Below a sample chapter from C.R. Shea, ‘The Vista, a Journey of a Bacha Bazi Boy’

Chapter 1: The Explosion

The year was 2003 in Kabul, Afghanistan.

My name is Mike, and I’m a US Army Staff Sergeant with eight years prior service in the Navy aboard the aircraft carrier CV63 “Kitty Hawk.” Upon re-enlistment with the Army due to my prior military experience, I was assigned lead of my first squad. Following the 9/11 attacks, my squad was in the middle of some of the most intense fighting in the region, with a high rate of civilian and military casualties.

Up until this point, I had been stationed in Kabul, Afghanistan, for almost a year. It was a bright sunny day out on patrol as I drove the foothills east of Kabul, focused on the surroundings ahead. It was hard to believe that at any moment we could be engaged in gunfire. In the back seat were two new recruits from California, both just out of boot camp. Bud, a sergeant, was in the front seat next to me; he’s been with my unit now for nearly ten months.

As we headed deeper into the foothills outside Kabul, I could hear the groan of the Humvee as we navigated through tight turns, dry dusty terrain, and steep ravines. I glanced back at the two newbies, noticing their look of fear and bewilderment as they nervously scanned the terrain. They were holding on tightly to their M16A2s, as if the guns were some invisible protective shields. The tighter they held on, the more they felt a false sense of security.

I will have to keep a close eye on these two, I noted to myself. The added responsibility of babysitting wasn’t what I wanted today.

Bud was engaged in conversation with himself droning on about his heat rash outbreak—I listened to his words, but he sounded muffled. All I could think about was the temperature, the dust, and the constant sweating. It was late in the afternoon and nearing one hundred degrees. For a brief moment, I was imagining a tall cold glass of beer.

Keep a watchful eye, I reminded myself. Patrol was never a time to daydream.

Pop! Pop! Pop! As we drove over the next ridge, we heard gunshots down in the foothills ahead.

I pulled over and shut down the Humvee. We listened intently, getting a fix on what direction it was coming from. Bud was already in position with his high-powered binoculars scanning the valley, and I noticed the newbies’ hesitation as I barked an order for them to get out. As Bud evaluated the situation in the valley, I herded the other two to take cover behind a large boulder.

Bud glanced back at me as I knelt down next to him. Looking through my own binoculars, I noticed what looked like ten to fifteen men in synchronized movement, about one hundred thirty meters down the valley. It was getting later in the day, so the shadows were playing tricks with my vision. The new guys huddled together with their binoculars, observing us closely and with some fear.

We decided to move in closer.

“Looks like another Taliban cell,” I whispered to Bud. He nodded in agreement, so I ordered the other two to stay back, take cover, and keep an eye out. If there was any movement from behind, they were to alert me by clicking the radio button once—but absolutely no voice communication. We moved into position hidden behind a few boulders and noticed the group of men surrounding someone lying on the ground. We were about the span of one football field away.

As we got closer to the men, I recognized the group through the binoculars as one of the Taliban cells we had been after for the last few months. My heart was racing. I knew from our Intel this was one of the Taliban cells that had been eluding the Americans going back and forth over the mountains of Pakistan and Afghanistan.

Suddenly, Bud motioned for me to look now! as he pointed aggressively. I swung my binoculars in the direction of his finger and focused on the shadowy figure of a man curled up on the ground. It appeared to be a soldier. I couldn’t make out from which country, but he lay on his right side with his hands bound behind his back, a rag stuffed in his mouth. Blood ran down the corners of his eyes and mouth.

As Bud glanced over my way, I knew all too well he wanted to go in guns blazing—but I motioned for him to hold up. We had to see what was going on, and I as glanced back over the trail we had just left, I had the feeling we were being watched; we couldn’t afford to act too soon.

We kept watching. In the middle of the group, a small fire was burning, and as the flames grew higher, it lit up the darkening valley. I could see that the soldier on the ground was one of our own: an American soldier.

One of the men had a torch-like stick burning with a red glow on the end. The man positioned himself over the American soldier, raising the burning stick high above his head with hatred in his eyes. Then he came down with full force and jammed the burning stick into the right eye of the soldier. Cheers went out from the men as the American soldier screamed in pain and horror, choking on his own blood.

Bud and I looked at each other with horror, our adrenaline pumping. I knew we were both fighting the impulse to rush to rescue one of our own, but we knew we were outnumbered. The distance back to the Humvee made it nearly impossible without getting shot to hell. All the men in the group had rifles slung over their shoulders; I noticed one with a RPG launcher. I motioned for Bud to retreat, but we both were frozen in our tracks, watching the disgusting spectacle before us.

The Taliban took turns kicking and stomping on the American soldier. Another hand rose up holding a pesh-kabz knife, with a blade eleven inches or so in length that glistened in the firelight. The knife-wielder pulled the soldier to his feet by his hair, the soldier moaned in pain—I knew he must be nearly passing out from the brutality of the torture he had endured.

The knife-wielder pulled the soldier’s head back with his left hand. With his right hand, he  put the knife blade to the soldier’s throat and began a cutting motion. The American issued a blood curdling scream followed by a muffled guttural sound as his head was slowly severed from his body. Intentionally, the butcher elaborately gestured in saw-like motions as if to add to the sick amusement for the rest of the men.

At that moment, the radio clicked. I motioned Bud to move out. Without drawing attention to our position, we slowly backed out of the valley, keeping an eye on the men and the slaughter taking place. I witnessed the gruesome sight of the soldier’s head being held high in the fire-lit darkness. At a safe distance, we turned up the trail and headed back to the Humvee.

Pop! Pop! Pop! More gunfire. I looked up to the Humvee and saw our newbies aiming at another area. More insurgents must be in view—the beheading group of Taliban now knew we were there.

We ran to the Humvee, hearing sounds of the butchers pursuing us. Gunshots could be heard as the two new guys engaged in gunfire.

I heard a loud scream: “I’m hit! I’m hit!”

“Shit!” I cursed. Darkness had completely fallen, but we could see the snaps of light coming from the gunfire ahead. I realized that two more Taliban soldiers were behind a ridge ahead, pinning down the new guys. As we rounded a huge boulder, we lit up the night, firing back at the Taliban, forcing them to take cover.

One of the newbies was shot, sprawled out on the ground. We moved quickly to help him into the Humvee, then sped off in a rain of gunfire. Leaning out of the Humvee, Bud took his best shots at the mob. Trying to get my bearings in the midst of gunfire, darkness, and confusion, I did all I could to navigate the winding sandy trail—nearly rolling over the Humvee.

After several minutes, we finally made it out of the valley onto open road. I looked back at the hit soldier with his head on Bud’s lap. Bud had applied pressure over the gaping chest wound to slow the bleeding.

Boom!

There was no notice whatsoever; suddenly, the Humvee was just flying through the air, the IED explosion so loud it was deafening. I rolled through the air. Everything faded to black…

…When I finally came to, who knows how long we had been there? I heard nothing—complete silence in the darkness.

I called out to Bud, but there was no response. As I looked around the Humvee at the mangled twisted metal, I saw that the force of the IED had hit the passenger side toward the back, where my three soldiers had been sitting.

The explosion had ripped through the Humvee, killing Bud and the other two instantly. I was lying on my back in the mangled mess of metal and flesh, blood everywhere. I looked down at my left leg and saw that it was wedged in the metal debris—half ripped off just below the knee.

Next to the jagged metal, I saw my leg bone as I passed out.

– C.R. Shea