FOREWORD "Tales from the Southeast" [Excerpts]

"What most troubled the troops - fighting the PKK terror during the early 90s - was the fact that the rest of Turkey was totally unaware of what was going on in that arena, and the realities behind it. Mothers, fathers, siblings, spouses, lovers, the media, diplomats, politicians, almost every level of government… as well as soldiers, who had not been to the Southeast corner of Turkey yet… everyone, was totally oblivious to the fact that a bloody and vicious battle with terrible consequences was playing itself out over there. While the media – with few exceptions – chose to report things haphazardly, the true fight against the terrorist organization PKK was left in the hands of the Turkish military. At the time though, both Turkish and international public opinion was in a state of indecision and hesitation, about an issue that in later years left no argument about its wrongfulness.

Nevertheless, the Turkish Armed Forces came out victorious from the battlefield aspect of this conflict, thus relieving the country from a heavy burden. With time, as the wave of terror engulfed the whole world, the concept of fighting terror on a local scale proved to be ineffective, leading to worldwide collaboration against it. Contrary to this newly accepted concept, the fight of the Turkish military against PKK terrorism at that time was mostly deemed “unjust”. Mr. Hasan Pulur, legendary Turkish columnist ended his column dated January 31, 1999 – in reference to this book in your hands, and to this period in history – with these bitter words: “No government in the world can achieve such high success in keeping its people in the dark, about an ongoing war that was threatening its unity.”

It was under these conditions - that in July 1991, in a tiny cave on the Lisek Summit of the 2820 meter high Kato Mountain in the eastern Van/Catak region of Turkey – I started to jot down the first words in my diary… words rebelling, not against “the hardship we had to endure, but against the secrecy and unawareness” of what was happening. The notes I took, emphasizing national unity against terrorism, was the starting point of the “Tales from the Southeast”… a collection of anecdotes written in protest against the cloak of secrecy that kept the rest of the country in the dark.

“Tales from the Southeast” depicts only a fraction of the hundreds of thousands of memoirs told by those who experienced this most challenging period of Turkey’s history firsthand. The majority of these stories are anecdotes of still active government employees, veterans, families of the fallen, doctors, nurses, judges, pilots, those left behind, those that never made it there, those that are still there, and those that made it back. Upon unanimous request by those sharing their memoirs, the names of people and places have not been mentioned in any of the stories. All these memoirs have come to be recounted with the consent of the tellers – at the end of arduous and sometimes troubling interviews – turned into stories, maintaining an accurate truthfulness to the actual events. In a struggle that now seems to be over, but in actual fact still continues, the risk of exposing people still involved with this battle, is still as real now as it was when the book was written.

It might be argued that there is no point talking and writing after all the bloodshed … all the loss of life. But there are two basic reasons that urged me to write this book. The first and most pressing one was the concern that, if no records existed, years from now, no one would believe what had really taken place. Another one was the just legitimacy of fighting a terrorist organization.

The frustratingly inexplicable inability as well as the groundless half-baked “so-called” truths of public opinion spin-doctors, still provide a source of inspiration for me. This book, which was born thanks to these distortions, has now become the nucleus of a new novel, breaking the boundaries of short anecdotes, bringing together a number of the heroes of “Tales from the Southeast”, giving a clearer picture of their psyche. I believe that those who have wasted years of Turkey’s future by taking advantage of the war against terrorism will be conquered by the remarkable patience of the Turkish people. Bearing in mind that history is created by those who write it, and that justice is always on the side of the powerful, I do believe that Turkey will eventually prevail over those that have threatened its independence."

Hakan Evrensel

March 2004

Ankara, (Turkey)

THREE STORIES FROM "TALES FROM THE SOUTHEAST

COMBAT

I ejected the empty the clip and slammed in a fresh one… no time to check whether the first round was a tracer. My hands had stopped shaking. I had adjusted to this mayhem. With a crack, another bullet tore into a leaf just above me. I looked up and observed that there were maybe only 20-30 leaves left on this giant tree. Both sides had dug in, and from the looks, must have continuously peppered each other since the wee hours of the morning. It hadn’t even been five minutes since we had reached the summit, but from what I saw the situation was dire. Sporadic moments of silence did not last for long, and in each and every case, gave way to intense and heavy gunfire. One could easily distinguish between the sound of an AK47 and the G-3. Compared to the deep knock of the G-3, the AK47 had a much more piercing buzz… and the sound of a terrorist RPG-7 (Rocket Propelled Grenade Launcher) was much more spine-chilling than the LAW (Light Antitank Weapon) the soldiers wielded. The RPG-7 would emit three distinct sounds. First, when the trigger is pulled, there is the small crack caused by the accelerant; then the tearing sound of the rocket travelling through the air to the target; and finally the big bang upon impact. This weapon was capable of launching a variety of missiles. Anti-personnel missiles would detonate in mid-air at a certain height, leaving a hanging cloud of smoke and dust. Along the way, we had all become experts in differentiating the various sounds of battle.

“ Here we go... here comes a mortar round... and that... is an incoming RPG. The BKC is working overtime boys. Hey guys... watch out for anti-aircraft fire.”

Sixty of us were crammed into one little area where three soldiers would have done the job. Most units were stuck on a few tiny knolls, and in the chaos no one really knew where and what they were shooting at. Since we had only recently arrived, I thought it wise to crawl to one of the battle hardened officers, who had spent the whole night in this mess.

 “Howdy, sir... where is the target?”

He briefly looked at me, and then returned his gaze to where he thought the target was.

“Well look at that... what have we here? Just what we needed, more troops. Look, I’m going to blast a tracer in their direction. See...?”

I straightened up a bit and peeked... yes... there they were.

“Wouldn’t it be more effective to throw a few handgrenades, sir? They’re right under our noses..”

With obvious sarcasm, he said:

“Well, thanks for the reminder... it had never occured to me...

Look, son... the elevation of that hill must have come down by at least 50 yards, from all the stuff we have been blasting them with since this morning. I take one of them down, three more take his place. I blast those away... five more arrive. Some of them just wander around in a daze. They must be on drugs. They have suffered immense casualties.”

As if in a trance, he was talking without looking at me. I could not decipher the expression on his face, whether he was angry, sad, or just fed up. After a brief pause he went on:

“Whatever... you listen to this. A guy goes into this bakery...”

Letting out a curt but hearty laughter, he swung to the side of the log he was using as cover, and squeezed off a few rounds.

