Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic

by Mark L. Donald

  “You just keep your eyes on the road,” Vic said as he looked behind us, relieved to see the ANA troops were following the plan. “Good, good,” he said as he turned back and focused on the path in front of us.

  “Roger that!” I gassed it and tore into the final curve in the path.

  We reached the bottom with such a thud the doors of the truck flew open and Vic nearly tumbled out. “Hang on, boss!”

  “Now you tell me? Did they teach you that in SEAL driving college?”

  Just before the initial attack kicked off, the Toms and a couple of ANA vehicles had entered the wadi, turned right, and moved out of the enemy’s range. Once the ambush started, however, the wadi became the X, and we were approaching it quickly.

  Having seen the vehicle in front of us fall into the enemy’s crosshairs, I yelled out, “We can’t turn right. They’ll shred us with machine-gun fire!”

  “Roger that,” Vic yelled back. “Hang on!” The truck rolled into the wadi, and I bolted straight forward across open ground as rounds rained down from the opposite cliff. They had expected us to turn right, and our amended plans threw them off. When we reached the halfway point, the 10th Mountain boys unleashed hell, having got their guns back online. The brief break in incoming fire allowed us to unclench and concentrate on finding a safe area out of the enemy’s range. Ironically, the safest place was against the opposite mountain face, directly below the enemy’s position.

  As soon as we parked the vehicle, Muscle Tom’s voice came over the radio net. “Doc, I can see you from here. That was the right call.”

  I rogered up, exited the vehicle, and reminded everyone to watch for grenades from above. We took cover behind a large rock formation along the edge of the wadi as the ANA vehicles continued to exit the curve and move to our position. Meanwhile, Vic was working air support.

  “Birds are incoming. We’re staying put for now. I’m pushing control of air support to Muscle Tom,” he said calmly.

  “Good copy. I’ve got air support,” responded Muscle Tom.

  A few minutes later, two army SuperCobras arrived on station, and Muscle Tom directed them in to the enemy’s stronghold. We quickly deployed bright orange VS-17 signal panels and stretched them across the hoods of our trucks so the gunships would know we were there. For good measure, Vic contacted them and advised them of our position. Seconds later, the birds lit off their weapons, turning the ridge above us into a smoky hell.

  Twenty minutes later, we rallied at the far end of the wadi with Tom and the first trucks that pushed through.

  During the battle, Muscle Tom quickly placed a pressure dressing on the hand of one of his ANA soldiers, which warranted further attention. The round tore away the majority of his fingers and part of his thumb and palm. Although I was able to control the bleeding, he would eventually need the care of a surgeon; the question was how long I could delay before getting him there. Calling for a casualty evacuation of our wounded could take the medical birds offline for over an hour. Normally this wouldn’t be a concern, but with 10th Mountain and another special operations team conducting missions northeast of our location as part of a larger operation, I considered the consequences for my fellow Americans. With limited air-medical evacuation assets in the region, our request for an EVAC could easily translate into a prolonged transit time for a wounded American, jeopardizing his life.

  The wounded are surviving injuries that would have killed others in previous wars because of better personal protection and, more importantly, shorter transit times to advanced surgical care. This was undoubtedly the case in Iraq, where the vast majority of military hardware was located in support of that effort, including medical evacuation helicopters. There was also a disproportional amount of medical assets. In Iraq the number of Combat Surgical Hospitals in an area of operations often mimicked the number of Starbucks you’d find within a suburban mall, one every ten feet. Often surgeons would spend most of their time assisting locals, but in Afghanistan the medical support assets were considerably less, whittling away at the golden hour.

  I wrestled with my thoughts for a minute as I continued dressing wounds and remembered having to choose between Chief and Ned only weeks earlier. Then it was clear, save my teammate, but now the situation was somewhat hypothetical; from the radio we knew 10th Mountain and marines operating north of our position hadn’t reported any casualties, at least not yet. By the time I had assessed the last man, I had decided on my recommendation. Although the choice ultimately lay with Vic, I knew my thoughts would weigh heavily in his decision.

