Essay: The Gulf War – post experiences

The Gulf War had ended almost a decade ago, and memories of the atrocities committed were still fresh in people’s minds. With the influence of the brutal Taliban forces in Afghanistan increasing, the newly elected US President, George W. Bush, announced his plans to send seventeen thousand troops to the war-torn country. This decision followed an affirmation, albeit a late one, that Afghanistan was more important to the US against the terrorist groups. On the morning of Wednesday, September 8, 1999, before the first rays of the sun began to creep over the vast cragged horizon of Eastern Afghanistan, US Army Captain Troy Evans set off on foot from the US army base in Shakani. In his company were more than two hundred coalition soldiers, border police officers, and Afghan troops all heading to the miniature village of Ganjgal in the hilly province of Kunar.
Among the two hundred men was a tall, heavily built US army soldier named Kieron Davis. Davis had previously been on duty in Afghanistan in 1996 in the sanguinary operation that witnessed the death of the ill-famed Taliban military commander, Tawhid Aslam. This operation had, nonetheless, left him very devastated after he lost his best friend Nixon Carter in a gunfight. Davis and his platoon had been ordered to clear a Tawhid Aslam Mahaz, a small insurgent force associated with the Taliban leader in Zabul. As they entered a ruined building, a skirmish exchange of gunfire broke out and Davis and his colleagues were trapped in the building. Davis, armed with an M249 SAW machine gun, got in the room where the insurgents were hiding and sprayed bullets on them, forcing them to flee. On getting out the building, however, an insurgent fired an RPG missile towards them, which left all his colleagues dead. Davis was lucky as he was behind clearing the body of a man he shot.
After getting back home, Davis would often have flashbacks of this event, a symptom that is typically associated with post-traumatic stress disorder. He became awfully withdrawn from normal life and suicidal thoughts started creeping in. Captain Evans and his men walked slowly, judiciously calculating their steps to avoid stepping on the deadly IEDs. IEDs were few and far between in these regions of Afghanistan but nobody was willing to lose a part of his/her body due to a casual misstep. Evans had already served in numerous missions in the Gulf and Afghan and was often a mentor to Davis, helping him through training and controlling his brutal memories from the past which often held him back. He is no stranger to the nuance of working with Afghani soldiers, however, in spite of his experience in combat and knowledge of the landscape, he could not foresee what was coming. As the sun began to light up the dust-covered Ganjgal village, Evans and his men continued to march forward. They soon came to an observational point where the group divided into two groups. Davis moved with Captain Evans’ group that continued its march towards the village.
“Remember to keep an eye on each other,” Captain Evans warned.
Evans and his men had almost reached the village when all the lights went dark. The men had unforeseeably walked in a trap. Silence engulfed the small village, and everyone became hysterical, waiting for something to happen.
“Atash!” A voice called out, as a swarm of Taliban soldiers came charging at Davis and his team.
Taliban fighters opened fire towards the troops from unseen positions around the perimeter that surrounded the village. Scrambling to evade the spray of bullets, the forces took shelter, cautious of the slippery sludge that spans across the ground. The fighters launched RPGs against them and killed a considerable number of soldiers. The sweet, metallic scent of blood filled the air and created a red mist, turning the once blue sky into cherry red. Davis was in the process of hiding in the Ganjgal valley when he suffered two shots to his right arm, the bullet ripped through his body, tearing through flesh.
He ran across the hilly wilderness and was soon growing wary, the only thing to be heard was the lub-dub, lub-dub, of his racing heartbeat, deafening the cries of wounded soldiers and the gunfire in the distance. He had lost his weapons in the fight and he was profusely bleeding from the pelting bullets targeted at him. He had savored the prospects of death, but he did not want to go out in this manner. Soon he approached a road, and, in the distance, he saw a truck. These kinds of trucks were particularly used by the Taliban forces for supplying artillery and foodstuffs and Davis knew that his death was near. Davis accidentally kicked sand in his eye, causing it to ache but he cannot muster up the energy to care. There was no place to hide in sight and he just stood there miserable, holding his trembling arm which leaked blood onto the grass. The truck got to him and pulled over. In it was a US-educated medical doctor named Adriana Foster. Adriana was born of a US father and an Afghani mother and she had the best of both worlds. She had gradually become a medic of the US missions in Afghanistan due to wreck that the Taliban forces had created in Afghanistan. She always dreamed of a peaceful nation and the US could grant her the ideal, peaceful Afghanistan, she desired.
Adriana decided to carry Davis with her. She knew Davis would not last another day without the Taliban forces catching up with him or dying from excessive bleeding and hunger. Adriana carried Davis to her home almost twenty kilometers northwest of Ganjgal and immediately embarked on treating him. She removed the bullets and applied peroxide on the wounds to prevent gangrene or infections from developing. Shortly thereafter, Davis woke up and immediately became rampageous.
“Who are you?” Davis asked in a husky voice.
He treated any Afghani citizen with extreme pessimism and cynicism especially after what he had been through. Adriana was, however, very calm and explained to Davis that her motives were pure, and she was an Afghanistan war medic. They talked at length about the war and it is at this time that Davis divulged his suicidal thoughts to someone for the first time. Adriana was the opposite of Davis in every way. While Davis was rather impetuous, perhaps due to the fast-paced environment of combat, Adriana was cautious. Also, while the military man had an impulsive demeanor, the medic appeared to have all the time in the world. This trait exhibited itself in the way she interacted with those around her. Despite these differences, Davis found her to be good company.
