No Way Out

by Mitch Weiss

  When the helicopter finally arrived at Jalalabad, medics from other Special Forces teams and the hospital were there to meet them. The medics swarmed the wounded in the back of the helicopter.

  Not as badly hurt as the others, Ford slid off to the side and watched. Spotting a chair near the landing pad, he walked over and sat down, letting out a long exhale. It was as if the world had been lifted off his shoulders. The stress of combat, of fighting for his life and the lives of teammates, had finally melted away.

  Steve, a medic and friend from another team, saw him and came over. He thought Ford was in shock.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  Ford raised up a hand. “Dude, it’s good.”

  Steve started to reach for Ford’s kit. His bullet-resistant vest and uniform were covered in blood.

  “Do you mind if we start—” Steve began.

  “Get this shit off me,” Ford said.

  Steve started ripping Ford’s kit off. Slowly unstrapping the plate carrier, Steve had Ford’s sixty-pound vest, covered in ammunition pouches, and other gear undone and on the ground in a few minutes without Ford moving at all. With the equipment off, Steve helped him out of the chair and placed him on a litter. Nurses and doctors were soon at his side.

  “Do you need anything?”

  “More morphine,” Ford said, his arm throbbing from the pain.

  But the doctors were afraid to give him more. They didn’t know how much he had already had. Ford knew he had had less morphine than the other wounded soldiers. He’d had none since he had taken Wallen’s syrette. And that was hours ago.

  “I need more morphine.”

  Steve finally convinced the doctors to get him more, and soon the pain faded away just as they loaded him on another helicopter to Bagram.

  72

  Wurzbach

  While the wounded boarded the helicopters, Wurzbach helped Walton count the soldiers to make certain no one was left behind. It was all part of the routine: The same number of men who came in had to leave. The numbers had to match. Otherwise they would have to come back—and that was something nobody wanted to do.

  So Wurzbach began adding up the soldiers. He talked to the sergeants and began counting and adding. He pored over the records. After cross-checking every record, he turned to Walton: “I’m sure we have everybody.”

  As they waited to get on aircraft, every member of the team began talking about the mission. What they were doing during the firefight. Where they were. Some even took a break and lit up cigarettes, which you’re not supposed to do in battle. But they couldn’t wait. It was their way of relieving the stress, blowing off steam.

  The more Wurzbach heard, the angrier he became. His friends were badly hurt, and he didn’t know if any of them would live. And if they lived, he knew their lives would be changed forever.

  73

  Walton

  Over the radio, Walton could hear the pilots talking about the weather. The clouds were closing in again. The cloud depth had dropped five hundred feet in the last ten minutes.

  “You have like ten to fifteen minutes to get out of there or we are not going to get you out,” the helicopter battalion’s commander said. He was flying above.

  It had been a huge relief when Walton finally got back to the landing zone. But now the stress was returning. Back at the end of the valley, Apaches, F-15s, and A-10s were pounding the village. Rhyner had a list of the targets and the goal was to bomb them until the helicopters cleared the valley.

  With the helicopters inbound, Walton made sure the Afghan captain, Mateen, was ready.

  “Do you have accountability of your troops?”

  “Yup. We have them all. We’re good,” the Afghan said through an interpreter.

  But Walton wasn’t convinced. Mateen had answered too fast and there was no way Walton was going to leave a commando in this valley.

  “You count every motherfucker,” he shouted. “We’re not leaving anyone behind. Every single fucking commando, wounded or not, better be accounted for because we’re not leaving because that is your biggest worry.”

  Everybody was bleeding and exhausted. Their nerves were frayed. Walton’s bell was run by the rounds. Howard’s eardrums were blown out after shooting the Carl G repeatedly. Commanders had considered leaving the team in place to coordinate air strikes. But they discarded that idea after reports that more than a hundred fighters were moving toward Walton and his men.

  Searching the area around the landing zone, Walton knew they didn’t have time to get on the high ground to defend themselves. Rhyner had already put in multiple nine-lines to continue bombing. Walton would have happily stayed in the valley for two days in order to bomb them. But his ride was en route and they had nine minutes to go, or the birds would leave them behind.

  Just before the helicopters arrived, everybody let loose with their rifles and machine guns in all directions. Nobody shot back.

  When the Chinook landed, it was time to leave.

  74

  Howard

  Howard studied the clouds. He knew that if visibility got bad up there, they would be stuck. He knew the enemy could regroup and they would have to fight through the night. Not a good scenario. At least the wounded had left the valley. While they waited for more helicopters to arrive, the survivors split up into chalks. Howard was with Walton’s group.

  During that time, Howard had identified HIG fighters moving northwest on the back side of the wadi. Walton was worried that they would threaten the aircraft, so Howard, using his sniper rifle, began firing at them. It was enough to hold them off.

  When the Chinook landed, everybody quickly loaded up. He and Walton waited by the ramp to make sure that all the commandos got on board. Soon they were the last two.

  “Get on,” Walton said.

  “No, you get on,” Howard said.

