Lions of Kandahar (29 page)

“I think I can move Sean to the CCP,” I shouted.

“Wait a minute,” Riley said.

Jude gave Riley an update on Greg’s injuries. Riley had never seen injuries like Greg’s. Even in the Special Forces medics course he never imagined he’d see someone so damaged. He started cutting off Greg’s charred uniform. Each time he pulled away a piece, he found a new injury. Fractured ankle. Broken tibia. Shrapnel wounds in his knee. Third-degree burns from his waist down.

When Riley got to Greg’s right buttock, he found a hole the size of his fist going straight into Greg’s abdomen, where a huge piece of shrapnel had blown through and lodged deep, exposing the intestines. It was the same devastating wound we had tried to treat.

“How is he?” I screamed over the steady rattle of machine-gun fire.

If Riley shook his head up and down, he thought Greg would make it. But he and Jude both shook their heads no, and my heart sank. Greg’s wounds were way beyond what we could treat.

“His heart rate is low as well as his blood pressure. He needs blood and level-three attention fast,” Riley said. “He’s in the golden hour.”

This meant that we basically had one hour to get Greg to a medical facility before it was too late. Riley continued to treat him, but the irrigation ditch was too dangerous. The Taliban were now focusing their undivided attention on our position. Dirt and debris continued to rain down on us and into Greg’s wounds. I had to get Sean to the casualty collection point. I didn’t want him to be there if Greg died.

Bill sent two Afghan soldiers down to cover us. Another small explosion sent more truck parts and recoilless-rifle rounds shooting
past us. Riley, J.D., and Jude instinctively hunched over Greg as I hovered over Sean, trying to protect them from further injury. We had to move.

Jude ran back to Jared’s truck and grabbed a stretcher, got back and unfolded it, only to realize it had been broken in the initial blast. He raced back to get another. I told Sean I was going to move him to a safer spot and managed to lift him to his feet. I slid my arm underneath the back of his shirt and grabbed his collar. Slinging his arm over my neck, I grabbed the front of his belt until he could get his legs moving.

Diving into the marijuana field on the other side of the berm, we staggered our way through the thick stalks, which snapped back to slap us as we shoved past them. I could hear Casey’s .50 cal firing, and we moved toward the sound. We finally made it through the field before both of us collapsed.

“Do you remember what your name is?” I asked.

“Yeah, Sean,” he said.

“Do you know what day it is?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Sean said, and I smiled.

“Well, can you get to your feet? Because I can’t carry your big ass over this berm,” I said.

He shook his head yes. We made it about ten yards from the top of the berm, when he suddenly collapsed on top of me. I grabbed both his arms and with him on my back half dragged, half carried him toward Jared’s vehicle. My legs wobbled like a newborn’s and my back gave out after a few steps. We went down in an exhausted heap. Jared ran over when he saw us fall, looking himself like someone had cleaned his clock in a bar fight. I asked if he was okay. He said yes and took Sean.

I lumbered back to Jude’s position, where Riley was still working on Greg. The enemy fire was increasing. Riley needed everyone to move before someone got shot. I told him the casualty collection point was near Jared’s truck and then moved to link up with Bill,
stopping to make sure nobody had left any sensitive items like night-vision goggles in the ditch. Behind me, I watched an Afghan soldier pick up Greg, throw him over his shoulder, and carry him to safety.

The vehicle continued to burn. I looked at the small ditch where we all had just been. The dry wheat-like grass was mashed flat and covered in blood. Used first aid supplies, needle cases, tubing, bits of clothing, and plastic wrappers littered the ground. Then I noticed the bloodstains all over my gloves, sleeves, and pouches.

When I got back to the casualty collection point, Jared grabbed my arm. “We have medevac birds inbound in thirty minutes. CAS will come in with them. Get me a target list pronto!”

Armored gun trucks were circled like wagons around the wounded in the center of the CCP. Men lay sprawled on litters with medics hovering around them. Jude was busy convincing the medics that his burns were not that bad and he could still fire a weapon.

My thoughts circled back to Greg. He had been in a Special Forces unit before and knew the mission could be deadly, but he hadn’t just volunteered, he’d insisted on coming. I second-guessed my decision to let him join us and didn’t know how I’d explain it to his one-year-old son.

At the CCP, Greg was convinced he was going to die. Every time he took a breath, his body wrenched in unimaginable pain. Riley pumped him full of antibiotics and painkillers, hoping to ease his fears. Riley tried to keep him talking: Fishing. Hunting. About the old days in training. Anything to keep his mind off the pain.

“You okay, man?” he asked as he snapped on a tourniquet and wrenched it down. Greg screamed. Grabbing Greg’s penis, Riley moved it out of the way so he could apply another tourniquet higher on his leg.

“Hey, Riley,” Greg said between tortured breaths. “If I die, last thing you’re going to remember about me is that you touched my dick.”

“Fuck you, homo,” Riley said, wrestling to secure the tourniquet to staunch the bleeding from Greg’s mangled right leg.

As the medevac helicopter approached, Greg refused to fly until he talked with Jared and Jude. They ran over and knelt by his side. He told Jared he was proud to serve with our unit and that it wasn’t his fault. He’d volunteered to go on the mission. Greg’s message to Jude was simple.

“You are a friend of mine for life, if you like it or not,” Greg told him.

Jude smiled. “I feel the same way.”

“THESE JOKERS
JUST DON’T GIVE UP!”

T
he image of my broken men weighed heavily on my mind as I scrambled back through the marijuana field. This attack, this hill was, after all, my idea. I looked down at my hands and body armor, smeared with blood. Most commanders are not on the ground with their men when they get hurt or die. In this business, you are, and you know the names of their wives and kids.

When I met up with Bill, he said we needed to request another emergency resupply of ammunition.

