“Yeah. Um. I guess. It was really intense. We were getting shot at almost every day and then we went on this big mission, where we got ambushed by the Taliban.”
And suddenly I felt as if words were completely inadequate to describe what we had just endured. How could I describe the disconnect between the soldier’s mission in Afghanistan and the Afghan’s desire to be left alone? How could I describe the terror I felt when I was crouching behind the tipped-over log, with bullets skimming the top of my head; the sadness of seeing Rougle’s body in a bag, of seeing these strapping American boys in their twenties reduced to tears and horror after being overrun by an enemy they never saw? How could I describe that feeling of freedom and exhilaration I had when I was living in the dirt in a place like Camp Vegas, where life’s utter necessities, like water, food, sleep, and staying alive, were all that mattered? How could I describe how I was still trembling from the trauma of the ambush, and still regretting flying out ahead of Elizabeth, and chastising myself for being an inadequate journalist? How could I describe how important I thought it was to be there, with the troops in Afghanistan and in Iraq, to document my generation’s War on Terror without sounding lofty and self-important?
“It was great!” I said. “Yeah, we lived on the side of a mountain and got ambushed at the end.”
I could feel my chest tightening and my body getting hot. It was an unfamiliar feeling, being overcome with emotion in the middle of drinks with friends.
“Please excuse me for a second,” I said. “I have to go to the restroom.”
I walked back to our bedroom in the rear of the apartment, closed the door behind me, and collapsed into tears. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed Elizabeth’s number.
“Elizabeth?” I said, my voice wavering.
“I can’t stop crying,” she said.
“Me neither. Oh, God. And Paul has company here. I am locked in the bathroom and can’t stop crying.”
“You will be OK. You will be OK.”
We stayed on the phone until I stopped crying, and eventually I went back to my guests, finished my glass of wine, and left for dinner along the Bosporus.
? ? ?
THREE MONTHS LATER I was in Khartoum, Sudan, preparing to go into Darfur, when Kathy Ryan, the director of photography at the New York Times Magazine, emailed to tell me that Elizabeth had finally submitted her story from the Korengal Valley; the piece would close in the next two weeks. Elizabeth was nine months pregnant. The editors were polishing her piece; the fact-checkers were checking the facts. My picture of Khalid, the boy with shrapnel wounds smattering his face, was being considered as a cover. It was a stark, powerful image that spoke to the ambiguity of war and the inevitability of civilian casualties.
Five days before the piece went to press, I got a frantic call from a deputy photo editor at the magazine, asking me to go through my notebooks from the Korengal and produce every shred of evidence I could about Khalid.