Chalk One Up To Mom

As another round of bullets slam into the stone wall I am seeking refuge behind, I once again find myself longing for the days of my boyhood where the “bullets” were soft and sent my way thanks to a cousin and a NERF gun. Admittedly, this is an odd thought to have when the angry buzz of enemy fire is impacting just feet from where I kneel.

Thoughts of home and family often sweep through my mind in the moments that danger first announces itself. I lost my mom to breast cancer five years ago and I often wonder if she isn’t filling the role of guardian angel in these times. Reminding me of family, of the lessons learned growing up on a farm in Arkansas. The army may have made me into a soldier, but the wisdom imparted on me, from my parents especially, have forged me into the man I am today.

From my dad I learned grit, a trait that has served me well in my time while deployed to Afghanistan. Courage and strength of character have got me and my squad mates out of some pretty tight spots and made sure we made it back inside the wire at the end of a long mission. My mom's gifts to me were lessons in gratitude and compassion, two traits that I think have arguably made me a nicer person, but ones that have had a lesser application in this dust and discordant path my life is apportioned to currently.

The pop of the rock wall being torn apart chip by chip snaps me back to reality. Our squad had dismounted from our Bradley Fighting Vehicle and were walking a patrol through the little mountain village. The vehicles couldn't make the steep inclined path that wound its way up to the remote location. Instead they had spread out to cover the road that led up and to provide suppressive fire, if needed, as we made our way back down.

The six of us had trekked to the far side of the village and were spread out, about to make our way down to a path that would drop us to a goat trail. We would spend the last part of the patrol away from the village but that trail would get us back to the safety of our armor and the wonderful protective punch of the Bradley’s 25mm Bushmaster cannon.

This wasn't the first ambush we had found ourselves engaged in and by reflex at the first sound of gunfire everyone sought cover. My mistake in this situation had been that I had lagged behind walking the drag point of the patrol. Our area of operations usually had us walkthrough and survey this village about once a month. This was my third time through the village and I had lingered behind to talk with one of the elders of the village. Abdiesus, a gentle hearted grandfather who was caring for three of his grandchildren, had asked me during my first visit to provide some medical supplies. Medicine would be of great help to the people who lived there.

Before our second trip back I had procured a small stock of medical goodies from a friend who was a sergeant in a civil affairs unit. I thought it was a modest collection of first aid pieces- bandages and gauze, acetaminophen, ibuprofen, and antibiotics, but to Abdiesus, it was as if I were Asclepius, the Roman god of healing, bringing forth a treasure trove of medicinal aid.

That is the reason I had lingered behind the rest of the patrol, I was catching up with Abdiesus and being thanked profusely for all the good the medical kit had brought to the people living in the village. I had just finished telling him that I was happy to help and hoped the medicines were useful when the buzzsaw of gunfire sent me scrambling for cover and thinking for a moment on those Nerf gun battles of my youth.

Abdiesus had disappeared back into the relative safety of his hut and I peeked around the rock wall to get an assessment of the situation we found ourselves in. Everyone yelled out a quick roll call to establish where each person had ended up. Not only had I been caught hanging back too far, but the incoming fire had pushed the rest of the squad to push forward to seek shelter. I found myself much more isolated than I cared for.

A larger crack sound rented through the air and the impact of a rocket-propelled grenade twenty feet to my left blew the rock wall to pieces. I could hear the other members of the squad returning fire on the ambush position, but as I was discovering by the angle from a new set of rounds there was a second front that was opening up in the village.

Unfortunately for me, this new attack from the enemy put me at center stage and it was only a matter of time before the curtains would drop on me. A dull thunk slammed into the wall just over my head and something metal spiralled over it to land in front of me. It was the grenade’s warhead. It had somehow failed to arm and now lay harmlessly, I hoped, at my feet.

This new found providence I gained would not last for long. If help didn’t arrive in the form of my squad pushing back or air support that I hoped was on its way, this good fortune that had just smiled upon me was not going to last for long. I had the grit my dad had given me flowing, looking for a solution. In the middle of thinking a head-long run to try and link up with the others would give me about a twenty percent chance of surviving, a different lesson instilled in me was about to open a door. Literally.

Looking back into the village, there stands Abdiesus in the doorway of his home, wildly beckoning me in his direction. Another thing about growing up is that Momma didn’t raise no fool, I know this new option that has opened up is the best one for me. I sprint toward his home which is about 100 feet away. I zig zag my path as I feel the rounds impacting closer and closer.

I’d made it within mere feet of the doorway when it happened. Not the bullet in the back like I anticipated the entire run, but the absolute ceasefire that vacuums the sound of gunfire away. I clear the doorway into the house and Abdiesus slams the wooden door shut. I slump down and move to the window so I can fire at the pursuers who are undoubtedly closing in on me.

Abdiesus grasp of English is a bit like the ocean, it comes in swells that sometimes see the words spill all over each other and sometimes like a tide moving in with the words ebbing in slowly. This is a wave moment, a veritable verbal tsunami, as he tells me ok, ok, ok, they do not shoot here.

Sure enough, there are no incoming rounds to my location. Not wanting to anger the villagers who they want as allies, the enemy has not attacked Abdiesus’s house. I grasp his hand and shake it and with my free arm pat him on the back. He has saved my life and we both know it. My next step is to circle out the back of the house and try to make it to some high ground to find some overwatch position and give cover fire to the rest of the squad.

The din of the battle loses one edge of its sharpness as the sound of AKs and RPGs drop away. The reason for this soon becomes clear by the distinctive sound of approaching Apache attack helicopters. The enemy is slinking away.

As I head for the door to reunite with my squad I tell Abdiesus, “Thank you my friend. You have saved my life. How can I ever thank you enough?”

“You were the first with the help for us. This was to show my graciousness, no, no, to show my gratitude.”

Gratitude. This one is chalked up to mom and her lessons in how helping people can come back to help you in many wonderful ways.