We Weren't Soldiers

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters portrayed in this story are entirely made up and not based on any actual person or experience. To the brave men and women who have or are serving in the military and especially those who have paid the ultimate price defending our freedom, I salute you.

You never know what thought will cross your mind when you're about to die. You'd like to tell yourself it will be of your family or maybe some pleasant memory from your past. A quick prayer that it happens quickly or painlessly. But the truth is you just don't know until it happens.

I remember early in my career, fresh out of boot camp, being whisked away to an intermediate duty station at a training command to learn who knows what. That part I don't remember. But I do remember standing weekend duty in that old, decrepit school house. There was one particular hall that was lined with photos and award citations for recipients of the Medal of Honor. Standing the mid shift guarding who knows what and struggling to keep awake, I remember walking up and down those halls reading citation after citation. I don't remember the names or faces, just the kinds of heroic deeds these soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines endured. Unbelievable feats of sacrifice and acts of selflessness.

I didn't want to die a hero during my tour in Afghanistan. I told myself on the long flight over that if I had an uneventful tour that ended with the standard Joint Commendation Medal as an end of tour award I'd be perfectly content. Hell, just get me home in one piece and keep the award. I'd be fine with that too. What I didn't want to happen is to become a casualty by some random embarrassing consequence. There were always the heartbreaking stories of service members getting electrocuted in the shower due to faulty wiring; breaking your neck in a Humvee rollover because of the shoddy road conditions; or the worst - getting shot by friendly fire because some Army private had an accidental discharge trying to clear their firearm.

How did a junior officer in the United States Navy end up in the middle of the desert anyway? No ocean in sight. No ships in sight. It's something I know I thought about every time I was in a hard spot and asked myself why I volunteered for this assignment. I'd always remind myself the simple answer was politics. Politics and money. After Desert Storm and Desert Shield when it became obvious we were in it for the long haul, the military was hard up for money and started cutting the budget anywhere it could. The big Navy brass realized after their budget kept getting cut there wasn't a country in the world that could compete with the US Navy, so it was an easy target to siphon money from. Why invest more money in a service that was already the best. So the big Navy brass, being smart at what they do, decided they would volunteer to send Navy sailors to the desert to support the warfighters. Then they could say they were supporting the war fighting effort and their money would be spared. At least that was the hope. I doubt it worked out that way, but I suppose that's how it started and how I ended up here.

The irony of the matter though is in the Navy I was an Information Professional which is a fancy name for a LAN or networking guy. I managed a network operations center at a shore facility. Did a tour on a ship where I earned my Surface Warfare pin. But when I arrived in theater, I was told I was going to be some General's aide. The theater commander has a bunch of flag and general officers below him that are in charge of different areas of responsibility. There's an operations guy, a logistics guy, a planning guy and in my case, a communications guy. All these Flag Officers (FO) or General Officers (GO) were assigned aides. I was being assigned to be the aide to the Director of Communications. I quickly learned that aide really meant secretary, advisor, running partner, confidant and anything else the GO wanted you to be. The first few weeks weren't too bad until the boss had to travel to Qatar and I had to make the trip with him. It was my first time flying in a Blackhawk helicopter and on top of that, I also learned my duties as an aide meant when the General was on travel, I was his body guard. I had to check out an M4, the standard combat rifle issued by the US Army, from the armory. Apparently the 9mm handgun I already had issued wasn't enough firepower. I also had to travel in "full battle rattle" -- helmet and body army complete with small arms protective inserts (SAPI) plates. I'm sure I looked like a spectacle. Weapon, body armor and two laptop bags, one for the General and one for me. I never really received any special body guard training, but I did it anyway. Here I was standing ready to block a bullet for some big time General I had only known for a short time.

How did I end up in the desert again? Oh yeah, money and politics.

Over the weeks I made a handful of flights with the General to various locations across Afghanistan and in each instance, the trip was uneventful. It even got to the point where the excitement of flying wore off and I didn't even get the jitters anymore. I even managed to get some shut eye on most flights unless the General was in one of his talkative moods. This flight was a good one. I was asleep almost as soon as I was strapped in the seat.

I woke up to an alarm blaring. I'm not an aircrew guy. Certainly not a helo pilot. I had no idea what the alarm was for. It could've been alerting us to an incoming missile just as easily as it could've been an engine failure. The truth is I didn't know what it was for, I just knew it wasn't normal and probably not good. I realized I never even took a look at who all was onboard this bird before I went to sleep. Let's see, there was the pilot and co-pilot. The General of course. There were two other soldiers and a civilian dressed in non-descript clothing but carrying a sidearm, which was not out of the ordinary. Private security contractor? Maybe. Either that or maybe CIA. You never really could tell and you never asked.

The alarm pretty much woke up everyone and got their attention. The pilots weren't saying much but were clearly distressed and fighting with the controls of the unwieldy bird. I caught bits and pieces of their panicked communications with flight control. Something about sand storm, mechanical failure and hard landing.

Wait. This was a distress call. We were going to crash.

