As I passed the chow hall, I heard a familiar voice. “Doc Donald! Holy hell!”
I turned and saw a large, light-skinned man with a long, thick beard that would’ve made Grizzly Adams jealous, striding my way with an ice cream bar in hand. It was my old friend Tom, an Army Special Forces operator with a big frame and cool disposition whom I met while attending 18 Delta over a decade ago. I had heard he was in Afghanistan, but I didn’t know where and never thought I would see him, least of all here.
“I heard you were coming. Welcome.” He smiled as he wiped ice cream drippings on his khaki utilities before offering his oversized hand.
“Where’d you hear that?” I asked. “It’s a hot fill. I didn’t even know I was coming.”
“We put a request in for another PA but with very specific qualifications. That meant it was either Doc C, you, or no one. Doc C just left here a little over a month ago, so we figured it had to be you.”
“Makes sense. So who’s here?” I asked, still trying to figure out how he had a chocolate-covered ice cream bar in the middle of nowhere.
“You’ll know a few,” he answered, pausing to eliminate the remaining third of the bar and scrap the stick before continuing. “Chris was here. He was a SEAL, so you probably know him. He had to leave just before you got here. He’ll be back at some point.”
“Yeah, I know Chris,” I answered. Chris was a former SEAL who was rising quickly through the ranks of a government agency. His new job kept him in close affiliation with the rest of us; I hadn’t had a chance to work side by side with him in the past but knew eventually I would. The special operations community is a lot like a small town. It’s always the same names related to the same jobs. You may not live in their neighborhood, or in this case be part of their command, but you’ll know the name or recognize a face when you eventually run into one another.
“There are a couple of guys you’ll probably remember from South America. You’ll meet the boys shortly. Was the ride in OK? Anyone shooting as you came over the mountain range?”
“Not one round. I normally prefer night travel out here, but I can’t complain,” I said. “One thing’s for sure, I’ll never get tired of the views from up there.”
“I know what you mean. It’s the cold that gets me. Now, where are your bags?”
“The PFC [private first class] helped me stow them outside the main hut.”
“Did it have a load of wires going into the roof and a wooden porch?”
“It sure did,” I replied.
“Then that’s the right one.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“Well, Wil and the others are over there briefing the leadership for Mountain [a colloquialism for 10th Mountain Division],” he said as he pointed toward the structure 10th Mountain used for their headquarters. “After that wraps up, the team meets back at the main hooch at 1400.”
“Sounds good. I assume I’ll get the lowdown on how everything works around here.”
“Yep. It’s not that bad, really. We have a lot of autonomy, but little support since most of the equipment is either in Iraq or headed that way,” he said as he turned to walk back toward Mountain’s HQ. “Oh, I almost forgot. Doc C trained up a few of the brighter Afghani troops as medical assistants. They’re standing by to help you at the clinic once you’re up and running.”
“Thanks, but aren’t you a medic? Or did you cut something off someone that you shouldn’t have?”
“Funny. You’ve still got jokes. I was cross-trained as a Foxtrot [referring to the Army’s Special Forces, Assistant Operations and Intelligence qualification] and haven’t touched a stethoscope in ages. I can still patch the wounds, but I shouldn’t be dispensing meds. We can’t risk an international catastrophe. That’s why we have you, right? Catch you at 1400.” Tom smiled and popped me on the shoulder, then ambled off trying to get the sticky off his hands while I continued my own personal recon.
I spent the next couple of hours walking the compound, speaking with troops from 10th Mountain, and thinking about what Tom had said. He was wise to avoid the distribution of meds. Medicine advances quickly, and just because we’re out in the middle of nowhere doesn’t mean we won’t encounter modern disorders. I remember our initial concerns when entering Iraq were centered on cholera and other basic ailments. However, once we took control of the country we realized medications for the treatment of diabetes and hypertension were needed. Thankfully, Doc C’s reports had me prepared for the unique medical challenges in the Afghan wilderness.
