The Lion of Sabray

by Patrick Robinson

  “In my own mind, I was certain the shot I’d just heard was from a Kalashnikov. Either they’d dropped an American dead in his tracks, or the man had surrendered. Or escaped. But they’d shot at something or someone. And no fire had been returned.

  “Once more the mountains were silent. And they stayed that way for maybe an hour. And then, suddenly, considerably closer, there was an unbelievable explosion: an RPG-7, or even a hand grenade or a bomb. But the ground shuddered, and the aftershock echoed, and I guessed it was only about a mile away.

  “The mystery deepened, because afterward there was only silence. Maybe they’d somehow killed each other! As my American friend frequently remarks, ‘Beats the hell out of me!’

  “And more time passed—maybe another couple of hours—during which I had no idea what was happening.”

  It might have been quiet up in the high pastures above the village, but there was chaos on the steep slopes where Petty Officer M. Luttrell was still battling for his life and struggling to find water. Gulab recalls:

  I was walking down toward the river with my two friends on our way back to the village, when I noticed a sudden unusual movement away to our left, in a small, rocky area near the water.

  At first, I saw only a dark shape, and I thought it might be a mountain lion, although it was going pretty slowly and moving very low to the ground. Also, it was headed into a wide crevasse, which I knew was a dead end. No lion could leap out of there, not up and across twenty-foot-high rocks. Lions are not normally that dumb.

  I raised my rifle and told one of my two companions to do the same, and quietly we advanced to the mouth of the wide gully. In just a few strides, we could see our problem. This was no lion. Right here we had a huge US Special Forces warrior, with a black beard and a serious-looking machine gun—bigger than our Kalashnikovs. And he was aiming it straight at me.

  I yelled out a warning and ducked left behind a tree, and my friends also dived out of the way. That American rifle could have gunned down all three of us, handled by this Special Forces man. He wouldn’t miss.

  Essentially, we were being confronted by one of the most dangerous combat marksmen in the world, and I was sure of my ground here. US troops are generally banned from wearing beards, except for SEALs and other Special Forces, whose duties often required them to fraternize with tribal enemies of the United States. This giant had a beard like Fidel Castro, and he must have stood six feet six inches tall, and that rifle was loaded.

  From the back of the tree, I yelled at my friends to take great care and not to get in this monster’s line of fire. I shouted that I would try to talk to him and tell him we meant him no harm.

  I peered out from behind my tree and was immediately struck by two new facts: he appeared to be either asleep or unconscious—maybe wounded—and he did not have any trousers. I also could see a lot of blood on his face and left leg.

  I raised my rifle and came slowly out from behind the tree. But suddenly this terrible man came alive, pushed himself into firing position, rammed that big rifle into his shoulder, and took aim.

  I shouted at him to calm down, but he was an American fighting machine, like all of those characters from the SEALs, and I ducked back behind my tree as fast as I’ve ever done anything.

  I kept yelling at him, “Taliban? No Taliban!”

  And suddenly he answered, “No Taliban!” And I jumped out from the back of the tree and pulled my open palm across my throat, trying to signal “death to the Taliban.” And I shouted again, “No Taliban!”

  He plainly did not believe that because he swung his rifle straight at me, which caused me to duck into cover with record speed. I would take no chances with this man. None whatsoever. But when I next risked a glance, he was again asleep. And somehow I knew we were dealing with a very seriously injured soldier.

  In the bright afternoon sun, I could see blood on the rocky ground beneath him, and slowly I ordered my two companions to come out. We put down our guns and walked up to him with our arms held wide out in front of us, in that universal signal of friendship.

  But again he came to life, pushed himself up, and aimed that rifle. I ordered my two friends to stand quite still and keep our arms wide, to convince him we would not attack him.

  At that moment, he seemed to surrender, let go of his rifle, and tried to open his arms in submission. Too late. He blacked out completely.

  And I walked toward him and stood over him, and I thought he was dead. I could see where he had somehow wept, by the marks down his cheeks. I could see how much he had been hurt. His injuries were still bleeding, vividly, on his face. He was deathly pale. I was certain he was dying.

  “Who are you?” I asked loudly.

  And very slowly, his eyes opened, and he looked directly at me, no longer as a rabid enemy but as a man who’d traveled far—as far he could possibly go. And his head fell back on his rocky pillow. And blood streamed down his face, and I could see shards of metal jutting from his shattered left thigh.

  Just before he blacked out again, his voice croaked. And with terrible difficulty, he said, “My name is Marcus. I’m an American.”

  - 4 -

  INTO THE ARMS OF ALLAH

  It was hard for me to understand the man’s words. But I did think he said his name was Marcus. I was also fairly certain he was dead, right there at my feet, still bleeding. I actually thought he had a gentle face, and I knew he was someone’s greatly loved son; perhaps a brother or even a husband.

  In a sense, I suppose he was my enemy, although I understood the Americans were out to get Al Qaeda, not just regular Afghani citizens. And, in another way, I disliked the Taliban a lot more than I hated this mortally wounded American.

  Instinctively, I thought I’d just seen his dying moments. And I stood there watching him: this giant, bearded warrior.

