The tribal chiefs came back again around 0700 to conduct their
early morning prayers in my
room. Of course I joined them in reciting the bits I had learned, and then, when the adults left,
the door flew open and a whole bunch of kids came charging through the door, shouting,
“Hello,
Dr. Marcus.”
They never knocked, just came tumbling in, grabbing me and hugging me. And it went on
intermittently throughout the day. Sarawa had left his medical bag in my room, and I fixed up
their cuts and scrapes, and they taught me bits of their language. Those kids were great. I’ll never
forget them.
By
that Saturday morning, July 2, I was still in a lot of pain; my shoulder, back, and leg were
often killing me. Gulab knew this, and he sent an old man from the village to see me. He came
with a plastic pouch containing tobacco opium, which looks like green bread dough. He gave me
the pouch, and I took a pinch of the stuff, put it in my lip, and waited.
I’m here to tell you, that was a miracle.
The pain slowly vanished, completely. It was the first
time I’d ever done drugs, and I loved it! That opium restored me, set me free. I felt better than I
had since we all fell down the mountain. What with the Muslim prayers and now my becoming a
devotee of the local dope, I was drifting into the life of an Afghan peasant.
Hooyah,
Gulab,
right?
The old man left the bag with me, and it helped me get through the next hours more than I can
say. When you’ve lived through a lot of pain for a few days, the relief is terrific. For the first
time I understood
the power of that drug, which is, of course, the one the Taliban and al Qaeda
feed to suicide bombers before they obliterate themselves and everyone else within range.
There’s nothing heroic about suicide bombers. They’re mostly just dumb, brainwashed kids,
stoned out of their minds.
Outside the house, I could see the U.S. helicopters flying overhead, Black Hawk 60s and MH-
47s, obviously looking for something. Hopefully me. I knew from what the Taliban had said that
one of our helos was down, but not, of course, who
had been on board, that eight more of my
buddies from Alfa Platoon were dead, including Shane Patton, James Suh, and Chief Healy.
I also did not know that neither Mikey’s, Danny’s, nor Axe’s body had been found and that the
helos were circling the area trying to pick up any trace of the original four who had set off on the
ill-fated Operation Redwing. The aircrew did not know whether any of us were alive or dead.
And back home, the media were vacillating between dead and missing, whichever made the best
story on the day, I guess. Didn’t
help any in East Texas, I can say that.
Anyway, when I saw those helos, I charged outside. I took off my shirt and waved it over my
head, yelling,
“Here I am, guys! I’m right here. It’s me, Marcus! Right here, guys!”
But they just flew off, leaving me a somewhat forlorn figure standing outside the house, trying to
put on my shirt, and wondering again whether anyone would ever come and rescue me.
In the fullness of time I understood the quandary for the American military. Four SEALs,
fighting for their lives, had made one final communication that we were dying up here. Since
then, there had been neither sight nor sound of the four of us.
Militarily, there
were several possibilities, the first being we were all now dead. The second was
we were all still alive. The third was there were survivors, or at least a survivor, and they were
somewhere on the loose, possibly wounded, in steep country where there is almost no possibility
of making a safe landing in any aircraft.
I guess the last possibility was that we had been taken prisoners and that in time there would be
either a ransom note demanding an enormous cash payment or a television film showing us first
as prisoners and then being executed.
The last option was unlikely when the missing were Navy SEALs. We don’t habitually get
captured. Either we kill our enemy or our enemy kills us. SEALs don’t
put their hands up or
wave white flags. Period. The command post knew that back in Asadabad, or Bagram.
They would not have been expecting a communiqué from the Taliban saying SEALs had been
captured. There’s an old SEAL motto: Never assume a frogman’s dead unless you find his body.
Everyone knows that.
The most likely scenario, aside from all dead, was that one or more of the Redwings was hurt,
out of communication, and unable to make contact. The problem was location. Where were we?
How could we be found?
Plainly, the Taliban were not saying a thing; therefore, they had no prisoners. Equally, the
missing SEALs weren’t saying anything. Dead? Probably. Wounded in action and still holding
out in the mountains, out of contact? As the days went by, this must
have seemed increasingly
less likely.
By now Gulab had told me that his father had departed to walk to Asadabad alone. All my hopes
rested in the soft tread of this powerful yet tiny old man.
Do'stlaringiz bilan baham: 