I knocked on the door of 10th Mountain’s medical clinic, which had been inherited from the Ranger Battalion, who had turned the sand castle into a fort. It had all the modern amenities you would need on the battlefield but was housed in a primitive, camplike room. Talk about a clash of eras. I spent time talking with their PA and a handful of army medics and learned they were there specifically to treat their men. Everyone else inside the walls, including my team and the Afghani troops, was my responsibility. I was also the go-to medical provider for the nearby villages. I thanked him for covering our guys after Doc C left and apologized for not getting there sooner. Like all the PAs I had worked with in the past, the army PA was more than happy to help out any way he could. We sat down on folding stools that accompanied his army-issue field desk, which was really just a box with drawers and a lid that turned into a tabletop, to talk about the medical problems he’d encountered during his time there.
“So what are you, army, navy, or what?” He asked. It was understandable; we all had beards and wore mismatched uniforms that best allowed us to adapt to our environment. “I thought you all were Special Forces, but then I heard some mention of SEALs, so we have an ongoing bet in medical.”
“Not trying to be rude, but I don’t think I can help you settle your bet. How about you all just call me Don,” I said as I reached out my hand.
“I’m good with that,” he replied as he smiled and opened one of the wooden drawers of his desk. I had seen this type of smile many times in the past. The most recent was at a special operations base in Europe when the surgeon pulled out twenty-year-old Scotch, but who knew what to expect this time.
“Now, Don, don’t let the secret get out, because it’s hard to get supplies out here,” he said as he placed a French coffee press and biscotti on the top of the desk. Really? I thought. This is the big secret? I thought the heat and seclusion had melted his brain, but being an avid coffee drinker and knowing how much it meant to him, I rendered the courtesy of sharing a cup of joe.
As we sat, I told him why I was there, being careful not to violate security limitations. No use holding back information from someone I knew I would need assistance from.
“Well, other than being here to enjoy the ambience of eastern Afghanistan, I have three distinct duties while at Shkin: to keep my guys healthy, keep the Afghan army healthy, and carry out missions [as a spec ops operator], which includes treating the villages and their elders in and around no-man’s-land.”
“That sounds about right, but you’ll want to be careful of returning to the same area too often.” He went on to explain that the Taliban had learned Westerners would return to the same area after a few weeks to check on the ones they treated. The Taliban set up ambushes and would wait for the medical teams to return. “There’s no respect for the Red Cross out here. It’s more like a target, so just keep that in mind when you plan the village visits.”
At 1400, I entered the main hooch and was greeted, spec ops style, by those in attendance. Tom was right; I did know several of the guys, including Chief, a sizable Native American whom I found to be one of the hardest men I’ve ever known. Then there was Vic, an air force officer with extensive combat experience and Brad Pitt good looks. Vic was the assistant team leader and greatly respected by the men, and they showed it by teasing him relentlessly for being a “metrosexual operator.” Then there were the other Toms, all of whom had nicknames in order to keep everyone straight. There was Muscle Tom, a Recon M
arine built like a professional middleweight boxer with wavy hair and an obsession for surfing; Ranger Tom, a quiet, trim, and no-nonsense operator that still lived by the motto “Rangers Lead the Way”; and, of course, my friend and former 18 Delta classmate, whom they called Big Tom. Finally, there was Wil, our team leader and Special Forces combat veteran, who had known Chief since the beginnings of their careers in special operations.
“Doc, I’m so glad you got here. My hemorrhoids are killing me,” said Chief, trying to instigate a ruckus.
“Don’t just tell him about it, show him,” Big Tom said, adding his two cents to the conversation.
“Stop it! Can we have a meeting without any childish antics, please? Do you think that’s possible?” Vic asked.
“This isn’t about your movie choice, is it? Because we all forgave you for that disastrous ‘humor’ flick that lacked both a plot and laughs,” said Muscle Tom.
