None Braver Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  CHAPTER 1 - “HEY, WE GOT COMPANY”

  CHAPTER 2 - JDAMned

  CHAPTER 3 - BOYZ ’N THE HAS

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5 - “HOLY SHIT, DITKA JUST CRASHED”

  CHAPTER 6 - THE MOST RIGHTEOUS MISSION

  CHAPTER 7 - FREE-FALLING TO A MINEFIELD

  CHAPTER 8 - EVIL IN THE VALLEY

  CHAPTER 9 - RECON BY CASUALTY

  CHAPTER 10 - KIA

  CHAPTER 11 - “WE WEREN’T GETTING SHOT AT THAT BAD”

  CHAPTER 12 - “I REGRET TO INFORM YOU . . .”

  EPILOGUE

  In Memoriam

  INDEX

  More Praise for None Braver

  “Thanks to Pararescue, others will press the attack again and again, knowing the PJs are there, always ready to come and get them when the world turns to hell.”—Richard Herman, Maj. (USAF Ret.), bestselling author of The Last Phoenix

  “A tribute to [the PJs’] commitment to saving lives and self-sacrifice.”

  —Sarasota Herald-Tribune (Florida)

  “The appeal of the book is across the board. War junkies and experts find the kind of attention to detail and pinpoint accuracy they require. Readers of adventure stories will be fully satisfied by this book. And even neutrals or anti-war types will find the heroism of Hirsh’s subjects impossible to resist.”

  —John Corcoran, Jr., author of A Few Marbles Left

  “When the action starts, [Hirsh] depicts their harrowing adventures with verve and insight, writing in a laconic, acronym-heavy military-ese that aptly conveys the coolheaded grit with which soldiers cope with the chaos of combat.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Hirsh’s approach captures the flavor of active duty life and the inner commitment to selflessness of the men it profiles.” —Booklist

  “This book is a well-deserved testament to a remarkable group of men, the U.S. parajumpers (PJs), who take pride in living up to their motto: ‘That Others May Live.’ . . . Michael Hirsh spent time with these men in Pakistan, Uzbekistan, and Afghanistan. He had the good sense not to accompany them on combat misssions, but he was there when they landed with their patched-up patients and he received firsthand after-action reports. From that information he was able to recreate vivid, virtually on-the-scene descriptions of a C-130 crash and the rescue of its crew high up in the Hindu Kush Mountains, a parachute jump to the edge of a minefield, and a deadly fire fight during Operation Anaconda. . . . A fine writer . . . his book is clear, moving, and often terrifying.”—Proceedings

  ALSO BY MICHAEL HIRSH

  PARARESCUE: The Skill and Courage of the Elite 106th Rescue Wing—

  The True Story of an Incredible Rescue at Sea and the Heroes Who Pulled It Off

  NAL Caliber

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Copyright © Michael Hirsh, 2003 All rights reserved

  Photos courtesy of Michael Hirsh, unless otherwise credited.

  Map courtesy of Central Intelligence Agency

  NAL Caliber and the “C” logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-16188-3

  Hirsh, Michael.

  None braver / by Michael Hirsh.

  p. cm.

  Includes index.

  1. Afghanistan—History—2001- 2. Afghanistan—History, Military—21st century. 3. War

  on Terrorism, 2001- 4. United States. Air Force—Search and rescue operations—Afghanistan.

  I. Title.

  DS371.4.H

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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  For My Children

  Bill

  Who’s always been there for me, and who insists that I shouldn’t

  worry, because he’ll come visit in the home he puts me in.

  Jennifer

  Every father should have a daughter just like Foof.

  Her special smile makes my heart soar.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  While writing None Braver has been a solitary endeavor, a project like this could not have happened without encouragement, cooperation, assistance, and occasionally aggravation from a disparate group of people, most of whom profess to like me. Aside from the free autographed copy that many of them demanded in exchange for their input, it’s important to me that I include a roll call in the book itself.

  The “godfather” of the project is Maj. Mike Paoli, who runs the Air Force National Media Outreach office in New York City. When I called Mike and said I wanted to do a book about PJs in combat, his immediate response was, “When do we start?” Almost a year later, he’s still taking my calls and has not once said, “It’s you again?” Mike is the man who shouldered the responsibility for making sure that my trip to meet pararescuemen and Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR) crews at their deployed locations in Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Uzbekistan didn’t get stuck on double-sided military red tape. I can’t thank him enough for his support. Without him, there’s no book. But that said, a disclaimer: No assumption should be made that either he or his superiors endorse the contents of None Braver.

  Two people read the early drafts of each chapter, making sure that I didn’t embarrass myself by sending—how shall I put this?—unwieldy prose to my editor. The first is my daughter, Jennifer Weisberger. She has an eye for spotting unnecessary assaults on the language, and takes great pleasure in doing to me what I did to her when she was writing all those college essays. I thank her—and forgive her.

