but time is cruel when its wasted.

A researcher who studies helicopter "brown outs" contacted me regarding the Kopp-Etchells Effect.  Apparently the effect is unrelated to St. Elmo's Fire.  In fact, it sounds as though scientists remain unsure of exactly what causes the Kopp-Etchells Effect.  The phenomenon remains a mystery.

Please Click Here to Read Part I of The Kopp-Etchells Effect.

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