by Thom Shea
“So, what is the pool up to now?” I asked, eyebrow cocked.
“I am not going to tell you the details. That would be illegal,” he said as he walked away.
Watching Nike walk back into the tent, I smiled. At the last moment, he turned and saluted with his middle finger. It would be a long night for the men of Bravo platoon, a longer night for the men of that SF Team, and an even longer day tomorrow for the enemy, who would be fighting for their lives.
I walked back to my combat room and slid the curtain shut. I was no longer nervous about going into combat. My lack of nervousness somewhat made me wonder if this was a normal feeling of combat maturity, or me just being jaded by my constant dealings with death. The reason really doesn’t matter, because this is what I do and who I am. At some point in the collective lives of my children, I know they will create this sort of condition for themselves. What you say about yourself and what you actually do are the same thing.
For me, I truly enjoy the “everything” about this situation. I love the men. I am a SEAL. My wife loves who I am and what I do. Please let me offer this quote to my kids before I go to battle, again: “We are Sparta.”
Queen Gorgo: Spartan!
King Leonidas: Yes, my lady?
Queen Gorgo: Come back with your shield, or on it.
King Leonidas: Yes, my lady.
“… tonight we dine in hell.”
—From the movie 300
My combat uniform went on smoothly for the first time. My body armor fit like a glove. My MK17 felt like an extension of my eyes and arms. I loaded each round into my magazines and felt their balance and weight. Everything felt good. My two grenades were solidly affixed to my gear. Even the radio headset seemed to work. I doubted it would work later, but at the moment it felt great. Finally, I lifted my MK13 off the rack and checked the action and attachments. My backpack was loaded with food, water, and extra bullets. Time to go to war.
As I walked out of my combat room, I turned and took off my wedding ring, placing it once again on my computer. The ring would be there when I came back. Hell was no place for Stacy. When I looked up above my computer, I saw the printed quote Stacy had said to me so many months ago:
Thom, I need you to come back to us. Do not fear dying. It makes you weak.
No longer was the wait on the airfield filled with the tensions usually surging through my body prior to all the missions we had been on during the first half of the deployment. I was, however, more uniquely aware of the rest of the platoon. We had all pre-positioned ourselves in the different “sticks” we needed to be in to load the helos. I was always in the first stick, which normally meant the first bird to land and the first bird to receive fire from the enemy. Even that, however, seemed old and trite and of no concern.
My men in stick one were all stretched out on the ground with their helmets off, their heads resting on them. With body armor on, it is difficult to lay down and rest your head, so the only solution is to take off that damned brain bucket and use it for a pillow. I lay with my helmet pillow, listening to the various communications being conducted through my headset. Only our LT stood, attempting to look around and coordinate the ever-resistant cat herd conducting the pre-liftoff nap. I had learned long ago that making these men play military was senseless. I am sure always being the first one to drop my gear and lay down didn’t help. Yet, as I looked at LT, I thought to myself, Good luck, brother.
In the distance, the whining of the engine turbines brought us all back from thinking of some sexy women or wives to getting ready to load the helos and fly into some new hellish place. I do not know what it was like for the other men, but this pre-flight time was, for me, filled with running through the operation in my head—getting a clear picture in my mind of how the men would step off the helo, where they would go, and what we would do if we were attacked right there on insert. Running through whatever scenario my mind wanted to play with had been disturbing when I was a new chief. Earlier I had attempted to force my mind to focus on the plan. But after experience showed me no plan ever survived initial contact with the enemy, I abandoned that silly way and let the thoughts roll on their own. As I got more comfortable, I realized bits and pieces of the wandering thoughts actually came to fruition. Those brief glimpses allowed me to react faster, because I would recognize them later:
Kids, I share this idea not as a way to help you all make better choices, but as a way to allow your mind to be at ease with any upcoming event you may have.
The mind is a clearly misunderstood tool. Treat it like an unbridled English Setter … it has to be allowed to run freely on its own in order to be effective. Focus comes only in that instant when you need it.
