The Heart and the Fist Part 14

"Yeah, I think so."

We ran our boats out into the ocean and we paddled south for the "demo pits." We'd heard about what was coming from previous h.e.l.l Week cla.s.ses. The area known as the demo pits is really just one huge hole in the ground surrounded by a fence. During h.e.l.l Week, they pumped the hole full of seawater until it created a muddy slurry of dirt and grease.

As we ran into the demo pits, a whistle blew and we dropped to the ground. Smoke grenades exploded and artillery simulators boomed. Two whistles blew and we started to crawl. Barbed wire was strung a foot off the ground, and we crawled under it, just barely able to make out the boots of the man in front of us through an acrid haze of purple and orange and red-green smoke. Tunnels were cut into the demo pit, and we crawled down the tunnels into the slurry of water and smoke. The pit became a sc.u.m pond of muddy salt water, sweat, and bubbles that popped with orange residue.

The stench of sulfur was strong. I blew my nose and caught a wad of purple snot on my sleeve. We all crawled into the pit, immersed up to our armpits. Two ropes were stretched across the pit, one of them strung about a foot over the sc.u.m; the other was five feet higher than that. We each had to climb onto the ropes and then-with our feet on the bottom rope and our hands on the top rope-slide our way across the sc.u.m pond while the Brown s.h.i.+rts shook the ropes. No one made it past halfway before cras.h.i.+ng into the pit.

The demo pits-we knew from h.e.l.l Week lore-were the last evolution of the week. As my fellow students climbed across the ropes, we sat in the muddy water, the sun beaming, and I was very, very happy. h.e.l.l Week was about to end.

Then a whistle blew. Then two whistles. We started crawling out of the demo pits. "Get back to your boats. Get back to your boats. Paddle down to the compound." Were they serious? Weren't we finished? Were they serious? Weren't we finished? In my haze of exhaustion I started to get angry. In my haze of exhaustion I started to get angry. These instructors have screwed this up! We were supposed to finish back there; they don't know that we're supposed to be done! These instructors have screwed this up! We were supposed to finish back there; they don't know that we're supposed to be done!

We ran to our boats, paddled out through the waves, then rowed north back to the compound. My crew was running on frayed nerves. "What the f.u.c.k is this! What the f.u.c.k!"

We turned our anger on the instructors. "Did you see his fat a.s.s chewing tobacco and spitting in the pit? Fat f.u.c.kin' b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

When we had rowed to the compound, the instructors started to beat us again. "Hit the surf, go get wet and sandy." We limp-ran. We held on to each other to keep standing. We could no longer dive into the ocean. We simply fell over in the water, got soaked, and then fought our way back to our knees and then made it to standing and then ran back onto the beach.

We were made to drop down and knock out pushups. By this point, for a "pushup," we would lower our bodies an inch and drop our heads, and then pull our heads back up. It was about as much as we could do.

"Drop down! Face the ocean!" We did another set of pushups, and then the instructor yelled, "Recover." When we stood up and turned around, every instructor and all of the SEAL staff of the Naval Special Warfare compound were standing in one line atop the sand berm.

The commanding officer called down to us. "BUD/S Cla.s.s 237, you are secured from h.e.l.l Week!"

We stood there. Really? Really? We looked down at our boots, up at the instructors. Was this a trick? Then Franklin leaned back open-chested and let out a roar, and we all started to shout. We turned and hugged each other. We'd made it. We looked down at our boots, up at the instructors. Was this a trick? Then Franklin leaned back open-chested and let out a roar, and we all started to shout. We turned and hugged each other. We'd made it.

We shook the hands of every one of the instructors and then we walked over the sand berm to medical. After a final medical check we walked out into the sun, and there laid out for us were two large pizzas and a bottle of sports drink for every man.

I sat on the concrete next to my guys. We were too tired to talk. Too tired to shout. It was the most delicious pizza and the best sports drink that I have ever had in my life.

People always ask me, "What kind of people make it through h.e.l.l Week?" The most basic answer is, "I don't know." I know-generally-who won't won't make it through h.e.l.l Week. There are a dozen types that fail. The weightlifting meatheads who think that the size of their biceps is an indication of their strength; they usually fail. The kids covered in tattoos announcing to the world how tough they are; they usually fail. The preening leaders who don't want to be dirty; they usually fail. The me-first, look-at-me, I'm-the-best former athletes who have always been told that they are stars and think that they can master BUD/S like they mastered their high school football tryouts; they usually fail. The blowhards who have a thousand stories about what they are going to do, but a thin record of what they have actually done; they usually fail. The men who make excuses; they usually fail. The whiners, the "this is not fair" guys, the self-pitying criers; they usually fail. The talkers who have always looked good or sounded good, rather than actually been good-they usually fail. In short, all of the men who focus on show fail. The vicious beauty of BUD/S is that there are no excuses, no explanations. You do, or do not. make it through h.e.l.l Week. There are a dozen types that fail. The weightlifting meatheads who think that the size of their biceps is an indication of their strength; they usually fail. The kids covered in tattoos announcing to the world how tough they are; they usually fail. The preening leaders who don't want to be dirty; they usually fail. The me-first, look-at-me, I'm-the-best former athletes who have always been told that they are stars and think that they can master BUD/S like they mastered their high school football tryouts; they usually fail. The blowhards who have a thousand stories about what they are going to do, but a thin record of what they have actually done; they usually fail. The men who make excuses; they usually fail. The whiners, the "this is not fair" guys, the self-pitying criers; they usually fail. The talkers who have always looked good or sounded good, rather than actually been good-they usually fail. In short, all of the men who focus on show fail. The vicious beauty of BUD/S is that there are no excuses, no explanations. You do, or do not.

