Hunting the Taliban in the in the Mountains of Afghanistan – Part 2

GySgt Frank Simmons putting in work – Author Photo

Written By: Gunnery Sergeant Frank Simmons (ret) and Byron Owen (Frank's platoon commander)

The next day passed uneventfully. There was some civilian traffic on the road but no enemy activity. Boredom crept in. It was unlikely we would see anything until the convoy turned around and headed back south. I took a turn on radio watch around midnight. A short transmission came over HF. I turned to Tommy and showed him the message. Two of the snipers with Jaeger 4 were going to move into final firing positions tonight. This would put them into range if the IED team came back. Lucky bastards.

The night dragged on. Nothing but wind and darkness. The two snipers made it to their firing positions without trouble. The convoy was scheduled to leave Golestan early in the morning. With any luck, the Taliban would try again once they heard the engines coming back down the pass. We were ready.

It wasn’t long before our two friends returned to the scene of the crime. This time with two buddies. They parked their motorcycles on the side of the road and started digging. Dave leaned over. 

“Are they in range?”

I shook my head. “Not for me. Jaeger 4 is a lot closer though. They should have a shot if they are using the SASR.” 

I started to fill out my HUT report. Time to name these clowns. I focused on the tall man. Tango 1: Lurch. He offloaded the HME jugs from his bike and struggled under their weight carrying two of them to the shorter man in the center of the road. Tango 2: Penguin. The other two men were digging holes in the road. One was wearing a faux leather jacket. Tango 3: Fonz. The fourth had one of the patchiest beards I ever saw. Tango 4: Patches.

 

GySgt Frank Simmons scoping the valley – Author Photo

A loud booming sound rang out across the valley. It snapped at first, then reverberated throughout the valley. The men froze. Confusion all over their faces. The tall one, Lurch, scanned the hills and shrugged at his partner. Penguin was looking in our direction. HE clearly had no idea what was happening or where it was coming from. It wouldn’t be long before they would figure it out.

I saw the impact before I heard it. The RAUFOSS round hit Lurch square in the sternum. His chest folded in and the force drove him off his feet. He hit the dirt and never moved again. The sound rolled in a second later, long and heavy, bouncing off the mountains like thunder.

Penguin stared down at him, his mouth agape. He looked up and scanned the horizon. It looked like he was trying to say something. A prayer maybe? His lips were still moving when his head exploded, the 50 caliber round forcing the sides of his face apart. The force of the impact flung him sideways. He lay on the ground twisted and limp like roadside trash. The noise arrived a moment later, sharp and mean, then faded into the mountains.

Fonz and Patches seemed to understand what was happening now. They sprinted toward their motorcycles. Fonz reached his bike, grabbed the handlebars, and tried to kick it to life. A heavy shot slapped him backward. His chest blew open and he collapsed in a heap. 

The last man ran for Gund. He was in pure panic mode. I have to give him credit though, the dude was pretty fast. He made it at least thirty yards before the next round found him. The impact knocked him flat. Then he got up. Hard son of a bitch. He stumbled forward, holding his stomach like he was trying to keep himself together.

The Barrett barked again. The round punched a hole through his chest and threw his body forward. He stayed down this time. 

I glanced at Caleb and raised my eyebrows. It was a beautiful shot. Two thousand yards away from an elevated position. It was a master class in long-range killing. 

The valley went quiet again. The dust drifted from where the men fell. Nothing moved except the wind. It was fast, ugly, and final. Nothing special. Just four dead assholes on an empty road with no name.

A Marine convoy patrols through the Helmand Province – DOD photo

The convoy rolled through an hour later like a slow, loud herd of elephants. Marines walked ahead of the MRAPs and 7-tons, detectors humming. We watched them move through the kill zone we’d just made.

I watched them through the glass. An EOD guy swept the hole in the ground with his metal detector and cleared it. He looked over at the dead guys and then up at us. The man raised his hand and gave us a thumbs up. Caleb returned it without thinking.

“Not like he can see you, dumbass,” I said.

“I know,” Caleb whispered back, grinning. “But it felt right.”

The tech set charges and blew the jugs of HME in place. Little controlled booms. Nothing spectacular. They cleared the route and waved the convoy through. The log train rolled south for Delaram and then disappeared down the road.

Tommy crawled up next to me and whispered into my ear. “Jaeger 6 says we need to stay put until the convoy comes back. Jaeger 4 will wait until nightfall and displace under the cover of darkness. We will cover their movement.” 

