The Lion of Sabray

by Patrick Robinson

  Marcus knew there was a small American military outpost two miles away, in a place called Monagee, but it was directly over a towering thousand-foot granite peak, which must have looked like a seven-year hike to Marcus. There was no possibility he could tackle such a journey. At this time, without a man supporting him on either side, he could barely make it outside the front door.

  Marcus couldn’t communicate well with the villagers, but also, he still did not feel comfortable sharing details of the nearby US outpost. However, they already knew of the larger base in Asadabad and decided that someone would have to go there to inform the Americans that Marcus was safe (more or less). It was somewhere between thirty and forty miles away, depending on the route selected: as ever, steep gradients and winding passes through the mountains are not easy to calculate.

  That afternoon, the village elder visited Marcus. He arrived with his usual impeccable manners, bringing the guest tea in the little glass set in its silver holder. He also brought hot, freshly baked bread and some confectionary to be taken with the tea. It was good to see the American eating vigorously—it showed he was getting better.

  The elder elected to make the journey on foot by himself, despite his being approximately seventy-five years old. This was principally because he was certain no one would dare to attack him, whereas if younger men were sent, the Taliban might try an ambush.

  The most serious point of the discussions involved the swift evacuation of the American, because his enemies out on the mountain were now issuing their threats every couple of hours.

  Many people were now being warned that they and their families would die if Gulab would not surrender the Navy SEAL, and while everyone understood that he could not be given up, neither did anyone wish it to be some kind of death sentence hanging over them all. The Pashtuns are known for their long memories, and that most certainly applied also to the gangsters out on the mountain.

  In fact, there was already proof that Shah’s threats were by no means empty. He meant what he said, and there had been a couple of mysterious deaths inside the village, associates of Gulab’s, and they appeared to have been murdered.

  Gulab was extremely concerned by this: his own people dying because of his irrevocable pact with God. Marcus, too, had heard the shocking news of the murders, and he tried to make it clear to Gulab that he should be handed over to the Taliban.

  Gulab looked at him sternly and told him no, absolutely not. He would not—could not—surrender him, because that would be in defiance of Islam. In truth, though, the American’s willingness to make that sacrifice served only to increase Gulab’s regard for him.

  It was, of course, the ultimate selfless gesture, made by a man he had quickly come to trust. He was as thoroughly brave and decent as Gulab had suspected when the light of Allah first surrounded him.

  The village elder conferred with Marcus for more than three hours, slowly and deliberately working out the best route to the US base in Asadabad, and then the correct procedure to follow when he finally arrived there.

  There was an enormous level of suspicion between the Pashtun nation and the United States armed forces. They all understood that the arrival of a tribesman from a distant village would likely be greeted with hostility and cynicism. The Americans would probably think he had a bomb strapped to his chest, under his clothes.

  Marcus was plainly in no shape to accompany him, so Gulab’s brother-in-law would need to travel and negotiate all alone. It was decided that he should carry with him a letter signed by Marcus.

  It read: “This man carrying my letter gave me shelter and food, and medical help which saved my life. He is the distinguished village elder in Sabray, and must be believed, and helped at all cost. I am in the care of his family. Signed—Marcus Luttrell.”

  It was worked out that Maluk would walk at approximately four miles an hour, which meant a nine-hour journey. On that basis, it was decided that he should leave at around nine o’clock at night and, allowing for a one-hour rest break, arrive at the Asadabad base at around seven in the morning, just as the place was awakening. That would give the Americans the daylight hours to mount a rescue.

  Walking distances like that are commonplace for the Pashtun, because they have no real roads, and the only form of transportation is a mule cart, which is used for farming and commerce, especially timber. From the earliest age, everyone is accustomed to walking long distances. It’s not a hardship. It’s just a way of life.

  And so, with the strategy planned, the senior men of the village spent much of the evening meeting in Marcus’s room and getting to know him better. So far as he was concerned, this was a success. He was one of those people who was easy to befriend, despite the language barrier.

