The Outpost An Untold Story Of American Valor Part 27

Private First Cla.s.s Kevin Thomson and Sergeant First Cla.s.s John Breeding at the mortar pit. (Photo courtesy of Debbie Routson) (Photo courtesy of Debbie Routson)

At fourteen, Kevin had tried to commit suicide by drinking carpet cleaner, which he thankfully vomited out in the kitchen sink. His suicidal tendencies were subsequently replaced by self-mutilation; he would cut himself, then lie to his mother about it, saying the carvings were scratches he'd gotten from some bushes. One night, he finally told her that he needed help. She took him to the hospital, where doctors diagnosed him with manic depression. He was prescribed Paxil, but he took himself off it when he turned eighteen and decided the Army offered him a better, disciplined path out of his misery.

He was calm, Thomson. Rodriguez always joked with him that he was too dumb to be scared.

The mortar pit-or "Mortaritaville," as they called it, in homage to Jimmy Buffet's "wastin' away" locale-was not a fun place to be. Its occupants were often fired upon from the relatively close high ground of the Switchbacks and from the looming boulder they dubbed RPG Rock. In a constant state of agitation, the mortarmen would hit golf b.a.l.l.s or s.h.a.g baseb.a.l.l.s into Urmul, just to screw with the locals. Their boss, Lieutenant Stephen Cady, was sent a water-balloon launcher by his father, which he then gave to his men for fun; they'd use it to bombard the Afghan National Police station, the villagers, and U.S. soldiers standing guard. Their commander, Captain Porter, didn't know about all of this; as far as the men could remember, he'd been to the mortar pit only once.

The doubts about and resentment toward Captain Porter that had begun during predeployment were exacerbated at the outpost. Some of the animus was unfair. Porter, for instance, ordered the men of 3-61 Cav to wear full gear every time they stepped outside. The troops found this inconvenient and c.u.mbersome-a helmet weighed roughly three pounds, the full armored vest about ten times that-but given the constant threat of indirect fire, it was a wise measure to take. Porter wasn't alone in enforcing this rule; First Sergeant Ronald Burton, who'd been hit by some of the same shrapnel that had so seriously wounded Shane Scherer69 in May, was perhaps its most ardent enforcer. in May, was perhaps its most ardent enforcer.

Some of the hostile feelings toward Porter were based on strategic differences. The captain was not a strong proponent of the "show of force," whereby mortars, for example, were fired into the hillside to remind everyone in the neighborhood that the United States had superior weaponry. Porter believed there were at least two issues with such displays. First, they were ant.i.thetical to the aims of counterinsurgency. If Black Knight Troop were to constantly drop mortars around local homes, killing goats and possibly even residents, it would only reinforce the Kamdeshis' perception of the Americans as hostile occupiers and turn the valley against them even more. Second, whenever the United States used deadly force, there ought to be a reason behind it. The unit was in a location that was very hard to resupply with anything, let alone a pallet of 120-millimeter mortar rounds weighing forty pounds apiece, and Porter didn't want to expend ordnance for show when it might well be needed for real at a later date.

Many of his men disagreed with this. One time, Private First Cla.s.s Christopher Jones, armed with an M240 machine gun, was standing guard in the turret atop the shura building while Specialist Thomas Rasmussen manned the .50-caliber at the LRAS-2 guard post (one of two Humvees outfitted with LRAS devices, both of which were used as guard stations). When the camp began taking fire from the Putting Green, Jones and Rasmussen both returned fire, but it didn't seem to accomplish much. At LRAS-2 with Rasmussen, Staff Sergeant Clint Romesha, the sergeant of the guard that day, decided that they needed John Breeding at the mortar pit to fire the 120-millimeter mortars. He called Breeding to make the request, but suddenly the voice of their commander came on the radio.

"Negative," said Porter.

"We have sniper fire, we have movement up on the Putting Green," Romesha protested.

"Do you see weapons?" Porter asked.

"Negative," Romesha admitted.

"Do you have a PIT?" Porter asked, meaning a "positive identified threat"-that is, an enemy with a weapon.

"I see dudes where we're getting sniped at from," Romesha replied. Meaning: No.

"Negative," Porter said.

