Dakota Meyer - Into the Fire

The incoming fire didn’t stop. The machine-gunners were aiming at movement. They were shooting short bursts, with good fire discipline. Some gunners seemed to have spotters hidden in the houses. They weren’t using tracers, so no green rounds gave away their positions. Without tracers, though, they couldn’t adjust well. A machine-gunner shooting from five hundred meters away couldn’t tell if he was missing me to the right or the left. Plus, firing at a downward angle of 30 degrees, they were overcompensating.

I knew by the sounds of the bullets when a gunner was zeroing in on me. When puffs of dirt spurted close, I’d find a depression and lie flat. Not seeing me, the gunner would grow bored. I’d wait until the dirt kicked up farther off before moving again.

With Swenson driving one truck and Rod the other, we shuttled around for maybe ten or fifteen minutes, a few Afghan trucks following and at least two Kiowas buzzing overhead. About six had been sent to help us. While two covered us, another pair waited on the other side of the ridge and the third pair rearmed at a nearby base. The pilots were fearless. Knowing my team was lost, they were running search patterns twenty feet off the ground so that they could identify each body.

Many of my Askars were lying prone, doing nothing, not returning fire. I’d trained them on the M16s, but they weren’t comfortable with them. Some had ripped through all their magazines, while others didn’t want to attract attention by shooting. I left the able-bodied to fend for themselves, because I couldn’t organize them without getting Hafez out of the truck to interpret.

To the enemy gunners up in the hills above us, our trucks probably looked a little like beetles scurrying around, swerving from one terrace to the next. Maybe they thought it was like a video game as they tried to hit us. They were doing their best, and they were experienced shooters who had crossed over from Pakistan for this event.

Swenson and Fabayo stopped their Ford Ranger next to us to talk over our next move. Behind us, an Afghan truck was shuttling wounded back to the collection point.

“Lieutenant,” I said to Fabayo. “Can you replace Hafez on the .50-cal? That’ll free him up to talk to the Afghans, and I got a sighting on another wounded.”

Fabayo got into our turret and Hafez got on the radio. I hopped in with Swenson. He was driving with a handset jammed to his ear, yelling back and forth to the Kiowas. The Ranger had taken a beating. The shocks were absolutely gone. Rounds had gone through the suspension, door, door handle, rear window, and cab. I pointed to a terrace about a hundred meters off to our left front.

“Stop!” I said. “I think that’s where I saw the guy. I’ll go look.”

Swenson had torn the ligament in his right knee and his shins were peppered with shrapnel, so he stayed behind the wheel and I hopped out.

“Don’t go far,” Swenson said.

I climbed up a terrace wall and followed the contours of the field around a corner to a body lying facedown. On the man’s hands were green gloves with the fingers cut out. I knew even before I rolled him over that it was Dodd Ali, my closest Afghan friend. He was due to take leave in a few weeks. He had left on bad terms with his mother, who was sure he would be killed. Finally, after two years, she had relented and invited him back to the farm for a visit.

He’d been hit in the face. When I looked at his dull eyes, I lost my concentration and I knelt there for a moment, oblivious. He was a little guy, too small for his body armor. He and I had rigged up two tourniquets to hold the armor close around his chest. I knelt down to untie the tourniquets. I needed them for other guys, and I needed to get the heavy armor off him so I could carry him to the truck.

I felt a tap as something hit my left shoulder. It didn’t register at first. It was like I had been hit with a light stone. I glanced up to see a tough-looking Afghan with a long black beard glaring down at me. He was wearing a dirty gray man-dress, a flak jacket, and an Afghan Army helmet. He was pointing an AK at my head, gesturing for me to stand up. In broken English, he was telling me to drop my rifle.

“Come,” he said, waving the barrel of his AK in my face.

I couldn’t believe that I’d screwed up so badly. All I could think of was that my head would be sawed off and held up on TV.

No way. I’d die right where I was, right now. I had been dead for a few hours anyway. The borrowed time was up, that’s all.

My rifle was resting on my left thigh, pointing in his direction. The stubby grenade launcher was attached to the underside of the barrel.

I raised one arm like I was going to surrender and pulled the trigger of the launcher with my free thumb. The 40-millimeter grenade shot forward the two feet to his armored vest. It didn’t explode. Instead it knocked him back. Stunned and with the breath slammed out of him, he staggered back and fell on his side. For a few seconds, I thought the blow had killed him. No such luck.

As I pushed myself erect, he drew in a big breath and stirred. I kicked at his face, losing my balance and falling on top of him. We were both on the ground, wrestling. Afghan tribesmen have legs like steel from climbing mountains all day, all their lives, so I had to keep his legs off me. I pinned his elbows and blocked his reach for his AK. I was pushing my helmeted head into his chest so he couldn’t gouge my eyes. At any second, I figured, that grenade would explode and the both of us could stop worrying about any of this.

I pawed the ground with my right hand and found a rock the size of a baseball. I clutched it and swung blindly at his face. The blow stunned him. Before he could recover, I pushed off his chest, lifted the rock high in my right fist, and smashed it down like a hammer, breaking his front teeth. He looked me in the eyes, the fight knocked out of him, his head not moving. We both knew it was over. I drew back my arm and drove the stone down, crushing his left cheekbone. He went limp. I pushed up on my knees and hit him with more force. The blow caved in the left side of his forehead. I smashed his face again and again, driven by pure primal rage.

I turned back to Dodd Ali. I tried to pick up my friend, but he was stiff and I couldn’t get a firm grip. I fumbled with the tourniquets and when I couldn’t untie them, I cut them loose, pulled off the armor, and trudged back toward the truck, dragging Dodd Ali behind me.

When I came around the corner of the terrace, I was back into the fire. Once again I heard the bursts of PKM rounds cracking past. They sounded high, so I paid them no mind and continued pulling Dodd Ali. I was in a semi-trance, emotionally and physically drained. I shut out the world and concentrated on tugging the body. I’d bend over, get a good grip, and haul backward for a few meters. I’d then stand erect and stretch out my cramped muscles before bending over again. I’d got it into my mind that all I had to do was get Dodd Ali to the truck. That was the goal line. Finish the game .

I had developed a rhythm to my tugs, so it took a while before I realized that Swenson was yelling at me. I’d forgotten he had been sitting out there, the only target on the battlefield, shifting the truck back and forth, waiting for me.

“We gotta move, man!” he yelled. “Let’s get out of here.”

I was trying to pull Dodd Ali into the back of the Ranger, but I didn’t have the strength. I was beat. I leaned against the pickup. Swenson hopped out, picked up Dodd Ali, and rolled his stiff body into the open back. He pushed me into the passenger seat and slid back behind the wheel. He paused for a second, looking at my sagging, sweat-running face.