Add this to the heartbreaking ways to die in a warzone. Mechanical failure. Surely this was not my fate.

It all happened so quickly, yet it seemed to take forever for the impact to actually occur. The bird spiraled out of control, the tail of the bird going round and round with dizzying affects until finally we hit something. The ground maybe? Or a building. It was dark and with the spiraling affect it was hard to make sense of anything. Unfortunately when we hit, the bird rolled over on its side and the rotor cut huge gashes into the ground until finally breaking apart and flying in every direction. The impact caused such a jolt the body of the helo literally ripped into pieces before exploding into a giant fireball.

I didn't know if I was hurt or not. I didn't even know if I was dead or not. The mere fact that I could question either led me to believe that I was still alive. The ringing in my ears muffled out the commotion that I was sure existed. Such an eerie feeling.

I gathered myself up and surveyed the damage. I saw one of the pilots huddled over. He was in bad shape but conscious and able to move around. The other pilot wasn't so lucky. It was clear from the position of his body and the way it was contorted he did not survive the crash. The General was lying flat on his back and was moaning softly. He was bleeding profusely from a gash in his left leg and one of his arms was obviously broken. The other fellas, the ones I barely even remembered what they look like; they were nowhere to be seen. My guess was they had been ejected from the helo when it lawn darted into the ground. I started over to the General to administer first aid when I realized I had sustained a few wounds myself. Each step I took, the shooting pain in my foot and ankle led me to believe something was broken. Something on my face or head was bleeding because I could feel the warmth of the blood occasionally obscuring my vision as it trickled into my eyes. I didn't feel dizzy or experience the sensation I was going to pass out, so I assumed it was minor and was probably the result of flying glass or debris stirred up during the violent crash.

As I staggered toward the General, I instinctively retrieved the contents from my first aid kit strapped to my body armor that nearly everyone in theater was issued. I found the item I was looking for. The CAT. Gotta love the Army and their acronyms. CAT was short for Combat Application Tourniquet. It's an extremely simple to use device designed so a person could even apply it to themselves one handed. There was no doubt if the General was going to live he was going to need a tourniquet on that leg to get the bleeding to stop. I applied it in seconds and then used the field dressings from the first aid kit to patch up some of his other wounds. He was lying dangerously close to some of the burning wreckage and as much as I know you're not supposed to move someone due to potential spinal injury, I drug him clear anyway. Satisfied that I did all I could I went to where the pilot was kneeling. As far as I could tell he was the only other survivor. I called out to him but since my ears were still ringing I had no idea if I was even making a noise or if he could even understand me. His ears were probably ringing too. I placed my hand on his shoulder and he turned and looked up at me. Startled and with a glazed look in his eye. He had sustained some facial injuries and was looking pretty rough. He didn't even try and talk, just looked up at me with a forlorn expression on his face. Concussion maybe? Subdural hematoma? I didn't know but I knew he needed medical attention right away. That's when it dawned on me flight control and the boys back at base might not even know we crashed. The pilots were trying to make the distress call, but did it even go through? I fished around in one of the cargo pockets of my cammies until I retrieved the Iridium cell phone I was issued for emergency distress calls. It was a lot like a regular cell phone but with a huge antenna and worldwide coverage. I wandered a short distance away to be clear of the crash site and any obstruction or interference from the wreckage. Apparently the bird hit the top of sand dune and then cartwheeled into the slack, or the valley between dunes. It took every ounce of energy and the last drop of adrenaline coursing through my veins to reach the peak. I took a few deep breaths and then powered on the device. I had all of the emergency numbers pre-programmed into the device and punched the button at the top of the list, the theater commander. Of course I knew he wouldn't be the one actually answering his phone but whoever did would be able to get us help quicker than anybody else could. My eyes were focused on the little LED screen of the phone. It dialed and then connected. I yelled who knows what into the phone, still unable to hear anything. For several minutes I just yelled into the phone hoping to hear my voice over the ringing of my ears. But I never did.

It was the last thing I remember until I heard the familiar sound of gunfire. At the time it sounded like a single shot, but as I was startled awake, I was more surprised that I was actually able to hear again. I sat up where I was, and realized I must've passed out at the top of the dune. I noticed the cell phone lying in the sand next to me, half buried. I looked around and that's when I noticed 4 figures dressed in the traditional garb of the Afghanistan people including the shemaghs, or what we would call scarves, pulled loosely around their faces shrouding their identity. Judging by the weapons they carried and the one figure who had belts of bullets criss-crossed over his chest to feed the light machine gun he carried, these were not simple farmers here to render assistance. I observed them looting the body of the now deceased helicopter pilot who had initially survived the crash. Did they shoot him, I wondered. Was that the shot I heard? I wasn't certain, but I knew they were up to no good. I could see the General where I left him and whether he was still alive or not was unknown, but I wasn't about to let these barbarians shoot him too. I retrieved my 9mm sidearm from its holster, clicked the safety off and started to take aim when I noticed one of the men who were crouching over the pilot stand and start to walk towards the General. He was retrieving what appeared to be an AK-47 assault rifle slung across his back. I brought the front and rear sight in alignment and centered on his chest, just like they taught us in weapons training prior to our arrival in theater, and pulled off two shots in quick succession. I knew they were hits but didn't wait to see the extent of the damage before I turned the weapon on the three remaining men and fired wildly at them. They all shrieked in terror, dropped the belongings of my fallen comrade and turned to run. A lucky shot caught one of the men in the back of the head, sending him tumbling to the ground. Another clipped one of the two remaining men but he was still able to run. They had a truck parked nearby and managed to get to it about the same time I ran out of ammo. I dropped the magazine and was retrieving a fresh one when I heard the engine roar to life. I aimed in the general direction of the truck and fired as rapidly as I could. I could hear some of the rounds ricocheting off of the sheet metal, but didn't expect to do anything more than that. The driver punched the accelerator sending huge sand rooster tails up from the rear wheels as he fish tailed it out of there. I knew he would be back just as much as I knew there would be more of them.