In a case study in a cla.s.s at West Point, that would have been the right call. But to troops being fired upon in a remote valley in northeastern Afghanistan, it felt overly cautious. When the enemy sniper stopped shooting, Romesha ran to the mortar pit to speak with Breeding in person so Porter couldn't hear them. Get the 120s ready, he told Breeding. The guns were already laid on, Breeding replied-adding, "Just tell me when you want me to shoot."

Clint Romesha was an intense guy, short and wiry, the son of a leader of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints in Cedarville, California. His parents had hoped he would follow his father into the church leadership, and Romesha had in fact gone to seminary for four years during high school-from five till seven every morning-but ultimately, it just wasn't for him. He didn't even go on a mission, a regular rite for young Mormon men.

Romesha was better suited to this kind of mission, with guns and joes under his command. Leaving the mortar pit at Combat Outpost Keating, he ran back to LRAS-2, and soon enough, the enemy started firing again. Romesha and Rasmussen looked up at the spot. Did they have a "positive identified threat"? Did they see weapons? Well, maybe maybe they saw some muzzle flashes.... they saw some muzzle flashes....

"We have a PIT," Romesha said on the radio, once more requesting that Breeding fire the 120s. Told that his men had positive identification, Porter now okayed the mortars. Breeding fired. About twenty minutes later, Rasmussen saw movement again in the same spot. "Fire 'em up again," Romesha told Breeding. "We have movement."

"You have a PIT?" Porter asked.

"No," Romesha confessed.

"That's probably just the enemy picking up their dead," Porter said. "Hold your fire. Let them recover their dead."

Behind his back, the soldiers of Black Knight Troop began calling their commander No Mortar Porter. Colonel George and Lieutenant Colonel Brown would later judge Captain Porter's actual decision-making in this instance-and others like it-to have been solid, though they would see a leadership failure in his refusal to explain why why he wasn't granting permission to fire. Part of Porter's charge, of course, came straight from the top: the U.S. Rules of Engagement dictated that troops needed to see a weapon or, at the very least, a radio in the enemy's hand in order to shoot. On July 6, McChrystal issued a directive underlining this point, urging troops to be even more cautious. "We must avoid the trap of winning tactical victories-but suffering strategic defeats-by causing civilian casualties or excessive damage and thus alienating the people," he wrote. "I recognize that the carefully controlled and disciplined employment of force entails risks to our troops... [b]ut excessive use of force resulting in an alienated population will produce far greater risks." McChrystal also instructed U.S. forces to limit their use of close air support. He added, moreover, that the use of "indirect fires against residential compounds is only authorized under very limited and prescribed conditions." Porter took these commands to heart. he wasn't granting permission to fire. Part of Porter's charge, of course, came straight from the top: the U.S. Rules of Engagement dictated that troops needed to see a weapon or, at the very least, a radio in the enemy's hand in order to shoot. On July 6, McChrystal issued a directive underlining this point, urging troops to be even more cautious. "We must avoid the trap of winning tactical victories-but suffering strategic defeats-by causing civilian casualties or excessive damage and thus alienating the people," he wrote. "I recognize that the carefully controlled and disciplined employment of force entails risks to our troops... [b]ut excessive use of force resulting in an alienated population will produce far greater risks." McChrystal also instructed U.S. forces to limit their use of close air support. He added, moreover, that the use of "indirect fires against residential compounds is only authorized under very limited and prescribed conditions." Porter took these commands to heart.

From Forward Operating Base Bostick, Brown kept tabs on Porter, and he remained concerned about his troop leader. True, McChrystal had spoken, but Porter seemed even more reluctant than other commanders to use force when he could. Brown also believed that during the troop overlap, some of the guys from the 6-4 Cav had filled the captain's head with horror stories about how every commander at Camp Keating was a marked man. While it was almost certainly the case that Captain Yllescas had been targeted for a.s.sa.s.sination, Captain Bostick's death in Saret Koleh appeared more random, and Ben Keating-not a commander but an XO-had died in the rollover of an LMTV. Nonetheless, Porter seemed spooked. Brown surmised that the knowledge that he would likely change command and be transferred to a safer post within ninety days had made Porter go to ground; he spent most of his time in the tactical operations center at Keating-the place, the captain himself argued, from which he could best command and control any fight. Porter's radio call sign was "Black Knight6," but because of his proclivity for holing up in the operations center, his troops also referred to him as "Bunker-6." Porter maintained that he walked around and talked with his troops on a regular basis. But some of them would claim that they seldom saw their commander at all.

