Lions of Kandahar (2 page)

Every legal and operational consideration has been exercised in writing this book. I have only used first names and nicknames to protect those persons discussed, unless individuals’ names have been previously released. Some call signs have been changed because of operational security. In writing this, I have made every attempt to abide by the security requirements of the U.S. Army Special Operations Command and old-fashioned common sense.

My intent in writing this story was not to gratify any particular rank or ego, or to make any political statements. In portraying events, I adhere strictly to facts, not opinions. It either did or did not happen. There will be those who choose to armchair-quarterback my decision to write this book and the depiction of the events in it. I will simply add that the validity of this account comes not just from myself, but from nearly three dozen Special Forces operators and commanders, ISAF members, and Afghan National Army soldiers who served there with me and who were subsequently interviewed for this project, to ensure its accuracy. Conversations and dialogue have
been reconstructed from these interviews, action reports, and my own notes and recollections.

These men were my compass, my guide, and ground truth for this project. The Afghans have a saying in Pashto,
Dagga tse dagga da
—It is what it is.

Such is this story. This is our story.
De opresso liber
. March or die.

Rusty Bradley
April 2009
Kandahar, Afghanistan

Disclaimer: The views presented are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views of the Department of Defense (DOD), its components, or its personnel.

FIRST CONTACT

September 2006

T
he first rounds slammed into the windshield like a jackhammer. I winced, expecting the worst. Luckily, the bullet-resistant glass did its job, otherwise my brains would have been blown all over the truck. Rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs) shot by just feet away, so close I could see the spring-loaded stabilizer fins that can easily shear off men’s heads, arms, legs, and destroy a small vehicle with appalling quickness. Their vapor trails hung in the air. The roar of machine guns was deafening, overwhelming. We had just arrived at the battlefield.

Operation Medusa, the largest NATO-led offensive in history, was turning into an absolute disaster. Nearby, the main Canadian advance had stalled, and then stopped altogether, ambushed by anti-armor assaults and then enveloped in urban firefights. My Special Forces team and our Afghan allies were five minutes into a savage firefight at the base of Sperwan Ghar, a remote hill in the Panjwayi district
in western Kandahar Province. Two other SF teams were also leading Afghan soldiers up the hill under heavy fire. If we could seize the hill, we could call in air strikes to help our NATO allies.

The first two minutes of a fight are the most precious. You know who you are up against in the first thirty seconds, if you live that long. The machine guns that raked our Ground Mobility Vehicles (GMVs) and the volleys of RPGs told me that we were up against enemies who knew exactly what they were doing. Already, the Taliban fighters had dealt the nearby Canadian mechanized units a severe blow, killing nearly a dozen and destroying several vehicles. I could hear the Canadians on the radio. They were fighting for their lives. We all were.

This was my third tour in Afghanistan, and when I’d departed seven months earlier we’d nearly chased the Taliban out of Kandahar. They were supposed to be broken and defeated. But since then, NATO forces had assumed control of southern Afghanistan, replacing American units with a collection of troops from around the world. The NATO commanders focused heavily on setting up reconstruction teams and less on combat and maintaining security, critical to the reconstruction efforts. Five years into the war, the change in strategy would result in the bloodiest period since the fall of the Taliban regime in 2001.

We’d been warned that the Taliban had returned in force. They had massed thousands of fighters in Panjwayi, their heartland, and had their sights set on overrunning Kandahar city, the capital of the province and of southern Afghanistan. These guys weren’t bush-league Taliban villagers. This wasn’t the Taliban of old that “sprayed and prayed,” hoping Allah willed them to kill the infidel and live another day. These Taliban were using well-coordinated and synchronized movements. After a volley of airburst rocket-propelled-grenade rounds, the enemy followed up with well-placed RPG rounds aimed directly at our heavy machine gunners, hoping to disable the guns or kill their operators. This was our first glimpse of a resurgent Taliban
movement wholly focused on pushing the coalition forces out of southern Afghanistan. Now, hunkered down in our trucks, we faced firepower rarely seen since the first months of the war.

Hard thumping cracks of gunfire from the right rear of my truck startled me. I sat sidesaddle, facing out, and turned my head just in time to see the intense red glow of another RPG slam into the ground. The red tracers that immediately followed from the Taliban machine guns struck our vehicles and the earth around us, ricocheting in all directions. I swung my M240 machine gun in that direction as fast as I could. The matrix of irrigation ditches, which ran six feet deep in some places, thick vegetation, and grape-drying huts exploded with enemy fire.

“Contact right, contact right!” I screamed over the roar of the guns. Every machine gun and grenade launcher on my team’s trucks erupted toward the Taliban positions. The race was on to pour as much firepower into the enemy as possible.

Just as we were beginning to gain an edge, a mud fortress and its surrounding buildings directly in front of my truck suddenly opened up. We were in the open and exposed. Rounds skipped all around inside and outside the vehicle, then the flash. An RPG exploded on the truck’s front bumper. My teeth hurt and I had the strong metallic taste of explosives in my mouth. The confusion and pain assured me I was alive. We had enemy fighters to our right, front, and left. Their ambush almost cut our column in half, preventing any reinforcements from getting into the fight. This was their goal from the start. Divide the unit, cause confusion, and destroy each of us individually. We needed air support NOW!

