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

And here I was, alone with these tribesmen, with no coherent plan. My leg
was killing me, I could hardly put it to the ground, and the two guys carrying me
were bearing the whole of my weight. We came to a little flight of rough rock
steps cut into the gradient. They got behind pushing me up with their shoulders.
I made the top step first, and as I did so, I came face to face with an armed
Afghani fighter I had not seen before. He carried an AK-47, held in the ready-tofire
position, and when he saw me, he raised it. I looked at his hat, and there was
a badge containing the words which almost stopped my heart — BUSH FOR
PRESIDENT!
He was Afghan special forces, and I was seized by panic because I was
dressed in the clothes of an Afghan tribesman, identical to those of the Taliban.
But right behind him, bursting through the undergrowth, came two U.S. Army
Rangers in combat uniform, rifles raised, the leader a big black guy. Behind me,
with unbelievable presence of mind, Gulab was roaring out my BUD/S class
numbers he’d seen on my Trident voodoo tattoo: “Two-two-eight! It’s Two-twoeight!”
The Ranger’s face suddenly lit up with a gigantic smile. He took one look at
my six-foot-five-inch frame and snapped, “American?” I just had time to nod
before he let out a yell that ripped across the mountainside — “It’s Marcus,
guys! We got him — we got him!”
And the Ranger came running toward me and grabbed me in his arms, and I
could smell his sweat and his combat gear and his rifle, the smells of home, the
smells I live with. American smells. I tried to keep steady, not break down,
mostly because SEALs would never show weakness in front of a Ranger.
“Hey, bro,” I said. “It’s good to see you.”
By this time there was chaos on the mountain. Army guys were coming out
of the forest from all over the place. I could see they were really beat up,
wearing battered combat gear, all of them with several days’ growth of beard.
They were covered in mud, unkempt, and all grinning broadly. I guessed,
correctly as it happened, they’d been out here searching for my team since early
last Wednesday morning. Hell, they’d been out all night in that thunderstorm. No
wonder they looked a bit disheveled.
It was Sunday now. And Jesus, was it great to hear the English language
again, just the everyday words, the diverse American accents, the familiarity. I’m
telling you, when you’ve been in a hostile, foreign environment for a while with
no one to whom you can explain anything, being rescued by your own kind —
tough, confident, organized guys, professional, hard-trained, armed to the teeth,