On the morning of June 28, Sergeant First Cla.s.s Jeff Jacops was serving as sergeant of the guard, supervising the other troops from White Platoon who were pulling overnight guard duty. As his shift ended, Jacops headed to the barracks to wake up Staff Sergeant Bradley Lee. Suddenly, he heard the unmistakable crack of a recoilless rifle round. Jacops had begun running toward the camp's entry control point when a second round landed ten feet in front of him, hitting a wall, blowing him backward, and knocking him momentarily unconscious. Shrapnel splattered the right side of his face and neck, ripping them open, and exacted a chunk out of his left forearm. When he came to, dazed, he wiggled the fingers on his left hand. Then he realized he was spitting out teeth.

Jacops ran to Doc Cordova at the aid station. His face was b.l.o.o.d.y and messy; one of his eyes was no longer in the right place, its...o...b..tal floor having been shredded. Cordova could see, even through the gore, how terrified the sergeant was as he hit Jacops with morphine, put pressure on his face, and bandaged up his arm. There wasn't much more that could be done for him at Camp Keating beyond waiting for the medevac. The good news was Jacops's fears outpaced the reality of his injuries: he would have some lasting damage to his face-scarring, mainly-but he would be okay.70 Cordova mopped up Jacops's blood from the floor using the wounded sergeant's T-shirt. Cordova mopped up Jacops's blood from the floor using the wounded sergeant's T-shirt.

"You're very lucky," Cordova told him. He knew how important rea.s.surance could be to a patient in this situation, especially one who looked so scared.

"I don't feel so lucky," Jacops replied.

"No, man, you really were lucky," Cordova said. It was remarkable what qualified as good fortune at a place like Camp Keating.

With other troops securing the landing zone, a medevac soon landed, and Jacops was quickly deposited onto it; he jokingly flipped his middle finger to First Sergeant Burton as the chopper took off.

At Forward Operating Base Bostick, the surgeon told Jacops he was going to put him under so he could take a good look at his wounds. Prepping for the anesthesia, he asked his patient, "What did you have for breakfast?"

"A f.u.c.king rocket," Jacops replied.

On July 5, at Forward Operating Base Bostick, Brown made his "realignment" presentation to Brigadier General William Fuller, deputy commanding general for operations at Regional Command East. Soon afterward, he made the same pitch to General Mayville. Both men seemed to be on board. Getting the ball rolling, Brown started pulling nonessential gear from Combat Outpost Lowell: spare parts for old vehicles, excess generators, extra air-conditioners, and gym equipment.

As part of his battlefield circulation, McChrystal visited Kunar Province at the end of June. At Forward Operating Base Bostick, Brown personally made the case to him for shutting down Camp Keating, Camp Lowell, Observation Post Fritsche, and other posts in Kunar Province by July or August at the latest. The bases were defensive in nature, he pointed out, and not mutually supporting; they had minimal value for counterinsurgency efforts and were remote from the population; they could be resupplied and reinforced only by air; and they lacked sufficient troop strength to do anything but defend themselves. They were vulnerable, ineffective, and a poor use of manpower and aviation resources. Moreover, Brown said, the presence of the camps had actually worsened the security situation in Nuristan.

McChrystal seemed attentive and thoughtful, though perhaps a bit taken aback by Brown's presentation-he had come here to get a lay of the land, not to be pressed for a major decision. The general politely told Brown and George that he agreed with their logic and, in principle, their tactical a.s.sessment. But there were larger strategic issues involved, McChrystal explained. First, the Afghan presidential election, scheduled for August 20, was fast approaching, and President Karzai and the provincial governors were opposed to any withdrawal of American forces before that; Karzai feared that such a pullout might be taken as a sign of a lack of support for the Afghan government, which could deter turnout, especially among his supporters. And regardless of Karzai's feelings, McChrystal had orders to make sure that ISAF forces maximized voter access in as many areas of the country as possible; pulling U.S. soldiers out of Nuristan and parts of Kunar would undermine that aim.

