No Worse Enemy (23 page)

That night, the bodies were buried, in coffins of wood and plastic sheets, in a vacant lot next to the opium bazaar. The marines watched as Afghan soldiers recited from the Qur’an and
spoke a eulogy.

The massive restrictions on air strikes had been introduced because President Karzai, the Afghan population and the international public were appalled by civilian casualties. To a large extent,
the restrictions had worked. In 2010, civilian casualties had been reduced and, according to the UN, over two thirds had been caused by the Taliban, not the American forces or ISAF. But the
restrictions on air strikes were also a response to bad headlines. Rockets could be fired from the ground that were almost as powerful as those fired from the air. And because they were fired
horizontally, these rockets could travel hundreds of metres before they exploded, increasing the chances of killing civilians if they missed their target. If the accidental slaughter of the people
we were supposed to be helping was to stop, the restrictions had to go further.

Weeks later, Abdel Baki was still in Marjah. The marines hadn’t been able to do the one thing he’d asked for – get him to his wounded family members in the military hospital at
Lashkar Gar. When they couldn’t get him on a helicopter, they’d stolen a car, hot-wired it and presented it to him. But he couldn’t drive.

There was surprisingly little damage to the building the marines had showered with air grenades the day before. The main rooms hadn’t been hit and all four walls still
stood. Only a storeroom in the centre of the compound had been directly hit; that was what we’d seen burning. Even so, a terp emerged holding two eggs, perfectly intact. When Captain Sparks
came in, the marines had already cleared the compound, although one had shot two dogs in the process. Sparks called him over. ‘We’ve got to clear the entire rest of the town without
killing any dogs. You’ve killed two in the first two hours. Very simple, very clear; do not kill another fucking dog.’

He climbed a mound with Marine Anthony Piccioni – Picc – a stocky and jocular Italian-American with a cynical sense of humour. Sparks pointed to the roof we’d been on the day
before. ‘Those bitches didn’t have a chance and they had no idea we were up there.’

‘They didn’t?’ said Picc, who had called in the gun run that finished the rooftop ambush.

‘It’s a perfect position. We had them trapped and I think we got ten of them.’ For a minute or two, Sparks was buoyant behind his sunglasses, albeit in a very controlled
way.

The pork chop had still to be completely cleared of IEDs but it now belonged to Bravo Company. The operation had been chaotic and had taken longer than expected but they had achieved their
objective. The fight for the control of Karu Charai village, Marjah’s most densely populated area, appeared to be over.

Now came the hard part. Marines who had been trained to kill and, in the Captain’s own words, be ‘masters of controlled chaos and violence’, now had to become social workers,
policemen, community project managers, anthropologists and judges.

The aim was to show the people why they should side with the Afghan government and reject the Taliban’s rule. But the only representatives of that government were the army and the police,
who wouldn’t even be there if it weren’t for the Marines. The people were being shown what they already knew: your government is incapable of looking after you, so don’t burn any
bridges with the Taliban.

Even if the Taliban had been vanquished, there were few signs that the government would be embraced and plenty that it was hated and feared. People approached marines in the bazaar, saying:
‘Please don’t leave us alone with those guys’, referring to the police. The same thing had happened in every town I’d seen cleared.

The fact that the people being liberated were asking for protection from those we were fighting to introduce ought to have raised obvious questions. But it was too late in the day to admit such
a terminal flaw in policy. A perma-smiling lieutenant colonel told me that ‘spreading GIROA’ (pronounced ‘ji-row-ah’ – the Government of the Islamic Republic of
Afghanistan) was going fantastically well and being embraced by the people.

Bravo had to clear their area of IEDs and drugs, so that people could return to their homes and the bazaar could re-open. The ANCOP (Afghan National Civil Order Police) appeared
in the bazaar. ANCOP were supposed to be an elite unit, trained and blooded in Kabul, where they had been taught how to work with communities, rather than against them, as local forces had done.
They wore ballooning light blue trousers made of what looked like felt, smoked a lot, carried machine-guns and looked unhappy. One carried a rocket launcher on his shoulder.

