Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic (28 page)

During my mad dash, Tom and Tom gathered the few men they had from the vehicle that made it to the bottom and moved them out of the wadi. Ranger Tom assembled a maneuvering element while Muscle Tom began to set up the 60 mm mortar that he always carried in his vehicle. The 60 mm is a versatile, lightweight, high-angle-firing weapon specifically designed to support close-in fighting. It was a perfect choice for the terrain of Mangritay. This weapon had the ability to clear the natural obstacles our enemy was hiding behind and maintain the destructive force necessary to penetrate their defenses when it dropped in to say hello.

Back at the rear of our convoy, I briefed the 10th Mountain officer on the plan Vic and I had put together. He then added his suggestions, and we called it in to Vic and the Toms. It was fairly simple: I would start back down the mountain, ensuring our personnel and vehicles were ready to roll. When 10th Mountain saw me nearing my vehicle, they would let go with the M-2 .50 caliber Browning machine gun, aka “the fifty,” and the MK-19 automatic grenade launcher, concentrating their fire on the enemy’s position. They would maintain a constant flow of return fire that would naturally start to die off when each group of ANA fighters climbed on board their vehicle to move out. Once everyone was mounted up all of our vehicles would move forward, except the last one. It was far more sensible for 10th Mountain to tow it backward over the initial hump and have the men remain with them until we were able to link back up at a later time, rather than expose them to fire. At the front of the convoy, Vic would somehow get the stalled vehicle moving and clear the path for the rest of us. Muscle Tom, meanwhile, would start a flanking maneuver once we were safely out of their direct fire. Somewhere along the way down the mountain, I would pick up Vic, unless he was piloting another vehicle.

On Vic’s command, I sprinted down the mountain, once again low-running from truck to truck. The incoming fire was still sloppy and undisciplined but also very dangerous. I reminded each of the ANA fire teams of the plan, then continued toward the front of the convoy. As I reached the last vehicle before mine, the mountain behind me erupted in a thunderous explosion from 10th Mountain’s gunners. Up ahead, Vic cleared the stalled vehicle and ordered their asses off the mountain before returning to ours. I opened the door, and once again he scrambled across the seats as I jumped in behind him. “Get us down the damn mountain, Doc. Don’t be shy.” I gunned the engine and threw it into gear and bounced down the path toward the wadi floor below. I was monitoring radio traffic as I drove and was relieved to hear the 10th Mountain guys report the convoy behind me was mobile. I wrestled the truck around one of the curves as I rattled down the mountain just before 10th Mountain’s return fire fell silent. As powerful a weapon as the MK-19 was, it always seemed to jam at the most inopportune time. For some reason the .50 cal went silent, too.

“You just keep your eyes on the road,” Vic said as he looked behind us, relieved to see the ANA troops were following the plan. “Good, good,” he said as he turned back and focused on the path in front of us.

“Roger that!” I gassed it and tore into the final curve in the path.

We reached the bottom with such a thud the doors of the truck flew open and Vic nearly tumbled out. “Hang on, boss!”

“
Now
you tell me? Did they teach you that in SEAL driving college?”

Just before the initial attack kicked off, the Toms and a couple of ANA vehicles had entered the wadi, turned right, and moved out of the enemy’s range. Once the ambush started, however, the wadi became the
X,
and we were approaching it quickly.

Having seen the vehicle in front of us fall into the enemy’s crosshairs, I yelled out, “We can’t turn right. They’ll shred us with machine-gun fire!”

“Roger that,” Vic yelled back. “Hang on!” The truck rolled into the wadi, and I bolted straight forward across open ground as rounds rained down from the opposite cliff. They had expected us to turn right, and our amended plans threw them off. When we reached the halfway point, the 10th Mountain boys unleashed hell, having got their guns back online. The brief break in incoming fire allowed us to unclench and concentrate on finding a safe area out of the enemy’s range. Ironically, the safest place was against the opposite mountain face, directly below the enemy’s position.

As soon as we parked the vehicle, Muscle Tom’s voice came over the radio net. “Doc, I can see you from here. That was the right call.”

