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# Sabari: A day in the life of Missouri combat engineers

By Jon E. Dougherty, Missouri National Guard

FOB  SALERNO, Afghanistan - Spring at this base is essentially an extension  of the winter months, with little moderate precipitation and temperatures. 

The  most profound difference between late April the dead of winter – the  December-February timeframe – is the very visible splashes of green brought on  by the growing season in the form of budding trees and ripening wheat plots, adding  brilliant shades to an otherwise colorless landscape.

But  in exchange for such a favorable clime Soldiers stationed here must endure the  hard realities of war on a continual basis, for unlike in much of the rest of  the country – where winter snow and bitter cold temperatures keep insurgents  holed up – the regularly warm weather in this part of eastern Afghanistan is  also favorable to the enemy. 

Here,  there is no “winter rest period.” There is no respite from rocket and mortar  attacks, IEDs, ambushes and indirect small arms fire, as Capt. Bryan Sayer,  commanding officer of the 1141st Engineer Company (sappers),  Missouri Army National Guard – whose unit is stationed here – is quick to point  out.                     

Situated  for year-round rebellion, you can see the mountains of neighboring Pakistan, the  jump-off point for scores of enemy combatants, from the front door of the 1141st’s  tactical operations center (TOC). 

But  the continual nature of insurgency here is not daunting to the “Bloodhounds,”  the nickname of the 1141st. Sayer and his three route clearance  platoons – who are charged with keeping the roads and bypasses in their AO (area  of operation) free of IEDs – are uncharacteristically aggressive in taking the  fight to the enemy. 

Because  they are innovative and tactically proficient, the Bloodhound platoons have a  high “find-to-detonation” ratio, meaning they locate most buried IEDs before  they can be employed against them in attacks on route clearance and other  convoys. 

In  all, the accommodating weather, the proximity of enemy resources, and an  American military unit more than willing to meet the insurgents head-on makes for  an ongoing battle that, at times, resembles a chess match while at other times a  two-fisted brawl.

***

Combat  Outpost Sabari, situated several kilometers to the north, was a familiar  destination to First Lt. Mitchell Boatright and his platoon. Some would say far  too familiar, in fact. 

He  and his men have been there dozens of times since first deploying here in  November. And while some missions were more eventful than others, the platoon was  certain of one thing every time they had to travel “Route Gremlin” (not its  real name, which is classified): That the enemy would be waiting for them, one  way or another.

On  this day, Boatright’s platoon would follow a similar plan of attack, so to  speak, and one that had proven remarkably successful in the past. Assigned to  deliver supplies to COP Sabari, the platoon would convoy to a point just shy of  several target areas of interest, where the enemy was known to plant roadside  bombs. There, a squad of Bloodhounds would dismount, with half taking up  patrols on either side of the convoy. 

Once  on the ground the dismounts advance carefully in a line ahead of the vehicles,  searching for signs of buried “command wires” – usually ultra-thin, barely  visible single strands of copper wire laid by insurgents that connected IEDs emplaced  along the road to power sources that were often several hundred meters away.  The idea is to find the wires and cut them, thereby disabling the explosive  device, before the convoy reached it.

But  the enemy, well aware of the dismounted strategy, has adopted new tactics as  well. Insurgents set IEDs among the trees and wheat fields where the  Bloodhounds patrol, hoping to catch one or more of them in a deadly trap.

***

Staff  Sgt. Kenneth Pfetsch (pronounced “Fetch”) looked around suspiciously. Motioning  for Spc. Joseph Martinez, who accompanied us, to move out on foot about 70  meters to his right flank, Pfetsch – no stranger to route clearance operations  or dismounted patrolling, glanced over at me before moving forward cautiously  across the dry river bed.

“Sometimes  they [the enemy insurgents] seem like they take some time off, maybe to confuse  us or throw us off,” he said. “But then they change tactics and try to fool  us.”

Pfetsch  said the platoon had managed to find a number of command wires since first  beginning dismounted operations some months before, but he was referring to the  occasional dry spells they had encountered on previous patrols where the  Bloodhounds would sometimes go a week or more without finding anything. \

Every  dry spell, however, subsequently led to a spate IED “finds,” often in areas  where they had never been discovered, lending credence to the long-held belief  that the enemy threat constantly evolved.

“Do  they seem to prefer command wire IEDs?” I asked. 

“Around  here they do,” Pfetsch said, pausing briefly to scan the ground in front him  and take a deep swig of bottled water. “That seems to be their preferred  technique, but you never know when that could change.”

He  said most of the time command wires don’t extend too far from road, but  sometimes “they are buried more than 250 yards” away from the IED. In other,  less-frequent instances, he said the platoon noticed that IEDs were remotely  detonated using cell phones. 

