They’d cut off your balls, then slice off your face with razor knives. And they’d hold your head and make you look in a mirror at your own faceless red skull. And you couldn’t close your eyes, because you’d have no eyelids. And then they’d make you watch the dogs eat your face and your balls. Then they’d give you a pat on the back and let you go.
And that was why you’d blow your brains out before you let yourself get captured by them.
It was my first tour, before I got promoted to captain, and I was leading my motorized platoon, about forty men from the 5th Stryker Brigade Combat Team in Maiwand, operating out of FOB Ramrod, into a moonscape of dust, dirt, and rocks, under a blazing sun.
The lead vehicle, a Bradley recon, got hit by an IED, then all hell broke loose and we were taking RPGs and automatic weapons fire from the piles of rock on both sides of the road. We dismounted quickly and moved away from the vehicles that were getting hit. I took a round in my body armor but kept moving, and we got flat and began returning fire.
There was very little cover or concealment, and it took me about ten seconds to realize we’d been caught in a well-planned ambush by a large enemy force, and there was the distinct possibility that we were all going to die. Kill the wounded first, then yourself.
Half our eight armored vehicles and Humvees were ablaze, and one exploded and I could feel the heat on my back.
They tell you in tactics class that the only way out of an ambush is to charge into the ambush. This is bullshit.
I got on the horn and ordered the platoon to move north along the road and begin flanking the ambush.
The Taliban are tough and sometimes fearless, but rarely smart, and never very good marksmen. They fire their AK-47s on full automatic like kids playing with toy guns. Their hits are lucky, but hits are hits, and a few of my men went down, but the medic reported light wounds.
The desert wind was from the south and we fired and maneuvered north, under the cover of black diesel smoke and smoke marker grenades until we were about a hundred meters out of the kill zone. Then we began flanking the ambush positions, moving from rock pile to rock pile, getting around them until they realized we’d turned the tables on them.
The crews of the undamaged Bradley Fighting Vehicles had remounted and were providing supporting fire with their 7.62mm machine guns and 25mm rapid-fire cannons.
The Taliban began withdrawing, dashing among the rock piles. I could see that they outnumbered us, but I ordered the platoon to pursue, though I knew that the turned-around ambush could easily turn into a secondary ambush, a.k.a. a trap. It’s a game. No rules, but lots of strategy. Offense is the best defense, so we pushed on across the desert valley into thickening piles of rock that had rolled down from the nearby mountains.
My platoon sergeant strongly suggested we break off the pursuit and wait for the helicopter gunships to even the odds. But I was full of adrenaline and all pissed off, and I’d led a charge into the rock field, totally oblivious to the horseshoe-shaped ambush that awaited us.
The Taliban took the higher ground at the base of the mountain, and they’d also taken up positions in two parallel wadis to complete the horseshoe that we’d run into.
We formed a tight perimeter and returned the fire while the Bradleys continued supporting fire from the road about four hundred meters away.
The bad guys had the manpower, but we had the firepower, and it was sort of a standoff until a group of Taliban moved out of one of the brush-filled wadis and turned the horseshoe into a box. We were surrounded and starting to run low on ammunition.
My sergeant, a big black guy named Simpson, said to me, “You make life interesting, Lieutenant.”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
The closest wadi was about a hundred meters to our west, and the Taliban were strung out in the dry streambed, popping off bursts of AK-47 fire that mostly ricocheted off the rockfalls around us.
We were trapped, but relatively safe where we were, and we could have waited for the gunships, but in a situation like this, the Taliban sometimes start moving and maneuvering close to you, so the gunships can’t fire their stuff without the risk of hitting friendlies.
So, when your ass is in a sling, you do the unexpected. I got on the horn and ordered the Bradleys to direct all their fire on the wadi to the west, then lift their fire after three minutes, and shift it to targets of opportunity.
I assembled the two squads that were with me, waited out the barrage on the wadi, then charged toward it just as the Bradleys lifted their fire.
We reached the dry streambed within a minute and found it unoccupied except for a dozen dead and wounded Taliban lying in the dried mud.
Their dead are often booby-trapped, and the wounded are ready to pull the pin on a grenade or pull a gun as soon as you come near them. So Sergeant Simpson and I drew our Glocks and did the dirty work while the rest of the men took up defensive positions.
The last wounded Taliban I came to was staring at me, his eyes following me as I moved closer to him. His legs were chewed up, like a 25mm round had exploded at his feet. He never looked at the gun in my hand, but kept staring into my eyes. I kept eye contact with him, and I hesitated, because maybe it would be good to take a prisoner for Intel. The wounded guy raised his arms and clasped his hands in prayer. In the distance I heard the sound of choppers coming toward us.
I lowered my gun and moved toward the Taliban, who suddenly reached out and grabbed my ankle. I didn’t know if it was a sign of thanks, or an act of aggression, and I fired a 9mm round into his face. I still don’t know what he was trying to tell me.
* * *
I was awakened by a foot rubbing against mine, and someone was saying, “Good morning.”
I felt sweat on my face. It was still dark outside. She asked, “Did you sleep well?”
“No.” I asked, “Would you like coffee?”
She yawned. “Let’s get back to our hotel.”
But we lay there, then she said, “I promised Carlos I wouldn’t get emotionally involved with you . . . wouldn’t have sex with you. And now we’ve had sex three times.”
“Three?”
“You’re going to do it again, aren’t you?”
Funny. I got on top of her and we made love again.
Afterward, we lay side by side, and she took my hand. “I have a confession to make.”
“There’s a church down the street.”
“Listen. I do have a . . . sort of boyfriend . . . but . . .”
That didn’t completely surprise me. “That’s for you to work out.”
“Are you angry with me?”
“I have more pressing issues to worry about.”
“I think you’re angry.”
“I’m not.”
“Are you jealous?”
“No. Do you think he’d be jealous?”
“He’s Cuban. They get jealous.”
“Just explain that it was part of the job.”
“I’ll . . . just explain that it’s over.”
“That’s your call.”
“Can you at least give me some encouragement?”
“What do you want me to say?”
She didn’t reply, so I said, “I like you very much.”