The moment is stolen by rustling behind the gate. I am closer to my goal and see soft silhouettes moving within the dark. Raising my weapon I pull the trigger. A shadow falls and a woman shrieks and cries. From behind the wall the voice of a man yells and barks orders. I can’t make out the Pashto, but his demands are met with more sobs and finally stillness.
My next impulse is to take advantage of our new proximity and order a round of grenades to be thrown into the building, but a ghost appears at the gate as the sun rises through the clouds and stops us all in our tracks. Flowing white robes caught in the breeze and early morning rays give an illusion of those before us as floating. First one appears and then another and another, one by one stepping into the light, all of them with heads bowed in a forced reverence.
With arms at their sides, the waves of fabric reveal inked hands and fine jewelry. The women move into the street and never look in our direction. Their eyes are lowered and their movement silent. We are all frozen in confusion at this eerily out of place sight. Half of us stay weapons fixed on the target building and the others focus on the seven women that now fan into the street. I flood myself with possible answers to this riddle, but none make any sense. I force patience and watch closely.
The first woman is well into the street and within thirty meters of us when she stops at the body of the man who led the charge. No longer able to contain her emotions and free from the reach of the discipline inside the gate, she wails her pain. In the middle of the battlefield strewn with bodies the women stand among us and weep. My chest tightens with the urge to go and comfort, but they would never allow it. Their culture would stone them to death if I even touched them, so I sit and participate in their suffering as a voyeur.
The lead ghost takes a long resigned breath and reveals to me her purpose in this fight even as her tears continue to fall. She kneels down, grabs the AK-47 off the body of the dead, and retreats back towards the building. The other women do the same and their timid steps with heads low prepare themselves for our expected reaction. I am the first to draw and fire upon the woman closest to the gate. My men fall into line mirroring my precedent. In this hell there is always more to give and the war always has more to take.
Our eyes freeze on the stained motionless forms that lay before us, but movement from behind the gate snaps our rifles back to find a new target. A young boy moves without reason into the street. His eyes are swollen with tears. He is drawn by some unseen force and finds his way to a woman, her fine sari now soaked in crimson. The child’s sobs ring through the empty streets and he looks into the darkness behind the gate.
As the boy kneels beside the dead I take aim. “NO!” Marti yells from across the street. Turning to his voice, I watch him move from cover, running full speed toward the boy. I want to scream go back, find safety, but instead do nothing except wait for him to be taken from me. I turn my weapon back to the boy whose hands are almost to the body and its possession.
Everything moves slowly. Shots ring out from behind the gate and my men return fire. Q stands straight up and jumps a pile of bricks running at Marti and screaming for him to get back. The boy grabs the weapon and I pull my trigger, taking the child out as the gun fire continues around me.
I see out of the corner of my eye that Q is struggling to get Marti to his feet, but when Marti realizes the boy is gone, he gives up the battle and allows Q to drag him back to us. Two men appear to be doing most of the shooting from the target building, and as soon as they are killed the gun fire dies with them. I lean against the rubble and take in the sight of Marti. He is sobbing and completely broken down as he accuses me. “You didn’t have to kill him man, he is just a kid! He didn’t know what he’s doing.”
“Shut the fuck up, you almost got us both killed,” Q interrupts, slamming his fist into his buddy’s gut in hope that sucking for air will silence him. The punch does just the opposite. Marti springs to life, pouncing onto Q’s shoulders and delivering a swift elbow to his cheek bone. Q isn’t fazed by the strike and exhibits perfect Brazilian Ju Jitsu form, taking his opponent to his back, but this time holds a knife to his throat. Marti knows if Q had any desire to kill him, he wouldn’t think twice about the action or repercussions.
My friend lies on his back with eyes wide in fear and yet refuses to be quiet. “You’d like to kill me wouldn’t you? So I wouldn’t be around anymore to remind you how fucking crazy you are.” Q edges the knife with pressure into Marti’s throat, but the fallen has lost his fight and crushes his eyes closed as if trying to escape from a terrible nightmare.
“Q,” I call to him. Q’s body relaxes slightly while lowering the knife a millimeter. “Get back in line.” The soldier reacts to his order, snaps to his feet, and in a low run returns to his original position. The knife has disappeared as he draws his weapon and scans the wall in a horizontal motion. Marti stays on his back exhausted from the horror.
“This isn’t right, Joe. It shouldn’t have to be like this. It never used to be like this.”
I hear my friend’s pain and wonder why I don’t share the same sympathy for the child. I look over at the fallen boy and study his body closely. Tiny hands are still clutching the rifle and an expression of pain is frozen forever on his face. I understand why Marti protested, but inside of me nothing stirs. I look deep, but find only emptiness. Marti’s eyes are still trickling tears and I can see his agony. He is right. There was a time when this type of killing would not have been an option, but that time is long past and only a faint memory on this day.
“Olson is not doing so good,” Doc’s voice brings my radio to life. “If he doesn’t get out of here soon he won’t make it.” I want to tell him I will call in the choppers to take the soldier to base. I want to move all my men back to safety, but those thoughts quickly fade as the gravitational pull of the mission takes its hold. There is more work to be done.
The sun is rising and burns away the chill of evening. As soon as night falls once again, I will take my objective and complete my assignment, but until then I’m forced to ponder the truth of our first battle. No ground was gained or lost. As time passes no history will be written about this struggle at dawn or the warriors who sacrificed themselves for this war. There is a cost and the cost is too high.
*****
Master Sergeant Joseph Cevera is a respected man, decorated hero and feared leader of one of the most highly trained and lethal army units in the Afghanistan conflict. What happens when the unbreakable is broken? We see this erupting world through the eyes of a seasoned warrior as he is pushed to the edge of his humanity.
Manuel Carreon’s Simple Machines takes us deep into the interior of the American Army Ranger and the volatile combat zone of the Special Ops Team during a hundred days of deployment. This is a war novel with the rush of battle, agony of loss, and courage of the undefeated. It is not for the faint of heart or those who look romantically at war and heroes. The stark reality of life and death choices made during battle depict an anti-hero damaged and questioning the price he and his men are asked to pay.
Seriously, buy Simple Machines today. It’s a damn good read.
(Featured Image Courtesy: DVIDS)
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