I staggered down the dune realizing I might only have minutes to prepare for the battle I knew was sure to come. I didn't have my M4 and wasn't entirely sure what had happened to it. Everyone in theater was issued a firearm, either a pistol or rifle and Generals were no exception. I found two spare magazines on the General's belt and put them in my cargo pocket. I noticed the General still seemed to be breathing so I checked his pulse. It was present. Weak, but present. I looked around and found a pretty good sized chunk of the Blackhawk's fuselage on its side making a sort of shelter. I tried moving it and dragging it to the General, but it was too heavy and bulky, so instead I pulled the General over to it and positioned him under it to give him some cover and concealment. I rushed to the pilot and it was quite apparent that he had indeed been shot. His pockets and ammo pouches were empty. Finding nothing else to help in my defense, I examined the bodies of what I concluded were Taliban soldiers. Both were dead. Their bodies were old and weathered and they smelled musty and sour. I tried not to look at their faces and just focused on their weapons. Both had AK-47s that were in rough condition. Rusty and worn. I wasn't entirely sure they would even fire but hoped they would. I picked the one that looked to be in the better condition. The men carried no spare magazines and had nothing else of value on them.

I stood there in disbelief. A sailor in the middle of the desert, having already killed two enemy soldiers while protecting a wounded General and preparing for a battle that was sure to have only one possible ending.

I thought about trying to wander off and separate myself from the crash site. Hide long enough for the search and rescue team that I knew had to be looking for us. I could do it. I could hide long enough. But my mind kept fleeting back to the General. I couldn't leave him there. Even if he succumbed to his wounds from the accident, I couldn't leave him to the brutality of the Taliban.

True, we weren't soldiers. We were sailors. But we all swore the same oath.

I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.

I could hear the sound of engines off in the distance and while every fiber of my being hoped and prayed it was the search and rescue team coming to retrieve us, in my heart I knew it was the coming wrath of dozens of enemy soldiers. I looked around for cover but in the vast expanse of desert there really was nothing to hide behind. I took what little cover I could behind the fuselage of the Blackhawk with the General tucked away underneath and told myself that if today was my day to die, then I would do it standing over the man that I swore an oath to protect.

I didn't hear the first shot that struck me. It was probably from a sniper located who knows how far away. The round struck square in the SAPI plate of my body armor but still hurt like hell and sent me to my knees. The next round was a lucky shot that caught me in a very vulnerable area. Between plates and up under my arm where there was little armor. The round impacted flesh and the bones of my ribcage. I could feel the blood flowing and the sharpness that came with each breath. That hurt. I knew this enemy soldier was either a horrible shot or was toying with me. Why not just finish me off. Through blurred vision I raised the barrel of the AK-47 and fired off a few rounds. The pain was so excruciating and my strength was slipping away. The barrel of the rifle seemed so heavy and try as I might, I couldn't raise it. I tossed it to the side and pulled out my 9mm. I could see some shapes now. Nothing really discernable other than shapes that were closing in on me. I took a deep breath. Another one. And with every bit of strength I had I raised the pistol and fired wildly before my arm dropped to the ground still clutching the weapon as tightly as I could. Another two breaths and I did it again. Exhausted, I slumped over, trying to take another deep breath that seemed impossible to take.

Well, like I said. You never know what thought will cross your mind when you're about to die and I'm surprised I had enough time to think about all of this. A shame I wouldn't get to see the General in person again. Despite losing his leg he survived the ordeal and went on to enjoy a relatively normal life. He was also in attendance the day the President presented my end of tour award which read,

"...having survived a helicopter crash in enemy territory... pulled a senior general officer from the fiery wreckage and administered lifesaving first-aid with little regard for his own wounds... standing his ground and taking the fight to the enemy... engaged the enemy with resolve and determination... dispatched seven enemy combatants before friendly forces arrived on scene to secure the crash site... succumbing to his wounds only after ensuring the safety of the senior officer he was assigned to protect... reflected great credit upon himself and upheld the highest traditions of the United States Naval Service."

We weren't soldiers. We were sailors.

Sailors sworn to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.

So help me God.