I rogered up, exited the vehicle, and reminded everyone to watch for grenades from above. We took cover behind a large rock formation along the edge of the wadi as the ANA vehicles continued to exit the curve and move to our position. Meanwhile, Vic was working air support.

“Birds are incoming. We’re staying put for now. I’m pushing control of air support to Muscle Tom,” he said calmly.

“Good copy. I’ve got air support,” responded Muscle Tom.

A few minutes later, two army SuperCobras arrived on station, and Muscle Tom directed them in to the enemy’s stronghold. We quickly deployed bright orange VS-17 signal panels and stretched them across the hoods of our trucks so the gunships would know we were there. For good measure, Vic contacted them and advised them of our position. Seconds later, the birds lit off their weapons, turning the ridge above us into a smoky hell.

Twenty minutes later, we rallied at the far end of the wadi with Tom and the first trucks that pushed through.

During the battle, Muscle Tom quickly placed a pressure dressing on the hand of one of his ANA soldiers, which warranted further attention. The round tore away the majority of his fingers and part of his thumb and palm. Although I was able to control the bleeding, he would eventually need the care of a surgeon; the question was how long I could delay before getting him there. Calling for a casualty evacuation of our wounded could take the medical birds offline for over an hour. Normally this wouldn’t be a concern, but with 10th Mountain and another special operations team conducting missions northeast of our location as part of a larger operation, I considered the consequences for my fellow Americans. With limited air-medical evacuation assets in the region, our request for an EVAC could easily translate into a prolonged transit time for a wounded American, jeopardizing his life.

The wounded are surviving injuries that would have killed others in previous wars because of better personal protection and, more importantly, shorter transit times to advanced surgical care. This was undoubtedly the case in Iraq, where the vast majority of military hardware was located in support of that effort, including medical evacuation helicopters. There was also a disproportional amount of medical assets. In Iraq the number of Combat Surgical Hospitals in an area of operations often mimicked the number of Starbucks you’d find within a suburban mall, one every ten feet. Often surgeons would spend most of their time assisting locals, but in Afghanistan the medical support assets were considerably less, whittling away at the golden hour.

I wrestled with my thoughts for a minute as I continued dressing wounds and remembered having to choose between Chief and Ned only weeks earlier. Then it was clear, save my teammate, but now the situation was somewhat hypothetical; from the radio we knew 10th Mountain and marines operating north of our position hadn’t reported any casualties, at least not yet. By the time I had assessed the last man, I had decided on my recommendation. Although the choice ultimately lay with Vic, I knew my thoughts would weigh heavily in his decision.

I would like to say there are no differences among allies, but truth be told there is always some friction between American soldiers and the ANA, including within myself. I had seen Afghanis join the national army only to defect once they received their weapons, at a rate that made it nearly impossible to grow the force, and there was no denying the ethnic frictions and brokering of influence and corruption among certain elements of the country’s security forces. We might have removed the Taliban from power, but it was the Afghan security forces responsibility to carry the fight forward in order to establish a strong central government.

I couldn’t risk it—the life of an American outweighed the need for an expedited transport to the CSH. The wounded would evacuate by ground with the rest of us. We needed to get moving soon. The sun was starting to set, and we had a long haul ahead of us through badlands.

I shared my thoughts with Vic, Tom, and Tom, and as I suspected they agreed with my recommendation. Tom kept a terp in his car and once again took the lead on our way to meet up with the 10th Mountain leadership. The target of our recon mission was either dead or long gone, so Vic made the decision to abort and head back to the Alamo. One of our vehicles was completely destroyed, and two more were banged up pretty badly. Our ammo was depleted, and night was setting in. The team leader for 10th Mountain offered to escort us part of the way back, and we gladly accepted. An hour later, we were on the road to Shkin, relieved the action was over. Or so we thought.

17

CRIMINAL ENCOUNTER

Valor is a gift. Those having it never know for sure whether they have it till the test comes. And those having it in one test never know for sure if they will have it when the next test comes.

