by Mitch Weiss
He was told that Walding was seriously injured—his leg was nearly severed by a bullet. Morales had been shot twice trying to help Behr, who took a round in the hip. It didn’t look good for Behr. He also said that Ford had been hit in the arm and that CK was dead. Other soldiers and commandos were wounded, too.
Wurzbach just shook his head in disbelief.
“It’s been fucked up, man,” the soldier said. “A lot of bad shit.”
It was a fucked-up mission from the start. Every suggestion had been rejected. At that moment Wurzbach felt very disillusioned. But he had to stay in control.
“Did you know there were people up above you?” the soldier asked Wurzbach.
“I suspected, but I didn’t have proof. I couldn’t see anything,” Wurzbach said.
“Yeah, dude, that’s why they dropped on top of you like that,” he said. “I’m pretty glad you decided to consolidate because we didn’t know where you were. We had been trying to call fire on that area for a while.”
64
Walton
It had become increasingly difficult for Walton to report the team’s situation to Monster 33 because of the heavy volume of satellite radio traffic. But he could discern chopper traffic on the radio. And that was encouraging. With helicopters on the way, Walton had to restore order amid the chaos.
His main priority was getting Afghan commandos in position to establish security for the medevacs. But before he had a chance to do this, Lodyga’s voice crackled over the radio asking Walton if he had any more pole litters. Walton didn’t. There were so many wounded, they had run out of stretchers.
As part of his plan, Walton wanted to hit the HIG fighters hard before the helicopters arrived. Maybe that would provide a little cover. Because he knew that once the birds arrived, the HIG fighters would focus on shooting them down. He remembered reading in one of the intelligence reports that Ghafour had obtained SAMs. Whether they were functional was the question. If they were, it could spell trouble. But he knew the HIG fighters had RPGs. And, with the right strike, an RPG could bring down a helicopter.
Walton told Williams to grab the commandos and start firing at a suspected enemy fighting position. Then he instructed Rhyner to order as many air strikes as possible just before the medevacs approached in the hope of suppressing the enemy and giving the birds a chance to land.
The captain jumped back on the radio and told the pilots that they were “flying into a hot HLZ.” Then ODA 3312 took control of guiding the aircraft in, using smoke and identifying power lines as they came inbound. The power lines were forty feet off the ground.
The entire wadi seemed to explode with CAS strikes and strategically placed fire at the insurgents.
In the distance, Walton could hear the helicopters approaching the valley. But he was worried. Enemy fire continued. Even with all the CAS strikes, with all the American firepower, there was no letup.
Walton knew the wounded couldn’t stay at the base of the hill. Helicopters couldn’t land there. And even if they could, the birds would be right in the line of fire. It was too dangerous for everyone. So he ordered the casualties carried to the middle of the wadi in front of the river. Maybe that would be far enough away to load the men safely on the medevacs.
65
Shurer
The casualty collection point had quickly filled up with soldiers. The wounded were on pole litters and Skedcos or sitting on the ground. All waiting for the dust-off. It kept Shurer busy. The medic was doing rechecks on the men when Martinez from ODA 3312 showed up carrying supplies. It was a blessing because Shurer had run out of just about everything. At that point, he knew that Walding and Behr were in shock. Maybe Morales. He had all the wounded drink water to pump up their fluids.
As he waited for the helicopter to land, Shurer moved from soldier to soldier saying the same thing: “You’re good. Don’t die.”
Everything was moving in fast motion. They were down the hill, but they were far from safe. They needed to load the men on helicopters. They needed to get them to a hospital fast. But while they were waiting they were told they had to move the soldiers to a new position in the wadi. There was no time to waste. So some of the commandos immediately picked up the stretchers and began carrying the men to the river’s edge.
As they moved, Shurer could hear the helicopters over the din of bullets. Maybe everyone would be okay. Maybe they would all get out alive. It was the first time in hours that he’d felt this way. But then he noticed that his arm was hurting. At first, he shook it off. But when he looked, he discovered a one-and-a-half-inch burn on the inside of his right arm with blood and bruising around the elbow.
What the hell happened? he thought.
He examined his uniform and saw a bullet hole in his sleeve. Then he lined up the sleeve with the wound. It was a perfect match. He shook his head in disbelief. He had been shot and hadn’t even known it. He wasn’t sure when it happened. It didn’t matter. The only thing that was important was that he worked hard to save lives.
And now all he wanted to do now was get out the valley.
66
Ford
Ford could still hear gunfire as he staggered toward the landing zone. He was at the front of the line because he could walk. In the distance, he could just discern the green Black Hawk, with small painted red crosses, dip down into the valley. The helicopter flew in and started to hover.
Blasted by the rotor wash, Ford got one hand on the floor of the helicopter as it started to come down. The flight medic leaped off and headed toward the other wounded soldiers. Suddenly Ford heard a scraping noise overhead.
This thing is coming down on top of me, he thought.
