Chapter 2

Our first touchdown took place in a shallow valley, where we saw a green smoke grenade marking four friendly troops who had gotten separated from the main body of friendlies after the initial ambush, as we found out later. I did not see any sign of enemy fire at this point. After they jumped on board one of the Hawks, we were off and over a hilltop, where we could now see into the valley beyond.

Man, could we see the tracers of heavy fighting flying back and forth.

Mr. Crawford swooped over a ridgeline where some green tracers, the kind that enemy AK-47s produce, were originating and told me to, “Light ‘em up, Russ!” as he lined up for a run.

The first time that I pressed the trigger on the big Minigun, I was shocked for a second by the noise and light. It was sort of a loud hum, but I could feel the vibration of it so much that it was almost as loud as a semi-truck air horn. And the light from the tracers ... Man, Crawford had been right, it was like the beam of one of those Star Trek phaser weapons in the movies and on TV.

I had only done a short burst, but I got the hang of it really fast. The mechanism was aligned with some sort of aiming do-hickey on the heads-up display on the pilot’s faceplate. We simply swept the pattern of tracers along the ridge as I depressed the trigger when I heard him say, “Fire,” in my helmet headset. Likewise, I would let off when he called, “Hold it.”

The old line about a Minigun “turning Merry Mountain into Happy Hollow in no time” came to mind. All enemy fire from that ridgeline just came to an abrupt halt as Mr. Crawford turned us toward more targets.

We flew passes over two other positions that screened enemy fighters from ground engagement, but left them open from the air. We were able to make short work of them as well: twice when he told me to fire the big GAU; and once when he lit off his seven Hydra rockets at what looked to be some enemy fighters using a boulder field for protection.

With danger to the ‘Hawks’ from the ground out of action now, the big troop-carrying birds were able to land within a short distance of the friendly U.S. Soldiers. Once the lift birds were on the ground, Mr. Crawford cautiously landed our attack craft, as well, but all the pilots kept the blades turning.

I saw that there were several wounded Soldiers being assisted to the ‘Hawks’. At the back end of the group, one Soldier who was ‘Walking Wounded’ was being assisted by another big Soldier, well back from the others. These would evidently be the last ones to reach the relative safety of the evac birds.

I did not hear the shot, but I saw the big Soldier who had been helping the wounded guy twist suddenly, stagger, and fall. I squeezed the safety spring lock on the hook to release my tether line from the D-ring on the deck of the aircraft, slid under the ammo feed line, and jumped down, swinging my M4, that I had slung diagonally behind me for the trip, around into combat carry mode, and with my tether bouncing around against my calves, I rushed to help the two Soldiers.

“Hey!” Mr. Crawford had tried to shout at me over our wireless connection to try to stop me, but I was up to a sprint by that time.

When I reached the pair, I noted that the big Soldier had received a grazing wound to his right thigh; not enough to put him out of action, but he would not be able to assist the other guy, a young Captain with the name strip ‘Dawson’ on his chest and a subdued MP patch on his sleeve.

“I got this guy,” I told the big Soldier. Now that I was up close, I could see that his uniform was also ‘slick,’ marking him as one of the Tier-One Special Operators. “You okay yourself, Sergeant... ?” Given his age and the fact that he was probably Special Forces, I just assumed that he was a senior NCO.

“SFC Darryl Crawford; and you are?” Now, I knew that I had found CW2 Crawford’s brother.

“Specialist Russ Holloway. I got this guy.”

SFC Crawford nodded quickly and brought up his own M4 rifle to cover us as I began to help Captain Dawson toward the big MH-60 Blackhawk. But SFC Crawford’s M4 was so much more sophisticated than mine. I had heard the gun nuts in my unit describe it, but I had not seen it until now. This was the standard M4, but it was outfitted with the new Special Operations Modification package, which included a holographic sight, infrared laser, special foregrip, bright tactical light, and a bunch of other goodies.

