Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic (19 page)

Wil shook his head and laughed. “You know, Doc, we’re on land, and those are ‘army’ vehicles, and they don’t need the same habitual maintenance as your ‘navy’ boats,” he said, laughing, while he thought about his decision. “Sure, Doc, what the hell, knock yourself out. Just do me a favor—let’s get the clinic up and running first, and don’t forget to let Vic know what you’re up to. He can get a little touchy when it comes to the comms equipment in the vehicles.”

“Roger that,” I said as Wil ducked back into the hootch.

With the help of the army medics, the Afghani clinic was operational within twenty-four hours. For the first time in nearly two months, I held an official sick call for the Afghani troops, and it was an instant hit. I worked nonstop for two days straight. Overall the Afghani team was in great shape, with the exception of a few repeated sprains, related to patrolling through the rocky terrain, and dental problems. We also treated locals from the nearby villages and found them to be humorless and skeptical of our intentions. I wouldn’t expect any different, with the clinic’s on-again, off-again schedule. Sometimes it was enemy rocket attacks that shut it down; other times it was our inability to have an American medical provider constantly on station. The primary problem was not having a competent Afghani provider as the mainstay of the clinic. We’d tried in the past, but every time we hired someone to run it, either the Taliban would chase him off or he simply couldn’t be trusted. The man I replaced, Doc C, actually left the Alamo and went to Kabul to address that very issue.

When not attending to patients, I was in the hooch with Wil, Chief, and the Toms, learning the critical details of the missions and reviewing intelligence reports. Our primary mission was to train up the Afghan commandos, but we also had certain standalone missions that would be carried out by small teams of Americans from our group. As a SEAL, I was accustomed to such small-unit operations and experienced a surge of adrenaline when they were described in detail.

In my limited free time, I worked on the various vehicles around the compound. There were Humvees, old Soviet-era trucks, and Toyota Hilux trucks like those favored by the enemy. I became somewhat obsessive about maintaining the vehicles, perhaps as a subconscious way to ward off the inevitable injuries and death that come with battle. The other guys joked mercilessly about my mechanic’s fixation, but deep down they knew my compulsion might actually save a life, and that’s what medics do.

I grew close to my teammates in those early days. They were smart guys, all of them college graduates, with life experiences most average folks could never fathom. We spent the off-hours, usually at night, engaged in conversations ranging from politics to religion to sports and beyond. On occasion, one of the soldiers from the 10th Mountain would bring his guitar to our side of the compound and play while we stared up at the deep purple sky, the bright stars illuminating the ground below.

14

BATTLE OF KHAND PASS

It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, more vengeance, more desolation. War is hell.

—W
ILLIAM
T
ECUMSEH
S
HERMAN

I spent several days inventorying and restocking the clinic outside of the firebase, with the assistance of the 10th Mountain physician assistant and his senior medic. It didn’t take long before the foot traffic from local villages was keeping us busy, but it was still only the tip of the iceberg of what needed to get done within the area. If we were going to have any real impact, we needed to get out to some of the remote villages before the winter snow. Now seemed like a perfect time; fall was just settling in, and the brutal heat was subsiding, which resulted in fewer cases of heat exhaustion and dehydration. Still, traveling up and down the steep, rugged mountains in 70 pounds of body armor and weaponry kept that threat alive.

We began by frequenting the local villages and building a rapport with the population before pushing out to remote areas where we were needed the most. Wil or Vic would lead the group, which generally included one of the Toms and myself. I would concentrate on treating the locals, some of whom had never met or even seen Americans. Afghans by nature are a very insular people and trust very few people outside of their tribes, including our team and the 10th Mountain personnel who accompanied us. Because of the distrust on both sides, we’d often meet on the outskirts of the village rather than in the village itself, which is normally where I’d set up my medical clinic. It was inconvenient for the villagers, but it afforded us additional protection. Relations began to thaw over a series of visits, and the villagers’ trust eventually grew to the point where we were allowed to attend some of the local jirgas, a sort of town meeting of tribal elders. There I learned a great deal about the distrust they had for both the Taliban and the United States. In their mind their village was a separate entity unto itself, making everyone an outsider. I understood why Doc C kept stressing the importance of establishing a medical clinic that would reach both sides of the border, and the need for putting an Afghani physician in place to run it. If these people were ever going to feel the need for national unity it had to come from their government proving the benefit it brings to their lives and not by the work done by a foreign military force. We had the ability to get it under way but were unsure if the Afghani government could continue it, especially since it might take decades for it to take hold.

