Lone Survivor_ The Eyewitness Account of Operation Redwing and the Lost Heroes of SEAL Team 10 ( PDFDrive )

we would be too well hidden for them to locate us. We were excellent
practitioners of lying low and hiding.
We walked on along the side of the mountain, and I have to say the place
looked kind of different in broad daylight. But its virtues were still there. Even
from the top of the escarpment we would be damn near impossible to see.
We climbed down and took up our precise old positions. We were still
essentially carrying out our mission, but we remained on the highest possible
alert for Taliban fighters. Below me, maybe thirty yards to my right, looking up
the hill, Danny slipped neatly into his yoga tree, cross-legged, still looking like a
snake charmer. I got myself wedged into the old mulberry tree, where I reapplied
my camouflage cream and melted into the landscape.
Below me on the left, same distance as Danny, was Axe with our heaviest
rifle. Mikey was right below me, maybe ten yards, jammed into the lee of a
boulder. Above us the mountain was nearly sheer, then it went flat for a few
yards, then it angled sharply up to the top. I’d tried looking down from there, so
had Murph, and we were agreed, you could not really see anything over the
small outward ridge which protected us.
For the moment, we were safe. Axe had the glass for twenty minutes, and
then I took over for the next twenty minutes. Nothing stirred in the village. It had
now been more than an hour and a half since we turned the goatherds loose. And
it was still quiet and peaceful, hardly a breath of wind. And by Christ it was hot.
Mikey was closest to me when he suddenly whispered, “Guys, I’ve got an
idea.”
“What is it, sir,” I asked, suddenly formal, as if our situation demanded some
respect for the man who must ultimately take command.
“I’m going down to the village, see if I can borrow a phone!”
“Beautiful,” said Axe. “See if you can pick me up a sandwich.”
“Sure,” said Mikey. “What’ll it be? Mule dung or goat’s hoof?”
“Hold the mayo,” growled Axe.
The jokes weren’t that great, I know. But perched up there on this Afghan
rock face, poised to fend off an attacking army, I thought they were only just shy
of grade-one hilarity.
It was, I suppose, a sign of nerves, like cracking a one-liner on your
deathbed. But it showed we all felt better now; not absolutely A-OK, but
cheerful enough to get to our work and toss out the occasional light remark.
More like our old selves, right? Anyhow, I said I was just going to close my eyes
for a short while, and I pulled my camouflage hat down over my eyes and tried