  I would like to say there are no differences among allies, but truth be told there is always some friction between American soldiers and the ANA, including within myself. I had seen Afghanis join the national army only to defect once they received their weapons, at a rate that made it nearly impossible to grow the force, and there was no denying the ethnic frictions and brokering of influence and corruption among certain elements of the country’s security forces. We might have removed the Taliban from power, but it was the Afghan security forces responsibility to carry the fight forward in order to establish a strong central government.

  I couldn’t risk it—the life of an American outweighed the need for an expedited transport to the CSH. The wounded would evacuate by ground with the rest of us. We needed to get moving soon. The sun was starting to set, and we had a long haul ahead of us through badlands.

  I shared my thoughts with Vic, Tom, and Tom, and as I suspected they agreed with my recommendation. Tom kept a terp in his car and once again took the lead on our way to meet up with the 10th Mountain leadership. The target of our recon mission was either dead or long gone, so Vic made the decision to abort and head back to the Alamo. One of our vehicles was completely destroyed, and two more were banged up pretty badly. Our ammo was depleted, and night was setting in. The team leader for 10th Mountain offered to escort us part of the way back, and we gladly accepted. An hour later, we were on the road to Shkin, relieved the action was over. Or so we thought.

  17

  CRIMINAL ENCOUNTER

  Valor is a gift. Those having it never know for sure whether they have it till the test comes. And those having it in one test never know for sure if they will have it when the next test comes.

  —CARL SANDBURG

  We traveled through the dark for another hour without a hint of trouble. I was driving the command vehicle, with Vic riding shotgun and our interpreter in the backseat behind me. The mood was light, but the troops were ready to get back to the firebase. Over the past seventy days the camp had lost five Americans and twice as many ANA commandos, and nerves were raw. As we drove toward our haven in the middle of hell, I contemplated the losses and engagements that had occurred since my arrival in Afghanistan. From the rocket attack to being trapped on the side of the mountain, it felt like a steady flow of death and destruction.

  We reached a fork in the road, and 10th Mountain signaled us to pull over. We could have said our good-byes over the radio, but after everything we’d been through it just didn’t feel appropriate. The patrol leader dismounted and began walking toward our vehicle with his sergeant in tow. Vic, Muscle Tom, and Ranger Tom joined them while I walked to the vehicle behind ours to reassess the casualties.

  “Well, this where we U-turn. Are you good to go?” asked the patrol leader.

  “We’re good. Thanks for playing along. Keep your heads down and get home safe. Good hunting,” said Vic.

  “Will do. Give us a shout if you need anything, and we’ll see you back at the firebase in a couple of days.” Everyone shook hands before the 10th Mountain boys climbed into their armored Humvees and rolled off into the dark countryside to join up with the rest of their force.

  Vic walked back toward our vehicle as Muscle Tom went to each ANA vehicle and informed them he’d be taking lead; more importantly, he reminded everyone to stay vigilant. Exfil is always one of the most dangerous components of any operation. The mental and physical drain placed on individ
uals as they execute the mission often fools soldiers into letting down their guard earlier than they should. Considering there was still plenty of Indian country to cover before we made it to friendly lines, we couldn’t leave anything to chance.

  The convoy saddled up and drove on for quite some time, the full moon and stars lighting our way like dim streetlights. We moved from flat desert terrain into rolling hills covered with scrub brush and clumps of trees, and every one of us became tuned in to our surroundings. It was getting close to midnight, and we’d just entered an area known for its criminal activity, which meant Taliban to me. I switched on my NVGs as the increased foliage disrupted the celestial light and peered out into the night, a greenish glow illuminating a country plagued by ancient and deadly customs.