“... and he says to the baker...”

As I was watching him in disbelief, he squeezed off a few more rounds, and let out another bellowing guffaw...

“...why aren’t you laughing yet...anyway, he says to the baker... ‘give me 99 loaves of bread’...”, he fired off another round.

“...the baker counts the loaves...”, another chuckle, and subsequent squeeze of the trigger. But this time the gun did not fire. Realizing that the had emptied the clip, he turned around, and continued with the joke as he replaced the spent clip with a full magazine.

“... and then the baker says... look you’re still not laughing buster, I’m not gonna tell you the rest...”

I was speechless. I was well aware that they had been crammed in here since last night, that morale was low, and that he had lost many of his men... but I still could not figure out this reaction.

“Ok, sir... look... I am laughing... lets get this over with...”

After firing a few more rounds, he continued:

“’Why 99 and not 100?’, asked the baker...”

This time I crawled all the way to his side, and squeezed off a few rounds myself, joining his laughter. I did not know why, but nevertheless , there I was, laughing...

“So what did the guy say, sir?” , I asked.

“Well he said, ‘what am I gonna do with 100 loaves, who’s gonna eat all that bread?’...”

We were cracking up, and both of us were now roaring with laughter. The soldiers behind us joined the chorus, and with tears rolling down our cheeks, I decided right then and there that this was the funniest joke I had ever heard. Then I suddenly froze, and started staring at a single leaf on the tree above me, while I was trying to figure out, why in fact I was laughing. I couldn’t.

Just then, a powerful explosion rocked the landscape. A mortar round had landed behind the hill we were on. As we were trying to figure out who the shooter was, another one landed on the same spot. We had both stopped laughing. The team commander telling the joke started swearing into the handheld.

“God damn you. A hundred yards closer and we would have been toast. Stop this nonsense!”

A few minutes passed and the third mortar round exploded even closer.

“Who the hell is firing these things? This one is just 50 yards off. What’s the deal here?”

The handheld crackled and the reply chilled us to our bones.

“Whoever this clown is, talking on the walkie… listen to me. Since the Cobra helicopters are on the way, we had stopped firing some time ago. These are not friendly mortars… repeat... this is not friendly fire. If you keep directing them with your 100 yards, and 50 yards, you’ll find out soon enough who’s blasting you, when you embrace the fourth one with your name on it.”

Without waiting for the sentence to finish, we both instinctively jumped out of our cover, and with ducked heads, started running for our lives. The fourth mortar round fell right on top of the cover where just a few minutes ago I had been listening to my favorite joke, completely destroying the area, leaving behind nothing but dust and smoke. We were staring at each other… he was grinning from ear to ear. Again, a few minutes passed, and with the Cobras now in sight, the pounding of the mortar stopped. We had to get back to our previous spot, since we could not leave that hill without coverage… so we started crawling back. I was intently listening for the whistling sound of the mortar round, but with all the noise around me -- machine guns, RPGs, choppers – I was not sure whether I could pick out the mortar sound from among this cacophony. But nevertheless we were crawling towards our destiny, and soon took up position again. As I slightly straightened up to have a peek at the terrorist positions, I saw someone running towards us. I yelled: “One of them got up. I’m going to zap him.” But no sooner had I flicked off the safety than the officer put his hand on the barrel, stopping me from shooting. According to him, this was another one of the defectors. Since this morning at least ten such guys had tried to cross over, shouting: “I surrender”, and running for their lives at the same time, but none of them had made it past the hill. All of them had gotten nailed in the back by their own. To give this guy a fighting chance, we both started to shower the terrorist positions with automatic fire, and as we were firing, we were guiding the defector to our position, yelling:

“Nobody fire at this runner… hurry up… here… we won’t shoot you… bend down… crawl… keep your head down, boy.”

It was a scene of horror. The runner was a young boy, and he was zigging and zagging to avoid catching a round in the back, and we were trying to save the life of a terrorist of all people.

I had my finger on the trigger, spraying the whole area with a hail of bullets.

“God damn it”, the officer said, “they’ve lobbed a grenade…duck… duck you sucker… take a dive..”

“Boooom…” and the inevitable ending… just as before. This time, since they could not lift their heads and shoot due to our cover fire, they had chosen to lob a grenade in the defector’s direction. We listened to the boy’s screams for a few minutes… and among the sounds of an ongoing battle those same screams were at first reduced to a moan, and finally stopped all together.

I was distraught. For the first time in my life, someone had perished right in front of my eyes, and I had been completely helpless. I turned to the officer, and told him that I wanted to erect a few more covers, and then started crawling away from our position. He yelled after me not to bother, something about it being impossible…but I had no choice. Only a few positions, including the one I just left, provided the protection and made it possible to shoot from. Those that could not find cover, which made up most of the unit, sat behind the hill, and did basically nothing. Those out in the open and without cover didn’t dare show their positions, and as such did not fire at all. We started on the first one, by dragging rocks from the rear, and then by crawling and pushing them in front of our heads up the slope. The moment we were within the enemy’s sight the rock in front of our heads would get hit numerous times, and sometimes even pulverized, so that we would have to duck back to get new ones. Almost every member of the team of about sixty, now was hurriedly gathering rocks behind the hill – away from enemy fire – and bring it to the two crawling officers – us -, who were trying to pile them up to erect some covers.

It was backbreaking, tedious work, and what under normal circumstances should not have taken no more than half an hour, could only be completed through shift work, after several hours.

Two bulwarks were erected, and teams would take turns in manning them with firepower, while the rest of the team would supply the ammo from positions in the rear, safe from enemy fire.

From the moment we had joined this mayhem, Cobras, cannon fire, as well as mortar rounds, and fighter planes were all buzzing overhead. What shook us to the core though, were the bombs dropped by the fighter planes. Because of our proximity to the terrorist positions, we could feel the earth shifting under us. These bombs also had a disadvantage. The dust and smoke these bombs would lift did not dissipate immediately – sometimes taking up to half an hour to clear. This gave the terrorists the smoke screen and time they needed to move around and reposition.