He scanned the road. “The S2 says the Taliban know that something is wrong because those assholes with the IEDs didn’t come back but they aren’t sure what happened. They are sending someone to check it out.”

A small Bongo truck appeared from the North a few minutes later, as if on cue. I shouldered the MK-11 and prepared to get to work. The driver came into focus. 

GySgt Frank Simmons in the Golestan Mountains – Author photo

 

I felt Tommy’s hand on my shoulder. “Don’t. We don’t have enough to justify a kill shot.” I frowned and took my finger off the trigger. This was some bullshit.

The truck stopped near the bodies. The driver and passenger climbed out and checked the fallen, wrapped them in a tarp. They shoved the whole mess into the bed and covered it with a blanket. The truck pulled out slowly and headed south toward Gund. I watched until it vanished in the heat and dust.

We stayed glassed on the valley. The heat shimmered. I didn’t see anything for several hours. Then, I saw some goats. Not like one goat. A bunch of goats. They moved through the valley like locusts, eating everything in sight. 

Recon Marine observes the valley – Author Photo

Which, honestly, wasn’t much. Not down at the bottom anyway. The goats crossed the valley, their bells clacking, as they searched for something to head. A skinny goat herder trailed behind them, barely keeping up.

There was a crusty old billy goat at the head of the pack. He started straight at me, his eyes peering deep into my soul. I came off the glass. What the hell was this? 

A crusty old billy led the pack. His head was scarred and there was a piece missing from one of his horns. He stared straight up the mountain, like he was looking into my soul. I came off the glass.

What the hell. 

Then it occurred to me. Our hide-site was covered in vegetation. Fortunately, we were way too high up the mountain for the goats to reach us. 

At least, that is what I told myself.

They were still a long way off, but the goats surprised us. Those little bastards climbed the steepest parts of the mountain like it was nothing, picking at any scrap of vegetation they could find. The herd and the herder closed to within a hundred meters of our harbor site. Well inside the no-penetration line.

The goat herder didn’t see us though. He was staring at his feet the whole time. Dumbass had no idea we were up there.

Tommy whispered over the throat mic, calm as ever. “This might be when we get compromised.”

I whispered back, “Fuck no. I’m dropping this bitch right now.” I clicked the MK-11 off safe and settled behind the glass. Game time.

Goat herder in the Helmand Province - Wikipedia

Then the goat herder saw our HF antennae. He stared at the wire and bent down to inspect it. Caleb didn’t hesitate. He popped up, closed the distance, and knocked the man off his feet. He covered the man’s mouth and took him down without a sound. 

Jon was up a second later. He helped Caleb bind and gag him. Quick, quiet, professional. 

Tommy looked over, then into his mic.

“Let Jaeger 6 know we’ve got a guest,” he said, his voice flat.

The lead goat stood there and stared at me for a long minute, chewing on the tufts of grass that covered our hide. It had that slow, dumb patience animals have, just eating and looking at me. The billy goat got bored eventually and trotted down the slope. The rest of the herd followed it, leaving the goat herder behind. They left him there, tied up and gagged, while they wandered off like nothing had happened. So much for loyalty. 

We waited. The billy goat led the herd back down the slope and they disappeared toward Gund, their bells clacking, dust settling in their wake. The herder sat in the middle of the hide site under the cammy netting, tied and gagged, blinking in the sun. We gave him a bottle of water but he didn’t drink it. He just sat there in silence, pissing himself. 

Tommy came over the net an hour later. “The ROC says the goats made it back to Gund and the Taliban think that we killed the goat herder.” I got on the glass and swept the valley with my scope. “They are forming search parties to look for us. Jaeger 6 wants us to hold tight until it gets dark. We are going to sneak out under the cover of darkness, unless they find us first.” 

A beat. 

“You know what we do then.” 

I keyed the handset. “We fight.”

“Yeah we fight. Better to fight from the high ground than get caught down in the valley. Pack up everything you don’t need and get ready to move.”

SSgt Tommy Hartrick in the hide site – Author photo

Tommy didn’t say much after that. We stayed glassed on the valley. I saw a group of Afghans in the distance. Or the dust they were kicking up anyway. The sun leaned low and the heat thinned. Night was coming, but I wasn’t sure we had enough of it to hide our exit.

The men formed a line across the valley, spreading slowly at first, then faster. They fanned out from Gund and pushed into the gullies like they were combing the dirt and rocks. Lights bobbed. Shadows moved. The valley was filled with bodies and noise. We kept glass on them and watched the search line grow. They were still a long way off. By the time the sun slid behind the ridge, they had not closed the distance enough to pin us down.

