Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic (24 page)

The lead Hilux was severely damaged and the driver dead, cut to pieces during the opening volley. The rest of the men, however, escaped with only varying degrees of fragmentation and no serious trauma. As I treated a laceration on one fighter’s arm, I shot a look at their vehicle and wondered if they had failed to drive off the
X
as we had rehearsed, trapping the other vehicles, or if the truck had immediately been disabled by fire. As we pulled a stretcher from the bed and started back toward Dogface, I resigned myself to the fact I might never know. One thing was for certain: I wasn’t going to question their actions. They were seasoned fighters who had proven themselves under fire, which is why they were at the front of the convoy. Combat is constant chaos; things rarely happen sequentially, and everything comes crashing in at once. This causes soldiers to react to the person, object, or activity they register as the most immediate threat. That’s why two men standing side by side firing in the same direction see and remember things differently. I experienced this myself and have listened to others debrief and describe what happened during their battle. Members of the same team often contradict one another on how things went down. On one occasion video feed from a UAV proved that two men fighting together in close proximity remembered two very different scenarios, and both of their memories were slightly different from what the video recorded. That is why our all-volunteer force continues to flourish; our critical judgment is reserved for the circumstances that led to the fight, and not the actions of men and women who were caught up in it.

Two of the commandos carried their fallen comrade by stretcher toward a Hillux we used to evacuate the casualties while one stayed behind and pulled out anything that was salvageable. Dogface had loaded the deceased in the backseat, and the wounded were lying in stretchers placed horizontally across the bed of the truck. He stood by the driver’s door watching and listening to the fight on the far end of the ridge, then spoke to the men in Pashtu, telling them to load their KIA in a backseat. We then moved slowly toward Chief and Ned.

Ned wasn’t doing well when we pulled up, so we placed him on the hood of the truck and prepared to move out. I could hear the CASEVAC bird only minutes away, so I ordered two men to stay with Chief and guard the convoy’s previous twelve o’clock position. We rolled out toward the CASEVAC area. Ali and I trotted next to the truck and held on to the stretcher handles, preventing it from sliding off the hood. He told me he heard over the Afghan radio channel that Muscle Tom’s team was following a wounded enemy soldier, but he was unsure if that was good news or bad. I didn’t answer. I knew he was talking about the fight on the opposite ridge that we’d heard earlier while tending to the wounded. Word then came over the team channel that Muscle Tom was receiving sporadic sniper fire. He began speaking directly with the pilots and told them to watch for his smoke. He popped it, then told his men to take cover. He then authorized the birds to unleash hell, and that’s precisely what they did. Seconds later, Hellfire missiles screamed from the birds and annihilated the mountain walls on either side of the wadi.

We watched for several seconds, then returned to the task at hand. We had to get the men on an evac flight to the Combat Support Hospital if we wanted to save their lives. I could only do so much on the front lines. The badly injured required a surgeon’s knife and a sterile hospital, and any delaying treatment usually ends badly.

We arrived at the CCP, and four commandos began unloading the wounded and placing them in an open area so that I could begin to triage, treat, and dress them for transport. Once the wounded were squared away, the commandos pulled their fallen brothers from the truck and placed them in an area designated for the deceased. Without a word, Dogface grabbed Ali and headed back to recover Chief. I then began working on Ned’s chest wound, placing IVs to dispense pain meds and push fluids. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and turned to see Vic walking down from his vehicle. As he approached, I could see pain in his eyes over the loss of our friend.

“Good work out there. You OK?” he yelled over the noise from the approaching bird.

“I’m fine, Vic. These guys are going to be fine, too.”

“The CASEVAC is landing in five. We’ll make sure they take Chief on the way out.” I just looked up and nodded, then returned to my job. Vic, like the rest of us, was torn up inside. Even though Chief ’s death was a consequence of an ambush. Vic was the team leader, and leaders always seem to have a way of blaming themselves. Vic saved all our lives out there, and I just hoped he understood it. I watched him turn and head back to his vehicle to coordinate the evacuation and track on 10th Mountain’s movement. We were three hours into a very long day and still needed to get back home.