  Both wanted to be the last to go. Walton won the argument. Climbing up the ramp, Howard tried to pick his way to the front, near the gunners. He hoped to stick his rifle out of the window and get in a few more shots before clearing the valley. But a few steps in—after trying to navigate around a tangled mess of gear and the legs of commandos sitting on the floor in the fuselage—he slammed his shin on a resupply box strapped to the floor.

  Nope, I am sitting down now, he thought.

  Finding some space on the floor, he could hear the helicopter’s engines whine and start to power up. The wheels lifted off the rocks and the helicopter shot into the sky. Howard could see the valley dissolve into clouds.

  75

  Walton

  On the way to Jalalabad, Walton’s relief morphed into anger.

  He wanted to kill Fletcher.

  The major hadn’t listened to a single suggestion. Walton knew every mission was dangerous. It’s the nature of the job. That’s what Special Forces soldiers do. Go on impossible missions. But they always take measures to minimize the risk and casualties. They calculate the best tactics so the mission will be a success. They always ask: What’s the best way in? How can they surprise the enemy? What’s the best way out?

  Then they plan and prepare. Then they practice over and over and over until they get it right.

  That was something Walton had learned early in his military career. After he was cut from the football team at West Point, he learned that football was all about learning the plays. Learning about the nuances of the game. That comes by studying and preparing.

  His team had prepared hard for this mission. They knew all about the HIG and Haji Ghafour. They knew about the terrain—just how dangerous it was, and how the Soviets—who used brutal battlefield tactics—stayed away from the valley. It just wasn’t worth the risk.

  But Ghafour was a high-value target, and it seemed that the military believed the benefits outweighed the risks. That’s why the team was sent there. Walton understood that. But what he didn’t understand was why they didn’t let them fast-rope to a position above the village. Why they didn’t let them conduct the mission at night,
under the cover of darkness. Or why, if they knew the enemy was so strong and entrenched, they allowed a relatively untested commando unit to take part in the mission. Would they have done the same if they’d known where Osama bin Laden was hiding?

  The answer was clear: No.

  But all throughout the training, the commanders had put so much emphasis on showing off the commandos as this elite fighting force. The commanders thought: Wouldn’t it be great if this force helped capture one of the world’s top terrorists? But the reality was, the Afghan commandos weren’t ready. While some performed well under fire, most didn’t have a clue. As a result, a Special Forces team came close to being massacred. It was a miracle they had managed to escape.

  Now Walton’s men were seriously injured. And that image was burned into his memory.

  Ford’s arm being ripped apart by a bullet and blood spurting everywhere just like in the movies. Walding’s leg hanging by a thread after being tagged by a round. His leg was just flopping as he tried to move and fight. The hole in Morales thigh and in his ankle, and Behr’s deep pelvic wound. The bullets bouncing off Shurer’s helmet. Rhyner’s wound. And Wallen’s. And of course, CK, who’d felt honored to be wearing a Special Forces uniform, was dead. His head smashed. The final indignity: his body being rolled off the mountain. Everyone was hit. This was hell. Walton had seen a lot of casualties in Fallujah—one of the most vicious battles in Iraq. And he had seen other casualties in his career. But nothing like this.

  And that’s what was so upsetting. It didn’t have to be this way. Defending people who can’t help themselves was one of the things that made Walton tick. In this war of shadows, that usually extended to villagers. But today—on this shithole of a mission—it meant protecting his friends.

  When the helicopter landed, Fletcher was there waiting for them. If Walton was angry during the helicopter ride, he was now steaming. Look at him? Everyone else in Afghanistan heard the firefight over the radio. They were dressed and ready to help. But Fletcher? Look at him. He was out of uniform and looked like he was ready to work out. Like he didn’t give a fuck. A perfect ending to a perfect day. The motherfucker.

  Walton bounded off the Chinook. Fletcher started to say something, but Walton cut him off.

  “Where the fuck are my men at?” he snapped at the major.

  Fletcher was stunned. But Walton didn’t care. He knew the wounded were being treated by doctors. He didn’t know their conditions. But at that moment he wanted to gather up the remaining members of his team.

  When he did, they huddled near the flight lines. He looked at them: Williams, Rhyner, Howard, and the rest. They were all covered in dirt and blood. Their uniforms were torn and there were scratches on their faces. They looked battered and beaten. Walton started to speak, but could hardly get the words out.

  “I am sorry I let that happen to you,” he said, tears welling in his eyes. “It’s fucked up. Fucked up.”

  [Part 5]

  AFTERMATH

  76

  Wurzbach

  Wurzbach was pissed off. The mission had gone to hell—and now at least four of his good friends were seriously injured: Walding, Morales, Behr, and Ford. He had no idea if they were going to make it, and if they did, would they have permanent damage?

  With Ford seriously injured, Wurzbach was now the acting team sergeant. He knew he would have to take care of all the paperwork related to the mission. Glancing around the helicopter, he could tell by the soldiers’ expressions that everyone was pissed off. He just had to stay in control. Take a deep breath. Remember that they were out of the Shok Valley. Headed back to Jalalabad. And with any luck, everyone would eventually be okay.

