The War I Always Wanted (5 page)

Instead, he stopped eating and looked at me, suddenly enraged that I would be so weak as to follow the medical doctor's directions. “I'll throw you out of that window,” he said with the point of a fork, “at my own pace and distance. Don't you ever say something like that again, Friedman.” He never liked to call his subordinates, especially NCOs, by their proper rank either—it was always just the last name. Everyone at the table around us, including a few other commanders, stopped
chewing and became quiet. They were trying to discern whether or not he was serious. I knew he was, however, as I had gotten used to dealing with those types of remarks. I knew that Captain K. was embarrassed that one of his platoon leaders had revealed what he perceived to be a weakness in front of the other commanders.

I just said, “Okay. All right. I'm done here.” And I took my tray and walked out.

I never understood why he was like that.

No sooner had we started copying onto the maps, than another staff officer burst through the door of the tent. He was out of breath and said he'd been looking for us. Captain K. asked him what was going on and this is what he said: Some shit is fucked up. Some other shit is confused. And there's still some other shit we don't know about. His mission: Get us into the shit as quickly as possible. When would that be? Shit . . . either today, tonight, or tomorrow. No one really knew.

As the sun began to drop behind the mountains, the temperature began to plummet. What had been a pleasant, cloudless day with a temperature in the low sixties, was turning into a bitterly cold, miserable night. Just before sunset, Sergeant Collins and I located the tent that belonged to our platoon for the night. There was nothing inside but hard-packed dirt. I picked out a nice spot of soil in between Sergeant Collins and my RTO, Specialist Taylor. Taylor and I grabbed our ponchos, reckoning that a poncho, a tent, and body heat would be enough to sustain us through the night. Sergeant Collins grabbed what looked like an old, muddy, piece of olive drab canvas he had found. I was spreading my poncho on the floor
when Taylor stopped what he was doing and looked at Sergeant Collins.

“That's disgusting. You're gonna sleep under that?” he asked.

“Shut yer ballwasher, Taylor” came the response. “We'll see who stays warm tonight.”

As dawn crept over the peaks ten hours later, I wished I had had an old, rotten piece of canvas with which to sleep. Those ten interminable hours had been my first experience with the northern Afghan night. The cold had penetrated the defenses of the thin tent almost immediately after the sun's retreat, and only slightly later it penetrated the defenses of my even thinner poncho. I had lain awake all night, teeth chattering, trying to find the “warm position,” a mythical arrangement of body parts that desperately cold people mistakenly think can save them. During all the tossing and turning, I had listened in the darkness to helicopters returning. In their bellies were the dead and wounded from the day's battle.

It was a beautiful day—not too cold and not too hot. Miles away, wisps of snow blew off of the higher peaks to the north, against a royal blue sky. At midmorning we began a long walk out to an improvised firing range to resight our weapons. It was located at the northern end of the runway, about a mile from the tent area. Along the way I had plenty to think about. It was now eight dead. Fifty wounded. In my mind, this would have been unthinkable a week earlier. Not since the fight in Mogadishu in October of 1993 had anything like this happened.

I was disappointed and concerned, but not yet terrified. I was disappointed on the count that I had naively envisioned
being a hero, as too many American kids do. I had seen myself swooping in to save the day in a terribly important battle. Now, as an adult being force-fed a reality sandwich, it looked like I was going to be the underdog. And the concern—well, it looked like we could end up fighting for our lives.

We marched in silence, each soldier alone with his thoughts. In the distance I could make out the Apaches that had returned from the previous day's fight. From what I had heard, all six birds had received fire, and several had been critically disabled. A few of the pilots had been wounded, some seriously. I couldn't imagine Apaches—bristling with rocket pods, missiles, and machine guns—being shot up.

As we approached the tarmac where the attack helicopters were parked, I could see that something just didn't
look
right. Angles were wrong. The helicopters themselves
looked
wrong. From a hundred yards away I could see this. Coming from Fort Campbell, I'd seen Apaches every day, and these just didn't look
right
. As we got closer, I could see what it was. They looked
small
.

