Marcus luttrell

 
 

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11
 
 
Reports of My Death Greatly Exaggerated
 
He literally dragged me into a standing position, and then...He was running and trying to make 
me keep up with him, and he kept shouting, signaling, again and again: 
Taliban! Taliban are 
here! In the village! Run, Dr. Marcus, for God’s sake, run!
Gulab had now become the principal figure in my life. He called the security shots, made sure I 
had food and water, and was, in my mind, the link between us and his father as the old man 
toiled through the mountains to Asadabad. 
The Afghani policeman betrayed no sign of stress, but he did reveal to me that a letter had been 
received earlier from the commander of the Taliban forces. It was a written demand that the 
villagers of Sabray hand over the American immediately. 
The demand came from the rising officer of the Taliban army in the northeast, the firebrand 
“Commodore Abdul,” right-hand man to Sharmak and a character who plainly saw himself as 
some kind of Eastern Che Guevara. His reputation was apparently growing as an ambush leader 
and as an officer who was expert at bringing in new recruits through the passes. 
I never knew, but it would not have surprised me to learn he had been in the front line of the 
army that confronted the team on the ridge, though I have no doubt the strategy was planned by 
the senior man, Sharmak, who had done so much damage already. 
They did not, however, faze Gulab. He and his father had replied that it made no difference how 
bad the Taliban wanted the American, they were not going to get him. When Gulab told me, he 
made a very distinct, brave, dismissive gesture. And he spent some time trying to convey his 
personal position: 
They can’t frighten me. My village is well armed, and we have our own laws 
and rights. The Taliban need our support a lot more than we need theirs.
He was a gallant and confident man, at least on the surface. But I noticed he took no chances 
when there was any kind of suggestion the Taliban were coming in. I guess that’s why we ended 
up sleeping on the roof. 
Also, he had not the slightest interest in a reward. I offered to give him my watch in return for his 
unending decency to me. I implored him to take my watch, because it was all I had to offer. But 
he always refused to accept it. As for money, what use could that have been to him? There was 
nothing to spend it on. No shops, the nearest town miles and miles away, a journey that had to be 
made on foot. 

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A couple of the sneering kids did ask for money, teenagers, maybe sixteen- or seventeen-year-
olds. But they were planning to join the Taliban and leave Sabray, to fight for “freedom.” Gulab 
told me he had no intention of leaving here. And I understood that. He was part of the fabric of 
the village. One day he would be the village elder. His family would grow up here. It was all he 
had ever known, all he had ever wanted. This very beautiful corner of the Hindu Kush was where 
he belonged. What use was money to Mohammad Gulab of Sabray? 
The last of the kids had left my room, and I was lying there contemplating the world, when there 
was a kick on the door that nearly took it off its hinges. No one kicks a door in quite like that 
except a Taliban raiding party. That was all I could imagine. But around here, where doors don’t 
fit, a good bang with your sandal is about the only way to get the sonofabitch open, short of a 
full-blooded shoulder charge. 
But the sudden shock of a door being kicked in about five feet from your head is a nerve-racking 
experience. And I’m neurotic about it to this day. Because the sound of the crash on the door is 
the sound I heard before I was tortured. It sometimes dominates my dreams. I wake up sweating, 
a tremendous crash echoing in my mind. And no matter where I am, I need to check the door 
lock before I can sleep again. It’s pretty goddamned inconvenient at times. 
Anyway, this was not the Taliban. It was just my own guys opening the door, which must have 
been shut firmly by the kids. I restarted my heart, and my room stayed kind of quiet until 
midmorning, when the door catapulted open with a violent 
bang!
that shook the goddamned 
mountain, never mind the room. And once more I almost jumped out of my Afghan jumpsuit. 
And this time they were shouting at me. I could not understand what, but something had broken 
out, things were on the move. Jesus Christ! I had to steady this group down. There were adults 
and kids, all mixed up, and they were all yelling the same thing —