  The second ad hoc editor is my friend and colleague Ira J. Furman, a Long Island attorney whose lawyerly mind kept my writing honest, and whose sense of humor made his criticisms simultaneously useful and tolerable. A writer himself, Furman recognizes that no one who types words onto a blank screen enjoys having the folly of his sentences pointed out to him. But who ca
n take umbrage at a comment following a sixty-three-word sentence when it pleads, “Pat—can I buy a period? Please?” It was Ira who called one day and said, “I’ve got the title for your book. None Braver.”

  Without the encouragement of my agent, Matt Bialer of Sanford J. Green-burger Associates, and his ability to simultaneously assist his wife, Lenora, with the birth of their first child, Isabel, while negotiating a contract for this book, None Braver might never have happened. His assistant, Cheryl Capitani, is solely responsible for risking Matt’s reputation as an agent by making sure that he returns phone calls in the same month as they were received, for which I thank her.

  My editor at New American Library, Doug Grad, has supported this project beyond my wildest dreams. Although he refused to order a custom-tailored desert camouflage uniform to wear at sales meetings, he did show up at an editorial conference with his bosses wearing the official Jacobabad boonie hat, knowing that doing so violated several national security regulations and could get him in trouble with Colonel Hot Lips. His assistant, Ron Martirano, is to be commended for ignoring his boss’s instructions and putting me through whenever I called with a bad case of author angst.

  Once again, Kathy Kirkland transcribed hours of interview tapes, and then went the extra mile with significant research on the Web that elaborated on or explained concepts that she discovered in the tapes.

  Many people allowed me to prevail upon them for technical advice. They read early drafts to make sure that my own confusion didn’t result in factual errors. Air Force Lt. Col. Graham Buschor, a CSAR helicopter pilot with the 106th Rescue Wing at Westhampton Beach, Long Island, who, as a safety officer, has investigated numerous helicopter accidents (and whose own flying skills are detailed in my first book, Pararescue), explained the intricacies of high-altitude rotary-winged flight until he was certain I got it right.

  Sr.M.Sgt. Bill Sine, a twenty-eight-year pararescueman, took the time to make sure that I not only got the facts straight, but also didn’t commit or fall victim to an occasional factual embellishment. Two of the PJs I met in Operation Enduring Freedom (OEF), S.Sgts. Justin “Soup” Campbell and Robert Disney, were quite helpful filling in missing details about several of the missions reported in this book, and did so in a timely fashion by e-mail from the war zone.

  I’m grateful to all the pararescuemen, aircrew members, and special-ops types who allowed me into their lives so that I could tell their stories. I especially wish to thank Jackie and Red Cunningham and Theresa Cunningham, who spoke with me at length about Jason Cunningham, son and husband, respectively.

  My escort officer on the trip, 2d Lt. Alysia Harvey, was handed a difficult assignment for someone relatively new to the Air Force. She had to strike a balance between doing what it took to get me the access I needed, and maintaining her allegiance to the Air Force’s core values, not the least of which, she insisted, is “Integrity First.” That had to be a balancing act worthy of the Flying Wallendas. I thank her for her good work, and apologize for ever calling her “the Leash.” Her boss, Capt. Jill Whitesell—the public affairs officer at Moody AFB, with the support of the commander of the 347th Rescue Wing, Brig. Gen. John H. Folkerts—worked closely with Mike Paoli to make our trip possible. Without all of their efforts I’d never have been able to board the 71st Rescue Squadron’s HC-130 that took us to OEF. I’m also grateful to the pilot of that plane, the commander of the 71st, Lt. Col. Tom Bianco, and to the director of operations of the unit in Jacobabad, Maj. Steve “Cato” Caton, who hooked us up once we arrived in country.

  Lt. Col. Vinnie Savino, commanding officer of the 38th Rescue Squadron, and the unit’s chief master sergeant, Bob Holler, created an environment into which I was welcomed, as did Lt. Col. Lee dePalo, CO of the 41st RQS, and their acting first sergeant at Kandahar, M.Sgt. Mike Pearce.

  My fellow passengers and crew on that deluxe flight from Valdosta to Jacobabad cheerfully put up with dozens of my questions on a daily basis and occasionally let me sleep on a litter or bunk when the floor got too cold. They were Capts. Ted White, Steven “Sponge” Kline, Dave McElwee, and Carrie Worth. Also M.Sgt. Brian Williams, S.Sgts. Dave Smith, James Boylan, and Marshal Todman, as well as SrA Jason Fitzpatrick and A1Cs Richard “Brad” Keith and Sarah Jeffers.

