On Thanksgiving 2004, my Army squad launched a crazy mission in western Afghanistan. Our platoon leader, 2nd Lt. Ian Erickson, was a great officer. He wanted to lead a recon mission to the Iranian border and to secretly step across so the guys could make “I ran to Iran” T-shirts.
To begin, my squad headed north, reaching the village of Shindand a few hours later. Our interpreter, who went by the nickname “Hollywood,” told us the Farsi word for “turkey” sounds like “Fillmore.” So, one of the privates rode on the Humvee gun turret, shouting to Afghans, “Fillmore dari?” — “Do you have a turkey?” We finally found a villager with turkeys and bought a live one for $10. Erickson and Hollywood bought skewers while we tied the turkey onto the roof of a Humvee.
The squad drove west, cruising through the desert at 40 mph for hours. The turkey got a good dusting. We stopped before dark to prepare the feast, but we stood around helplessly, realizing none of us knew how to butcher a turkey. Erickson grabbed an ax from the emergency kit to chop off the bird’s head.
“Sir, can I do it?” Spc. Charles Larson asked.
“I got it,” Erickson said. The bird’s head was on a wooden block. Erickson raised the ax.
“Sir, you missed!” Larson shouted before the lieutenant had even swung.
The lieutenant brought the ax down, killing the bird but not completely severing the head. Larson stepped away, grabbed a knife, and threw it at the turkey, nailing his target. Then Hollywood stepped up. He hadn’t grown up in a land of supermarkets and was used to preparing his food on his own. He cleaned and cooked the turkey over a fire. The next day, we drove northwest toward the Iranian border. We finally reached an Afghan village from which we could see the Iranian guard towers ahead. A wall that appeared to be made of solid concrete ran along the border in both directions as far as we could see. Running across was not an option.
Larson decided to get a better view. Not content with the standard-issue iron sights on his M16, he had augmented his weapon with his own very large, high-powered scope. Using this scope, he surveyed the Iranian border checkpoint. After watching the Iranians for a while, he turned to us. “Hey guys, something’s wrong. Their guards are running around, getting weapons ready and stuff.”
One of our team leaders, Sgt. Matthew Peterson, immediately saw the problem. “Hey there, Larson,” he said. “The Iranians might be upset because that scope you’re using is attached to your weapon. They probably think you’re drawing a bead to shoot them.” Larson lowered his weapon.
On the return trip, the squad stopped at the Army base at Shindand. An old Soviet airbase, the place had been pretty basic early in our deployment. We’d roll onto the base and sleep wherever. Since then, it had been built up a lot, requiring guests to check in and stay in a fancy transient tent.
Erickson went to file paperwork. While he was gone, a master sergeant approached on a John Deere Gator. “Who’s in charge?”
“I am,” Peterson answered.
The squad was dirty and unshaven after the patrol, uniform tops off.
“What’s your rank?” the master sergeant demanded.
“Sergeant,” Peterson explained. Our other team leader, Sgt. Marlin Beckmann, joined him, smoking a cigarette.
The master sergeant asked where the squad had come from. Peterson told him.
“Two E5s and a lieutenant leading this? Where’s your first sergeant?”
Beckmann blew out smoke. “Probably back at our base riding around on a f—ing Gator.”
The master sergeant cursed, shook his head, and drove away, perhaps mistaking the squad for a rough-riding Special Forces unit. Perhaps he was just confused.
The next day, my squad returned to Farah, satisfied we’d experienced the most unusual and memorable Thanksgiving adventure of our lives.
Trent Reedy served as a combat engineer in the Iowa National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a tour of duty in Afghanistan.
