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CONTENTS
Note from Mohammed Gulab
Map
Prologue
Pashtunwali
1: A Tribal Warrior Is Born
2: A Land of Defiant Men
3: Could Anyone Still Be Alive?
4: Into the Arms of Allah
5: Surrender the American or Die
6: “It’s Marcus, Guys! We Got Him!”
7: “Negative Burn! . . . Negative Burn!”
8: Tread Softly as I Leave You
Epilogue
Photos
Acknowledgments
About Patrick Robinson
Index
For every one of the decent village warriors who saved the life of my buddy Marcus.
NOTE FROM MOHAMMED GULAB
When I discovered the wounded American soldier Marcus Luttrell outside my village, I had no idea how that moment would forever change the course of my life, my family’s life, and affect the lives of everyone in our village high up in the mountains of Afghanistan. But God spoke to me that day and said I must give protection to this man; that he fell under the Pashtunwali rules that guide our lives. Marcus Luttrell is a great warrior, and I am filled with love and respect for the man. I am happy that we were able to give him aid and help in his rescue. Even with all the hardship that has followed. This is my story and the story of those eventful days. I hope it finds you well.
PROLOGUE
Mohammed Gulab is a Pashtun tribesman. A mountain man. His people are a remote group who’ve lived for millenniums in the high peaks of the Hindu Kush located in the back end of the Himalayas, on the uncharted borders of Pakistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and what some Westerners might feel is God-knows-wherever-else-istan.
Their language is a specific dialect, evolved from the ancient tribal tongue of Afghanistan. More than three hundred years before Christ. The Macedonian, Alexander the Great, chatted away to them with the ease of a would-be conqueror. Today these people are understood only in the city of Jalalabad, never mind in the Western world.
Mohammed Gulab’s heritage is, shall we say, hazy. He has no birth certificate. His official entry into this world was not even recorded. I’m not sure the birth of any of his ancestors has ever been recorded; not up there in those distant, high peaks, where the Pashtuns have lived and died for thousands of years.
He believes he was born in 1973. There is no benchmark except for the oldest brother, Haji Nazer Gul, who was born sixteen years previously—but, again, not recorded.
They named him Mohammed Gulab. It might have been Mohammed Gulab Gulab. But either way, his name is Gulab. No one ever called him anything else, at least not among his friends and family. Gulab is closely related to the tribal elder in a village that clings to the edge of a towering mountain on a gradient only slightly steeper than the Washington Monument. Encounters with people from the West are, naturally, limited.
So it is particularly remarkable that Gulab’s experiences include the unlikely lifelong, binding association with a very special US Navy SEAL, Marcus Luttrell, who asserts flatly that but for Gulab, he would have died on an Afghan mountain in June 2005, along with his best friend and eighteen other US Special Forces.
Marcus was part of a SEALs mission to capture or kill one Mullah Ahmad Shah, a notorious Taliban terrorist believed to have recently blown up a truckload of US Marines. (For this book, I have elected to switch to the classified correct name of the Taliban commander. So many people have revealed the name, and the Taliban leader whom Marcus describes as “that evil little sonofabitch” is dead now, anyway. I checked with SEAL Command, and there is no longer any issue.)
The armed Americans had been deposited onto Gulab’s mountains as a small US Special Force. The four SEALs were scattered around a little stony ridge where they had made their command center, overlooking Shah’s digs about a half mile below. Danny was on comms, Axe on guard, Mikey on glass, Marcus with the sniper rifle. But before they could complete their mission, they were confronted by goat-herders, one of them just a kid aged about fourteen, who’d come upon the SEALs unawares.
The story of what happened next is well known by fans of Lone Survivor. To kill or not to kill? Marcus Luttrell understood implicitly the danger of releasing local tribesmen who might even be members of the Taliban—informers, spies, or perhaps relatives of recruited warriors. With or without the goats, they could be in that Taliban camp in a heartbeat, informing Shah that they’d just met four heavily armed American combatants. But could they just stand here, raise their rifles, and kill an unarmed teenager? The SEALs were all Christians, all with Christian souls, and the question stood stark before Mikey and Marcus: Would God ever forgive them for such a deed?
I know Marcus Luttrell better than most people, having written Lone Survivor with him. And if it makes anyone feel any wiser, I should say that those moments, and that decision to free the goat-herders, have haunted him ever since. There still aren’t many nights he doesn’t wake up trembling at the thought of it all and what it ultimately meant both to him and, more importantly, to his buddies.
Of course, the goat-herders charged straight to Shah’s army with their information. But was the SEALs’ decision right or wrong? Who can say? Marcus says, “All I do know is that if we’d voted the other way, Axe, Danny, and Mikey would be alive today, and if you want to break my heart more than it is already, just remind me of that.”
As the SEALs moved away from the Taliban encampment, Marcus saw a bearded Al Qaeda killer behind a tree, carefully drawing a bead on him. The Afghani’s AK-47 was aimed straight at Marcus’s forehead. It was the tribesman or him, and Marcus squeezed the trigger.
