Chapter 6
It is better to live one day as a lion than a hundred years as a sheep.
—ITALIAN PROVERB
On Lieutenent Colonel Bolduc’s first rotation, he built a door with a cipher lock in the wall between the Special Forces compound and the Regional Command South compound. He did it intentionally to open up communications and build rapport with ISAF, since southern Afghanistan was NATO territory. In return, he got to use a side door straight into Brigadier General David Fraser’s office. Shortly before we got back to Kandahar, he made use of that access. Passing between the compounds, Bolduc walked into Fraser’s well-furnished office. He wanted to shake hands, look the boss in the eye, and test the water.
The Canadian general commanded all coalition troops in southern Afghanistan. The two men had met and gotten along well during Fraser’s last rotation, when Fraser, then a colonel, worked on the Canadian staff. When Bolduc came in, Fraser got up from behind his large desk and joined him in a small sitting area. Pictures of NATO troops in Afghanistan and mementos from the Canadian army made up the decor.
An aide brought in coffee and the two men discussed what was planned to be the largest NATO combat operation in history. Fraser explained that within days of his taking command from the Americans in early August, between three hundred and five hundred insurgents attacked a Canadian element in Panjwayi. The Canadians killed several dozen enemy and didn’t suffer any casualties, but the attack sent ripples through the command and made it clear the nature of the fight had significantly changed. The Taliban no longer attacked in small groups but in mass. That meant the counterinsurgency fight the Canadians had prepared for was out the window as long as the Taliban controlled the area. That was where Operation Medusa came in. Medusa was intended to destroy the thousands of insurgents who had gathered outside of Kandahar in Panjwayi, the Taliban’s heartland.
“Hey, boss, I just want to lay out the groundwork and make sure I get your guidance,” Bolduc said, pulling out a packet of printed PowerPoint slides. He never brought more than ten slides to a meeting with Fraser in hope of keeping it tight. Simple.
The plan relied on three of his teams to lead the Afghan Army on a reconnaissance mission and attract the attention of the Taliban. Make them turn on their radios so that the Canadians could track the location of the leaders in the valley they would be attacking. The teams would move into Panjwayi from the Red Desert—the Registan—and catch the Taliban off guard. Bolduc knew the Canadian army was the main element, but this got his men in the fight and got the Afghans in the lead.
Fraser reviewed the slides and quietly listened to the Special Forces commander. Taking out his gold pen, he initialed the slides, giving Bolduc the green light. Bolduc left the meeting and called Jared.
By the time I arrived at the special operations compound in KAF that night, my nerves were fried and my head throbbed. The ride, except for our encounter with the ISAF guards, had been a milk run, but it still rattled me. I had forgotten the peaks and valleys that your mind and body experience when you’re exposed to combat stress. Everybody remembers the cool parts and forgets the headaches, the sleeplessness, and the nerves.
We parked the trucks at the motor pool, locked the radios and weapons in the arms room, and headed over to the chow hall for breakfast. In Kandahar, we knew we could get a good meal no matter what.
The dining facility near the compound’s gate looked like every other stucco building in southern Afghanistan. But if Napoleon was right that armies march on their stomachs, Sergeant First Class Redd kept us going at one hundred miles an hour. The senior cook, on his fourth rotation, not only managed the special operations chow hall in Kandahar, but kept the firebases in southern Afghanistan stocked. If you didn’t have it, Redd would go and get it. Once, a shipment of steaks went missing, and Redd flew to Germany, put a knot in someone’s ass, and came back with the missing steaks, plus some.
“What’s happening, sir?” he asked as I pushed open the door to the dining facility. It was how he greeted everybody.
“Livin’ the dream, Redd,” I said, smiling at the smell of fresh bacon and eggs.
I had followed my guys into the chow hall. I always ate last to make sure they got the best selection of food. Loading up with eggs, bacon, and coffee, I noticed Bolduc finishing up his breakfast. He saw me, too, and came over to my table after greeting my team.
