Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic (26 page)

I have never denied being scared in battle, but those were fleeting moments generally occurring during an opening volley or a break in the fighting, expunged by incoming fire or calls for help. However, being in the safe confines of the firebase gave me a new perspective about our October battle. I found myself scrutinizing each bullet hole, wondering who was the recipient of the damage caused by the round. This wasn’t the typical prebattle apprehension a warrior feels when being inserted into a firefight. The emotion I was feeling was fear, plain and simple, but not fear of the firefight; it was a fear of something
else
that I couldn’t quite define. I hid it from the others, but there was no use denying it to myself any longer.

Ironically, this wave of introspection was brought on by the tranquillity we experienced after our return from Khand Pass. During our hotwash after-action meeting, a sonic boom from a bomber overhead had us all jumping for cover and scrambling for weapons, but since that time there had not been a rocket, a round, or a loud noise anywhere near the camp. Each patrol left and returned without a word of enemy action. At first the calm was welcome. Then it became a bit uneasy. None of us trusted the serenity, but over time stillness became the status quo and peace a daily routine. It gave us time to think, not just on the missions ahead, but the friends we’d lost on previous ones.

I praised the firebase walls as we drove into camp that day, but now all I could do was curse them. I knew that had we stayed out there, I would have remained focused and intense, but the walls allowed me let to let my guard down, and upon hearing Wil’s news about our upcoming mission, I suddenly found myself questioning my ability to do my job. I couldn’t understand it. It wasn’t like I was some novice to combat or hadn’t faced death before. I had more than my fair share of close calls long before that fateful day. Yet here I was, doubting my ability to save lives. From my first day at BUD/S to the last day of SEAL training, confidence was instilled as a key factor for success. My self-confidence was crumbling, and I knew I had to do something to turn that around. In a desperate attempt at self-therapy, I began talking to myself out loud. I walked to an isolated area of the base and walked and talked to myself, wrestling with the waves of doubt. Then the truth suddenly came out: “I can’t watch another man die!” With that, the fear was revealed. I feared having another’s life slip away in front of me. I feared losing my teammates. It was my job to care for these men, but somehow I transformed this mission into one meaning that I had to bring them
all
home alive. Logically, I knew this was an impossible burden to bear. No one from either the special operations or military medical community ever said or implied anything of the sort. This was simply a duty I took upon myself. Over the years I spoke with other frontline medics and discovered I wasn’t the only one, but now the rucksack of responsibility had grown too heavy to carry, and it wouldn’t be long before I’d collapse under its weight.

I should have known better; I should have seen it coming. Like anything else tied to emotion, though the most difficult things to see are always those that are right in front of you. These feelings didn’t start with Wil’s words. They started decades earlier with my personal promise and a Hippocratic Oath. They were reinforced the moment we returned from Khand Pass, when I began my mental isolation from the others. Wil’s words were only the catalyst that set it all in motion.

I gathered my composure and thanked God no one had seen me raving like a madman in the far shadows of the Alamo. As I walked back toward the hooches, I heard the distinctive grinding and popping sounds a vehicle makes when driving across dirt strewn with large rocks.

Muscle Tom was returning from a day of training with the Afghani troops. Ever since the Khand Pass mission he had been feverishly working with the replacements for his commando team, trying to ensure everyone had a solid understanding of the tactical maneuvers. They‘d lost a number of skilled fighters that October day, most of them ones Tom had personally selected and trained. He knew that if America was ever going to be able to call this war in Afghanistan a victory, these men had to defeat their enemies on their own with the same swiftness and violence of action they displayed when we led them into battle, and he wasn’t about to let the Afghanis slip backward in their newfound capabilities.

“What’s up, Doc?” Tom joked in his surfer voice, which always carried a smile in its tone.

“Looks like we’re heading out soon, not immediately, but real soon,” I said. I think he sensed what I was feeling, but he just smiled and looked at me like he’d expected the news. I helped him gather the gear out of the truck and transfer it into our makeshift armory before walking with him to our living quarters.

