“THESE JOKERS
JUST DON’T GIVE UP!”
Will yourself to stand ready and courageous on the battlefield. In this way, all that is difficult or dangerous will be yours.
—THE WAY OF THE SAMURAI
The image of my broken men weighed heavily on my mind as I scrambled back through the marijuana field. This attack, this hill was, after all, my idea. I looked down at my hands and body armor, smeared with blood. Most commanders are not on the ground with their men when they get hurt or die. In this business, you are, and you know the names of their wives and kids.
When I met up with Bill, he said we needed to request another emergency resupply of ammunition.
“I know, Bill, just get me the numbers of supplies we need,” I responded. “It looks like we finally may have close air support coming in, and I need you to get me targets from your side of the perimeter. We also need to go tell the rest of the team about Greg and Sean.”
Most already knew they were wounded, just not how badly. Bill and I staggered back up the two-story berm. Exhausted and soaked with sweat, we sank down and rolled over on our backs, gasping for air. I’d never been more tired, even during Ranger school and the Special Forces Qualification Course.
“Hey Captain, we’re probably going to get shot up here,” Bill joked.
“After what we just lived through, I doubt it, Bill,” I managed, gulping in air. “I honestly never thought we would live this long.”
I reached into one of my ammunition pockets with my torn, bloody glove and pulled out a small hand-crafted silver snuff tin. It was a gift from Shinsha. I offered Bill some Copenhagen. Both of us took a second to hang a dip and sip from our warm CamelBaks. The team needed us both focused, and the momentary break allowed us to collect ourselves.
The break was short-lived. Thwack, thwack. Two rounds hit the dirt beside us, breaking up our little corporate meeting.
“Shit,” I said, rolling over and tumbling down the berm to the shelter of the depression. This was the third time today I’d found myself in this hole.
“Don’t these fuckers ever give up?” Bill said.
“I reckon not,” I replied before we took off for the safety of the vehicles.
Back at the truck, I heard the familiar chugging of rotor blades. I could barely hear Jared call me on the radio through the sweat accumulated in my earphones. I pulled the ear cups off and spilled it out.
“Rusty, you and Ron control the rotary-wing aircraft and Mike and I will control the fixed-wing,” I heard him transmit.
The medevac was inbound and called soon after.
“Talon 31, this is Viper 08, I am coming in from the southeast on a one-hundred-fifty-five-degree azimuth. I am five kilometers out from your location with medevac in tow. Call sign is Dustoff 03. Request approach azimuth for medevac and current ground situation.”
Ron had the map in front of him and he gave me a hard look. “Not now, Captain,” he said firmly. “I have to plot the enemy compounds.” I knew what he was saying, and I didn’t mind taking directions from him. What he was working on was the most important issue—air support.
I also couldn’t lie to the pilot, but I fervently didn’t want to tell him the truth either. I didn’t want him to call off the medevac because he was afraid of getting shot down. But at this point that was a very real concern. I decided to lay it all out.
“Viper 08, this is Talon 31. Please pass to Dustoff 03. Current ground situation is not good. I am three units on one terrain feature surrounded by enemy as close as fifty meters and as far as one kilometer. We are in a large teardrop-shaped open area with a hilltop that looks like a volcano. We own the high ground and the U-shaped building fifty meters northeast. Expect ground fire on approach and exfil. I have eight casualties who need immediate medical evacuation. Some are Americans. I can talk on the Viper 08 to known enemy locations but expect more ground fire than you can suppress. Talon 30 will control Dustoff 03 and I will control Viper 08. Do you copy?”
The long pause concerned me. The pilots were weighing their options. I was starting to second-guess my decision to lay it out when the radio crackled to life.
“Talon 31, this is Viper 08. I am coming in to the northeast for a marking pass and will suppress while Dustoff 03 comes in.”
Relief.
“Hot damn, now we’re in business!” I shouted.
This time the Apache attack helicopter didn’t make circles, but flew swiftly over our position as we held out a large orange panel. As soon as the Taliban saw the Apache, they opened fire. The Apache peeled off; we stowed the panel and fired back.
“Talon 31, I see you. Where do you want it?”
Behind the schoolhouse wall, Ron plotted the targets on his map with a compass, GPS, and pencil while I talked to the Apache. We needed to hammer the remaining fighters long enough for the Chinook to get the wounded out.