Lieutenant Colonel Bolduc expected his detachment commanders to come by and see him whenever they came to Kandahar Airfield. It was not negotiable, ever. He wanted to talk with the men and get their perspective on what was going on in the field. A passionate and dedicated leader, he often solicited new insights on a problem or situation or suggested a new strategy in the course of deep, detailed discussions. He let us operate as we were designed to, independently and autonomously, to achieve strategic effects on the battlefield for the United States.
Bolduc had been part of the first Special Forces units inside Afghanistan and had dealt directly with the Afghan resistance, militias, and Al Qaeda. He prized comprehensive knowledge and experience as integral elements of leadership. As uncompromising as the cold in his native Northeast, where he grew up collecting maple syrup on his family’s small farm, it was out of the question for him to accept anything less than the real thing. He was famous for certain traits that could rub team members and staff officers alike the wrong way—a stubborn insistence on multiple rehearsals under multiple timelines, for instance—but more often than not, what were initially regarded as Bolduc’s “quirks” came to be understood as small glimpses into what “correct” looked like and were ultimately adopted as standard procedure. Point-blank, loved by some, hated by others, he was without a doubt respected by all, and, as I had personally experienced, he was a commander who would sacrifice his career to protect his men if they were in the right.
Bolduc asked about the ride in, thankfully not about the mix-up at the gate, and welcomed me back.
After breakfast, I walked over to the TOC. People buzzed about and there was palpable tension in the air. Radio calls burst out of the speaker system. A Special Forces team was in a hellstorm of a firefight. A soldier had been killed and several wounded. I walked over to the battle captain, who was feverishly working on getting aircraft support. Without looking up, he turned one of the computer monitors so I could see it. The computer showed the team’s location on a map overlay and the numerous enemy positions. I nodded and walked around the half-moon-shaped table to an empty seat and scanned the status board. Medevac was en route. Two sorties of attack aircraft were inbound. No resupply was scheduled. I phoned the operations sergeant down at the supply company and asked if the bundles of ammunition were prepared so they could be pushed out of a helicopter.
Just as I sent a runner down to the company with a list of the requested supplies, Jared and Bolduc walked out of the conference room. Jared tilted his head, motioning me to come into the room. I tilted my head at the battle captain, meaning I wanted to stay and help there. Jared shook his head no, and I got up to leave. As I passed, the battle captain winked, acknowledging his appreciation. In this business, you put everything aside to help those in need.
A number of high-ranking Australian, British, Canadian, and Dutch officers were sitting around the table in the conference room, which was meticulously laid out with nameplates for all the senior officers. I sat in a row of seats behind the massive table.
“This is where the minions sit,” I muttered to Jared as he settled into the seat next to me.
Bruce and Hodge, both fellow detachment commanders, sat down next to us. Hodge was older than I was, with a head of receding silver hair, and reminded me of Mr. Burns from The Simpsons. I had known Hodge from the Special Forces Qualification Course, and I liked working with him. We had served together in Hawaii when we were both just sergeants, and he knew me as well as my teammates. He and I simply wanted to serve our country with as much autonomy as possible.
Bruce was new to the unit and on his first deployment to Afghanistan. A Georgian who spoke with a soft southern accent, he’d been an armor officer in Kosovo and Iraq, where he was wounded by a roadside bomb that had delayed his Special Forces training. A cautious and methodical commander, he was a welcome addition to the team.
An Australian operations officer started the brief. I’ve been very fortunate to work with the Aussies throughout my entire career and on all my rotations to Afghanistan. I’d always liked and admired the way they did business. No bullshit. No politics. Get to the frigging point and get it done. This officer was no different. “Right, mates, in seven days we will be conducting the largest operation since the invasion of Afghanistan and in the history of NATO. Two mechanized Canadian battle groups will lead the assault, with an American infantry battalion securing the right northern flank. You Special boys will seal the south and block the escape,” he said.
Code-named Medusa, after the mythological Greek female with hair of serpents, the operation focused on encircling the Panjwayi district. A frontal attack was unthinkable. The district was sandwiched between the Arghandab and Dori rivers, which run northeast by southwest through the province, and was littered with irrigation ditches, bunker-like grape huts, and thick fields of grapes and marijuana. In a decade of fighting, the Soviets never conquered it.
