Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic (29 page)

The convoy slowed as the Toms drove forward to check the dark, winding road ahead. It was common for bandits to set up roadside “tolls” late at night at blind spots in the road to either shake down their countrymen for money and valuables or capture an allied vehicle that might have broken from a convoy. For reasons I never understood, the locals generally drove with the headlights turned off at night, allowing these thugs to establish roadblocks in positions that left a driver little reaction time. Our understanding of their tactics and ability to navigate the roads with our NVGs gave us a distinct advantage over the typical Afghani, and Tom wasn’t about to throw that away.

He drove cautiously up and over the hill ahead of us, but as he breached the crest he spotted a group of men at the bottom of the grade pulling weapons from the back of a truck, roughly 50 yards ahead. Had he not decreased his speed they might have had him, but his instincts, along with Ranger Tom’s assistance, once again saved us from falling into an irreparable predicament. Tom immediately punched the brakes and threw the truck into reverse just as one of the men at the “checkpoint” opened fire.

“Contact front, contact front,” they called out over the radio as the sound of small-arms fire erupted from the enemy below.

Vic looked at me as if to say, “Really?” He then took charge and issued orders to our interpreter in the backseat. “Tell all the vehicles to follow us! Doc, lead them over to the rocky area just left of Tom’s vehicle.” Vic then keyed his radio and notified the rest of the world what we had stumbled upon.

“Roger that.” I gunned the engine and pushed past the other vehicles and guided them to cover while Muscle Tom and Ranger Tom slugged it out with the enemy.

“Doc, be ready to rally up at the vehicles when I call, but right now I need you to take a fire team and cover our right flank. I’ll set security to our left and rear,” Vic said as he signaled a squad to reinforce Tom up front.

I nodded in response, double-checked my weapon, and grabbed four of the Afghan commandos and headed for the right flank. We ran thirty yards perpendicular to the road into a sparsely wooded area and then circled back toward the bottom of the hill. We patrolled quickly and kept careful watch on the only avenue of approach the landscape allowed. As we reached a clump of trees, I held up my fist, signaling the men to freeze. Although the thin foliage afforded us little protection, it prevented us from silhouetting ourselves from maneuvering enemy.

The NVGs definitely gave us the advantage. I spotted about half a dozen armed men leaving their ambush point and moving toward our position. Three of the men moved slowly forward while the others remained near their vehicles at the bottom of the hill. I pulled the commandos close and signaled for them to lie low and hold their fire unless I said so; otherwise their muzzle flash would give us away. Unlike our ANA counterparts’, our weapons were outfitted with equipment that could project a pinpoint beam indicating exactly where our rounds would impact, and it was only visible to our NVGs. We had the upper hand, so it was paramount the ANA didn’t give our advantage away.

I whispered into the radio mic, “Vic, I have what appears to be four men at the base of the hill moving toward your position and a few others possibly looking to fishhook around on us.”

“Good copy, Doc. Tom is tracking the others. Birds are inbound, Five Mike.” Air support was five minutes out. They had to be close. Later I discovered 10th Mountain had seen their fair share of fighting since we left them, and the birds had just returned from a refuel and reload stop.

I kept a close eye on four men as they continued toward the crest of the hill, until a series of explosions stopped them in their tracks. Ranger Tom was gifted with the M-203 grenade launcher mounted under his weapon and had put it to good use. He had an uncanny ability to put the rounds right on target every time, and tonight was no different. I couldn’t tell if any of the men were killed or wounded, but they certainly weren’t moving forward any longer.

The remaining four realized a frontal assault would be futile and began sweeping around toward our position. Their uncoordinated movement confirmed my earlier suspicions; they were fleeing Taliban turned opportunistic vandals out to rob their neighbors. Rather than act as a unified fighting force, they moved as individuals out for their own interests, a mistake that left them vulnerable to counterattack. As I drew a bead on the one closest to me, I saw a distinctive laser light up two of the men on the end of the line, closest to the crest. Tom’s team was about to do some damage.

