The Beginning

It was our first look at the war plan. The flaws were everywhere, but the momentum continued unabated. The Marine turned to me. “This will be the first time in history that we are fighting for the low ground.” He was a lieutenant colonel, retired Reserve, but now back in the fight here in Bagram, Afghanistan.

I thought back to my initial reaction to the strategy when we first heard of Operation A NACONDA . I remember waking early. I had to hurry. It was crucial to be down at the water trailer for an impromptu shower before the Aardvark mine-clearing vehicle stirred up the dusty ground, creating billowing earth and converging red clouds. Using the light penetrating through the cracks in the boarded up window I found my shoes, weapon, pants, shirt, and black fleece jacket. I tried to block out the reverberating snores of my roommates in the tiny room. They had to work later in the “cell” than I did. They directed operations issues late into the night so they could sleep until dawn. I had to be at airfield at first light to survey whatever provisions had been left for us.

It was a beautiful morning. Snowcapped mountains surrounded me. I breathed in the crisp air. It was only a few hundred yards to the assembly area, but it was a trek that required constant vigilance. Unexploded ordnance littered each side of the path. Barbed wire strings were moved to clear my way by tired, dust-soaked soldiers barely older than my kids at home. There were blue burka-clad women nomadically carrying the few items they owned, and children were begging for candy.

My thoughts went back to the war plan. Could we sustain a major conventional battle while we were having so much difficulty supplying the small unit operations we were running in Bagram? The conventionally supported task forces in Bagram had to divvy up the meager provisions that the C–130 airplanes managed to deliver during the night. Special operations-supported forces, on the other hand, had a robust logistics support structure. For them, beans, butter, and bullets came directly from Fort Bragg. For special operations, pallet riders ensured that the goods did not “go missing” along the way. What we received filtered through support base personnel. Ours were there for the taking.

I weighed the likelihood that the night brought more pallets of milk. Long-shelf-life packaged milk was the only commodity offloaded by the Air Force in the past week or so. The general was on my case. “We are running low on food and water—no more milk!” he chided as we both listened to the hesitant putter of the generators. Fuel was getting low, too.

Just 2 nights ago I journeyed by C–130 cargo plane to the supply base to determine why we were being inundated with milk. Although only a few hours' flight north, it was a grueling 2-day trip since the Air Force only flew into and out of the war zone during the hours of darkness. No one at the support base could explain the “milk runs.” A lowly Army private with a slight yet noncommittal smile gave me a clue where to look next. “Once supplies arrive at the airfield, they are an Air Force responsibility.”

On the flight line fleets of C–17 cargo jets inbound from Turkey, and C–130 prop Jobs for downrange movement packed the aprons. Straightaway I saw the answer to the riddle of the milk runs that was so elusive to the support base staff. Forklift operators stacked items in the same locations in the supply area at the airfield. Later, in the evening, Air Force loadmasters captured the closest items to the planes for loading. There was my answer. The nearest position on the airfield to the plane was for packaged milk. Slightly farther away were meals, ready-to-eat (MREs) and tray rations. Pallets of bottled water, spare parts, and assorted, unidentifiable items were in complete disarray farther from the plane. Because only the first of the flights, if any at all, made it on any given night, the only commodity heading our way was milk.

I tried to blend in at the morning staff meeting. My civilian clothes, longish hair, and beard gave me away as a stranger. Nonetheless, I did get to bring up the milk matter. The support task force commander assured me that it would be looked into. “An easy fix,” he agreed, if he could only find the time to work it. His staff was busy, too, he added. At least on my return flight there would be food for Bagram. The Air Force loadmaster, although not at all happy with my request to venture farther from the plane to the MRE area, nevertheless complied.

I thought of what I could do to make logistics work. Our principal mistake as a special operations task force was to agree to fall under conventional force logistics. We did not have much choice, though. A two-star general directed our one-star who directed me to “make the conventional logistics support system work.” Over time, I was able to convince the one-star to circumvent the support base. We thereafter used other government agency air assets. It was not a total fix, though. We could use the planes for high-priority, low-density items only. We still relied on the regular Army and Air Force for our day-to-day subsistence. Following a cold breakfast of scrambled eggs, I was back in the dusty building.

Interdiction Operation

Special operations soldiers prepared the large map with plastic overlay identifying the ridgeline to be attacked. A bearded man clicked open his gunmetal gray pocketknife. He used it as a pointer. It made a good effect, he thought, especially to the congressional delegations he briefed. With the same sharp movement, the knife snapped shut. He replaced it in his hand with a clear plastic water bottle of brown liquid. He spat into it. He did not chew tobacco back at Fort Bragg, but here in the war it seemed manly.

