The Ambush

​ The truck that initiated their charge rams clumsily into a parked car and the force throws the men out of the bed, skipping them off the asphalt. One slams his head into the curb, dead on impact, while the other tries to get back into the target building. He runs for his life, limping as fast as he can. His head jerks forward from the force of one of our shots and his body slams onto the street. Following the truck are twenty men running and screaming to Allah. Each one of them is opening up their AK-47s on full auto. Bullets skip and snap in every direction. Their eyes are filled with fire and hate even as they die. One of the enemy’s AK-47 is empty from the initial assault, and he charges Q, who still has plenty of ammunition in his weapon, but slings his own rifle behind his back and lunges toward the enemy. Q tackles him in mid-stride and bashes his head in with a piece of nearby stone. Without pause or hesitation, he then returns to his position and sector of fire. The only other enemy survivor, sensing he is alone and perhaps not invincible, turns to retreat. One step is all we allow before he is torn to pieces by our bullets.

​ I am on my feet moving closer to the target building as the lull in the battle begins. Finding a home behind a pile of stones, I call my men to shift forward and rest for a moment surveying the damage. Q and his boys move along the building to my right and creep up to my position, while Marti and the rest of the team find a spot across the street. Sliding on his side over to me, Q digs into one of his pouches. “I’ll get my charges ready.”

​ “Patience, I don’t think that is all they have in store for us. If need be, we wait till dark.” Placing my hand on his shoulder, Q processes the order, nods and backs into his position. Using a pile of rubble to support his weight, Nova pulls guard holding his weapon with one hand while cradling the other in his armpit. I acknowledge his presence still in the fight. He can only shake his head low and fail at any attempt to mask his pain. I notice the burns that cover his torso and can only imagine what his hand must look like, but now is not the time to probe. The moment is stolen by rustling behind the gate. I am closer to my goal and can see soft silhouettes moving within the dark. Raising my weapon I pull the trigger. A shadow falls and a woman shrieks and cries. From behind the wall the voice of a man yells and barks orders.

​ My next impulse is to take advantage of our new proximity and order a round of grenades to be thrown into the building, but a ghost appears at the gate and stops us all in our tracks. Flowing white robes caught in the breeze give an illusion of those before us as floating. First one appears and then another and another, one by one stepping into the light, all of them with heads bowed in a forced reverence. With arms at their sides, the waves of fabric reveal inked hands and fine jewelry. The women step into the street and never look in our direction. Their eyes are lowered and their movement silent. We are all frozen in confusion at this eerily out of place sight. Half of us stay fixed on the target building and the others focus on the seven women that now fan into the street.

​ The first woman is within 30 meters of us when she stops at the body of the man who led the charge. No longer able to contain her emotions, and free from the reach of the discipline inside the gate, she moans in anguish. In the middle of the battlefield strewn with bodies the women stand among us and weep for the fallen. My chest tightens with the urge to comfort, but they would never allow it. Their culture would stone them to death if I even touched them, so I sit and participate in their suffering as a voyeur. The lead ghost takes a long resigned breath and reveals to me her purpose in this fight. She kneels down, grabs the AK-47 off the body of the dead and retreats back towards the building. The other women do the same and with timid steps and heads low prepare themselves for our expected reaction. I am the first to draw and fire upon the woman closest to the gate. My men fall into line mirroring my precedent. In this hell there is always more to give and the war always has more to take. Our eyes freeze on the stained motionless forms that lay before us, but movement from behind the gate snaps our rifles back to find a new target.

​ A young boy moves without reason into the street. His eyes are swollen with tears. He is drawn by some unseen force and finds his way to a woman, her fine sari now soaked in crimson. The child’s sobs ring through the empty streets and he looks into the darkness behind the gate. As the boy kneels beside the dead, I take aim. “NO!” Marti yells from across the street. Turning to his voice, I watch him move from cover running full speed toward the boy. I want to scream, go back, find safety, but instead do nothing except wait for him to be taken from me. I turn my weapon back to the boy whose hands are almost to the body and its possession. Everything moves slowly. Shots ring out from behind the gate and my men return fire. Q stands straight up and jumps a pile of bricks running at Marti and screaming for him to get back. The boy grabs the weapon and I pull my trigger taking the child out as the gun fire erupts around me.

I see Q is struggling to get Marti to his feet, but when Marti realizes the boy is gone, he gives up the battle. Two men appear to be doing most of the shooting from the target building and as soon as they are killed the gun fire dies with them. Marti is sobbing and completely broken down as he accuses me. “You didn’t have to kill him man, he is just a kid! He doesn’t know what he’s doing!”

“Shut the fuck up, you almost got us both killed”, Q interrupts, slamming his fist into his buddy’s gut in hope that the sucking of air will shut him up. The hit does just the opposite. Marti springs to life pouncing onto Q’s shoulders and delivering a swift elbow to his cheek bone. Q isn’t fazed by the strike and exhibits perfect Brazilian Ju Jitsu form taking his opponent to his back, but this time holds a knife to his throat. Marti knows if Q had any desire to kill him he wouldn’t think twice about the action or repercussions.

The soldier lies on his back with eyes wide in fear, and yet, refuses to be quiet. “You’d like to kill me wouldn’t you? So I wouldn’t be around anymore to remind you how fucking crazy you are.” Q creeps the knife with pressure into Marti’s throat, but the fallen has lost his fight and crushes his eyes closed as if trying to wake from a terrible nightmare.

“Q” I call to him. Q’s body relaxes slightly while lowering the knife a millimeter. “Get back in line.” The soldier reacts to his order, snaps to his feet, and in a low run returns to his original position. The knife has disappeared as he draws his weapon and scans the wall in a horizontal motion. Marti stays on his back exhausted from the horror.

“This is not right Joe, it shouldn’t have to be like this, it never used to be like this.” I hear my friend’s pain and wonder why I don’t share the same sympathy for the child. I look over at the fallen boy and study his body closely. Tiny hands are still clutching the rifle and an expression of pain is frozen forever on his face. I understand why Marti protested, but inside of me nothing stirs. I look deep, but find only emptiness. Marti’s eyes are still trickling tears, and I can see his agony. He is right. There was a time when this type of killing would not have been an option, but that time is long past and only a faint memory on this day.

“Olson is not doing so good,” Doc’s voice brings my radio to life. “If he doesn’t get out of here soon he won’t make it.” I want to tell him I will call in the choppers to take the soldier to base. I want to move all my men back to safety, but those thoughts quickly fade as the gravitational pull of the objective takes its hold. There is more work to be done. The sun is beginning to set bringing forth a chill to the evening. As soon as night falls, I will take my objective and complete my mission, but until then I’m forced to ponder the truth of this day. No ground was gained nor lost. As time passes no history will be written about this day or the warriors who sacrificed themselves for this battle. There was a cost and the cost was too high.