While we were working on the bulwarks, I got my marching orders. All units were to unleash their firepower on terrorist positions at precisely the same moment, supported by fighter jets. We got to work, and completed our preparations. The LAWs got assembled; the artillery took position. I lined up my machine gunners. We were ready for the big bang… and a bang it was. As usual, the artillery led the way, and soon we were throwing at them, everything in our arsenal. RPGs, heavy machine guns, rifles, hand grenades, shoulder missiles, artillery… anything and everything we could throw, shoot, or launch. I had never witnessed anything like this in my life. My soldiers, while incessantly squeezing the trigger and emptying their magazines in one salvo, were screaming and yelling like children on a joyride. It was a scene from hell on earth… Apocalypse Now! had nothing on this madness. Amidst this infernal bedlam, nobody could pick out the sound of his own weapon.

Later on, the company that was now jammed in this narrow strip of desolate land, faced a threat other than enemy fire. After the initial artillery barrage, the Cobra helicopters hovering overhead were discarding a sizzling hail of shellcasings right on top of us. In the ensuing chaos, it would be futile for me to try to reach and alert the choppers. Something hot hit my cheek. I touched it… there was no blood, only a burning sensation. There… again. Glancing over to the soldier firing his weapon next to me I realized that, after somersaulting in the air, his rifle's hot empty cartridges were ejecting right into my cheek. I called out to him, but he didn’t hear. I ended up getting his attention with a kick. The poor guy, flustered, lowered his head, cracked a sheepish smile, and kept on firing.

Suddenly a powerful explosion, loud enough to suppress the battle pandemonium, lifted me up and dropped me a few yards back. Amidst a thick dust cloud, I heard yelling and screaming. My backpack, rifle, and binoculars were all over the place. As I got my bearings, and the buzzing in my ears dissipated, I checked my surroundings. My company was not where they had been a few seconds ago. Everyone that had been thrown about was either dusting off or trying to find their weapon. I was terrified. It surely had not been a mortar round that hit us, nor had it been an RPG; and strangely from what I could deduce, there were no casualties. Then what the hell was it? Where had it landed? It had to be pretty close, but I just couldn’t figure it out. I had the air knocked out of me, and felt dizzy. So, for a while, I just lay there on my back. What on earth could be so powerful as to lift and scatter all these men like matchsticks? I asked whether anyone was hurt, and the answer was: “No, sir!” We had dodged the bullet on this one, for sure. But what about the next one? I looked up, and saw an F-16 fighter tearing right over me. It suddenly struck me that this marvel of technology, the mere sight of which would evoke in me contrasting feelings of pride and envy, was the culprit.

I hollered: “Down... everybody down!” , and this time the F-16, hugging the landscape close enough for me to see every detail of its pilot, dropped the two-thousand pounders right on the intended target. Apparently it was their turn again. I felt relieved, but not for long. I suddenly remembered the team I had sent forward to the grove fifty yards away. What if they got the brunt of it? There was no way that any of them would make it out of there alive. Suddenly the whole landscape started to spin. I was losing it. What was I going to do? My whole body started shaking uncontrollably. In this havoc, how was I going to collect their remains – whatever was left of them? How was I going to evacuate the wounded, if any?... there was no place for the choppers to land. I only had a single field doctor available to me, and if the bomb had landed right where they were we would simultaneously have to deal with at least ten casualties. How was I to pull this off? There was not enough serum available for such a mass casualty. How was I to amass enough bandages from the first aid packs of the other soldiers? What if in the midst of this tragedy, we would receive an order to pull back. Trying to keep my composure, I spoke into the walkie-talkie:

“Deniz... Deniz... are you there? Answer me... Deniz.”

I had gone on air, disregarding every battle etiquette in the book. I had forgotten the team’s call sign, and was addressing the team commander by his name. On top of that I was holding the handheld upside down, mindlessly yelling his name over and over again. There was no reply, I was about to lose my mind, and the soldiers standing next to me were watching me with eyes wide open. I decided to send a team of two to the area. Under heavy fire, they started to crawl towards the grove. I just sunk to the ground, and scooped up a handful of dirt, that had been softened by the tremor. The compact clay of a few minutes ago had become as loose as beach sand. For another five minutes my calls remained unanswered. The pounding of the area by fighter jets was still in full force, with one jet after the other dropping their bombs on specified targets. Again, I started to picture us picking up the pieces... their pieces... pieces of my men. What would I put them in? We had no ponchos or blankets. To reduce weight, we had left them back at the camp, and they were to arrive later on choppers. All we had on were our uniforms and underwear. We would have to improvise, but how? I remembered their team sergeant. Just a few weeks ago I had pinned on his sergeant insignia myself. Their team commander – a lieutenant – was a friend of mine. We had mutual dreams and aspirations. His fiancee finally had given up on him claiming: ” I just can’t take this anymore, constantly waiting in fear, for the other shoe to drop.” She was seeing someone else now. Our plan was to go and convince her to take him back. On the same team, there was a petty officer, whose car got rear-ended when he was on leave, and he was getting the run around from the insurance company. I had recently decided to send the rear guard of this team, on the first convoy out to the comms office, so he could contact his home. One of his kids was sick. He was worried... just then, the walkie-talkie crackled:

“Aras 1 here… all is well, we’re all O.K. and in one piece. The bomb hit the side of the hill. We are carrying on with our mission. Sir, could you please alert Air Control to get their shit together… especially that particular fighter jock…”

His voice was fading in and out. Apparently the battery of his handheld was dying. But despite the weak signal, and all the noise surrounding me, I had heard every bit of detail in his voice, as well his message. I got my nerve back, and felt revived. I passed the good news on to my troops around me, and then barked the next order:

“ Let’s get to work boys. Use your ammo sparingly, keep it at semi-auto. This is only the beginning.”

A leviathan of a bomb had just landed in our laps, and there wasn’t a single scratch on anyone.

I was ecstatic. I crawled over to the machine gun spotter, and scanned the area. As I was drawing a bead to a rocky enclave, from which we were taking fire, I spotted a team creeping up towards the crest of the hill. While we were dealing with the bomb dropped on us, obviously a large-scale attack had been ordered, and was well under way by now. Frequently coming to a full stop, the crawling team was inching its way towards the target. The fighters passing just above them were dropping their loads on the hill right in front of them. The team was now stuck between friendly and enemy fires. One could see the tiny bullet marks landing next to them, but I was unable to locate the marksman who was taking pot shots at them. While I was deliberating, the inevitable happened, and I heard the first scream.