A month after my arrival, intel started flowing in from nearly all the villages. I kept up with the latest reports by going into the comms hooch at least twice during the day. During one of my afternoon visits, Wil asked me to join him.

“Hey, Doc.” Wil smiled as I entered the hooch to find him alone, marking up maps pinned to the crude plywood walls. “Pull up a chair.” He motioned to one of the plastic patio chairs commonly found in stacks outside Walmart. “Great work on the clinic. You got everything you need?”

“No, not really, but we’re making do.”

“Good man. That’s all I ask.” He pulled up a plastic chair and joined me at the plywood table that lined the front wall. “We’ve had a mission on the burner for the past few months and scrapped it twice. It just went to boil again, and I’m putting you in Chris’s place. You’ve got the skills we need, especially as a medic and shooter. It’s an added bonus that you were a radio guy.” Wil gazed at me levelly, then gestured for me to speak openly.

“I’m good to go. Can you tell me about it, or do you want to brief everyone at once?”

Wil smiled and then started searching for his pack of cigarettes, which he’d lost under the rat’s nest of maps and materials on his desk. He continued speaking as he searched. “The other guys are up to speed and have been itching to roll on this for months. We’ve learned of a target holed up about thirty miles from here in a place just beyond Khand Pass. We know he’s been coordinating the transfer of troops and weapons from Pakistan into Afghanistan, and we believe his orders are coming from top al Qaeda leadership. We’re going in to put eyes on him, assess his current location and troop strength, then call in the cavalry to grab him.”

“Thirty miles? I assume we have good intel on the area?” I asked as I slipped from PA mode into SEAL mode. Because special operations teams are composed of such a small group of operators, everyone wears multiple hats; actually, mine was more like a sombrero. Unlike trauma medicine, clinical medicine had a tendency to envelop me and shade me from the outside world. Caring for smiling children dressed in brightly colored gowns would often take me away from the cruelty of war, but the evils of al Qaeda always dragged me back to reality.

“We’ve got the best intel possible this time around. Chris, Chief, and Muscle Tom were out there a few times earlier this year, and they all know the area well.” Wil was alluding to the inaccuracy of past intelligence reporting; naturally any team would prefer to have firsthand knowledge of their AO (area of operations), and thankfully we did. “We’re also receiving collaborating information from multiple other sources, including several Taliban captured last month.” He paused long enough to hand me some pictures, then continued looking for his cigarettes. “The satellite imagery seems to back everything up.”

Special operations missions rely heavily on intelligence reports, especially when the troops involved are in small groups and far from base. Human intelligence, acronym HUMINT, is the information gathered from people on the ground, and it’s not limited to local populace; anyone with eyes and ears can be an asset. Signal intelligence, acronym SIGINT, is collected by eavesdropping on radio and telephone transmissions, or any device that produces a signal, and geospatial intelligence, acronym GEOINT, is derived from satellite imagery and related sources. There are other intelligence disciplines, but those were the ones most important to our mission, and Wil was a master at interpreting its value.

“Unfortunately Chris won’t make it back on time to go on this pump. That means you’ll be picking up his duties for the op.”

Wil, who was normally meticulously suspicious about missions, was much more at ease for this one, so the intel must have been strong about Khand Pass. It wasn’t that he was risk averse; it was simply that he valued American lives more than he believed in the outcome of this war. Vietnam veterans who built the special operations community mentored Wil during his early years, and despite their valiant service and mission success rate, the conflict didn’t end the way America had intended. I think he was concerned this war would turn out the same.