Three seconds later, those two men were dropping in their tracks while the other two shot wildly into the dark. I opened up immediately with two controlled bursts, and they joined their friends on the ground.

“Rally up. I want everyone back at the vehicles,” Vic’s voice commanded over the radio.

I signaled the commandos to follow, then patrolled back to the formation. Vic was speaking to the birds when we arrived, and Ranger Tom was near the crest of the hill on overwatch, guarding against a second wave of bandits should they be dumb enough to move toward our position.

“Let’s roll,” said Muscle Tom. He didn’t have to say it twice.

We mounted up and watched as the helos approached, their guns locked on the vehicles at the bottom of the hill. Ranger Tom low-ran from his position, and Vic called out “Cleared hot” as we pulled out heading back in the direction we came. I heard the birds open up with their cannons, then circle for one more pass before peeling off and leading us back to the base.

We doubled back and found an alternate route that took us around the ambush area and off the main roads. It added an hour to the trip, but even with the helo escort Vic felt it was better safe than sorry. The remainder of the voyage home was uneventful. We were tired and hungry but otherwise very lucky to have survived two engagements in one twenty-four-hour period. We continued on to the Alamo and, as on so many missions before, rolled into the gates just as the sun started to rise in the east.

18

RETURNING HOME

On the mountains of truth you can never climb in vain: either you will reach a point higher up today, or you will be training your powers so that you will be able to climb higher tomorrow.

—F
RIEDRICH
N
IETZSCHE

In mid-December, Wil, Vic, and I gathered for a quick meeting in the main hooch. After months of intense combat, it was time to turn over Firebase Shkin to our replacements. By the end of the month the next crew would be in place and we’d be back at home with our families. I missed my fiancée Korrina, and wanted nothing more than to spend time with her and my little girl, especially knowing how she worried about Daddy being injured. She needed to see that I was OK, not just hear me tell her over a satellite phone. Yet for some reason I didn’t want to leave.

“Doc, looks like some of us will be heading back separately. After talking it over among the group, we felt you should be the first one out in order to make it home for Christmas.” I knew what it meant; I’d be leaving real soon. I had a genuine look of surprise on my face but had to act as if I was pleased to hear the news.

“Doc, we’ve got you scheduled on a rotator bird for tomorrow morning. You’ve done a hell of a job, but it’s time for you to get to New Mexico to your mom and Tabetha,” Vic chimed in.

Wow, these men cared more about getting me back for the holidays than I did. During off-duty hours, we’d gather for a movie and talk about our families, so Wil was very familiar with Korrina and Tabetha. He would also hear stories about Korrina and the family from JJ over our secure net. JJ worked at headquarters back in the States and looked in on Korrina and the kids when I was gone. Most of the time he’d stop by her clinic to say hi and scare her staff with his large frame, bald head, goatee, and naturally angry appearance. JJ would act as if he had a cold or joint ache, but he was really there to let her know the community hadn’t forgotten about her. Korrina was incredibly thankful. She, too, trusted and cared for these men and would later spend countless hours of her off time tending to their wounds, but that’s the type of people that make up the spec ops community.

I tried to get out of their plan to send me back first, but neither of them would let me off the hook. Since arriving, I’d been involved in nearly every one of the firefights, and the whole team felt I should be the first one out and home for the holidays. I finally realized I had no say in the matter and accepted it. Besides, Christmas was just over a week away, and even with JJ working his magic I didn’t have much faith that he’d get me out on time. More than likely we’d all meet up in Kabul and head back on the same plane after the first of the year anyway.

“We’ve got the logistics covered. Go get yourself packed and say your good-byes. I’ll see you in the morning.” Wil looked and sounded tired. He’d been in Afghanistan longer than anyone else in the group. He had arrived in country soon after 9/11 and returned countless times through the years. He said it was because his wife was also constantly traveling for work, but that wasn’t the real reason. Wil felt obligated to be there. He had seen his share of battles and shouldered the added responsibility of leadership with strength and dignity. I would miss him and the smoke-break conversations he made me take with him. Hell, I would miss all of the guys.