“They  tend to plant those close to a cell phone tower, where the signal is the strongest,”  he explained.

In  the distance to our right, Martinez could be seen making his way slowly,  deliberately through the creek bed and onto higher ground. Beyond the creek lay  a half-mile stretch of open field, flanked on either side by distant qalats  and, beyond those, small settlements and a sea of ripening green wheat fields  bathing beneath a radiant, golden morning sun.

If  you didn’t know any better, for the entire world it would seem like there was  no war here at all. Yet the veterans of Boatright’s Bloodhounds knew full well  war was never far away, picturesque scenes of tranquility notwithstanding.

***

The  route to Sabari was known to be “hot” – that is, full of insurgent activity, which  was confined mostly to the planting of the command-wire improvised explosive  devices (IEDs). 

Pfetsch,  Martinez and Spc. Bucksly Barnill, who took up patrolling the right side of the  convoy, were joined by Boatright, along with Staff Sgts. Brad Epperly and  Justin Bickings, as well as Sgt. Jacob Cook, on the left. Together, the  dismounts swept out to about 250 meters on each flank of the convoy, staying  about 70 meters ahead as the line of vehicles crept along the bumpy dirt road  towards the combat outpost.

On  Pfetsch’s side of the road were acres of bright green wheat plots separated by  rows of dirt. Each partitioned “lot” belonged to a certain family, but all the wheat  lots were fed by irrigation ditches that crisscrossed the fields and stemmed  from strategically placed watering points. The partitions were like elevated  paths and the soldiers used them to negotiate the fields rather than walk  through the wheat itself, which could tug at boots and equipment, thereby  making progress slower and more difficult. Scattered throughout the fields were  the occasional trees that prompted a warning from Pfetsch.

“Stay  clear of the trees,” he said. “The insurgents like to plant IEDs near them in  hopes of catching us as we walk by.”

***

The  three of us – Martinez, Pfetsch and me – walked along a partition towards our rally  point when Martinez suddenly dropped, paused, then bolted back toward us.

“Get  down!” Pfetsch ordered, as all three of us dove for cover behind the earthen  partition. 

“Command  wire,” Martinez shouted. “I cut it.”

“How  many wires?” Pfetsch asked. 

“Just  the one.”

“You  didn’t see two?”

“No,”  Martinez said. 

Odd,  Pfetsch told me, because it takes two wires to make a complete electrical  circuit – one positive, one negative. 

As  we crouched behind the earthen partition, Pfetsch radioed the find to Barnhill,  who was a few hundred meters to our left and rear. “See if you can find two  wires,” Pfetsch instructed. “We’ve only got one back here.”

After  a few more moments, Pfetsch and Martinez rose slowly and began a careful recon  of the immediate area. Martinez then began to trace the razor-thin strand of  copper wire, which ran away from the road and towards a qalat some 300 meters  to our right. He came back several minutes later and said he traced the wire to  a mound of dirt 20 meters away from the qalat but didn’t find any electronic  detonation devices like a cell phone or a battery.

It’s  possible the insurgents hadn’t quite completed the arming of their IED, Pfetsch  offered.

***

When  the IED exploded, the noise and resulting shock wave took everyone by surprise  – even though they’ve heard dozens of such explosions before. It’s just  something you can never get used to, they will tell you.

The  IED had been found by the Bloodhounds, but as personnel using an armored  backhoe attempted to remove it from the ground, it was activated and exploded.

The  command wire led away to the right of the road and towards a nearby tree line,  beyond which lay a qalat – a family compound. Without delay, First Lieutenant  Boatright, Barnhill and a few others made for the compound in an effort to see  if they could find the trigger man before he disappeared.

Meanwhile,  in a nearby village patrolled by a platoon of ANA (Afghan National Army)  troops, where Pfetsch, Martinez and the other dismounts had assembled, the  search for suspects expanded.

The  Bloodhounds’ Afghan interpreter, Habib (not his real name), told Pfetsch the ANA  platoon leader, himself a lieutenant, said two men were suspected of planting  the IED and that they had been seen nearby. They were wearing the typical local  dress – the long cotton shirts and matching pants, he said – one dressed in  brown while the other in white. And both wore traditional head dress.

“Ask  them where they saw these guys,” Pfetsch said to Habib, who relayed his question  to the ANA platoon leader. 

The  ANA officer, while conversing with Habib, pointed towards the center of the  village. Habib said the officer told him the ANA didn’t know exactly where the  suspects were at the moment. They would have to search the small village.

***

About  20 minutes later, Boatright and his team returned empty handed. Their own search  proved fruitless. But the ANA were more successful.

They  had located the two suspects – one man and a boy who was perhaps in his late  teens. Pfetsch and his team had the ANA search them then cuff their arms behind  their back using plastic ties. The suspects were then instructed to sit facing  towards the wall of a small shop, joining another man that had been picked up  walking along the roadway near the blast site within minutes of the explosion. 