Minutes later, the CASEVAC bird arrived. The injured commandos were loaded first, and the aircrew then unloaded the kickout bundle the team packed earlier. I then asked the crew to take Chief ’s body, but the aircrew chief flat-out refused, nearly sending me into a rage. I explained that I realized Chief was deceased and this bird was designated to evacuate living casualties, but that didn’t matter to any of us. He was our teammate and needed to receive the dignity his honorable service deserved. Few men ever reach the level of service this man had, and I wasn’t about to let the plane take off without him.

Vic saw me arguing with the aircrew and quickly jogged over. He guided me away, then turned around and walked directly into the pilot’s line of sight at the front of the bird. They spoke quickly by radio. Vic was an Air Force Combat Control officer with a legendary reputation, and he knew what to say to the pilot, and it worked like magic. A minute later, the aircrew chief was apologizing to me and loading our teammate’s body onto the helo. Vic returned to the CCP without comment.

Soon after the bird lifted off, Muscle Tom returned with his patrol. He pointed toward the battlefield, where he’d placed commandos on watch.

“I put two guys up there and over there with PKMs to provide some overwatch for perimeter security. The rest are in teams of two in a perimeter around our position.”

“Good call,” Vic answered before updating us. “Chris radioed that he reached the entrance to the pass. They’re bringing four up-armors and two soft skins loaded to the hilt.” Vic paused before continuing. “Doc, we need to fix the vehicles that can be fixed and have everyone ready to move out soon after the QRF arrives.”

“I’m on it.” The QRF was an hour out. The vehicles were seriously damaged, and I had to get them up and running within that hour.

“What’s the status on the east side of the mountain?” Vic asked.

“The rock face on this side is clear. The birds crushed everything along the eastern ridgeline, but it looks like some of the ambushers got away. We found a blood trail heading toward the east and followed it for a while, but there’s a lot of ground to cover out there.” He paused for a swig of water. “Steep cliffs, rock formations, and a wadi that seems to go on forever. Basically, plenty of places for bad guys to hide.”

Once Tom finished his assessment, Vic told us how he directed aircraft to take out an enemy Hilux loaded with men, as well as a foot patrol approaching from the southeast. Not only was Vic saving our lives, he was falling back on his CCT expertise and taking the fight directly to the enemy.

“Tom, I’ll need you to come up with a plan to sweep the area when Chris arrives with 10th Mountain.” It was a wise decision to let Tom formulate the plan since he was the only one out of the three of us who’d seen the whole battlefield. “Doc, be sure to check on the men, and when you get the chance try to take a break yourself. You look worn out.” Vic returned to his Humvee, then assumed his position on his perch overlooking the area. Tom returned to his commandos and assigned several to ready the convoy for the trip back to Shkin. I checked on Dogface and the front three vehicles. Miraculously they were able to get my vehicle moving and had stripped out everything from the lead Hilux.

It seemed the threat had subsided, at least for the time being. I grabbed an empty rucksack and filled it with water, spare ammo, and AK magazines and headed out to each of the sentry positions. I started with the overwatch positions, taking an extra two-hundred-round PKM ammo box to ensure they had plenty. I also wanted to get a full view of the battlefield. Each time I reached the men I’d get a count of their magazines to make sure everyone was fully loaded while they drank up. If they had been wounded, I’d do a quick reassessment, fix what needed to be fixed, and move on. I returned to the staging area two more times to restock my pack and stopped only when I felt the men were ready. After the final run, I sat with Vic and shared an energy bar and water. I realized I was exhausted. We quietly sat together, our silence speaking volumes about the loss of so many lives while we waited for our reaction force to arrive.

15

QRF

The tragedy of war is that it uses man’s best to do man’s worst.

—H
ARRY
E
MERSON
F
OSDICK

Chris arrived with a platoon from 10th Mountain including an air force tactical air controller assigned to the company and a medical team made up of the battalion surgeon and additional medics. Chris was in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle, and we saw his blond hair from a mile out. Vic immediately called a meeting with Tom, Chris, and me along with the officers and senior enlisted from the 10th Mountain. We gathered at the spot where my vehicle sat just hours earlier and briefly explained to Chris and the others what happened. After Vic was through he turned the floor over to Tom. It had been over an hour since we received enemy fire, so we assumed the onslaught of air support that Vic wielded on the enemy ended any desire to continue the assault.

