Marcus luttrell

We will kill you all! Death to the Satan! Death to the infidel!
They pointed out with huge glee that I was their main infidel and I had mere moments to live. I 
took a sidelong glance at that iron bar, perhaps my last hope. But I told them nothing, stuck to 
my guns, kept on telling them I was only a doctor. 
At one stage, one of the village kids came in, about seventeen years old. I was pretty certain he 
had been in one of the groups I’d passed on the way down here. And he had what I now call the 
Look. That sneering hatred of me and my country. 
The Taliban guys let him come in and watch them knocking me around. He really liked it, and I 
could tell they regarded him as “one of us.” He was allowed to sit on the bed while they kicked 
at the bandage on my left thigh. He just loved it. Kept running the edge of his hand over his 
throat and laughing, “Taliban, heh?...Taliban!” I’ll never forget his face, his grin, his triumphant 
stare. And I kept looking right up at that iron bar. The kid, too, was a very lucky boy. 
Then my interrogators found my rifle laser sight and my camera and wanted to take pictures of 
one another. I showed them how to use the laser to achieve their pictures, but I showed them the 
wrong way around and told them to stare into the beam with their naked eye. I guess the last 
favor I did them was to blind the whole fucking lot of ’em! Because that beam would have 
burned their retinas right out. Sorry, guys. That’s show business. 

---

Right after that, must have been around midnight, a new figure entered the room, accompanied 
by two attendants. I knew this was the village elder, a small man with a beard, a man who 
commanded colossal respect. The Taliban immediately stood up and stepped aside as the old 
man walked to the spot where I was lying. He kneeled down and offered me water in a little 
silver cup, gave me bread, and then stood up and turned on the Taliban. 
I was not certain what he was saying, but I found out later he was forbidding them to take me 
away. I think they knew that before they came, otherwise I’d probably have been gone by then. 
But there was no mistaking the authority in his voice. It was a small, quiet voice, calm, firm, and 
no one spoke while he spoke. No one interrupted either. 
They hardly said a word while this powerful little figure laid down the law. Tribal law, I guess. 
When he left, he walked out into the night very upright, the kind of posture adopted by men who 
are unused to defiance. You could spot him a mile off, kind of like an Afghan Instructor Reno. 
Christ! What if he could see me now? 
Upon the departure of the village elder, six hours after they had arrived, at around 0100, the 
Taliban suddenly decided to leave. Painful eyes, I hoped. 
Their leader, the chief talker, was a thin character almost a head taller than all the rest. He led 
them outside, and I heard them walk off, moving softly up to the trail which led out of Sabray 
and into the mountains. Once more I was left, bleeding badly and very bruised, eternally grateful 
to the village elder, drifting off into a form of half-awake sleep, scared, really scared those 
bastards would somehow come back for me.
 
Bang!
Suddenly, there went that door again. I nearly jumped out of my new Afghan nightshirt 
with fright. Were they back? With their execution gear? Could I get up and fight again for my 
life? 
But this time it was Sarawa. And I had to ask myself, Who was he really? Had he tipped 
someone off? Was he in the clutches of the Taliban? Or had they just come for me and broken in 
when no one was looking? 
I 
still
had not been informed of the concept of 
lokhay.
Possibly because they had no way to 
inform me, and anyway I had no choice but to trust them. It was my only shot at survival. 
Sarawa was carrying a small lantern, accompanied by a few of his friends. I sensed them but 
could not really see in the pitch dark, not in my condition in this flickering light. 
Three of the villagers lifted me off the floor and carried me toward the door. I remember seeing 
their silhouettes on the mud walls, sinister, shadowy figures wearing turbans. Honestly, it was 
like something out of