—C
ARL
S
ANDBURG

We traveled through the dark for another hour without a hint of trouble. I was driving the command vehicle, with Vic riding shotgun and our interpreter in the backseat behind me. The mood was light, but the troops were ready to get back to the firebase. Over the past seventy days the camp had lost five Americans and twice as many ANA commandos, and nerves were raw. As we drove toward our haven in the middle of hell, I contemplated the losses and engagements that had occurred since my arrival in Afghanistan. From the rocket attack to being trapped on the side of the mountain, it felt like a steady flow of death and destruction.

We reached a fork in the road, and 10th Mountain signaled us to pull over. We could have said our good-byes over the radio, but after everything we’d been through it just didn’t feel appropriate. The patrol leader dismounted and began walking toward our vehicle with his sergeant in tow. Vic, Muscle Tom, and Ranger Tom joined them while I walked to the vehicle behind ours to reassess the casualties.

“Well, this where we U-turn. Are you good to go?” asked the patrol leader.

“We’re good. Thanks for playing along. Keep your heads down and get home safe. Good hunting,” said Vic.

“Will do. Give us a shout if you need anything, and we’ll see you back at the firebase in a couple of days.” Everyone shook hands before the 10th Mountain boys climbed into their armored Humvees and rolled off into the dark countryside to join up with the rest of their force.

Vic walked back toward our vehicle as Muscle Tom went to each ANA vehicle and informed them he’d be taking lead; more importantly, he reminded everyone to stay vigilant. Exfil is always one of the most dangerous components of any operation. The mental and physical drain placed on individuals as they execute the mission often fools soldiers into letting down their guard earlier than they should. Considering there was still plenty of Indian country to cover before we made it to friendly lines, we couldn’t leave anything to chance.

The convoy saddled up and drove on for quite some time, the full moon and stars lighting our way like dim streetlights. We moved from flat desert terrain into rolling hills covered with scrub brush and clumps of trees, and every one of us became tuned in to our surroundings. It was getting close to midnight, and we’d just entered an area known for its criminal activity, which meant Taliban to me. I switched on my NVGs as the increased foliage disrupted the celestial light and peered out into the night, a greenish glow illuminating a country plagued by ancient and deadly customs.

When I first arrived in country, I was able to differentiate Taliban soldiers from the hordes of criminals that ruled the lawless land, but as the war went on they all seemed to blend into a single cesspool of opportunistic scum. In my mind every Taliban was a criminal, and at least half the criminals were Taliban. There was no governance under their years of control, only an agenda of intolerance and cruelty. I couldn’t imagine my family growing up in a land where sons were often forced into servitude and wives and daughters were stripped of their fundamental human rights. The disregard for women shown by the majority of Afghani men disgusted me. I am who I am today because of my mother, but the Taliban would have prevented her from being the mom and woman she is. Rather than benefit from her strength, they would have destroyed it, along with her dignity, through public beatings and malicious acts intended to shame her into submission.

These were evil men, fearful of their own insecurities, which they hid behind their acts of brutality. What they couldn’t accept they defied, and did so by establishing a rule based on ignorance and absolutism. If there has been one lesson I’ve learned over my years of service it’s that intolerance feeds the fires of hate until prejudice becomes an accepted practice.

There were good men in Afghanistan, men like those who made up our Afghan force, but most were mired in ancient traditions and their deep-seated ambivalence toward women troubled me. If they didn’t have the strength to stand up against the persecution of their own flesh and blood, then how could we expect them to have the strength to support a centralized government? We had already done the heavy lifting by freeing them from the oppression of the Taliban; it was their responsibility to move their country ahead and take advantage of the freedom. I could accept dying trying to free the oppressed of the world, but not one American life was worth sacrificing for people willing to accept tyranny.

“Vic, we’ve got a series of S-curves and hills up ahead.” Muscle Tom’s voice crackled over the radio and broke me from my trancelike state. “Slow it down while Tom and I take a look at what’s ahead.”

“Good copy. Go ahead, Tom,” Vic responded.