War forces terrible decisions on young men. No one knows that better than Marcus Luttrell.
In June 2005, on a barren mountain high in the Taliban-infested Hindu Kush, Luttrell and three fellow Navy SEALs came together to talk. Their mission — to locate and possibly take out an important Taliban leader hiding in the Afghan village below — had just been compromised. Three goatherds, one a boy of about 14, had blundered onto their position. Sitting against a log under the watchful eyes of their captors, the Afghans clearly weren’t happy to see the Americans. On the other hand, they were unarmed, technically civilians.
As about 100 goats milled about, Petty Officers Matthew Axelson, Danny Dietz and Luttrell, and their commander, Lt. Michael Murphy, discussed what to do. Having tried and failed earlier to make radio contact with their home base, they were on their own.
As they saw it, they had two options: kill the Afghans, or let them go and hope for the best. They let them go.
It’s a decision Luttrell bitterly regrets.
Within hours, more than 100 Taliban fighters descended on the SEAL team. In the terrible gun battle that followed, Murphy, Axelson and Dietz died. A few miles away, a Taliban grenade brought down a rescue helicopter on its way to help the trapped men, killing all 16 aboard. It was the worst day in the 40-year history of the Navy SEALs.
[...]Luttrell, who received his Navy discharge early last month and has moved back to Walker County, discussed Lone Survivor recently over lunch in downtown Houston. His 6-foot-5, 230-pound frame squeezed into his only civilian suit, he wasn’t enjoying himself. He admits he hates doing interviews. In the book, he expresses frequent disdain for the "liberal media" and "liberals" in general, whom he blames for imposing naive rules of engagement that jeopardize American lives, and for second-guessing difficult, split-second decisions soldiers in combat must make. While polite, ending sentences with a military-style "sir," he’s intense and terse.
His friends’ deaths remain raw and immediate and understandably painful to talk about. "Thirty seconds of every minute," he shot back when asked how often he thinks of that day. He can’t sleep. He just goes until he collapses, he said. Then the nightmares jerk him back awake.
"The endless guilt of the survivor," as he puts it in the prologue of the book.
What was the right thing to do on the mountain? In the book, Luttrell describes how the team talked it out, trying to find the best course of action. If they killed the men, they worried, the American media would get wind of it, and they’d be charged with murder.
Luttrell wondered what great commanders in the past — Napoleon, Omar Bradley, MacArthur — would have done.
"Would they have made the ice-cold military decision to execute these cats because they posed a clear and present danger to their men?"
On the other hand, he felt the promptings of "another soul. My Christian soul."
"Something kept whispering in the back of my mind, it would be wrong to execute these unarmed men in cold blood."
He reports that Axelson favored killing the goatherds. Dietz was neutral. Murphy and Luttrell voted to let them go.
"It was the stupidest, most southern-fried, lamebrained decision I ever made in my life," Luttrell writes. "I must have been out of my mind. I had actually cast a vote which I knew could sign our death warrant. I’d turned into a (expletive) liberal, a half-assed, no-logic nitwit, all heart, no brain, and the judgment of a jack rabbit.
"At least, that’s how I look back on those moments now. Probably not then, but for nearly every waking hour of my life since. No night passes when I don’t wake in a cold sweat thinking of those moments on that mountain. I’ll never get over it."
[...]Three times the SEALs threw themselves down the sheer face of the mountain to escape the Afghans, who were coming at them from three sides. Axelson, Dietz and Murphy all sustained numerous wounds but kept fighting. Near the end, Murphy deliberately exposed himself, moving into an open space to try to make his cell phone work. He managed to get through.
"My guys are dying out here … we need help," he told headquarters before a bullet in the back knocked him to the ground. He struggled back to cover and continued fighting. It was that cell-phone call that summoned the ill-fated helicopter rescuers.
Dietz died first, followed by Murphy, whose cries for help, Luttrell, pinned down, couldn’t answer. In his nightmares, he still hears those cries.
As he cradled a dying Axelson in his arms, a grenade blew them apart and tossed Luttrell into a ravine.
His friends gone, Luttrell managed to work himself out of sight of the enemy. But he was in bad shape — his legs full of shrapnel, his nose broken, three cracked vertebrae in his back. That night and the next day, he dragged his wounded body over the mountains in a desperate search for water.
With the exception of the Code pink Whackos.