It sounded to him like the rotor was hitting the mountain. Before he could duck for cover, the helicopter’s engines screamed and the aircraft leaped back into the sky.
It had taken hours to get a helicopter this close, and now the medevac bird was gone.
Ford had heard over the radio that if they didn’t get out of the valley soon, they would have to stay overnight.
Not good. Not good, he thought.
Spreading out, everybody took cover as another bird slid down the valley with plans to land in the wadi. But they would have to cross the fast-moving river of melted snow to reach the chopper. Slogging through the crotch-deep, frigid water, Ford had made it halfway over when he started to lose his balance. Afraid that he would fall and drown, he grabbed at another soldier, who was helping Morales across the wadi.
Holding on to the back of the soldier’s shirt, Ford waded across. Cold, he reached the Black Hawk and climbed on board. He crawled to the front so there would be room for Walding and Morales in the back.
67
Carter
Watching the birds try to land in the valley, Carter knew there could be trouble. The volume of enemy fire had increased, and one of the helicopters took off after receiving multiple hits.
Before the helicopters arrived, Carter had pulled security at the casualty collection point and helped the medics. It was strange, but the on-the-job training he had received while they were trapped on the ledge really helped. He handed them gauze and bandages. It was like being in an inner-city emergency room on a busy weekend night. They had set up a makeshift trauma center.
But what good was all that if the helicopters couldn’t land?
Carter watched another bird come in, trying to find a landing zone. It found one—but across the river.
That presented another set of problems. The only way to get across was to wade through the cold water with the stretchers. He was worried that the commandos would drop the wounded, which could aggravate their conditions. And he was concerned about the enemy fire. They were still shooting at the birds.
With Walding on a stretcher, Carter helped provide cover as they moved toward the helicopters. When they approached the river, he heard Walding’s voice.
“Please don’t drop me [in the water],” Walding said.
Inside, Carter was
relieved. It was the first time Walding had said anything in a long time. He had gone into shock and was sleepy—not a good sign. Carter was worried that Walding would die before dust-off. Now he had hope. If, at this stage, Walding could remember that the river was cold, his mind was still working. He was trying to fight to stay alive.
68
Morales
They had to cross the river again. Morales couldn’t believe it. After everything they had been through, they had one more obstacle. But at least the birds had landed.
Dave Kagle, a medic from the B team, and several commandos helped carry Morales’s stretcher to the medevac. He peered up and spotted some of the commandos shooting at the village on top of the mountain to provide cover. They pounded the enemy position while the soldiers ran through the water carrying Morales to the helicopter. The water splashed on him. It was cold, but at this point, he didn’t care. It was all about getting on the helicopters. Anything to get on those birds.
As they drew closer, Morales lifted his head. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the thought of seeing his wife and family again. Maybe it was because he was so close to leaving the valley. Whatever the reason, he managed to summon the strength to jump off the stretcher and hobble toward the aircraft without any assistance. He had two brutal wounds—to the ankle and thigh. The pain was excruciating—even with the fentanyl. It didn’t matter. He was going to make it.
But when he was a few feet away, he stopped. He had been through hell in his past—in order to get to the Ranger battalion, he’d gone through RIP (Ranger Indoctrination Program). He had made it through Selection and Green Beret training. He had been through some really hard times, but he never quit anything. When his wife wanted to quit something because it was too hard, he would turn to her and say, “What’s your last name? It’s Morales. You don’t quit.” But right at that aircraft—when he was only an arm’s distance away—he faded. He had lost so much blood and his bandages were coming undone and he was physically and emotionally drained. Finally, Lodyga helped him into the aircraft.
When he was inside, on a stretcher, one of the crew came over to help. Before he had a chance to speak, Morales looked up at him: “Man, you guys don’t know how good it felt to hear you guys flying overhead and shooting back at that village because I was shot twice. Just to have you guys cover us is awesome.”
For Morales, the whoosh of the rotors preparing to leave was therapeutic. For the first time that day, he took a deep breath and tried to relax. He knew it would be a long, hard journey to recovery. In fact, he wasn’t sure if he would even survive at all. But just knowing that he was heading to a military hospital, he felt like he had a fighting chance.
69
Walding
Shock had taken over. Walding had tried to stay awake, but it was difficult. He was drowsy. He could hear the bullets and explosions and the rotors of the helicopters. But all the sounds blended together.
How long had he been at the casualty collection point? He didn’t know. At least a medic had looked at his wounds. Bandaged him. Given him water, and morphine for the pain.
Still, he wasn’t sure what would happen next. Would he live? He was fighting hard. He thought about his wife and children again. His grandparents. He was trying everything to just stay focused, to just stay awake. He was afraid that if he fell asleep he would never wake up.
He knew his fellow soldiers were doing everything they could to keep him alive. He wanted to live—even though he knew if he survived, his leg was gone. No way a surgeon could reattach it. Collapsed on the stretcher, he didn’t want to think that far ahead. He couldn’t think far ahead. He didn’t know if he would even survive.
