Marcus luttrell

There’s got to be someone watching these mountains. Someone’s got to see me.
I was 
using this procedure only when I actually saw a helicopter. And soon my optimism turned to 

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outright gloom. No one was paying attention. From where I was lying, it looked like I’d been 
abandoned for dead. 
By now, with the sun declining behind the mountains, I had almost all of the feeling back in my 
legs. And this gave me hope that I might be able to walk, although I knew the pain might be a bit 
fierce. I was getting dangerously thirsty. I could not get the clogged dust and dirt out of my 
throat. It was all I could do to breathe, never mind speak. I had to find water, and I had to get the 
hell out of this death trap. But not until the veil of darkness fell over these mountains. 
I knew I had to get myself out, first to water and then to safety, because it sure as hell didn’t look 
like anyone was going to find me. I remember Axe’s final words. They still rang clearly in my 
mind: “You stay alive, Marcus. And tell Cindy I love her.” For Axe, and for Danny, and above 
all for Mikey, I knew I must stay alive. 
I saw the last, long rays of the mountain sun cast their gigantic shadows through the canyon 
before me. And just as certainly, I saw the glint of the silver barrel of an AK-47 right across from 
me, dead ahead, on the far cliff face, maybe 150 yards. It caught the rays of the dying sun twice, 
which suggested the sonofabitch who was holding it was making a sweep across the wall of my 
mountain, right past the crevasse inside of which I was still lying motionless. 
And now I could see the tribesman in question. He was just standing there, his shirtsleeves rolled 
up, wearing a blue and white checkered vest, holding his rifle in the familiar low-slung grip of 
the Afghans, a split second short of raising it to the firing position. The only conclusion was he 
was looking for me. 
I did not know how many of his buddies were within shouting range. But I did know if he got a 
clear sight across that canyon and somehow spotted me, I was essentially history. He could 
hardly miss, and he kept staring across, but he did not raise his rifle. Yet. 
I decided this was not a risk I was prepared to take. My own rifle was loaded and suppressed. 
There would be little noise to attract anyone else’s attention. And very carefully, hardly daring to 
breathe, I raised the Mark 12 into the firing position and drew down on the little man on the far 
ridge. He was bang in the crosshairs of my telescopic sight. 
I squeezed the trigger and hit him straight between the eyes. I just had time to see the blood 
bloom out into the center of his forehead, and then I watched him topple over the edge, down 
into the canyon. He must have fallen two hundred feet, screaming with his dying breath all the 
way. I was not in any way moved, except to thank God there was one less. 
Almost immediately two of his colleagues ran into the precise spot where he had been standing, 
directly across from me. They were dressed more or less the same, except for the different colors 
of their vests. They stood there staring down into the canyon where the first man had fallen. 
They both carried AKs, held in the firing position but not fully raised. 
I thought they might just take off, but they stood there, now looking hard across the void which 
separated my mountain from theirs. From where I was, they seemed to be looking right at me, 
scanning the cliff face for any sign of movement. I knew they had no idea if their pal had been 
shot, simply fallen, or perhaps committed suicide. 