It is, however, hard to know who will perform. I thought that Greg Hall would make it, and he did. I thought that Eddie Franklin would make it, and he did. I thought that Mike Fitzhugh would make it, and he did. I also thought that Darrell Lucas would make it, but he did not (failed for drown-proofing). Yet at the same time, some men who seemed impossibly weak at the beginning of BUD/S-men who puked on runs and had trouble with pull-ups-made it. Some men who were skinny and short and whose teeth chattered just looking at the ocean-made it. Some men who were visibly afraid, sometimes to the point of shaking-made it.

BUD/S-like Instructor Harmon promised-smashes the sh.e.l.l and reveals the inner man. I was reminded of the stories that people in Bosnia and Rwanda had told me about their neighbors. They told me stories of people who took extraordinary risks to save the lives of others, and they told me stories of people they had known all their lives who-when tested-decided to save themselves. Who could have known?

BUD/S was the same way: who knew until the test came?

It's important, however, not to overstate the significance of h.e.l.l Week. h.e.l.l Week is in many ways only the beginning of BUD/S. It is the test you pa.s.s so that the SEAL community will say: "You are worthy of being trained."

You emerge with swollen hands and swollen feet and cuts and bangs and bruises. You emerge weak and beaten. But the week does not transform you. While h.e.l.l Week emphasizes teamwork and caring for your men, it does not necessarily produce good people. Some of the best men I've known in the world are SEALs, but there are also some jerks, abusive boyfriends and husbands, men who fail to care, fail to lead, men with a few moral screws loose, who also make it through h.e.l.l Week. h.e.l.l Week tests the soul, it doesn't clean it.

Yet h.e.l.l Week does offer this, at least-after it, for the rest of your life, you have this point of comparison: I've been through h.e.l.l Week; I can face my current trial. I've been through h.e.l.l Week; I can face my current trial.

After the final medical check we walked-or did they drive us?-the two hundred yards to our barracks. I opened the room and walked to my bed. I sat down on it. I had half a pizza left and I set the box on the ground. That'll taste good in the morning, or whenever I wake up-will I sleep until Sat.u.r.day? That'll taste good in the morning, or whenever I wake up-will I sleep until Sat.u.r.day? I set a pillow at the foot of my bed and kicked my feet up on the pillow. I wanted to keep my feet raised to reduce swelling. I set another pillow behind my head. I set a pillow at the foot of my bed and kicked my feet up on the pillow. I wanted to keep my feet raised to reduce swelling. I set another pillow behind my head.

I smiled. h.e.l.l Week was over. It was the best time I never want to have again.

11. Advanced Combat Training

I WOKE AFTER WOKE AFTER a long sleep. Was it twelve hours? Eighteen? My body felt heavy and numb, but when I held up my hands I saw that the h.e.l.l Week swelling had gone down. We rose from our bunks and ambled out of the barracks. We shuffled like a file of corpses to medical. We were checked again for cellulitis (flesh-eating bacteria), for pneumonia, for broken bones. After pa.s.sing through medical we drove to a local restaurant and sat down to a breakfast of stacked pancakes, sausages, crispy hash browns, cheesy eggs, sparkling fresh fruit, and biscuits covered in gravy. a long sleep. Was it twelve hours? Eighteen? My body felt heavy and numb, but when I held up my hands I saw that the h.e.l.l Week swelling had gone down. We rose from our bunks and ambled out of the barracks. We shuffled like a file of corpses to medical. We were checked again for cellulitis (flesh-eating bacteria), for pneumonia, for broken bones. After pa.s.sing through medical we drove to a local restaurant and sat down to a breakfast of stacked pancakes, sausages, crispy hash browns, cheesy eggs, sparkling fresh fruit, and biscuits covered in gravy.

I was still swollen-head, hands, feet-and I moved slowly when I pulled up to my house and stepped out of my car. My neighbor's sprinkler was on, and just a few drops were landing on the sidewalk, but I walked wide around it. I wanted, for a day, to be nothing but warm and dry.

On Monday we began to train again. We trained in hydrographic reconnaissance, learning how to conduct a detailed examination of a surf zone before an invasion. We trained in basic techniques of the combat patrol, and we exercised to rebuild our strength. We did physical training on the grinder, runs on the beach, and we continued our weekly two-mile ocean swims.

One early Tuesday morning my swim buddy and I came out of the ocean after a two-mile swim, and as we ran up the beach, a man running in the other direction shouted something to us as he pa.s.sed.

"What did he say?" I asked.

"I don't know. Something about a plane crash in New York."

As the rest of the team finished the swim, stripping off wetsuits and donning boots and camouflage uniforms, word was pa.s.sed through the cla.s.s: A plane had crashed into the Twin Towers. No, it was two planes. One of the buildings collapsed. Both buildings collapsed. Thousands of people died.