While the whole company was watching this scene, playing out right before their eyes, I was still busy, looking for the sniper. It was extremely frustrating, to see them taking such fire, and not be able to do anything about it. All we did was to make an educated guess, and then unleash heavy firepower towards those targets. The screams of the wounded soldier could be heard above the pandemonium… or so it seemed to me. His buddy, just a few yards behind, started to crawl up to him in a hurry, but took one in the shoulder before he got to him. They were both still fully exposed, and the terrorist sniper, taking full advantage of their helplessness, had increased the frequency of shots, his concentration now fully centered on those two. I called the battalion commander on the frequency. He immediately directed all available firepower towards the sniper’s position. I could not see the sniper from my vantage point, but obviously they had pinpointed his position from theirs. A hellish hail of bullets was tearing the terrorist positions apart. At this point, others close to the act had started to crawl to the wounded to extract them back to safety. One of those got hit, just as he reached the two wounded. The sniper, who was perched somewhere towards their rear, was having a field day by nailing them, the moment they came into his view. We now had three wounded in an area as large as a postage stamp. One of the soldiers, who made it there without getting hit, was now pulling one of the wounded into safety, right towards my company, which was the nearest safe spot. As soon as they reached safety, the doctor – a second lieutenant – inserted the serum. Another soldier, in support of one of the wounded, got hit. And then, miraculously, an F-4 dropped a bomb right into the heart of the sniper’s nest, and the firing stopped. My men, who saw the smoke and dust rising from the enemy position, had started running towards the wounded, before I could even give the order. Thanks to the smoke screen the bomb provided, we had ample time to move the wounded into safety. I saw another soldier go down, taking a hit by fire opened from another terrorist position. While they hastily pulled all the wounded to the triage area, I heard the doctor yelling:

” Bring me combat packs. Hurry up… someone bring me some bandages. I’m out of serum… Sir, call in the choppers.”

They had brought two of the wounded to him at the same time. The doctor, who was now running around in frustration, could not decide which one to attend to first, while one of the company commanders was yanking his chain.

“Doc… you came here as an intern, and in no time became a surgeon. What does Hippocrates have to say about all this?”

The doc, who was leaning over one of the wounded, replied without even looking up:

“Screw Hippocrates now… guys… guys… stop screaming, I will get to the both of you…I promise.”

Very little after his arrival, the doctor had gained the respect of the company, with his polite mannerism and respectable personality. He would manage to retain his calm and gentle demeanor in the face of just about anything happening around him. But now I was seeing him in a totally different light. While he was cursing at the top of his lungs, he was trying to stop the bleeding, his hands badly shaking.

“Apply pressure right here buddy… not like a girl… harder. Where the hell is your vein? Damn… I can’t find the vein… God damn you Apo [the terrorist leader]. God damn you, and the ones supporting you… you coward son of a bitch… you jackass...”

I was following the comms traffic on the walkie-talkie. The chopper to evacuate the wounded had arrived, alas with no secure place to land. The ground crew was directing the pilot:

“Negative… don’t touch down there. That location is drawing heavy fire.”… and as this line of communication dragged on, it took a toll on the pilot, who kept saying:

“Look this is your last chance. Soon darkness will set in, and the wounded will have to overnight right here. So, hurry up!”

Finally, despite all the objections, the pilot touched down on a patch, which was right in the line of enemy fire. The gunny, manning the Gatling gun at the door, was spraying enemy positions with deadly accuracy raising dust everywhere, causing havoc in their positions. The ground crew warned the pilot of the uneven and rocky terrain:

“Not there, sir… the bird will topple.”

The pilot’s reply was curt and this time more to the point:

” Don’t teach me how to do my job… just rush over the wounded.”

The wounded – accompanied by the doc - were now being hauled over to the top of the hill, to the patch the pilot had chosen to set the bird down. A few more screams tore through the sounds of heavy combat, as one of the haphazardly carried casualties slipped through hands and fell on the ground. Soon, thanks to the gutsy pilot, things quieted down, and they were on their way.

While watching the chopper disappear into the distance, I failed to notice one of my second lieutenants crawling up to me. With eyes as big as saucers, he was pointing his clenched fist at me:

“Sir, guess what I have here.”

“Buddy… do you really think this is the right time for this?”

“But sir, look…” and he opened his fist. Inside I saw an AK47 bullet.

“So what?” I replied. But reading the shock in his eyes, I took a step back.

“Tell me, what happened?”

“Sir, this bullet…” he stopped and pointed to the base of the bullet, “take a look sir.” His tone was ice cold, not the tone I was used to… it was almost as though he was losing his marbles.

“Look sir … the firing pin impact is right here, but the bullet did not go off.”

“What’s your point? There are thousands of those littering this area. So the gun jammed.”

“But this one had my name on it, sir. If his gun had not jammed, then instead of him, I would have been history.”

I recognized signs of him going into battle shock, and had to pull him out of it.

“Give me that bullet!” I ordered, “I’ll return it to you when we’re back in camp. Now go and join your team!” He crawled back the same way he came. I thumbed the base of the bullet. Indeed, the firing pin had struck the bullet. You could see the mark on the shell base. But somehow the bullet had not fired. I slid the bullet into the left breast pocket of my combat vest, and then returned to the melee, yelling:

“Don’t shoot without acquiring target. Don’t waste any ammo. It is not us, who will retreat… it will be them.”

And retreat they did. Soon thereafter we returned to our outpost. I summoned the second lieutenant and handed over his bullet. He strung it on a piece of rope, and hung it around his neck, pointing out that he was never to take it off again.

“Sir, this will always be a reminder, of my life going into overtime.”

GARİP ( The Forlorn )

In a time and place when one starts to doubt and question all values, one unlikely and unexpected source of inspiration lifts the spirit and puts it all back into perspective...

Nighttime is ambush time. Units that are not taking part in major military operations, take turns in setting up ambush missions by positioning themselves along the hills facing their outpost, establishing a safety zone against enemy attacks. The teams on such missions would never stray too far from the outpost, since that would lead to being ambushed themselves by terrorist teams lurking in these hills. They would usually find the most strategic hill among the many, providing the best vantage point of the area, and then would dig in and go stealth. It was one of those nights, and if I am not mistaken, an important derby game between two major teams in the Turkish soccer league was on. It was our turn to go out tonight… during the game broadcast… and I was royally pissed off. Once darkness set in, it took us about half an hour to reach our mission zone, and – to thwart any nasty surprises – we scanned every inch of the area with mine detectors. Earlier in the day we had seen shepherds herding their sheep through this area, which raised some red flags with us. Just last month, a “wolf in sheep’s clothing” – a terrorist dressed as a shepherd tending a flock – had laid a whole area with mines, and as a result one of us had lost a foot. Everyone took his assigned position, and the waiting game began. We had the whole night ahead… with a clear sky, a rising moon, and its nerve-wracking silence. Not a single sound, even from the cicadas. Only the distant hum of the generator at the outpost.