“The main effort will be the Canadian Mechanized Task Force conducting a clearing operation from northeast to southwest through the entire Panjwayi Valley,” the Australian officer continued. “We need you boys to infiltrate, stir up some trouble to draw enemy attention to the south, then occupy blocking positions and report all enemy intelligence to ISAF HQ. Bolduc has convinced us that you can play a vital supporting role, and we hope you can fill that gap.”
The plan called for us to look at areas of interest and report on what we saw. We were given timelines, radio frequencies for the other units, and the areas they wanted us to watch. Big operations were the toughest, especially ones involving several different countries. There were a lot of moving parts, different operating procedures, and of course politics, which increased the chance of mistakes. And in combat, something always goes wrong.
Bruce, Hodge, Jared, and I glanced at one another, silently working on our list of questions. On paper it looked straightforward, but we seriously doubted they were prepared for contingencies. Hodge and I began to raise our hands. Bolduc, his hand on his lower jaw, looked me right in the eye and shook his head. The message was loud and clear: This was an ISAF operations order; we were to be in receive mode only. So when our coalition partners finished, all we did was shake their hands and smile.
Bolduc raised a finger at us and we knew to give him a moment and wait outside. Once the conference room was empty, he took us back inside and gave us the real brief.
“All right, men, I did not intend for that to turn into a six-hour interrogation,” he said. “That’s why I stopped you. They wanted us to play a much different role in the operation, but I sold them on this. We all know this will be a significant undertaking with them trying to use mechanized forces in an underdeveloped urban environment. We will take this piece and this piece alone. Make it work.”
I headed for the huts and found Bill waiting for me. My face gave away my skepticism. “Well, boys, wait until you hear this,” I said as I pulled out the map and showed the team the basic concept of the operation. No one liked the operation, but they were professionals, so they grumbled under their breath and got to work pulling together all the equipment. We didn’t have much time.
My team would depart in twenty-four hours with Jared’s command team and Hodge’s team. Bruce, who was still missing some of his teammates, would be the quick reaction force. They’d link up with us later. Paul, the intelligence sergeant from Bruce’s team, came up with the idea of driving to our target area through the Red Desert. He had the infiltration route mapped in his head and knew the Taliban would never expect us to come across that forbidding terrain.
Our route would take us southeast, away from KAF toward the Pakistan border. Then we’d turn due west and cut into the Red Desert. From the desert we would head north and come out in the underbelly of southern Panjwayi. Once we got there, we’d recon our areas of interest, probe enemy positions, link up with the quick reaction force coming in a more direct route from Kandahar, and occupy blocking positions on the southern border of Panjwayi while the Canadians cleared the valley. To meet our deadline, we had to cross the entire red sand desert in four or five days. The desert had an area of several thousand square kilometers. That was a big challenge, but with air-dropped supplies and some luck we could do it.
Our planning meeting broke around lunch. Jared asked for a driver and communications guy for his truck because he didn’t have enough men. I reluctantly gave up Jude, our junior communications sergeant, who had worked closely with Brian.
Jude had joined the team the previous year and immediately immersed himself in Brian’s tutelage. I knew he couldn’t be in better hands as he learned the team’s ropes and would hit the ground running with us. He was a quick study, and while he lacked Brian’s tenure, he shared his deep familiarity with a wide array of radios, antennas, and encryption devices, and he did his job with the same precision. Quiet, unassuming, well educated, Jude came from a middle-income midwestern family and had chosen the military over the family business. Average in stature, with clean-cut hair, he reminded me of a banker or a Wall Street broker—someone who could easily blend into the urban business world making the type of salary we all dreamed of. The convertible sports car he drove stood out like a beacon amid the rows of 4×4 pickup trucks, Jeeps, and Harleys in the unit parking lot. I hadn’t been sure at first what to make of him or how he’d be accepted by the other team members. Once again, I would be humbled to learn that all green hatters were chameleons and that Jude could be counted on as a willing participant when so-called better men faltered.
