Our target was an al Qaeda senior leader holed up in a small village carved into a sheer mountainside, roughly fifty meters above the wadi floor.
The access route to the target was a rugged washboard trail along a rocky ridge that shook our heavily laden vehicles like toys, tested even the most robust suspension systems, and challenged the arm strength of the drivers. The path was dangerously narrow and squeezed by a steep mountain face to our immediate left and a deadly cliff dropping straight down to our right. I could barely open the driver’s door, and anyone exiting the passenger side had two feet of earth, then nothing. I felt uneasy knowing the horribly precarious situation we faced on this trail heading toward the village, which lay across the wadi on the opposite ridgeline. If there had been another route we surely would have taken it, but this was the only way to the objective.
Those who have experienced the outlands of Afghanistan are familiar with the treacherous, unforgiving terrain; perhaps the most difficult on earth and certainly the worst I’ve ever encountered. The harsh conditions would often force convoys to move at speeds no greater than fifteen miles per hour for hours on end, often telegraphing their approach and allowing the enemy, sitting on mountaintops miles away, the time they needed to establish an ambush or set an IED.
That day was no different, and the slow speed at which we traveled likely compromised our element of surprise. I had firsthand experience with ambushes and prayed we wouldn’t encounter one, although I knew we probably would.
As we continued toward the pass, Vic studied a map spread across his lap while I kept eyes on the Toms’ vehicle near the front of the convoy.
Vic spoke into his radio. “We’re coming up on the entrance into the canyon, and it might get squirrelly. Keep it in the road.” The treacherous road was covered in the mission briefing, but it was nice to have a running update from the boss.
The fifty meters of road leading to the pass was fairly wide and relatively flat, and my confidence was high. Then the Toms’ vehicle abruptly vanished as if they’d fallen off the face of the earth, and I knew a steep drop-off was just ahead. Their radio chatter told us they were doing fine, at least for the moment, but when Vic and I finally saw what lay ahead we couldn’t help but look at one another and let out a disturbing “you’ve got to be kidding me” laugh. We then saw the Toms’ vehicle ahead and below us, approaching the treacherous S-curve that served as a gateway to the flat wadi floor.
We inched down the gravel path and hit the sudden drop-off, sending the pucker factor off the charts. The smaller rocks were like marbles under our tires, forcing us to ride the brakes and curse through clenched teeth as we wrestled the vehicles down the path. The vehicles, packed with troops, armor, weapons, and supplies, were very heavy. When combined with gravity, the heavy load strained the brake systems, requiring us to stop every few minutes to allow the pads to cool. It was clear the “road” had been cut into the side of the canyon centuries ago to allow merchants and armies access to the wadi below, and little had changed since then. As I pumped the brakes and eased the truck down the path, I whispered a prayer of thanks for the highly popular spec ops driving course I’d taken. If it weren’t for the enemy forces hell-bent on killing me, I might have enjoyed the ride, but the threat of ambush was very real, and we all felt it.
As I wrestled with the vehicle, Vic kept his attention on the opposite ridgeline and began to announce our intended route. As he spoke, I added my own mental commentary:
“Doc, once we hit the hairpin turn at the bottom and roll into the wadi, we’ll need to head northwest (once again exposing ourselves to the open area we just left) for a few hundred meters toward the road on the opposite ridgeline (which appears to be equally as dangerous as the one we’re currently on), which will take us up to our recon hide on the outskirts of the village (the village filled with bad guys, who definitely hear us coming and will try to kill us).” I always enjoyed riding with Vic, and I like to believe he felt the same, so I generally kept comments like that to myself. I’m sure he didn’t want to be reminded of those particulars just then.
Halfway down the steep path, we stopped briefly to cool the brake pads. We were still relatively high off the wadi floor and, as the middle vehicle, had a good view of the vehicles in both directions. Vic ordered the convoy forward, and as we descended the road became increasingly more treacherous. It was as if the ancient mountain were mocking our attempts to drive her paths with our modern machines. Vic looked down to the wadi on his right, then up toward the village on the opposite ridge, and whistled quietly. A silent blanket of uneasiness fell over everyone, sharpening our senses and reminding us to keep moving through a very precarious situation. Vic’s gaze returned to the point where the path met the wadi.