“Alright, sounds like everything is set.” I smiled as I shook their hands. “See you tomorrow.”

I walked through the cool night air, then ducked into the barracks and packed my gear. I really didn’t have too much to pack; after all, it was an isolated base in a war zone, and personal effects were essentially a waste of space. I gathered up what geedunk (goodie items) I did have, such as candy bars, magazines, and the coveted flavored coffee creamer necessary to turn army coffee into a tolerable drink, and went out to a makeshift fire pit 10th Mountain had built near the entrance of their mud-hut barracks. A group of seven sat around the fire on ammo crates and Walmart folding stools, listening to a young soldier strum a guitar while another soldier, a wise-ass from the big city, cracked jokes about his “redneck buddies.” It was a scene for the ages, men at war gathered for a moment of peace with their brothers. Except for the modern uniforms, they could have been Vietnam grunts or Colonial Minutemen.

The soldiers nodded and smiled as I approached but quickly returned to their thoughts as they watched orange embers fly into the night sky. I recognized some of the faces, while others were new to the base. The army also slowly rotated new guys in platoon by platoon to ensure the incoming company felt a sense of familiarity. One of the boys, who looked no more than nineteen years old, was reading a
Time
magazine article about Firebase Shkin entitled “Battle in the Evilest Place,” written by a reporter who had visited months earlier and drove the spec ops team crazy as they hid out during his stay. It painted a grim picture of the outpost, and with good reason; Shkin was a hellhole on the edge of the earth, and everyone knew it. Even so, it served no good purpose to read a reporter’s opinion of a very complex issue, especially when the “issue” is your day-to-day reality.

“You don’t need to be reading this,” I told him, “and your family or friends shouldn’t be sending it to you. It really doesn’t matter what’s written in
Time
or
Stars and Stripes.
When bullets start flying, none of that is going to matter. All you’ll think about is the guy next to you.” The battle-experienced soldiers nodded in unison, and I realized how much older they looked than when we all first arrived.

“That’s right, it’s all about your bros. That magazine is elitist bullshit,” said a thirtyish sergeant from the Southwest as he snatched the magazine from the kid’s hands and acted as if he were throwing it into the fire. The young soldier began to protest but sensed the gravitas of the moment and wisely stood down.

“Doc, I heard you’re leaving tomorrow,” the guitarist said as he stoked the fire with his boot. “Any requests for a song?”

I handed out the geedunk to the soldiers, who gratefully accepted it.

“Know any U2?” I asked with great skepticism as I grabbed a crate from the burn pile for a stool.

“Let me think,” he said as he shifted in his seat. He tuned for a few moments, then launched into “Where the Streets Have No Name,” a favorite of mine I played many times in the camp medical clinic when I’d sit and have coffee with their medics. As he strummed and sang in a low, scratchy voice, we stared into the fire or off at distant stars, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the men around us. Eyes reveal uncertainty, pain, and homesickness, and every man had suffered doses of each.

I waited for the song to end, then rose and said my good-byes. Troops from all branches form unique bonds with their medics and corpsmen, and each man around the fire that night said farewell with a handshake or a quick bro hug, even if he’d never met me. I then crossed the compound, climbed the guard tower that faced out toward the main road, and gazed out at the medical clinic we’d worked so hard to build. I wondered if the clinic would stay open or end up an abandoned shell like I found it. I wasn’t concerned about the money or the effort put into building it, but I damn well wanted to ensure the ANA and villagers had somewhere to go for treatment after I left. I’d spent months in one of the most dangerous places on earth, fought dozens of battles, and lost friends and colleagues. Yet it was the clinic that weighed heaviest on my heart as I prepared to leave, and as I turned to climb down from the tower I felt a sense of dread that stayed with me through the night.

The next morning, I rose early and met the team at the comms hooch. We traded contact information and said our see-ya-laters, knowing we’d probably run into each other somewhere down the road; another war, another base. Muscle Tom and I walked to the helo pad and traded small talk as the bird made its approach. As the bird touched down, I shook Tom’s hand and shouted one final request.