The generator was a crucial piece of equipment in these quarters. Ours was a Honda... not too powerful, but at least new. We had bought it with our own money, and it had not let us down since the day it had arrived. Initially we were considering a Holgar, but when told that this piece of Japanese technology was far superior to the Holgar, without hesitation, we went for the Honda. When first assigned to this region, I was in fact unaware of the critical importance of generators. But I soon learned that they were our insurance. Without fail, the PKK’s [terrorist organization] goal would be to cut the power off before a raid –that is, when there wasn’t a power outage to begin with. During a raid, internal lights, such as lighting inside the buildings and tents, had to be turned off immediately. But outside, the extremely powerful search and floodlights that were aimed to blind the raiders, had to be on and functional all the time.

Our area lighting system functioned magnificently. When power was on, the generator kept quiet, but would spring into high gear as soon as the power went down and, once all internal lighting was turned off, would direct all its juice to the crucial element of external illumination. Previous to the Honda we had a couple of these old army clunkers – joke of a generator – and sometimes it would take the technical team all night trying to fix them. I attempted fixing them myself a few times, and found out first hand what a piece of junk I was dealing with. First of all they were behemoths, emanating a terrible noise, leaking oil and fuel, frequently burning out the motor – with us, all the while, trying to patch it up for one more night, until the next breakdown. On top of that, their power left much to be desired, with a capacity to supply only some of the floodlights, which after a while would diminish to levels of romantic candlelight. With the arrival of our new generator, the area was now lit up like Las Vegas on New Year’s Eve.

Although it was mid summer, the nights were chilly, and we had our ponchos on. With my rifle on my lap, I was ducked under my poncho, taking puffs from my cigarette that was hidden inside my palm. I would cup both palms over the glow, to prevent prying eyes from locating it. That was the way it was done. There was a high risk involved with smoking on an ambush mission; so I would not let my men smoke... but when craving came knocking, I myself just could not resist. While scanning the silhouettes of hills against the night sky backdrop, my lieutenant and I were discussing plans of jointly purchasing a car on our next leave. We were old friends, and had decided to get ourselves a beat up old Mercedes. It was to be black... and if it wasn’t we were to get it painted black... but in the end it had to be black. We knew that those models were fuel guzzlers, but we didn’t care. He wanted to have white stripes on the sidewalls of the wheels, and I was going over the accessories we would get for the interior. First and foremost, there would be two passport-sized photos, one of each of us, on opposite corners of the rearview mirror… mine on the right, and his on the left. Since we both supported the same soccer team, we decided to have their symbol – a yellow canary, together with a dark blue handmade amulet, hanging down from the mirror.

“OK then”, he said “ in that case lets have a black bead rosary around the gear stick, and some reflective stickers on the axle”. As our new vehicle got created in our imagination, we were chuckling at our own foolishness. An eagle head would top the gear stick, a Michelin Man would be sitting on top of the roof, the interior would be lined with purple velvet, and there would be red, green, and blue LED lights everywhere. On the rear window there would be the familiar sticker of the fat lady running, and opposite to that the scorpion sticker. We were just shooting the breeze, but we were actually quite determined. That night we sealed our plans with a prolonged session of promises not to chicken out under any circumstances. It started as one of those run-of-the-mill small talks, which so often took place during a quiet and uneventful ambush watch, but then suddenly got cut short by a tense voice on the walkie-talkie:

“Lighter, from Lighter 13…. Lighter 13, calling Lighter!”

“Damn!”, I cursed silently, “ for once let us have a peaceful night. We've already missed the game, let us enjoy the night at least.” The caller was one of my men in another dugout.

“I’m listening son, go ahead”

“Sir, can you come over here. I’m hearing noises”

Reluctantly I got up: “I’m on my way, son. Keep your eyes and ears peeled, and your hand grenades at the ready.” I then told my buddy – the lieutenant – to go and check with all other dugouts, one at a time. In a crouching trot, I slowly made my way to the point that made the call. Once I reached their six, I called out softly. One of the three soldiers in the dugout turned around and pointed towards the source of the noise.

“Sir, can you hear?… it sounds as if someone is crawling… right there.”

I started to scrutinize the area illuminated by the floodlights, and concentrated on the perimeter where darkness began. We had placed the floodlights in an overlapping manner, so that none of the creek beds in this area were left uncovered. Basically there were no blind spots. In our context “blind spots” stood for areas that were left in the dark; a term also used for fire coverage… an area that would not be covered by crossfire. I asked the soldiers for a pair of night-vision goggles, and once fitted over my head and calibrated to the distance indicated, I scanned the area once again… still no movement. I crouched down next to the trio, and told them to stay put. It was dead quiet. This absolute silence lasted for about three minutes…still no sound to be heard. Maybe they had heard the footsteps of some terrorists, who froze, realizing they had been detected.

“Son, there’s nothing there.”

“Sir, look at the cone of this floodlight, and then move towards where it ends… see that bush on the ledge. That’s where the sounds were coming from, as if someone was crawling.”

I scanned the area in question one more time, then debated whether I should drop the whole matter and go back.

But what if someone was really there, and I had missed him? While I started to walk towards the mortar pit, I got on the frequency to let battalion command know that I was going to launch an illumination mortar round towards the east. Once there, I pointed out to the mortar crew the location I wanted illuminated, and then laid it out to them:

“Lets see what you’re made of… because if you can’t do the job, you’ll be practicing from dawn till dusk tomorrow.”

Within the next minute I first heard the characteristic “thump”, and then the piercing whistle of the round tearing through the night. The target area turned into day. Everybody kept their eyes peeled; and while sweeping the hill with mine, this time I heard the sounds, too. Something or someone was moving through the underbrush. I immediately called HQ. We had heard the sounds, but had been unable to get a visual. I had therefore decided to fire off a warning salvo, just to give the other party the chance to come out – in case it was really a terrorist. I explained my intentions to everyone on the company frequency. No one but me was to shoot. They were only authorized to return fire, should their positions come under attack. Not to give away my position, I stepped away a few yards, and let go a series of shots, ending the peaceful night we had so far in the valley. Some rounds ricocheted off the rocks, but no one returned fire.