“The Toms are navigating the hairpin now,” said Vic, his eyes scanning the rocks above the hairpin, clearly tense. Several seconds of silence followed.
Muscle Tom radioed a SITREP via the secure team radios. “We’re through. The last turn is a bitch; take it easy. We’ll move forward and guide the rest of you down.”
The Toms drove thirty meters up the wadi, dismounted, and quickly scanned the surrounding area with their weapons optics. Both men were battle-hardened special operations warriors with extensive combat experience, and each had a sixth sense that saved many lives. We were fortunate to have them on point.
The second vehicle of ANA commandos then exited the hairpin, turned north and crawled up the wadi, and then parked just beyond the Toms’ vehicle. The third vehicle was nearly through the hairpin turn as the fourth neared the entrance; we’d be next.
Just as we prepared to crawl forward, Ranger Tom’s voice crackled in our earpieces.
“Looks like a stick man wearing fatigues on the opposite ridge, far north end,” he stated in a flat professional tone. Ranger Tom was like ice on the battlefield. “I think we need to move!”
Within seconds, we heard a bone-chilling sound we knew too well: a blast followed by the distinct whizzing sound and subsequent explosion of an enemy RPG. I felt a cold grip in my gut but shook it off and guided the truck behind a small rock formation that provided a few feet of shelter to our midsection. RPG rounds were now falling around the formation, but none on target. It was obvious the enemy intended to disable the front vehicle and trap the rest of us on the mountainside, allowing the gunmen to pick us off one by one. It was a classic ambush technique, one we shouldn’t have survived. If the tables had been turned, the battle would have ended quickly and decisively. Thankfully, they had nothing close to our level of military skill and executed poorly.
While the enemy could be fierce and fearless, they fought as individuals rather than as a unified fighting force. They had little grasp of the team concept and made the same mistakes time and time again, battle after battle. Their incompetence worked in our favor and gave us precious seconds we needed to react and fight through their inept execution of their ambush, which on this day was the key to our survival.
As the initial blast echoed through the wadi, Vic consulted maps and coordinated with the Toms by radio. I reverted to training that was ingrained in me early on: Get off the X, pronto.
The Afghan commandos were on a separate radio channel and didn’t hear Vic’s commands. Many of the ANA traveling with us weren’t on the intersquad radio channels, so I began shouting to those around us, “Off the X! Keep moving. Get off the X!” Getting out of the kill zone was all that mattered, and there should have been zero hesitation doing so. We had rehearsed it countless times, and its practical value was bolstered at Khand Pass. Perhaps our living through a deadly ambush, which no one should have survived, reinforced bad habits. For some unknown reason, however, the ANA troops exiting the turn discarded their training and were nearly killed for it. As they reached the turn at the canyon floor the driver moved to the center of the wadi, stopped his vehicle, and dismounted his troops. They took cover behind their vehicle, and later nearby boulders, as the RPGs rained down upon them. Their AK-47s wer
e ineffective at that angle and essentially useless, and the PKM mounted on top of their exposed vehicle gave the enemy a perfect target to zoom in on. Rather than break it free and hand-carry the weapon they abandoned it as they drew the enemy’s fire. Their leader’s foolish tactic could have signed his men’s death warrants, but to them, it didn’t matter. They were driven by a sense of ancient tribal pride. The Afghan warriors who made up our ANA detachment were hardened fighters raised in a land that has experienced warfare since the dawn of its existence. From the moment they were born, they were taught that one’s survival equates to one’s courage in the face of battle. A man must stand and fight, and to run away demonstrates cowardice. This was the modern battlefield, however, and we needed them to stand and fight, just not there. Vic was on top of it and immediately ordered all the men to get back into their vehicles and off the X while we still had the chance to do so, although I’m not sure they heard him. They continued to unload their weapons and swear loudly in their native tongue.