They looked broken. They looked beaten down and exhausted. I still don't understand how an inanimate object could be perceived and personified in such a way, but that is the only way I can describe it. They looked
physically smaller
than I remembered them being. Maybe that was my imagination. However, when I got within a few feet of them, what I saw was not my imagination.

The helicopters had been thrashed by the al Qaeda fighters. Each had flown through a withering barrage of gunfire, receiving multiple hits from tail to nose. The first thing I noticed was the copious amount of hydraulic fluid on the
first bird. It had been sprayed all over the tail section of the aircraft. I looked closer and could see large bullet holes in a connect-the-dots pattern along the side as well. They looked to be the size of those fired from AK-47s.

The second looked worse. Along with numerous holes of varying sizes, its windshield had been shattered, parts of it broken out completely. Along the side of the aircraft were other bits and pieces of broken off or jagged pieces hanging from the fuselage. From behind me I could hear the muffled sounds of, “
Shiiiit
,” and “
ahh Christ
,” and “
mother . . . fucker
,” coming from the platoon. Having now seen the Apaches up close, I was no longer disappointed and concerned. Now I was terrified. Keeping my thoughts to myself, I continued walking toward the range with the guys, just taking it all in.

“Ahhhh, shit!”

The crack of the first volley at the range was followed instantaneously by a louder pop. I looked over my left shoulder. It was Private First Class Bumstead, from 3rd Platoon. He hadn't screamed it—he'd just announced it like he'd dropped a bag of groceries. As I stared at him, I could see blood starting to soak into his torn uniform just above one of his knees. Instinctively, I walked toward him, as did others. Immediately two guys grabbed him and lowered him to the ground. It was then that the pain hit him. He started wiggling his legs. “
Ssssssss . . . mother . . . fucker . . . shitshitshitshitshit!
” He was trying to stifle it.

A minute earlier, the gunners and ammo bearers had ambled over to the firing line and kneeled down. They had brushed away the old, spent shell casings left behind by
other units. They had assumed the prone position, taking aim behind their weapons. Then one of them had shot a land mine.

My medic ran to Bumstead's side and began assessing the damage. A piece of shrapnel had sliced into Bumstead's thigh, narrowly missing an artery. Two other soldiers in 3rd Platoon were hit as well—both in the hands. As Doc worked, Captain K. called off the range.

So that's what blood looks like coming out of soldiers. I can deal with this
. I heard the first sergeant call my name. I answered him, “Sir?”

Sir?
Where did that come from? Why am I calling him sir?
“I, uh, wh . . . what, First Sergeant?”

He looked at me inquisitively. I had just called him sir, and I could see his wheels turning. After hearing it, he was wondering the same thing I was.
Will Friedman be able to keep his shit together in front of his guys
. “Lieutenant Friedman, is your platoon ready to go?”

“Uh, yeah . . . yeah, we're ready to go.”

“Okay,” he said, “get Sergeant Collins and you guys can head back.” As I turned, I could feel him watching me.

If I thought I'd had a lot to think about on the way to the range, it had increased exponentially in the intervening period. For starters, I knew I was going to die. For a cocky, arrogant Rakkasan with years of specialized training, this was not something I had ever expected to feel in combat. Prior to the last forty-eight hours, I had fully expected the enemy to cringe and grovel before us, the vaunted 101st Airborne Division. It had become such a rarity to see an enemy of the United States stand their
ground in a pitched battle. And now eight special operations troops, including four army Rangers, were dead. The 101st and 10th Mountain had over fifty wounded. All of the Apaches were down. And now it was
my
turn to take a whack at the situation.

The hero goggles were now completely off. As Celine's tormented character says in his novel
Journey to the End of the Night
, “I had grown phobically allergic to heroism . . . I was cured. Radically cured.” The medicine had worked instantaneously. At that moment, for the first time in my life, I sincerely wanted an office job. In my head I could see the bullet holes that had peppered the Apaches—except now they formed words along the fuselage that said, “Get the fuck out of here.” If someone had offered me the chance to buy my way out at that point, I would have given away all my money and everything I owned. I probably would have given away much more than that.

