The Lion of Sabray

by Patrick Robinson

  I probably understood better than anyone that this would not be unanimously accepted by everyone in the village. Certainly the majority would follow the lead offered by Sarawar and me: the path of mercy and decency involving a badly wounded person who had done us no harm.

  But those blood ties between certain families and the Taliban were strong, and there would be those who might consider that our actions bordered on the fringes of madness. Why would we even dream of endangering the lives of all our people just to save the life of this American monster we did not even know?

  The fight of the Taliban army against the small band of US Special Forces was by now well known, even though it was only a day old. And there was no doubt that Marcus had been right in the thick of it. Plus, he looked to the tribesmen as if he could wipe out an entire army with his bare hands.

  While the merciful instincts of Gulab and Sarawar had prevailed on the mountain, it was still to be seen if they would prevail down in the village. It is simply not the Pashtun teaching to act in a cruel and heartless manner, ignoring all forms of humanity; however, there may be an exception for an enemy who had occupied their country. Would the American soldier be seen as an invader akin to the Russians, or would he be viewed in more favorable light, like the Pashtuns used to have for their US allies?

  We set off down the steep slope, and immediately I could see we had a problem. There were one or two younger men coming up to the pastures. It was still hot, around four o’clock, and as they passed, I could see a quizzical look on their faces, and as they stared at Marcus, I could see it change to one of acute dislike.

  I do not think they yet understood the full ramifications of Pashtunwali, but they knew one thing: two very senior members of the village council were carrying an obvious infidel into the very heart of the Pashtun community.

  It was entirely possible that these men had relatives who fought for Ahmad Shah. It was even possible they themselves planned to join that grand adventure at the earliest opportunity.

  None of the young men would have dared question the wisdom of men like Sarawar and myself. Respect for the elders is drummed into all of our youth, and the doctor and I were both in our early thirties. That was a lot older than seventeen, and we both had high reputations: the battlefield commander and the learned doctor. No one was challenging our decisions. Islam does not treasure its youth like it recognizes its wise men. But the kids were not happy.

  One hundred yards later, it happened again. This time I noticed the American glaring right back at their scowling expressions. And this time I turned around to see them pointing directly at our new guest.

  It would take some time, no doubt, before I could convince him there would be many people in Sabray who wished him no harm and would not tolerate anyone else wishing him harm, either. Despite the West’s often hostile view of all Islamists, there are very good people among us, as, of course, there are among every nationality.

  He was obviously in terrible pain, and I spoke to Sarawar about relieving it somehow. His opinion was we had to make a major improvement in the condition of his blasted leg, which was peppered with shrapnel, rock, and wood splinters, still bleeding, infected, and causing him agonizing pain.

  And we had to get that bullet out of the backside of his left thigh. Sarawar had excellent antiseptic cream, and we had ancient tribal herbs which he believed would make our new guest much more comfortable. Also, the soldier was in desperate need of more water. Sarawar said he’d rarely seen a man more dehydrated.

  Even on that slow and, for him, painful journey down to the village, he blacked out twice more. I remained uncertain about whether we could keep him alive. But my orders were categorical. I must protect him.

  I mentioned this briefly to Sarawar, who said he understood and seemed reluctant to have me elaborate further on the words delivered by Allah. But he had known me long enough to realize I was not inventing it. What I said, had happened. He did not doubt that.

  When we reached the top houses in the village, the ones on the highest part of the northwestern gradient, I noticed he was again asleep; either that, or dead. I was not sure. A small crowd watched us as we made our slow progress, and I noticed a few wary looks. I was glad the man did not notice.

  Finally, we reached the house, and we lowered him to the ground. I sent a couple of kids to bring out a cot, and we transferred him. He looked relieved, lying there, eyes now open, exhausted as only wounded combat troops can be.

  But this was not a bed. This was an operating table. Sarawar brought over a hose and handed it to him to drink from.