“Viper 08, next pass, come hot. Concentrate your fire on the east-west-running irrigation ditch due north of my marking about one hundred meters. There you should see two grape houses and a compound joining the irrigation ditch. Hit all three of them as hard as you can on the first pass and then we will guide you in on the next pass.”
The Chinook circling in the distance was now tucked in behind the attack helo.
“Roger, get your heads down,” the pilot said.
It seemed funny that the pilot wanted us to duck.
I heard Jared call in something about red-colored smoke to the medevac pilot, then the familiar whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of rockets and the grumbling bup, bup, bup of cannon fire erupted overhead. The rockets smashed into the ditch as the Apache shot skyward, preparing for a second pass. In the attack helicopter’s wake, the Chinook banked hard to the left and seemed to drop out of the air near the red smoke column. The pilots didn’t want to expose the helicopter’s belly to Taliban fire.
Jared and about six guys from Team 36 carried the wounded, IV bags in their teeth, to the waiting helicopter.
Taliban rockets and machine guns immediately zeroed in on the helicopter. I heard the tunk of bullets piercing the hull. An RPG flew past the helicopter’s tailgate near Jared’s truck and exploded into the berm wall. The American pilot never wavered. He stayed in place as the medics rushed the wounded into the helicopter’s belly.
Our guns hammered every position we could identify. I told Viper 08 to watch our tracer fire and come in closer.
“Closer?” he asked hesitantly.
“Roger, danger close,” I responded. “Danger close” was not a term ever taken lightly. It was only used as a last resort and meant that the soldiers calling in the air strike will possibly be hit with the ordnance they are calling for. The slightest deviation in the targeting of the rockets, aircraft, or rounds meant you had just wounded or killed yourself. It was perfect or you were dead.
Dave banged away at the building and tree line with his .50-cal machine gun, marking the spot for the pilot. The Apache swooped in just above us. Rockets and 30-mm cannon fire leveled the tree line and smashed the building.
“Very nice,” Brian said, flashing a freckled grin.
It was then that the small, clear voice of a child reminded me to “shoot into the bushes, Daddy, shoot into the bushes.” The moment gave me goose bumps.
“Earlier we couldn’t convince the other birds to fire that close,” Dave added.
Behind us, the Chinook’s rotors whined as it prepared to take off. As they gained power, a huge dust cloud mushroomed out in all directions, cutting visibility. A blessing for the helicopter.
“Everyone on the perimeter, find a target and open fire,” Jared radioed to the teams.
I heard Dustoff 03 call Viper 08: “I’m coming out.”
The helicopter leapt into the air. “Now! Now! EVERYONE open fire!” I barked into the radio.
We flicked the kill switch on. My three remaining trucks, Bruce and Hodge’s team, ETTs, interpreters, and the ANA soldiers opened fire on the compounds and grape huts. Everyone who could fire a weapon started shooting.
As the helicopter rose through the dust cloud and banked hard toward the open desert, I said a silent prayer for those inside we probably would never see again. With the Chinook out of harm’s way, I called for another pass from the Apache.
“Viper 08, this time I need for you to come in and make a run on the three buildings only. Do you copy?” I said.
I was not happy with his reply.
“Talon 31, sorry, got to go. Escort for Dustoff 03. You guys be safe. Viper 08 out.”
Just then, a round shot straight between Ron and me. I winced visibly and scooted to the back of my truck. My nerves were shot. I ducked down under the rear tire as a volley of RPG and recoilless-rifle fire crashed into the schoolhouse. Someone screamed “Incoming!” as explosions from mortars shook the ground and enemy machine-gun fire peppered the vehicles. I was rattled. Collecting myself, I shouldered my rifle and fired. Brian and Dave were, as always, cool as cucumbers.
The windows in the three compounds directly across from my support vehicle flickered wildly. An ANA platoon leader screamed, “Der dushman!” Many enemies!
Flashes from bullet impacts wreathed our positions. The truck engine whined, almost as if in agony, as Brian roared back about ten meters toward a concrete latrine, desperately seeking some cover. I expected any minute to see Ole Girl burst into flames around us.
We faced well over two hundred enemy, and their numbers were growing. We’d already fired rockets into the compound, but hadn’t slowed them down. More Taliban simply occupied the building.
Bill moved the Carl Gustav recoilless rifle from his truck and fired a half dozen rockets at the large compound. The 84-mm high-explosive rounds blew large chunks from the thick walls but didn’t penetrate. “Captain, I just can’t punch that thing!” he yelled.