I asked Captain Sparks how he knew the police wouldn’t be as bad as, or worse, than the Taliban. ‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘I just have faith that somebody has vetted
these guys, that they have good leadership, they’ve been mentored properly and that they want peace and security in Afghanistan as much as we do. They have been deployed in other places
successfully, so that adds a little confidence. But I don’t know that for sure and that’s definitely something I’ll keep my eye on. I’ll leave marines behind to make sure
they’re doing things the right way.’

The ANCOP commander saw two men approaching the bazaar. He shouted to them to put their hands in the air, turn round and walk backwards towards him. He sent two of his men to meet them half-way.
One knelt by the side of the road and pointed a machine-gun at them, while the other patted them down. The two men were Abdel Baki and his father Abdel Kareem – the men who had just lost four
members of their family to a stray rocket. No one had told the Afghan police.

In the bazaar, the marines greeted Abdel Baki and Abdel Kareem warmly. ‘Did you have a good night?’ asked Gunny D. ‘Did the Mullah stay with you?’ The two men, who looked
genuinely pleased to see the marines, said the Mullah had stayed with them until ten o’clock. ‘I’m working on the family names’, continued Gunny D, ‘and as soon as I
hear word back, I’ll tell you. I won’t forget them.’ Still, no one knew which hospital the injured had been taken to.

Gunny D was the face of the marines for this stage of the operation. He was a weapons platoon sergeant; his real name was Brandon Dickinson. Dickinson’s thinning hair and round, friendly
face made him look as affable as Sparks looked lethal but his ability to put anyone in the mood to talk was described as ‘almost magical’. Accompanying him on this first important day
was Lieutenant Mark Greenlief, Bravo’s executive officer and Captain Sparks’s right-hand man, who had similar people skills. He and Sparks shared an almost telepathic connection,
communicating with a word or two, a look or a nod. Having such trust, without actually being the boss, meant he was more relaxed than most marines; at briefings, he’d often do camp little
dances and voices, or creep up on people and slip sweets into their hands. I’d bought a badge at Kandahar Air Base, an American flag that said, ‘We’re gonna freedom the fuck out
of you’. Greenlief wrote an entire song with that line as the chorus.

A few people had complained about damage to their homes; the marines helped them fill in compensation forms, then handed over money from their piles of cash. A man approached with his tiny son,
whose face was covered in dirt and whose thick head of hair was red in patches, often a sign of malnutrition. The man said he’d been hiding in a field for two days and needed to buy some
cream for his son’s skin from the bazaar. The marines gave him some halal food and took him to see the medic. An older man, a tailor, and his two sons appeared, complaining that someone had
broken into their store and damaged their property. Marines from Charlie Company were sleeping in the surrounding stores; it looked like they had moved in for a few nights. They had stolen some
biscuits, slashed a
shalwar kameez
hanging on the wall and written ‘I ♥ USA’ on the breast pocket of another.
‘You must have a bad name to do this’, said the tailor.

Greenlief immediately offered to buy all the vandalised shirts. He and Gunny D also asked to be measured for bespoke ‘man dresses’ of their own. They negotiated hard but playfully,
eventually agreeing $60 for two shirts. The tailor corrected them about the length, saying only women wore them that long, and told them not to have black, because it was too hot. The tailor asked
for $70, to which Greenlief said, ‘We’ll send more marines down here. People will see me with my “man dress” on and they’ll want to know where I got it.’ The
tailor had gone from being angry at the marines to being charmed, even if his goodwill was partly bought. A relationship had begun: Greenlief would have to come back to collect the ‘man
dresses’ and a box could be ticked on the counter-insurgency checklist.