  He was wonderful with the children, and the slightly older ones were in and out of his room until they went to bed. They charged back down the hill, yelling, “Hello, Dr. Marcus!”

  Discussions in Sabray involved battle positioning if the Taliban attacked. And it became clear that the American would need to stay on the move, because it was vital that Ahmad Shah’s men never know his precise location.

  Meanwhile, Gulab took an armed patrol out every two hours and walked right through the village, checking houses, gardens, and hiding places. Occasionally they saw furtive movement, but the Taliban had no wish to end up in a firefight in a group of houses that afforded Gulab’s men shelter but granted nowhere for them to take cover.

  None of the Taliban stayed, and they scuttled away up the mountain back to their encampment. Gulab had made it clear to Shah that if there were any attack, or even trespass on Sabray, they would be shot on sight.

  No one, however, has ever accused Shah of being anything but a bold commander, and late that night Gulab was walking between houses when he heard the unmistakable sound of strangers creeping around. These were not villagers. They were outsiders.

  Gulab slammed his rifle into firing position against his shoulder and challenged the intruders. There followed the sound of running feet.

  Needless to say, Gulab was not afraid, and neither were the men who accompanied him. But the warning was stark and obvious. These tribesmen from off the mountain were out looking for Marcus, trying to pinpoint the house he was in.

  And they may have discovered something, which meant that the American had to be moved before they returned with a bigger, more powerful force. Gulab posted guards and took one man with him back to the house to collect Marcus and blankets.

  Swiftly they gathered their equipment and assisted the wounded American in getting up and out of there. They grabbed his arms and held them across their shoulders. He was still a big weight, but he tried to walk, and he was half-carried out of the house. They grabbed his rifle and a magazine, and brought those as well.

  It was a slow, quiet process before they made a left turn and stepped up and onto the roof of a different house. The occupants knew they were up there, Gulab having cleared this fallback position earlier in the evening. But it was so dark, they could see nothing—not five yards in front of their faces.

  For all Gulab knew, there were half a dozen Taliban killers waiting in the night, right below the roof.

  But it was difficult for Marcus, and it took many minutes to lower him onto the roof and get him covered up without a lot of scuffling. He tried to speak once, and Gulab says he reacted as if he’d just fired a pistol.

  “Ssssshhhhh! Dr. Marcus,” he hissed, “Taliban hear you, they try to kill us!”

  He did, of course, realize that Marcus could not understand one word of his warning, but the American picked up on the urgency in Gulab’s voice and did not speak again. The two Afghanis lay down on either side of him, very close together for warmth, each with a blanket. It was painfully uncomfortable on the rock-hard mud-brick mattress, but Marcus was disciplined. He never moved, never spoke.

  Gulab thought then, not for the first time, that this man was a highly trained warrior. That was clear on the night the Taliban broke into his room, when he kep
t telling them he was only a doctor on duty in the mountains to tend the American wounded. But, says Gulab, “If Marcus was a doctor, I’m a nursemaid.”

  Hour after hour, they lay there motionless, each with a light grip on a combat rifle. Across the dark roofs, they could occasionally see lights moving on the hillside, but no sounds came from the street below. The interlopers had been scared off earlier in the evening by the sudden snap of the magazine in Gulab’s AK.

  And when the sun finally climbed above the eastern peaks of the Hindu Kush, there were no more intruders. The guards left Marcus for a few minutes to check that all was quiet, and then went back for him and helped him back to the house. But it was no longer safe to leave him alone for even a couple of minutes, since no one knew how closely the village was being watched by the Taliban troops.

  This meant that personal prayers each morning had to be conducted inside the house. They all believed it was dangerous to leave the American alone, and everyone felt the obligation Allah had bestowed upon Gulab. Thus, for that entire week, prayers were said in Marcus’s room.