“So what’s the story, Doc?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Tom, but I’m sure one of the targets just popped up on the radar or something along those lines.”

“Well, it eventually happens. Plenty of bad guys out there,” he said as we approached the building.

“I hear ya.”

When we reached the door, he stopped, turned to face me, put his hand on the back of my shoulder, and said, “Do you? Do you, Doc?” He was reading me like a book. I stood there speechless. He looked me directly in the eyes and said, “Eventually things are going to happen, and there’s nothing
anyone
can do about it. Not even a SEAL medical officer.”

He then gave me a half of a hug, the way warriors do when they survive a battle but realize they may still die in the war. Tom had saved my life once before when I was pinned down and out of ammo, and once again he made his way back to me—only this time to save me from an emotional ambush of my own doing.

One battle was over, but the war of combat stress between my mind and soul was just getting started.

“Let’s go,” he said as he turned and entered the briefing room where the rest of the team awaited us.

*   *   *

Wil started from the top. 10th Mountain was going to push into an area the group had wanted to get into for some time. Because they were expecting strong resistance, the army would be dedicating both artillery and air support to their operation. This would be key because intelligence assets in the area informed us that one of our objectives was residing in a village stronghold that we believed al Qaeda was using as a staging area. Corroborating sources supported these claims, but due to the intense terrain the effectiveness of aerial photography and drones was limited. That meant someone had to be in place before the main force started to move in. Normally a mission like this would have been too risky for a group our size. We had already felt the effects transit time had on air support and the quick reaction force during a prolonged battle, and no one, especially me, wanted to experience that again. Having fire support and 10th Mountain’s forces immediately available tipped the odds in our favor.

Our mission would be reconnaissance, more or less. We were to coordinate and travel with a small element of Afghani forces familiar with the territory to a position that would allow us to put eyes on target. Once in place we would establish a virtual catch net to snare fleeing insurgents by guiding in intercept forces. This meant we had to be a small force, so that we wouldn’t draw attention from a distance. We also had to move quickly in open terrain and have the capability to maneuver through the mountainous narrows. Yet at the same time we had to be large enough to establish multiple observation posts necessary to cover all the possible escape routes. What that meant to me was getting back into the same damn trucks I was fixated on only an hour earlier and returning to the badlands that we just fought our way out of a few weeks ago. I felt my guts tighten as the anxiety set in.

Wil finished the operational overview, looked at the group, and then made personnel assignments.

“Tom,” he said, looking at Muscle Tom, “you and Ranger Tom will guide the team into place and run the Afghani fighters. Remember, with Ned still recovering from being wounded at Khand Pass, you’re going to need terps with you to make sure you can direct those men should things start to turn south.”

He continued with assignments, but I didn’t pay too much attention. I just sat there anxiously waiting to hear if I would be going on the op. A month earlier I would have given anything to be included, but now I wasn’t so sure.

“Doc, you’ll assist them, but you know better than anyone why we’ll need you out there.”

I looked across the room at everyone, catching most of them by the eye before I turned to Wil and said, “Check.”

He went on, and I sat there taking in what he and everyone else had to say while staring intently at a map on the wall behind him. As I focused on the area of operation, I thought back to a conversation I had years earlier with one of my mentors. Doc C was an old Special Forces medic turned Ranger physician assistant. Wounded on more than one occasion while caring for his men, he had become a legend and someone I would follow into the gates of hell without hesitation.

“Maarkk,” he said in his thick Italian New York accent, “everyone is concerned how they’ll perform the first time they come under fire, but what you don’t hear about is the battle that goes on inside a medic until he gets back there again.”

Then he told me a story from Vietnam emphasizing his point in an effort to save me from the abyss I found myself entering. Back then, I thought I understood his message, but in reality I had no context to put it in. Unfortunately, that was no longer the case.