Tommy sent Jaeger 6 a message over HF. We were on the move. Short and clean. He keyed his handset. “Alright Marines. Time to Oscar Mike. Caleb, lead us down the mountain. I’ll carry this dipshit with me.” 

He paused for a moment. 

“Jaeger 6 called for air, but it will be an hour before they get here. We will be out of comms until then.” He smiled. “No one is coming, it’s up to us.”

I keyed the handset. “What are we getting? Please say Cobras.”

He nodded. “Yeah, Abusive is inbound to our pos.”

Marines prepare an AH-1 Cobra for takeoff in the Helmand Province – DOD Photo

Abusive. Those pilots were the kind of aviators you trust with your life. They did not mess about. They showed up when they said they would and they did what needed doing. Dust, low fuel, short on time. Didn’t matter. They would come hot, spraying death at our enemies. Abusive flew like they owned the sky, and I love to see them overhead.

We moved low, following the military crest. Feet found holds without looking. The night was black and dusty. The stars were back. We paused twice for security halts. The search line was getting closer but was still a ways off. 

We kept going. I was out of food and out of energy. No one had slept in four or five days. Tommy kept the pace, the goat herder swinging limply from his shoulders. 

I heard them before I saw them. Their voices were low and tight. The search line was getting closer. We were down by the foothills now. It was the worst place to get caught, but we had to cross the valley to continue our exfiltration south.

Tommy pumped his fist. Quiet, short motion. Spread out and prepare for contact. Get some.

I took a knee and raised my MK-11 up. Jon peeled left. Caleb went right. Tommy slid behind us and dumped our guest on the ground with a thud.

The voices were closer now. I could hear their footsteps now. It wouldn’t be long now. I clicked my weapons off safe.

Then the radio lit up. “Jaeger, this is Abusive. You all out there?”

A smile cut across my face. Those pilots were gold.

Tommy came over the net. “Man, I am glad to hear your voice. Follow the valley up to its narrowest point. You will see a search line of Afghans moving through it from south to north. Call contact.”

“Contact.”

 

SSgt Tommy Hartrick on patrol in the Helmand Province – Author photo

Tommy came over the net again. “Good. We are 50 meters to the north east of their position. I’m marking with an IR strobe. Call contact.”

“Contact. What do you need us to do? Are we cleared to engage.”

Tommy paused for a moment. “No, I think they have civilians in the crowd. Can you do a show of force and draw their attention away from us?”

“Can do. Time on Target 5 minutes.”

The Cobras screamed over the ridgeline and buzzed the crowd, dropping flares down into the gullies. The crowd scattered. Sound and light and pure panic. People ran like they were on fire. The search line was completely broken. We were forgotten for a moment.

Tommy stood up and threw the goat herder over his shoulder. He didn’t need to say anything. Time to move out. We took off across the valley at full speed. It wasn’t too long before we hit the far side. The Cobras did another pass and then peeled off, their rotor wash knocking small rocks loose. Their noise faded into the night. The flares burned down to embers and the crowd was in chaos behind us. See you later assholes.

We were at a trot now. Speed was more important than silence at this point. Tommy set the pace and we followed. No one spoke. The only sound in the air was the rhythm of heavy boots and the soft clink of gear. It took us an hour to cover the last six kilometers remaining to our extract site. 

We connected with the vehicles at zero dark thirty on day six and I think half of us cried a little when we saw the trucks.

Our platoon commander Captain Byron Owen, call sign Jaeger 6, was standing next to the lead vehicle.

He pointed at the goat herder. “What are we supposed to do with this asshole?” 

Tommy shrugged. “Seems wrong to shoot him now that we brought him all this way.”

Captain Owen groaned. “That is one hundred percent not where I was going with this.” He waved the terp over. “Ask this guy if he knows who we are.” 

The terp translated. The goat herder shook his head. “No Baz Khan, he doesn’t know.”

The goat herder’s eyes widened when he heard the name. The Afghan soldiers gave the skipper the nickname Baz Khan after the Battle of Shewan. The goat herder’s hands started to tremble. “Baz Khan da? Da Shewan Baz Khan de?” 

The interpreter nodded. The goat herder dropped his head and stared at the dirt. His voice got quiet. “Jinn Mashar…”

The terp smirked. “Well Baz Khan, on second thought maybe he knows who you are.”  

Captain Owen cut the zip ties off the goat herder’s wrists. “What’s Jinn Mashar?”

“Leader of demons.”