Without fanfare, a clean-shaven man in uniform entered the room. His face was young, boyish, yet his eyes betrayed his tiredness and concern. The two stars denoting his rank were the only evidence that he was important. He entered somewhat hesitantly; his movement did not adequately portray his crucial role in the war. The major general would soon see his forces caught up in one of the largest battles of the war. U.S. forces would fight a protracted battle with entrenched, well-armed, and well-equipped al-Qaeda in the largest and longest conventional battle of Operation E NDURING F REEDOM . He was here to kick off an interdiction campaign.

Once things started heating up our general became his deputy. We became a de facto part of his war planning staff. We would have a front row seat to the mayhem. Unmanned aircraft cameras loitering over the battle area would put us—and those in secure areas throughout the U.S. Government—safely, but squarely, in the middle of events we could do nothing to affect, only helplessly watch. It was apparent to all of us that the component commanders were just not working well together. Their actions would be forever called into question.

Operation A NACONDA officially began at dawn on 2 March 2002. From the intelligence provided, we felt we were participating in an operation that would quickly terminate and result in detaining some number of potential al-Qaeda and Taliban midlevel leadership and their combatants. We were dead wrong.

The A NACONDA battle plan was as simple as a diagram on a map. Special forces and Afghan troops would attack and drive the enemy into the awaiting arms of the conventional forces and coalition elements. A Marine general came up on the net—the secure video teleconference call. He offered his helicopters to the fight. They were shipboard, sailing away toward Africa. “Hurry,” he implored. “The more time that passes the longer it will take to get them to you.” Why had we not thought to use Marine air support before now?

The answer came abruptly. Before anyone could respond, the face of the air component commander filled the television screen. “No!” His voice sounded flustered, but bold. “I own the airspace. There are enough planes in the sky.” Without warning, he clicked off. There was silence for a long moment. “OK,” the two-star said, effectively adjourning the war planning session. No one was going toe to toe with the irate three-star. The two-star retired to his tent. He had to conserve his energy. He was to be awakened when anyone was killed in battle. He would not get much sleep.

The generals moved from the room. We were all disappointed at what we had watched and heard. Turning down helicopters? Then someone brought up the fact that the forces did not have any artillery! The Marine lieutenant colonel sat heavy in his chair. The Marine's head was down, not the usual position for this warrior. “I have to get to the general.” He meant our task force commander.

The special operations trained Army general did not have much time to talk. Even so, the Marine sought an audience. The general's personal security man knew well his charge. In the months guarding the general he learned that he never turned anyone away. Even still, he hesitated to let just anyone in to see the general this time, with the battle looming. Yet, he knew the Marine was going to be heard.

“Take the helicopters, General,” the Marine said in a voice much more harsh than he had planned, so he added a smile that he also had not planned. The general trusted the Marine and instantly agreed. He knew it was the right thing to do. “Get the helicopters,” he ordered. That was that. He would take the heat for the decision.

Weather delayed the operation giving some additional time to transfer the shipborne helicopters, although they would not be available when they were most needed, during the initial stages of the battle. At the outset, al-Qaeda resistance was much stiffer than anticipated. Now, estimates of enemy strength in the area were higher, much higher.

We heard the radio crack. Minutes into the start of the battle our Afghan main effort was shot up by a U.S. gunship. Without the Afghans, the enemy would be able to hold their dominant positions along the ridgeline. U.S. forces were airlifted to the mountaintop but immediately were pinned down and fighting for survival. Within the first hours, five of the six Army attack helicopters were out of action by rocket-propelled grenades launched directly from the ridgeline into the cockpits. High in the mountains the weather limited the Air Force fast burners from hitting their targets. “Declare success and get the kids out of there,” we heard the planners plead. The two-star general would charge a lack of close air support. The Air Force would feign ignorance of the battle planning itself. We prayed. The weather broke at last. The Marine helicopters arrived. The battle turned in our favor.

Over the next 2 weeks American and coalition soldiers, airmen, sailors, and Marines would conduct combat operations and defeat enemy forces in the area. During A NACONDA , U.S. forces fought at higher altitudes than at any other time in the U.S. Army's history. There were many heroes.

The Aftermath

I gazed around the nearly vacant room. A few exhausted analysts manned their stations. Dust, unopposed, was a thin blanket across their computer screens and keyboards. The Marine returned from the command post. Exhausted, and with remorse for all who died, he never mentioned his push for the helicopters and neither did the Marine general who offered them. They saved many lives with their bold efforts. Others would take credit for getting the birds into the fight. Nevertheless, I knew the truth; sometimes it takes a Marine.