"Four ranks!" We formed into four lines and ran for chow. Rumors were traded on the run. At the chow hall the TV was on, and sailors dressed in whites and in fatigues stood next to cooks and servers wearing plastic gloves, holding serving spoons. "Get your food." We hustled through the line and then gathered at the tables near the corner of the hall so that we could be close to the TV. We ate fast. Usually we ate with some banter, but that morning we ate in silence, except for occasional single words of profanity and prayer.

We had sat down for our meal thinking that we were members of a peacetime military. When we stood up, we knew that our cla.s.s was going to war.

A new energy inhabited the men of Naval Special Warfare. We all knew men who were on active SEAL teams, and in the team buildings up and down the beach, lights burned on and coffee was brewed into the night as men crowded around maps of Afghanistan. Men pushed bullets one by one into magazines; they disa.s.sembled and cleaned weapons; rifle scopes were checked and then checked again. Teams left for advanced mountain warfare training. Small adjustments were made to uniforms, wills were updated, and letters to loved ones written and sealed.

I and the other men in my cla.s.s weren't SEALs yet. We were, however, the first cla.s.s that would go through every phase of SEAL training in the knowledge that we were going to war. Guys asked questions while we ran to chow: "Mr. G, you think that they'll speed up our training and send us to Afghanistan?" It was in those conversations that I learned just how different, just how distinct my men were from the rest of the population.

We all remember our own story of 9/11, and I think that most Americans experienced the attack with a mixture of shock at the horrific violence, sympathy for the victims, a surge of patriotic feeling, and some desire for revenge. We grieved. We celebrated the heroism of those who gave their lives in service to others.

My cla.s.s shared those sentiments, but it was also true that every man in the cla.s.s had one very visceral, very real wish. They all said, in their own way, "I wish that I'd been on one of those f.u.c.king planes." This wasn't bravado, and it wasn't just talk. They had signed up to fight for their country, and now the fight was on. They had no illusions that they were supermen. They might not have saved the day. But they wanted, more than anything, to be there at the country's critical hour.

SEALs fight from the sea, from the air, and from the land. We serve as the nation's elite commando force, and suddenly it looked like our country had an immediate need for us. We trained hard, and over the next several months we were shaped into warriors.

In dive phase we learned to be combat swimmers. Up to that point I had never taken a single breath underwater. In dive phase, I learned how to use scuba gear, and I trained in a way that only SEALs would. While swimming scuba, we were repeatedly attacked. Instructors jerked our mouthpieces from our mouths, tore off our facemasks, ripped off our fins, flipped us in circles, turned off our air, tied our hoses in knots, and then swam away. Starving for oxygen underwater, we had to wrestle our twisted tanks and hoses in front of us, turn on our air, untie our hoses, and try to reestablish a line to life-giving oxygen. As soon as we caught a breath of oxygen and straightened our tanks, we were hit again.

Later we swam to the bottom of the combat training tank with a swim buddy. We swam down with one scuba tank and one mouthpiece between us, and we wore facemasks completely covered in tape. Both blind underwater, we shared oxygen back and forth as we transferred all of our dive gear from one man to the other. Still later we treaded water for five minutes with our hands in the air while wearing sixty pounds of gear. Men whose hands touched the water failed. Dozens of men failed different tests, and our training moved forward without them.

We executed a five-and-a-half-mile ocean swim, kicking north into a fierce current. We dove twice a day, and air often became trapped in our inner ears and expanded at night so that it made us temporarily hard of hearing. We woke every morning after a few hours' sleep with our alarms blaring and we blew our nose hard into our fist and cleared our ears for another day of diving.

We dove in the bay and I learned how to count my kicks in the pitch-black water fifteen feet deep while following a compa.s.s bearing underwater. By counting my kicks, I could tell when I'd traveled exactly one hundred meters. Nine weeks after I first entered dive phase, my swim buddy and I descended into the water at night wearing a Draeger combat diving system that emitted no bubbles. We kicked underwater for several hours. We adjusted our course several times according to the dive plan we had built by studying the chart, tides, and currents. With a series of hand gestures we communicated underwater and confirmed our plan until we reached our target, placed our simulated mine, and swam away.

We moved to land warfare and weapons training. At Camp Pendleton, we fired thousands of rounds from a Sig Sauer 9mm pistol and thousands more from our rifles. We began with single shots on target, and weeks later we were executing immediate action drills in teams of sixteen men, running and shooting and shouting and firing hundreds of bullets on target in a synchronized kill ballet.

Given a box of mixed parts, we had to a.s.semble our rifles and pistols. We learned how to shoot a submachine gun, a shotgun, and an AK-47. We fired light antiarmor rockets and ant.i.tank weapons and we planted claymore mines. We were issued basic gear and we learned how to patrol quietly wearing ammo pouches and canteens, and how to black out every bit of metal, every piece of gear that might reflect light. We learned the basics of using demolition and we set explosive charges of C4 and TNT and we learned how to rig explosives underwater. We threw grenades, and as a cla.s.s we were tear-ga.s.sed, learning that, though in pain, we could fight while in a cloud of gas if we had to. We lined up on the range at night and we learned to fire our rifles using night-vision goggles and lasers. We learned how to clear jammed weapons, we learned how to rappel, and we learned how to gunfight as a team. We learned how to navigate over mountains and we learned how to use radios. We spent weeks in the woods, and we learned the basics of reconnaissance.