Captain Byron Owen aka “Jinn Mashar” talking to some Afghans – Author photo

 

Captain Owen nodded. “Good. We’re on the same page then. He squared up on the goat herder and snapped his fingers. “Hey. Look at me.” The goat herder reluctantly met his gaze. Baz pointed at the ridgeline, then back at himself. “Who owns these hills?”

The interpreter repeated the question in Pashto. The goat herder’s answer came slower this time. “Taliban de.”

The skipper leaned in, his voice low and steady. “Are you sure about that?”

The goat herder dropped his head and shook it. “Jinn Mashar de.” No translation needed.

My platoon commander held his stare a second longer, then straightened. “All right. We understand each other. He’s free to go.”

He handed the man a bottle of water and an MRE. The interpreter pointed him down the valley toward Gund. The Afghan gave us a puzzled look. He was trembling.

Tommy groaned. “Let’s go, dumb ass. Y’alla, emshi!” 

The goat herder stared at us for moment, then turned and slowly shuffled off toward home.

Captain Owen put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Good to have you back Staff Sergeant. Just so you know though, that’s Arabic. They speak Pashto here.”

Tommy frowned. “Whatever sir. He got the point.” 

Owen laughed. “Can’t argue with that logic. Let’s mount up and get the fuck out of here.”

We climbed in the back of the 7-ton and rolled out. The ride back to Delaram was long, bumpy, and uneventful. No ambushes. No IEDs. Just an empty road, a bunch of dust, and some tired ass Marines. Eight hours later we crossed the wire and pulled into the motor pool. We cleaned our weapons before turning to the rest plan. I grabbed my pack when I was done, walked into berthing, and dropped face-first onto my bed. My head hit the pillow and I was gone.

 

*Author disclaimer* This story is a slightly fictionalized version of our platoon’s operations in the Golestan Mountains in the fall of 2008. Everything you read happened but not necessarily in the order you read it, or in the exact way it is portrayed. Force Recon Marines value their privacy, and they earned the right to maintain their OPSEC so we replaced their names with those of our fallen heroes. It is otherwise accurate. The men in this story were real, the danger was real, and these heroes accomplished their assigned mission.

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We dedicate this article to the memory of Master Sergeant Tommy Hartrick and Staff Sergeant Caleb Medley. They were the kind of Marines you would follow into the dark without hesitation. I included my teammate Staff Sergeant Jonathan Blank in this story, even though he did not deploy with our platoon. I wish he did, he is a hell of a Marine. He lost his legs to an IED attack during vicious fighting in Sangin and is killing it now with Black Rifle Coffee Company. 

MSgt Thomas Hartrick, SSgt Caleb Medley, and SSgt Jonathan Blank. 

Next, we want to recognize the incredibly heroism the Marines from 2nd Battalion, 7th Marines displayed on a daily basis against impossible conditions. They covered an area of operations later occupied by an entire Marine Corps Division and lost twenty Marines beating the Taliban back from the Farah and Helmand Provinces of Afghanistan. That number would have been much higher if not for their incredibly discipline and tactical proficiency. 

Memorial service for 2nd Battalion, 7th Marines

Finally, we want to recognize the incredible Marines from 2nd Platoon, 1st Force Recon Company. They had an outsized impact on the enemy relative to their small number. The Taliban refused to mine this road for at least another four months because they were terrified the Recon Marines would kill them. I’m not sure how it went after we left.

Semper Fidelis,

Frank Simmons and Byron Owen

2nd Platoon, 1st Force Reconnaissance Company. Afghanistan, 2008.

About the authors: 

GySgt Frank Simmons is a retired Force Reconnaissance Marine, and Silver Star recipient, who served with great distinction across the GWOT to include heroic service during the Battles of Nasiriyah, Fallujah, and Shewan. He served as chief scout with the Scout Sniper Platoon at 2nd Battalion, 1st Marines and later earned a place at 2nd Platoon, 1st Force Reconnaissance Company. He finished his career at the Recon Training Company training the next generation of Recon Marines. He now works at the nexus of special operations and advanced technology, specializing in drones and counter drone systems.

Byron Owen is a Reconnaissance Marine with tours as both a platoon commander and commanding officer at the elite 1st Force Reconnaissance Company. He also had the honor of commanding several intelligence and cyber units to include Combat Mission Team One, Cyberspace Warfare Task Group 1, and 3d Radio Battalion. He writes about influence warfare and cyber at keyterraincyber.com, and about leadership at broadswordsix.com 

MTNTOUGH proudly supports the Marine Recon Foundation. Please consider supporting their mission in caring for gold star families: https://www.reconfoundation.org/