The movement of the helos toward our position brought us all to our feet and we began walking toward the pickup point. Following the load plan, I was always last to get on once the head count was perfect. Once on the ramp and walking up, the helo gunner would hand me the radio cable so I could hook in and listen to all the related communications that would be passed between the pilots. The motherfuckers talk so fast I could never follow every detail, yet when they saw enemy on target or they were getting shot at, I would at least get a sense of how many enemy and from what direction they were once off the helo. Knowing those two pieces saved our asses, I was listening in like it was rap music, and I hate rap music.
In the air I had “Tommy nap time,” with part of me thinking of Stacy and another part listening to pilot rap music. The flight time was going to be close to an hour, because the stupid SF had driven, yes driven, deep into the mountains and had somehow decided to drive through a narrow pass. The map had shown four mountains rising up out of the valley, from 8,000 feet at the valley floor to 9,500 feet where we were going to land. The height would give us a tactical advantage to be sure, but to get there we had to land on a knife’s edge, with only the ramp of the helo touching the ground. We would only have a twelve foot by twelve foot area to off load twenty-two SEALs. “It is what it is,” was all we could say to each other when I briefed the men.
The pilots ensured we understood that the longer we took to get off, the more drift the helo would have. If we took too long, someone was going to step off into a 500-foot drop. My personal plan was to get off first and immediately get on my hands and knees to crawl forward only ten feet or until I saw or felt the cliff edge. In reality that’s not the way it went.
As the one-minute-out call came from Nike, I woke up and disconnected from the helo comms while the ramp was lowering. As I watched, the ramp suddenly stopped halfway instead of fully lowering. Then, suddenly, someone yelled, “Go,” and the surge from behind pushed me to my hands and knees while I was still on the helo. So I crawled, with my rucksack on my back and Nike stepping on my fingers, to the edge of the ramp. Once there I saw only six feet of flat ground for twenty-two SEALs and the inability to stop the surge behind me. Somehow I fell out and everyone decided to use me as a stool to ease the strain on their drop from the ramp. I was on my belly waiting for the jump on Thom to stop. Finally the crushing stopped, but somehow I was being pulled toward the edge by both Nike and Jake. In only a couple of seconds, I realized what was actually going on. They both were slipping toward the cliff, and their legs were dangling off the edge, so they were using me to hoist themselves back up. Problem was, I wasn’t anchored to anything, either, so all three of us were getting pulled toward the edge. Finally, EOD jumped on my back, and we waited for the helo to lift off.
At least we weren’t going over the edge. Then the comedy really began. Within a split second, I felt EOD jump off my back; suddenly, and he was lying next to me, face up. I looked at him puzzled, because his arms and legs were up like he was a turtle on its back. For a second, I thought we were falling down the mountain in freefall. Then I felt the sudden oppressive weight of something push down on my rucksack and my body pressed into the ground. My night vision goggles snapped off, and my helmet got twisted. More accurately, my helmet began to twist my head and ne
ck. Then the weight was gone, and the helo downwash kicked up dust and rocks.
“What the fuck just happened?” I yelled at EOD.
“Jesus God, the helo drifted backward over all of us,” he yelled back.
“Damn, let’s get the guys up from the ledge and see who we lost,” I yelled again to EOD.
I got a sick feeling because I had lost my night vision somewhere. I couldn’t see any of my men due to the dust out and darkness. Doing anything other than crawling around would be incredibly stupid, because if I were to stand up, the next step would surely be a long one.
As I searched around, I immediately felt three others doing the same thing. At this point, everything was quiet again, the dust had settled, and the visibility had improved somewhat. EOD was on my right side working toward the cliff edge, when he asked, “Chief, did you lose your goggles?” He handed me the damned things, and I put them up to my eyes, truly surprised they worked. With the aid of the goggles, I immediately saw what looked like everyone on their hands and knees. Texas was being pulled up from the edge by Ground Launch, and both were laughing.