As I was lifting the wounded Captain Dawson into the well of the Blackhawk, with the help of a couple of others already on board, I felt more than heard enemy gunfire. AK rounds were kicking up dust at my feet. I turned just as SFC Crawford cut loose on one enemy fighter and put him down with three quick rounds. I nodded to him and he waved me back toward his brother’s Little Bird as he staggered toward this MH-60, which was to be his ride out. I nodded and took off at a sprint, not encountering and not caring about any more enemy fighters.

As I got close enough to get in wireless range, I heard over my helmet communicator, “Get yer ass back in place, Russ; we got more company!”

Before I could strap in, I saw another enemy fighter crawling to get into position to fire at ‘my’ bird, as I now thought of it. I hit him with three rounds from my M4 and looked around quickly for any more threats. Seeing none, I turned back toward the AH-6.

I quickly swung my M4 behind me, slid up under the ammo feed line, hooked the snap-hook to the D-ring, and got back on my knees in position so that I could activate the GAU when Mr. Crawford gave me the word. I had barely completed the final click when Mr. Crawford had us off the ground and climbing. I could see the two MH-60s beginning to take off now as well.

I also saw movement on the roadway coming from the northwest ... two white trucks, the type of which we had become all-too familiar; Toyota Hilux pickup trucks; trucks that had taken on the nickname ‘Technicals’ by the intel wienies whenever they were mounted with heavy weapons like those we saw below us.

Evidently, CW2 Crawford was well aware of the threat they posed to us and the other birds.

“Let me get closer, Russ, and then you take ‘em out! But do it quick! They can chew us all up with those Fifty-Ones!” Mr. Crawford shouted into the wireless comms. I did not respond, but I got ready and waited for his signal. But the decision to wait was sort of taken out of our hands, as I saw one Taliban fighter leap from the now-stopped second truck and place a long tubular weapon across his shoulder as he took aim at the Blackhawks.

‘SAM!’ my mind screamed at me, just as I heard the same word audibly coming from Mr. Crawford over my headset.

I watched and sweated as CW2 Crawford aligned Little Bird and the GAU-19 toward the bad guys and discovered when I fired on his command that I was a tad bit high, as the tracer stream arced overhead of the enemy vehicles and the dismounted fighter, who was trying his best to acquire and lock on to the two helpless Blackhawks loaded with American Soldiers. As we were bringing the arc of fire down, it strayed across the enemy gunner’s line of fire just as he discharged his deadly surface-to-air missile. As the weapon belched from the launcher, it entered the spray of .50-caliber rounds that I was firing.

The blast from the exploding missile disintegrated the enemy gunner and blew back across the bed of the truck. We added to that by raking the stream of heavy bullets across both trucks, causing them to explode into useless balls of flame, and burning terrorist fighters, ending any threat from that quarter.

As our flight of three danced in the air and swung away from the spot where the fighting had occurred, but was now very quiet, I heard over the headset, “Boy, howdy, Russ! You timed that just right. Not only did you take them all out and save our guys’ asses; you did it just as you were goin’ ‘Black’ on ammo!”

I did not care right at that point. The adrenaline was still pumping and I was breathing hard as I put the GAU on safe and stashed the electrical cable with the firing button out of the way. I did not even feel the cold air at altitude on the return trip to the base.

As soon as the rotors slowed and I released my tether so that I could slip out of the aircraft back in the hangar, my body was screaming for me to take a leak, followed by taking a nap. After I got out of the can, I could see medics taking care of the wounded and checking on the welfare of the non-wounded Soldiers, both the Special Forces team members and the logistics and MP troops that they had rescued; all were talking and clapping each other on the back.

I could also see the pilots, including CW2 Crawford, lined up, and getting their asses reamed by what looked to be a senior aviation officer. At least, he was wearing one of those two-piece flight suits and most assuredly outranked any of the pilots.

I was just glad that no one was paying that kind of negative attention to me as I placed the special helmet that I had been wearing on the copilot’s seat of the AH-6, along with the body harness that I had been wearing. Only then did I start to wonder about my uniform accessories and my wallet over in that locker across the hangar floor.

