Dawn, Day Two | DECEMBER 28, 2009
PATHFINDER HILL — Dawn found us shivering in our shallow graves, eyes scratchy from the ever present Afghan dust. Like talcum powder, it coated our faces, clung to our beards, and got into everything, including our weapons. Without sleep, the dust irritated our eyes to the point where we blinked and squinted constantly.
We had established a rest cycle, but I don't think anyone actually got any. Now, as a new day's worth of fighting appeared to be in our future, we waited for the enemy and cursed the bitter winter weather.
I left my position, leaving my MBITR (radio), and made my way through one of our connecting trenches past Mark and Andy and George. My radio needed a fresh set of batteries, so I figured with first light I'd go down to the RG and swap them out. On the east side of our position, Pat had dug in his M240 machine gun. He had a great view of the sun's rays just now spearing over the hilltops. I saw him sitting next to his weapon and staring out at the birth of the new day.
He must have sensed me watching him. He turned from the spectacular view and said, "Ski. How ya doing?"
I walked over next to him, and he handed me an energy drink.
"Rip It, the breakfast of champions," he said as he took a long pull from his own can.
I popped the lid and leaned back against the dirt wall of his emplacement.
"Smoke?" he asked, offering me one of his. "Sure, thanks." I took the cigarette and lit up.
"We're the picture of f---ing health this morning, aren't we?"
"Could go for some bacon and eggs right now," I admitted. "No joke."
We smoked and watched the sun chase the morning shadows away as we chatted. I polished off the energy drink and finished my cigarette.
"You think Rob and Paddy will get out here in time for this s--t today?" Pat asked as he tossed back the last of his Rip It. The two had been recalled to Herat for some intelligence work. Last we'd heard, they'd been trying like hell to get a seat on a helicopter to get back up to BMG. That was hit-or- miss, though.
"I think they are coming out on the resupply convoy this morning with Zappala. Sure hope they make it," I answered.
"Yeah. They were born for fights like this one. Like Billy and Mark and George."
"And you," I added. Pat was most certainly one of the meat eaters.
"Well, it sure beats the hell out of stocking shelves at Home Depot."
"Yeah, I bet face paint wasn't part of the dress code."
He laughed at that as he tossed his cigarette butt out onto the slope. "Yeah, that sucked. But you know, at least we know that there's something here, no matter how sh---y it gets."
"Like?"
"Purpose, I guess."
Truth was, my sense of purpose had been rattled yesterday by all the weirdness with PRO 6.
"Well, I'd like to be left alone to carry out our purpose," I said with more than a little bitterness.
Pat nodded. "That stuff with PRO 6 is f---ing retarded. He needs to get his boots on the ground and get a grasp of what's really going on here."
"I see no point in risking our lives like that. Can you imagine if somebody had been hit while we were waiting for permission to drop? And not drop on a real target, but drop on a f---ing field?"
"Would've been ugly, that's for sure," Pat agreed. Then he undid his chin strap and pulled his helmet off. He ran one hand through his hair, which caused a plume of Afghan dust to billow from his head. We all were filthy — that's when you know you're having fun.
"Hey, Ski," Pat said, his voice softer and lower now. "Where's Joe been?"
I thought about that for a minute. "Well, he was up on the hill yesterday morning with Mark and me when we first got engaged. Not sure where he is now. Down at the trucks I suppose."
Pat shook his head. "His heart isn't in this," he said in frustration. "That's gonna cause us problems."
"Hard to be gung ho if your heart's not there, I guess."
"That's not it. There's something else."
"What?" I asked.
"I don't know. But when this is all done and we're back at the FOB, I'm going to find out what."
"How?"
"Joe and I need to clear some air."
With Andy on the hilltop, it made sense for Joe to be with our rigs. But Pat was right — our team chief, our Marine gunnery sergeant, should have been more present during the past 24 hours. His absence on the hill was noticed by everyone, and it was eroding his moral authority to lead us.
I changed the subject. "We need to find out what the f--- has been going on with PRO 6. You know it took almost fifteen minutes for Danny to get an answer on the last drop yesterday?"
"I know. All the while, we're taking it in the a--."
"And then after all that wait, we're told to drop it next to the compound. That is f---ing stupid, Pat. But there is something else that is not sitting well with me," I said.
"What?"
"That last bomb we dropped—the Taliban we were trying to kill . . ."
"Got away?"
"Last bomb for sure. Number six. They stopped firing and vanished just before we dropped the bomb."
"They sure as hell didn't hear it coming. Inbound aircraft are almost silent because the thrust is going away from you," Pat said.
"Exactly."
"So how did they know when to split?" I left Pat and I puzzled over it. The sun now loomed above the eastern hilltops. The sky turned gold beneath the clouds. In the valley, the morning fog began to burn off. If things developed as they did yesterday, we'd be hit as soon as it lifted.
We were socked in again with thick clouds, no aircraft sensors. F--- I hate this.
We waited in silence for the enemy to attack. The fog cleared. The sun rose above the clouds and vanished. The valley below remained still and quiet.
The morning dragged on. "Maybe they had enough yesterday," I offered.