Men kept dropping out of the cla.s.s-one man couldn't handle the land navigation, another had trouble with demolitions. The instructors kept up the four-mile timed runs, the two-mile timed ocean swims, and the timed obstacle-course runs, and as the required times got faster, some men failed and were dropped from the cla.s.s. Toward the end of BUD/S we went to San Clemente Island-"Where no one can hear you scream"-and we executed a night ocean swim. The instructors liked to tell us that San Clemente is home to one of the largest breeding grounds for great white sharks in the world, and they reminded us of this as they stepped onto safety boats with loaded shotguns-"to repel a shark attack"-and told us to enter the water and swim. We swam very fast.

The physical trials never ended. On the island we had to earn our meals with a lung-exploding sprint up a mountain, wearing full gear. Men who failed to meet the cutoff time ate their meals soaking wet and covered in sand.

On San Clemente we brought all of our skills together. Given a folder full of information on a simulated target, our platoon developed and briefed a plan. We were dropped off in the ocean, did reconnaissance of the beach, swam in to sh.o.r.e, patrolled through the mountains, and set up an ambush that we initiated with demolitions. Firing blanks, we swept down on men playing the enemy, ripped them from their vehicles, gathered intelligence, and then melted back into the underbrush. We made our way to the other side of the island for a planned extraction, and once there we were ambushed and the beach exploded in towers of flames as we had to simulate fighting our way out. Six months before, we'd just been a bunch of guys with freshly shaved heads waiting in the early morning to begin our first four-mile timed run.

We graduated from BUD/S and then went to advanced training. We went to Fort Benning, Georgia, for Airborne School, and we learned how to jump out of a plane. The concept seemed very simple to me, but it took three weeks to learn: open door, green light, go! We learned that parachutes are deceiving. We do not float to the ground but crash, like human lawn darts. We learned the specifics of the "parachute landing fall" maneuver, which was supposed to ensure a smooth landing. You hit the ground with the b.a.l.l.s of your feet, then roll to your calves, keep rolling to your hamstring, then onto your rear end and back. When executed properly, the fall mitigated the impact of cras.h.i.+ng into the earth. The first time I hit the ground, I got to my knees in a daze and started to collect my parachute, now depleted on the ground. One of my guys yelled, "Mr. G, nice parachute landing fall. You crashed feet, a.s.s, head!"

We went to Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape school and starved for five days. We learned how to build shelters for warmth and how to evade capture behind enemy lines. Eventually we were all caught, and for days we lived as prisoners crouched in small individual cages, let out only for torture and interrogation.

We then returned to Coronado for SEAL Qualification Training. We refined our skills with rifle and pistol until we fired live ammunition just feet from our running teammates, tracer rounds burning through the night. We advanced our work with demolitions and we learned how to build b.o.o.by traps and how to set ambushes. Into the mountains, we patrolled through thick brush and slept on open ground on our ponchos as we completed ever-longer courses of land navigation. We jumped into the night-dark water of the bay again and again wearing our bubble-less diving systems as we executed ever more challenging combat dives. We went on long rucksack runs on the beach and in the mountains. We learned to apply our camouflage and we learned how to build a good hide site. We traveled to the desert and we learned to fight there. We ran a thirteen-mile combat conditioning course with a rifle and a forty-pound rucksack, and we stopped to shoot rifle and pistol, throw grenades, and launch rockets at various checkpoints along the way. In our close-quarters defense course we learned how to subdue, handcuff, and control prisoners. In our combat medicine course we pulled our buddies over our backs in a fireman's carry, ran with them hundreds of yards, and then threw them in the backs of pickup trucks. We then climbed into the trucks, and as they raced and swerved across broken desert roads, we attempted to start IV lines in the veins of the sweaty, dust-covered arms of our friends.

During maritime operations training, we drove Zodiac boats for miles through a churning ocean, five men bouncing as the engine whined over black waves. One night we came over a wave and cut the motor to idle to study a form lying on the black surface of the water. What is that? What is that? We motored closer, slowly, until we saw that we'd come upon a graveyard of deflated balloons. Hundreds of helium balloons of all colors had been released from some party or wedding and had blown out over the ocean. We sat for a moment, bobbing in the water, and then drove slowly away like we were leaving a body to rest in peace. We motored closer, slowly, until we saw that we'd come upon a graveyard of deflated balloons. Hundreds of helium balloons of all colors had been released from some party or wedding and had blown out over the ocean. We sat for a moment, bobbing in the water, and then drove slowly away like we were leaving a body to rest in peace.

Men who failed to meet standards continued to be dropped, including one man who was failed after a year and a half of training, just three days before graduation, because he wasn't sufficiently proficient with his rifle. We had all grown. I had started training relatively late, at age twenty-six. I was now twenty-eight. Other men had started training when they were nineteen. They were now twenty-one. They had literally grown up in SEAL training.

The cla.s.s graduation was spartan. We stood in a nondescript concrete bay known as the boat barn. An American flag was hung, but nothing else adorned the open bay. No band, no streamers. We stood not in dress uniforms, but in starched fatigues. We each walked to the podium and a few words were said as a golden Trident was pinned over our heart.

"The Trident has been the badge of the Navy SEALs since 1970. It is the only warfare specialty pin that is the same for officers and enlisted. It symbolizes that we are brothers in arms-that we train together and we fight together. There are four parts to the Trident. Each one symbolizes an important facet of our warfare community.

