One Bullet Away

Halfway there, I noticed two Afghan boys walking toward our position, smiling and waving. Remembering the major’s warning about suicide bombers, I called for the translator and joined him to intercept them. Lance Corporal Ajmal Achekzai had been working as a cook on the Peleliu before 9/11. After the attacks, he let on that he had been born in Kabul and spoke Pashto. Achekzai became the primary translator for the task force.

The boys wore flowing jackets over their baggy trousers. One had leather sandals, and the other walked barefoot on the rocky ground. They had bright, intelligent eyes. The barefoot boy smiled and reached out shyly to touch my hand. In Pashto, he told Achekzai we had been lucky to escape with our lives from the villages along the river.

“They are all Taliban.”

I shook my head and laughed. “Those villagers told us they were happy to see Americans and that everyone else in the area was Taliban,” I said. Achekzai shrugged. “Don’t tell him that,” I added. It wasn’t a lieutenant’s decision to play local politics. “Just thank them for their friendship and tell them we’re impressed by the beauty of their country.”

The boys smiled at the compliment and waved as they walked back across the gravel toward the highway. I turned to continue my walk toward the headquarters and thought of one more thing. “Achekzai, tell them to keep people away from our positions, especially at night. They could get hurt.”

The battalion commander and his staff clustered in the center of three Humvees, sitting on campstools. A map of southern Afghanistan was spread at their feet, and puffs of cigar smoke dissipated in the cold wind. I waited a few feet away until the meeting ended and Captain Whitmer joined me.

“What’s the word, sir?”

“We’re staying here. Reports of Taliban in a village to the southeast and al Qaeda to the northeast. You know the drill by now. Set up a good integrated defense. Rest half your Marines at a time, and be ready to support any patrols or other missions the battalion decides to run.”

“Right. So do nothing, but be prepared to do anything.”

Captain Whitmer laughed. “Seems like a pretty good general rule.”

* * *

Two hours after sunset, we had just settled into our defense for the night. I was nestled in a narrow wadi, monitoring the radio and trying to clean my rifle by feel in the dark. A terse order crackled through the handset to pack up and prepare to move immediately. I slipped my rifle back together and ran to the colonel’s Humvee. Several other Marines were already there. The operations officer updated us.

“Electronic intercepts are picking up Pashto radio chatter nearby. At least two groups of fighters know where we are and are moving into position to ambush us with RPGs.”

One of the LAR officers spoke from the darkness. “So what? We’re in a good defense. Even if they lob ’em, RPGs won’t reach out much more than a klick. We’ll just use the thermal sights on the LAVs and hose anyone who closes within a kilometer of us.”

All suggestions that we should stay in place were brushed off. “The battalion commander wants to move. We’re stepping off in fifteen minutes and going south of the highway, less than ten kilometers from here. Everyone with a vehicle is in it. Bravo Company is on foot.”

I raised my hand. “Sir, I’m packing almost two hundred mortars and ten thousand rounds of 7.62. I need to get some of that weight into the vehicles so my platoon can keep up.”

He replied that the vehicles were full and that adding more weight risked breaking the axles.

“OK, so we’ll put the ammo in them, and some of their Marines can walk.” This seemed logical to me.

“Lieutenant Fick, I don’t want units all mixed up. Guys in the trucks stay in the trucks. You figure out a way to carry those rounds.”

With all our other gear, that meant each of my Marines would be carrying almost two hundred pounds of equipment.

“Sir, that’s bullshit.” I worked to soften my angry words with a deferential tone. “I’ll have Marines breaking ankles on these rocks, and then we’re all fucked. Do you expect me to go back and tell my guys we’re carrying two hundred pounds apiece while everyone else rides in trucks?”

The operations officer fixed me with his most authoritative glare and lowered his voice an octave. “Lieutenant, you’re about to feel the wrath of a field-grade officer.”

I stumbled back through the rock field to the platoon, cursing the operations officer, the Marine Corps, Afghanistan, and the fact that a well-armed force of Marines was running away from a few ragtag jihadis with RPGs. After all the talk about aggressiveness and taking the fight to the enemy, we were turning tail instead of going hunting or setting an ambush. I dropped down into the wadi, where Staff Sergeant Marine had taken over for me on the radio. He shook his head when I told him the plan.

“Running like this is a bad idea,” I said, stripping off my extra clothes and stuffing them into my pack.