Karzai also believed that if the United States pulled its troops out of certain discrete districts in Afghanistan, the Taliban would claim a great propaganda victory and make him look weak in front of his people. McChrystal shared his concern about potential Taliban claims and felt it was important for the United States to show that it stood behind the government of Afghanistan-or, more specifically, behind Karzai and his government.

The political situation back home was also th.o.r.n.y. In August, McChrystal was supposed to present his recommendations regarding Afghanistan, after which President Obama would make a decision about what to do next there. McChrystal's swooping down into the country and shutting down a bunch of bases in Nuristan and Kunar Provinces could be interpreted as presumptuous or, at the very least, premature. "I don't want to get ahead of the president," McChrystal said to George. Anytime generals started pulling out troops, it created at least the perception that a big decision had been made, McChrystal thought.

Other considerations would further impede the plan to close the outposts. On June 30, Private First Cla.s.s Bowe Bergdahl angrily left his base in Paktika Province and was captured by insurgents, prompting a substantial push of planes, helicopters, and surveillance drones to the area in an effort to find him-which proved futile.71 Shortly thereafter came a major U.S. initiative up in northern Nuristan, at Barg-e-Matal. These two developments would effectively tie up the air a.s.sets that would be needed to shut down Combat Outpost Keating and the other remote camps. Shortly thereafter came a major U.S. initiative up in northern Nuristan, at Barg-e-Matal. These two developments would effectively tie up the air a.s.sets that would be needed to shut down Combat Outpost Keating and the other remote camps.

Resigned, Brown sent the gym equipment back to Kamu.

Master Sergeant Ryan Bodmer had come to Combat Outpost Keating to run a radio station when Captain Pecha and 6-4 Cav were in charge, and he was shocked by how different things were under Captain Porter and 3-61 Cav. The whole mentality had changed, Bodmer thought. He tried to explain to the leaders of 3-61 Cav how important a.s.sertive counterinsurgency was, how the development projects were the only thing keeping the U.S. troops alive-or at the very least, keeping fighting-age Afghan men gainfully occupied-but he didn't get anywhere with them.

Some of the projects then in progress were funded by Bodmer and the PRT at Kala Gush, and others by 3-61 Cav through special commander's funds. The PRT projects included a micro-hydroelectric plant, two roads (one of which connected Kamdesh to Agro), a bridge across the Landay-Sin River (as much for the U.S. troops as it was for the locals), and Radio Kamdesh-now called Amman Radio, amman amman being the Nuristani word for "peace." Based on how frequently the Taliban threatened to destroy the radio station and kill its programmers, Bodmer believed he had succeeded in making the station a thorn in their side. Porter wasn't interested; he was on a different page, talking instead about how the United States had no intention of sticking around, saying that any project he couldn't see with his own eyes was going to be canceled-and maybe some of those that he could see, too. Ultimately, with Brown's blessing, Porter decided to cancel almost all of the remaining projects funded by 3-61 Cav. being the Nuristani word for "peace." Based on how frequently the Taliban threatened to destroy the radio station and kill its programmers, Bodmer believed he had succeeded in making the station a thorn in their side. Porter wasn't interested; he was on a different page, talking instead about how the United States had no intention of sticking around, saying that any project he couldn't see with his own eyes was going to be canceled-and maybe some of those that he could see, too. Ultimately, with Brown's blessing, Porter decided to cancel almost all of the remaining projects funded by 3-61 Cav.

For his part, Brown believed that apart from the few Afghan contractors who were making money from the projects, the locals didn't have much of a connection at all to the Americans, and vice versa. He respected Bodmer and thought he was working hard, but he felt he was running a one-man show, disconnected from any broader purpose. That wasn't his fault, but it was the reality.

In Bodmer's view, this change of direction was a disaster; as the few remaining projects were canceled, he saw the locals grow despondent and angry over their lost wages.

