THE SHEPHERD OF JALALABAD

I saw the two Blackhawk helicopters screaming down the runway, heading in the direction of the combat support hospital. The lead pilot pulled back hard on the cyclic, standing the bird almost on its tail to slow it down, with the second bird following suit. I thought, “They are coming in pretty hot, we must have wounded! Without hesitation, I ran straight to the flight line’s drop-off point. When I ran out between two concrete T barriers, I could see the Blackhawks already taxiing up to the medical drop off point. The lead bird stopped with a jolt, and the side door of the UH-60 flew open, and a stretcher was lifted out by some of our medics and the aircrew. As the vehicle slowly made its way towards the entrance to the CSH, one of the flight medics from the choppers was still performing chest compressions on the soldier. Even while running across the drop-off point to the vehicle I could see that the situation did not look good. I ran into the CSH, sweaty now, and walked over to the gurney where the soldier was placed. The doctors were examining his wounds as I positioned myself at the head of the gurney where they were trying to save his life. As I began to pray, I simultaneously scanned the soldier’s body as his blood- soaked and ragged uniform was cut off him. I knew instinctively that this young man wasn't going to make it. Later, as we laid the American flag over his body, I distinctly remember my mind wandering. I knew that somewhere in the mountains was an enemy Taliban fighter who was at that time sitting down to eat dinner. That man had either hours, days, or weeks earlier, lain an improvised explosive device to kill or wound American forces. And while that Taliban was spending time with his family, or perhaps in a cave preparing for another assault on a remote American combat outpost, I was here in this place, in the process of preparing one of our fallen soldier’s bodies to make that long trip home. From that Taliban's secure vantage point, the enemy probably didn’t see it explode, or perhaps didn't even hear the explosion from his mud brick house somewhere high on the mountain. Yet, the enemy who hid that explosive in the ground killed one of our own. In my own personal reflection on the war in northeastern Afghanistan, on that day, at that exact moment in time when the IED detonated, the enemy had a say.