Basenshukai
03-15-2006, 04:50
As I write this a Muslim cleric, somewhere in the distance, is chanting verses from his mosque through a loudspeaker. The melodic sounds are only broken by the breeze whistling past the door to my small room; the door slams shut and then opens again. The chanting continues.
Almost one month to this day, I was having breakfast with several team mates in a quaint dinning area adjacent to a makeshift kitchen. We were in an A-Camp in one of the most dangerous places in Afghanistan. Our A-Camp was isolated by both terrain and relentless enemy presence just outside of our main walls. We reminisced about previous deployments in places much more pleasant. We joked at the expense of one another. I felt, as I have always felt in the presence of men such as these; I felt a sense of family and belonging. We were all tied by our near-tribal traditions and experiences. We were tied, ultimately by our triumph through the gauntlet of “Selection” and the “Q-Course” and, inevitably, we were tied by our shared risk; by the ever-present chance of death. Not one of us was deterred by what could happen. We were Army Special Forces and closing with and destroying the enemy was our calling.
After breakfast, we began to load our vehicles for the mission. The mission commander was a close friend and colleague whose team had been recently “re-constructed” after a tremendous – and coincidental – personnel turn-over at every level. There were a few “old hands”, all of whom I knew particularly well. As second-in-command in the company, I had the privileged latitude to visit the teams when I could. My old team – which I had commanded for two years – was based at a location south of us and my replacement was an excellent officer and leader; they were in terrific hands. My time spent in the same company brought a sense of familiarity between myself and the rest of the men in the unit. I was a known quantity to them and part of the family. As a result, I was accepted and invited into this team’s tight circle. What better accolade can anyone bestow on a fellow Special Forces soldier? I do not know of any.
We loaded our vehicles and checked all our communications. I took my position as the rear gunner on the command vehicle. We drove out to the nearby range and test fired all weapons systems. Once the team sergeant was satisfied with our pre-combat checks, he gave the “go” signal to the team leader and our combat reconnaissance patrol snaked out of the firebase. Our posture was aggressive and lethal. In Special Forces, our vehicles are fighting platforms and not just transportation.
After an hour of tactical movement, we halted by a village. The air seemed thick with tension. The village, at about 200 meters to our left flank, seemed deserted; something was not right. Our weapons covered all 360 degrees around us looking for movement. The patrol inched forward and stopped again. The senior NCO in the first vehicle sensed something was awry and said so on the radio. He wanted more time to feel out the situation. All was quiet. His vehicle moved forward again and I heard the explosion. I turned around as the heat wave hit the back of my exposed neck. We lost four brothers in less than one second. And then, the fighting began. We got engaged from our front and our left flank. Our .50 caliber machine guns and 40mm grenade launchers began to eliminate targets. Silhouettes filled our rifle scopes again and again. The team leader called for air support. Another team, about one kilometer south of us heard our call and, as true brothers, began to make their way to us. Special Forces men move to the sounds of guns. About 800 meters from us, they were ambushed by a force now estimated to have been about ten times their size. The roar of their firefight could be heard from our location. Air support came on station in the form of four pairs of aircraft. The air warriors stacked themselves above us and ordnance began to rain on command. We began to collect the bodies of our fallen and prepared to move the moment we culminated our fight to support the now-embattled second team. The second team gained fire superiority and overwhelmed the enemy with a barrage of direct fire, indirect fire and pure aggressiveness. They made their way to us instead. Finally, after we pacified the area and ensured we eliminated all threats, did we convoy to bring our fallen brothers back home.
As the team is a family, I felt that it was best that I escort the remains of our brothers to our main base. In this way, the team could stay together and mourn together. The team sergeant and team leader gave me their consent to do so. I brought our brothers down to our main base via helicopter and was present at every moment as they were prepared for their final trip back home. The team was also flown down a day later and we all said goodbye to flag draped coffins as they were loaded onto enormous ramp of a C-17. We cried together.
Just two weeks ago, I received the remains of another fallen warrior. I was not with him at the time but was in place to receive him at our main base. He was in my own detachment and he was a friend. There are personnel here whose sole and difficult job is to receive the remains of our fallen and process them prior to their final flight home. They have to remove any equipment from the remains and ensure nothing dangerous is present, such as live ordnance that they might have been carrying. These soldiers do this job with the utmost respect and professionalism. I insisted to be the one to remove his gear as he was being prepared for his final trip home; he was one of mine. I removed his body armor and held his hand and said goodbye.