All three compounds kept up a steady stream of machine-gun fire. Brian called out that fighters were moving to the left. I crawled up the side of the truck and into my seat.
“Show me,” I said.
Dave let out a long burst from the .50 cal. The rounds riddled a three-sided wall and irrigation ditch a football field away. It was a counterattack. I called Jared immediately.
“Sir, we have a no-shit counterattack of sixty to eighty enemy coming from the northeast, maybe more. Distance is about one hundred to two hundred meters.”
Jared came back moments later with a shocking order: “Pack up and be prepared to move.”
“Move where?” I asked.
I refused to accept it. I knew that if we gave up the high ground, the enemy would be on top of us in no time, intermingled with our forces, causing unspeakable carnage. We would be mauled. All of my experience as a soldier screamed that we had to make a stand.
“Move? Where the fuck are we gonna go? Back to the fucking desert? I will not fall back off this hill. We have paid for it in blood. This fucking hill is ours and I refuse to give it back to those fucking savages. They can have it if they can take it! Let them get a mouthful of attacking OUR defenses.”
Hodge and Bruce agreed. We stay.
Up to this point, I had tried to be controlled and methodical, but a primal rage consumed me. The feeling is indescribable. There are very few in our society, other than soldiers, who understand it. It is the physical combination of adrenaline, testosterone, exhaustion, and emotion. My rage surfaced, and it unleashed a previously harnessed power. Whatever it is that the brain produces during those moments, I liked it—no, I loved it. I knew we could hold. Instantly, I felt all my exhaustion leave me and my nerve restored. I paused to look around, ignoring the radio.
Jared knew I would not change my mind, and his orders confirmed it. “All right, everyone, dig your heels in. If you think we can hold it, we will make the school our Alamo. I am going to pull the lanyard. All 30 elements, move to the school and hill. Hold your positions and stay low. The sky is about to fall.”
There was no choice but to keep the enemy at bay and try to grind them to a pulp.
We owned the high ground this time, and the RPGs and recoilless rifles simply could not shoot uphill without hitting the berm or shooting over our heads. Ali’s men spotted a group of fighters trying to set up on a nearby roof—an RPG is most effective on a flat trajectory—but Ali’s machine gunners caught them in the open and left them up there.
On the top of the hill, Hodge’s team didn’t have enough firepower. Jared sent Bruce’s team to reinforce them. Engineers had come in with the resupply aircraft and they, along with our team engineers, began the dangerous and painstaking work of probing for mines under fire. They uncovered another IED in the road and several anti-personnel mines on the top of the hill.
We were holding on, but just barely, when the Taliban hit the school with a recoilless rifle and set one room ablaze. Taliban radio intercepts flooded the airwaves with requests for reinforcements at the “commander’s palace.” The Taliban communicated predominantly in code. Fresh fighters had come from across the river and had no idea where to go. Typically, they would wander around, calling the commander every few minutes until they found their linkup. The advantage to us of this type of bumbling was that they had no real sense of tactical movement and could be outmaneuvered and killed. The disadvantage was that they could show up anywhere, anytime, and surprise you. They did both.
At first the radio call made no sense, until I started to scan the compounds.
“Brian, Dave,” I asked, “do any of those compounds look like a palace or a place that belongs to a senior Taliban commander to you? Anything especially ornate or out of place?”
Ron quickly pointed out the cluster of compounds we had been ambushed from on the first day. They had high walls, large grape houses, and ample, once-manicured fields now decimated by gun runs from the Apaches. It had to be the place.
Suddenly, the whine of jet engines filled the air. “Here they come,” Jared said excitedly. Mike, standing on Jared’s truck, now orchestrated nearly a dozen inbound aircraft. We’d finally gotten the air support we needed, and the fighters and bombers swarmed around us like hornets waiting for their chance to strike. A refueling tanker had also been brought in to keep the fighters on station. The modern angels of the battlefield would finally level the playing field.
Ron, sitting in the back of my truck, turned on his computer to get a video downlink so we could confirm the target and description. Otherwise, the ordnance could end up on top of us. The snowy gray-and-white screen flickered, but no picture resolved. Ron called the aircraft to confirm the code again, but it was no use. There would be no video feed today.
“I got it under control, Captain. I’ll do this talk on and we’ll start putting this stuff right up their ass,” Ron said, throwing the computer back into the truck.
