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

frighten me. My village is well armed, and we have our own laws and rights. The
Taliban need our support a lot more than we need theirs.
He was a gallant and confident man, at least on the surface. But I noticed he
took no chances when there was any kind of suggestion the Taliban were coming
in. I guess that’s why we ended up sleeping on the roof.
Also, he had not the slightest interest in a reward. I offered to give him my
watch in return for his unending decency to me. I implored him to take my
watch, because it was all I had to offer. But he always refused to accept it. As for
money, what use could that have been to him? There was nothing to spend it on.
No shops, the nearest town miles and miles away, a journey that had to be made
on foot.
A couple of the sneering kids did ask for money, teenagers, maybe sixteen-or
seventeen-year-olds. But they were planning to join the Taliban and leave
Sabray, to fight for “freedom.” Gulab told me he had no intention of leaving
here. And I understood that. He was part of the fabric of the village. One day he
would be the village elder. His family would grow up here. It was all he had ever
known, all he had ever wanted. This very beautiful corner of the Hindu Kush
was where he belonged. What use was money to Mohammad Gulab of Sabray?
The last of the kids had left my room, and I was lying there contemplating
the world, when there was a kick on the door that nearly took it off its hinges. No
one kicks a door in quite like that except a Taliban raiding party. That was all I
could imagine. But around here, where doors don’t fit, a good bang with your
sandal is about the only way to get the sonofabitch open, short of a full-blooded
shoulder charge.
But the sudden shock of a door being kicked in about five feet from your
head is a nerve-racking experience. And I’m neurotic about it to this day.
Because the sound of the crash on the door is the sound I heard before I was
tortured. It sometimes dominates my dreams. I wake up sweating, a tremendous
crash echoing in my mind. And no matter where I am, I need to check the door
lock before I can sleep again. It’s pretty goddamned inconvenient at times.
Anyway, this was not the Taliban. It was just my own guys opening the door,
which must have been shut firmly by the kids. I restarted my heart, and my room
stayed kind of quiet until midmorning, when the door catapulted open with a
violent bang! that shook the goddamned mountain, never mind the room. And
once more I almost jumped out of my Afghan jumpsuit. And this time they were
shouting at me. I could not understand what, but something had broken out,
things were on the move. Jesus Christ! I had to steady this group down. There