I saw clearly all the things I was never going to do. I thought about Nikki. I thought about how I would never get the chance to marry her. I would never have kids and get to watch them grow up. There were so many things I'd wanted to do. I was going to take flying lessons. I wanted to backpack across Europe. Now it had all been ruined. This was it. I realized that my parents would bury their oldest son. I knew that I wouldn't get the chance to tell them goodbye. How would they get notified? Who would call Nikki? How would my brother handle it?
Goddammit
.

Stop
.

Focus
.

Desperate to carry more bullets, mortar rounds, and water, we started tossing everything we didn't need. We ditched
our hygiene kits, we ditched most of our cold weather gear, and we didn't even take ponchos to build little shelters against the snow. Even so, as a platoon leader with a lighter than average set of equipment, mine weighed over a hundred pounds.

As we stood out in the sun trying in vain to lighten our loads, Bumstead and the other two returned. They had been stitched up and given a clear bill of health by the medics. Bumstead carried shrapnel in his leg and a bottle of pain pills. After being offered the opportunity to stay behind due to his injury, he politely declined and said he would rather go in with his platoon. There wasn't even any hesitation, really. I had to respect that. I'm not sure what I would've done if someone had offered me the same deal.

I still respected Bumstead for what he did that day even after he went AWOL before we left for Iraq. I didn't really know him well, but when I heard about it, I figured he probably hadn't wanted to test his luck again. Maybe between Afghanistan and Iraq, the shrapnel worked its way from his leg and into his head. Like Nikki, I guess maybe one war was enough for him, too.

We couldn't get everyone on the first lift that afternoon, but another bird was going to be available twelve hours later.
Okay. So how many guys can we take on the first lift?
Ninety. Forty-five per bird.
Has this ever been done on a Chinook before?
Probably not.
What if the landing zone is hot?
You've seen
Saving Private Ryan
, right?

I had nobody to blame for this except myself. Too many fucking movies as a kid; as a teenager; as an adult.

The plan materialized slowly, emerging piece by piece from the fog. We were to set down on a landing zone somewhere on Objective Amy, the northernmost area in the operation. The company was to establish a “blocking position” in order to prevent the escape of fleeing al Qaeda fighters. The fact that we were being sent to “block” and not to “attack” worked a bit to allay my cranky mood at having to die by early evening. It was much harder to get you or your men killed in a blocking position than in an all-out assault up a hill.

But then, as if on cue, I was warned by someone that every single LZ in the operation had been “hot” so far. A “hot” LZ is one in which you're getting shot at as you're coming off the bird. On D-Day in 1944, Omaha Beach would have been aptly described as “hot.”
Is our LZ gonna be hot?
Nobody knew.

Loading a helicopter for an air assault mission, you can't hear anything and nobody understands each other's hand gestures. And it's terribly windy under the blades. Packing forty-five combat-laden troops into the rear of the aircraft is like a cross between musical chairs and Twister. Guys get on; guys get settled; then we wouldn't have enough room. So guys would get off; guys would get on again; guys would get settled; then we'd do it over again. For twenty minutes we made such feeble attempts. Captain K. had wanted to be the last guy on the bird so that he could be the first guy out the door when we landed. He wanted to be a hero. It was fine by me, but Sergeant Collins and Sergeant Tom Dougherty, my 1st Squad leader, talked him out of it.

Finally settled and earplugged inside the rumbling bird, I had just started to envision what a hot LZ was going to look like in the mountains, when someone started pushing me from
behind. I looked back. He pointed to the rear of the bird. Standing on the ramp, ten soldiers between us, was our executive officer. His helmet had gone sideways, his eyes were blazing, and he was screaming something. I couldn't hear anything, but I could read his lips yelling, “Friedman!!!” Based on the emotional expression on his face and the fact that I hadn't been able to hear anything, I determined that he had probably been yelling my name for a while now. I said, “What?”