So there it was. The guys were stirring the pot from the night before. I was just thankful Vic stepped into the circle to allow me to duck out. He broke a golden rule in spec ops: If someone is in the center of the harassment circle, don’t go in after him, and definitely don’t trade places. While they started out busting my chops, they quickly switched to something most troops thoroughly enjoy, hassling their junior officer. The hijinks continued until disposable coffee cups and pens began to fly.
“Enough,” said Wil, trying to rein it in without letting on that he instigated Chief’s and the Toms’ statements in the first place. To an outsider, the scene would have resembled frat-house grab-assing, when in reality it was a group of highly trained professional warriors blowing off steam in a very isolated and dangerous place.
In a split second, the team recalibrated and focused on Wil as he got down to the brass tacks. He informed us that Chris would be staying stateside longer than we initially expected so he could tend to some issues, and that I would be pulling double duty as both medic and shooter. He also tasked me with ramping up the clinic as quickly as possible, with a goal of treating some of the locals within forty-eight hours as part of an ongoing civil affairs mission. He then briefed us on several training evolutions scheduled for the Afghan commandos, which was one of the core missions of our team. Glancing around the room as Wil continued to speak, I noticed each member of the team listening intently and scrawling notes in small notebooks. There was no grab-assing of any kind. That’s how SOF operates. With a flick of a switch it can go from one extreme to another. Exceptional in every way, especially when it came to compartmentalizing work from play, or family back home.
“Doc,” Wil said, catching me a bit off guard. “I know you worked with the ANA up north, but I can tell you the guys we have here are much more committed.” He was referring to the Afghan National Army regulars who protected Kabul, who were primarily recruited from outside provinces, which meant they weren’t dedicated to protecting Kabul as they would their own villages. Afghanistan was more tribally centered than national, and we all felt it would take decades or even a century or more to change that. I was glad to hear our ANA commandos were wired tight. Wil explained they were fierce warriors, passionately committed to expelling the Taliban from their homes. A true rarity.
An hour later, Wil wrapped the meeting by announcing that as the FNG, I would be taking over movie duties from Vic. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I thought it was about to put me in the center of the circle.
As the team wandered out to carry on with their respective duties, Wil walked over and offered a hand. “Good to see you again, Doc. Last time I saw you, we were passing each other in Virginia. You were on your way to Iraq, so I was surprised you were available for this assignment.”
“The deployment schedules have been crazy. Very hard to predict, little downtime, and all that, but here I am, ready to try to fill Doc C’s shoes,” I smiled.
“You know we purposely requested—”
He tried to finish, but I interrupted him. “I know, Big Tom told me.”
“Well, I try to build a good team and keep it that way,” he said as he winked. “In any case I’m glad you made it.”
“Thanks for having me, Wil. Sounds like we’ve got our work cut out for us.”
“Roger that. I’m counting on you to get that clinic up in a couple of days. Ned, our Afghan commander, has the ANA ready to help, and the medics at 10th Mountain offered to pitch in.”
“I met their captain earlier, and he mentioned his willingness to help. We’ll get it done.”
“Come on, let’s go outside and talk about it over a smoke.”
“You know I only smoke a cigar once in a blue moon, and I don’t have any here with me,” I said, knowing I was about to be overruled.
“You know I don’t smoke alone, and I’m your boss.” Wil always took someone on his smoke breaks with him, and as it turned out that would generally be me. We’d stand outside on the porch for ten minutes as he discussed current situations and weighed his options out loud. It wasn’t as if he was looking for an answer from me. I think he just wanted to hear himself think, and having me prevented him from looking like a lunatic, walking back and forth and ranting through puffs of smoke. Thinking out loud isn’t anything new. I used the technique myself and recommended it to my students, firmly believing a person has a greater ability to learn or understand complex problems when it comes from his or her own voice.
“We’ve got a lot brewing right now, and there may be another opportunity coming down the pike, so don’t be surprised if we all get stretched real thin,” Wil said as he lit up his cigarette.