"This is a huge mistake," Bodmer told Lieutenant Carson Shrode, the 3-61 Cav officer in charge of the development projects; the squadron needed to keep at least four or five projects going through the commander's funds, he insisted. Shrode's bosses disagreed, saying they weren't in the payoff business. Over the past couple of years, the United States had unwisely, they believed, spent boatloads of cash in Afghanistan. If all of those projects were doing any good, then why had the situation deteriorated? Frankly, Brown thought, if you have to bribe people to convince them not to shoot at you, you're losing.

On July 7, the Taliban violently seized Barg-e-Matal, a remote village in northern Nuristan, up the road from Combat Outpost Keating, with a population of roughly fifteen hundred people. The village sat in a politically important location and was a tempting sanctuary for insurgent groups that were being driven out of Pakistan. President Karzai demanded that General McChrystal send U.S. troops there. The Afghan Border Police who had jurisdiction wouldn't be enough, he said; American forces would be required to retake the town. Karzai and his advisers feared that the loss of Barg-e-Matal, a significant thoroughfare, would suggest to the rest of the world that they were losing control of their country.

Barg-e-Matal was located in the area of operations commanded by Colonel Randy George, and he was afraid of stepping into this tar pit. Once he sent U.S. troops, how would he get them out again? Would dispatching these guys into yet another remote, spa.r.s.ely populated district-even for just a few days-be worth it? Barg-e-Matal was even more isolated than Camp Keating and other, similar outposts that the brigade was already struggling to maintain. How would sending U.S. soldiers there affect brigade operations elsewhere? To what extent would it deprive other companies of medevacs, Apaches, fixed-wing aircraft, drones, and other needed resources? There were no satisfying answers to these questions.

George's skepticism was met by a direct order from McChrystal to get moving. The message was clear: Karzai wants to do this, it's important to him, and we're going to support him.

On the morning of July 12, coalition forces-specifically, the 1-32 Infantry-and Afghan troops launched Operation Mountain Fire in Barg-e-Matal. The fighting was intense. Army Staff Sergeant Eric Lindstrom, twenty-seven, was killed. A police officer from Flagstaff, Arizona, Lindstrom left behind a wife and seven-month-old twins named Olivia and Riley. That night, when the shooting was done, the American and Afghan forces had regained control of the Barg-e-Matal district center and the surrounding area. Karzai was happy. But the 1-32 Infantry troops, scheduled to leave Barg-e-Matal within four days of the initial a.s.sault, would not actually be able to depart until over two months later.

With so many a.s.sets-helicopters, drones-pushed north and counterinsurgency efforts in the region down to few or none, life at Camp Keating and up at Observation Post Fritsche involved a decent amount of hanging out. In between patrols and basic maintenance operations-the burning of the contents of the latrines, for instance-uncountable games of Hearts and Spades were played and stacks of DVDs repeatedly viewed. Specialist Stephan Mace had returned from leave with an Xbox, enabling hours of video gaming. Daily workouts were nothing new for soldiers at the outpost, but the men of Black Knight Troop had so much time on their hands that some began lifting weights twice a day, drinking protein shakes, and taking supplements to jack themselves up.

A few troops experimented with less traditional pursuits. The Bush administration had authorized the use of the interrogation technique known as waterboarding, which was cla.s.sified throughout the world as torture; upon taking office in 2009, President Obama had banned its use. Some Red Platoon troops, trying to burn time, decided to see what all the fuss was about. In their barracks, Lieutenant Andrew Bundermann, Specialist Tom Rasmussen, Sergeant Justin Gallegos, and Specialist Zach Koppes were all voluntarily waterboarded. Sergeant Brad Larson held a shirt over their faces while Staff Sergeant Clint Romesha poured the water. No one could get past four seconds until Koppes tried; he made it to eight. As far as Koppes was concerned, there was no debate about it: this was torture.

Much less sobering were the inevitable practical jokes. Goats roamed freely across the outpost, so one day Larson la.s.soed one and with the help of some fellow pranksters shoved it into Bundermann's hooch while he was napping. Another time, Red Platoon super-glued the lieutenant's items to the floor, a feat one-upped by Tom Rasmussen's low-crawling into his hooch and spreading flypaper underfoot.