  What happened next was perhaps the great turning point in my life. I leaned over and touched the left-hand side of his neck, feeling for a pulse. And quite suddenly, a bright light surrounded him. I have no idea whether anyone else could see it, but I did, and it was clear, and it formed a kind of protective shield around him.

  Simultaneously, I felt something in my heart: not the kind of emotion one usually feels for a shot enemy combat soldier, but the kind of feeling which might be reserved for an injured brother or a child.

  And then, for the first time in my life—the only time, before or since—I heard, quite distinctly, the voice of Allah, coming to me in resonant tones.

  And I have not the slightest doubt what was said. With the light still bright and glowing around the stricken Marcus, I heard: “You must guard and protect this American. Mohammed Gulab, you will keep him safe.”

  I almost went into shock. I can’t imagine what my two companions thought, because I was in some kind of a trance, listening to a command from another place; a command which could have come only from God.

  It’s hard for me to explain the confusion of this situation. The American was an infidel, an armed enemy in our lands, and however much we disliked the Taliban, we were all Islamist, as we had been for more than a thousand years.

  There were no circumstances in which I could reasonably be requested to help an infidel who had invaded our nation and our country. In my opinion, he’d also killed many, many members of Ahmad Shah’s army. Surely he had to be one of the four Americans the Taliban leader had identified, two of whom were dead?

  And here he lay, at my feet, desperately wounded, hovering between life and death, plainly being hunted by my own Afghani people, the ones who sympathized with the Taliban. My God! The almighty, all-knowing Allah had spoken to me in person and ordered me to help and guard this enemy of our people.

  My mind raced. I tried to think of another place, perhaps another being who might have deceived me. But there was no other explanation. This was an order from Allah. The highest power in this world, and beyond, had chosen me to protect Marcus.

  The command was as bewildering as it was unique. How
was I supposed to communicate this strange situation to my companions and also to the villagers of Sabray? It flashed through my mind that no one would believe me. I am not an Imam. Indeed, I am a well-known mujahideen field commander, machine gunner, lifelong soldier, defender of the status quo here in our mountains.

  I am devout in my beliefs, I pray five times a day, and I am in communication when necessary with the Prophet. However, neither he nor Allah has ever communicated with me directly. That is not the Muslim way. We offer our prayers, and the Imams are always here to advise us. And now this. A brand-new role for the Lion of Sabray.

  I stared down at the American, and the light was still around him. And suddenly he opened his eyes and looked right at me. In his face I saw pleading, unspoken but very evident. And in those fleeting moments, I understood why I had been commanded by Allah. In truth, I did not totally comprehend why, but I did realize the very definite nature of my task.

  God had chosen me. Of that I was certain. My duties would be fraught with danger, and they would surely declare me the enemy of the Taliban. But I have commanded armies in these hills, and I am not afraid of the followers of Ahmad Shah.

  In my soul, I felt only humility, and I felt very sure of myself and my obligations. If anyone wanted to kill him, they must kill me first. These were moments which would change my whole life. I did not seek them. I certainly did not ask for them.

  The message had come from Allah, and Allah is great, and there is no other God. As I looked down on Marcus, I knew one thing: there was nothing on this earth that would have induced me to change my mind. For I fear only Allah, and for whatever reason, He had chosen me.

  In my eyes, at least, the bright light still glowed around the man. I had yet to address one word to him personally except for “No Taliban!” But first I needed to speak to my companions, one of whom was our village doctor—a relatively skilled medical man who had learned his craft on the battlefield of the Hindu Kush in the Russian war. His name was Dr. Sarawar.

  I half expected both him and the other villagers to ask me whether I had suffered some kind of mental collapse since I had not spoken for several minutes. But it was as if time had stood quite still. They picked up our previous conversation as if there had been no intervention between myself and Allah, as if mere seconds had elapsed since the soldier had let go of his rifle.

  Sarawar never even suggested he’d also seen the light that illuminated the injured man. So I did not mention it, either. That was between Allah and me, and perhaps the American.

  But now the light faded. And, plainly by the grace of Allah, the man seemed infused with a new surge of life. And he was speaking in a completely foreign language and trying to signal to us, holding up his fist loosely and opening his mouth.

  Dr. Sarawar tuned in and suddenly called out, “Ahh! Hydrate!” at which point I couldn’t tell what either of them was trying to communicate, since I cannot speak one word of English. But I saw the man nod his head quickly, and Sarawar sent someone to fill a big water bottle from the pool. By now, we’d been joined by three other people from Sabray.

  For some reason, the wounded man suddenly laughed. Which surprised me, because I had never met anyone with less to laugh about than he had. Flat on his back, he was glugging the water and chuckling. Years later, Marcus told me through an interpreter that he just could not believe this “crazy-assed tribesman who only spoke in long words!” My friend Dr. Sarawar was one of the most educated men in the village.

  But he seemed to relax, trying to speak to us, and I sensed no more hostility from him. He wasn’t planning to mow us down with that big American machine gun anymore. He was a lot more interested in staying alive, and he was worried about that gaping wound on the back of his left thigh, which was still oozing blood onto the ground. In my view, the bullet was still in there, and that was not good. However, Sarawar would know what to do.