  Everyone prayed for him. They prayed for his safe deliverance from the evil of the Taliban and for his wounds to heal. Above all, they prayed for a safe journey for Maluk, the fearless village elder, on his hazardous journey across the hills to get help.

  Against the call to prayers was the noisy testimony of about twenty of the village children. The noise was ridiculous, in this temporary mosque, and they could all see Marcus laughing at the kids. Also, the tribesmen knew when they were beaten. Daily prayers would from now on be held right here with Marcus, and prayers would be offered for him until he was safe.

  And it seemed that Marcus, too, was happy to comply. When he prayed with Gulab and his protectors, he rose from his cot and used a prayer mat. Of course, only he knew to whom he prayed, but to those around him, he was in the care of, and at the mercy of, Allah, and that’s how he behaved, respectfully and piously.

  That morning after the night on the roof, the temporary mosque was less peaceful than normal, owing to an intense overfly of US warplanes. At first, Marcus seemed unconcerned, but several of them were flying over and then turning right around and coming back, throttling down their engines, as if searching for something.

  Marcus plainly thought they were searching for him or for his colleagues, and at the end of prayers, he rushed outside as fast as his battered left leg would carry him. He ripped off his shirt and stood in the street waving it high above his head, shouting at the top of his lungs to the US pilots above.

  It all came to nothing as they just flew away, back to the west, and Gulab could see the terrible disappointment in Marcus’s face. “I could tell,” he said, “Marcus felt they’d just given up on him.”

  The sudden dash outside to try to attract attention might have had a drastic effect. Gulab could see that he was in terrible pain whenever he tried to move. His shoulder was by now a major problem, and he could barely lift his right arm. His back was killing him because it was so hard for him to stand. It required only one glance at his left thigh to imagine the agonizing pain.

  Gulab’s solution was an ancient tribal remedy, tobacco opium, and he sent for an old village resident to bring some to the house. Marcus was a bit skeptical at the sight of this greenish-looking compound, which resembles bread dough mixed with grass.

  But he was in such pain, he’d have tried anything, and he ripped off a chunk and placed it between his inner lip and his teeth. Gulab knew it would work very fast, and he just sat there with him until Marcus began to smile. Opium was the best possible antidote for pain, and he could almost see the agony of his wounds drain out of Marcus. When Gulab asked him if he felt better, Marcus replied, “Hooyah, Gulab!”

  Not easily translatable, but anyone could see he was so much better. Gulab tried to explain what the opium plant was, and how they were able to grow it up here in the mountains, and how it was their most profitable crop, as well as their principal medical solution to violent pain.

  With hand signals, Gulab pointed out the flat below the village, where the opium was grown. It is likely that Marcus had already noticed that this walled-in empty plateau—a couple of acres, though hard up against the mountain wall, and with a steep drop on its southern side—was the only area in the vicinity flat enough for a rescue helicopter to land.

  Marcus’s whole mood changed once his pain had eased, and he was able to eat some hot flat bread. He even tried some of the goat’s milk. But not much, preferring to stick with fresh water. Gulab handed the whole bag of opium to Marcus, in case he was there for several more days.

  No one had heard yet whether Maluk had made it to the American base, but throughout the day, there was persistent activity in the sky as US aircraft swept over the village. In Gulab’s view, the elder had reached the base and informed them they had Marcus safe.

  The US aircraft were almost certainly conducting a recce—reconnaissance—as they were certainly aware of the hostile Taliban encampment right there on the mountain. He was no expert on American air power, but Gulab did recognize the MH-47 Chinooks, accompanied by several sinister-looking Sikorsky Black Hawk UH-60 gunships.

  None of Shah’s men opened fire from the mountain, which was probably wise. Those modern Black Hawks were many times more lethal than the Russian helos that the mujahideen had downed. A Black Hawk 60 is equipped with machine guns, rockets, and laser-guided missiles. Just one of them could inflict heavy damage.