“Everyone stop,” I said into my radio. “I want a head count right now.”
“Fire Team One is up.”
“Fire Team Two, up.”
“Fire Team Three, up.”
“Fire Team Four is up, but one of us is down the ledge about fifteen feet.”
I looked over to KM, who was standing on the edge of the cliff looking down. EOD, Nike, and I walked over and looked over.
“Are you alright down there?” I yelled, trying not to laugh.
“Yes,” Salty replied. “But I seemed to have dropped my grenade and am afraid to pick it up.”
“Chief, I got this. Just get the men moving toward the sniper positions. We will catch up, or you will hear a big boom. Best if we don’t all sit here and watch,” EOD said with a laugh and a smile. “If the pin was pulled, it most likely would have gone off. I am just going to stress him out a bit longer. Salty, don’t move. I am coming down to you.”
The whole situation was morbidly funny. One part of me was still just happy I had not been crushed by the helo losing altitude and then sliding backward over my entire platoon; the other part of me was laughing at EOD wanting to play a joke on Salty, who was clearly in distress, worrying his grenade was going to blow up underneath him if he moved. With every step I anticipated an explosion, but I also felt better about getting away from the edge. Truly funny in a morbid way.
After a bit, EOD and Salty joined the movement along the ridge as we looked for the best vantage point to both see the SF Team and prevent the enemy from moving in on them and us. Damn, we were high up to be sure. No enemy would be able to easily climb the cliffs leading to our ridgeline, and no hilltops were higher than our position within two kilometers. We just had to be able to shoot accurately 700 meters to 2,000 meters. A sniper’s wet dream.
At the first point, we realized we would have to dig deep into the rocks, dirt, and gravel to provide the sniper element protection and a comfortable place to rest and hang out. Yet, as we all looked at the ground, a deep, disgusting sigh came out of everyone simultaneously.
“Jeeesssuuuss, this is truly going to suck, digging into this rock and making sandbags,” Snowman and All Around said.
“What did you think it was going to be up here on a cliff?” I asked, rather pissed off anyone would complain.
“Well, honestly, I had hoped for cool grass and a Jacuzzi,” Snowman said in a provocative tone.
“How about you dig a nice hole and we all piss on you when you get in,” Salty answered Snowman. Salty always came to work and hates hearing others complain.
“Alright,” I stepped in. “Fun is over: squad two, dig; squad one, let’s find you a spot.”
Squad one and I broke away and walked along the ridge closer to the SF Team and deeper into the all rock sections. We literally walked along a knife-edge six-foot-wide path, with 100-foot drops on both sides; safe from the enemy, but dangerous even to walk.
We had two hours of darkness remaining. Although we were at 10,000 feet altitude and the temperature was now 70 degrees, I knew the temperature would rise well above 100 degrees during the day, and we would be fighting the heat and dehydration all day long. I was really looking forward to hot Gatorade.
The various rock chimneys and depressions did, however, lend themselves well to sniper positions and shade for the men. So I left squad one with the task of keeping eyes on the SF Team and to watch for enemy men moving in on them. The walk back up the ridge toward squad two was much harder. The altitude was clearly noticeable, and I knew the men digging would be exhausted already.
Once on top of the hill, I saw LT sitting alone and took that as a sign to go over and have a chat.
“LT, I see no easy way for the enemy to approach these positions, or even reach up here with their AK-47s. Even the RPGs will have a tough time. Once Echo platoon gets into position, I will plot their grids and ensure we have 360-degree coverage, but the original plan for positions looks rather good, don’t you think?” I asked, flopping down next to him on a jagged rock that went right into my butt cheek.
“I agree. I have made radio comms with the SF Team and am waiting for an update on their status,” LT said, in his always business-like way.
I reached into my pocket and withdrew my can of Copenhagen, offering him a dip. He always refused with a disgusted look, which, of course, made me want to offer more frequently throughout the day.
