Even though his team was under fire, Ford was confident that the battle would soon turn in their favor. But he was surprised at the intensity of the attack. How many men did the HIG have? It seemed like they were firing from every possible position.
Just before the firefight, Ford had heard Morales’s warning over the radio, and he silently scolded his intelligence sergeant. Don’t tell me what you’re seeing, he had told the team over and over again. I just want to hear gunfire and I’ll figure out what you’re seeing.
When Morales fired his shots, Ford was at the bottom of a trail that zigzagged up the mountain. He knew Sanders and Walding were well ahead and probably close to cresting the hill. Morales was halfway up the mountain with Walton and the rest of the command section.
Soon the whole valley was alive with the snap of bullets and the roar of machine guns. It was the biggest barrage of fire he had ever seen on any trip to Afghanistan or Iraq. Rounds crashed around him, forcing him to scramble for cover.
The nearby commandos pressed themselves against the cliff face. In the dirt, Ford tried to hide behind one of the many large boulders on the floor of the wadi.
The shock of the fire quickly led to amazement as Ford realized these fighters were not your run-of-the-mill guerrillas. These insurgents had training that you didn’t typically see in Afghanistan. They returned fire from a knee. And the others waited until the team was spread out and working its way up the hill before opening up. This wasn’t the typical “spray and pray” style, hoping Allah wills a bullet to the target. This fire was deadly accurate, steady, and punishing.
“Get that Carl G rocking,” Ford shouted at Howard, who also was hiding behind a nearby rock.
The Carl Gustav was an 84mm shoulder-fired recoilless rifle. Like a bazooka, it fired high-explosive rounds that could punch through the thick mud walls of the houses where the HIG fighters were hiding. With Howard working to get the recoilless rifle up and firing, Ford stole a look skyward.
We need to start thumping them. Where are the Apaches?
All around him the commandos and Americans were shooting back. It was impossible to see any of the fighters, so they shot at windows in the buildings, holes in the walls, and clumps of trees or piles of rocks where fighters were likely to be hiding.
Grabbing a single-shot 40mm grenade launcher he was carrying, Ford started to lob grenades into the windows of the houses. After each one, he would snap open the shotgunlike breech of the launcher and slide in another baseball-size shell that resembled an egg sitting in a cup. Thump. Reload. Thump. Over and over he shot the grenades into the windows.
Soon the thud of the grenade was followed by the whoosh of an RPG. Looking around, Ford spotted a small commando the team had nicknamed “Joe Pesci” staring at him with a shit-eating grin, his RPG loaded and ready to fire. Soon the pair were smashing windows of houses, hoping to kill or at least suppress the machine gunners on the ridge.
Ford could feel the battle turning. They had taken the first blow, but they were returning fire, and when the Apaches finally started firing, they would be in good shape. A few more minutes and maybe they would have the initiative. Then he heard Walton call him over the radio.
“You need to get up here now.”