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

their language. Those kids were great. I’ll never forget them.
By that Saturday morning, July 2, I was still in a lot of pain; my shoulder,
back, and leg were often killing me. Gulab knew this, and he sent an old man
from the village to see me. He came with a plastic pouch containing tobacco
opium, which looks like green bread dough. He gave me the pouch, and I took a
pinch of the stuff, put it in my lip, and waited.
I’m here to tell you, that was a miracle. The pain slowly vanished,
completely. It was the first time I’d ever done drugs, and I loved it! That opium
restored me, set me free. I felt better than I had since we all fell down the
mountain. What with the Muslim prayers and now my becoming a devotee of the
local dope, I was drifting into the life of an Afghan peasant. Hooyah, Gulab,
right?
The old man left the bag with me, and it helped me get through the next
hours more than I can say. When you’ve lived through a lot of pain for a few
days, the relief is terrific. For the first time I understood the power of that drug,
which is, of course, the one the Taliban and al Qaeda feed to suicide bombers
before they obliterate themselves and everyone else within range.
There’s nothing heroic about suicide bombers. They’re mostly just dumb,
brainwashed kids, stoned out of their minds.
Outside the house, I could see the U.S. helicopters flying overhead, Black
Hawk 60s and MH-47s, obviously looking for something. Hopefully me. I knew
from what the Taliban had said that one of our helos was down, but not, of
course, who had been on board, that eight more of my buddies from Alfa Platoon
were dead, including Shane Patton, James Suh, and Chief Healy.
I also did not know that neither Mikey’s, Danny’s, nor Axe’s body had been
found and that the helos were circling the area trying to pick up any trace of the
original four who had set off on the ill-fated Operation Redwing. The aircrew
did not know whether any of us were alive or dead. And back home, the media
were vacillating between dead and missing, whichever made the best story on
the day, I guess. Didn’t help any in East Texas, I can say that.
Anyway, when I saw those helos, I charged outside. I took off my shirt and
waved it over my head, yelling, “Here I am, guys! I’m right here. It’s me,
Marcus! Right here, guys!”
But they just flew off, leaving me a somewhat forlorn figure standing outside
the house, trying to put on my shirt, and wondering again whether anyone would
ever come and rescue me.
In the fullness of time I understood the quandary for the American military.