As I sat, I realized I was no longer stressed about being in hell. The pain in my feet and back had not flared at all. The stars even seemed brighter. I kicked back and listened to LT talk to the top players on the ground and back at base. Looking up at the billions of stars I could see through my night vision is always stunning. I was where I wanted to be. My family was safe from this stupid conflict between Islam and Christianity, and we were about to get busy.
Squad two was working like a chain gang, trying to dig deep and fill sandbags, so I decided to pick up one of the positions in order to allow the snipers time to set up their positions and weapons, and get into the mindset of watching and shooting versus digging and being pissed off. However, after an hour of digging, filling, and lifting sandbags, I was wet from head to toe, and tired. All the same, the Bravo welcome mat was out, and we were ready for guests.
Right at dawn we heard enemy AK-47 firing going on down in the valley near the SF Team and, within minutes, I heard the distinct sounds of Nike and Jake shooting multiple .300 Winchester Magnum rounds. Then silence. I turned to watch All Around scanning the target area for the enemy. After a bit he relaxed, his head came off the gun, and he returned to writing something in his notepad. How funny watching these men at this stage in their combat maturity—relaxed, yet very keen about what was going on.
Then the big waiting game and oppressive sun and heat happened. Two hours went by with nothing but locals moving around the target area, doing farming work or carrying water, seemingly oblivious anything was going on. Truly amazing, these men.
At noon, I decided to relieve the snipers and let them get some rest from working and watching. I felt good getting behind the .300 Winchester Magnum again. I could see the entire valley floor, and the scene reminded me of hunting elk in Aspen, Colorado. I began to methodically check all the people moving around. I spent a lot of time watching their movements and seeing if they were hiding stuff or possibly using radios to talk to the real enemy who was clearly in the area. After an hour of scanning, I noticed a window with a barrel sticking out of it. At 1,200 yards determining if the thing was a barrel or the handle of a rack was extremely difficult. I was not sure, so I watched and watched and watched. Every so often it would withdraw into the window, then poke back out.
I played this watching game for an entire hour. My right eye felt like it was being pulled through the other side of the scope by a vacuum. Then, finally, the enemy guy in the building must have completed his prayers and decide
d to shoot at the SF Team. Either he was retarded, or didn’t think we could shoot that far. I checked the wind and the down angle several times, then dialed in my firing solution one last time. I waited for the right presentation to shoot.
The poor enemy soldier didn’t get the return fire from the SF Team he had prayed for, so he decided to move into the middle of the next doorframe. As he lifted the AK-47 once again, I fired. The recoil of the rifle knocked the gun somewhat out of position. After sliding the bolt back and forth to load a new round, I took another minute to pick up the exact doorframe among all the other doors down in the valley. Finally, I found the man again, who was now lying on the ground with a big pool of blood seeping through his man-dress. The gun lay alongside his body, and he was trying to crawl backward while pulling the weapon along with him. So I fired again. Once I reloaded and found the correct door, all I could see were his feet on the threshold of the door; his body was back in the shadows of the room.
I watched for a bit, then All Around said to me, “Chief, where are you looking? Let me see if I can help.”
“No need. He is done. You can have the position back; my work is done here,” I said as I watched two unarmed women pull the enemy’s body back into the room.
“You suck, you know that, Chief?” All Around said as I stood up and looked at him.
“Oh, you been talking to my wife, haven’t you?” I smiled.
I crawled out of position to allow All Around to fill it. Everyone had been watching with either binos or their own gun-mounted scopes. We heard responses from the other homes, and I use the term homes very loosely, because the buildings looked like mud huts from up where we were. Four men with AK-47s and PKMs had run away, and were moving in and out of alleyways and darting into huts. We were tracking their movement the best we could with hand-held scopes, when without being asked, Snowman called up an Apache wing to look at our target area. Hell, I didn’t even know they were close enough to see.