“Hey, Kid!” I heard behind me. I turned to look and saw SFC Crawford approaching me with a grin and ... of all things ... a beer ... a Heineken, even. Where he had found a beer in this hell hole, I would never know, but these Snake Eaters had their mysterious ways.

“I want to thank you for saving my ass out there today,” he said, as I slugged back a big swallow of the golden elixir.

“Shoot, Sergeant, it looked as if you were the one saving my ass when I was loading that Captain into the ‘Hawk’,” I said.

“Well, then, I guess it is mutual; because if you two had not taken out that guy with the SAM, everyone on my bird would be in Valhalla right now; and maybe the other bird as well, since they were so close. So, thanks again. I’m Darryl Crawford, by the way,” he said by way of formal introduction, though we had met informally in battle. We clinked beer bottles instead of shaking hands, and watched the end of his brother’s ass-chewing from afar.

The young Captain, Tim Dawson by name, sat up from the stretcher they had him on, and called to SFC Crawford and me. We went over and received his thanks for saving his life before they hauled him off in a Hummer ambulance.

I never heard what happened officially to Sandy Crawford concerning that little ‘junket’ to save his brother, but the thanks coming in via correspondence from the commanders of the Logistics Task Force and from Third Special Forces Group were probably enough to placate the ruffled feathers of the 160th SOAR chain of command.

I was even surprised weeks later to be stood up in formation in my unit to receive an Air Medal, of all things!

I finished the rest of my tour with the 101st, but I reenlisted for three more years for a chance to serve with the 160th when we rotated back to Campbell. That, of course, required that the Army allow me to attend jump school at Fort Benning, near Columbus, Georgia.

It was after finishing that three-week course, and catching a bus to Atlanta, then running into a divorcée named Dolores and her Mustang, that I had entered upon the set of circumstances that had originally brought me to Simonton, Virginia.

After Afghanistan—Simonton

“Well, ain’t that the shit?” I said to myself.

I asked myself that question as Dolores’ muscle car scratched out of the parking lot just as the afternoon sun was hitting the treetops. She was on her way back to Atlanta now; somehow, having decided to return and try again with her ex, all while I had been trying to convince her to pull off the road and join me for the night in a local motel there in ... Whatever-Burg ... oh, yeah ... that one sign I had caught a glimpse of had said this placed was named something like ‘Simonton.’

I had just finished jump school at Benning and was trying to hitch a ride with this hot divorcée in a red Mustang whom I had met at a bar in Atlanta. By riding with her, I figured that I might be able to score some sack time with a babe and save the cost of a flight back home to Virginia.

After all, I still had two weeks of leave time before I had to report to the 160th SOAR stationed at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Once there, I would have to complete in—and survive—”Green Platoon” in order to become a full-fledged Night Stalker. Even though my specialty was fixing helicopters, and not kicking in doors, I was obliged to complete that initiation ritual, just as everyone else in the regiment did, from the Colonel in command on down.

I had shipped my duffel on ahead, so all I was carrying with me was a light JanSport civilian backpack with a change of underwear, socks, and my toiletries. I slung it over my shoulders and turned to see if I could find some signs of life in this dry hole of a town.

The sign said “Skinner’s,” the beer signs were glowing, and it was close on toward five o’clock; so that became my destination.

“So, you-all are really a Soldier; huh, Rusty?” asked the one who had identified himself as Dennis Chancey. The other two had introduced themselves as Hamp Wells and Sam Chaves. Dennis and Hamp were already well on their way toward Alcohol Nirvana, even this early in the afternoon and evening, while Sam appeared to be moderating his intake.

I had introduced myself, as I usually did when out and about for fun and excitement, as ‘Rusty Collins’.

“Yeah,” I said, loosening up after three beers. “Been to ‘The Stan’ once, too.”

