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

The shattering din high in the Hindu Kush died away. The U.S. air offensive
was done. The landing zone was cleared and made safe, and the rescue helo
came rocketing in from the south.
The Green Berets were still in communication, and they talked the pilot
down, into the newly harvested village opium field. I remember the rotors of the
helo made a green bioluminescent static in the night air.
And I could hear it dropping down toward us, an apparition of howling U.S.
airpower in the night. It was an all-encompassing, shattering, deafening din,
thundering rather than echoing, between the high peaks of the Hindu Kush. No
helicopter ever smashed the local sound barriers with more brutality. The eerie
silence of those mountains retreated before the second decibel onslaught of the
night. The ground shuddered. The dust whipped up into a sandstorm. The rotors
screamed into the pure mountain air. It was the most beautiful sound I ever
heard.
The helo came in slowly and put down a few yards from us. The loadmaster
leaped to the ground and opened the main door. The guys helped me into the
cabin, and Gulab joined me. Instantly we took off, and neither of us looked out
at the blackness of the unlit village of Sabray. Me, because I knew we could not
see a thing; Gulab, because he was uncertain when he would pass this way again.
The Taliban threats to both himself and his family were very much more serious
than he had ever admitted.
He was afraid of the helicopter and clung to my arm throughout the short
journey to Asadabad. And there we both disembarked. I was going on to
Bagram, but for the moment Gulab was to stay on this base, out there in his own
country, and assist the U.S. military in any way he could. I hugged him goodbye,
this rather inscrutable tribesman who had risked his life for me. He seemed
to expect nothing in return, and I had one more shot at giving him my watch. But
he refused, as he had done four times in the past.
Our good-bye was painful for me, because I had no words in his language to
express my thanks. I’ll never know, but perhaps he too would have said
something to me, if he’d only had the words. It might even have been warm or
affectionate, like...well...“Noisy bastard, footsteps like an elephant, ungrateful
son of a gun.” Or “What’s the matter with our best goat’s milk, asshole?”
But there was nothing that could be said. I was going home. And he may
never be able to go home. Our paths, which had crossed so suddenly and so
powerfully in a life-changing encounter for both of us, were about to diverge.
I boarded the big C-130 for Bagram, back to my base. We touched down on