  When I first arrived in country, I was able to differentiate Taliban soldiers from the hordes of criminals that ruled the lawless land, but as the war went on they all seemed to blend into a single cesspool of opportunistic scum. In my mind every Taliban was a criminal, and at least half the criminals were Taliban. There was no governance under their years of control, only an agenda of intolerance and cruelty. I couldn’t imagine my family growing up in a land where sons were often forced into servitude and wives and daughters were stripped of their fundamental human rights. The disregard for women shown by the majority of Afghani men disgusted me. I am who I am today because of my mother, but the Taliban would have prevented her from being the mom and woman she is. Rather than benefit from her strength, they would have destroyed it, along with her dignity, through public beatings and malicious acts intended to shame her into submission.

  These were evil men, fearful of their own insecurities, which they hid behind their acts of brutality. What they couldn’t accept they defied, and did so by establishing a rule based on ignorance and absolutism. If there has been one lesson I’ve learned over my years of service it’s that intolerance feeds the fires of hate until prejudice becomes an accepted practice.

  There were good men in Afghanistan, men like those who made up our Afghan force, but most were mired in ancient traditions and their deep-seated ambivalence toward women troubled me. If they didn’t have the strength to stand up against the persecution of their own flesh and blood, then how could we expect them to have the strength to support a centralized government? We had already done the heavy lifting by freeing them from the oppression of the Taliban; it was their responsibility to move their country ahead and take advantage of the freedom. I could accept dying trying to free the oppressed of the world, but not one American life was worth sacrificing for people willing to accept tyranny.

  “Vic, we’ve got a series of S-curves and hills up ahead.” Muscle Tom’s voice crackled over the radio and broke me from my trancelike state. “Slow it down while Tom and I take a look at what’s ahead.”

  “Good copy. Go ahead, Tom,” Vic responded.

  The convoy slowed as the Toms drove forward to check the dark, winding road ahead. It was common for bandits to set up roadside “tolls” late at night at blind spots in the road to either shake down their countrymen for money and valuables or capture an allied vehicle that might have broken from a convoy. For reasons I never understood, the locals generally drove with the headlights turned off at night, allowing these thugs to establish roadblocks in positions that left a driver little reaction time. Our understanding of their tactics and ability to navigate the roads with our NVGs gave us a distinct advantage over the typical Afghani, and Tom wasn’t about to throw that away.

  He drove cautiously up and over the hill ahead of us, but as he breached the crest he spotted a group of men at the bottom of the grade pulling weapons from the back of a truck, roughly 50 yards ahead. Had he not decreased his speed they might have had him, but his instincts, along with Ranger Tom’s assistance, once again saved us from falling into an irreparable predicament. Tom immediately punched the brakes and threw the truck into reverse just as one of the men at the “checkpoint” opened fire.

  “Contact front, contact front,” they called out over the radio as the sound of small-arms fire erupted from the enemy below.

  Vic looked at me as if to say, “Really?” He then took charge and issued orders to our interpreter in the backseat. “Tell all the vehicles to follow us! Doc, lead them over to the rocky area just left of Tom’s vehicle.” Vic then keyed his radio and notified the rest of the world what we had stumbled upon.

  “Roger that.” I gunned the engine and pushed past the other vehicles and guided them to cover while Muscle Tom and Ranger Tom slugged it out with the enemy.

  “Doc, be ready to rally up at the vehicles when I call, but right now I need you to take a fire team and cover our right flank. I’ll set security to our left and rear,” Vic said as he signaled a squad to reinforce Tom up front.

  I nodded in response, double-checked my weapon, and grabbed four of the Afghan commandos and headed for the right flank. We ran thirty yards perpendicular to the road into a sparsely wooded area and then circled back toward the bottom of the hill. We patrolled quickly and kept careful watch on the only avenue of approach the landscape allowed. As we reached a clump of trees, I held up my fist, signaling the men to freeze. Although the thin foliage afforded us little protection, it prevented us from silhouetting ourselves from maneuvering enemy.