"The anchor symbolizes the Navy, our parent service, the premier force for power projection on the face of the planet and the guarantor of world peace. It is an old anchor, which reminds us that our roots lie in the valiant accomplishments of the Naval Combat Demolition Units and Underwater Demolition Teams.

"The trident, the scepter of Neptune, or Poseidon, king of the oceans, symbolizes a SEAL's connection to the sea. The ocean is the hardest element for any warrior to fight in, but we must be masters of the sea.

"The pistol represents the SEAL's capabilities on land-whether direct action or special reconnaissance. If you look closely, it is c.o.c.ked and ready to fire and should serve as a constant reminder that you, too, must be ready at all times.

"The eagle, our nation's emblem of freedom, symbolizes the SEAL's ability to swiftly insert from the air. It reminds us that we fly higher in standards than any other force. Normally, the eagle is placed on military decorations with its head held high. On our insignia, the eagle's head is lowered to remind each of us that humility is the true measure of a warrior's strength."1 After we all had our Tridents pinned on, we turned as a cla.s.s and ran down the pier and jumped into the bay. As trainees, we had jumped into the water a thousand times. This was the first time we hit the water as Navy SEALs.

We swam across the bay and then ran a six-mile course around the island of Coronado. We finished our run at a beach, where we grilled steaks, told stories, and wished each other well. Like every great pa.s.sage, it was a celebration of our achievement that was also marked by some sadness. We were leaving men who had become our brothers. In the dark of night, faces covered in camouflage, I could tell my men apart by the way they carried their rifles. On patrol, I could tell by the turn of their heads if they were listening hard. I knew their families, and I could tell by the way they sat down to load their magazines if they were distracted by something at home. We knew each man's brow, eyes, smile, when each man was angry, afraid, triumphant. We'd laughed a thousand crazy laughs motoring on the ocean, climbing in the mountains, before jumping from planes. Standing on the beach, this was our last moment as a cla.s.s together, and we knew that all of us would be deployed, and some of us might not come back. For all of the incredibly difficult training we'd done, no one had ever shot real bullets at us with the intent to kill.

12. Afghanistan

I WAS LYING WAS LYING in a hammock flying into Afghanistan. The hammock hung from two carabineers, one clipped to the metal wall of the aircraft and the other clipped to a cargo box full of weapons. The plane flew full of a tangle of men and boxes packed with gear. Men read in hammocks, slept on crash pads, and sat in the webbed seats of the aircraft with their feet up and headphones on as we flew into a combat zone. I was rereading a book about the Taliban. in a hammock flying into Afghanistan. The hammock hung from two carabineers, one clipped to the metal wall of the aircraft and the other clipped to a cargo box full of weapons. The plane flew full of a tangle of men and boxes packed with gear. Men read in hammocks, slept on crash pads, and sat in the webbed seats of the aircraft with their feet up and headphones on as we flew into a combat zone. I was rereading a book about the Taliban.

On September 11, 2001, I don't know that I'd ever heard of al Qaeda before. In graduate school I had studied-briefly-the history of Afghanistan. I knew that the Russians had invaded the country and I knew that they had failed. I knew that Afghanistan was littered with unexploded ordnance and land mines and that these weapons often exploded and left civilian men, women, and children without limbs. I knew that Afghanistan was ruled by a vicious tyranny called the Taliban and that the Taliban was famous in the West for its brutal treatment of women. In 2001 that was about all I knew. If you'd pressed me then, I don't think that I could have even named all of the countries that border Afghanistan.

As a kid, I had read with awe about Alexander the Great. He had conquered a territory stretching from Macedonia to Egypt and across to the northern territories of modern India. After September 11, when I started to educate myself about Afghanistan, I read that Alexander's toughest battles took place in the Hindu Kush Mountains on the border of modern-day Afghanistan and Pakistan, where thousands of his men were slaughtered. Alexander's fibula was broken when an Afghan warrior shot him with an arrow, and in another battle, he suffered a concussion when an Afghan fighter smashed a rock on his head.1 Other foreign armies followed Alexander. Outside East Asia, Genghis Khan and his Mongol warriors suffered their only defeat in the province of Parwan, Afghanistan. The British invaded in 1839 with relatively few casualties, but by 1841 the people of Afghanistan were in open revolt of the British occupation. The approximately 16,500 remaining British troops and their families attempted to retreat in the dead of winter to Jelalabad. By the end of the two-week, ninety-mile journey only a single man stumbled through the gates of Jelalabad. More than 16,000 others lay dead on the roads, frozen by the winter cold or slaughtered by the Afghan tribes in two feet of snow piled in tight mountain pa.s.ses. By the end of the year, the British withdrew their troops, only to invade again thirty years later.

In 1979 the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan to prop up an unpopular Communist government on the verge of collapse. Instead of defeating the rebellious tribes, the Soviet troops served only to unite the Afghan warlords into a new movement: the Mujahideen. The sole goal of the Mujahideen was to evict the Soviets from the country by means of raids and ambushes.