“So what’s next?” I asked, ready to get to work.

“Aha,” he said, finally finding his pack of cigarettes. He picked up a laser pointer and turned to a map tacked to the plywood wall. “The team will be rolling out in approximately three weeks, along this main route for the first few miles, then off the grid for the rest.” He traced the route with a red dot while simultaneously jabbing a cigarette in his mouth.

“You’ll get a warning order when we receive final approval.” He turned to me. “Doc, I wanted to let you know why I’m pulling you away from the clinic after you pushed so hard to get it up and running,” he said, now searching his pockets for his lighter. “It’ll be you, Vic, Muscle Tom, and Chief on this one. Vic will be team leader and primary comms. You all will be leading a platoon of the Afghan commandos, along with Ned and three terps [interpreters].” Ned, the Afghan commander, was a fierce warrior with extensive combat experience. He was raised in Kunar Province but educated by Westerners in Kabul. His English was nearly perfect and his courage unrivaled. I was happy to hear he would be wrangling the commandos. “Come on,” Wil said as he motioned for me to head outside with him for a smoke. I followed him to the porch and watched him light up. He then continued. “Time to dial back your time at the clinic while we wait for the green light. I spoke with the major in charge of 10th Mountain, and he’ll have his PA take care of it for now.”

“I appreciate the heads-up.”

“Get with Muscle Tom if you have any questions on what personal gear you might need. I’m sure it’ll be approved by the end of the week, and we’ll have a formal brief then. Did I leave anything out?” he asked, taking a hit from his cigarette.

“No, that about sums it up.”

“Not a problem, Doc.” He patted my shoulder and nodded.

“Wait, there are a couple of other things,” I said.

“Fire away.”

“I noticed we have some ballistic blankets in the armory. Can I use those on the vehicles? Also, I’d like to get some more medical supplies on the next resupply for additional medical kits. If we’re going deep into Indian country, I want to be prepared for anything.”

Wil smiled and flashed thumbs-up as he turned and headed back into the hooch. “Done and done!” he yelled over his shoulder.

A decade prior to my assignment at Shkin, I attended a briefing by two Special Forces medics who, after returning from the streets of Mogadishu, set out on personal journeys to share with all of special operations the lessons learned from that battle. One of the more salient points was the need to be able to return to sticks and rags in the treatment of casualties “because eventually you’re going to run out of supplies, and you will need to improvise.” The SOF medical community heeded their advice and adapted their training accordingly. In addition to reinforcing the basics, the units also began building their own medical resupply to an existing system, called “kickout bundles.” The idea of throwing essential equipment or resupply out the door of a hovering helicopter or a slow-moving aircraft, or cross-decking from one patrol boat to another, wasn’t anything new, at least not for beans or bullets. The medics’ briefing just made it more commonplace for teams to use kickout bundles for Band-Aids, too. I reaped the benefit of their experience during the early part of Iraqi Freedom, so I was damn sure I was going to try to have some backup equipment ready for this mission as well.

I knew Wil would move mountains to find the gear I requested, but as a SEAL and a spec ops veteran of Central and South America, I thought I’d utilize an old friend from a Special Forces Group that specialized in that part of world. He had recently joined an Army Special Forces team operating in a small base outside of Khowst, only five klicks, or roughly three miles, away from the air base, so I contacted their medics to ask if they would build a couple of bundles and drop them off at the helicopter medical evacuation teams for me. They gladly obliged. I had no reservations asking for help even though it meant adding more work to another team’s plate; if they needed help, they would have asked me, and I would have gladly pitched in. In the SOF community, we took care of one another like family.

While awaiting the warning order, we capitalized on every free minute. An extremely important element of special operations is the preparation, cleaning, and function check of every piece of equipment, starting with the team’s gear, with everyone pitching in to make it happen. No matter your rank or position, you get your hands dirty. Once the team gear is good to go, the operator can start prepping his own personal gear. It’s all part of the team mentality that’s instilled from the first day of training.