  Marcus continued to spot his American aircraft overflying the village, yet he received no sign or signal that they still intended to rescue him. It was hard to take. He constantly tried to imagine himself in their shoes—not having heard a word from anyone since Mikey made the fatal last call on his cell phone. They might well have assumed that everyone was dead, but that was unlikely. SEALs never admit to a team member’s death until they’ve seen the body. However, Mikey had said they were dying, which must have at least alerted someone that either one or two Redwings was possibly still alive but probably injured.

  And that would have triggered a whole new set of problems, because there was almost nowhere a helo could put down on these massive gradients without toppling over. Marcus now understood there was the opium field, but that was about it. And those flat pastures were hell’s close to the mountain wall, and very exposed to Taliban gunfire and rockets.

  He kept thinking of the small, upright figure of the village elder, striding through the passes with his long walking staff. He should have been at the US base by now, God willing. All hopes now rested upon Maluk, Sabray’s brave and distinguished tribal leader.

  But it was his brother-in-law, Mohammed Gulab, who was the most important figure in Marcus’s life. He had personally organized the security, made certain there was always water and food, and he had provided the substance which so dramatically eased the pain. Marcus had nearly lost count of the times that Gulab faced the Taliban leaders, growling at them that the big Texan would not be handed over. Gulab had gone out on the mountain and told them what would happen if they dared to attack. And now Gulab came to him again, this time to reveal a new letter he’d received—not from Ahmad Shah but from his firebrand of a deputy, “Commodore” Abdul. (Why the Afghani fighter had assumed a British Royal Navy rank six thousand feet above sea level was beyond Marcus.) Abdul had a growing reputation as an ambush expert and a highly trained killer, and now he was making a formal demand that the villagers of Sabray hand over the American immediately. Gulab took a while to show Marcus that. He and Maluk had already sent a reply to the “Commodore,” which stated that they did not care how desperately the Taliban wanted their guest, they were not going to get him, and that was an end to it.

  Gulab let Marcus know, by signs and angry facial expressions, that the Taliban could not frighten him, no matter what they did or said. He also suggested they needed Sabray a lot more than Sabray needed them.

  By this time, the American was filled with admiration for this Gulab character, who
was a confident, courageous man, a natural leader, and of a somewhat more decisive turn of mind than a village cop. Marcus had every reason to trust him as much as he’d ever trusted any man, but there was something exceptional about Gulab, something distinctive.

  If they’d shared a language, they’d have become immediate friends. They laughed at the same things, and Gulab looked grave when he suspected danger, and he quite willingly tried to tell Marcus everything about his life and family, albeit with only limited success. Also, there were tribal taboos that no Afghan will ever reveal, yet Gulab did his best to explain them to the American.

  In retrospect, he was obviously a leading force in the village. Gulab’s requests, and certainly his orders, were obeyed instantly by anyone he addressed. Marcus knew nothing of the former mujahideen commander, or the boy machine gunner; certainly nothing of the Lion of Sabray. All this came much later. Nevertheless, he did understand that he was in the hands of an extremely significant person, who was palpably not intimidated by Ahmad Shah or his “Commodore” sidekick.

  Not intimidated does not mean careless. Gulab never took a chance if there was any indication the Taliban were coming in after his guest. He reacted calmly and defensively—a lot like a man used to deploying troops.

  Gulab’s other unmissable quality was a complete disinterest in money or a reward of any kind. Marcus’s own gratitude to him was overwhelming, since he could, after all, have left him to die on the riverbank and saved everyone a lot of trouble.

  He tried to give him the excellent watch, which at the time represented a fair proportion of Marcus’s worldly goods. But Gulab would not hear of it, even though it was offered several times. He spoke quickly in his own dialect and somehow imparted that he wished only to do the will of Allah.

  To accept any kind of compensation would not be in accordance with Pashtunwali. Gulab’s goodness was of a higher calling, and Marcus eventually understood that, language-strapped as he plainly was.