Just then a dangerously close RPG blast hit the ground below our vehicle, sending shards of rock and shrapnel straight up in the air. Moments earlier the cliff was a hazard; now it was a shield that propelled the fragmentation up and away from us. Had the round been a few feet higher, a few of us certainly would have been mortally wounded. The RPG reminded Vic and me that we needed to act fast and to get the hell out of our bullet trap as well. I jumped out the door and grabbed a machine gun out of the back of the vehicle and began returning fire. I wasn’t sure where they were, but we needed cover fire, so I bombarded the area where I thought they might be. Vic’s door was useless considering the cliff on his side of the vehicle. He was wearing body armor and enough equipment to make even the thinnest individual a wide load, yet he flew across both seats and exited the vehicle like a gymnast. Bullets are excellent motivators. Once out, we moved to the front wheel well and the protection of the engine block. It’s amazing how two grown men wearing full battle gear can compact themselves into a safe position when RPG rounds are bouncing around.
PKM rounds ripped into the terrain around us and peppered the unshielded portions of the vehicle’s exterior. We were relatively safe behind the thickest part of the vehicle, so we assessed the battle space and quickly formulated our plan. We were experienced fighters in the region and understood how long it would take for air and quick reaction forces to respond. In order to act, we had to know the enemy’s exact location; otherwise we might turn a bad situation into tragedy. Muscle Tom and Ranger Tom had moved from their position in the wadi down below to an area that afforded some protection as they looked up at the opposite cliffs, trying to get a bead on the enemy. As at Khand Pass, the enemy was backlit, and the sun made it nearly impossible to locate their position, except this time it was the late afternoon and the sun would eventually fall behind the opposing cliffs. Vic was busy calling for air or artillery support while trying to get our Afghan warriors in front of us back in their vehicles and on the move so we all could get the hell off the X. That left it to me tackle one of the most difficult aspects of counterambush in the mountainous terrain of Afghanistan: locating the dug-in men who were trying to kill us. In Afghanistan there is a seemingly endless amount of ground to cover when looking from ridgeline to ridgeline. Throw in caves, boulders, sunlight, distance, and a hundred other external details, and the task of finding a small group of men is a daunting one.
I moved from the position with Vic to the rear of the vehicle and squatted behind a tire. I did a mental inventory of what we knew: There was a scarecrowlike figure on the opposite ridge. Their fire was relatively inaccurate, which meant they were probably either hurriedly assembled or impatient and undisciplined. I knew the general direction from which they fired and had a good idea of their numbers. It was probably a small contingent of men; otherwise we would have been shredded during the initial volley. I did the mental math, took a deep breath, and stood for a three-second peek over the wheel of the vehicle. “OK, they weren’t where I thought they were,” I said to myself out loud, an odd habit of mine while under fire, “time for another look … perhaps a bit higher on the ridge?” I knew better than to come up in the same spot twice; I learned that lesson from the metal fragments that peppered my face during the Khand Pass ambush. I moved to a different part of the vehicle and took another three-second glance at the opposing ridge. I saw the muzzle flashes of a PKM clear as day, even with the sun shining directly in my eyes. Bingo, I knew where they were. I jumped back behind the rear wheel well just as another volley of PKM rounds ripped into our location. Had I stood half a second longer, one of the 7.62 × 54 mm rounds traveling at 800 meters per second would have taken half of my head clean off. I sat back and quickly pulled out the map, trying to get a decent set of grid coordinates for Vic. I looked over and saw him reporting in to air controllers, with hopes of getting some support here sooner rather than later. Vic was locked in; he had been in this situation before, and his calculating demeanor had taken over. I knew if anyone could conjure up fire support it was him. I relayed the coordinates to Vic and described the natural and man-made fortifications being used by the enemy.
Vic finished his radio conversation, then turned to me. “Doc, air support is inbound, but it may be a while. We need to get this damn convoy moving.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the front of the convoy and made a command decision. “I’ll work on the vehicles up front; you take the rear.”