With overwhelming force, the Soviets pushed the Mujahideen into the mountains. To root out the fighters, the Russians began brutal aerial a.s.saults to "depopulate" Afghan village hideouts. The Russians carpet-bombed the mountainside. They unleashed fearsome Mi-24 helicopters, loaded with missiles and powerful machine guns that fired thirty-nine hundred rounds per minute. They napalmed green valleys into a naked and fire-charred countryside. They dropped millions of mines onto Afghan farmland, some of the mines disguised as toys to attract children.2 The Mujahideen-who fought back with World War II-era equipment-seemed trapped and helpless under the a.s.sault of the overwhelming aerial firepower of the Russians. The United States then began to supply the Mujahideen with the Stinger, America's latest heat-seeking antiaircraft missile, and the Mujahideen began knocking the dreaded helicopters, fighter jets, and other aircraft out of the air. The tide of the war s.h.i.+fted. By the time the Soviets withdrew in 1989, they had lost nearly fourteen thousand troops and hundreds of tanks and aircraft.

The Russian withdrawal left a power vacuum, and in 1992 an alliance of tribes wrested the capital city of Kabul from the remnants of the Communist government. Throughout Afghanistan, warlords fought other warlords for territory, looted civilians of their meager possessions, and kidnapped young boys and girls.3 The opium trade was used to finance military operations, The opium trade was used to finance military operations,4 and the people of Afghanistan suffered horribly in the crossfire as tribes and drug kingpins and local warlords fought for money and territory and control of the drug trade. and the people of Afghanistan suffered horribly in the crossfire as tribes and drug kingpins and local warlords fought for money and territory and control of the drug trade.

Out of the chaos arose the Taliban. The Taliban originally gained power because they promised to be a force for good. "Talib" means student, and the Taliban were students of the Qur'an who promised to root out corruption and establish a strong Islamic state. The Taliban defended the general population from the violence, rape, and pillaging of warring tribes, and they spread rapidly across Afghanistan as thousands of young idealistic men joined their ranks.5 The growth of the Taliban brought stability and order, and the Taliban nearly eradicated opium production by early 2001. The growth of the Taliban brought stability and order, and the Taliban nearly eradicated opium production by early 2001.6 But the Taliban also brought about their own brutal repression. In a Taliban-ruled country, a hungry child who stole bread lost a hand. Women fared worst of all. Communities gathered to watch women accused of adultery be wrapped in white cloth, buried in the ground up to the shoulders, then stoned to death. Thousands packed into soccer stadiums to watch women publicly hung from the crossbars of soccer goals for "crimes" against Islam. The Taliban banned television, music, photography, and kite flying. They beat women who allowed even an inch of their skin to show.7 The Taliban also famously harbored a terrorist by the name of Osama bin Laden. The Taliban also famously harbored a terrorist by the name of Osama bin Laden.

By the spring of 2001, the Taliban controlled 90 percent of the territory in Afghanistan. The remaining tribes who opposed them were united into the Northern Alliance, led by the charismatic and brilliant Ahmad Shah Ma.s.soud. Known as the Lion of Panjs.h.i.+r, Ma.s.soud was the key leader holding the tenuous Northern Alliance together. On September 9, 2001, Ma.s.soud was a.s.sa.s.sinated by al Qaeda suicide bombers posing as Algerian journalists (they had bombs hidden in their fake video camera). Two days later, planes. .h.i.t the Twin Towers and the Pentagon.

On September 14, 2001, Congress granted President George W. Bush the power to find and kill anyone involved in the 9/11 attacks. "The President is authorized to use all necessary and appropriate force against those nations, organizations, or persons he determines planned, authorized, committed, or aided the terrorist attacks that occurred on September 11, 2001, or harbored such organizations or persons, in order to prevent any future acts of international terrorism against the United States by such nations, organizations or persons."8 President Bush demanded that the Taliban surrender Osama bin Laden. The Taliban refused. President Bush demanded that the Taliban surrender Osama bin Laden. The Taliban refused.

Paramilitary forces infiltrated Afghanistan. They carried with them stacks of hundred-dollar bills to bribe tribal leaders of the Northern Alliance, and they also promised the a.s.sistance of fearsome American air power. U.S. Special Forces arrived in late October and joined their Afghani allies.9 From horseback, American soldiers called in coordinates for air strikes, and tribesmen of the Northern Alliance galloped in to kill scattered Taliban troops. With the help of a handful of U.S. Special Forces and CIA officers, the Northern Alliance defeated more than fifty thousand Taliban soldiers, pushed the Taliban out of power, and drove them into the mountains. It was one of the most effective campaigns ever waged by the United States. By the time we took Kandahar, we had lost only twelve lives, and the entire effort cost just $70 million. From horseback, American soldiers called in coordinates for air strikes, and tribesmen of the Northern Alliance galloped in to kill scattered Taliban troops. With the help of a handful of U.S. Special Forces and CIA officers, the Northern Alliance defeated more than fifty thousand Taliban soldiers, pushed the Taliban out of power, and drove them into the mountains. It was one of the most effective campaigns ever waged by the United States. By the time we took Kandahar, we had lost only twelve lives, and the entire effort cost just $70 million.10 Bin Laden and other senior al Qaeda leaders were still at large, but if we had paused in early 2002, we might well have a.s.sessed that we'd already won the war, and that we'd done so with deadly efficiency. Bin Laden and other senior al Qaeda leaders were still at large, but if we had paused in early 2002, we might well have a.s.sessed that we'd already won the war, and that we'd done so with deadly efficiency.

