Read Online Into the Fire: A Firsthand Account of the Most Extraordinary Battle in the Afghan War by Bing West, Dakota Meyer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bing West, Dakota Meyer
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crazy one on base when it came to fighting the enemy. Guys always talked about the time he walked up Dab Valley with a big bright orange air panel—made to mark your position for aircraft—on his back as a cape trying to get the Taliban to shoot at him. I wanted to do the exact same thing except
while
getting shot at. I briefed Lt. Johnson on my latest scheme.
“Meyer,” he said. “That is a bullshit idea. You’ll get me in trouble again. Forget about it.”
At six in the morning, Jeffords came up on the radio, and I could hear shooting in the background.
“We’re engaged,” he said. “You coming?”
I shook Lt. Johnson awake. He muttered that Jeffords’ platoon would break contact, as was standard procedure. He rolled over to go back to sleep. I shook him again.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “We gotta get out there, sir—something must be wrong, and you know how long it takes the Army to react.”
I added a little drama to get his wheels spinning. Mumbling, he got dressed. I was like a dog with his owner’s leash in his mouth, demanding his morning walk. I even held open the Humvee door for my groggy lieutenant. Together with two truckloads of excited Askars, we rolled to Hill 1911, where Jeffords had deployed his dismounted platoon. As usual, the dushmen were high up on the ridge, shooting and scooting among huge boulders.
“I can climb up,” I said, “and flank them from the right.”
Jeffords nodded vigorously in agreement, smiling. Lt. Johnson gave me a skeptical look.
“All right, Meyer, do your grunt thing.”
I grabbed six or seven Askars and started climbing. Halfway up, a grenade burst next to me, but the rocky ground deflected its shrapnel. I didn’t think the dushmen were that close. We hit the deck, not able to see them. Over the radio, Lt. Johnson informed me that it wasn’t a dushmen grenade; it was friendly fire. A soldier had fired a 40-millimeter shell, not able to tell us from the dushmen. So this was my chance. I pulled a high-visibility orange air panel from my pack, draped it over my shoulders, and continued climbing.
By the time we reached the top, the dushmen had pulled back to our left. We dared not run single file along the ridge trail, so we stayed where we were. Jeffords’ platoon continued plastering the hillside to our front. The dushmen replied with plunging fire, scattering rock chips in all directions and nicking several soldiers. Fortunately, no one needed a medevac. Within an hour, the dushmen had evaporated, per usual.
My little flanking party, thoroughly exhausted, walked back downhill. Jeffords was pleased with his caper, and his soldiers were all grins. They had fired a few thousand rounds, aired out their cabin fever, and nobody was hit too badly. Lt. Johnson was less than pleased. The whole thing went against standard procedures. And he knew I had been a party to it.
“Meyer,” he said, “I told you this was bullshit. I don’t know how you finagled me into this again.”
Just before the Afghan presidential election in late August of 2009, Lt. Johnson sent Staff Sgt. Kenefick and me, along with some Askars, toguard the polling station at Dangam, a district center on the Pakistan border. President Karzai’s cronies had already rigged the election. Dangam was one of many remote districts guaranteed to deliver more votes than there were voters. What a country!
Staff Sgt. Kenefick and I were still a little standoffish with each other about his by-the-book ways. Maybe the lieutenant was forcing us to work together, or he was exiling me so he could relax for a few days. Dangam had been the patrol area for Lt. Jake Kerr’s platoon. Kerr was the wild-bunch officer at Monti, a loaded pistol who did what he wanted. I heard that at West Point he had played rugby, which is football without a helmet. He had sometimes come to our hooch to borrow, like a cup of sugar, a powerful weapon for one operation or another. Jacked from too many years in the weight
while
getting shot at. I briefed Lt. Johnson on my latest scheme.
“Meyer,” he said. “That is a bullshit idea. You’ll get me in trouble again. Forget about it.”
At six in the morning, Jeffords came up on the radio, and I could hear shooting in the background.
“We’re engaged,” he said. “You coming?”
I shook Lt. Johnson awake. He muttered that Jeffords’ platoon would break contact, as was standard procedure. He rolled over to go back to sleep. I shook him again.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “We gotta get out there, sir—something must be wrong, and you know how long it takes the Army to react.”
I added a little drama to get his wheels spinning. Mumbling, he got dressed. I was like a dog with his owner’s leash in his mouth, demanding his morning walk. I even held open the Humvee door for my groggy lieutenant. Together with two truckloads of excited Askars, we rolled to Hill 1911, where Jeffords had deployed his dismounted platoon. As usual, the dushmen were high up on the ridge, shooting and scooting among huge boulders.
“I can climb up,” I said, “and flank them from the right.”
Jeffords nodded vigorously in agreement, smiling. Lt. Johnson gave me a skeptical look.
“All right, Meyer, do your grunt thing.”
I grabbed six or seven Askars and started climbing. Halfway up, a grenade burst next to me, but the rocky ground deflected its shrapnel. I didn’t think the dushmen were that close. We hit the deck, not able to see them. Over the radio, Lt. Johnson informed me that it wasn’t a dushmen grenade; it was friendly fire. A soldier had fired a 40-millimeter shell, not able to tell us from the dushmen. So this was my chance. I pulled a high-visibility orange air panel from my pack, draped it over my shoulders, and continued climbing.
By the time we reached the top, the dushmen had pulled back to our left. We dared not run single file along the ridge trail, so we stayed where we were. Jeffords’ platoon continued plastering the hillside to our front. The dushmen replied with plunging fire, scattering rock chips in all directions and nicking several soldiers. Fortunately, no one needed a medevac. Within an hour, the dushmen had evaporated, per usual.
My little flanking party, thoroughly exhausted, walked back downhill. Jeffords was pleased with his caper, and his soldiers were all grins. They had fired a few thousand rounds, aired out their cabin fever, and nobody was hit too badly. Lt. Johnson was less than pleased. The whole thing went against standard procedures. And he knew I had been a party to it.
“Meyer,” he said, “I told you this was bullshit. I don’t know how you finagled me into this again.”
Just before the Afghan presidential election in late August of 2009, Lt. Johnson sent Staff Sgt. Kenefick and me, along with some Askars, toguard the polling station at Dangam, a district center on the Pakistan border. President Karzai’s cronies had already rigged the election. Dangam was one of many remote districts guaranteed to deliver more votes than there were voters. What a country!
Staff Sgt. Kenefick and I were still a little standoffish with each other about his by-the-book ways. Maybe the lieutenant was forcing us to work together, or he was exiling me so he could relax for a few days. Dangam had been the patrol area for Lt. Jake Kerr’s platoon. Kerr was the wild-bunch officer at Monti, a loaded pistol who did what he wanted. I heard that at West Point he had played rugby, which is football without a helmet. He had sometimes come to our hooch to borrow, like a cup of sugar, a powerful weapon for one operation or another. Jacked from too many years in the weight
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