No Way Out

by Mitch Weiss

  We need to eliminate that building, he thought.

  He gathered all his strength and pointed at the building. But no one saw him. He wanted to reach for his radio and call in air strikes. But Walton had his radio, and the captain was busy using it. Even over the deafening noise, Behr could hear planes streaking toward the area. At least it sounded like planes. He couldn’t be sure of anything.

  34

  Lodyga

  Things weren’t going well in the wadi either.

  Since the insurgents held the high ground all around them, it was hard for Lodyga’s team to move without drawing fire from the houses in the village. Now the team would again have to cross the river, but this time under fire, and move up the valley to rescue ODA 3336.

  Every step was met by the crack of a bullet or the explosion of an RPG.

  Since ODA 3312 had left Patriot 2, it had taken them a long time to get close to Walton’s team. That’s because as soon as Lodyga’s team returned to the river that bisected the valley and headed toward ODA 3336, they started taking accurate fire. And it was coming from both sides of the valley.

  Pressed up against the western wall, Lodyga scanned the cliffs above. Bullets snapped around him, striking the rocks. The fire was coming from both sides and bullets plunged down on them from above.

  He and McGarry paused to get their bearings. They knew that in order to make it to ODA 3336, they would have to fight through this kill zone. Their only chance was to start dropping bombs on the houses around them. Gutierrez was already in contact with the jet fighters and Apaches overhead and soon had them vectored in on the buildings covering their approach.

  He and Lodyga decided to focus on the east side of the wadi. That way they would be covered by an overhang as they moved forward into the valley. Plus they had seen HIG fighters moving around on trails between fighting positions. Soon Apaches were raking the trails with gunfire and slamming Hellfire missiles into the houses that dotted the ridge of the wadi.

  Martin received a call from Walton on the satellite radio saying that a suspected sniper was hiding in a cistern in the village. Peeking out from his perch near the cliff wall, Lodyga unslung an AT4, an antitank rocket, and started to aim at the cistern. It was one of the few weapons, like the Carl G, that had enough firepower to at least rattle the fighters in the buildings above.

  Clearing his back-blast area, he prepared to step out and fire. His interpreter, standing nearby, waited for the signal to cover him. Shoulder-ing the rocket, Lodyga stepped out and immediately bullets started to crash around him. Nearby, McGarry watched as Lodyga flinched when he tried to fire. Nothing happened.

  “Hey, take the safety pin out, asshole,” McGarry called to him.

  “Fuck you. I did take it out,” Lodyga said as he checked the rocket, shouldered it, and blasted the cistern.

  While the Apaches hammered the east side of the wadi, Lodyga got his guys ready to move forward. The only way through the kill zone was to send one team forward while the other covered. McGarry’s team would cover while Martin pushed forward. Martinez and his machine-gun team had already pushed forward and set up farther up the valley.

  The team could feel the bullets whipping past their faces.

  On their first push, Martin and his team were caught in the open. Lodyga watched as Martin emptied a magazine right along the ridge on the east side and then scanned the west side as he reloaded. All of the windows were open and looking down on the team’s position.

  Lodyga started to yell at Martin to get back, but no one could hear over the roar of the fire. A bullet struck a commando near Lodyga. The Afghan was trying to climb up over a rock. Almost in slow motion, Lodyga watched as the little dust clouds sprang up as the rounds impacted around him. One round struck the side of the commando’s body armor and Lodyga watched the Afghan crumble.

  Racing back to cover, Martin and the commandos waited for a lull in the fire so that they could make another push. Martin looked down at his leg and saw a growing bloodstain. His lower pant leg was soaked.

  “Hey, man, you’re bleeding,” McGarry said.

  “I think I got shot,” Martin said.

  “Yup, looks like it.”

  McGarry cut open Martin’s pants to see the wound. It was probably some shrapnel from an RPG or bullet fragments. There was a chunk of skin gouged out of his thigh, but it wasn’t serious.

  “You’re going to be okay,” McGarry said.

  “I ain’t got time to bleed,” Martin joked, stealing a line from the movie Predator.

  Despite the heavy fire, Lodyga and his men were calm. They had been in much worse shape when their teammate Staff Sergeant Miller was killed. They knew the importance of keeping their heads. It meant life or death during that ambush and it meant the same thing in the Shok Valley. But they also knew the pain of losing a teammate, and despite the stiff resistance, they kept fighting to get to their brothers trapped on the ledge.

  By this time, the air reaction team, a small team of reinforcements, had landed and took up position with ODA 3312. They waited in the wadi while Lodyga led his team forward.

  It took three tries, but ODA 3312 finally pushed deep enough into the valley to see where ODA 3336 was trapped. Setting up their machine guns in the wadi, they started to rake the village with fire, hoping to give Walton’s team some relief.

  35

  Shurer

  If there was ever a time the team needed another medic, this was it.

  As Shurer was running up the hill to reach the wounded, he had no idea what he would be facing. He could tell by Ford’s tone, though, that it was bad.

  Now he knew.

  First, he glimpsed CK’s body, which was shocking enough. Then his eyes were drawn to Morales and Behr. It was worse than he thought. And he would have to check Rhyner, too, just to be sure he was okay.