“Roger that” was all I said as turned around and moved toward the rear of the truck. I crouched behind the wheel, waited for a brief lull in the gunfire, and then sprinted up the road toward the vehicles at the rear of the convoy. As I ran along the path, enemy rounds crashed into the cliff wall, and bits of rock stung the exposed skin on my face and neck. They were close, but not close enough.
My first three stops along the road were with ANA soldiers who’d taken cover behind their vehicles and surrounding rocks. I low-ran to each cluster of men and treated a few minor wounds while directing their fire onto the enemy’s position. In some cases, I had to pull them from behind the rocks so that I could point out specific targets on the opposite ridge. I also had those within effective range concentrate fire on the enemy gunmen to provide Vic some relief as he tried to get the front vehicle moving. At each vehicle, I ordered the driver to start it and let it idle so the convoy would move quickly when the time was right. The rear of our convoy was almost out of the enemy’s range, so when I reached the last Hilux I stood up straight, stretched my back, and caught my breath. Just then the QRF from 10th Mountain arrived. I pointed out the enemy positions, but the experienced American soldiers had already tracked the muzzle flashes from the hilltop and were setting up a counterattack. The sun was beginning to set, and now more than ever we needed to get moving. I couldn’t imagine trying to navigate those mountain goat paths in low-light conditions.
During my mad dash, Tom and Tom gathered the few men they had from the vehicle that made it to the bottom and moved them out of the wadi. Ranger Tom assembled a maneuvering element while Muscle Tom began to set up the 60 mm mortar that he always carried in his vehicle. The 60 mm is a versatile, lightweight, high-angle-firing weapon specifically designed to support close-in fighting. It was a perfect choice for the terrain of Mangritay. This weapon had the ability to clear the natural obstacles our enemy was hiding behind and maintain the destructive force necessary to penetrate their defenses when it dropped in to say hello.
Back at the rear of our convoy, I briefed the 10th Mountain officer on the plan Vic and I had put together. He then added his suggestions, and we called it in to Vic and the Toms. It was fairly simple: I would start back down the mountain, ensuring our personnel and vehicles were ready to roll. When 10th Mountain saw me nearing my vehicle, they would let go with the M-2 .50 caliber Browning machine gun, aka “the fifty,” and the MK-19 automatic grenade launcher, concentrating their fire on the enemy’s position. They would maintain a constant flow of return fire that would naturally start to
die off when each group of ANA fighters climbed on board their vehicle to move out. Once everyone was mounted up all of our vehicles would move forward, except the last one. It was far more sensible for 10th Mountain to tow it backward over the initial hump and have the men remain with them until we were able to link back up at a later time, rather than expose them to fire. At the front of the convoy, Vic would somehow get the stalled vehicle moving and clear the path for the rest of us. Muscle Tom, meanwhile, would start a flanking maneuver once we were safely out of their direct fire. Somewhere along the way down the mountain, I would pick up Vic, unless he was piloting another vehicle.
On Vic’s command, I sprinted down the mountain, once again low-running from truck to truck. The incoming fire was still sloppy and undisciplined but also very dangerous. I reminded each of the ANA fire teams of the plan, then continued toward the front of the convoy. As I reached the last vehicle before mine, the mountain behind me erupted in a thunderous explosion from 10th Mountain’s gunners. Up ahead, Vic cleared the stalled vehicle and ordered their asses off the mountain before returning to ours. I opened the door, and once again he scrambled across the seats as I jumped in behind him. “Get us down the damn mountain, Doc. Don’t be shy.” I gunned the engine and threw it into gear and bounced down the path toward the wadi floor below. I was monitoring radio traffic as I drove and was relieved to hear the 10th Mountain guys report the convoy behind me was mobile. I wrestled the truck around one of the curves as I rattled down the mountain just before 10th Mountain’s return fire fell silent. As powerful a weapon as the MK-19 was, it always seemed to jam at the most inopportune time. For some reason the .50 cal went silent, too.
Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic Page 21