The marines had lots of ideas about building relationships and improving the bazaar but mostly they asked one simple question: ‘What would you like us to do for you?’ But the
question proved very hard for people to understand. Most were convinced they would be thrown out of their homes, arrested, hooded and beaten. They were wary of co-operating with the marines, sure
they would be gone in a few days. But even when they realised that the question was genuine, they didn’t believe it was to do with the next few years, or even the next few months. So they
asked for money, compensation for things that had happened over the last few days. The marines were willing to pay for any damage they’d done but many of the claims were far-fetched, which
annoyed them. They wanted to work with the local people, even to become friends with them, not just offer hand-outs.

‘Gentlemen. Good morning’, said Captain Sparks in the first
shura
, to the twenty-three men who were there. ‘I’m in charge of the Marines in Karu Charai village.
We’re very happy, it’s a great day. The Taliban is gone and we can finally start to open your bazaar.’ The Captain promised to repair any damage and get all the stores opened.
What he didn’t say – but everyone knew – was that the arrival of the Marines meant the end of the lucrative opium and heroin production business, which everyone in Marjah depended
on in some way. If it did continue, as it surely would, it would have to be carried out away from the marines’ eyes and probably needed the continued involvement of the Taliban. Yet another
reason the people wouldn’t pick sides.

Captain Sparks introduced everyone but, as he hadn’t met him, he didn’t know the name of the new ANCOP chief, who’d arrived and was quietly sitting in on the
shura.
One
of the men in the crowd interrupted: ‘Are we allowed to open the stores?’

‘Of course you are’, said Sparks, ‘you can do whatever you want.’ Gunny D appealed to everyone to work with the marines and report any suspicious behaviour or the arrival
of anyone from out of town.

Abdel Baki said that the marines needed to push the Taliban right out before that could happen. ‘We can’t announce anything’, he said, ‘or they’ll hear and come
back and hit us again.’ In one of the very first exchanges, at the very first
shura
, the challenge had been presented. The people couldn’t co-operate until the Taliban were
absolutely gone for good. And that hadn’t been achieved in a single province or district in Afghanistan. Captain Sparks set out to reassure everyone.

‘We and the ANA and ANP are not going anywhere. And we’re watching the Taliban all the time. They can’t hide from us. It’s my dream for this to be the place that everyone
wants to be in Marjah. The jewel of Marjah.’

Another man stood up, one of the sons of La Mirage. ‘Since the war started we haven’t been able to go to work. Are you going to pay us compensation?’ The marines said they
couldn’t do that but they would pay men to clean up the bazaar. Gunny D said he’d give the money for this to the
malik
(community leader), pointing to an old man he’d met
earlier. There was uproar. He
used
to be the
malik
, now
this
man was the
malik.
And more than one man was responsible for the bazaar; there were three or four. Gunny D
sighed.

Mohammad, the twenty-year-old dwarf, arrived. He stood in the middle of the rectangle where everyone sat. An old man stole a dollar bill from Mohammad’s back pocket, in full view of three
other old men, all with long white beards and toothless mouths. They could barely contain themselves, writhing, trying not to laugh out loud. The pickpocket tapped Mohammad’s back pocket and
handed the dollar bill back. He snatched it, frowned and put his chin on his chest, as angry as he’d been when the ANA put him in the hanging basket.

After the
shura
, some of the men opened their stores. Marines and ANA soldiers bought cigarettes by the carton. Everyone smiled and shook hands. Afterwards Gunny D walked back into the
base, threw his arms in the air and shouted, ‘First store open, baby.’ Another marine high-fived and hugged him.

Behind the bazaar, other marines, accompanied by Tim Coderre, slowly cleared every building in the pork chop. Tim’s job was to treat every sniper hole, drug lab, or IED as a crime scene,
collecting any evidence before it was contaminated. The first building where I saw him work was a small two-roomed outhouse that had been hit with an air grenade through the roof. Tim took a photo
of the building’s red metal doors, then pushed one open with his right foot. He rocked back slightly, and pushed the other door open. I saw the hairy lower half of a severed human leg, with
shoe.