  Meanwhile, the senior men—myself, the doctor, and one other—needed to go into conference. So we sent a couple of kids over to talk to the American, and even from a distance, I could see how well he got along with them. I kept hearing them shouting with laughter, which was not bad, considering none of them could understand a word of what the other was saying.

  I later learned that the issue was the long fall down the mountain which had carried him straight past the pool, and then caused him to climb all the way back up. I could see them jumping up and down, like kids do, and I could hear them yelling at him in Pashtun: “Ha! Ha! Ha! You fall long way like a lunatic—very funny trick on the mountain. Everyone saw you—everyone laughing at hopeless mountain man!”

  It obviously hurt the man to laugh. But he was very nice to them, and they somehow communicated with him. Even from afar, I found it moving. And for me it cast a new light on this great brute I was now sworn to protect.

  But for now, his sudden arrival had caused a problem for me and my friends, and ultimately for the people of Sabray. The issues, for a Pashtun mountain man, were so far-reaching, they were almost overwhelming. And they involved a decision which must be made, and made quickly—because without the intervention of Allah, peace be upon him, Marcus would, in my opinion, have died. And may yet do so without help from us.

  He had nothing left, no strength, and he was bleeding to death. Our water bought him some time, but not much—not without medical attention.

  And now he lay on the ground, helpless on this rocky riverbank above the village. And the issues involved the deepest obligations of the Islamic religion, the highest possible moral consideration, and the always-present virtue of mercy. I am dealing with the ancient two-thousand-year-old principles of Pashtunwali, the graces of which must guide our every waking day.

  This was unspoken but universally understood among the men who would now retire to make a decision. I would take the lead, and Sarawar would speak almost certainly in support of my views. As with doctors the Muslim world over, his instinct was always mercy, under the guidance of Allah. The other two men, lifelong friends, would be free to offer whatever opinions they might have.

  I offered a wave of friendship to Marcus, which he probably did not understand, and we walked just a few paces nearer the water, leaving him alone with the kids, who were, incidentally, still laughing.

  We all understood what we must decide, but I should explain briefly what was at stake. One of the bylaws of Pashtunwali is that if we should take in this stranger from the United States and help him and feed him and provide him with fresh water, then that imposes upon us an obligation which cannot be broken.

  And that obligation, in the eyes of the Prophet, required us all—the entire village—to defend him to the death; to defend him, if necessary, until there was no one left alive. I already had that obligation, placed upon me by Allah Himself, but that was private between me and my Creator.

  For the rest of my fellow citizens, the issue was extremely serious. Because this was no small matter. This was clad in iron shackles. There was indeed a heavily armed enemy standing right before us: Ahmad Shah’s battered Taliban army.

  And they would want the death of the American more than they had ever wanted anything—except, perhaps, for the severed head of President George W. Bush. They would stop at nothing in order to grab him from us and execute him, probably on video.

  To help him, to take him home with us, was to force my village and all of its people into a declared war with the Taliban. The slightest semblance of assistance to this wounded enemy would signify a brand-new set of rules for all of us.

  For there were ten great principles of Pashtunwali—and six of them applied directly to the saving of the man. And I was sworn to obey them in my private, sacred covenant with Allah. And this I had to explain to Sarawar and my other two friends, before they would lift one finger to help the American.

  It would be bitterly unfair for me to try to “finesse” the problem past them, underplaying the deep and terrible consequences which may befall everyone—like an armed gunfight around the village.r />
  I had to be straightforward and honest. I had to explain the commands I had received from the One and Only God, and I had to hope that goodness and mercy would prevail. The alternative was to walk away from him and leave him here to die under the hot afternoon sun, his remains soon to be eaten by wild animals.

  Well, they could do that. Allah, so far as I knew, had not commanded the entire village to His holy purpose. Just me. And I already understood the ramifications of that. They could walk away if they chose. I could not.

  I told the other three I had received a private message from Allah, and this was treated with respect. No one in Sabray took the words of the One and Only God with any cynicism. My revelation was treated as an iron-clad truth which ought to be obeyed, especially since Allah had very obviously stepped in and prevented the soldier from dying. We had all witnessed his sudden resurgence from his unconscious state.

  It was impossible for us to walk away from the wounded American without trampling over the time-honored laws of our people. Pashtunwali was the creed of our lives. My friends could leave him to die, and perhaps escape the obligations. But not one of the other three was keen to risk offending Allah to this extent. Not after hearing the sternness of his words to me.

  And, in great fear of our God, we bowed our heads in prayer and then walked over to where the soldier lay. And together we leaned over and gently helped him to his feet. He couldn’t stand, and so we gripped hands and lifted him into a kind of “chair.”

  Very slowly, we set off down the mountain, toward Sabray. I doubted he would ever know the momentous decision we had made on his behalf, committing our tribal village to a possible war against the Taliban.

  At this very moment, when we lifted him and gave him more water, the situation was settled. It came under the heading of melmastia, hospitality. He was no longer an enemy, nor even a hostile combatant. He was a visitor, a guest, and we could not, would not, allow him to be harmed by anyone.