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However, I think option one was their instinct. And right now they were trying to find out 
precisely who had shot him. I remained motionless, but those little black eyes were looking 
straight at me, and I realized if they both opened fire at once on my rocky redoubt, the chances of 
an AK-47 bullet, or bullets, hitting me were good to excellent. They had to go. Both of them. 
Once more, I slowly raised my rifle and drew a bead on an armed Taliban tribesman. My first 
shot killed the one on the right instantly, and I watched him tumble over the edge. The second 
one, understanding now there was an enemy at large, raised his gun and scanned the cliff face 
where I was still flat on my back. 
I hit him straight in the chest, then I fired a second time in case he was still breathing and able to 
cry out. He fell forward without a sound and went to join his two buddies on the canyon floor. 
Which left me all alone and thus far undiscovered. 
Just a few hours previously, Mikey Murphy and I had made a military judgment which cost three 
lives, the lives of some of the best SEALs I ever met. Lying here on my ledge, surrounded on all 
sides by hostile Taliban warriors, I could not afford another mistake. I’d somehow, by the grace 
of God, been spared from the consequences of the first one, made way up there on that granite 
outcrop which ought to be named for Mikey, our superb leader. The Battle for Murphy’s Ridge. 
Every decision I made from now on would involve my own life or death. I needed to fight my 
way out, and I did not give a damn how many of the Taliban enemy I had to kill in order to 
achieve that. The key point was, I could not make another mistake. I could take no chances. 
The far side of the canyon remained silent as the sun disappeared behind the high western peaks 
of the Hindu Kush. I figured the Taliban had probably split their search party in this particular 
area and that I’d gotten rid of one half. Out there, somewhere, in the deathly silence of the 
twilight, there would almost certainly be three more, looking for the one surviving American 
from that original four-man platoon that had inflicted such damage on their troops. 
The friendly clatter of the U.S. Apaches had gone now. No one was looking for me. And by far 
my biggest problem was water. Aside from the fact I was still bleeding and couldn’t stand up, the 
thirst was becoming desperate. My tongue was still clogged with dust and dirt, and I still could 
not speak. I’d lost my water bottle on the mountain during the first crashing fall with Mikey, and 
it had now been nine hours since I’d had a drink. 
Also I was still soaking wet from when I fell in the river. I understood I was very light-headed 
from loss of blood, but I still tried to concentrate. And the one conclusion I reached was that I 
had to stand up. If a couple of those Taliban came around that corner to my left, the only way to 
approach me, and they had any form of light, I’d be like a jackrabbit caught in someone’s 
headlights. 
My redoubt had served me well, but I had to get out of it right now. When the bodies of those 
three guys were found at first light, this mountain would be swarming with Taliban. I dragged 
myself to my feet and stood there in my boxers in the freezing cold mountain air. I tested my 
right leg. Not too bad. Then I tested my left, and that hurt like the devil. I tried to brush some of 
the shale and dirt away from where I’d packed the wound, but the shards of the shrapnel were 

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jutting out of my thigh, and every time I touched one, I nearly jumped through the ceiling. At 
least I would have, if there’d been one. 
One of my main problems was I had no handle on the terrain. Of course I knew that the mountain 
reared up behind me and that I was trapped on the cliff face with no way to go except up. Which 
from where I stood, almost unable to hobble, was a seriously daunting task. I tested my left leg 
again, and at least it wasn’t worse. 
But my back hurt like hell. I never realized how much pain three cracked vertebrae could inflict 
on a guy. Of course, I never realized I had three cracked vertebrae either. I could move my right 
shoulder despite a torn rotator cuff, which I also didn’t realize I had. And my broken nose 
throbbed a bit, which was kid’s stuff compared with the rest. I knew one side of my face was 
shredded by the fall down the mountain, and the big cut on my forehead was pretty sore. 
But my overriding thought was my thirst. I was only slightly comforted by the closeness of 
several mountain streams up here. I had to find one, fast, both to clean my wounds and to drink. 
That way I had a shot at yelling through the radio and locating an American helicopter or fighter 
aircraft in the morning. 
I gathered up my gear, radio, strobes, and laser and repacked them into my pouch. I checked my 
rifle, which had about twenty rounds left in the magazine, with a full magazine remaining in the 
harness I still wore across my chest. 
Then I stepped out of my redoubt, into the absolute pitch black and deathly silence of the Hindu 
Kush. There was no moon, and it was just starting to rain, which meant there wasn’t going to be 
a moon in the foreseeable future. 
I tested the leg again. It held my weight without giving way. I felt my direction around the huge 
rock which had been guarding my left flank all day. And then, with the smallest, most timid 
strides I had ever taken, I stepped out onto the mountain.