On the rare occasions when Jude said something, it was either really funny or really profound, usually the latter. You never saw him coming, but when he did it was good, and I admired not only his reserved attitude, but also his precise, logical judgment and clear vision—he could always size up a situation and know where it was going. He was selfless, and he was a good teammate because he took care of himself as well as he looked after the team. He maintained a rigorously healthy diet and usually drank V8 or some fruity, juiced-grass concoction, which was an ongoing source of concern for those of us desperately trying to destroy our livers. We voted him the guy most likely to order a drink with an umbrella in it.
In his own unique way, Jude was different from everyone else and yet the same. He was himself and that was his strength—he was as vibrant an individual as you will ever meet and, to his credit, just as humble. He always saw the good in others and never took credit for himself, nor did he feel the need to compete with other teammates over things he considered childish. He didn’t have to. Within weeks he would display superhuman courage and strength that came from a hero’s heart—the stuff legends were made of. But I had no doubt even at the outset of our mission that Jude—and all of us—would be deadly effective on this rotation.
Jude shared that he and his girlfriend had gotten engaged before our departure from Bragg. He was clearly excited, although he tried to restrain himself. I could only smile. The team had relentlessly aggravated him about not getting married. I congratulated him and truly meant it, but the leader in me wanted to make sure he had covered all his bases.
“Do you have your insurance up to date, and is your fiancée on it?” I asked. Several friends of mine had been killed without having updated their paperwork to include their fiancées or wives.
“I have all the proper documentation, Captain,” Jude said, sounding like a good banker. “Bill has the copies.”
He was on top of it, as always. I was reminded again of what a superior addition to the team he was going to be on this deployment, and I hated to let him go to Jared’s team.
Bill and I headed straight back to the hut to iron out details with the team before we had to brief back the whole plan to Bolduc. Smitty, the team’s intelligence sergeant, gave us a detailed brief on what to expect. We weren’t going up against your average Taliban. These groups had been taught in Pakistani madrassas, probably by Al Qaeda or foreign-trained fighters, and would not flee the valley at the sight of NATO armored vehicles.
I never said so, but if Smitty had an idea, it was going to get serious consideration. In addition to his intelligence expertise, he was the team’s ad hoc psychologist. He would often answer a question with a question, irritating some and perplexing others: “So, you say you’re angry. What do you think makes you angry? Is it your fault? What could you do to not be angry?” He was the devil’s advocate in desert camouflage. There was a greater goal behind his approach, though. Like a big brother, Smitty always discussed the pros and cons of every detail with the team in order to come to a collective decision, and there was invariably a lightbulb moment when the questions sank in and the rest of the team got it. He could gently make the team see their own shortcomings and motivate them to retrain or fix the problems internally. He was my greatest force for team cohesion. His comfortable, easy demeanor around fellow team members was based on a deep foundation of trust, and we all took pleasure in his friendship.
Born in the mountains of Virginia, Smitty had a southern drawl that poured smoothly across the ears like fine bourbon across the palate. When I wanted a reminder of home I’d go talk to Smitty. Growing up in a small town meant a life where everyone knew everyone, and their business. Four days after graduating from high school, Smitty walked into the recruiter’s station with his diploma in hand and joined the Army. He was a master of field craft, having grown up with little and spending much of his youth in the woods. Smitty had a public education but was Army trained and it showed—he had been collecting experience for sixteen years and shared it generously with others. His quick common sense propelled him to the top, above the typical bravado exhibited by other SF operators. He did not talk crap (unless he had seen it or done it), and he had a nose for bullshit like a Tennessee bloodhound, detecting it or matching it like no one else, as the situation required, character traits he valued and honed from the example of earlier, more experienced warriors. Very few lies slipped past this supremely experienced SF soldier. Fun-loving, with a zest for life and a sense of humor that defused the worst situations, Smitty had the air of a latter-day pirate, which his dirt-red hair and suitably menacing beard only amplified. Never one to go without a Jedi mind trick, and unpredictable at best, Smitty was the type of guy who would shave his head and grow his beard extra long, imitating the Taliban just enough to get in the head of prisoners and make them wonder just who in the hell they were up against. He was perfectly suited to his role as our intelligence expert, and I couldn’t imagine the team without him.