  With all the injured soldiers, there was a danger that only one medic could be overwhelmed and might run out of supplies. That was a real concern. So here Shurer was, in the middle of a battle, with two down. Another slightly wounded. CK dead.

  And he was the lone medic.

  As he scanned the area, he knew it would be difficult to move the wounded to a spot where they could be rescued. What happened if someone else was injured? It would be a logistical nightmare. He couldn’t think about that now.

  During their training, medics are taught to be on autopilot with trauma victims. You had to stay detached and look at every wound in a “totally objective way: This person needs that. And that one needs this.” Above all, stay focused. Like with the commando who was burned on his thigh and testicle. The soldier was upset, but it was something he was going to have to live with. Get your pants on and get back to work.

  Shurer knew a medic had to be cold. That’s because he had to divide the wounded into two groups: those who were going to live with their injuries, and those who were going to die without help. These were the only two categories in battle. And Shurer only had time to focus on those whose wounds were life threatening.

  Kneeling by Behr, he noticed there wasn’t a lot of cover. They were protected by a rock wall, but the rest of the area was wide open. He was trying to stay as close to the rock wall as he could, but he could still feel dirt kicking up in his face from rounds hitting close by, and the shock waves of exploding RPGs.

  Shurer began examining Behr and assessed that he had been hit twice. The injury to his arm wasn’t serious. It was a glancing wound and trickled blood. He had blood flow to his fingers. A good sign. So he turned his attention to Behr’s pelvis, and that was a different story. It was bleeding profusely. At that point, Shurer began methodically thinking about all the possible scenarios with the wound. Ideally, a human has from five and a half to six liters of blood. The pelvic area is vascular. You would expect that a person was going to lose one or one and half liters right there. Doing the math in his head, Shurer surmised that Behr was already in borderline shock. He wasn’t at the point of total shock.

  Not yet
.

  But he was headed in that direction—and it would be potentially deadly. Shock is a life-threatening medical condition that occurs when the body suffers from insufficient blood flow. It is a medical emergency and can lead to other conditions such as lack of oxygen in the body’s tissues (hypoxia), heart attack, or organ damage. It requires immediate treatment.

  With a pelvic wound, there was really no good way of applying adequate pressure on the injury. Shurer knew Behr needed serious attention. So he took off his helmet and set it down to the side. He wanted to examine underneath Behr’s body without moving him too much. He rolled him gently and determined that the downside wound was about the size of a quarter. It wasn’t bleeding much. But the interior wound—the entry point of the bullet—was different. While it was smaller in diameter—the size of a pinkie—it was oozing blood. That was the problem spot.

  “My leg doesn’t feel straight,” Behr told him.

  “Look, man, you’re going to be okay. Let me take care of this wound first.”

  Shurer removed gauze from his kit and began packing it into the topside wound. Then he turned to Carter. “Just keep pressure on this as hard as you can.” Carter nodded and took over while Shurer searched for his morphine. He found the syrette and injected ten milligrams of morphine in Behr to help ease the pain. He knew he had to turn his attention to Morales. But he was worried. They had to get Behr off the mountain or he would die. Shurer turned to Behr. “You’re going to be fine. It’s no big deal.”

  But then he lifted his head and screamed at Walton, “We need to get him out of here now!”

  Behr reached up and grabbed Shurer’s arm. “So you’re telling him I’m going to die and you’re telling me I’m okay, right?”

  Shurer was momentarily caught off guard. Behr was correct: He was in danger of dying. But Shurer had to stay upbeat with his diagnosis. He couldn’t tell Behr the truth, or he might give up. “You’re fine,” the medic said.

  But inside he knew it would take a miracle to keep him alive.

  36

  Carter

  Just as Carter began focusing his attention on firing his rifle at insurgents, Shurer drafted him again.

  The medic had his hands full. Behr and Morales had life-threatening injuries. It wasn’t enough to just patch them up. Shurer needed Carter to exert pressure on wounds, hand him gauze, and watch the flow on the IV the medic had set up for Behr. All this while they were dangerously close to the edge of a cliff with a sixty-foot drop.

  “I haven’t done this before,” Carter said. “But I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

  “I’ll give you directions. Don’t worry,” Shurer told him.

  The laid-back Texas combat cameraman wasn’t worried about that. He was more concerned that they could be overrun. The HIG had at least a hundred fighters. Hell, probably more. It sounded like a company. And sooner or later, Carter figured they would probably launch an assault. If that happened, his team would fight to the end. They would never surrender. But the reality was that there were only a handful of Special Forces soldiers on the mountain to counter such an assault—and two of them were seriously wounded. The commandos weren’t doing much at all.

  As Carter tended to the wounded, Ford, who had been looking for a path down the hill, appeared from a corner on the ridge. He moved calmly toward Walton, firing his rifle while his eyes scanned the action.

  “Get the fuck down,” Walton shouted.

  What the fuck? This dude is a hard-ass. We’re pinned down here and he comes strutting up. That guy is a tough. If that doesn’t give you motivation, nothing will, Carter thought.

