The target

Humanist, Sept-Oct, 2007 by C. Martin Centner

IT WAS GOING TO BE a clean shot, and Hajji was going to die. Mendoza, my spotter, and I had picked our location among the Afghan rocks and outcroppings perfectly, because we already knew where our prey would soon be. He was always here in the mornings, on this bluff overlooking the gravel road below taking opportune shots at passing convoys and, being not such a bad shot, making a lot of gold star mothers.

He moved cautiously toward his usual position from where he could fire at the convoys while remaining concealed and well protected, but before he could settle in I pulled my trigger calmly, without thought to anything but the cross hairs and his silhouette. A loud crack. My shoulder felt the harsh kick and, for just an instant, dust concealed the landscape around me.

Most people think of old movies when they think of war. In movies, people hit by powerful lethal rounds fly backward from the impact, or grab the entrance wound for a spectacular stumbling departure. My target did what real people, fatally hit with a 7.62x51mm rifle cartridge, always do: he crumpled like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut and fell into a disorganized, undignified heap.

"God damn, that's good shooting," Mendoza said, slapping my helmet. He then pulled out his dog tags and kissed the small crucifix around his neck in apology for swearing. We both got up, stones clattering down the slight hill that had concealed us, dust rising from our faded BDUs. We walked across the bluff, our boots grinding the stones into the rough dry soil, which shows no signs of life other than the footprints of these human intruders. Even from this distance, his Taliban standard mufti--the black turban, the dreary grey tunic crossed by a bandolier, and the baggy pants--was evident. We moved casually, as though approaching a downed buck, proud of our aim and interested in seeing the product of our skill.

We stopped at the target, turned him over, and to my surprise, he was alive. I had missed my lethal mark, and in my head I heard my old drill instructor curse my lousy aim and shame me in front of the squad.

The man looked at me, and I at him.

There's another war movie stereotype, when two warriors from opposite sides meet to find they are no different, that they are only two human beings caught together in a rotten war. Well, that doesn't happen either. He wasn't like me. He was older, which was somewhat unexpected, perhaps thirty to thirty-five. I was from the cozy suburbs, and just looking at this man, I could tell he labored with his hands all his life. I had no empathy, although I could imagine his background: he probably eked out a hard-scrabble life from the overworked land, beat his wife to protect his family's honor and told his children that the Quran demanded our death. He looked at me in pain, but without fear. He knew that his end would be the beginning of a martyr's paradise.

His breathing was labored, but regular. I turned to Mendoza. "Call for medevac," I said.

"Medevac?" Mendoza questioned incredulously. "What the hell for, him? Kill him, goddammit. I'm not paying taxes so this bastard gets three hots and a cot."

"I said call for medevac," and started working on the man with my aide kit. The man looked at me in surprise and confusion. I motioned to him to raise his left arm so I could get to the wound a bit easier. Looking at me as if I were insane, he hesitantly raised his arm enough for me to cover his wound. I could hear Mendoza on the radio giving our position. I put a smooth rock behind the Taliban man's head, the only pillow on the bluff.

He kept looking at me, probably thinking I was loony. I suppose he had expected me to do what he would have done had the roles been reversed. He would have killed me, and enjoyed doing it. If he had found me wounded, he would have made my departure lengthy, bloody, and painful. But all in the name of Allah, of course.

The chopper was nearly here, and as it approached, I yelled over the noise to the man, "Do you understand English?" I pulled out a small pencil and piece of pocket litter, and began scribbling. Increasingly confused and weak, at first he didn't understand my words, but as I repeated them slowly, he nodded. "Here's my name," I told him. "If you need anything, just ask for me, OK? Don't let them treat you badly. If you're beaten or anything, ask for me, OK? I'll come" I pushed the paper into his rough palm, and he gripped it hard, blood draining from his knuckles, his hand now shaking from shock and the knowledge he was being spared. He looked deeply at me, then closed his eyes as the dust kicked up by the rotor blades became a sandstorm. The crew disembarked, methodically began care, and soon the chopper lifted the wounded man away.

The bluff returned to quiet. Mendoza, his head angled like a perplexed German Shepherd, stared at me. "What the hell were you thinking?" Mendoza demanded. "You just gave the guy you tried to kill your goddamn name. He's Taliban, you stupid moron! The only thing he's going to do with that name is try to hunt you down and kill your ass" He glared at me, giving the same perplexed look the wounded man had given me.