Chapter Sixteen - THEN

 

Kyle

We’ve been in this sandbox for one-hundred-and-sixty-two days.  Not that I’m counting.  Less than a month and we’ll be back on American soil.  I just woke up from my rest time and I’m parched.  I grab my canteen from my pack and take a sip then immediately screw the lid back on and put it back in my pack, ensuring the zipper is fully closed.

“Commander wants a meeting,” Zeek announces. 

I nod sharply and stand, following him out of the tent and toward the briefing center.  Inside the room is two other men, both higher rank than Zeek and myself.

“Thanks for coming, men,” Commander says, with a sharp nod of his head.  He stands there with the same serious look on his face I’m used to, his arms crossed over his chest, feet planted apart.  He looks intimidating, and he may be, but I also know him as tactile, intuitive, and loyal.  He pins his gaze on Zeek before moving them to me.  “Intel has confirmed the sighting of a POI.  This is a classified mission and I need you two to lead it,” he says without delay.  “You’ll put together a crew of three more men, and head out at 1400 hours.”

“Yes, sir,” I bark. 

Zeek does the same.

 

Six hours later, we climb into the SUVs and begin the trek that will take ten hours, driving over rocky terrain, up mountains, down into valleys, through riverbeds, and carefully navigating choke points – ideal places for the militia to plant bombs or spring ambushes.  We use our navigating equipment, following the GPS coordinates that the patrolmen who scouted the area before us supplied.  Even though it’s dark, our night vision goggles are permanently fixed to our faces, allowing us to scan the area surrounding us for snipers and Taliban watchmen.  They’re always watching.

Once we arrive, we find a hide and wait it out.  We assess the Taliban compound where our Person of Interest is holed up inside.  The compound is made up of two mud huts, and inside, we are expecting to find armed militia, and IEDs protecting scores of marijuana or opium, or both.  It’s critical we breach the huts with stealth and take out any Taliban with silence, before they have time to alert the other militiamen, allowing them time to arm their IEDs.

At 0330 hours, I give the signal and we move in.  Within minutes, we’ve cleared the first hut and are moving through to the second.  A narrow alleyway separates the two huts and the sharp corner at the end provides a perfect ambush point for the enemy.  We move in synchronized formation, covering each other until we breach the second hut.  Once again, we manage to clear it without incident.  Our POI is dead, along with the other militia in the compound. 

We photograph and document everything inside, including IEDs, AK-47s, grenades, marijuana, and cash.  I radio the successful mission in to our base.  Once completed, we step outside and take time to scan the exterior once more, before allowing ourselves a minute to quench our thirst.

That’s when the mayhem starts.

Bullets start firing at us and we can’t ascertain where they’re coming from.  We scrounge for cover while returning fire.   Our shouts to each other can barely be heard over the rapid gunfire, but I fully trust we are all trained to handle these situations.  Without instruction, we know exactly what to do, and we do it.

Take cover.

Fire back.

Don’t hesitate.

It’s while I’m reloading a new magazine into my M249 that I hear a groan from beside me.  Jameson is shot in the left leg, inches below his knee.  I drag him further into the bushland for more secure coverage and quickly apply a tourniquet while my brothers maintain our defensive gunfire.  I move back into position, but quickly see Zeek and Smith crumble to the dusty ground, both still firing their weapons.  With only Marsh for coverage, I quickly grab the collars of my brothers’ uniforms and drag them to safety.  Zeek’s leg is messed up and he’s losing a lot of blood.  I secure another tourniquet, and then rush over to Smith, who’s clutching his stomach.  I apply a pressure bandage and keep firing.  Only then do I realize Marsh is down.  His body barely visible against a fallen log. He signals that he can apply a bandage himself, but I still come forward to him, crawling on my stomach over the harsh ground until I reach him.  I help him apply a bandage and ensure he stays down behind the log cover. 

That’s when I spot movement on the top of the first mud hut.  I force my mind to go quiet, to ignore the mayhem surrounding me, and I focus on the single militiaman sniper.  With slow movements so as not to attract his attention, I position myself to obtain a successful shot. Once he is in my sights, I put the red dot on his chest, and fire.  He goes down and I quickly scan the remainder of the rooftop for more snipers. 

“All clear,” I shout.  Then I run to check on my brothers, knowing Zeek is injured the worst.

“Charlie Oscar, this is Westwood.  We need immediate Medevac.  Three soldiers WIA,” I bark into my radio.

“Roger that, Westwood.  Dustoff inbound.  ETA eight minutes,” command post replies.

I move to quickly drag each of my brothers further into long grass for more cover and to ensure we’ll remain free of enemy fire.  Then I turn on my flashlight to assess them.

Zeek is pale.  The dirt beneath him is already red with the copious amount of blood he’s losing.  He’s cold to touch and I know he won’t last eight minutes for the Medevac.

“Fuckin’ cold, Metal,” he rasps.

“Stay with me, brother,” I tell him, as I check his dog tags for his blood type.  By sheer luck, he’s O positive, and I am too.  I quickly attach a cannula from my arm to his, feeding my blood directly into his veins.

“You’re gonna be all right, Zeek.  Stay with me, man.  Don’t close your eyes, stay with me,” I repeat over and over.  I periodically check on the three other boys, but their injuries are minor compared to Zeek’s.

“Where the fuck is the Medevac?” I ask no one.  Everyone. 

The line connecting my arm to Zeek’s is red, a positive confirmation that my blood is transferring to his veins. My fear is he’s losing blood quicker than I can pump it into him.

Seven minutes and thirty-five seconds later, a Medevac bird lands close by and the medics race toward us.  I breathe a sigh of relief as I watch them load up the boys and fly out.

 

I land on home soil less than a month later.  Like my four tours before, I don’t tell anyone when I’ll be arriving back in the States.  I need time to be alone, to decompress.  Returning home is a shock to the system, reminding yourself that you don’t need to be constantly scanning the area for IEDs or enemy is as exhausting as it sounds.  I need quiet.  Time to work through my thoughts without the pressure of social interaction and everyday civilian life.

Six years ago, a few months before my second deployment, I purchased a rundown lake cabin about an hour from Greenwich.  Over the years, I’ve gradually repaired it so it no longer leaks water when it rains, or has rotted wood throughout.  I replaced the entire exterior with lengths of timber from the bushland surrounding the cabin, and I added a porch.  Eventually I’ll add another room or two, and maybe modernize the kitchen.

I spend twenty days there decompressing from war and preparing myself mentally for a reintroduction to noncombatant life.  I spend my days fishing, trekking, exercising, catching up on sleep, and allowing my thoughts to filter through my mind unabashedly.

My time in-country plays on repeat like a movie in my mind, especially the final covert mission that went awry.  I’m thankful no lives were lost, but I’m angry my brothers were injured.  In my darkest hours, I blame myself.  Then the rational side of my brain kicks in and I’m reminded that the blame lays squarely on the shoulders of the enemy. 

By the time three weeks have passed, I feel ready to face the outside world, so I pull on my Army greens and call Celia to let her know I’m coming home. 

For good this time.

No more deployments.