AFGHAN MISADVENTURES
BY ANTHONY JAMES LECOURS
Excerpt taken from ‘The Unreliable Narrator’ in Stay Calm: This is War by AJ Lecours. Make sure to check out the next excerpt in our Fall issue.
But I digress. So, like any great drinking story, no shit, there we were, in the middle of Afghanistan, doing a patrol. We were in a column formation. For those of you who were not in the military, this just looks like people walking in a fucking line. Now we have reached a point in the story where other people have to be involved. Seeing as I have not spoken to these people and have little to no idea what they are doing and what ramifications will be in their personal life if said stories were brought to light, I will refer to them in such a way that everyone who was there will know who they are but everyone who was not are probably shit out of luck. We were led both literally and figuratively by Staff Sgt. Rod. He was followed by Pvt. Pistols and myself then specialist gunner LeClaire. Rounding out our team was Spc. Chile. Now Chile was not only a passive aggressive whiny fuck, but also the driver of our vehicle, so, after a short but heated debate, it was determined that he got to stay with the truck. As such, he plays a very little part in this story. I am not bitter, I swear.
Other people followed us in line, but I’m not going to mention them, because frankly, I don’t give a shit. There was an interpreter, or a terp as they are affectionately known. Fun fact, most of the time, our patrols occurred in column formation. This is because the whole country was mined, and you never were quite sure where it was safe to walk. By walking in a single file line, we limited our exposure to just the person in the front. One of the things Hollywood often screws up, when we walk in this line, we are not nut to butt. That would eliminate any benefit of being single file in the first place. If the first person in a normal single file line stepped on a mine, the next six people would die. Rest assured, there is a healthy distance between soldiers. I would say five meters, but as you dear reader and most of our soldiers are probably American, nobody knows what the fuck a meter is. But, rest assured, there was some sort of variance of space between each individual, limiting the casualties taken in the event of an explosion.
Our terp came to the front and started to talk to some local nationals, routine stuff, he asked them who they were and told them who we were. Then one of the locals just booked it. Like full dead-on sprint out of nowhere booked it. Like there were thirteen tired hot sweaty Americans armed for bear and out for blood after him. As any good leader would do, Rod took action. He sprang forward and ran after this guy. Then over his shoulder yelled for me and Pistols to go over this hill while he followed the local directly by running a small goat path meandering around the base of the hill. Now I am not a runner in the best of conditions, and those were not the best of conditions. Me and Pistols raced up the mound following a small animal path, slipping on what I hoped was just goat shit the whole way. By the time we were halfway up, I was sucking wind like I was in a puking CrossFit level workout, when I heard the sound of gunfire. I want to make a sound noise here like bang, bang, bang or BRRRRT, but nothing I put up here will accurately describe gunfire. Either you have heard it, or you have not. Three rounds burst out, interrupting my ragged breaths and causing echoes through the landscape.
Oh shit. Oh SHIT! Was that an AK? Is Rod shot? I got that stupid strength only given to adrenaline-fueled grandmothers lifting cars off babies and bounded up the rest of the hill. Usain Bolt fast. Adrenaline coursed through my system. Weapons and gear be damned, no one was going to die while waiting on me.
I crested the top of the hill only to look out and find Rod crumpled down toward the base of the hill some hundred meters down the steep and rocky terrain from me. I yelled toward Pistols and told him to set up his M249 light machine gun and pull security while I went down to check on Rod. I was afraid I was too late. I’d failed. In my mind, I was handing a folded flag to his wife and trying to explain to his daughters how their dad was a hero.
At this point, I was dashing downhill. Weapon slung at my back on a three-point sling, the barrel rhythmically slapping at the back of my knees. Both arms pumped with the fury of an angry god as I sought to use the air to pull myself closer, faster. I saw Rod start to rise. Did I make it in time? Is he okay? What the fuck happened?
Now the official story was that Rod returned fire and took up a defensive position. What had actually happened is he had placed his weapon on burst instead of safe. So not only was the gun turned “on” it was on “turbo mode.” While running, he had tripped and pulled the trigger, demonstrating his lack of ability to use his secondary safety, his finger, showering the hilltop that Pistols now occupied with lead. He had lost track of the local who’d avoided the hilltop because, as I only found out after the fact, it was heavily mined. The interpreter had caught up with the terrorist hiding amidst a group of construction workers. Somehow, the bad individual had grouped up with more bad guys…? They’d stopped running at the sound of gunshots. These assholes threatened a group of local nationals with violence if the workers did not comply. In short order, we were able to discern the bad guys from the probably soon to be bad guys and detained them. As it turned out, several were known enemy combatants and were on a watch list. For our roles in detaining these individuals, me and Pistols were awarded a certificate of achievement.
In a nutshell, short walk, small talk, dude runs, so we follow, Rod trips, shooting the hill we were climbing, then there are four terrorists, medals for everyone. I have no idea why. Moral of the story I guess, if someone runs, follow them. Thus ends my first Afghan misadventure.
About the Author
I am a 32 year old, medically retired Soldier. Originally from the Seattle area, a strange and cruel twist of events have me currently residing in Ohio.