  We were more or less powerless to stop the village people from crowding around to watch, and, anyway, I did not want to antagonize anyone further. So we allowed them to stay, and Sarawar immediately went to work on that bullet wound.

  Quickly he found not just the entry wound but also the exit hole. The Taliban marksman’s shot had gone straight through the soldier’s upper leg, and the injury was bleeding from both places. No wonder he had looked so deathly pale. He was still losing a lot of blood.

  Sarawar cleaned the bullet wound, treated it as best he could, then got started on the ripped, torn, and shredded thigh. He washed it off, and I watched the man almost faint with pain as Sarawar touched the shards sticking out. But he never uttered a sound.

  That was one brave man. And then the doctor selected a surgical instrument and began pulling out the splinters.

  Some of the wood on the old hillside trees is centuries old and as hard as granite. The soldier had a whole bunch of these splinters slammed into his leg, clearly from a rocket blast. It happens when a tree trunk is blown to smithereens and the fractured wood flies everywhere. A big piece can kill a man, or even two. The little bits are like flying bullets, and I’d seen injuries of this kind before. It was not pretty.

  But Sarawar worked on, meticulously pulling the debris out of the leg, washing away the blood, applying antiseptic cream. Finally, he applied a dressing, and we fetched the American some soft, clean Afghani clothes, two sets: white for day, black for night.

  We helped him undress, pulled off his shirt, and that was when I received my next big shock. Right across his back and down his arms was a huge tattoo: a blue-black design with weird shapes. That really scared everyone, because it looked like some kind of voodoo; some tribal symbol of war with its circular lines, jagged edges, and spiked prongs on a weapon which looked suitable for the devil.

  I also noticed there were three numbers tattooed onto him. I still remember them, two-two-eight. To my very unpracticed eye, the American numbering looked like two snakes standing in front of an entwined emblem signifying, to us, approaching attack—or even death.

  That tattoo could have gotten him killed, and people were very nervous. Perhaps sensing this, the man began to tell Sarawar, who understood a few words of English, that he was a doctor.

  Doctor! I never saw anyone look less like a doctor in my life. This huge, bearded man, carrying a big loaded machine gun, with a spare ammunition magazine, a hand grenade fitted into his gun belt, battlefield injuries—including a gunshot wound, a split forehead, a broken nose—and a tribal marking, signifying all-out war. On somebody.

  Somehow he communicated to Sarawar that he was a special battlefield doctor sent up here by the Americans to tend to the wounded. There was, however, not so much as a stethoscope, or even a Band-Aid, in his possessions; just the machine gun and ammunition.

  “Dr. Marcus,” he kept saying. And he said it so often, even the kids learned it. I could see them all jumping up and down, laughing, and yelling, “Hello, Dr. Marcus! Hello, Dr. Marcus!”

  The entire village gathering was relieved when they pulled Afghan clothes on the American soldier, obscuring that huge tattoo, and made him comfortable. Three of them carried his cot back inside for the night and helped him to lie down again. They brought him some food, which he did not much like: just flat bread, and warm goat’s milk, which he rejected out of hand. But he liked the bread and drank s
ome tea. By the time Marcus Luttrell was ready to sleep again, he looked a lot better than when he was first discovered by Gulab and his companions.

  The temperature up there in the Hindu Kush frequently drops around 50 degrees from the searing heat of the day to the mid-30s at night. So Gulab put a couple of blankets over “Dr. Marcus” and then decided to go to the village mosque. This was important to him, because he had obviously made some important decisions since last he prayed. He walked to their most holy place and found it open but deserted.

  Gulab took a prayer mat and tried to communicate with Allah that he had done His bidding; that he had gathered friends and saved the American. Marcus was now in their care and relatively safe from harm. His injuries were clean and treated, and they had fed him and provided fresh water.