God, I love talking that way, with all the bravado of some kind of barroom warrior ... what my daddy would have referred to in civilian terms as a ‘Drugstore Cowboy’. It did not hurt me in any way to try to negotiate my battlefield experiences, as limited-to-non-existent as they may be, into their buying my beer for me, for at least the first three rounds.

“I just bet that you got the ladies all dropping their panties at the thought of being with a real live hero,” declared Hamp. I was already tired from the long drive, coupled with the accumulated exhaustion of having just finished three weeks of intensive physical activity in Airborne School. I think, looking back, if I had been more rested, I might otherwise have recognized that he was thinking about getting me involved with something nefarious.

But, I was ... Air-BORNE! And just so proud of myself right then, so, I guess I sort of missed the cagey look that passed between Dennis and Hamp, along with the snort of disgust coming from Sam.

“Oh,” I bragged, “there is just so much willing pussy out there that all you really have to do is simply take your pick, and cull her from the herd.” We all laughed and raised our longnecks.

I guess I got really stupid and started down the trail that was destined to get me in deep trouble that evening.

“But the real challenge,” I said with a smirk, “comes when you find that gorgeous, but not necessarily willing lady, perhaps a virgin saving it for marriage. And, with the right smile, the right compliments, the right words of encouragement; you talk her out of that very set of drawers that she had planned to keep up until her knight in shining armor came along to marry her and carry her off to his castle.”

We all had laughed at that image, as Dennis said, “Yeah, there are still a few virgin babes around who think that they are princesses and that their pussies are made of twenty-four-carat gold.”

“Well,” I responded, “My daddy says that there are really no such things as Disney princesses. He said that even Arial, the Little Mermaid, has a nice set of tits behind that clamshell bra.”

This brought on more laughter and back-slapping.

“But,” I said, leaning in with a faux conspiratorial expression, “he also said that there wasn’t a single woman that couldn’t be talked into the sack, if you approached her carefully, used the right body language, said the right words, and just simply oozed connection and sincerity.” I chuckled as, so full of my own bullshit, I threw back another slug of Budweiser.

“I’ll betcha we got a girl you can’t sweet talk into fuckin’,” offered Hamp, and Dennis was grinning and nodding, while Sam was looking away with open disgust now.

“Oh, yeah?” I asked, stupidly falling farther into their snare.

“Yeah,” this time, coming from Dennis, “she is considered to be the prettiest girl in these parts, and she works part time just across the street at the Dairy Queen. In fact,” he now looked with an evil smile toward Hamp, “she gets off work in about forty-five minutes.”

“What about Boyd?” started Sam, now entering the conversation for the first time. He actually appeared to be upset at the turn the conversation was taking.

“Oh, well; Boyd has been going on for a coupla years now about how that pussy is probably the best in town,” retorted Hamp. “And, since his daddy is the town patriarch, and he is the heir apparent, then Boyd feels that he deserves to be the one to claim everything in town that is ‘the best’, as he calls it; including that bitch’s cherry. Even says he is going to marry her. Not only to prove the point that he deserves the best; but to rub it in the nose of that crazy preacher daddy of hers who is so hostile to Lamar Simon and his family; especially Boyd.”

“What’s so special about this girl?” I asked.

“Well, with her religious upbringing, she has made it clear to every guy back in our high school,” I raised my eyebrows at this, since these guys really looked a bit old to be in school still, yet not really old enough to be drinking in a bar; then I chalked it up to local custom, or some shit like that; “that she was going to remain pure until she gets married. And she is eighteen now, and primed and ready.”

I had to ask, “What is she ... some sort of super-religious Mormon or Catholic or something?”

They all laughed and Hamp said, “Nah. Anyway, you know what they say ... Mormons get special underwear and a basement full of groceries; Catholics get a set of rosary beads and a truckload of guilt...” We all laughed at his assessment.

“No, in Ruthanne’s case, it is just a set of rules that her Evangelical daddy set up for her to follow and that she really holds to. Even plans to hold out until she finishes college at Liberty University, up in Lynchburg.” Hamp then took a swig from his beer bottle as Dennis just nodded and Sam just sat there stoically.