The War I Always Wanted by Brandon Friedman Read Free Book Online Page A

as quickly as they could. I dragged my ruck across the floor of the aircraft in my right hand. In my left was my M4. I stepped off the ramp and started moving, completely disoriented.
    Unexpectedly, all the air was sucked from my lungs. When we allowed for alpine elevations in the plan—about 9,500 feet—we tailored the helicopter load to the thin air and planned for freezing temperatures at the high altitude, but we hadn’t planned for hauling such cumbersome gear on our backs. The first two steps off the bird were regular speed, the third was slower, and by the fourth step I was about to collapse. My head was spinning from trying to move too quickly with such a heavy pack. There wasn’t enough oxygen in the air for me to do what I wanted to do.
Keep moving
. I couldn’t get a satisfactory gulp of air. Suddenly my legs gave way and I dropped to a knee.
Keep moving
.
    The first thought of which I became conscious was that I would live for at least a while longer. No one was shooting at me; nothing was exploding in my face. I looked around and saw that everyone else’s movements had been grounded as well.
    I scanned my surroundings on my knee, elbow resting on my ruck. We were in a bowl, surrounded by high ground on three sides. I then realized that other Rakkasans had us encircled—that they were our cover. Their uniforms were soiled and crinkled; their faces dirty and unshaven. They were part of the original group that been out there for seventy-two hours, but they looked as though they’d been out there a month. They were the most beautiful people I’d ever seen.
    Still trying to catch my breath, I took my ruck and began to haul it across the open area. By the time I got to Captain K. I was trying not to hyperventilate. When I plopped down, I looked out at the opening of the bowl. I could see a valley, and mountains on the horizon. My watch said 5:35 p.m. I gazed up at the craggy ledges looming over me, and then to the cobalt blue sky above them. I paused, struck for a moment by the sheer rugged beauty of the place. Then I turned away. On the other side of the high ground, in the distance, I could hear sounds that seemed surreal.
Whoomp. Whoomp. Whoomp
. Bombs, detonating to the south, sounded like the footfalls of some mythic giant striding through the mountains. I could hear the faint crackle of gunfire. This was the real deal.
    Captain K. was saying something. I wasn’t listening. I was catching my breath and still marveling at the fact the LZ had been secure. I only turned to look at him when I heard my name. He wanted my platoon to lead the company south. I nodded and stood up.
    We had no need to look at the grid coordinate for our destination. As long as we kept the thuds and pops to our front, and as long as they were getting louder, we would be headed in the right direction.
    I told Sergeant David Reid to put Pascoe up front. Sergeant Joe Pascoe was the platoon “survivalist.” A stocky ex-Marine, Pascoe was the guy who could make fire. He could capture, kill, and cook his own food and he could make his way through the woods effortlessly. Later, in Kandahar, he would design and build a trebuchet out of spare parts capable of launching six-packs of milk fifty yards. On the other hand, Pascoe could probably not help you match your drapes.
    We had been in the bowl for ten minutes. The sky was still a deep blue, almost indigo, but the sun was starting to set and shadows were getting long. I looked up into the blue. Thousands of feet above me I saw the gray outline of an American B-52 headed south. Its four distinctive contrails stretched back as far as I could see. At that altitude, it was silent. I held my gaze on the plane as it traced a path toward the distant sounds of thunder. I had spent hours as a kid watching the B-52s based near my hometown in Louisiana. They had always been there in the sky for me, as a backdrop to my youth—at baseball games, down by the