  The collective obligation to protect him was a holy instruction, but it had come to Gulab alone, which gave him a special responsibility. He took it extremely seriously, and prostrated himself before his God, and prayed for the soul of Marcus, the infidel. He actually did this several times a day as long as they were together. That was his duty as an Islamist, well within the command of Allah. Of that Gulab was certain.

  When he left the mosque, he gathered up his rifle, checked the magazine, and took a quiet walk around in the dark. He was back in field commander mode, senses alert, surveying the surrounding mountains—especially to the north, the steep slope nearest to where Shah’s army was camped.

  That was where he first noticed a light, possibly a lantern, moving. Then another. In his mind, there was no doubt. The Taliban were moving onto that escarpment, from which they could keep a twenty-four-hour watch on Sabray. They had discovered, even faster than Gulab expected, that the American soldier, their ultimate quarry, was in the village. He already knew they would stop at nothing in order to capture him, dead or alive.

  In one way, he understood their fury. This man was one of only four US Special Forces who had wreaked total havoc on Shah’s army. But Allah’s disapproval of the murder of both innocents and prisoners of war is a basic rule of right or wrong in the teachings of the Koran. No Imam approves of willful murder. The children of the Hindu Kush were all taught that from childhood. It was simply unacceptable, and everyone knew it was wrong.

  There is no passage in the Koran that gives anyone permission to go around killing people. The Koran stands tall as the final arbiter—and for Taliban warriors to enter Sabray and execute this wounded American, to whom the people were extending melmastia, that was out of the question.

  Gulab’s view was, if anyone wanted to kill the American, that would prove a lot more difficult than they thought. However, he did not underestimate their anger and determination. Which was why they were all parked out there on the mountain, awaiting their chance.

  By now, it was very dark, with heavy clouds overhead and no moon. Gulab called at one or two houses of close friends and sought the latest information. It seemed there were four youngish men in Sabray who believed that the man should be handed over.

  This was no surprise, since all four of them were known informers to the Taliban. They were dangerous because they could reveal precisely where the American was. At this time, Ahmad Shah’s men knew, somehow, that he was in residence, but they did not know exactly where.

  They could have conducted house-to-house searches, but that was tantamount to war. The people were not afraid of them, and if they had to, they’d fight, and Sabray was well armed.

  Gulab believed they would stand behind him. Because there was a natural respect for a proven mujahideen field commander. That respect for his family lived on from the distant days when another generation had revered the words of his learned father.

  Once back outside in the little main street, Gulab moved into cover and again scanned the mountainside. He kept well out of range of the Taliban guards’ Russian night vision glasses. Nonetheless, he could still see the lights on the mountain, and he knew the enemies of the American were biding their time.

  Gulab was a battle commander again, and he decided that the Taliban fighters would be preoccupied with their new encampment and highly unlikely to attack the American tonight. They could not possibly know which house he was in, although they might find out tomorrow from their informers.

  But for now, Gulab judged Marcus as safely locked away and in no particular danger. He had taken the precaution of hiding Marcus’s rifle; if the Taliban somehow broke into the house and discovered him, it would be one less thing to identify him as the wanted soldier. Neither he nor Sarawar, who could easily tell that Marcus was no doctor, gave much credence to the physician cover story, but maybe the clothes they put him in would slow down the Taliban. Although he’d already detected one or two shadowy figures moving furtively in the village, he elected not to visit Marcus again until the morning and went inside to join his family. At his own front door, he looked out to the mountain and saw once more lanterns, just two moving, with traces of a campfire, at a slightly higher elevation.

  It was a comfortable house, thoroughly waterproof, with glass windows, an iron stove, a thick, loose-weave Afghan rug on the floor, and a heavy padlocked box containing valuables.

  They slept on cots and piles of those huge Afghan cushions that have been a part of local households since ancient times. Gulab arranged for two of his sons to check on Marcus during the night and again in the morning. There was nothing urgent.

  • • •

  Gulab’s view that Marcus would be safe until dawn was a tactical error, as the Taliban struck almost immediately.