The team rounded out the rest of the plan—how and when we’d get supplies, the radio frequencies and call signs we’d use. Next, we prepared contingency plans. This was the real meat and potatoes of planning. As we broke up into groups, Riley and Steve, the team’s medics, pulled me aside.
“Sir,” said Riley, “we have a recommendation. We know of a soldier who would be perfect for this mission.” His name was Greg, and he was attached to a civil affairs unit, but he was Special Forces qualified and in fact had been one of their instructors at the Special Forces medical school. That got my attention. “No one knows trauma better than he does. If this thing gets messy that far away, he’ll come in handy,” Riley said. I agreed to talk with him.
The groups continued to drill down on every detail. What was our route? How long would it take to get there? How much fuel would we consume if the trucks carried double the basic load of ammunition, three additional passengers, and three times the amount of fuel we needed? How much fuel would the ANA require? How would we evacuate casualties?
We’d been working for about an hour when there was a knock at the door.
“We’re busy. Go away,” Bill said.
“It’s Greg,” the visitor said.
I folded over the maps and documents; there was no sense divulging classified information if he didn’t end up going with us. Greg came in and stuck out his hand. He had a strong handshake and a humble demeanor. In this business, humility is usually accompanied by confidence and focus. I liked him. But I waited for Bill’s response.
“Where have you been, and what have you done?” Bill asked.
Greg had spent nearly two decades with Special Forces teams and had taught at the renowned Special Forces medical school. Bill was impressed, nodded yes, and walked out of the hut. I told Greg to sit down and opened the map. He was a true country boy from Tennessee but clearly far from naive. Just past his middle thirties, he was in excellent shape. He reminded me of most of the people I grew up with.
“I’ll tell you up front, I have concerns about this operation. I don’t have a good feeling about it at all. I would prefer that you not go,” I told him. Greg hadn’t trained with the team. I didn’t know his strengths and weaknesses. He didn’t know our operating procedures and had never worked with our Afghans. We didn’t have a chance to do detailed planning, didn’t have time for rehearsals with the Afghans, and we hadn’t discussed what would happen if the Canadian operation didn’t go as planned.
“This could get bloody,” I told him, “although it appears as if our part of the mission is going to be a cakewalk.”
“There’s no such thing as a cakewalk,” Greg said. “Unless you tell me otherwise, you couldn’t keep me from going.”
That was the right response.
“Can you handle a .50-cal heavy machine gun?” I asked.
He grinned. “Like a broom.” I had to smile.
I told him to get his kit and see Bill for his truck assignment. Normally teams don’t accept any latecomers, but Greg knew what I knew—you can never have too many Special Forces medics on an operation. Plus, Bill approved, and Greg came highly recommended from operators. Finally, he had the experience, and we could use his expertise in case this thing got ugly.
We continued to plan for the next four hours and met again with the other teams to confirm everything. With the detailed planning done, we had about sixteen hours to get ready to leave. While Bolduc and Jared briefed Fraser’s staff, we concentrated on the vehicles, radios, and weapons. We packed and repacked our kits. We configured the trucks and loaded them with as much ammo and fuel as we could fit.
Dave, our engineer, ranted and raved about the weight in the trucks, his “girls,” as he always called them.
“Captain, the girls are too heavy. We need them to be lighter,” he protested. “At this rate, we’ll be out of fuel way before our first scheduled resupply.”
“What’s your solution, then?” I asked.
“Strip off any excess armor plating and equipment,” he replied. We’d gotten only a few of the air-conditioned and fully armored trucks that the units in Iraq had, so we’d made our own modifications. After five years of war, many of the trucks had Mad Max style armor and plating to protect against roadside bombs. Dave didn’t care if he looked stupid; he just wanted to be right.
