I remember August 25, 1982, well. I was one of about 50 reporters standing on a south Beirut beach as the 2nd Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment came ashore. I still remember Colonel James Meade in the lead amphibious craft. He was a dashing figure; movie star handsome. Meade, a marine aviator, wore a blue pilot’s scarf as he came ashore. It was flapping in the brisk Lebanese coastal wind.

Meade led the 32nd Marine Amphibious Unit (MAU). Lt. Colonel Robert…

River Liberty (also called Khanjar) was described as an operation. However, it had the feel of an invasion. U.S. Marines were moving, as an expeditionary force, into the homeland of their enemy, the Taliban.

At 4:30 am, the company with whom my son, Carlos, and I were embedded, Golf Company, 2/8 Marines, stepped out of the U.S base at Hassan Abad, in southern Helmand province, and headed south into certain trouble.

The Taliban were determined not to let Golf Company just walk…

I sit in a broken green lawnchair, writing. It is hot here: the sunlight is overwhelming, and even in shade the temperature is easily in triple digits; nightfall-the only respite anyone can hope for-is a long way off, and in the meantime there is little to do except sweat, and wait. Everything takes longer than it should: sand trickles through the hourglass in fitful spurts: the sky is swollen with the day’s heat, throbbing with its own pulse. I sit…

People often call the conflict in Afghanistan “The Forgotten War,” a broad statement that misses the point on why the going has been so slow, 8 years this October, and why, until recently, there has been little spoken of it. Afghanistan was not forgotten so much as poorly-remembered; picked up and dusted off whenever pundits and politicians saw use in it: whether to compare it to its brother-war in Iraq,  held up as an example of International Cooperation, or used…

Flat on their bellies with no cover and mortars raining down on them, two Oklahomans, Sergeant Shane Ayres and Staff Sergeant Tyler Mobra, looked at each other and communicated an unspoken message, “What the hell are we doing here.”

It was October 31, 2008 and Combat Outpost Lowell, Nuristan, Afghanistan was under attack again. Lowell is the most attacked U.S. base in Afghanistan and on Halloween day, Afghan insurgents treated the scouts of 6/4 Cavalry, Ft. Hood, Texas, with a barrage…

The village of Kamu is only a brief walk from COP Lowell, and every month a MEDCAP mission is dispatched to provide medical assistance for locals.  As the doctors work on the villagers a crowd of young boys swarm about the doctors like a cloud of gnats, waiting for the sweets inevitably passed out. Every one of the boys old enough to walk a straight line is armed with a slingshot, home-made, an obvious source of pride in a place…

In daylight the mountains that surround Lowell took on a new, more dangerous significance. While at night they stood as singular, monolithic entities, the sun revealed them to be a mass of trees and valleys, stone wrinkles and ridgelines that provided ample cover to anyone who cared to attack the base, which, I was assured, was often.

I had known before coming to Lowell that it was under frequent attack, but the sheer volume of action it saw shocked me: COP…