  Others who gave freely of their time, providing information, assistance, advice, or moral support, include John Corcoran, Sam Hirsh, Sam Sola, Lt. Col. Bruce Gillman, Lt. Col. Jim Finkle, Adrian “Red” Wecer, Kaki-Kate Lundy, Doug Kearney, Lynn Pierce, Capt. Mariano Wecer, Sr.M.Sgt. Pat Malone, Capt. Tim “Doc” Ozburn, Lt. Brandon Pollachek, SrA Tan Sirisak, Adam Hirsh, Jodi Epstein, Paul Brownstein, Joel Weisberger, Debbie Patire, Roger Akins, Dan Walsh, Jean-Marc Grazzini, and John Dunagan of Tampa’s Eagle Photographics. Retired PJ Robert LaPointe and his pjsinnam.com Web site were invaluable resources for historical information about pararescue.

  My son, Bill, who was anxious to get me out of the combat zone even before I got in, handled the task of getting me home in an expeditious manner from Frankfurt, no mean accomplishment considering that the date and time of our arrival from Afghanistan seemed to change by the minute.

  At least once in their life, every parent should feel the joy I felt when I cleared customs at Newark’s Liberty International Airport and saw both my smiling kids waiting to welcome their dad back home from the war.

  Finally, my thanks and my love go to my wife, Karen, who, much to the consternation of our children, didn’t object when I said I wanted to go to Afghanistan to write this book. After thirty-five years of marriage, she understands me.

  Michael Hirsh

  Punta Gorda, FL

  April 13, 2002

  [email protected]

  Author in front of the Ice Cave tent he lived in at Jbad (Michael Hirsh)

  INTRODUCTION

  At 0630 on the morning after Thanksgiving 2002, I was inside a briefing room at the headquarters of the 71st Rescue Squadron at Moody Air Force Base, near Valdosta, Georgia, being told which way I was supposed to run in the event the plane I was about to board crashed on takeoff or landing. Any untoward return from the sky in between those two events would require not running, but swimming, as this particular HC-130 Hercules was headed east, across the Atlantic, ultimately to Operation Enduring Freedom (OEF) in Jacobabad, Pakistan.

  I’d dropped off two large duffel bags at Moody a week earlier, and they were already palletized with the rest of the cargo aboard the plane. Now, dragging a carry-on with the clothing I’d need for what would turn out to be a five-day trip, I was watching my fellow passengers say good-bye to their wives and babies. While I would be back home in five weeks, their stay would be as long as three months.

  As I was doing my own version of the PJ bag drag out to the plane, I realized that I was fortunate that the Air Force didn’t levy charges for excess baggage. In addition to the carry-on, I had a huge rolling backpack filled with cameras, lenses, tape recorders, and enough batteries to keep the Energizer Bunny coming and going for years, plus a sleeping bag, an inflatable mattress, a CamelBak water supply, and several tubes of peanut butter. While not quite an army of one, I had done my best to be self-sufficient on the trip.

  Before being allowed to board the plane, my escort officer, 2d Lt. Alysia Harvey, and I had to undergo a security check. The examination was conducted on the tarmac not far from the plane. “Are you carrying any weapons, handguns, rifles, shotguns, knives, or bayonets?” Nope. “Are you planning to hijack the aircraft?” Nope. I was voluntarily getting on this plane headed to the war zone after more than five months of excruciating negotiations with the military powers that be. Hijack a plane to the war? I don’t think so. “Do you understand that if you did hijack this plane, the Air Force would be really, really upset?” Absolutely. The last thing I’d want is to have the Air Force really, really upset with me when they needed to be worrying about Osama. With that, we were declared good to go, and climbed aboard a plane that was almost twice as old as everyone on the crew but
the pilot, who happened to be the commanding officer of the 71st.

  The entire right side of the cargo compartment was filled with baggage belonging to the twenty-three passengers and crew, cartons of morale items donated by various groups in Valdosta, office furniture, and essential war matériel needed by the troops including a foosball table. Eliminating seating on the right side of the plane meant that all the passengers were going to be sitting cheek-to-cheek on the red webbed paratrooper seats, with minimal legroom, for a very long, very uncomfortable flight. Think Southwest Airlines without the frills.

  An HC-130 is a four-engine propeller plane that cruises at around three hundred miles per hour. Pakistan is roughly nine thousand miles away. You do the math. Clearly we would be making some stops along the way at locations I’m not permitted to divulge.

  I’d been told to dress in layers for the flight, because depending on where I’d be sitting, and what was or wasn’t working on the aircraft, the temperature could range from freezing cold to uncomfortably hot. I was layered, from polypropylene long johns through fleece shirts to my Gore-Tex parka, not to mention the Windstopper hat and gloves, which I just mentioned.

  I was advised to bring along an air mattress and a sleeping bag, because once we’d taken off it would be okay to claim a chunk of floor space near the back of the plane. I’d also followed instructions about bringing a headlamp if I wanted to read, since the inside of the plane is very dark, and to bring my own food in the event that the crew didn’t have enough MREs (meals ready to eat) for all the passengers. My solution was to buy food tubes at a camping store, fill them with peanut butter, and whenever the need arose, squeeze off a shot of Skippy.