Christopher Jones had a guitar with him, so when he wasn't pulling guard duty at the entry control point-scanning the mountains and watching people on the road-he'd write and sing songs about the platoon. Among these was the mocking ditty known as "The Davidson Song," about Private First Cla.s.s Nicholas Davidson of Humboldt County, California:

Stutters when he talksStumbles when he walksTrying to find the phoneSo he could call back home....

Another Jones number, about his immediate supervisor, team leader Joshua Kirk, included Specialist Zachary Koppes's free-style rapping:

Whatchoo you hearingWhatchoo heardMotherf.u.c.ker got killed by Combat Kirk...Only man who could turn a kitchenInto a fighting position....

The lyrics had some truth to them: Kirk's men saw him as being unafraid, unthreatened, and, at times, unrestrained. During firefights, he would tell them, "If you think you need to shoot something, shoot it. It doesn't matter how much ammo you might waste. If you need to kill it, kill it."

Kirk had been born at home in Thomaston, Maine, the son of a Vietnam veteran who transformed himself from the dope-smoking head of a motorcycle gang into a born-again Christian carpenter. When Josh was five, the family moved to fifteen acres of land not far from Bonners Ferry, Idaho, a small town best known for U.S. law enforcement's siege of a compound at nearby Ruby Ridge in 1992. The Kirks had running water but no electricity; their closest neighbors were five miles away. The kids' entertainment was entirely self-created: building forts, sleeping in tents, playing flashlight tag, and, when they were teenagers, engaging in elaborate games of war. One such game, invented by Josh, came to be called Test of Courage; it basically consisted of devising terrifying tasks and daring the other players to attempt them. The challenges started out harmless enough but then quickly escalated to really dangerous stuff like exploring an abandoned silver mine, walking on top of the old Eileen Dam, and body-surfing fierce river rapids. In retrospect, it seemed astonishing that no one had ever gotten lost or hurt.

After high school, Kirk returned to Maine with his father and brother to do some construction work and ended up taking cla.s.ses at Southern Maine Community College, where, in September 2004, he met Megan Gavin. Holding down a construction job and going to school at the same time soon proved impossible, so the following spring, Kirk enlisted in the Army, attracted by promise of the G.I. Bill. He was a persistent guy, and he asked Megan to marry him three times before she finally said yes; they were married a few days after got out of basic training in 2005. Three months before he deployed with 1-91 Cav in 2007, their little girl was born. And now here he was, back in Nuristan.

From: Joshua KirkTo: Megan KirkSent: Sunday, July 12, 2009 Hey sweetie, just wanted to say that I love you tons! Little p.r.i.c.ks have been hitting us all day with B-10 and rpg fire. Lovely and then some!!!! Of course they wont let us patrol more so we can secure this place. instead lets just sit here and take it in the a.s.s. Working on the patroling way more so we can secure it. I would rather hit these dudes out in the brush then wait here, its really driving us nuts, oh well... TTYL Love you XOXOOXOXOXOXOXOXOX JK

Sergeant Joshua Kirk. (Photo courtesy of Megan Gavin Kirk) (Photo courtesy of Megan Gavin Kirk)

The frequency of firefights at Camp Keating increased significantly, from 136 in 2008 to 212 throughout 2009. When the men of 3-61 Cav took incoming fire, Kirk was a machine machine: he'd hop on the AT4 rocket launcher, then switch to the .50-caliber, then the M203 grenade launcher, then he'd get back on the .50-caliber and shoot that again. Most of the guys at the outpost were pretty tough, but Kirk, he was crazy brave-fearless, thought Jones. Absolutely.

Growing up in Winesburg, Ohio, home of the world's largest Amish community, Specialist Zach Koppes-who'd attended a private Mennonite school-had never pictured himself landing in a place like Combat Outpost Keating.

His path from Winesburg to Kamdesh District had been blazed by his troublemaking ways. He was kicked out of high school for breaking into a file cabinet and stealing (then selling) answers to a test, and then, for far worse infractions, he was kicked out of his family's house. He moved to Colorado to work in landscaping with his uncle Mike but wasn't particularly good at it. Burnt out, he found himself twisting dough behind the counter of an Auntie Anne's Pretzels at a Walmart, embarra.s.sed by what he'd become.

At first, Koppes was just trying to impress a cute girl with talk of joining the military: a commercial came on the TV for the U.S. Navy SEALs, depicting the fierce warriors jumping out of choppers and parachuting into the jungle, and Koppes made an off-the-cuff remark about signing up. But the comment had a weird sort of cling. Joining up would, he figured, solve all his problems. His mother would respect him again, as would his friends. His life's demerits would be erased; he would no longer be twisting pretzels at Walmart. So one day he smoked a bushel of pot and then headed to an Army recruiter's office.

From there, he and five others were driven in a van to a cla.s.sroom where they took a four-hour test. Afterward, a staff sergeant told him that he'd scored in the top tenth percentile. After basic training, Koppes went back to Ohio before shipping out to Korea. Instead of spending any time with his family-including his thirteen-year-old sister, Eva, who had cystic fibrosis-all Koppes did was smoke pot, hang out with his friends, and hit on girls. He fought with his mom. He fought with his dad. He hadn't changed at all. The problems remained because the real problem was him.

Three months later, Koppes was drinking with his Army buddies at his new home, a base in South Korea, when his commanding officer knocked on the door and took him to the chaplain. "We got a call from the Red Cross about Eva," the chaplain told him. "They don't think she has much time left. We're going to put you on the next plane."

The two of them had been close, though of course Koppes hadn't been around much in the previous few years. He flew to her and ran to her hospital bed. "I'm sorry I wasn't here more," he said to her. "I'm sorry I didn't spend more time with you." He told her how much he loved her. "I love you, too," she replied. She died two days later. Koppes was convinced she'd been hanging on just to say good-bye to him.

Back in South Korea, Koppes straightened up. He worked harder. He earned awards. He took cla.s.ses. His guilt and grief over Eva melted his rebellious, juvenile sh.e.l.l, revealing a humanity he'd all but forgotten was there. After his rotation on the Korean Peninsula, he transferred to 3-61 Cav-then training at Fort Carson, Colorado-so he could spend more time with his girlfriend, Kaila, who attended the University of Colorado at Colorado Springs. She ended up dumping him three months later, and that was when Zach Koppes became best friends with Specialist Stephan72 Mace. Mace.

He was Koppes's first friend in the squadron. Mace was good-looking, with boundless energy and a wicked sense of humor. He and his brothers had grown up in a small community named Purcellville, in Virginia, where they learned patriotism from their maternal grandfather, an Air Force veteran. Mace loved guns growing up, not just to hunt with but also for the craft of their manufacture. He became an apprentice to a gunsmith and built a rifle for his father for Christmas. After 9/11-Stephan was thirteen at the time-the Army just seemed to make sense.

Everyone in 3-61 Cav seemed to know everyone else from the previous deployment in Iraq; Mace and Koppes were the new guys, and they started hanging out together. They were walking through a Colorado mall together one afternoon when Kaila texted Koppes her official end-of-relationship message. He started to cry.

"I'm not here to hear you cry," Mace said. "Let's go get some booze and party."

After that, they became inseparable; their bond was wild and fierce. When Koppes decided to try to win Kaila back, it was Mace who-intoxicated-drove him to her house. They had purchased mullet wigs and wore them everywhere, and Mace had his on that night. As Koppes and Kaila sat down on a stoop to talk, a wigged Mace humped the campus's giant statue of a mountain lion. Each man's effort proved fruitless.

Koppes got back in the car. "Don't worry about it," Mace said as he revved the motor and drove off with his friend to another adventure. Koppes knew that as long as Mace was around, he would be okay.

Specialist Stephan Mace. (Photo courtesy of Vanessa Adelson) (Photo courtesy of Vanessa Adelson)

During one of their first firefights at Combat Outpost Keating, Koppes took shrapnel to his head.

He was in the Humvee that was parked on the ANA side of the camp-the eastern side, facing the Diving Board to the northeast. After tearing through his rounds, Koppes had begun reloading his M240 machine gun when a round from the old belt-one that had been dented but not fired-cooked off and fired into the ground. Called a hang-fire, this delay between the trigger's being pulled and the bullet's being discharged can be deadly. In this case, the bullet, hot from the gun, fired into the ground, and a piece of the metal ricocheted and went right for Koppes, slipping under his helmet and grazing his head. Bleeding and in pain, he was convinced he had been shot by the enemy and started freaking out. Romesha, who'd seen the whole thing happen, grabbed him and took him to the aid station.

