I was sitting in the front, strapped into a flak jacket and helmet, flanked by a Reuters photographer on one side and a machine gunner, decked out in a white crash helmet and black visor, on the other. One of the helicopter crew held up three fingers and the troops passed on the signal-three minutes until we hit the Landing Zone. A Canadian soldier tapped on my helmet. “If we come under fire at the LZ,” he shouted, “get in the middle of our security perimeter until things quiet down.” My stomach tightened up.
This is the end game of Operation Anaconda. The heavy fighting against Taliban and Al Qaeda fighters has quieted down, but a joint force of Canadian and American soldiers are being sent out to go cave to cave, searching for enemy fighters, weapons stocks and intelligence. After several media complaints about limited access, the U.S. Army agreed to an improvisational pool allowing reporters front-row seats for the cave-busting missions.
Our boot camp was the Bagram airbase north of Kabul. For several days, the press corps ate bland, packaged Meals Ready to Eat (MREs), snapped to attention at military press officers’ orders and slept cot-to-cot in a dusty, freezing tent near the runway. When the first group of journalists went out, a CNN correspondent had his gear destroyed by a mortar attack and was forced to sleep in the freezing cold, cuddled in the arms of a soldier to ward off hypothermia. “That’s the only time I’m ever going to ‘spoon’ another man,” says Specialist David Marck Jr., 21, of the experience.
Then it was our turn. Our target was a humped ridge line dubbed the “Whale.” We landed in a basin at the north end of the Whale amid waves of dust and the clatter of powerful propellers. I followed the boots of the nearest soldier, holding my backpack in one hand and a box of MREs in the other. It was impossible to see. The helicopters were kicking up a sandstorm. Another Chinook, with a big, yellow angry face painted on its belly, swooped over a nearby ridge and spit out more soldiers. The Chinooks pulled out within minutes and, as the dust settled, dozens of soldiers, well-camouflaged in the barren landscape, came into view. “This has to be some of the most inhospitable terrain I’ve ever seen,” said one Canadian soldier. I couldn’t argue with that.
Cobra attack helicopters stuck around for air support, circling the bombed out remains of mud-brick houses in Sher Khan Kheil, Baba Kheil and Mazarak, a trio of villages to the east of the Whale. I climbed up a rocky trail, littered with metal and plastic cluster bomb debris, to join the soldiers on a ridge and get a better look. The “Misfits,” 2nd platoon of Alpha Company 431, part of the Army’s 10th Mountain division, were studying Russian maps and surveying the valley. “There’s four dudes right where the riverbed goes to the left. You see ’em?” asked Sgt. John Wightman, 26, while looking through binoculars. “We need to check with higher ups. I don’t think they’re enemy. They’re too far down the mountain.” “You never know dude,” replied Staff Sgt. Del Rodriguez, 31. “These guys are ballsy and dumb.”
Wightman swung the binoculars to the left. “There’s gotta be something out there for us to shoot at,” he said. For the next several hours, the soldiers held blocking positions on the ridge, unable to spot enemy troops. The Predator drone buzzing overhead seemed to be faring slightly better at identifying targets. B-52s looped around again and again, pounding the snowy peaks of the mountains to the east of the Whale. On one occasion, we were able to trace the lethal descent of a handful of bombs as they were dropped from a B-52. “This should be pretty cool,” Wightman said, seconds before the bombs sent up huge plumes of grayish smoke from the mountaintop.
The operation began in earnest late the following afternoon. American soldiers advanced southward along the back of the Whale while the Canadian troops streamed downhill into the gullies and ravines on the east. The hiking was tough. The 9,000-foot altitude and heavy body armor cut my breath. Most of the soldiers not only had body armor but assault packs, camping gear and, depending on their specialty, heavy demolition, radio or medical equipment to boot. Earlier in the afternoon, one American soldier experienced a lower back injury after losing his footing in the rocky terrain. A few others were on IVs after falling out from heat exhaustion, dehydration and altitude sickness.
