Lions of Kandahar (37 page)

I stood up straight for the first time in more than a week. I was now less worried about snipers or machine guns; I looked out over the valley. It was my first concentrated look at the massive devastation precipitated by the Taliban. This was all their doing. To say any less would be asinine and ignorant. I had to shake my head. The protected and self-righteous regularly toss knee-jerk, ill-informed accusations toward the militaries of the Western world every time civilians are killed in combat, yet they sit by quietly while the Taliban and many other terrorist organizations intentionally fight and hide behind or within innocent civilian populations. Not a damn word is said nor deed done about
that
.

A landscape of destroyed grape huts, impact craters from bombs, fires, and carnage unfurled before me. It looked like a monster had stomped through the valley, leaving the skeletons of compounds smoldering and the tops of trees jagged and twisted. It didn’t look like victory to me. It was all the Taliban and Al Qaeda had to offer Afghanistan. We didn’t start this battle. They had picked the fight with the wrong hombres, and in turn laid waste to others’ homes.

We walked down the hill and told Jared, Hedges, and Bolduc that we’d planned a ceremony later that morning to commemorate September 11 and to remember why we’d fought for the hill in the first place. Before the ceremony, Bill got the team together to clean weapons, check the radios, and fix up the vehicles. Dave asked me to play DJ with my iPod because he had only techno music suitable for the next assault, workout session, or rave. “Maestro, something patriotic, if you please!”

I plugged in my speakers and scrolled through the play list. “Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue” by Toby Keith kicked things off. Everyone gathered around the truck and began to bellow out the tune. For the next hour, we sang along with Toby, guzzled warm soft drinks, and ate cookies courtesy of the CSM and commander. It was a caffeine and sugar high. The guys from 3X, a few hills away, got the same resupply that had flown in with the commander—with one
special addition. A case, not just a box, of tampons. Our community does have a unique sense of humor.

Bill hollered that it was time to go. The ceremony would begin in ten minutes. Hodge, Bruce, and their teams started to gather up around ten o’clock. Most of the men carried small flags that had been stuffed in their equipment pouches for the last two weeks. It was an essential military tradition. With everyone on top of the hill, we fashioned three flagpoles.

Our combined force went to the top of Sperwan Ghar and proudly planted the flags of Canada, Afghanistan, and the United States of America, together. It was the first day since the initial assault that not a shot was fired by either friend or foe. “COMPANY, attention!” the command sergeant major yelled.

The three flags were raised in unison. We then all bowed our heads in silence. It was a moment to reflect—on the tragedy five years ago, the sacrifices made and those yet to be made for the hard struggle ahead. Bolduc then fished out a letter written by General Fraser. The coalition commander for southern Afghanistan wanted to personally thank us. We gathered around Bolduc as he read parts of it to us:

After the ceremony, I flew two American flags. The first one was for Greg. I had gotten word several days earlier that Sean had lived, but there was still no word about Greg. He had been transported from Kandahar to Germany. If he died from his wounds, I wanted to present the flag to his wife after the funeral. There I would make the same promise I had to Charlie’s wife. Six months later, I was privileged to be able to give the flag to Greg himself. He had survived by the grace of God.

The second flag I flew for someone else. After hoisting it up, Bill helped me neatly tuck it back into the box. I wanted to present it to Bolduc, to thank him for his incredible leadership.

Walking down the dust pile of a hill after the ceremony, I asked to speak with the boss. I presented the flag to Bolduc. It was the only way I could show my appreciation. He should own a piece of this history.

Bolduc grabbed my arm and looked me dead in the eye.

“Your men did a good job here. Remember that.”

We spent the rest of the day planning for the next operations across the river and the reconstruction of the area. We had to repair the damage, build dirt roads, and start establishing rapport with the people. The Soviets hadn’t been able to conquer the valley, but we now had a chance to not only control the Taliban’s backyard, but to win over their home-field support. We just had to capitalize on our victory by returning the ravaged district to its heyday as Afghanistan’s breadbasket.

Days had passed since I had called home, and I knew my wife hadn’t been well. At dusk, I went outside and called her on my satellite phone. I knew that the battle was big news, and any Green Beret’s wife who has been around more than a day knows how to put two and two together. I knew that watching the battle on the news would have made her anxious; I knew I was fine, but she did not. The sheer weight of the unknown is crippling, as I was about to learn firsthand. Pressing the hot black plastic against my ear, I listened for the clicking sound of connection. I could hear it finally make contact thousands of miles away. But instead of my wife on the other line, my mother answered. Startled, I asked if anything was wrong.

“She was taken to the emergency room for spinal surgery,” my mother told me. I couldn’t catch my breath.

My wife had never mentioned anything that serious when I talked to her before the first assault. A strong soldier’s wife, she did not want me to worry about her. Army wives are a special breed.

My mother was waiting for news from the hospital. “Call back when she gets out of surgery,” I said, numb.

I still had the small black Iridium phone in my hand when Bolduc came out of the building. By now the moon was full and gleaming white like a celestial flashlight. He walked over and handed me a paper. I read the first line and almost dropped the message.