Then again, the rustling sounds still could be heard. “There is no way they could get this close”, I said to myself. We had had no intel or warning about an imminent ambush for quite some time… yet what if they had actually made it this far. I heard the walkie-talkie crackle …the battalion commander came on-air, asking what was going on. I gave him the short version, upon which he ordered me to take a few men and do a re-con to the hill in question… exactly what I was considering to be my next step. I picked my crew, and asked HQ to turn off the floodlights on our path.

Once the lights were off, we waited for a while for our eyes to adjust and come out of the temporary blindness, and then started to walk towards our target area. Slowly, carefully, and meticulously we approached the hill, our guns at the ready with the safety switched off, to engage at a moment’s notice, should we start taking fire. The machine gunners were on stand-by to join the music the moment the fracas started. At a point closer to the hill, we stopped. From here on, we would have to crouch and eventually crawl the rest of the way. I ducked down, turned down the volume of the walkie, and then scanned the hill through the night vision goggles. Still no movement in sight. I was on edge, expecting the shriek of an RPG-7 at any given moment. I tapped my chest, and felt the assuring and familiar shape of the handgrenade. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the point man stopping dead in his tracks. He was gesturing for us to squat. In a split second all six of us were flat on the ground, our ears tuned in to the slightest sound around us, listening to the rustling through the bush. Ever so slowly, we raised our guns...

“Sir, look…”

“What?..”

The soldier next to me directed my attention by pointing towards the thicket… and that’s when I saw a pair of eyes looking right at me. They belonged to a sheep, totally oblivious to what is taking place around him, chewing away, staring at us human beings indifferently. What had the whole battalion on high alert for the last quarter of an hour - with shivers running down our spines, shooting and shitting bullets - had been an unmoved ovine. My angry gaze met its sheepish glance. The soldier next to me was chuckling, and my irate stare kept moving between the chuckling soldier and the nonchalant sheep. The soldier, now taking the intensity of my eyes more seriously, and fully aware that I was to burst out in anger at any moment, was cupping his mouth with both hands, but could not stop laughter from escaping between his fingers, and echo across the valley. The rest of my men – spread out across the landscape, anxiously waiting with fingers on triggers – expecting the sounds of battle, first could not believe what they were hearing. Soon realizing what they were up against, they joined the chorus. Soon the whole company, myself included, was roaring with laughter. I coaxed over the sheep, petted its head, then grabbed it by the neck and yelled:

” You messed up our whole night. I’m going to make ground meat out of you, just you wait…”

…and of course the soldier, who started it all, got his share, too: “Cut this crap, get over it.” But he had lost it, and the more I yelled at him, the more he laughed. Finally I ordered him to take the sheep back to our dugout, so that it would not wander around and set off the alarms again. In fact I was at a loss as to how it had made it this far. The whole area was booby trapped with dozens of hand grenades; how it had not triggered any of them was beyond me. While herding the sheep away, the soldier offered me an educated guess:

“Sir, this one is from the truck of the other day. Landed here by chance. It is our property now, and during the upcoming month of sacrifice, we’ll slaughter it. It will make one mean stew.”

I was still pissed off at it, and if it were up to me, I would have slain it right then and there. What prevented me from doing it was the thought at the back of my mind that it might belong to one of the villagers. As all of this was playing itself out, HQ asked for urgent clarification. First I was speechless… then, I collected my thoughts and calmly spoke into the handheld:

“ An ovine of undetermined origin and nationality, located in the target zone, has been apprehended after a blitz operation. Mission accomplished.”

I was convinced that the signaller at HQ had not registered any of this, but in his stoic voice he returned with the standard reply: “Roger, out.” As we were making our way back to the dugout, sheep at our side, the team sergeant approached me. He too wanted the sheep to stay with our company. “We’ll see”, I replied. The soldier was probably right. This one probably had fallen off that truck. One of the forlorn hundreds smuggled into here from Iran or Afganistan. Numerous such trucks, each loaded with hundreds of such sheep, usually travelled westbound for days, and were stopped dozens of times at outposts such as ours, where the truck would undergo serious scrutiny. Two days ago, one of them was stopped at our outpost, and it was determined that his live cargo was contraband. Faced with the fact of having to drive back the thousands of miles he came, the driver lost it, and started to dump the sheep one after the other off the truck, yelling:

“Commander. Feed them to the soldiers. Look, these sheep are well-fed. Keep them, so that the soldiers get to eat them. I don’t want them back, commander.”

Chaos had ensued. In a matter of minutes dozens of sheep in need of releasing all their bottled up energy, after being cooped up for days, were now frantically running around, scampering to and fro. The soldiers, caught totally off-guard, were trying to round up the sheep and load them back onto the truck, while the trucker – now beside himself – was throwing them right back off. Finally we had been able to reason with the driver, and the sheep had been loaded back onto the truck, and he was sent off… back the way he came. This forlorn guy had apparently fallen between the cracks during that scuffle.

The next day we toured the hamlets, and asked if anyone was missing a sheep. No one was. So “Garip – meaning forlorn” became a member of our company, his handler being the soldier that had spotted him first. He was going to be our sacrificial lamb during the “Holy Month of Sacrifice”, and because of that he was to be fed well, and taken care of with love and affection. But things did not turn out that way. While in fact it was a sheep, instead of striking a rapport with his own kind around the neighboring hamlets, Garip preferred to establish an amicable relationship with the battalion’s guard dogs. He constantly riled them up to play, rammed them when the going got tough, and especially enjoyed getting on the puppies’ case. He went with us on missions close by, and we even shared our field rations with him. Some swear that they have seen him eating noodles, as well as canned chicken or veal. The topic of the day was usually Garip’s newly acquired tastes.

His antics during morning roll call, especially the “falling in line” part with the rest of us, was one of those unforgettable moments. On mornings when most of us had a short fuse, and were ready to go off, his existence alone would have a calming effect on the whole company, defusing the situation. On such mornings he would line up right next to his handler, and would not leave despite whatever was said to or thrown at him. While all the dogs got scolded dozens of times every day for the mischief they caused, not one soul would even think of getting on Garip’s case. If he created havoc, and tossed things around, we would just laugh it off saying “He’s forlorn, let him be.” As much as we welcomed him with open arms during most daily tasks, - such as watch duty in the dugouts, on missions, or during roll calls - the only time we definitely detested having him around was during morning calisthenics.

