They Call Them Heroes
The Medevac Helicopter banked sharply over a chaotic scene being played out on the road below. The charred and twisted hulk of what had been an armored Humvee lay smoldering, surrounded by a circle of debris thrown up by the blast that destroyed it. Soldiers crouched alongside the road, scanning the surrounding hillsides for the Taliban snipers which had opened fire on them after the IED detonated.
My stomach lurched into my throat as the Black Hawk dropped quickly toward a wisp of purple marker smoke, then was enveloped in a brownout of swirling dust. We were a big, tempting target for the remaining enemy fighters we'd been warned were still in the area. This was a hot Landing Zone. Our chase bird continued circling overhead, its twin door gunners watching over us, looking for something to kill.
Out of the swirling dust, two figures appeared, supporting a third man between them - his head wrapped in so much gauze that there was no worry about my camera capturing his face. The wounded man stumbled, in obvious pain, and cried out when his comrades tried to lift him through the open door of the bird. They propped him up in the seat next to me, and I dropped my camera to help get him buckled in. I shouted over the whine of the rotors, "Hang in there buddy!" Forgetting for a moment that I was supposed to be just a spectator to this event. The wounded young man was covered in blood - some of it dripped on my shoes as I fumbled with the safety harness. He looked to be in his early twenties.
But there were more wounded men, and they were worse than this one. The next man they carried aboard was sprawled out on a stretcher - most of his clothing had been cut away so the medics could render first aid. He was conscious - barely. One of his buddies who had carried the stretcher saw my cameras and gave me a gesture of disgust. "You like taking pictures of dead people?" He shouted, anger and frustration crystal clear in his strained voice.
I shook my head and shouted back, "I'm on your side, buddy." But after having just seen his friends mangled by an unseen, cowardly foe, it was clear the man wasn't buying it, and I was an easy target for his frustration. He repeated the "gesture" and walked away. I couldn't hold it against him - journalists have a well-deserved stigma in this environment. But I didn't cause this tragedy, and there wasn't time for a philosophical discussion about the need to win the war in the media as well as on the ground.
The next stretcher that came aboard carried a dead man. Except for the blood, the dirt, and the bandages wrapped around his head by a frantic medic who tried hard to save his life, the man appeared to be taking a nap - at peace in the midst of so much chaos.
I put my camera away. There would be no honor in filming him. I stared at his hands, crossed over his abdomen - and at the wedding ring he wore. Some poor woman's life would never be the same after today. Did he have kids?
The crew chief's spoke through his microphone to the pilots. "We've got one more hero. They're putting him on Chalk two." That was the second medevac that had landed just behind us.
A moment later, the aircraft picked up and again shrouded the destruction below in swirling dust, leaving the soldiers not injured by the blast to pick up the pieces of a very bad day.
The two flight surgeons on board were working feverishly over the two wounded men, and stepping carefully around the dead. They started IV's, monitored vital signs, and administered oxygen during the short flight back to Bagram airfield. As soon as we touched down at the hospital, a crew of medical personnel rushed to the aircraft and whisked away the injured warriors. Then the door was closed and the Black Hawk taxied a long way to the other side of the airfield - just me and the dead man riding in the back. There, another group was waiting to take possession of the body, to prepare this fallen soldier for his final flight home. They covered him with a blanket, and then, as they wheeled him away, all the soldiers standing around snapped to attention and saluted.
They called him a hero. And rightly so. Not because of how he died, but because of how he lived.
War is such an ugly thing - especially this kind of war where the enemy "fights" by visiting random, senseless death on civilian and military alike. But it's exactly these cowardly tactics that will ensure the Taliban's defeat here in Afghanistan, just as the brutality brought by Al Qaeda lost them Iraq.
When we returned to the hangar after the mission, I sat down with one of the pilots who had flown the mission. He sighed, took a swig of water, then said, "When do you suppose America will remember we're at war?"
His meaning was clear. Most of America is much more concerned with who won Olympic gold than with what's happening in Afghanistan. And while many of our countrymen can name any number of contestants on "American Idol," precious few can name one hero from this war. It's what frustrates our military men and women most - that in large part America is either ambivalent or oblivious.
I came to Afghanistan to find some slivers of hope in a dry and dusty place. And hope is here - from the Marines in Helmand province to the south, who are enduring deplorable conditions and brutal heat to build security in a lawless place, to the Panjshir valley where our troops are delivering electricity and education to places that have never had them before. But today's mission was a painful reminder that this progress comes at a very high price.
The Bible commands us not to grow weary in doing good. If the dead could speak, I believe they'd agree. saying, "don't let our sacrifices amount to nothing." We can honor our fallen by finishing the fight.and by never forgetting what these heroes stood for.