Mike started passing aircraft over to Ron, and I ran over to him with my map and GPS to confirm the targets. Ron held up four fingers, indicating that four aircraft were available.
“Level that one damn building if you do nothing else!” I said.
“Captain, the pilot says we are two hundred meters away. It is officially ‘danger close’ for a bomb that big,” Ron told me between radio calls. “The pilot wants your initials.”
I knew exactly what that meant. If the bomb blast killed any friendly forces, the pilot did not want to be held responsible. I understood but didn’t have much choice.
“Romeo Bravo,” I said.
Moments later, I heard the shrieking sound of jets dropping altitude and looked up to see two A-10 Warthogs swoop in, wings loaded with missiles, bombs, and rockets.
“Okay, I have a solution and verbal target confirmation,” Ron said. “That building will be the first to go. One thousand-pound bomb in thirty seconds.”
Wasting no time, I put out a net call over the radio to notify everyone and closed the door on my truck, as if that would do any good if the bomb was off target. But a sense of security is all. I noticed an Afghan soldier looking over the edge of his foxhole, ignorant of the danger, and yelled at the top of my lungs for him to get down. WHOOM! The entire building vanished in an upward cloud of smoke and dust. The rolling energy from the blast streaked across the short field, roiling the tall marijuana plants, racing up the hill like an invisible tidal wave.
“Two more coming, stay down!” Ron yelled.
Two more thousand-pounders crashed into the buildings, sending more waves. Everything hit on target, and an eerie silence followed the blasts.
“Gun runs!”
The short steady burping of cannons from the A-10s shattered the silence. Trees snapped and burst in slow motion, rolling through the air as exploding shells ripped them to splinters. The irrigation ditches that once provided cover became death traps. Shells landed on the Taliban fighters huddled there, each round bursting a bucket full of hot steel in all directions.
“That should take some piss out of them,” Ron said, feeding adjustments to the pilots between runs to maximize the carnage.
Whoever was advising the Taliban understood the gravity of the situation. They made the only plausible decision and tried to close the gap between us, hoping to make it impossible to bomb their position without hitting us. Too bad for them, we had planned for that. We had discussed this type of situation in the team room prior to deployments. We had all decided we would rather die in a botched rescue attempt by another American than have our heads cut off on the Internet for our families to see. I had already made up my mind that if I was going to die today, I would rather do so fighting than retreating and getting shot in the back.
The airwaves flooded with wounded Taliban leaders and foot soldiers calling for help. A Taliban commander came on the radio screaming and wailing for his brethren.
“Send the tractors, we have many dead and injured. We cannot get closer!” another Taliban leader reported.
Ron continued to level the grape huts as I called Hodge and Bruce on the hill to let them know about the enemy calls for assistance.
“I know, I see them coming,” Hodge said, counting at least seven dust trails from tractors moving along a series of roads and irrigation ditches northeast of Sperwan Ghar.
The A-10s made one more gun run on the grape huts and then climbed to the tanker for more fuel. Two Apaches arrived, and Hodge’s team sent them after the tractors. Flying fast, the Apaches gained altitude and doubled back for the kill. But by then, all of the tractors had disappeared into the high marijuana fields.
Like dragonflies, the Apaches hovered and circled the area, looking for the tractors. Finally, the lead gunship dipped down and fired a short burst into an irrigation ditch, then flared hard right and scooted away. The burst spooked more than thirty Taliban fighters, who started shooting into the air. The second Apache, closing in on the ditch, fired nearly a dozen rockets into the tangle of trees above it. The helicopters made three more runs before peeling off to look for more fighters. Jared gave them the green light to attack any Taliban fighters within four hundred meters of the hill.
For the next several minutes, the Apaches teased fighters into shooting at them to give away their positions. It would start with a burst of gunfire, the tracers climbing into the sky, followed by some deft flying and colorful language as the lead pilots moved to safety and the trail Apache followed up with a gun run, ending the threat.
We had so many aircraft in the area that anyone who had any experience controlling them was on the radio. Mike divided the hill down the center with an imaginary line. He worked the aircraft to the south of the line and Ron worked the aircraft to the north. For nearly two and a half hours more than twenty attack aircraft—fighters, helicopters, and Predator drones—chased the Taliban fighters through the irrigation ditches, leveled their compounds, and smashed the almost impenetrable grape huts.
