Page 46 of Keeping London (Flawed Heart)

All at once, several things happen. The familiar cracking of an M4 sounds in the distance. Panicked yelling comes from the group of men running ahead of us. I quickly take stock of my surroundings as the bullets continue to hit the ground, sending dirt particles flinging into the air.

“Holy shit!” I yell out.

Cooper and I duck behind a light pole. It doesn’t provide much cover, but the illusion of cover allows my mind to process what’s happening. I look to where the shots are coming from—the nearest guard tower.

Motherfucker.

It’s an ANA—Afghan National Army—fucker. Part of our job over here is to train the ANA and ANP—Afghan National Police—to defend themselves against the Taliban. It’s not uncommon to work with a group of Afghan dudes for months, just to have one of them, who is a supposed friend, turn. Many of our guys have been gunned down by a “friendly” Afghan who was really working for the other side.

Truthfully, it’s one of the most difficult aspects of being here. We’re trying to teach people to defend themselves, yet half of the time, they don’t even care. We’re losing guys to help people who don’t even want us here.What’s the fucking point?

The ANA helps us man our guard towers, and apparently, the one who is currently shooting at us has had an ulterior motive behind his act of wanting to keep the men within the wire safe.

Now, more guns join the chaos as the crack of the bullets come from other directions. Our guys are fighting back. The bullets stop hitting the dirt around us.

Cooper and I take the opportunity to run toward the group of Navy SEALs. In a matter of seconds, we’re beside them. Two men are lying on the ground. I immediately recognize them—Ramirez and Johnson. Red stains saturate their T-shirts as their brothers kneel beside them, working hastily to provide first aid.

“Let’s get them to medical!” I shout.

Instantly, precision amid the chaos ensues as all the able-bodied men work as a unit to transport the injured to the medical building, which stands several city blocks away.

We run as smoothly as possible with the injured. Some of us help carry the men while a few run beside, applying pressure to the men’s gushing wounds.

Once the men are laid on gurneys, the medical staff takes over, wheeling them into surgery.

The door to the base hospital shuts, and Cooper and I stand, facing it. Sweat drips from our faces, our chests heave from exhaustion, and blood from the wounded men begins to dry on our skin.

“What a fucked up day,” Cooper grunts out as he raises his arms, entwining his hands around the back of his neck.

I let out a sigh in response.

A medic comes out to ask us all a few questions, and we give our verbal report of the event. Then, we head back to our section of base to shower.

“Do you think they’ll make it?” Cooper asks.

“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “I think Ramirez was already gone.” I loathe the words exiting my mouth.

“Johnson was still breathing, but he didn’t look good.” Cooper bows his head with a sigh.

“Fuckers,” I growl, thinking about the Afghan soldiers whom I’ve been helping to train. I wonder if it was someone I knew. I hope it wasn’t because I would hate myself for not being able to see the signs of his dishonesty.

“We should just leave this shithole,” Cooper states, rage lining his voice. “They obviously don’t want us here.”

“I know.” I nod, understanding his anger.

It’s hard to risk your life and to see your brothers lose their lives for a cause that’s often hard to find. I have to make myself remember the kind people I’ve met from the villages—men, women, and children—who don’t want to be any part of the Taliban and the hatred they breed.

The Afghan people in general are very simple. The people in these villages live in another time. It’s like stepping into the 1910s. Most have no electricity in their dirt-floor huts. They are hard workers, growing the plants and raising the animals that they eat. There’s an innocence about them that makes me want to help them. I have to remind myself daily that they aren’t the enemy but the victims in all of this.

I also have to remind myself that if we’re over here, fighting with the enemy, then the enemy isn’t back home, bombing innocent people. Their focus will be on us—the trained military. It’s hard to be here. It’s isolating at times, but I have to keep in mind why we’re here, especially when thewhyis so difficult to comprehend.

After getting cleaned up, Cooper and I walk silently to the chow hall. We received news that neither soldier who was shot made it. It’s definitely the worst day we’ve had since being here.

“A brilliant end to a shitastic day,” I mumble before choking down a piece of lobster.

“It’s like chewing fucking leather,” Cooper complains between bites.

“Only forty-nine weeks to go!” I say with mock excitement, waving my fork in front of me.

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