  Tipped off by the Sabray informers, who sneaked out to the mountain shortly after dark, Shah now knew where the infidel was holed up.

  And they came for him in the early evening, awakening no one, just storming into the house where Marcus was sleeping. No one heard anything, but the door was quite heavy and fit tightly. They gave it a hefty kick and then swarmed into his room.

  They knocked Marcus around, punching and kicking him while he lay on his cot, unable to stand. Not surprisingly, they aimed their hardest kicks at his bandaged left thigh.

  They also used a rifle butt to deliberately break the bones in his wrist but stopped short of killing him either out of fear or respect for the village’s mujahideen soldiers. They also knew enough English to taunt him with the news that they had downed a US helicopter, killing everyone on board. And that he was next. They planned to take him outside and cut off his head, publicly.

  The Taliban “warriors” even invited some young local kids to enter the house and take turns punching the Navy SEAL. One saving grace of Marcus’s not having the strength to defend himself is that if he had harmed the kids, this would have probably been enough of an excuse for the Taliban to shoot him right there.

  The commotion quickly awakened the entire village, and Gulab was alerted. He saw what was happening and realized there was no point charging in there, gun blazing. There were just too many of them: eight in the room, plus more patrolling outside around the house, and hundreds hidden on the mountain.

  There was only one way to solve this. And that was to summon the village elder, Gulab’s brother-in-law, Maluk, a very senior and most respected man, around seventy-five years of age and married to his oldest sister, Shina.

  Gulab explained the situation to him, and Maluk dressed quickly, while Shina made tea, which she poured into a glass resting in a silver holder. The small, bearded man brought it to the American, entering the room with immense dignity. Gulab, armed with his rifle and accompanied by two friends, stood guard at the door.

  Maluk spoke quietly to the Taliban troops, who all stood up and stepped away from Marcus, nodding respectfully to Sabray’s village elder. This deference was the complete opposite of the Western cult of soft hero worship, which does not exist up there in the Afghan mountains. No one in the entire country commands esteem for talents such as acting or singing.

  Afghani warriors pay such “children” scant attention, reserving their respect and admiration
for those who have experience, people who have seen much and learned life’s lessons in the fields of politics and brave military command.

  Gulab saw each Taliban fighter in Marcus’s room step back and offer a short bow to Maluk, a man they could easily have killed, but would not dare to raise a finger against.

  In the Hindu Kush, you must earn that degree of personal respect. It’s a matter of power. Maluk commanded obedience from two or three other villages. Because here was a man who had led mujahideen battalions in the mountains against the invading Russians twenty years previously.

  This was a man who had sat on a thousand village councils and been consulted by the Afghanistan government. He was not required to sing or shout. When the elder speaks, the rest of the room goes quiet. One critical word from him could end all forms of cooperation for traveling Taliban armies and recruiters.

  Maluk’s entrance clearly communicated that Marcus was under the protection of this village. And they could not dare upset the elder.

  They probably also thought twice about threatening Gulab. He and Maluk were from the same family, and many assumed that Gulab would one day take his brother-in-law’s place. Certainly, if they already knew that Marcus had been assigned to his personal care, they would have been wary about risking Gulab’s anger.

  Maluk’s intervening instantly ended whatever forms of torture they were inflicting upon the American. He spoke quietly and calmly to them, and then he walked out, and the villagers formed a guard for his return home. Within moments, every one of the intruders left, walking up the hill to the north, back into the mountains, leaving Marcus very bruised and bleeding, but alive.

  Gulab conferred with Sarawar, who returned to the house and re-dressed Marcus’s wounds, while he went with Maluk to seek his advice. There were no doubts about the next move: they had to get the American out of that house and into hiding somewhere else. The elder felt that the Taliban were capable of sending a new raiding party once they guessed that Maluk had returned to sleep. But they would not defy him directly.