The human body is not a very effective air pump. I was consuming as much air as I was physically capable of moving. Using every single muscle in my torso straining to move air in and out of my lungs, and it wasn’t enough. My diaphragm burned, just trying to get enough oxygen into my lungs. Unfortunately, at over 12,000 feet above sea level, the oxygen just wasn’t there. The mucous in my airway seemed to get thicker with every labored breath and the cold air bit sharply at my mouth, throat and bronchi. My arms and legs were going numb and were starting to get cold. Weighed down with 80 pounds of ammunition and another 40 pounds of gear, taking a single step required considerable effort. The temperature wasn’t so low that it caused the loss of sensation; I just was not getting enough oxygen. As I struggled to gulp as much air as possible, one of the most defining moments of my military career occurred in a complex enemy ambush on the side of a mountain in Afghanistan. A barrage of rockets impacts erupted around us. Their eerie green fireball exhaust lighting up the snow covered mountains and trails as they passed over them. Each rocket motor pushing its fusillade faster and faster towards us, creating shock waves echoing through the valley as it punched through the air. Enemy mortars landed close by, we heard their shrapnel ricocheting against the heavy armor of our trucks. Each detonation took a small bite out of the mountain and spewed dirt, rocks and steel all around us. It was just a matter of time before they would get lucky and score a direct hit. One of our trucks was buried to the axles in thick mud on the side of this narrow Afghan mountain road. With a steep hillside to our west and a sheer cliff with a drop of over 50 feet to our east, the enemy was perched on a ridgeline 600-800 meters away to our east. We had no way to get to them, no way to get out of the kill zone, so we were forced to shoot it out until air support could arrive on station. About 15 minutes into the gunfight a call came over the radio that the three trucks that could engage the enemy on the high ground (2-4, 2-5 and 2-6), were running low on ammunition. That first call silenced all of the traffic on the net and went unanswered. When that radio message went out again, you could hear the strained nerves in their voices filled with anxiety. Almost everyone in our convoy had a headset on and heard that message. Some very serious decisions had to be made, and they had to be made fast. I am normally the senior person in my truck. Our Forward Operating Base Commander decided to lead this mission and was sitting in my seat up front as he was the convoy commander for this mission. People who normally sit in the back of the trucks as passengers, we call them “windowlickers.” After the second call that 2-4, 2-5 and 2-6 were almost out of ammo I simply said, “I’ll go.” I looked at the rest of the windowlickers with me in the back of the truck, none of them would look me in the eye; they all looked down at the floor and their boots. They were all frozen with fear of what waited outside the thick armor of the truck. I couldn’t blame them, this was their first taste of real combat, and it was a full size serving. After a few seconds of realizing what I had committed to, I knew I couldn’t take it back and not go. I reached for the combat lock and grabbed the cold steel handle and opened the back door, and stepped out into the cold. I had grabbed two cans of .50 caliber machine gun ammunition on the way out the back of the truck. I chucked them to the ground before shutting the 500 pound doors closed behind me. Hearing the windowlickers combat lock it behind me with a dull metallic thud, I knew I was exposed now. I picked up the 40 pound boxes and started the journey to the trucks that needed them. Our vehicles were about 35 meters apart. 2-4, 2-5 and 2-6 were five vehicles ahead of mine. Running as fast as I could to cover the distance between the trucks I felt so slow. I attempted to catch my breath in the cover and concealment of the trucks on the west side of the road, that’s when I realized how thin the air was. The smell of freshly turned earth filled my nose, but the thick aroma of cordite was burning my throat. A rocket propelled grenade impacted 10 meters away up the hillside from me as I ran forward. The force of the explosion shoved me face first into the dirt. Sliding to a stop, the dirt and gravel tried to peel away the skin on my face. I tasted my own blood in my mouth. I didn’t have any real damage, just felt like I got my lip bloodied in a schoolyard scuffle. Even with ear plugs in, the blast impacted my eardrums so hard all sounds were muffled. I wasn’t dazed, I just remember being really mad, I got back up and pushed forward. Fire erupted from our machine gun barrels, dust around the guns jumped as each shot was fired, but I couldn’t hear them. As soon as I dropped the ammo off and was about to head back to my truck, that’s when I saw him. So many thoughts processed through my mind, in such a short span of time, time seemed to slow down. He looked dirty. His beard scraggly and unkempt and looked like he hadn’t had a bath in at least a month. He had bony knuckles on his hands. He was thin. Thin enough that his facial bones were easily decipherable from his black beard, his dark eyes and filthy looking hat. He didn’t see me as he was focused on moving down the hill to the bigger targets, the trucks. I remember thinking, Is someone going to get this guy? I guess I am that someone, shit! I shouldered my rifle and placed the red dot of my optic on his chest. As I slowly pulled the trigger, I thought he was probably the one who tried to kill me with the RPG. I fired two shots about two seconds apart and they both hit him in the chest. I always load my magazines with a few tracer rounds on top. My reasoning is, if I am shooting at something I want my guys to see it and shoot at it too. My two tracers zipped right through him. I saw their orange streaks bounce off the hillside behind him. His face melted from a look of surprise to terror. He stopped his slow creep down the hill and dropped his AK-47 with a hollow sounding clatter. In his last moments on earth, before he fell to the ground 50 meters away from me, he looked down at his chest. When he did, his beard folded and curled up to his mouth
Posted on: Mon, 01 Jul 2013 05:39:07 +0000
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