The shot echoed around the mountain. And then all hell broke loose. After an incredibly brave stand against a Taliban army numbering as many as four hundred strong, the four Americans’ luck ran out. Danny was killed; Axe, probably dying; Mikey, shot in the stomach; and Marcus—battered half to death—had nowhere to turn.
For the only time in his life, he heard the voice of God. He has thought of that moment often. And there has never been one shred of doubt in his mind. The voice was deep and clear. His God had reached down and given Marcus hope. Of that he was certain. That was when he knew somehow that he was not alone, and then he turned to face the enemy once more with a newfound confidence. And, privately, he thanked God Almighty for giving him that chance.
Marcus kept telling himself over and over, “I’m a SEAL. And I still believe we have a chance. I still have my rifle, loaded. And somehow, deep in my heart, I believe God knows that, and He is still in my corner.”
Only a lunatic, or perhaps a SEAL team leader, possibly could have viewed the overall position of the three surviving Redwings as anything beyond hopeless. Mikey had been shot again, and Axe had a deadly head wound. Aside from a left leg full of shrapnel and rock chips, and a bloodied face, Marcus might have looked and felt a bit better than his buddies, but not by much.
The trouble was, there seemed to be just as many against them as there had been at the start. They’d lost all form of comms, except for Mikey’s cell phone, which could not get transmission, jammed against this towering granite rock face that blocked out east, north, and west.
But then Lieutenant Mike Murphy made a decision. Blood-soaked, grim-faced, he stepped out into the clearing to where there was likely more of a signal, and, taking out his cell phone, he called f
or help. “My men are taking heavy fire. . . . We’re getting picked apart. My guys are dying out here. We need help.”
All three SEALs understood that he was sacrificing his life. As the SEAL officer in charge, however, nothing would prevent him from doing his duty.
Right then a bullet hit him straight in the back. And with bullets still flying all around him and blood pouring, he spoke one final sentence: “Roger that, sir. Thank you.”
A powerful rocket grenade blasted Marcus out of the hollow, across the rough terrain and over some kind of a ravine, knocking him unconscious. When he came around, he was blind—couldn’t see a thing. He was also upside down—everything hurting like hell—headfirst in a hole. Somehow he hauled himself out and found himself in sunlight, with vision intact. The only thing he could see was his miracle of a rifle, right there, a couple of feet from his hand, as he exited the hole.
“In my own mind, I was now entirely on my own,” he reflected later. “This Taliban army was no longer searching for a SEAL team. It was trying to hunt down me alone.”
By any reasonable calculation, Marcus had zero chance. His leg, full of fragmented metal, felt paralyzed. His pants had been blown right off, he was suffering from a serious loss of blood, and there was a definite possibility he might die of thirst. The one shred of good news was that the enemy couldn’t see him. A thousand bullets had missed Marcus that afternoon, and his faith was still strong. God did not wish him to die here today, on this desperate foreign mountain. Marcus knew he had to move into better cover. Suddenly the enemy opened up fire again, bullets flashing into this rough ground from all over the place.
For Shah, the great triumph of the afternoon had come when the US military had sent in a Chinook helicopter, packed with reinforcements, to rescue any of the four who might still be alive. The Taliban missile men had brought that Chinook down, killing all sixteen on board.
Marcus was resolved, still, to find water, and continue his crab-like progress across the face of this mountain. The pain in his leg was by now devastating. He’d had nothing to drink for a total of fourteen hours. He was light-headed, drifting between reality and hallucination.
As for the downed Chinook, Marcus would not know it had happened for several days, which was just as well, because reports of the tragic deaths of his close friends like Shane, James, Jeff, Erik, and Chief Dan, all trying to save him, might easily have sent him over the edge into insanity. Only later would he learn that when Mikey’s last, desperate phone call came through at the SEAL base—“My guys are dying”—the Quick Reaction Force hit the blacktop faster than ever before, scrambling into the Chinook, pulling on their gear, magazines snapping into position. Forty minutes after takeoff, everyone on board was dead. It was the worst day in the history of the US Navy SEALs.
In order to elude the Taliban, Marcus made one final diabolical crash down the Afghan mountain. His left leg had taken enough punishment for one lifetime and it finally buckled completely, sending him into a headlong fall. He shot past a deep pool below a waterfall at about seventy miles per hour, going straight down, no brakes, no steering.
The impact was stunning. He lay there for a while, eyes closed, feeling just about as sorry for himself as it was possible to be. Then, slowly, he tried to move, testing arms and legs, checking whether anything still worked. To his utter amazement, pretty much everything was in order, and, amazingly, his rifle had landed just a foot away. He grabbed, dug, and clawed his way up. It took about two hours to reach the waterfall. In some kind of desperate effort, he got there, scuffling over the final yards, and then he just plunged his head in. No water, he says, ever had, or ever will, taste that sweet.
He then lay there in tears, thanking God, his savior, and begging the Almighty not to abandon him, because without that merciful hand, Marcus could not have survived.
That merciful hand came in the form of Mohammed Gulab. Marcus has always been, typically, the very soul of generosity in his gratitude to Gulab. He once told me, “In the seven days following the battle, I could have died about nine more deaths. Gulab saved me, and on every occasion, he put his own life on the line, facing down inevitable death himself. Without him, I’d be in a coffin.”