He opened his eyes and glimpsed the helicopters. Moments later, the commandos began carrying his stretcher. They had to cross a river—the same one that he had fallen into at the beginning of the mission. And in their haste, they dragged him through the water again. He was drenched. The water, though, momentarily shocked his senses. Shit, I lived through the firefight, but the hypothermia is going to kill me, he thought.
As the commandos carried him to the medevac, the enemy gunfire increased in intensity. They were aiming at the helicopter, which, despite being hit, continued to hold its position. They had to wait before loading him. The soldiers laid down a line of suppressive fire. And when the firing subsided, they moved Walding on board.
Once inside, he heard voices and glanced up at a face hovering over him. Then he passed out.
70
Behr
It was the first time Behr had felt safe since the battle erupted.
He was no longer trapped on a mountain. He was wrapped up in a Skedco in a clearing surrounded by Green Berets and a few Afghan commandos. But by no means was he out of the woods. He could still hear the gunfire and explosions. At least the medevacs had arrived. It was just a matter of time before they loaded his ass on a bird and whisked him and the others to safety.
Behr noticed all the activity around him. The Special Forces soldiers were talking to one another, shaking their heads, running back and forth. Some were on radios, talking to the helicopter pilots. And he noticed that one of the helicopters flew past him and landed in a clearing where Walding was being treated. The bird became an instant target. Immediately the insurgents began shooting at it.
“What the hell?” Behr asked.
At first he was concerned that the chopper pilots didn’t see him. But then it dawned on him: Walding was probably in worse shape than he was. He probably had to be evacuated first.
Shurer returned and told Behr he would be on the next bird.
“Just hang in there a little bit longer,” Shurer told him.
What choice did he have? He had waited this long—and he was still alive. That in itself was a miracle. Soon another helicopter swooped into the valley and landed nearby. Shurer ran over and told four commandos to help load Behr onto the helicopter.
But there was a hitch. They had to cross the river again to get to the helicopter, which had to land a safe distance from the attack.
As they were about to cross the river, Behr warned them to be careful. He didn’t want to get wet again. But this time, the soldiers didn’t dance from rock to rock trying to avoid plunging into the river. Instead, they plowed right through the water. When one of the commandos dropped his end of the litter for a moment, Behr got a little wet.
He was cold, but it was better to get wet at the end of a mission than at the beginning. When they finally reached the bird, a doctor and a medic from another ODA greeted him. They loaded him inside and strapped his stretcher near a window. Rushing to treat his wounds, they placed a mask on his face to sedate him.
As the helicopter lifted out of the valley, Behr glanced out the window and stared down at the mountains. He was grateful to be leaving, but overwhelmed by a sense of sadness. His team was still there. The firefight was still going on. What’s going to happen to these guys? he thought. He felt even more helpless. Not only was he wounded and unable to help while he’d been in the field, now he was leaving his friends behind.
But as he stared out the window, he had a better sense of what had just happened and the difficulty of the mission. He saw how steep the mountains really were. On the way in, he didn’t get a full picture of what was ahead because he had been staring out the back of a Chinook. But on the way out, he got to see the valley for all that it was.
“Holy crap, we were there. Crazy. Just crazy,” he whispered before passing out.
71
Ford
As the others climbed aboard, Ford could hear rounds pinging off the helicopter. Peering into the cockpit, he watched the pilots sit and wait as the bullets rained down on them. They never flinched. With the last wounded soldiers inside, the pilots hit the throttles and the helicopter quickly climbed out of the valley. For the first time, he relaxed. It was finally over. He was safe, but hurt badly.
“We’re going to make an emergency landing,” the crew chief yelled at him
as the helicopter strained to climb out of the valley. “We’re going to put it down and transport you to another helicopter.”
Ford could see Walding, Morales, and several wounded commandos spread out on the floor in the back of the helicopter. The brain of one of the commandos was exposed and he was frothing at the mouth.
When they landed at the Kala Gush firebase, Ford hustled to the other bird while the medics grabbed the wounded. But before he climbed in, he watched one of the flight medics grab a frazzled colleague. Ford thought the frazzled medic was acting like someone who’d drunk twenty energy drinks.
“I will throw you off this bird if you don’t calm down,” the flight medic said. “Sit down and shut up.”
Ford again found a seat in the front of the bird. As soon as the nose of the helicopter dipped down and started toward Jalalabad, the frazzled medic started trying to undo Ford’s tourniquet. Ford was afraid that if he loosened it too much, the artery would suck up into his chest and there would be no way to stop the bleeding.
“Don’t touch it,” he yelled at the man.
But the medic ignored him and kept trying to work on the tourniquet. Ford pushed the frazzled medic’s chin away.
“Don’t fucking touch it.”
The medic looked shocked and finally headed toward the back and began working on the commandos. Ford tried to get comfortable. His arm hurt and the flight was taking what he felt was a long time.
As he sat there listening to the rotors beat the wind, Ford started doing the math. It had been several hours since he had been shot. Shit. His arm was probably unsalvageable.