  When they jumped off the helicopters in Jalalabad, some of the men went back to the barracks and blew off steam. Some were yelling and cussing. They threw their equipment across the room. How could it happen? So many injured on such a fucked-up operation?

  Wurzbach understood their anger. He was upset, too. But he had to stay in control. He was the acting team sergeant. He had to file reports, and get those papers ready for commanders.

  Before he did anything, he bounded over to the hospital in Jalalabad, where Behr and Morales were being treated. He knew they would be headed quickly to the military hospital at Bagram, which had state-of-the-art equipment and surgeons.

  When he walked in and saw his fellow soldiers, he almost broke down. They looked lifeless on the gurneys.

  “You guys are going to make it, man,” said Wurzbach, fighting back tears. “Everything is good.”

  But they didn’t hear him. They were too sedated. And he made them a promise: he would take care of them. Talk to their families. Take care of all the bullshit paperwork. He told them they were heroes. But he wasn’t sure they heard a word he said.

  77

  Carter

  When Carter returned to the base, he asked everyone about the wounded soldiers. Were they okay? Did they survive? He was uncomfortable on the entire chopper ride back to Jalalabad. He kept thinking the worst. But when he landed, he quickly discovered that they were still alive and were being transported to Bagram.

  He was relieved. Maybe they had a chance.

  Then he slowly headed back to his room. He went in and took a long, hot shower. He wanted to wash off the blood and dirt. He was so tired, he propped himself against a wall and just let the water bounce off his body. He had to wash away all reminders of the day. What just happened? he thought.

  Bits and pieces of the battle flashed in his mind. The blood. The body parts. The bullets. CK’s shattered skull. It was almost too much.

  After the shower, he called Staff Sergeant Marie Schult, the noncommissioned officer in charge of the public affairs shop in Bagram.

  “Hey,” Carter said.

  “Hey, I heard about your thing,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m good,” he said, trying to pretend everything was okay. “So I have one question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do I stay here or do I go back?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, I’m not mission capable anymore.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. But I have bad news.” He paused for a moment. “My camera’s been shot. Real bad.”

  “No way? Serious?”

  “Yeah,” he said. He knew she couldn’t see him, but he was smiling for the first time all day.

  She put Dennis, whom Carter had replaced, on the phone. “Hey, you’re going to stay a couple of days to iron all this out. You’re going to have to give your sworn statement. Then come back.”

  A few days off. Just what I need, he thought. He prayed that he would be able to sleep.

  78

  Shurer

  When Shurer returned to the base, it looked like he had been shot. Every part of his uniform was covered in blood. His hands were black and dirt was caked in his fingernails.

  He took off his uniform and stepped into the shower.

  That night, he stayed up with the guys in the team room, talking about the firefight. It was a bullshit session. What they did in the battle. Where they were.

  But Shurer’s mind kept returning to the wounded.

  Trapped on that tiny part of the ledge, he had worked as fast as he could. It was claustrophobic. The ledge—that shitty piece of rock floor in the middle of nowhere—was the size of a tiny room. He turned it into his makeshift emergency room.

  He thought he’d performed well under pressure. But he kept second-guessing himself. Could he have done more to help Walding? Did he do enough to save Behr and Morales?

  He didn’t know. Then he recalled the near misses. Bullets pinging off his helmet. And, of course, CK. Dead. He’d looked at CK’s face. This young man. His life gone too soon. To CK, the Americans represented a better future. And really, that’s all he ever wanted. A better life for his mother. His relatives. His family and friends.

  More importantly, CK had been willing to die
for his beliefs. He stood up against the Taliban. He fought against the HIG and all those thugs trying to regain control of Afghanistan.

  CK had dreamed of a day when Afghanistan would be free. People would live in peace and harmony. But now he was gone. His body smashed. And that would be one of the enduring images Shurer knew he would carry with him for the rest of his life.

  79

  Ford

  Ford was the first to wake up in the recovery room in Bagram. The first thing he did was look at his arm. His heart raced for a moment—until he saw that it was intact. The doctors had saved it. His biggest fear after being shot was that they would amputate it.

  The nurses had him help wake up Morales and Walding. He called from his bed to Walding, who was still asleep.

  “If he hears familiar voices, he will come out of it quicker,” the nurses told Ford.

  “Hey, John. How are you doing? You okay, buddy?” he asked.

  “I’m all right,” Walding mumbled.

  “Okay, cool.”

  The nurses asked him to do the same for Morales, who wasn’t up yet.

  “Hey, Luis, hey, Luis,” he said.

  “Try it a little louder,” one of the nurses said.

  At this point, Ford was almost screaming. “Hey, Luis! Don’t think because you got shot you’re not going to have to mow my lawn when you get home!”

  It was a running joke with the team, since Morales was part Latino. They always kidded him about being the hired help—an illegal immigrant who just sneaked across the border. Behr got up next, but he was cranky. He was still in a lot of pain and didn’t say much.