I was faced with toughest decision of my life: go to my wife and help my family or stay with my men, who were closer than family. It had been only a short time since I’d talked to my mother, but I called back anyway.

“Your wife is fine and in recovery. She is going to need a lot of help, though,” my mother said.

I turned to Bolduc, still stunned. He knew that I needed some advice, and I just listened as the words streamed out. I knew my wife needed me, but I also knew that we faced some difficult days rooting out the remaining Taliban fighters across the river. We had a firebase to build, and I didn’t want to leave my men in harm’s way without me. Seven of my twelve men had been wounded, including me. When you are so close to your men, command is much more personal and much more difficult. I needed to be with them.

Finally, I asked the question.

“Sir, what do I do? I can’t leave my men in combat,” I said.

Bolduc knew that if I stayed, I’d be distracted. If I went home and took care of my family, when I returned I’d be committed, knowing that I didn’t have to worry.

First he gave me the setup. “We have this dichotomy as soldiers where we must balance between our families and our mission. Families always seem to come second,” he told me. “The team is trained well. They will do fine without you during this period.”

Then he let me off the hook.

“I will make it easy for you. You will get your big ass on that helicopter and go home and take care of your family. Right now, your priority is at home. I am not asking you,” he bluntly stated. I would have hugged him, but he would have punched me in the mouth. I knew he was right, but I didn’t feel any better because now I had to say good-bye to my men. I knew we’d get the mission to clear the objectives the Canadians couldn’t get to in their vehicles. There was a good chance I’d be shaking one or some of these men’s hands for the last time.

I found Smitty and Bill first. “Guys, I have a problem. I have to talk to you. My wife has had emergency surgery. I don’t know exactly what’s wrong,” I said. “I’ve never been there for anything. I missed the birth of my child. I’ve missed the death of relatives. My wife has carried the rucksack for our entire marriage. I have to go.”

After an awkward silence, Smitty spoke. “There will be lots of fighting here when you get back. Go take care of your family.”

That is what I needed to hear from my men. I stopped at all the trucks before going to my truck and picking up my kit. All the handshakes were strong. The smiles were big. Not a lot of words, just “I’ll see you soon.” Throwing the last of my gear into my bag, I left behind grenades, batteries, magazines of ammunition, snuff, and socks for Brian and Dave. They’d need them.

By now, I could hear the rotor blades of the Chinook echoing through the valley. An Apache circled around Sperwan as the helicopter landed. I could see the static electricity from the Chinook’s two rotors cut through the dust, creating a speckled halo over the bird as it touched down at the base of the hill. The tailgate dropped. Bill grabbed my backpack. Bolduc came over with Jared and both gave me a hug. They stayed at the truck as Bill walked out with me.

I stepped up on the ramp, grabbed my bag from Bill, and clicked my snap link into the aircraft. I felt like I was dragging myself onto the helicopter. I didn’t want to go, but I knew I had to. I knew my wife needed me. The noise from the helicopter made it hard to talk. Bill stepped up on the ramp and shook my hand.

“Remember rule number one, Ranger,” I said.

“I’ll walk my post from plank to plank and take no shit from any rank,” he said, grinning broadly.

“Watch after the boys until I get back, Bill.”

He gave me a thumbs-up and walked off the ramp.

I turned to the crew chief and gave him a thumbs-up. Bill stepped back. The engines whined as they gained power, and I watched Bill, the hill, and the ground fall away beneath me. I stood on the chilly metal ramp and looked down at the Panjwayi Valley and Sperwan Ghar. I wondered in absolute amazement how I or my men had not been killed. I tried to burn every second into my memory. We crossed the ridgeline where our blocking positions had been a week earlier. The Chinook’s nose dipped down as we turned toward Kandahar.
The helicopter turned to follow Highway 1, and soon the entire city of Kandahar could be seen out the back of the helicopter’s rampway. The lights and smells of the city—burning fires, exhaust, and dust—rose to meet me. I could see a few cars and trucks moving around. The bazaar, which normally would be full of hundreds of shoppers, was lifeless. Everybody was home asleep. Safe.

I
boarded the plane in clean clothes. I felt guilty even taking a bath because my guys were still out there. I’d sat in the TOC until it was time to board the plane. I listened as my guys got word to move north across the Arghandab River to clear the villages where the Taliban had maintained their stronghold for weeks. There was little contact, and it was mostly a clearing operation.

The plane was empty except for about ten passengers. The medics had braced my knee and given me shots in my shoulder to ease the pain for the long flight home. My thoughts drifted between my family and my men. I pulled out my notebook and began to utilize the many hours I had on the flight to try to compose statements for the valorous awards recommendations. I tried to put together everything I remembered. I stared intently at the pages I had written on the hill and tried to summarize all that had happened.

For such a strategic and significant battle, only a few valorous medals were awarded. The most important of these, to the men who fought there, was to Jude. His willingness to selflessly charge into what should have been certain death will forever be burned into the memories and lives of those who witnessed his actions. In reference
to Staff Sergeant Jude Voss, I’d scribbled a page for an award recommendation that night on Sperwan Ghar: