During the first week living with my fellow soldiers in a rented mudbrick house in Farah, Afghanistan, I woke from trying to sleep off an overnight guard shift. I strapped on my boots. A gunshot cracked in the distance. No big deal. Suddenly, machine-gun fire roared very close.
The lieutenant ran from the front wall. The Taliban had been threatening to attack. More machine-gun fire. They were coming.
What do I do?
Whenever the ship was attacked on Star Trek, someone would shout, as I then screamed, “Battle stations!”
Men scrambled from their racks. I threw on the rest of my gear and flew out of our barracks with my M16. My team leader, Sgt. Matthew Peterson, met me there. “Who’s ready!?”
“I’m up,” I said.
“Can you fire the AT4?”
An AT4 is a shoulder-fired rocket launcher. I was qualified to use it, but I’d only ever shot dinky, 9 mm training rounds — an easy, useless exercise. “Sure,” I replied.
Peterson handed me an AT4. “With me.”
More machine-gun fire roared from down the street. Peterson and I scrambled up a ladder to the roof of our house. Most houses in Farah were single-story mudstone buildings. Domes like the tops of giant bread loaves rose above all rooms, and a low wall circled the edge. Peterson wasted no time. “I’ll cover the street side.”
“I got the back,” I said as I crouched between a dome and the wall. My body coursed with tension. I scanned my sector with my M16, and just like on the training range, I waited for targets to pop up, determined to put a round through them.
During the hot summer, Afghans live on their roofs. Two blocks of flat-roofed houses stretched out before me. The Taliban might fire from any one of them.
Sweat rolled down from under my helmet as I watched and waited. Having read about the sick ways the Taliban treated their prisoners, I kept one final bullet in my pocket. Peterson did too. If we were the last defenders, we would not allow ourselves to be captured.
I had an intense urge to turn around and check behind me, but my duty to my fellow soldiers was to cover my sector. In the Army, we keep promises. I trusted Peterson to do the same.
The first Afghan to show himself was a gray-bearded man. He heard my warning and immediately left his roof.
The second Afghan to show up was a 10-year-old boy.
“Get down!” I screamed. He smiled. No, no, no! If the Taliban appeared, he’d be killed in the crossfire. “Get off the f—ing roof!” I tried his language, shouting something like, “Get down.”
The boy laughed.
Oh, God, please help me.
He thought this was great fun. To protect him, I had to make him leave. Jesus, please forgive me. I aimed my M16 at the boy, not to shoot him but to scare him out of harm’s way. At last, the boy understood and ran out of sight.
We waited for a long time. When we finally stood down, my body ached from remaining in that crouched firing position for so long. Peterson and I exchanged a nod but said nothing as we finally climbed down.
The Taliban’s attack had been thwarted by Afghan police. It wasn’t the last time I would owe Afghans my life. I killed no one in my entire deployment. Even now, 15 years later, my hands shake as I write about that day. I’ll never forget the sight of that scared Afghan boy as I aimed my weapon at him. To protect him, I had to force him to fear me. Did he ever forgive me? Or does he hate me and all American soldiers? He’d be a man by now. I hope he’s OK. I wish to God I could tell him I’m sorry.
Trent Reedy served as a combat engineer in the Iowa National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a tour of duty in Afghanistan.