The truth was, in a blink of Gulab’s dark eyes, Marcus’s enemies became his own. Gulab chose to defend and shelter the “infidel”: this gravely injured Navy SEAL. The Al Qaeda tribal killers, seeking to gun down the American, would probably have mutilated Luttrell’s face, as they’d done to Mikey, Danny, and Axe.
Outside of Marcus’s own valorous SEAL community, he swears that Mohammed Gulab is the bravest man he’s ever known, though theirs would be a friendship founded on a higher awareness—an unspoken sense of empathy. Gulab could not read or write even in his own language, and he would never learn English, as Marcus would never learn the Pashtun’s ancient tribal dialect. Since their fateful first encounter on the mountain, Gulab and Marcus have each made thousands of hand signals, one to the other.
They’ve had translators, interpreters, they’ve mimed, play-acted, and laughed. But they have never shared an understood word.
The man to whom Marcus Luttrell owes the most in all the world is ultimately silent to him. He does not even know the name of his wife, or the names of his ten children. But they are often in each other’s thoughts, even half a world away.
So much of what they both feel can never be said—will never be said. Neither of them knows how to mime words such as loyalty, concern, and anxiety. Mohammed Gulab will always stand as a pillar in the life of Marcus and his family. Gulab was once an assumed enemy, but became a devoted friend.
He and Marcus were born eight thousand miles apart, separated by every possible shred of human learning, instinct, and religion. But those days on the mountain flung them together, and the vast distances of their lives can never cast them asunder.
Through an interpreter, Gulab speaks of Marcus with unmistakable compassion, like a slightly older brother smiling at the memories of long-lost sharing.
In the ensuing years after the publication of Lone Survivor, I have been asked this more than any other question: What happened to the tribesman who saved Marcus, and did Marcus and the tribesman ever meet again?
People were haunted by the heartbreaking picture of Marcus banging on the cockpit glass, yelling at the pilot to wait—and Gulab’s tearful, anguished face as the military rescue helicopter rose up and left him behind on the Asadabad runway.
In that awful moment, Mohammed Gulab became, effectively, stateless. He could not go home. He was an outcast among many of his own people: the man who had saved the infidel. And America appeared to have abandoned him.
High above, flying through the peaks of the Hindu Kush toward safety, Marcus Luttrell was outraged at this treatment of his personal savior. And it took years for the two men to find each other again.
When they finally did, in Texas, I flew to meet them, to begin work on the book that would answer two important questions: Who exactly was the tribesman? And what happened to him?
PASHTUNWALI
The Pashtuns are a fiercely independent people who have inhabited Afghanistan since at least 1000 BC on steep mountainous terrain, completely outside government control or rule. They have their own laws, and no one is advised to try to force a different way of life upon them. Government committees and even the Taliban in both Pakistan and Afghanistan understand that Pashtun laws must be accepted in the Hindu Kush mountains. The Pashtuns have their ways, and there are forty-two million of them worldwide, twenty-eight million in Afghanistan. If necessary, every one of them would rally to defend the honor of those laws.
The codes of Pashtunwali are not inscribed upon parchment. They are handed down from pre-Islamic times, but they work in concert with the teachings of the Prophet Muhammad. They contain all ten main principles that Pashtun tribesmen adhere to:
1. Melmastia (hospitality). Hospitality and deep respect are extended to all visitors, regardless of race, religion, national affiliation,
or economic status. And done so without any hope of remuneration or favor.
2. Nanawateh (asylum). This refers to protection given to a person against his enemies. People—visitors—must be protected at all costs. Even those running from the law must be given refuge until the situation can be clarified.
3. Badal (justice). There is no time limit on seeking justice or taking revenge against a wrongdoer. In Pashtun lore, even a simple taunt (paighor) is regarded as an insult, which usually is rectified by the shedding of blood. If the culprit cannot be located, his closest male relative must suffer the penalty instead. Badal can lead to blood feuds that may last generations, involve entire tribes, and cost hundreds of lives.
4. Tureh (bravery). A Pashtun must forever defend his land, property, family, and women from invasion. He will stand bravely against tyranny, and defend the honor of his name. Death may follow if anyone offends this principle.
5. Sabat (loyalty). Loyalty must be paid to one’s family, friends, and tribe members. Disloyalty cannot be tolerated, for it brings profound shame on both families and individuals.
6. Imandari (righteousness). All Pashtuns must strive for good, in thought, word, and deed. They must behave respectfully to people, animals, and the environment around them. All pollution of the environment, or its destruction, is a direct affront to Pashtunwali.
7. Isteqamat (trust in God—Allah in Arabic, Khudai in ancient Pashto). To trust in the one and only Creator parallels the Islamic certainty that there is only one God (Tawheed).
8. Ghayrat (courage). Pashtuns must demonstrate courage. Their honor and pride has enormous importance in Pashtun society and must be preserved. Respect for others is paramount; respect for family, automatic. A lack of this brand of prideful ghayrat can mean exile.
9. Namus (protection of women). A Pashtun must defend the honor of women at any and all cost; protection from vocal and physical harm.
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