I scribbled notes anywhere there was space. The entire inside of my truck was a notepad. The dashboard, hood, my sleeves, the window—all contained precious information as I tracked targets, aircraft, and Taliban movements.
Taz interrupted me with a hiss, the Afghan version of “Psst, dude, over here.” He pointed to his AK-47 magazine and held up two fingers. His men had two magazines, or sixty rounds left. I pulled out my knife.
“Taso chaku bulla kawalishi.” Use your knife next.
Taz just smiled and bobbed his head enthusiastically. He disappeared behind the school. We were in it together, and I was confident the Taliban weren’t getting past Taz and his men. If they did, I would know Taz and his men were dead.
The air support afforded us a brief respite from the fire. Jared’s truck pulled to a dusty stop behind mine. Everyone grabbed bags and boxes from the trucks and set up a command post in a small corner room of the schoolhouse. Empty ammunition crates became chairs and tables. We packed empty ammo cans full of dirt into windows to guard against RPGs and shrapnel. Battlefield details in white chalk decorated the gray spackled walls.
The gun trucks cross-loaded all the remaining ammunition, replaced Taliban defensive positions on top of the hill with U.S. or ANA machine guns, and cleared the school of unexploded ordnance. The school was now our Alamo.
Inside, we scoured the rooms for intelligence. I walked into one room near the foyer and was immediately uneasy. The walls were jet black; names were scrawled across them. Taliban voodoo. The Taliban often mark their presence by pouring diesel fuel into a bucket of sand and igniting it in a designated meeting or council room. The smoke turns everything in the room black, which provides them with an evil and almost invincible aura for the benefit of the local people, who believe the power of the Taliban alone is responsible for the transformation.
Sandal prints peppered the ceiling, symbolizing that whoever saw them was under the foot of the Taliban. The names on the black walls were those of the Taliban leaders. In theory, the locals, who would eventually discover the scene, would also witness the Taliban’s power.
One of the names caught my eye. I called Jared and told him he needed to see this.
“What the fuck is this?” Jared said, stunned, as he joined me.
I pointed to one name that I recognized from the notebook we had recovered from the village on the outskirts of the Red Desert. Jared fished the book out of a pouch on his body armor and flipped through it. An interpreter ran down the list. All sixteen names in the notebook matched the names on the wall. We had the true names of the major Taliban leadership in Panjwayi and southern Afghanistan.
Jared flipped open his satellite phone and walked outside to get a clear signal. This needed to get to Bolduc and our intelligence people as soon as possible. The next time those assholes tried to communicate, we would be ready and on them.
By the time the sun set, we’d fought for thirteen straight hours. Two Chinooks arrived with our resupply of ammunition and weapons. During the battle we had broken or destroyed more than a dozen machine guns.
The helicopters barely landed. The crew chiefs knew the situation and quickly kicked the bundles out of the back. An additional explosive ordnance disposal team also arrived to clear the trails and footpaths of mines. We’d found nearly a dozen mines, planted all over the hill.
After the helicopters left, the two A-10s that earlier had dropped the life-saving bombs to halt the counterattack returned. They’d flown to Bagram Airfield north of Kabul, to rearm and refuel.
Swooping down, they quickly unloaded all of their bombs and rockets into Mike and Ron’s targets. Their final gun run with their 30-mm cannons crumbled the walls of a nearby compound.
“Talon 31, this is Tusk 16. It looks like you guys will be okay. From up here, the enemy seems to be moving back. We have numerous dust trails from vehicles moving away in all directions. Unfortunately we have to go off station. You guys keep your heads down and hold on tonight. We WILL be back tomorrow morning before sunup. I guarantee it.”
Pulling up, they started to climb into the darkening sky. The lead A-10 made a steep left turn and came straight toward Sperwan Ghar. He couldn’t have been more than a hundred feet off the deck. I could see him clearly inside the cockpit as he rolled the plane slightly onto its right side, looking down at us over his shoulder as he gave us a thumbs-up. As the plane cleared the hill, he leveled out, rocked his wings back and forth, and shot straight up into the sky doing a slow, steady barrel roll.
To this day, that scene is burned into my memory. I knew at that moment that I was truly part of the most magnificent fighting force on the face of the earth. I knew for certain that if I needed it, help would come. It was a sense of relief and confidence that words can’t convey.
I was sure we’d need such help. With the Canadians bogged down to the north, the Taliban would turn their ferocity on Sperwan Ghar.
I expected a very long night.