"Don't bet on it," Pat replied, lighting another cigarette.
"MBTR's almost dead. Gotta go swap the batteries out," I said, turning back to Pat. "Thanks for the Rip It and smoke."
"Ski, be careful."
"You too, brother."
I pulled myself out of Pat's machine gun nest and walked down the east spine to the vehicles. First Sergeant Z's resupply convoy had made it out, and the men were unloading boxes of food, water and ammo. Sure enough, Rob and Paddy had made it out to us. They'd already climbed a hill to the north to set up an observation post and protect that flank.
As I got closer to the rigs, I could see Jay standing watch in the turret of the GMV on the east end of our perimeter. Joe was sitting in the passenger seat of the RG-33 MRAP with the door open. I saw him and felt a sudden conflict within me.
Somebody had to be in charge of the vehicles, relay communications if need be, and do the myriad of things to support Andy as he directed the fight from the front. I guess.
There was something else going on here. Joe's words clung to my mind. The mission, this country, this fight — he didn't see it had any value. It certainly wasn't worth the life of any of his men, or his own. He'd grown bitter and had given up on our role in Afghanistan. Others had, too, but Joe's position within the team was so central that it couldn't help but affect us.
It wasn't about the mission or the war to me. At times, the way we were fighting bordered on the ridiculous. Thinking about that, investing everything in it, would only cause anguish. In that respect, I understood Joe completely. I couldn't hang myself out there for this war alone either.
Joe saw me come off the hilltop and nodded at me. "Good morning Ski balls," he said.
God, I f---ing hate that nickname.
I greeted him as I climbed into the MRAP through the back door. I'd stashed the MBITR's chargers inside. The fresh batteries were ready to go. I sat down, my feet on the back step, putting two charged batteries into my cargo pockets. A moment later, I placed the used one onto the charger.
First Sergeant Z's boys finished unloading. They saddled back up and rolled back to COP Prius.
Mission first, men always. Isn't that what the Army says?
This thing with Joe could get ugly. It was the first sign of division within the team. Anything that affected unity would impact each one of us. If it got bad enough, it could compromise our ability to function. It had happened before. Dysfunctional teams operating in combat never fared well. Not in MARSOC, not in Naval Special Warfare, and not with the Green Berets.
That ODA team we saw in action on November 6 was a prime example.
AUTHOR PROFILE: MARSOC vet relives fight for survival
Boooom!
A ball of dirt and smoke erupted right next to the rear wheel of an unoccupied GMV about thirty meters from where I sat. I stared at it, wondering what had just happened. Did a tire on the GMV blow out?
A few seconds passed with my mind still processing the sight. Suddenly, a Taliban machine gun opened up to the east. Assault rifles joined in.
"Contact east . . . !"
More gunfire erupted to the south and southwest. Within seconds of the blast, Pathfinder Hill was engulfed in a latticework of crisscrossing streams of bullets.
Joe tried to radio Andy, but the hill had fallen silent. He tried again. Andy was off the net. So was everyone else. That was a terrifying development.
This is the main assault. I can feel it in my gut. And I'm stuck down here without a radio.
I grabbed my M4 and slid off the back of the RG. The last group of hills to the east formed a ridgeline running north–south only about 400 meters from Pathfinder. They were higher, too. That meant if the enemy was on that ridge, they'd be able to fire down at the hill and into the trenches.
The guys are in a bad spot.
I started to run, then held up. The RG was safe. I could ride out this entire attack if I stayed inside it. The path up to the crest and the rest of the team was totally exposed to anyone on that ridgeline to the east. I'd be running through the line of fire if I went up there.
Joe's right. The mission, this war, isn't worth the blood it is costing us.
I took a step. Pat's 240 roared to life. He fired a short burst, paused, and adjusted. Then he laid on the trigger. The frantic burst he tore off echoed the desperation of the moment. Defensive, furious, it was a back- to-the-wall, pour-all-the-lead-you-have sort of gesture. Holding the trigger down like that would melt the barrel for sure. Pat didn't care. It was his only gambit to force the enemy to take cover.
It wasn't working.
The mission may not be worth dying for, but living without doing everything for these men would not be living.
Your brothers. Your brothers are worth it.
I started to run. The weight of my gear was crushing, but I kept moving, the thought of my brothers filling me with resolve. I reached the trail and began picking my way up the spine toward Pat's machine gun. I could see the tongue of flame spouting from the 240's barrel. I could hear the mini–sonic booms of AK and PKM bullets passing overhead. I sprinted into the full fury of the firefight, my back to the enemy as I struggled to reach the summit. I could see rounds impacting against the slope up ahead, could see them smacking into the sandbags crowning Pat's machine gun nest. Each burst from that PKM made me hunch my shoulders, the sense of exposure so intense that all my instincts screamed. I kept moving, sucking air from exhaustion.
"Marine coming in! Marine coming in!" I shouted.
"Ski! What the f--- are you doing?" Pat yelled.
Ryan, our team's SARC, was next to Pat, his rifle leveled and blazing. I reached the crest as bullets raked across the hillside. "Ski! Get in here!" Ryan bellowed.