“I know, Bill, just get me the numbers of supplies we need,” I responded. “It looks like we finally may have close air support coming in, and I need you to get me targets from your side of the perimeter. We also need to go tell the rest of the team about Greg and Sean.”

Most already knew they were wounded, just not how badly. Bill and I staggered back up the two-story berm. Exhausted and soaked with sweat, we sank down and rolled over on our backs, gasping for
air. I’d never been more tired, even during Ranger school and the Special Forces Qualification Course.

“Hey Captain, we’re probably going to get shot up here,” Bill joked.

“After what we just lived through, I doubt it, Bill,” I managed, gulping in air. “I honestly never thought we would live this long.”

I reached into one of my ammunition pockets with my torn, bloody glove and pulled out a small hand-crafted silver snuff tin. It was a gift from Shinsha. I offered Bill some Copenhagen. Both of us took a second to hang a dip and sip from our warm CamelBaks. The team needed us both focused, and the momentary break allowed us to collect ourselves.

The break was short-lived.
Thwack, thwack
. Two rounds hit the dirt beside us, breaking up our little corporate meeting.

“Shit,” I said, rolling over and tumbling down the berm to the shelter of the depression. This was the third time today I’d found myself in this hole.

“Don’t these fuckers ever give up?” Bill said.

“I reckon not,” I replied before we took off for the safety of the vehicles.

Back at the truck, I heard the familiar chugging of rotor blades. I could barely hear Jared call me on the radio through the sweat accumulated in my earphones. I pulled the ear cups off and spilled it out.

“Rusty, you and Ron control the rotary-wing aircraft and Mike and I will control the fixed-wing,” I heard him transmit.

The medevac was inbound and called soon after.

“Talon 31, this is Viper 08, I am coming in from the southeast on a one-hundred-fifty-five-degree azimuth. I am five kilometers out from your location with medevac in tow. Call sign is Dustoff 03. Request approach azimuth for medevac and current ground situation.”

Ron had the map in front of him and he gave me a hard look. “Not now, Captain,” he said firmly. “I have to plot the enemy compounds.” I knew what he was saying, and I didn’t mind taking directions from
him. What he was working on was the most important issue—air support.

I also couldn’t lie to the pilot, but I fervently didn’t want to tell him the truth either. I didn’t want him to call off the medevac because he was afraid of getting shot down. But at this point that was a very real concern. I decided to lay it all out.

“Viper 08, this is Talon 31. Please pass to Dustoff 03. Current ground situation is not good. I am three units on one terrain feature surrounded by enemy as close as fifty meters and as far as one kilometer. We are in a large teardrop-shaped open area with a hilltop that looks like a volcano. We own the high ground and the U-shaped building fifty meters northeast. Expect ground fire on approach and exfil. I have eight casualties who need immediate medical evacuation. Some are Americans. I can talk on the Viper 08 to known enemy locations but expect more ground fire than you can suppress. Talon 30 will control Dustoff 03 and I will control Viper 08. Do you copy?”

The long pause concerned me. The pilots were weighing their options. I was starting to second-guess my decision to lay it out when the radio crackled to life.

“Talon 31, this is Viper 08. I am coming in to the northeast for a marking pass and will suppress while Dustoff 03 comes in.”

Relief.

“Hot damn, now we’re in business!” I shouted.

This time the Apache attack helicopter didn’t make circles, but flew swiftly over our position as we held out a large orange panel. As soon as the Taliban saw the Apache, they opened fire. The Apache peeled off; we stowed the panel and fired back.

“Talon 31, I see you. Where do you want it?”

Behind the schoolhouse wall, Ron plotted the targets on his map with a compass, GPS, and pencil while I talked to the Apache. We needed to hammer the remaining fighters long enough for the Chinook to get the wounded out.

“Viper 08, next pass, come hot. Concentrate your fire on the east-west-running
irrigation ditch due north of my marking about one hundred meters. There you should see two grape houses and a compound joining the irrigation ditch. Hit all three of them as hard as you can on the first pass and then we will guide you in on the next pass.”

The Chinook circling in the distance was now tucked in behind the attack helo.

“Roger, get your heads down,” the pilot said.

It seemed funny that the pilot wanted us to duck.

I heard Jared call in something about red-colored smoke to the medevac pilot, then the familiar
whoosh, whoosh, whoosh
of rockets and the grumbling
bup, bup, bup
of cannon fire erupted overhead. The rockets smashed into the ditch as the Apache shot skyward, preparing for a second pass. In the attack helicopter’s wake, the Chinook banked hard to the left and seemed to drop out of the air near the red smoke column. The pilots didn’t want to expose the helicopter’s belly to Taliban fire.

Jared and about six guys from Team 36 carried the wounded, IV bags in their teeth, to the waiting helicopter.

Taliban rockets and machine guns immediately zeroed in on the helicopter. I heard the
tunk
of bullets piercing the hull. An RPG flew past the helicopter’s tailgate near Jared’s truck and exploded into the berm wall. The American pilot never wavered. He stayed in place as the medics rushed the wounded into the helicopter’s belly.

Our guns hammered every position we could identify. I told Viper 08 to watch our tracer fire and come in closer.

“Closer?” he asked hesitantly.

“Roger, danger close,” I responded. “Danger close” was not a term ever taken lightly. It was only used as a last resort and meant that the soldiers calling in the air strike will possibly be hit with the ordnance they are calling for. The slightest deviation in the targeting of the rockets, aircraft, or rounds meant you had just wounded or killed yourself. It was perfect or you were dead.

Dave banged away at the building and tree line with his .50-cal machine gun, marking the spot for the pilot. The Apache swooped in just above us. Rockets and 30-mm cannon fire leveled the tree line and smashed the building.

“Very nice,” Brian said, flashing a freckled grin.