The cleric has stopped chanting. The breeze still whistles past my doorway. The mission continues.
“De Oppresso Liber”
Almost one month to this day, I was having breakfast with several team mates in a quaint dinning area adjacent to a makeshift kitchen. We were in an A-Camp in one of the most dangerous places in Afghanistan. Our A-Camp was isolated by both terrain and relentless enemy presence just outside of our main walls. We reminisced about previous deployments in places much more pleasant. We joked at the expense of one another. I felt, as I have always felt in the presence of men such as these; I felt a sense of family and belonging. We were all tied by our near-tribal traditions and experiences. We were tied, ultimately by our triumph through the gauntlet of “Selection” and the “Q-Course” and, inevitably, we were tied by our shared risk; by the ever-present chance of death. Not one of us was deterred by what could happen. We were Army Special Forces and closing with and destroying the enemy was our calling.
After breakfast, we began to load our vehicles for the mission. The mission commander was a close friend and colleague whose team had been recently “re-constructed” after a tremendous – and coincidental – personnel turn-over at every level. There were a few “old hands”, all of whom I knew particularly well. As second-in-command in the company, I had the privileged latitude to visit the teams when I could. My old team – which I had commanded for two years – was based at a location south of us and my replacement was an excellent officer and leader; they were in terrific hands. My time spent in the same company brought a sense of familiarity between myself and the rest of the men in the unit. I was a known quantity to them and part of the family. As a result, I was accepted and invited into this team’s tight circle. What better accolade can anyone bestow on a fellow Special Forces soldier? I do not know of any.
We loaded our vehicles and checked all our communications. I took my position as the rear gunner on the command vehicle. We drove out to the nearby range and test fired all weapons systems. Once the team sergeant was satisfied with our pre-combat checks, he gave the “go” signal to the team leader and our combat reconnaissance patrol snaked out of the firebase. Our posture was aggressive and lethal. In Special Forces, our vehicles are fighting platforms and not just transportation.
After an hour of tactical movement, we halted by a village. The air seemed thick with tension. The village, at about 200 meters to our left flank, seemed deserted; something was not right. Our weapons covered all 360 degrees around us looking for movement. The patrol inched forward and stopped again. The senior NCO in the first vehicle sensed something was awry and said so on the radio. He wanted more time to feel out the situation. All was quiet. His vehicle moved forward again and I heard the explosion. I turned around as the heat wave hit the back of my exposed neck. We lost four brothers in less than one second. And then, the fighting began. We got engaged from our front and our left flank. Our .50 caliber machine guns and 40mm grenade launchers began to eliminate targets. Silhouettes filled our rifle scopes again and again. The team leader called for air support. Another team, about one kilometer south of us heard our call and, as true brothers, began to make their way to us. Special Forces men move to the sounds of guns. About 800 meters from us, they were ambushed by a force now estimated to have been about ten times their size. The roar of their firefight could be heard from our location. Air support came on station in the form of four pairs of aircraft. The air warriors stacked themselves above us and ordnance began to rain on command. We began to collect the bodies of our fallen and prepared to move the moment we culminated our fight to support the now-embattled second team. The second team gained fire superiority and overwhelmed the enemy with a barrage of direct fire, indirect fire and pure aggressiveness. They made their way to us instead. Finally, after we pacified the area and ensured we eliminated all threats, did we convoy to bring our fallen brothers back home.
As the team is a family, I felt that it was best that I escort the remains of our brothers to our main base. In this way, the team could stay together and mourn together. The team sergeant and team leader gave me their consent to do so. I brought our brothers down to our main base via helicopter and was present at every moment as they were prepared for their final trip back home. The team was also flown down a day later and we all said goodbye to flag draped coffins as they were loaded onto enormous ramp of a C-17. We cried together.
Just two weeks ago, I received the remains of another fallen warrior. I was not with him at the time but was in place to receive him at our main base. He was in my own detachment and he was a friend. There are personnel here whose sole and difficult job is to receive the remains of our fallen and process them prior to their final flight home. They have to remove any equipment from the remains and ensure nothing dangerous is present, such as live ordnance that they might have been carrying. These soldiers do this job with the utmost respect and professionalism. I insisted to be the one to remove his gear as he was being prepared for his final trip home; he was one of mine. I removed his body armor and held his hand and said goodbye.
The cleric has stopped chanting. The breeze still whistles past my doorway. The mission continues.
“De Oppresso Liber”