Dutch Apache helicopter gunships circled above us. The thumping sound of the Apaches’ 30-mm cannon fire was sweet music. The gunships made runs on the heavily defended buildings to drive out the occupants. The first two of four 2.75-inch rockets from the Apaches slammed high into the grape house less than a football field away. The sharp cracks of the explosions marked a good hit. As the
dust cleared from the rocket blasts, our Afghan Army soldiers opened fire and cut down the four or five Taliban fighters who came stumbling out of the building, dazed and confused. Good kills usually drop like rag dolls, as these did.

I figured we were facing about fifty to eighty fighters in and around the hill. We had about sixty Afghans and thirty Special Forces soldiers in three A-teams and one command and control B-team. This B-team was supposed to be composed of twelve additional men, but this was just four in one truck. Our target, Sperwan Ghar, jutted out of the valley of farms separated by deep irrigation ditches. It was prime real estate because whoever owned it could see up and down the valley and across the river, where the Canadians were getting mauled.

As we desperately tried to push up the hill, we radioed back to the tactical operations center (TOC) for more information. They were watching a live feed from a Predator drone flying over the battlefield that revealed a drastically different scenario than we had been briefed on.

“Talon 30, this is Eagle 10. Here is your situation: The enemy count is not dozens, but hundreds, maybe even a thousand. They are everywhere! Do you copy, over?”

We’d already shot half of our ammo. Now we knew we were horrifically outnumbered and outgunned. We faced hundreds of Taliban fighters, with more pouring in from all directions.

We were in very serious trouble.

THAT SEWER SMELL

August 2006

T
he wheels of the massive gray C-17 cargo plane screeched as they hit the pavement of Kandahar Airfield (KAF). The plane shook violently, its powerful engines screaming, until it finally rolled to a stop at the end of the runway.

Ten minutes before, we had been told to strap in for landing. We all gave up our somewhat comfortable nooks within the belly of the aircraft and took seats along the sides of the cargo bay. Guys crawled off large pallets of supplies or rolled off the hoods of the trucks. No one talked. We all just sleepwalked to our seats. The jolt of the wheels hitting the tarmac helped wake us up. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I stretched and scanned the cargo hold. The rest of my team seemed groggy, but awake. The roaring engines pushed the huge plane and its cargo forward to the twenty-foot white W painted on the runway and then we taxied over to the terminal.

The flight for me was always the major turning point. It was when
reality set in that there was a war going on and we would again be put into the middle of it. Seventeen hours earlier, as the plane climbed into the sky, I tried to shed all my concerns about the life I was leaving at Fort Bragg. It was a mental separation as much as a physical one. For the next eight months, I’d have to be a diplomat, peacemaker, teacher, and hunter. On bad days, I’d be the hunted.

Leaving my family was always the hardest part. It was worse than the combat, worse than the crappy living conditions, and worse than being injured. What made it hard was the unknown. I never knew if I was saying my last good-bye. When I was young and thinking about getting married, I prayed for a strong, independent wife who could take care of my family should anything ever happen to me. That is exactly what God gave me. But the good-byes took a toll. My wife had a weary look. Leaving my child was excruciatingly painful. You can’t explain why you’re going, and that’s all they want to know. But the why, for me, is really simple. My family is why I fight, but it’s hard for them to understand the reason I had to travel thousands of miles away to do it. We didn’t have any special rituals. I just tried to spend as much time as I could with them before they dropped me off at Fort Bragg. After the final hug, I went numb and pushed home deep inside, to a safe place no one could get to.

When I’d joined, the Army was drawing down after Desert Storm. I had a college degree, but there were no slots available in Officer Candidate School (OCS). It didn’t matter to me. I was just out to pay off my debts and see the world. It wasn’t long before I found my niche in the Noncommissioned Officer Corps. I loved the camaraderie and was eager for any and all training my senior sergeants could give me. I just tried to be a sponge and absorb everything I could learn. I got my Ranger tab, graduated from airborne and air assault schools, and even went to Malaysian tracking school. It wasn’t until years later that I finally got my shot to attend Officer Candidate School and eventually survived selection to Special Forces. I have always felt that being an NCO first, understanding how they function,
operate, motivate, and lead men as part of the backbone of the Army, made me a better officer. The skills and the attention to detail I was taught would serve me well in the future.

When I graduated from the Special Forces Qualification Course, I inherited a Super Bowl–caliber team. After my first SF rotation, a few of my senior guys were forced under standing policy to rotate off the team and assume other assignments. I thought removing guys with so much combat experience from a team that was so clearly cohesive was a ridiculous requirement. But I did not have a vote in this; we were, after all, in the Army. Thankfully, the remaining members of my team were great mentors. When new guys arrived, they were immediately molded into the team structure and we moved on.