On one of such mornings Garip had taken his place among the team that had congregated for morning exercises. Once roll call was completed, as always the T-shirts came off, and a bunch of half naked men started to do their warm up routine. When it was time for the morning run – which consisted of short laps because of booby traps and mines outside the compound – Garip’s team commander, had one look at his sweaty troops, pointed towards the flag pole up the hill, yelling:

“Destination flag pole, on the double!”

Garip, caught off-guard by the sudden action around him, stood motionless for a moment, but once he got the idea, he started to run after the soldiers, who already had a headstart on him. The team commander added to his previous command:

“Whoever gets to the pole after Garip, will crawl barechested back down to the starting line... lets move ladies.”

Garip, already with a handicap of a few dozen yards, suddenly surged forward, and started to pass by the soldiers, one by one. As it dawned on them that they had no chance against the “forlorn”, they changed their tactics and headed straight for Garip. While some tried to catch him by the fluffy wool, others tried to grasp his legs, with Garip outmaneuvering their every move.

One soldier tried to trip him, but Garip countered his move with the elegance of a horse in a show-jumping competition. Finally Garip reached the flagpole before anyone else could even get close… and this quadruped member of the team was now “sheep”ishly looking on as the rest of his team, who – out of breath from exhaustion or laughter - were rolling on the ground. The team finally fell in line next to the flagpole. The rest of us had by now dropped whatever we were doing, and had joined in the laughter. The soldiers, now all over Garip – the apple of their eye -, were simultaneously teasing and scolding him – all in good fun.

From this day on, Garip took part in every morning run, and in every case was instrumental in them having to crawl, barechested, all the way back down to the starting line. The days – mostly filled with agony, but brightened by the morning antics of Garip – passed by quickly, and the “Holy Month of Sacrifice” arrived. Some of the soldiers on his team got discharged, others were sent home in body bags loaded in coffins wrapped in a flag. But none of them – not a single one – even brought up the mention of Garip being slaughtered, let alone agreeing to it. This peaceful, kind animal had been an integral part of their lives, sorrows, and good times... the witness to so many events, some of which no one else, but those actually there, would ever believe took place.

THE FIELD RADIO

We carry two kinds of field radios. One is a close circuit walkie-talkie, used only to communicate within each team, while the other one, the long-range handset, establishes contact with other units. I have always wondered which one, of the weapon and the radio, would prove to be more crucial. While it may seem like comparing apples with oranges, I have always been morbidly curious as to which one I would pick at a desperate circumstance, if I was given a choice. While the gun is seldom utilized compared to the radio, in the field we would consider the radio as our sixth finger, our third eye or ear, or even our “seventh sense". The gun could go astray in the skirmish... it could jam or run out of ammo... upon which I would switch to hand grenades, use my blade, or even pick up rocks and throw them. Ultimately I could use my hands. But losing radio contact...? Those barely audible sounds lost in static, do in fact save the day... as in the case of a company commander sewing a master sergeant’s finger back on, by following the on-air instructions of the field surgeon at the other end of the wireless. Stories such as these are a dime a dozen.

As far as I’m concerned, nothing beats a functioning field radio. It gives you the chance to assess your situation in detail. It provides a bird’s eye view, pinpointing the source of your predicament. In more than one case, while taking friendly fire, it was the field radio that saved our bacon. On the flip side, the voice of a terrorist over the radio can give me a clear indication of our condition or position. More often than not, their conversations on the radio give me more to work with than the fire we take from them.

There are dozens of stories that come to mind, in which the radio played a major role… and one particularly stands out. One of the legendary ones, still related at the military academy is the one about artillery first lieutenant Mehmet Gonenc. During the Korean War, he suddenly found himself surrounded by hostiles, with no way out. Without hesitation he ordered a salvo on his coordinates. At the time, I had no idea what role the field radio would play in that situation. But I later found out… the hard way.

It was in the middle of one of the toughest climbs I had ever attempted. No kidding... this was the real McCoy, just like a cat clawing its way up a tree. Everyone was on their assigned positions. The rain was hammering down on us mercilessly; we were knee-deep in mud, carrying soaked backpacks twice their original weight... utter exhaustion in the dead of night. We lacked one thing to top it off... combat. But the excrutiating weight on our backs more than made up for it. We had suffered casualties... several wounded, one dead... and had to get to the top of this steep slope fast. The wounded were going to make it, but nevertheless some had to be carried. We were inching our way up a gully, carved by the rainwater rushing downhill. The steps created by the cascading water were about three feet apart and at least as high. So I would move three feet, put my backpack on the next step, press my way up , lift my backpack, and then do it all over again. I had slung my rifle across my back, so it would not get in the way. At this point, a sudden need for its use was the least of my concerns. I had neither the time, nor the energy to entertain that possibility right now. The roaring of the water and rain was frequently interrupted by sporadic gun fire and the whining of artillery rounds ripping through the air. Suddenly I heard a scream on the radio. The voice was fairly familiar.

“Send a chopper. Hurry! And while you’re at it, fire a few airblast rounds in this direction and blow them to smithereens...”

My whirling, exhausted brain was going through a series of checks, trying to match this voice to anything on record. At first it failed.

“Captain 3. Give me your coordinates”, came back the reply. This voice I did recognize. It was that of the battery commander in charge of artillery support.

“What coordinates are you talking about? I’ve got no time for this shit. Check your maps, send the first one, and I’ll guide your next shot towards me.”

The call sign confirmed my guess about the owner of the voice. It was a buddy team commander who got re-assigned to another unit. I turned to the gunny next to me, and said:

“Captain 3 is getting chewed.”

With every new chatter, the situation became more horrifying and macabre. They were literally between a rock and a hard place. Sounds of heavy gunfire were accompanied by the distinctive explosions of RPG-7s [rocket propelled grenades] and hand grenades. This tiny electronic transmitter of invisible waves, barely weighing a few hundred grams, was engraving this hellish scene in my brain and putting me right in the middle of it. As we continued to climb, we were inevitably part of the argument ensuing over the radio waves. Out of breath and nervous, my buddy would once in a while snap in a shaky voice:

“What the hell are you waiting for? Send the first one. I will guide the second.”

“Captain 3. I realize this is very tough for you, but there is a good chance that the shell would land on top of you. I can’t take that risk.”

“What risk are you talking about? We’re getting clobbered here. They’re about to ram their way through. If you wait any longer, there won’t be a need for artillery support!”