Resounding booms echoed across the valley as the Canadian troops detonated explosives in a number of small caves. At the base of one ridge, a Canadian soldier walked by swinging a stack of C-4 explosive blocks with a long yellow fuse. “This will give somebody a headache that Motrin won’t cure,” he said. Although the danger was real, the operation felt like a warped Boy Scout outing. Troops pumped up on adrenaline had the authority to blow up anything and everything that could hide enemy fighters or supplies. Some of the soldiers had difficulty determining what should be classified as a potential threat and what should be identified as an innocuous rock formation. “That’s the cave?” said Gunner Jamie Murphy, 21, as his Canadian counterparts threw grenades into a rock cubby hole. “I just walked by that.” Several of the ravines we hiked through were blackened by bomb blasts and contained pieces of shrapnel and rockets. But there didn’t seem to be any physical evidence of the hundreds of casualties claimed by the U.S. military.
At approximately 4 p.m., heavy machine gun fire and explosions thundered out from the south end of the Whale. It was the “Misfits.” They found a bunker complex which appeared to house several fighters. “There was medical s-t, cooking utensils, RPG [rocket-propelled grenade] rounds, grenades and magazines,” recalls Staff Sergeant Rodriguez. “They even had IVs hanging from the ceiling.” Platoon members demolished the bunker with grenades and climbed up on to a cave plateau, guarded by a rock-walled bunker and three fighting positions, directly above the first bunker. They immediately spotted two enemy soldiers. “We all opened up on them,” says Rodriguez. “Nobody fired any rounds at us. We just laid waste to them.” Corporal Brian Miller, 23, one of the first platoon members on the plateau also remembers heavy shooting. “I was hitting them and just thinking about hitting them and keeping on moving,” Miller says, shaking his head. Staff Sergeant Lonnie Schultz, 28, climbed up on higher ground and found another target. “I saw a donkey there as I got up on the rock,” Schultz says. “I blew the donkey away, too.”
Other members of the platoon were called up to help with the sweep. Grenades were thrown at a cave entrance on the far end of the plateau, the explosions causing a landslide which sealed the entrance. The next target was the rock-walled bunker. Two AT-4 anti-tank rockets were shot at the walls and didn’t make a dent. Five grenades were thrown at the walls which were also ineffectual. “We finally tried going up the middle and there was a T-shirt hanging there,” says Wightman. “I thought it was a dude. I blasted it like five times and it kept coming at me. I was thinking what the f–…boom boom. This mother f— won’t die.” The bunker was eventually destroyed with a ten-pound satchel charge. “It was like a goddamn castle,” says Wightman.
More “Misfits” came up on the ridge and found spider holes, fighting positions big enough for one or two people, across the plateau. Many were surprised by the size and number of spider holes, which appeared to be inter-connected. “I dropped a grenade in one spider hole and it went tink tink tink tink and then boom and smoke came out a different side,” says Rodriguez. “I’m almost thinking if you went down in that spider hole it would open up and you could go deep in there. But if there was anybody else inside, they’re dead.” Schultz had a similar experience. “When I dropped my grenade in a spider hole it opened up a great big hole and it all caved in,” he says.
One hour later, the platoon secured the entire cave plateau and took stock of what they had found: thousands of rounds of ammo, hundreds of RPGs (“There were more RPG rounds up there then I’ve ever seen,” Wightman says), good quality tents and thick winter jackets, fleeces, white snow pants, uniforms, backpacks and a large supply of food. “I would imagine the Whale was the backbone of their supply line,” says Rodriguez. “There was a lot of motherf—s in and out of there you could tell.”
But the identity of the enemy dead didn’t seem very clear. One had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, the other was wearing a makeshift uniform including camouflage pants. Mutilation of the bodies was the primary reason they couldn’t be identified. “One guy didn’t have a head,” says Wightman. “We blew his head off. He had dark hair that’s about all I can tell you.” For many of the platoon members, it was the first time they had experienced combat. “At first, I was really pumped about it [killing the enemy soldiers] and I was really happy,” says Schultz. “Then it kind of got to me and I started wiggin’ out when we got back to camp. I’m all right now, but a lot of people grew up there.” The operation was put on pause after dark. I was stranded on a ridge line, far from the warmth of my sleeping bag. Lt. Andrew Exum, 24, told me my options. “You can sleep here or you can walk back to the landing zone,” he said. “But our night patrols are a little jumpy and they’ve put out claymore mines for perimeter security.” I decided to take my chances with the cold. Around 3 a.m., I was roused from the comfort of my rock pillow as a firefight broke out at the southeastern base of the Whale, closest to the village of Baba Kheil. Tracer bullets and RPGs streaked back and forth, interspersed by small arms fire. Several flares were fired over one attack position. But there were no enemy fighters to be seen beneath the yellow light.