Panting now, I dove into the trench that ran into Pat's emplacement. "Where are they?" I shouted.
An RPG sizzled past and exploded behind us. I glanced back and saw that it had detonated in midair. A second one followed and did the same, spraying the hilltop with shrapnel. Something else impacted into the ground and blew up. RPG? Mortar? Didn't know, didn't care.
"Where are they?" I asked again. Ryan pointed to the east ridgeline.
I flung myself against the east-side wall and brought my M4 up over the sandbags. There, on the nearest ridge to the east, I saw them. Muzzle flashes — lots of them — winked and flared along that crest. And then I saw two figures in the distance. One was wearing a black head wrap and brown man dress.
I put my sights on him and pulled the M4's trigger. Pop!
I turned the weapon on its left side and saw the 5.56 round stuck between the bolt and the ejection port's opening.
You've got to be f---ing kidding me.
"Jam!" I told Pat and Ryan as I took a knee and tried to clear it. I pulled the charging handle back as hard as I could, but it did no good. I dropped the mag out and tried again. No luck.
Pat tore through his ready ammo. Another rocket exploded overhead. I heard men shouting all around the hill.
I couldn't get the weapon clear. In frustration, I looked around and saw Pat's M4 resting against the berm. I reached over, snatched it up, and got back up on the wall.
"I'm out," Pat reported as his gun went silent. Automatically, Ryan and I popped back over the parapet and covered him as he reloaded the machine gun. Pat's M4 had an ELCAN 3 power scope, and as soon as I put my eye into it, I saw Black Headdress again. He stood up, the top two-thirds of his body exposed over the ridge as he shouldered his AK. As I pulled my trigger, I saw the muzzle flashing.
The man disappeared behind the ridge. Had we hit him? There was no way to know, and no time to wonder. His nearest pal was blazing away at us with his weapon. Ryan was silent and focused as he unloaded the rest of his magazine on him.
I ducked down to reload just as Pat finished laying a new belt in the 240's feed tray. A heartbeat later, the weapon roared again. One of his tracers hit an insurgent center mass. The enemy dropped like a stone behind the crest. It was an incredible shot.
I could hear rifle and machine gun fire coming from Kapeh Baba. More gunfire echoed in the distance, too far away for me to get a fix on it. Were they hitting Prius, too? I couldn't tell. I needed to get eyes on what we were facing, then get bombs on these a--holes. But I couldn't do that without my radio, my GRGs, and the rest of my gear.
I looked down the trench line. My stuff was over on the southwest side, where most of the rest of the team had dug in. Pathfinder's crest was tiny, only a few dozen meters long, but crossing it in the middle of this storm looked anything but appealing.
I can't just stay here and not do everything I can. Me shooting a rifle doesn't help the team.
"F--- this! This s--t ends now," I said aloud to myself.
Another explosion rocked the hilltop. The pissed-off hornets swarmed just above our heads. The battle's intensity seemed to surge. The enemy sensed they'd seized the upper hand, and they threw everything they had at us to exploit it. There was no way to wrest fire superiority from them. They had us outnumbered and outflanked.
I put Pat's M4 beside him and turned to run down the trench, staying as low as I could. I moved down the trench to the crest; the main team position lay just on the other side. When I ran up over it, I stopped suddenly, surprised by the sight that greeted me. George, Mark, and Andy were all tucked down in their fighting positions, hugging the ground. The nearby ANA and paratroopers were doing the same thing — all except for one soldier named Cory Ballinger, who sat almost completely exposed behind an M2 .50 caliber machine gun, hammering away at Kapeh Baba without any regard to the incoming fire tearing up our position.
"SKI! GET DOWN!" somebody screamed at me. The sense of urgency in his voice kicked my heart rate up. I dove for the nearest hole and landed atop somebody already at the bottom.
"Mikey! Mikey!" Heath, our other medic, yelled over the .50 cal.
A rash of machine gun fire clawed the ground. Bullet spouts erupted seemingly everywhere at once. The enemy on the east ridge had a grandstand view of this side of the hill. The trench I was in crossed Pathfinder east to west. They could see down into it and walk their fire through it without any obstructions.
This is bad, real bad.
"Mikey! You okay?" Mark cried out. I'd never heard his voice like that before.
"What's going on?" I asked.
The man below me shifted. I looked down and realized I was lying on Mikey.
Heath was in the next hole over. I heard him, his voice shaky, wailing, "Mikey, stay with me man. Stay with me."
Mikey looked at me with saucer eyes.
An RPG sizzled over the hill, blowing up over the west-side slope. "You okay?"
His head tilted forward. Blood poured from under his helmet and flowed down the side of his head into the dirt wall of the hole.
"Mikey, what happened?"
Dazed and unfocused, with effort he looked back up at me. "Hit," he said woozily, "in the head."
"What?"
"It's OK, though. I'm all right."
From Level Zero Heroes by Michael Golembesky and John R. Bruning. Copyright 2014 by the authors and reprinted by permission of St. Martin's Press, LLC.