Dave had been quickly promoted to senior engineer, and with his sharp tongue and quick wit he made fast work of senior operators looking for an easy score. A midwesterner from Ohio who knew how to handle himself in every situation, he was a chameleon in human skin, a wild card—the joker in the pack. A century ago, he would have been a gambler in the Wild West. He could charm the pants off a woman and win all your money while making you feel good about losing it. He knew how to play the game and had the cynical attitude of one who has seen much and keeps it to himself, unless you are foolish enough to say something he disagrees with. Dave did his job because he loved it, not because he owed the Army an obligation. He was the guy every team hopes to have. At barely six feet, he wasn’t all that imposing, yet he was solidly built. Some men are connoisseurs of wine, art, cars. Dave was a connoisseur of pizza. He’d eat pizza that was two days old before he would eat regular food, and he had even attempted to make pizza out of military rations—Meals, Ready-to-Eat, or MREs—or the local Afghan food, which had prompted whispered discussions at tribal meetings.
Dave came to the team at the beginning of the last rotation and had combat tenure. He was young, smart, and a fast learner; he didn’t have to be told something twice to know it and put it to use. Before a patrol in 2005, he asked the interpreters to teach him some simple commands—stop, get out of the way—and he practiced them in the turret as we drove. Later on, I heard him screaming the same commands at nearby drivers as we made our way down the street in Kandahar.
As an engineer, he was an artist and would spend endless hours working feverishly on a structural project. He loved details. What kind of materials to use, the length, width, the temperature, density, humidity, barometric pressure, weight, etc. It didn’t matter if it was a dog house or a bridge, Dave could build it. It didn’t take long to figure out why he loved building so much. His real passion was demolition.
“You can’t enjoy destroying things if you don’t know how to make them,” he would say.
Dave absolutely, positively, with all his heart loved to blow things up. A massive explosion or complete destruction was not his forte. No, not Dave; that would be too easy. Too crude. A good partial destruction was usually his goal. It denied use of the object to the enemy, then, later, Dave could rebuild it again and put it to some other use.
When Dave was finished with the trucks, the plates and excess parts were piled in a heap in the motor pool. He’d managed to remove hundreds of pounds of armor that would have bogged us down in the sand as well as burned excessive fuel. Now we could meet our scheduled resupplies. It made me a little nervous to see even the smallest piece of protection lying in the dust, but we had no choice. We needed the trucks and the guns they carried into the fight more than the little bit of armor we were leaving behind.
That night, we lay in the hut drenched in sweat, wide awake. After a while, Bill started quizzing us about the mission.
“Greg, what’s the distance from the entry point to the exit point of the desert?”
“Two hundred seventy-five, two hundred eighty-five kilometers.”
“Steve, how far to the first turn off of Highway 4?”
Silence for several seconds, then Steve said, “Did you forget already, Bill?”
The hut erupted with laughter. I tried to hold back, but couldn’t. The tension broken, Bill continued to question the team until a few drifted off to sleep.
Bill and I remained awake.
“What do you think?” I asked.
Bill sighed. “I don’t like it, any of it. There are too many things that can go wrong. ISAF will get mauled in their armored vehicles because they can’t maneuver. There’s too much cover and concealment for the enemy in an urban fight.”
Bill had fought in Iraq and knew urban combat very well.
“Okay, sir, check this out,” he went on. “The intelligence said that there were probably four hundred Taliban fighters in that valley, right? Intelligence is close, but never spot on. What if there are more? Four hundred fighters, that’s a lot, and I mean a lot, of people trying to kill you. We will have to be on our A game for this. Besides, what if we run into a fight way out there in the middle of that godforsaken desert? No cover. We could keep the Taliban at bay for a while with our heavy machine guns and grenade launchers. But we can’t move at night. The Afghans don’t have night vision. If we move during the day, we’ll slow-roast in those vehicles and be exhausted by nightfall, losing our edge.”
He wasn’t even convinced that we’d stay in our blocking positions.
“I’ll bet you a case of beer the Canadians get into trouble and we have to go in there to help. The boys will be exhausted by the time the fight starts and when it starts, it will go on for a while. I mean weeks,” he said. “ISAF is not planning on taking enough dismounted infantry to clear that huge valley. Somebody is gonna have to do it. Who do you think is gonna get volunteered?”
I dredged up the old adage, “There is a Thai proverb that goes like this: How do you eat an elephant?” I asked Bill.