Before 3-61 Cav left Colorado, Koppes had promised that any man who saved his life could have anything he wanted to tattooed on Koppes's back. So later that day, his head bandaged from the grazing wound, Koppes came in to the Red Platoon barracks and said to Romesha, "Ro, you saved my life, what do you want on my back?"

Romesha thought it was hilarious. Saved his life? Not only was Koppes going to be fine, but clearly he still didn't realize that his had technically been a self-inflicted wound. Trying hard not to laugh, his "savior" suggested that he make plans to have "ROMESHA" indelibly recorded across his shoulder blades.

Command Sergeant Major Rob Wilson, visiting from Forward Operating Base Bostick, had visited Koppes at the aid station and seen for himself that his injuries were minor. In the operations center later that day, Wilson noticed Romesha and Bundermann talking with a suspicious degree of discretion-so he pressed them until Romesha admitted that Koppes's injury had been caused by a hang-fire. There wouldn't be any Purple Heart for a self-inflicted wound, Wilson said.

Eventually, Romesha let the cat out of the bag and told Koppes about the hang-fire. It was a good news/bad news situation: there would be no Purple Heart-but to his own relief and Romesha's perpetual regret, the young ex-Mennonite had been stopped before self-inflicting yet another wound, this one in ink.

CHAPTER 27

The Deer Hunters

Even to close members of his family, Ed Faulkner, Jr., had never seemed comfortable in his own skin, so it might not have been so surprising that he smoked pot in high school and was twice cited for underage possession of alcohol. He was living at home in Burlington, North Carolina, and working at a driving range when he joined the Army in 2005 to get away from the bad influences in his world. His father and both of his grandfathers had served.

In Iraq on January 20, 2007, Faulkner was shot by a sniper in his left arm. He got sent home, had some surgeries, and quickly became addicted to painkillers. One of his best friends from Iraq, Specialist Thomas Blakely "Blake" Nelson, was also addicted-he'd had lower back pain after his deployment-and at some point, heroin entered the picture.

The Black Knight Troop soldiers had a relatively high rate of positive urinalysis at Fort Carson in Colorado after they returned from Iraq-an issue that Captain Porter put a lot of effort into addressing. Faulkner and Nelson were at the center of it. Faulkner was disciplined for using meth, and Brown gave him a shot at rehab. Nelson completed his own six-week resident program, but on January 8, 2008, he was found dead in his room at Fort Carson, having overdosed on a combination of prescription drugs and heroin. Out of rehab for less than a week, he left behind a son named Karson. His death was tough enough on Faulkner in the safe and secure environment of Colorado; it didn't get any easier once he deployed to Kamdesh. A few months later, up on Observation Post Fritsche with Blue Platoon-they called themselves the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds-Faulkner tried to deal with the pain of his life and the pain of losing Blake the only way he knew how: he scored some hashish, which was, to say the least, not that difficult to do in Afghanistan.

John Francis-an older, no-nonsense sergeant at thirty-five, from Lindenhurst on Long Island, New York-tried to look out for Faulkner. The kid didn't always make that easy. Francis, a team leader for the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, was sergeant of the guard one night, in charge of calling all the troops at the guard posts, and Faulkner's tower didn't answer when he radioed. The operations center at OP Fritsche had a small camera that could provide a 360-degree view of the entire observation post, so Francis focused the camera on Faulkner's tower and clicked on the night vision. It was pitch black, with no moonlight. Francis pushed the view toward the tower even more and saw some tiny flashes of light. Both wary and curious, Francis grabbed his portable radio and night-vision goggles and walked up to Faulkner's tower post. He quietly proceeded up the stairwell made out of ammo cans, strode onto the dirt platform in the darkness, and paused to watch Faulkner and another private use a cigarette lighter for illumination as they tried to break up a small brick of hash. There was no mistaking what it was; its aroma alone filled the guard tower. For four minutes or so, Francis stood just mere inches from the two and watched them prepare to smoke hash while on guard duty.