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He was hard and tough and wiry — just the sort that won’t say die —
There was courage in his quick, impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
That was Lieutenant Michael Patrick Murphy precisely. You can trust me on that. I lived with
him, trained with him, fought with him, laughed with him, and damn near died with him. Every
word of that poem was inscribed for him.
And now they were carrying him past the crowd, past me, and suddenly my senior commanders
came over and told me it would be fitting for me to stand right by the ramp. So I moved forward
and stood as rigidly to attention as my back would allow.
The chaplain moved up the ramp, and as the coffins moved forward, he began his homily. I know
it was not a funeral, not the one their families would attend back home in the States. This was
our funeral, the moment when we, his other family, all serving overseas together, would say our
final good-byes to two very great men. The voice of the priest, out there on the edge of the
aircraft hold, was soft. He stood there speaking in praise of their lives and asking one last favor
from God — “To let perpetual light shine upon them . . .”
I watched as around seventy people, SEALs, Rangers, and Green Berets, filed forward and
walked slowly into the aircraft, paused, saluted with the greatest solemnity, and then
disembarked. I stayed on the ground until last of all. And then I too walked slowly forward up
the ramp, to the place where the coffins rested.
Inside, beyond the SEAL escort to the coffins, I saw a very hard combat veteran, Petty Officer
Ben Saunders, one of Danny’s closest friends, weeping uncontrollably. Ben was a tough
mountain boy from West Virginia, expert tracker and climber, kind of spiritual about the wild
lands. And now he was pressed against the bulkhead, too upset to leave, too broken up to go
down the steps. (He was SDV Team 2, same as Danny.)
I knelt down by the coffins and said my good-bye to Danny. Then I turned to the one that
contained Mikey, and I put my arms around it, and I think I said, “I’m sorry. I’m just so sorry.” I
don’t really remember it very clearly. But I remember how I felt. I remember not knowing what
to do. I remember thinking how Mikey’s remains would soon be taken away, and how some
people would forget him, and others would remember him slightly, and a few would remember
him well and, I know, with affection.
But the death of Mikey would affect no one as it would affect me. No one would miss him in the
way that I would. And feel his pain, and hear his scream. No one would encounter Mikey in the
small hours, in their worst nightmares, as I would. And still care about him, and still wonder if
they had done enough for him. As I do.
I stepped out of the aircraft and walked unaided to the bottom of the steps. Dr. Dickens met me
and drove me back to the hospital. I stood there and listened for the C-130 to take off, to hear it
roar off the runway and carry Mikey and Danny westward into the setting sun, a few miles closer
to heaven.
And the words from a thousand memorial services flickered through my mind: “Age shall not
weary them, nor the years condemn. / At the going down of the sun and in the morning / We will
remember them.” Right here in bed in Bagram, Afghanistan, I was conducting my own military
service for my two fallen buddies.
My new worry was Axe. Where was he? Surely he could not have lived? But the guys could not
find him, and that was bad. I’d pinpointed that hollow where we both had rested and waited for
death while the unseen Taliban rained fire down on us from behind the rocks and finally blew us
both across the open ground to oblivion.
I’d survived, but I had not been shot five times like Axe. And I knew to the inch where he was
last time I saw him. I talked to the guys again, and the SEAL command was not about to leave
him up there. They were going in again, this time with more intel if possible, more searchers, and
more local guidance.
I suggested they find the village elder from Sabray, if he was still in residence. Because he of all
people could surely lead them to the dead SEAL. I learned right then from the intel guys that the
gentleman I referred to was the headman of all the three villages we had observed. He was a man
hugely revered in the Hindu Kush, because this is a culture that does not worship youth and
cheap television celebrity. Those tribesmen treasure, above all things, knowledge, experience,
and wisdom.
We did contact him immediately, and a few days later, the same old man, Gulab’s father, my
protector, walked through the mountains again for maybe four or five miles. This time he was at
the head of an American SEAL team, the Alfa Platoon, which contained many of my buddies,
Mario, Corey, Garrett, Steve, Sean, Jim, and James. (No last names. Active special ops guys,
right?)
There was also a group from Echo Platoon. All day they tramped over the steep mountainside,
and they took extra water and food with them, in case it took longer. But this time they were not
coming back without Axe. No sir. We never leave anyone alone.
The elder hardly spoke one word to them. But he walked directly to the exact place where the
body of Matthew Gene Axelson was lying. His face had been blasted by close-range gunfire, in
that quaint, old-fashioned way the Taliban have when they find a mortally wounded American.
By the way, if anyone should dare to utter the words
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