All  three would be interrogated by the ANA but all, it turned out, would eventually  be released. In this land, determining guilt is difficult, made harder even  still by language and cultural barriers between Americans and Afghans, and even  between Afghans themselves, as tribal and regional factions and loyalties come  into play.

What  doesn’t seem to change, however, is the violence. 

***

Several  hours and kilometers later, the dismounts found themselves moving out from  Sabari to search for a possible IED reportedly buried alongside a road about a  kilometer north.  

Steadily  throughout the afternoon the brilliant sun and crystal blue Afghan sky was  replaced by dark gray clouds. As they moved towards their destination – a dirt  road that ran parallel to the base, divided by many acres of green wheat fields  and isolated qalats and surrounded by low-lying mountains – the winds picked  up, signaling the approach of a storm. The cooler temperatures were a welcome  relief to the tired, sweat-soaked dismounts, but the increasing dust the winds  brought lashed at their faces and clung to their dry throats.

But  as is so often the case, intelligence can be fleeting and dicey: Boatright and  his squad of dismounts found no evidence of any IED activity at the map  coordinates they were given, so – once they caught their breath – he ordered  them to move out towards the waiting convoy which was parked just outside  Sabari. It had been a long day on the ground for the dismounts, but even after  walking more than 15 kilometers, their mission was far from over. 

“We’re  moving,” said Pfetsch, motioning to Martinez and the others to move out. At  Sabari, before moving out to find the IED, the small squad had been joined by  Sgt. Elizabeth Davis, a military police dog handler and member of the 101st  Airborne Division. Her role – actually, the role of her animal – was to track  down potential trigger men if the squad ran into them as they attempted to lay  command wires.

The  short bivouac had served to at least partially rejuvenate the tired squad. “Got  my bearings back,” said a smiling Martinez, as he wearily shouldered his rifle  and fell in with the rest of the squad. 

[END  PART III]

***

In  a single column the patrol made its way out of the mortar-and-brick  construction bivouac area, back into the surrounding wheat fields and towards a  small qalat complex the engineers had marched through 15 minutes earlier. Small  crowds of locals gathered outside the qalats as the squad passed, with a few young  men and boys shouting greetings at them. Only a few young girls could be seen; some  waved at the soldiers timidly.

As  the squad passed by the qalat and slipped into nearby wheat fields the winds  died down somewhat and the rain finally began to fall – a few drops here and  there at first, but eventually those gave way to a steady shower. The going had  been hard enough throughout the day but with the rain it would become even more  difficult. 

Once-simple  tasks, like balancing on the elevated dirt partitions that separated individual  family plots, got unusually difficult, as the rain formed a thin layer of mud  on the tops of the partitions, causing Soldiers to lose their footing and slip  off. 

Given  the added weight of their weapons and ammunition, 40-pound individual outer  tactical vests (IOTV – their “body armor”) and helmets, to stumble was to bring  the entire weight of their gear down on an already painful torso.

To  save time the dismounts slogged steadily across the sea of ever-dampening green  wheat fields towards their jump-off point near Sabari. When they did, the damp  wheat would tug at their legs and boots, making the Soldiers draw more physical  energy from a rapidly dwindling reserve. The rain, meanwhile, soaked the wheat  and the dampness clung to the Soldiers’ boots and uniform pants, adding to  their discomfort. 

Davis  was having the hardest time of it. Though Kelly 3 was generally well-behaved,  being in the tall wheat fields tended to cause her to stray, forcing a  frustrated Davis to shout commands and pull back hard on her leash to get her  to follow the rest of the squad. 

Suddenly,  as the squad cut diagonally across a patch of wheat, the quick, high-pitched  screech of a rocket was followed by an explosion some 180 meters to their  front, halting the Soldiers in their tracks and forcing them to take a knee.

“What  was that? Mortar?” someone yelled.

“Rocket,”  answered Barnhill. 

“Where’d  it come from?” I asked.

“Don’t  know,” he said.

Everyone’s  head was suddenly on a swivel, looking left to right, front to back, for a  possible launch site for the rocket, which had clearly been intended for us but  which, thankfully, missed us by a wide mark.

“Let’s  go,” Boatright said, motioning forward when, after a few moments, it didn’t  appear as though there would be follow-on rocket attacks. But no sooner than  the squad stepped off into the next patch of wheat than automatic gunfire  erupted from their two o’clock. 

“Get  down!” someone shouted, but the squad was way ahead of that command, having  instinctively gone to ground, using the tall strands of swaying green wheat as  concealment.