  Carter noticed that Ford and Walton were animated as they talked to each other. Over the battle noise, he heard bits and pieces of the conversation. They argued about how they were going to get off the mountain and air strikes. Helicopters and planes had been pounding the compound, but the enemy fire was still steady—and still focused on the team.

  37

  Behr

  Everything began to fade to black.

  In the background, Behr could still hear the noise. And where it had once been loud, it was now muffled. Just like he was wearing earplugs.

  Behr tried to fight the drowsiness, but it was easier to close his eyes. And when he did, he thought about family and friends back in the Quad Cities. Growing up in a Christian home, he was taught to have faith. And as a teenager, he did. He never questioned God or His ways. His faith was still strong.

  But this was grim, and he was pessimistic about the chances of getting off the mountain alive. Bullets were everywhere. There was no letup in the battle. They were trapped. Not that he was giving up. He was just being realistic. Behr wanted to make peace with God, so he whispered a prayer.

  “God, I know that I haven’t always been the greatest person and I can’t promise that if I live I will be the best person or change everything. But if You want me to live and carry on, make it so. If not, then I guess I’m ready to go.”

  Behr had just put his faith in God, and after the prayer he felt a sense of calm envelop his soul. No matter what happened to him on this day—whether he lived or died—things were going to be fine. He was at peace—until he felt a sharp smack across his face. Stunned, he opened his eyes and Shurer was standing over him.

  “Wake up, Dillon,” he shouted.

  “Holy shit.”

  Behr was awake and alert, and he took that as a sign from God that he wasn’t supposed to die—at least not yet.

  38

  Walding

  Walding had made it to the top of the mountain. But that was easy compared to his next task: trying to sneak back down to rescue his trapped unit. The team was depending on him and Sanders. Ford had just told him over the radio that they were needed to provide cover. Behr and Morales were wounded, and Carter and Shurer were treating them. It was hectic for Walton and Rhyner, who were trying to call in air strikes. And Ford was coordinating security and trying to find a way off the mountain. The commandos? They weren’t doing much. They returned fire now and then. But for the most part, they hugged the rocks, trying to stay out of the line of fire. Things were not going as planned.

  But Walding was about to face his own set of problems. This was the most sustained regular fire he had ever encountered during a deployment. He was surprised at just how much ammunition the insurgents had at their disposal. It was just like the movies. And now the HIG fighters were firing in their direction. At first, Walding and Sanders and their commandos had been unnoticed. But not anymore.

  Now they were being asked to edge down the rocks to reach their fellow soldiers who were trapped halfway up to the compound. Not an easy task. But Walding had never turned away from a challenge. In high school, he wasn’t the tallest or strongest player on his football team. But he sure as hell hit the hardest. Knock him down and he jumped back up to this feet.

  So as difficult as it was, Walding began carefully descending the mountain, followed by Sanders and some of the commandos. He didn’t want to slip. If he fell, he would be of no use to anybody. He didn’t want anyone to have to scale the mountain to rescue him. Come on, you can do this. Keep going, he thought.

  Climbing down was no easier than going up—and there was more pressure. He had to move faster. His hands hurt as he lowered himself from terrace to terrace. The jagged rocks on the cliff face poked into his body. But by now, like always, he was oblivious to the pain. Mind over matter.

  After about a half hour, Walding reached the area where the men were clustered. From the distance, he saw Shurer working on Behr and Morales. Carter was helping them, too, and Walton and Rhymer were on the radio. He immediately provided cover for the casualties, firing his M4 at the direction of the compound across the wadi.

  Moments later, Ford joined him and the two of them fired in unison. “Damn, they’re right on top of us,” Ford shouted.

  Walding knew that. It was an ambush and it seemed like the insurgents’ weapons—and snipers—were fixed on this tiny p
atch of scrubland. It was a miracle anyone was still alive.

  39

  Ford

  Ford knew they would eventually achieve fire superiority, but they couldn’t overcome the fatal flaw of the whole mission: HIG fighters had the key terrain above them. The operation had quickly turned into a nightmare scenario, and there was no fast way off the mountain to a medevac bird. There were few options. They could fight uphill—something no one wants to do—or pull back, get the wounded to safety, and regroup.

  “Everybody stay where you’re at,” Ford yelled at the commandos nearby. “Lay down a base of fire.”

  Between orders, Ford leaned over the edge and fired a few shots at a window or clump of trees in the distance. Overhead, more and more Apaches and fighters were delivering bomb and rocket strikes. Ford’s plan was to let the air strikes level the village so that they could move the wounded to safety.

  And for the moment, at least, the strikes seemed to be working.

  But Ford had another problem.

  Some of the team’s other terps had glimpsed CK’s lifeless body, which was now being used to shield Morales and Behr, and angrily shook their heads from side to side. In particular, AJ was stunned and insulted that they would use their friend’s body for cover. But his anger quickly turned to despair and he began sobbing. The other terps followed. With the interpreters inconsolable, Ford and the others couldn’t coordinate fire with the commandos. The Americans were left mute.

  Ford had enough. They needed the terps to stay in control. They had to shape up. So he grabbed AJ by the shoulders and forcibly shook him.