It was now the summer of 2003, and as I flew into Afghanistan, I was worried about the U.S. mission. Afghanistan had always been easy to invade and impossible to conquer. We had already driven the Taliban from power and denied al Qaeda the ability to conduct operations out of Afghanistan. We still had men that we needed to kill, but that required well-placed sources, possibly the cooperation of allies in Pakistan, and well-trained commando forces, not occupation.

We were flying into a huge base that was now manned by tens of thousands of Americans. Even during periods of relative peace and prosperity, Afghanistan had no history of centralized control. If we intended to subdue the country and build a democracy along American lines, that seemed like a mission that would take decades, and it was unclear when or how we'd ever be able to declare victory.

I was with a team of SEAL commandos and our mission was clear: to hunt and kill senior al Qaeda targets. This required local cooperation, intelligence, and a functioning network of allies. It did not require us to build a democracy.

Before we left the States, I received a brief on the rules of engagement-the rules that govern the use of force in Afghanistan. In almost all cases, we could use deadly force only if the enemy engaged in a hostile act or demonstrated hostile intent. There were, however, a few targets who were "declared hostile." I had remembered from my SEAL training what it meant to declare a force hostile: Declaring Forces Hostile. Once a force is declared hostile by appropriate Once a force is declared hostile by appropriate authority, U.S. units need not observe a hostile act or a demonstration of hostile intent before engaging that force.11 Bin Laden and other senior al Qaeda leaders had been declared hostile. Explaining rules of engagement can sometimes be complicated. In this case, it was very simple: if you see Bin Laden or one of his a.s.sociates, kill him.

We were about to test the proposition that using disciplined force and doing good can go hand in hand in a confusing, chaotic country. When we arrived in Bagram, I walked into a makes.h.i.+ft briefing room and sat on a stack of brown-boxed MREs and listened as a SEAL senior chief gave a brief. "We're here to kill Bin Laden and his chief a.s.sociates. If Bin Laden is here"-he pointed to an area high on the briefing board-"and we're here"-he pointed low-"and we are able to take down some of his key lieutenants, and get closer to Bin Laden"-he pointed to the middle of the board-"then we will have succeeded."

The group around me nodded their heads. These men were members of an elite SEAL team. They wore nontraditional uniforms with almost no insignia, and the majority of them wore beards. Many of them had served in the SEAL teams for more than a decade. They were the very best special operations commandos in the world. In comparison, I was fresh out of SEAL Qualification Training. Imagine a guy who has just been drafted into the NFL sitting in the locker room at the Pro Bowl. While I had been in field training exercises, a.s.saulting mock compounds guarded by Americans dressed like Afghanis, most of these men had been conducting real operations, spilling real blood. I had a tremendous amount to learn.

I had come to join this mission at the invitation of Captain Campbell, then the commanding officer of the team. I'd come to know Captain Campbell through a friend and colleague, Dr. Aaron Rawls. Rawls and Captain Campbell told me that given my time working in war zones overseas, they wanted me to take a fresh look at our work in Afghanistan and see if there might be ways to improve our interactions with potential allies. SEALs had spent thousands of hours training to kill their enemies, but to win this war we also needed to win friends. Alliances had been key in defeating the Taliban, and we needed allies to help us hunt individual men in Afghanistan and Pakistan. Another key element in defeating al Qaeda was human intelligence. The United States of America had the best signals and electronic intelligence in the world, but we were fighting an enemy that often pa.s.sed messages via couriers who rode on horseback through the mountains. There was no subst.i.tute for intelligence won through interpersonal contact with Afghanis. How could we adjust our operations so that we could win friends?

Before leaving the base, we piled into a convoy of Toyota Hilux pickup trucks. As we drove on a practice range, a small explosive charge went off to simulate incoming fire. Men stepped out of the trucks, took cover, and the mountainside erupted in bullets and rockets as we returned fire against an imaginary enemy.

When we walked back to our barracks, I saw pinned to a board a printed picture of a Navy SEAL operator-a member of this team-who had died fighting in Afghanistan. The men I was driving with had been at the very tip of the spear of American military operations for nearly two years. They had paid a price in blood, but their experience had made them sharp.

Later, as we drove over rocky ground, a tire went flat on one of the trucks. I jumped out and grabbed a lug wrench and squatted on the rocky soil and started to change the tire. I was glad to be useful. My dad had taught me how to change a tire on our Ford when I was sixteen years old. After all my years at Oxford and my experience in SEAL training, it was my dad's lesson on the driveway that allowed me to do my first positive thing serving in the military overseas.

I went to Kabul with the headquarters element of the team, and after a few days of work there I left for a firebase. The firebase compound was surrounded by high mud walls. There was a dirt field inside the compound-just about the size of a baseball infield-and parked there were a dozen Humvees and Hilux trucks. Inside the firebase headquarters, beat-up desks were loaded with computers and the glow of the monitors lit the faces of the men who stood up periodically to move pins on a map to indicate where American teams were moving on the battlefield. Atop the highest wall of the compound, satellite antennas reached into the air beside the flapping flag of the Chicago Bears, a testament to the presence of troops from the Illinois National Guard.