“Not to worry, boss. I don’t mind pulling eighteen-hour days,” I said, trying to allay any fears he might have about the clinic not getting done. I have always been a workaholic and planned to continue the trend, especially since I was sitting in an ancient fortress on the Pakistani border.
“It won’t be that intensive, Doc, but it’ll keep you busy.” Wil then switched to the Afghan commandos and explained how far the troops had come and their expanded role performing surveillance and reconnaissance deep in Taliban and al Qaeda country. “Muscle Tom and the others have really done a great job training the ANA, but it hasn’t been all roses.” He told of a recent ambush the Afghanis encountered escorting a resupply convoy that took the life of one of their newest members. “He was a huge Afghani, Goliath size. He was a natural leader and positive influence on the others. His death really shook the rest of his platoon, but having a medical presence on the battlefield with them should help calm their nerves.” As a medic, I’d heard that before; no matter how well trained and hard core you are as a warrior, there’s a feeling of relief knowing that someone is there to keep you alive.
Wil finished his cigarette, turned, and started to walk back into the hooch. “Boss, I’ve got a request. If you don’t mind, I’d like to work on the vehicles when time allows.” I’d learned a valuable lesson from my time in Central and South America. Vehicles keep men alive.
Wil shook his head and laughed. “You know, Doc, we’re on land, and those are ‘army’ vehicles, and they don’t need the same habitual maintenance as your ‘navy’ boats,” he said, laughing, while he thought about his decision. “Sure, Doc, what the hell, knock yourself out. Just do me a favor—let’s get the clinic up and running first, and don’t forget to let Vic know what you’re up to. He can get a little touchy when it comes to the comms equipment in the vehicles.”
“Roger that,” I said as Wil ducked back into the hootch.
With the help of the army medics, the Afghani clinic was operational within twenty-four hours. For the first time in nearly two months, I held an official sick call for the Afghani troops, and it was an instant hit. I worked nonstop for two days straight. Overall the Afghani team was in great shape, with the exception of a few repeated sprains, related to patrolling through the rocky terrain, and dental problems. We also treated locals from the nearby villages and found them to be humorless and skeptical of our intentions. I wouldn’t expect a
ny different, with the clinic’s on-again, off-again schedule. Sometimes it was enemy rocket attacks that shut it down; other times it was our inability to have an American medical provider constantly on station. The primary problem was not having a competent Afghani provider as the mainstay of the clinic. We’d tried in the past, but every time we hired someone to run it, either the Taliban would chase him off or he simply couldn’t be trusted. The man I replaced, Doc C, actually left the Alamo and went to Kabul to address that very issue.
When not attending to patients, I was in the hooch with Wil, Chief, and the Toms, learning the critical details of the missions and reviewing intelligence reports. Our primary mission was to train up the Afghan commandos, but we also had certain standalone missions that would be carried out by small teams of Americans from our group. As a SEAL, I was accustomed to such small-unit operations and experienced a surge of adrenaline when they were described in detail.
In my limited free time, I worked on the various vehicles around the compound. There were Humvees, old Soviet-era trucks, and Toyota Hilux trucks like those favored by the enemy. I became somewhat obsessive about maintaining the vehicles, perhaps as a subconscious way to ward off the inevitable injuries and death that come with battle. The other guys joked mercilessly about my mechanic’s fixation, but deep down they knew my compulsion might actually save a life, and that’s what medics do.
I grew close to my teammates in those early days. They were smart guys, all of them college graduates, with life experiences most average folks could never fathom. We spent the off-hours, usually at night, engaged in conversations ranging from politics to religion to sports and beyond. On occasion, one of the soldiers from the 10th Mountain would bring his guitar to our side of the compound and play while we stared up at the deep purple sky, the bright stars illuminating the ground below.
14
BATTLE OF KHAND PASS
It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, more vengeance, more desolation. War is hell.
Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic Page 14