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

they came back and moved me inside, four of them carrying the cot. They gave
me clean clothes, which was the best thing since my first drink of water. They
were soft Afghan garments, a loose shirt and those baggy pants, unbelievably
comfortable. I felt damn near human. Actually, they gave me two sets of clothes,
identical, white for daytime, black for night.
The only hitch came as I changed from my battered U.S. battle dress, really
only my cammy top, into the tribal garments. My shoulder still ached like the
devil, and they had to give me a hand. And when they saw the somewhat
extravagant tattoo I have on my back — a half of a SEAL Trident (Morgan has
the other half) — they damn near fainted.
They thought it was some kind of warlike tribal emblem, which I suppose it
was. And then they thought I might be the devil incarnate, and I had to keep
telling them I was a doctor, anything to stop them believing I was a special
warrior from the U.S. Armed Forces, a man who sported a symbol of a powerful
voodoo on his back, which was surely evil and would definitely, one day, wipe
them all out. Happily, I managed to win that argument, but they were real
pleased that I now had my shirt on, and they pulled down my sleeve to cover my
upper arm, where a part of the design was visible.
By the time they began to leave, they were smiling, and I had become, for
the rest of my stay in the village and I suppose far beyond, Dr. Marcus.
My final request was to be taken out to the communal head for a pee, and
they took me but made me adopt the traditional Afghan body position for this
operation. I remember falling over backward, which made them all laugh
helplessly.
However, they carried me back safely to my cot, still giggling, and I
suddenly realized with horror they had removed my rifle. I demanded to know
where it was, and the tribesmen tried hard to explain they needed to take it away,
lokhay or no lokhay, because if the Taliban ever did get into this room, they
would not believe I was a wounded doctor, not with a sniper rifle like that.
Lokhay or no lokhay.
At that stage I did not understand them, and anyhow there was little I could
do about it. So I just cast it from my mind. And I lay there in the fading light
when they finally left me entirely alone.
I had had water and I’d eaten some of that flat bread they bake in the East.
They had offered me a dish full of warm goat’s milk into which I was supposed
to dip it. But the combination was without doubt the worst-tasting sensation I’d
ever had. I damn near threw up, and I asked them to take the milk away, telling