  The NVGs definitely gave us the advantage. I spotted about half a dozen armed men leaving their ambush point and moving toward our position. Three of the men moved slowly forward while the others remained near their vehicles at the bottom of the hill. I pulled the commandos close and signaled for them to lie low and hold their fire unless I said so; otherwise their muzzle flash would give us away. Unlike our ANA counterparts’, our weapons were outfitted with equipment that could project a pinpoint beam indicating exactly where our rounds would impact, and it was only visible to our NVGs. We had the upper hand, so it was paramount the ANA didn’t give our advantage away.

  I whispered into the radio mic, “Vic, I have what appears to be four men at the base of the hill moving toward your position and a few others possibly looking to fishhook around on us.”

  “Good copy, Doc. Tom is tracking the others. Birds are inbound, Five Mike.” Air support was five minutes out. They had to be close. Later I discovered 10th Mountain had seen their fair share of fighting since we left them, and the birds had just returned from a refuel and reload stop.

  I kept a close eye on four men as they continued toward the crest of the hill, until a series of explosions stopped them in their tracks. Ranger Tom was gifted with the M-203 grenade launcher mounted under his weapon and had put it to good use. He had an uncanny ability to put the rounds right on target every time, and tonight was no different. I couldn’t tell if any of the men were killed or wounded, but they certainly weren’t moving forward any longer.

  The remaining four realized a frontal assault would be futile and began sweeping around toward our position. Their uncoordinated movement confirmed my earlier suspicions; they were fleeing Taliban turned opportunistic vandals out to rob their neighbors. Rather than act as a unified fighting force, they moved as individuals out for their own interests, a mistake that left them vulnerable to counterattack. As I drew a bead on the one closest to me, I saw a distinctive laser light up two of the men on the end of the line, closest to the crest. Tom’s team was about to do some damage.

  Three seconds later, those two men were dropping in their tracks while the other two shot wildly into the dark. I opened up immediately with two controlled bursts, and they joined their friends on the ground.

  “Rally up. I want everyone back at the vehicles,” Vic’s voice commanded over the radio.

  I signaled the commandos to follow, then patrolled back to the formation. Vic was speaking to the birds when we arrived, and Ranger Tom was near the crest of the hill on overwatch, guarding against a second wave of bandits should they be dumb enough to move toward our position.

  “Let’s roll,” said Muscle Tom. He didn’t have to say it tw
ice.

  We mounted up and watched as the helos approached, their guns locked on the vehicles at the bottom of the hill. Ranger Tom low-ran from his position, and Vic called out “Cleared hot” as we pulled out heading back in the direction we came. I heard the birds open up with their cannons, then circle for one more pass before peeling off and leading us back to the base.

  We doubled back and found an alternate route that took us around the ambush area and off the main roads. It added an hour to the trip, but even with the helo escort Vic felt it was better safe than sorry. The remainder of the voyage home was uneventful. We were tired and hungry but otherwise very lucky to have survived two engagements in one twenty-four-hour period. We continued on to the Alamo and, as on so many missions before, rolled into the gates just as the sun started to rise in the east.

  18

  RETURNING HOME

  On the mountains of truth you can never climb in vain: either you will reach a point higher up today, or you will be training your powers so that you will be able to climb higher tomorrow.

  —FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE

  In mid-December, Wil, Vic, and I gathered for a quick meeting in the main hooch. After months of intense combat, it was time to turn over Firebase Shkin to our replacements. By the end of the month the next crew would be in place and we’d be back at home with our families. I missed my fiancée Korrina, and wanted nothing more than to spend time with her and my little girl, especially knowing how she worried about Daddy being injured. She needed to see that I was OK, not just hear me tell her over a satellite phone. Yet for some reason I didn’t want to leave.

  “Doc, looks like some of us will be heading back separately. After talking it over among the group, we felt you should be the first one out in order to make it home for Christmas.” I knew what it meant; I’d be leaving real soon. I had a genuine look of surprise on my face but had to act as if I was pleased to hear the news.