Each day our team, dressed in battle armor, riding military vehicles, carrying our weapons, drove out of the compound to try to make friends. We met with local businessmen, village elders, pharmacists, informants. We worked in a mixed team of SEALs, members of the FBI Hostage Rescue Team, Navy Explosive Ordnance Disposal experts, Air Force Combat Controllers, Air Force Pararescue Jumpers, Army Civil Affairs personnel, and members of other government agencies. Each person brought his own skill set to the team. The FBI agent, trained to speak with witnesses and suspects, was often good in conversation and was trained in evidence collection. The Air Force Pararescue Jumpers were some of the best combat medics in the world. The SEAL teams were incredible a.s.sault teams, and in the event that we had actionable intelligence, they could plan, brief, and execute a complex tactical capture/kill operation better than any force in the world.

We tried to put on a friendly face yet be ready for violence at a moment's notice. On one of our first trips out of our compound, our convoy entered a traffic circle. As we drove around the circle, I looked to my left. "Man with an AK-47, pa.s.senger seat, white Toyota." The man had black hair, an unkempt beard. He looked back at me with brown eyes and his lips parted to show yellowing teeth. I laid the barrel of my rifle to rest on the open window, and I tilted the muzzle so that I could take a shot if he raised his weapon to fire. We turned right, his car turned left, and he was gone.

We turned onto a narrow road paved not quite wide enough for two trucks to pa.s.s each other. Each time we pa.s.sed another vehicle our convoy ran along the side of the road and our wheels kicked up dust. But for the occasional transmission to let headquarters know our position, there was minimal radio traffic. I sat in the back seat of one of the pickups on a thick green ballistic blanket meant to provide some protection in the event of a blast.

Before us, brown mountains stood in the distance like sentries. The landscape had a desolate beauty: sun, rocks, clean air, mountains. We pa.s.sed a caravan of camels, their s.h.a.ggy humps laden with bulging sacks, water jugs, blankets. At the head of the caravan rode a man on a donkey. As we pa.s.sed him, he turned his head, wrapped in a clay-red turban, and squinted into the sun, and I saw the deep lines etched into his bearded face. We drove past the charred skeleton of a burned-out Volkswagen, and we turned off the paved road and onto a dirt track.

We pulled into a village-a warren of mud-brick homes surrounded by fields sprouting green from the baked brown earth. Here, we acted like Doctors Without Borders. Our team medics unzipped bags of gear and medicine and they listened with a translator as villagers came to them with complaints: "This boy cut his hand," or "This man's elbow is bleeding," and our medic cleaned the wounds and wrapped them in fresh bandages. Our medics could treat minor ailments, but when the translator pointed to an older man-"He says that his chest is in pain, his heart is not strong"-there was little the medics could do but offer the man a vial of aspirin.

I walked around the village with an Army Civil Affairs officer and one of the village leaders. I guessed the village leader to be in his forties. He was thin and wore a broad black turban and walked with sure-footed vigor. He made wide gestures at the land around him as he talked more quickly than our translator could interpret. He talked about his need for a well and the Civil Affairs officer asked some basic questions about how the villagers got their water now. How do they irrigate their crops? Is the drinking water clean? To the elder, we were a potential source of money and services.

The leader asked us about our lives: Did we have children? How long have we been freedom fighters? I told him that I used to do work caring for children and communities, but that now I had become a soldier. He replied to me through the translator, and the translator and two other Afghanis started to laugh. "He says you are the same as him, but backwards. First, he is commander who fight the Taliban. Now, he is to be chief of village. He says much easier to fight the Taliban. There was less yelling and complaints."

Later that day in another village I stood outside a medical clinic with other members of our team on guard. We held security while a meeting took place in the clinic. Children slowly approached us with friendly banter.

"America, good!"

"Afghanistan, good!" I yelled back, and more children came around. For a moment I was reminded of being surrounded by the children in Croatia as I walked into the refugee camp, and of the children in Cambodia who swarmed around us when we stepped into their villages. I felt strange here now, body armor on, rifle in my gloved hands, magazines loaded. There were some older teenagers in the group, and I scanned the crowd for threats, looked for weapons. I made a note of where the other SEALs were standing and I thought, What should we do if someone shoots at us from that house to the north? What if someone drives by in a truck on that road to the south and opens fire? What if... What should we do if someone shoots at us from that house to the north? What if someone drives by in a truck on that road to the south and opens fire? What if... Only a few years ago I would have been holding a camera and organizing a game. Now I was holding a rifle and planning contingencies in case of attack. Only a few years ago I would have been holding a camera and organizing a game. Now I was holding a rifle and planning contingencies in case of attack.

Our convoy left in a cloud of dust. I sat back in the truck next to my "go bag," a small bag containing basic essentials we'd need if we had to make a quick escape-a survival radio, extra med gear, extra ammo. We drove to another village and met with a shop owner who was a former a.s.sociate of the terrorist we were hunting. His shop had been blown up several months ago, and he described with a few phrases in reasonable English that everything he owned had been destroyed. He was friendly but unhelpful; his eyes darted left and right as he spoke, and I left feeling sure that he was reluctant to talk with us because he was afraid of the consequences of cooperation. We walked out of his shop with few answers and stepped back into our trucks.

Much of our schedule was dictated by members of other government agencies who wanted to meet with potential sources and track down leads. The other government agencies lacked the trucks, weapons, and security they needed to move freely and safely around Afghanistan. These other government agencies sometimes had, however, more language ability, a better cultural understanding of the environment, and, most importantly, more financial freedom than the military.