Within  seconds return automatic weapons and AK-47 fire from several hundred yards to  the squad’s eight o’clock sounded, and for several long minutes the two  positions traded rounds, many of which whipped and whistled directly over the  heads of the now pinned-down engineer squad caught in the crossfire.

“Where  is the fire coming from?” someone shouted from near the front of column.

Meanwhile,  as Pfetsch was attempting to find out who and what Sabari’s ANA (Afghan  National Army) towers were firing at, Boatright ordered his squad to move to  its rear several feet, where a muddy irrigation ditch would offer better cover. 

As  rounds continued to crackle overhead, one by one the squad low-crawled its way  to the irrigation ditch which, although muddy, was thankfully not currently  full of water. Davis, with Kelly 3 in cradled in her arms, pulled the dog close  to her body, as she low-crawled towards the ditch. 

The  gunfire raged on for a few more minutes but then slowly began to fade away into  sporadic exchanges until, finally, it ceased altogether. 

After  several moments, slowly and cautiously the dismounts began to raise their heads  to look around, taking care to stay below the tops of the wheat, so as to make  full use of the concealment.

Boatright  ordered everyone to sound off to make sure no one had been hit. After all 10  members checked in, he ordered half the squad to make for a tree line about 150  meters to their rear then turn west towards their convoy. He, meanwhile, took  the remaining dismounts and moved parallel.

***

As  a light, steady rain continued to fall, the two teams hastily slogged through  the muddy wheat fields for about 350 meters, eventually coming to a point where  their paths diverged. Though Boatright’s objective was to get his Soldiers back  to the vehicles, the squad was traveling in the direction from which the rocket  and small arms fire had originated, forcing each team member to keep an eye out  for suspicious personnel.

As  far as the eye could see the brilliant green wheat fields were devoid of local  farmers, most of whom had either quit harvesting because of the rain or had  taken cover because of the nearby battle. But soon after reforming the squad  came in contact with two men who appeared to be working a plot but who, at  first glance, seemed out of place.

The  dismounts wasted no time in setting up for a possible ambush, clicking their  weapon safeties “off” and aiming their M4s as they fanned out to the left and  right of the two men who were perhaps 70 meters to their front. A few of the  dismounts shouted at the men to stop what they were doing and put their hands  up, but the men merely froze and stared back at the Americans,  confused and startled.

“Get  the interpreter up here!” Boatright shouted, a command followed by a smattering  of “Interpreter up!” by other members of the squad.

The  interpreter, “Jamal” (not his real name), bound past Davis and I towards the  first line of dismounts and, realizing what Boatright and his Soldiers were  attempting to do, began shouting commands at the two men in Dari to stand up  and put their hands up.

The  two men, perhaps in their mid-30s and dressed in traditional white long shirt  and pants, finally complied, moving away from the tree line and towards the  middle of a wheat field to their right.

Boatright  and the interpreter moved towards the men as the rest of the squad looked to  their rear and flanks to prevent being surprised by any insurgents that might  be in the area. Cook and Martinez, meanwhile, checked out one of two small  stone structures interspersed amongst the dismounts, while Bickings asked me to  check out the other. They were empty.

After  a few minutes Boatright and the interpreter were satisfied that the locals were  probably just farmers and turned them loose. The sapper platoon leader then  turned to the squad and ordered everyone to move out once more; with weapons at  the low ready, the dismounts moved out smartly, eyes scanning front, flanks and  rear.

***

For  the next 20 minutes Boatright and his squad maneuvered in and out of wheat  fields and through qalats, negotiating small irrigation ditches and the  occasional barbed wire, as they stepped up their pace in their effort to reach  the convoy.

The  unit commander radioed his Buffalo crew and arranged for a pick up on the  hardball (asphalt road) just east of COP Sabari, but somehow the directions became  garbled, so when Boatright and his squad arrived at the perceived pick-up point  the Buffalo wasn’t there. 

“Where  are they?” Boatright asked, as a few of the tired dismounts, breathing heavily,  took a knee to relieve the pressure on their backs caused by their IOTVs.  

“They’re  on the other side of Sabari,” an exasperated Barnhill answered, pointing back  towards the direction from which the squad had just traveled. “We were going  the wrong way.” 

A  clearly frustrated Boatright shook his head. “Tell them to head this way and  we’ll meet them,” he said. 

As  the rain continued to fall in slow, steady sheets, the squad moved out once  more, taking up a staggered column on the asphalt, which provided a much more  stable – and welcome – walking surface than the jagged, muddy earth of the  wheat fields. Slowly the squad members trudged along the narrow, winding  hardball, passing by a few curious boys who had come out of a nearby qalat to  get a glimpse of the wet, muddy, exhausted Soldiers. 

Within  moments, the dull roar of the Buffalo’s massive engine could be heard a few  hundred meters ahead. The squad knew the rest of the convoy couldn’t be far  behind.

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