Ben Shapiro: True Allegiance

Although he’d graduated top of his class at The Citadel, at Quantico his star truly began to rise. The brass’s eye settled on him as he bust record after record in training. By the time of the Gulf War, he’d been promoted to first lieutenant. He had also learned Arabic.

He was just twenty-two when they sent him to Saudi Arabia; the war was already winding down. Operation Desert Sabre had been a full-fledged success, and the famed left hook had already busted the Iraqi defenses wide open. But he heard the promises; he heard the broadcasts in February 1991 promising that those who rose up against Saddam would be liberated. And he watched in horror as those promises were abandoned, as the Kurds were gassed in the streets.

When he returned to the United States, he talked with Ellen about getting out. The mission shook him. Yes, they’d saved Kuwait from Saddam, saved the Saudi oil fields. But what about the children, spittle flecking from their mouths, spasming to death? What about the Kurds fleeing their homes, forced into Turkey, dying all along the way? He’d seen the images on television, and he’d heard the broadcast; he knew that those people had risen up, hoping that the United States would stand with them.

Eventually, the decision became simple: he could stay in and try to wield influence on the inside. Or he could leave.

Ellen wanted him to leave. She told him she was tired of the military life; she’d traveled enough. She was tired of losing him for months at a time, tired of him coming home with that empty look in his eyes, tired of the formality and the cheap military hole-ups. She also told him she was pregnant.

For the first time since Iraq, she saw the light come back into his eyes.

“Okay,” he finally told her. “When the baby is born, I’ll let them know. The timing works out just right.” Then he kissed her, felt the softness of her lips, and knew everything would be all right.

Three weeks later, in the middle of the night, Ellen woke him, screaming. Her voice cracked as it reached the apex, shrieks over and over in the night, blood on the sheets, her hands clawing at her face. He picked her up in his powerful arms, held her tight, so small against him. He rushed her to the car, foot to the floorboard, one hand gripping hers—and her hand gripping his so tight he thought she might break his fingers.

Afterward, the doctors told them children were out of the question.

Whether it was unwillingness to leave the life, principled practicality, or a cowardly need for something to cling to—or a mix of all three, Brett eventually came to suspect—he stayed in.

And he rose.

By Kosovo, he was a captain. By September 11, he was a major. A major who, by simple coincidence, knew Pashto. He’d thought it prudent when, after the bombings of the US embassies in Kenya and Tanzania in 1998, he first heard of some piece of shit named Osama bin Laden, holed up somewhere in Afghanistan.

That little fact made him one of the first men on the ground in Afghanistan. He knew little of the country’s culture, but his knowledge of the language made him a valuable commodity. They assigned him to a unit working in direct contact with the heads of the Northern Alliance, the band of horse-riding tribesmen tasked with taking down the Taliban. It was all very Lawrence of Arabia , Brett thought. Except that Peter O’Toole never had to deal with roadside bombs or donkeys laden with explosives or the lure of the opium trade. And T. E. Lawrence hadn’t missed his wife, either, of course.

And he missed Ellen.

After the quick victory over the Taliban, CENTCOM in Afghanistan ordered his promotion to lieutenant colonel—the youngest in the Marines—and assigned him to the security team for central Kabul. That Pashto was really paying off.

It also put him in direct contact, on a daily basis, with the president of the new Islamic Republic of Afghanistan. It turned out that Afghanistan’s new president didn’t trust the US ambassador to Afghanistan; soon, the only American he’d talk with was Brett.

Brett saw the man as a corrupt tribal leader thrust into national leadership. He also told the American ambassador as much, and his superiors. It seemed to have no impact. All those issues were ignored; too much money was changing hands, too much politics shaping the game. The Afghan president wanted permanent US military bases, but a blind eye turned to his own corruption; the Americans wanted permanent US bases, but a guarantee of more participation by the Afghan military to help transition away from the use of US forces; the ambassador just wanted to be left alone.

Daily, he missed Ellen more and more. He was thirty-seven now; they’d spent nearly a decade in this on-and-off relationship. It was, he had concluded, inhumane.

One night, he unloaded it all to Ellen. She told him that he’d worked too hard to give it up—that he could still make a difference. He heard the musicality of her voice, her lips kissing him through the phone.

“It’ll be okay,” she said. “It always is.”

“Okay,” he grumbled half-heartedly. “But let’s keep thinking about it.”

“Take a bullet for you, babe,” she said.

“Take a bullet for you, sweetheart,” he replied, their usual sign-off.

He still wanted to go home. More than ever.

Then, all at once, things changed.

It started in May, when Newsweek reported that US interrogators had desecrated a Koran by flushing it down the toilet at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. They later retracted the story, but the damage was done. Riots broke out across the Muslim world; at least seventeen people were murdered in the streets of Afghanistan, and more than a hundred brutally injured. Mullahs in the northeast of the country threatened a new jihad against the United States if the interrogators weren’t turned over for sharia prosecution.

The deal for the military bases was all but dead. The administration was scrambling. The Afghan president, in an attempt to appease his inflamed population, demanded that US troops change their rules of engagement to avoid civilian casualties—in the process, endangering more American soldiers.

Then Colonel Brett Hawthorne saved the day.

He’d been ushering a CNN crew around—“Gotta keep these schmucks from reporting that we eat Muslims,” he told Ellen—showing them Kabul. He handed candies to the children, spoke Pashto with the shopkeepers. The marketplace was crowded at this time of day, vendors hawking their wares; the security presence was heavy, too.

All of this fell within the normal spectrum. But Brett felt something was off. He had developed a sixth sense about these things, spending all these years in-country. The market normally buzzed with activity, but now it seemed just a tick too quiet.

The members of the CNN crew were yawning. One of them leaned up against the pole of a stall, camera still fixed to his eye. “Colonel,” he said lazily, “I think we’ve got about enough footage.” Brett turned to speak—and from behind the cameraman, he saw a child on a donkey, about three hundred feet away.

His service weapon, a Beretta M9, was in his hand before he even felt it leave his holster. That motion became smooth after thousands upon thousands of repeats. The cameraman perked up, then swiveled to see what Brett was looking at. Other Marines began to pay attention now, brought their M4s to their shoulders. Vendors swept up their goods, ran from the square, emptying it almost instantaneously.

One of the soldiers moved toward the donkey. “Get away from it!” Brett barked.

The child began to cry. The cameraman zoomed in eagerly. This was absolute gold: a crying Afghan child, frightened to death by the awful Americans. Brett shouted to the kid in Pashto. “They’re watching us, aren’t they?”