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10
An American Fugitive Cornered by the Taliban
Then I found a piece of flinty rock on the floor of the cave, and, lying painfully on my left side, I
spent two hours carving the words of the Count of Monte Cristo onto the wall of my prison:
God
will give me justice.
Sarawa and his friends did not attempt to take away my rifle. Yet. I carried it with me in one
hand while they slowly lifted me down the steep track to the village of Sabray, a distance of
around two hundred yards and home to perhaps three hundred households. In my other hand I
clutched my last grenade, no pin, ready to take us all to eternity. It was a little after 1600, and the
sun was still high.
We passed a couple of local groups, and both of them reacted with obvious astonishment at the
sight of an armed, wounded American holding his rifle but being given help. They stopped and
they stared, and both times I locked eyes with one of them. Each time he stared back, that hard
glare of pure hatred with which I was so familiar. It was always the same, a gaze of undisguised
loathing for the infidel.
They were, of course, confused. Which was not altogether surprising. Hell, I was confused. Why
was Sarawa helping me? The worrying part was Sarawa seemed to be swimming against the tide.
This was a village full of Islamic fanatics who wanted only to see dead Americans. Up here in
these lawless mountains, the plan to smash New York’s Twin Towers had been born.
At least, those were my thoughts. But I underestimated the essential human decency of the senior
members of this Pashtun tribe. Sarawa and many others were good guys who wished me no
harm, and neither would they permit anyone else to do me harm. Nor would they kowtow to the
bloodlust of some of their fellow mountain men. They wanted only to help me. I would grow to
understand that.
The hostile, wary looks of the goatherds on the trail were typical, but they did not reflect the
views of the majority. We continued on down to the top house in Sabray. I say
top house
because
the houses were set one above the other right into the almost sheer face of the mountain. I mean,
you could step off the trail and walk straight onto the flat roof of a house.
You had to descend farther to reach the front door. Once inside, you were more or less
underground in a kind of man-made cave of mud and rocks with a plain dirt floor, obviously
built by craftsmen. There were rock stairs going down to another level, where there was another
room. This, however, was an area best avoided, since the villagers were likely to keep goats in
there. And where there are goats, there is goat dung. All over the place. The smell is fiendish,
and it pervades the entire dwelling.
We arrived outside this house, and I tried to let them know I was still dying of thirst. I remember
Sarawa handed me a garden hose with a great flourish, as if it had been a crystal goblet, and
turned on a tap somewhere. I replaced the pin in my hand grenade, a process deeply frowned
upon by the U.S. military, and stuck it safely in the battle harness I still wore.
Now I had two free hands again, and the water was very cold and tasted fabulous. Then they
produced a cot from the house and set it up for me, four of them raising me up and lowering me
carefully onto it under the supervision of Sarawa.
Above me I could see U.S. warplanes screaming through the high mountain sky. Everyone
except me was pointing up at them. I just stared kind of wistfully, wondering when the hell they
would come for me.
By now the entire population of Sabray was surrounding my cot, watching as Sarawa went to
work. He carefully cleaned the wounds to my leg, confirming what I had suspected, that there
was no bullet lodged in my left thigh. Indeed, he located the bullet’s exit hole. Christ! I’d been
bleeding from both places. No wonder I didn’t have much blood left.
Then he took out a small surgical instrument and began pulling the metal shrapnel out of my leg.
He spent a long time getting rid of every shard from that RPG he could find. That, by the way,
hurt like hell. But he kept going. And then he cleaned it all again, thoroughly, applied antiseptic
cream, and bound me up.
I just lay there, totally exhausted. Pretty soon, I guess around six o’clock, they came back and
moved me inside, four of them carrying the cot. They gave me clean clothes, which was the best
thing since my first drink of water. They were soft Afghan garments, a loose shirt and those
baggy pants, unbelievably comfortable. I felt damn near human. Actually, they gave me two sets
of clothes, identical, white for daytime, black for night.
The only hitch came as I changed from my battered U.S. battle dress, really only my cammy top,
into the tribal garments. My shoulder still ached like the devil, and they had to give me a hand.
And when they saw the somewhat extravagant tattoo I have on my back — a half of a SEAL
Trident (Morgan has the other half) — they damn near fainted.
They thought it was some kind of warlike tribal emblem, which I suppose it was. And then they
thought I might be the devil incarnate, and I had to keep telling them I was a doctor, anything to
stop them believing I was a special warrior from the U.S. Armed Forces, a man who sported a
symbol of a powerful voodoo on his back, which was surely evil and would definitely, one day,
wipe them all out. Happily, I managed to win that argument, but they were real pleased that I
now had my shirt on, and they pulled down my sleeve to cover my upper arm, where a part of the
design was visible.
By the time they began to leave, they were smiling, and I had become, for the rest of my stay in
the village and I suppose far beyond, Dr. Marcus.
My final request was to be taken out to the communal head for a pee, and they took me but made
me adopt the traditional Afghan body position for this operation. I remember falling over
backward, which made them all laugh helplessly.
However, they carried me back safely to my cot, still giggling, and I suddenly realized with
horror they had removed my rifle. I demanded to know where it was, and the tribesmen tried
hard to explain they needed to take it away,
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