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

else to do me harm. Nor would they kowtow to the bloodlust of some of their
fellow mountain men. They wanted only to help me. I would grow to understand
that.
The hostile, wary looks of the goatherds on the trail were typical, but they
did not reflect the views of the majority. We continued on down to the top house
in Sabray. I say top house because the houses were set one above the other right
into the almost sheer face of the mountain. I mean, you could step off the trail
and walk straight onto the flat roof of a house.
You had to descend farther to reach the front door. Once inside, you were
more or less underground in a kind of man-made cave of mud and rocks with a
plain dirt floor, obviously built by craftsmen. There were rock stairs going down
to another level, where there was another room. This, however, was an area best
avoided, since the villagers were likely to keep goats in there. And where there
are goats, there is goat dung. All over the place. The smell is fiendish, and it
pervades the entire dwelling.
We arrived outside this house, and I tried to let them know I was still dying
of thirst. I remember Sarawa handed me a garden hose with a great flourish, as if
it had been a crystal goblet, and turned on a tap somewhere. I replaced the pin in
my hand grenade, a process deeply frowned upon by the U.S. military, and stuck
it safely in the battle harness I still wore.
Now I had two free hands again, and the water was very cold and tasted
fabulous. Then they produced a cot from the house and set it up for me, four of
them raising me up and lowering me carefully onto it under the supervision of
Sarawa.
Above me I could see U.S. warplanes screaming through the high mountain
sky. Everyone except me was pointing up at them. I just stared kind of wistfully,
wondering when the hell they would come for me.
By now the entire population of Sabray was surrounding my cot, watching as
Sarawa went to work. He carefully cleaned the wounds to my leg, confirming
what I had suspected, that there was no bullet lodged in my left thigh. Indeed, he
located the bullet’s exit hole. Christ! I’d been bleeding from both places. No
wonder I didn’t have much blood left.
Then he took out a small surgical instrument and began pulling the metal
shrapnel out of my leg. He spent a long time getting rid of every shard from that
RPG he could find. That, by the way, hurt like hell. But he kept going. And then
he cleaned it all again, thoroughly, applied antiseptic cream, and bound me up.
I just lay there, totally exhausted. Pretty soon, I guess around six o’clock,