“How the hell would I know?” Bill said. “I wouldn’t eat that nasty thing.”
“One bite at a time,” I said, smiling. We both laughed and got about an hour’s worth of sleep.
The whole hut rattled when the guard pounded on the door. Bill shot straight up. “Get up,” he bellowed. “The sooner we get this started, the sooner it will be over.”
Then he cut on the overhead lights, blinding everyone in the room. I felt for my boots and we all shook off the grogginess. Most of us headed to the chow hall to grab some Red Bull energy drinks or coffee. I found Bolduc and Jared pacing around the assembly area, talking.
With caffeine under their belts, the team started to check their equipment again. I went over to the ANA huts to wake them up so they would have time to make some chai and get ready to leave. But by the time I got there, the Afghans were up and moving and the chai kettles were on the blue, red, and gold propane tanks.
Shinsha was expecting me. I wished now that I hadn’t had that Red Bull, because I knew I was going to end up drinking a whole pot of tea with him.
He shooed his men away and we sat down on the cheap woven mats and each filled our right hand with doughy bread. You always eat and shake hands with your right hand, because in a culture mostly devoid of toilet paper, you can guess what they have to do with their left.
“I want you to make some words for the soldiers before we leave,” he said. “Some are scared and I cannot convince them of our success. I am afraid they will leave when the fighting starts and go back to their villages.”
“No problemo, amigo,” I said.
He looked perplexed.
I grinned. “I would be honored. But we need to get going.” I needed to get back to the team, but I’d make sure to talk to the Afghans before we left.
As I rounded the corner building, I could hear the Special Forces gun trucks warming up. ANA trucks were arriving and taking their places in the convoy line. The ANA were almost never on time or prepared, but this time was different. This was their mission and their fight.
Hodge’s team would be leading the operation to the Red Desert, and I felt very comfortable with that. I said good morning to some of his men, who seemed a lot like mine. When I reached my team, I got the word that Bolduc wanted to say a few parting words. There was the usual groaning, but if it made him happy, so be it. We gathered around.
“Gentlemen, tonight you embark on one of the most important missions ever in the War on Terror and in support of the government of Afghanistan,” Bolduc said. “Let me be clear. If we fail, Kandahar could fall in several months, so there is no pressure.”
That brought smiles from the group.
“You are well prepared for this. Remember who you are, where you are from, and why we are here. God be with you.”
I remember trying to let it sink in. I remember thinking these men were some of our country’s greatest heroes and I got to serve with them. I looked around trying to memorize faces, because in a few days some of these men might not be with us.
When Bolduc finished, I needed a minute alone. I told Bill to gather the team and the ANA at my vehicle and walked to the hut. There was no one inside. I got down on my knees, folded my hands, and prayed. I prayed for the safety of my men, and for the guidance to make the right decisions, and for strength. I prayed for my family and the families of my men. I prayed for the United States and for victory. It was what I always did, but this time I prayed harder. I had a bad feeling. Something told me nothing would go as planned.
When I got to my truck, the Afghans seemed apprehensive. I gathered everybody close.
“My brothers,” I said, “tonight we depart on a mission to destroy the Taliban. It will be difficult. The mission will be dangerous. You have fought with me in the past. You know we will not leave your side until death. Think about how you feel right now. I would rather die on the battlefield today, as a free man, knowing when I went before God that I did all that I could for my people, than die many years from now, old in my bed and living under the foot of a tyrant. We are the Lions of Kandahar!”
By the end of my speech, the Afghans were excited, and I hoped no one would fire his weapon in the air. They stood straight, proud. Ali Hussein pumped his fist. He got it. We broke the huddle, and the Afghans returned to their trucks, ready to go. Even Shinsha looked taller.
Dozens of soldiers came out of the darkness to wish us luck. Each handshake and slap on the back had an air of finality. We wouldn’t admit it, but it was a last good-bye between brothers and friends. Finally, Jared called the TOC and requested permission to leave. Bolduc’s steady voice crackled over the radio.
“Talon 30, this is Eagle 6 actual, permission granted, Godspeed.”