The horrors of war have a way of changing something inside of you that words simply can’t explain, and those who never experience it will never be able to truly grasp the pain. Emotions tear at you from the inside, trying to find their way out at the expense of your sanity. I would rather die than have my teammates go into battle without me. Yet the thought of having one of those men suffer horrible wounds or die in front of my eyes was killing me. I took a deep breath and concentrated on how Doc C’s lesson ended.

“We all go through this, Mark, it’s our unspoken bond,” he had said. I thought about it and realized Doc C was right. No matter how agonizing it is, it’s just another rite of passage. I had made a promise and taken an oath like all those medics before me. Death would’ve been the easy way out, but it wasn’t in the cards. Soon I would be back where I was supposed to be, on the battlefield fighting side by side with my teammates and maybe picking up some of the pieces of me that never left.

I tuned back in to Wil. “You’re going to initially move out with 10th Mountain, then break away as you start to near the area of interest,” he said. “Vic is going to be the on-scene commander, so from this point forward, get with him on the finer details. Any questions?”

“When is army projected to pull out?” Tom asked.

“0400 on Friday. That gives us just under thirty-six hours to get you all ready.”

There were a few more questions, but nothing of significance for the group, and with that everyone rose from their seats and headed to the door. I could hear the typical conversations about what needed to get done first, spiced with the usual wisecracks that reflected our group’s trademark sick sense of humor.

“Doc, you got a moment?” Wil asked. Vic was standing next to him.

“Of course,” I replied.

I walked the short distance separating us and stood facing the two of them. Vic looked at me and said, “Doc, I know how you feel about Muscle Tom, but because I’m going on this mission, I need the guys most familiar with the area up front, so I’m putting Tom and Tom together.” He paused slightly before continuing. “I’ll need you to be my driver in the middle of the pack.”

I know this may seem like an insignificant conversation, which guy goes where, but it was anything but that to me. We had all saved each other’s lives out there at Khand Pass that day, but I had watched Muscle Tom save mine. Somehow, it made me feel a little closer to him. I looked at them both, gave a half smile, and said, “Not a problem.”

As I started for the door, I realized how lucky I was to work for men who knew me well enough to tell me that news in private, and suddenly a great deal of the weight was gone.

*   *   *

The convoy was remarkably similar to the Khand Pass mission: nine vehicles, four men in each, packed tight with weapons and gear. Ranger Tom and Muscle Tom would alternate as the lead vehicle with the Afghan platoon leader. Afghan commandos manned the following vehicles, putting the vehicle manned by Vic, two terps, and me in the center of the pack. Behind us were four more Hiluxes filled with Afghan commandos, several of them new replacements for the valiant warriors lost on the Khand Pass mission. There was one distinct difference this time, however.

Our target was an al Qaeda senior leader holed up in a small village carved into a sheer mountainside, roughly fifty meters above the wadi floor.

The access route to the target was a rugged washboard trail along a rocky ridge that shook our heavily laden vehicles like toys, tested even the most robust suspension systems, and challenged the arm strength of the drivers. The path was dangerously narrow and squeezed by a steep mountain face to our immediate left and a deadly cliff dropping straight down to our right. I could barely open the driver’s door, and anyone exiting the passenger side had two feet of earth, then nothing. I felt uneasy knowing the horribly precarious situation we faced on this trail heading toward the village, which lay across the wadi on the opposite ridgeline. If there had been another route we surely would have taken it, but this was the only way to the objective.

Those who have experienced the outlands of Afghanistan are familiar with the treacherous, unforgiving terrain; perhaps the most difficult on earth and certainly the worst I’ve ever encountered. The harsh conditions would often force convoys to move at speeds no greater than fifteen miles per hour for hours on end, often telegraphing their approach and allowing the enemy, sitting on mountaintops miles away, the time they needed to establish an ambush or set an IED.