“Captain, I know we all would like to get out of here, but we’d like to sweep the area and gather what intel we could off the enemy dead if you’ll allow it,” Tom said to the officer in charge of the QRF. The captain’s sergeant major nodded in support. Tom suggested the 10th Mountain platoon leader take a couple of armored vehicles and head toward the southern ridge while another squad joined up with a group of our ANA and followed the blood trail on foot.

“Doc, you’re the only other American familiar with the layout of the battlefield. Why don’t you take Hamadullah’s fighters and the staff sergeant’s men and push out toward the east. Chris, grab a couple soldiers”—he paused to see if he had approval from the captain—“and check the bodies on the ridgeline for intel. I’ll take some of my men and cover the flank.” I could see that Chris was annoyed with his assignment, and when everyone moved away he asked to speak with Tom and me.

“What’s up?” Tom asked.

Chris removed his ballistic sunglasses. “I didn’t come out here to scour the dead. Frankly, these are my men, and I’m a little pissed I couldn’t be here with you all when this happened.” I could see both the pain and intensity in his eyes. He was right, he knew these men far better than I. He’d trained them from the beginning and led them under fire on numerous other occasions, and I knew exactly what he was feeling. I had to stay behind on previous operations when insertion platforms or other parameters changed at the last minute. It wasn’t a good feeling, especially when the team took casualties. Each special operations warrior has something inside him that screams, “I can be the difference.” It’s not arrogance or ego; it’s simply an unwavering belief in ourselves. It’s part of the internal drive that gets us through training and those times when the odds are stacked against us. Unfortunately, it’s also what haunts us when our teammates fall. Tom looked at me as if the decision were mine to make. Chris was a top warrior, and the mission had completely changed, so missing the rehearsals was a moot point. I had no problem with Chris taking the patrol.

“I’ll do the assessments,” I said firmly. “I could use a breather.”

With the plans in place, we regrouped and listened as Vic addressed everyone. “Doc’s doing the assessment. Chris and Tom will lead the patrols, and Lieutenant, you’ll continue as planned. I’ll move up to that point and direct traffic. Questions? Good.”

Chris and Tom peeled off and rallied their men. Vic walked back toward his perch to discuss plans with the 10th Mountain leadership, and the remaining soldiers reinforced the perimeter. I prepared to visit the dead who had tried to kill me just a few hours earlier.

Chris and Tom led their teams over the ridge and into the wadi, both groups changing patrol formation to suit the terrain. Muscle Tom and his men broke and moved off to the left, while Chris and his men, including a trusted Afghani named Lal, headed straight down the wadi.

I approached the corpses lying on the ground. Their ethnic appearance indicated al Qaeda; it wasn’t the Taliban that attacked us. These men were well armed with equipment that rivaled that of most armies. They would have had an enormous advantage on us had they been ready when we turned the corner, but their footprints and empty bullet casings confirmed our suspicions. We had surprised them, and they rushed to try to trap the convoy while the rest of their men filtered into the area. I realized how much of a hero Vic really was. Had he not maintained the discipline to hold his ground in the face of enemy fire and direct air support on the men flooding into the valley, none of us would have made it out alive.

I searched each body for information that might help us locate some of our most wanted high-value targets. As I approached each body, I pictured the man’s movements in my mind. A group of men were lying double arm’s length from one another in a fighting position that was only a stone’s throw away from our vehicle. Another was crumpled next to his RPG launcher with the empty canvas RPG backpack still slung over his shoulder. It was obvious he’d been hit when he came up to unleash his last rocket. Thankfully he only carried four RPG rounds and was unable to keep his cool as he hurried his shots at the vehicles. He might have been the best shot among their group, but the real skill is being able to contain your emotions in battle, and that’s not as easy as it sounds, especially when the men you’re shooting at will be firing back the minute you give your position away.