With these words, I could now put everything into perspective and visualize his situation. He was in dire straits, and I tried to put myself in his shoes. But realistically, how could I? I was climbing up a steep slope with a handful of casualties. He was at the gates of hell, in the thick of combat.

“O.K. Captain 3. I’m sending the first one. Follow it and give me corrections.”

I felt the hair on my back rise. What if the first one landed right on top of them? But then - against a background of loud explosions - I heard my buddy’s voice again, pleading to the battery commander to hurry up. At that point a third voice joined the fracas.

“Captain 3. Stop whining. Make it easy on yourself, just surrender.”

The terrorists had cut in again… possibly from the group that was attacking. My buddy chose not to dignify the derisive suggestions with a reply even though they went on for a while. Obviously he had more important things to attend to at that moment. Finally, I heard the bang from the battery on top of the peak we were trying to reach:

“Incoming, Captain 3. Follow and give corrections.”

I listened to the whine of the shell cutting through air, and the explosion on target. A split second later I heard my buddy’s voice again:

“Mark. 500 left, reduce 300.”

“Hang in there buddy” I was thinking, wishing I were by his side. Absorbed in my thoughts, following every word on the radio, still going through the torturous routine of climbing one step at a time – I heard my men call out for me. The blanket they had their fallen comrade wrapped in, had ripped. I told them to take off their ponchos and use them instead. That’s all we had. We took this opportunity to stop and take a breath, while some of my men wrapped the body in layers of ponchos. Then four of them lifted it onto their shoulders, and we continued from where we had left off. The packs of those who were carrying the bodies were being hauled by other members of the team, who had to do double duty, by having to carry and lift two packs instead of one at every step. The artillery officer came on air again:

“Captain 3… I’m sending the second one. Monitor and give corrections.”

We had reached a critical stage here. Night salvos, onto a haphazard target carried a high risk. Anyone seeking it had to be in a hopeless situation. But, ironically, my friend’s voice had now calmed down:

“Hold on a second, I've got a wounded, let me secure him.”

Seconds turned into an eternity. Since our radios could not pick up the conversation between him and his men, I had no idea what on earth was going on over there, but on our frequency I could hear the crescendo of Kalashnikovs and the G-3 assault rifles, frequently overpowered by the pounding of hand grenades and RPG-7s, as well as machine guns. My men were getting anxious and had started asking questions. I told them that there was nothing to worry about, and to keep on moving.

My buddy ‘s voice finally crackled on the radio:

“O.K. Keep it coming.” The gunner once again asked him to monitor. I turned around to see whether I could get a glimpse of the shell making its way over. I heard it scream across the night sky but was unable to see the tracer. I kept on climbing.

“100 left, shorten by 200.”

“Captain 3. From now on I will have to take baby steps. Be patient.”

“No, no… what kind of a Mickey Mouse gunner are you? Listen to my corrections, and apply as given.”

“No can do, Captain 3. It’s too risky.”

“Look… listen to me. I am out of hand grenades…and rifle launched grenades. I have nothing left to throw at them. One of my machine guns is down. You’re my only hope. If I get through this and we meet one day, I can explain everything. Now is not the time. So for heaven’s sake, do as I say… shorten by 200, and move 100 to the left. Take the shot.”

“O.K. Captain 3. As you wish.”

“Wait… hold on. I have another wounded here… rather… dead. Now hurry up!”

When I heard of another fatality, my heart sank, my legs turned to jelly. “I wonder who?” I asked myself… but what does it matter? Somehow when you hear of a fallen, your immediate reaction is wanting to know who it is. Maybe to know if you shared some time together… and in the beginning I found this to be important. But gradually, I started to realize that merely hearing the words ‘fallen comrade’ created a larger void in my soul than finding out who it was that was gone. But still, the question keeps gnawing at you… “Who bought it this time?” Even though I always wanted to be the last to know, that didn’t always work out. Sometimes I would be the first to find out.

After my buddy’s latest remark about the ‘fallen’, the gunner told him that the shell was on its way. A minute later came the reply. Their conversation had picked up speed, and because I had turned down the volume, I began missing some of it.

“Stop playing games with me. 50 left, 50 short… immediately send the next one.”

“Captain 3. These shells have already an effective blast-range of 50 yards minimum. According to the map, what you’re giving me are your coordinates… basically you’re asking me to send one right on top of you.”

“Affirmative. Do it anyway. Otherwise we don’t have a prayer. Maybe this next round will do the trick. They're about to run us over. Please, I’m begging you, one last one… precisely to where I asked. “

“It’s your funeral buddy. It’s on its way. Good luck.”

… a few seconds later I heard my buddy’s voice again…

“That’s my boy. It’s game over. God bless you, man… and give a big hug from us to all the boys up there, commander.”

My backpack suddenly felt much lighter. Apparently they had made it through this one.

“Captain 3. Do you want me to carry on?”

“Yeah… yeah. Mark that spot and keep them coming. With the last one you blasted at least five of them into hell. Hold on, I’ve got another wounded…”

I had a few of those myself, and just at this point I heard someone call from the back of the line. One of the wounded had started hemorrhaging. So we stopped again, to let the medic work his magic... top up the dressing. We all took five. No one was counting, but it was already three o’clock in the morning, and everyone desperately wanted to get to the top as fast as possible. All I wanted was to evacuate the dead and wounded. There were two more hours to go until day break, another fifteen minutes for the chopper to arrive... the medic signalled the go-ahead. I hollered to my batman, leaning against the boulder in front of us. No reply. I slapped him between the shoulder blades... again no movement. This time I grabbed his parka and yanked him towards me. He jumped up in panic.

“I swear to you sir... I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Just keep moving”, I said. I knew... he wasn’t sleeping... he had passed out from exhaustion.

The conversation between the gunner and my buddy was over by now. Days later I became privy to what exactly happened that night. That barrage of artillery fire had saved the lives of 14 soldiers… and not only that. My buddy told me that had his team been overrun by hostiles that night, the battalion below would have suffered major casualties. He had to give credit to the battery commander though, who despite his reluctance played along. My buddy's had been a crazy idea. But there had been no other choice left. Despite the heavy artillery pounding, he and the survivors of his team had made it out of there with minor scratches and bruises. Both of his wounded had made it, but the roaring laughter of the ‘fallen’, before he passed away, was still giving him nightmares. I was just so glad he made it out of that inferno in one piece. Little did I know that about a year after he defied the gargantuan artillery shells he had directed onto himself, his life would senselessly be cut short by a tiny bullet weighing just a few grams.