On several nights, the two stayed up and talked until around three in the morning as Adriana told one of her many tales about her childhood. He liked that they could find something to laugh about despite their contrasting backgrounds and always encouraged the stories from the past. When they first met, he was in too much pain to appreciate her beauty. However, as the more he recovered, the more he appreciated her hourglass figure and jet-black hair. He also adored her high-pitch laugh and always looked for ways to hear it, including tickling her. Adriana, on the other hand, had initially been put off by the know-it-all attitude that the American demonstrated. He was also stubborn and had a rather pessimistic outlook of life. However, as they spent more time together, she came to understand his tragic background. She, nonetheless, appreciated his sense of humor and playful nature. Deeply, she was attracted to him but could not bring herself to admit that the liked the rugged soldier she picked up and nursed to health. Over time, they slowly grew fond of each other as they shared each other’s experiences and gave each other companionship in an environment that was extremely dangerous. Unsurprisingly, they soon connected romantically.
Weeks later, Adriana heard gunshots a few kilometers away and knew that the Taliban forces were closing in.
“At this rate, I must go to Kabul and see if I can get the proper medication and tools to help you,” Adriana told Davis.
Kabul was far from Adriana’s house and she saw the only way she could get there was through a plane. She knew a fellow medic who would provide her with a small aircraft that was used for emergency services. The duo drove to the place and Adriana’s colleague readily gave them the craft. Meanwhile, Davis would stay with Adriana’s colleague until Adriana came back. She promised to come back as soon as she got the help she needed. Davis had grown profoundly fond of her particularly due to her zeal and the vast knowledge she had about the American wars in Afghanistan and the Gulf.
Adriana had barely gone for two kilometers when a missile shot by the Taliban flew past her and hit the right wing of the plane. The plane lost control and luckily submerged in an oasis. The Taliban drove towards her and captured her. As luck would have it, the Taliban were in a dire need of a medic and Adriana came in the right moment. The Taliban convinced her that they would provide security to her since the war was at its zenith. She unwillingly obliged because the insurgents would have killed her anyway if she refused. Davis and Adriana’s colleague saw the blast and assumed Adriana had been killed.
In the US, word had gone by about the tragic events that met the US troops and a rescue team was airlifted from the Maxwell air force Base in the US. Soon a rescue mission was launched which saw the death of many Taliban forces. Davis learned about the rescue team and, using Adriana’s truck, traveled to the US embassy headquarters in Kabul. He was flown back to the US and learned about the death of his Army Captain including much of his team. As one of the few survivors of the war, Davis was showered with numerous accolades and was promoted to the rank of Sergeant Major. However, to him, these accolades would not fill the void that he felt with Adriana dead. In the short time that he had with Adriana, he felt invigorated and lively and had always wanted to feel her in his presence. Memories of his time with her and the image of her dark tanned skin never left his mind. On numerous occasions, he wished that it was him on the aircraft instead of Adriana, or that Adriana never saved him so then, the suffocating feeling of death will swallow him whole and he can be at peace.
Ten years later in 2004, word came out that a new insurgent force had broken out in the Afghan capital. Davis, being among the few Sergeants who knew the political landscape well and having previously fought in two operations, was deployed in the mission, this time not as an infantry. In one of the raids in the Eastern part of Kabul, he saw a face that he knew all too well, laying unconsciously. Cuts and bruises covered her face and across her arms, that looked like they were at least a week old. Her black hair, which was now cut short from the last time he saw her, had dried up blood, almost looking like streaks through her hair. He momentarily felt like his mind was playing a trick on him. Adriana was one of the civilians rescued in the raid and with her was a little boy clinging to her side.
The medics rush in to try to help Adriana, but the young boy refuses to leave her side, so they only take her vitals.
“My name is Kieron, but everybody calls me Davis.” The young boy doesn’t say anything but squints his eyes, causing Davis to think that perhaps he heard his name before.
“I’m not going to hurt you or her” Davis says looking over at Adriana, “I met her a long time ago and she saved my life.”
Davis continues with the questions and asks, “Can I come closer?” and the young boy nods his head seeming unsure whether to trust him or not, eyes never leaving his sight.
“What’s your name?” Davis asks, but still, he gets no answer.
Still trying to get any information he asks, “Are you ten or about to turn ten soon?” The boy’s eyes shot wide open and that gave him the answer he needed.
After a few minutes, Adriana is conscious and becomes frantic when she doesn’t see the little boy but relaxes when she sees that he has not moved.
Adriana looks up and notices Davis examining her, looking her body up and down.
“Davis,” she says, as pain flashes through her eyes. Davis’s heart begins to break as he imagines everything that she must have been through, alone, besides the little boy.
“Adriana” Davis responds.
Ending the awkward silence, Davis asks the question that has been on his mind the moment he walked into the bunker, “Who is the little boy?”
“Davis, meet Tyler, my— our son,” she corrects herself.
Davis looks back to Tyler, taking in his appearance and notices that he shares the same big dark brown eyes as him, opposed to Adriana who has green, sparkling eyes.
Davis did not realize that five years earlier he had fathered a son. At that moment, he thought that perhaps his suicidal operation in Afghanistan ten years earlier was a blessing in disguise.