Special to The VOICE, Part 1 of 8
Zacery Blaisdell, formerly of Ravensdale and Selleck and a specialist in the United
States Army, suffered severe injuries one year ago when his convoy came under enemy
attack in Afghanistan. He has spent most of the past year at Walter Reed Medical
Center in Washington, D. C. and it is expected that he will require another year
of treatment there. This is his story, presented in serial form, in eight parts.
JUST BEFORE ONE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON, SEPTEMBER 1, 2010, IN THE Tangi Valley
of central Afghanistan.
Something was going to happen. There was no doubt about that. Zacery Blaisdell and
the other Sky Soldiers could feel it. They could feel it and they could see it,
almost.
Their four-vehicle Army convoy rumbled down Highway 1—two narrow lanes known as
the “Highway of Death” to the Americans and the “Highway to Hell” by Afghans—and
entered the village of Shekhabad located about twenty-two miles southwest of the
capital city of Kabul in Wardak province.
Zac, a twenty-year-old soldier formerly of Ravensdale, had graduated from Centennial
High School in Circle Pines, Minnesota, just two years prior—in 2008. Now he was
a member of third platoon—the “Combat Wombats”—of the United States Attack Company
of the 1st Battalion, 503rd Infantry Regiment, 173rd Airborne Brigade Combat Team.
His squad had been dispatched to the north as part of the Afghan Police Protection
Program (AP3) to check on security during Ramadan and on the eve of forthcoming
elections. After investigating and finding everything quiet, the convoy had turned
around and was on its way home to Combat Outpost (COP) Sayed Abad.
About halfway between the most outlying AP3 site and the location of the COP was
the village of Shekhabad. As the Americans rolled in they could sense the danger,
but turning back was not an option—even as they watched the locals fleeing. Afghans,
at the first sight of the convoy, began “grabbing their children and running like
hell” out of their “conexes,” small metal cargo containers used as shops that, for
a stretch of about half a mile, lined either side of the dusty blacktop. The shopkeepers
were also scattering, frantically fastening the doors of their stores.
“Villagers running—keep your eyes open,” a radioman cautioned.
“People hauling ass out of the area,” a gunner standing in the turret of one of
the first trucks reported.
The marketplace emptied and in the passage of mere moments the high desert settlement
of mud huts with a sizable population seemed no more than a ghost town.
Silence. From the village there were no voices, no movement, no discernible enemy—just
the thunder of the motorcade and a simmering tension that hung heavy in the 100-degree
air.
The armored transports powered forward and along the main highway that crossed through
the center of a locality known not to be friendly towards Americans. Gearing down
to a near crawl, they prepared to pass over the last of one of the notoriously mounded
Afghanistan speed bumps that was blocking the middle of the road.
Fourth in the convoy was a Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle, a 32,000-pound
fortress of reinforced steel on wheels known as an MRAP. Zac, a specialist in the
173rd Sky Soldiers, an Army Airborne unit based out of Vicenza, Italy, sat in the
rear left bucket seat holding his M4 assault rifle. Below his seat his left knee
rested on a steel-cased ammo box stuffed with mortar illumination rounds. Next to
Zac on his right and similarly armed was Staff Sergeant Tyler Gerk from Julesburg,
Colorado. Directly across and facing towards the front of the truck was Zac’s buddy,
twenty-five-year-old Specialist Rudolf Schultz of Fayetteville, North Carolina.
SPC Schultz manned a computer-guided .50 caliber mounted machine gun. Staff Sergeant
Matthew Young, also age twenty-five and of Bedford, New Hampshire, was driving.
To his right was another staff sergeant, the vehicle commander, forty-two-year-old
James Smith of Horton, Kansas. A thirteen-year veteran of the Army, SSG Smith had
completed three tours of duty in Iraq.
The Americans were advancing past apparently deserted buildings and the lead trucks
in the highly dispersed convoy were already leaving Shekhabad bazaar.
Suddenly shrill whistle blasts began to rent the air—not from a device, but rather
a wolf whistle made by placing one’s fingers in one’s mouth—that could be heard
by the soldiers in the MRAPs.
Crosstalk ratcheted up and was running constant between sergeants Young and Smith.
“Watch it everywhere,” they exhorted each other. “No one in this alleyway,” one
said. “No one over here,” the other responded. Both soldiers expected a barrage
of machine gun fire to be unleashed against them at any moment. Adam Wakefield,
a twenty-four-year-old sergeant from Higganum, Connecticut, and the truck commander
of the vehicle directly ahead of Zac’s by about sixty yards, harbored no doubts
about what lay ahead. It was just a matter of when, where, and how.
Zac bent around, peering out the side window behind him. Bracing his left arm on
a piece of metal for support, he held that position for maybe ten seconds, his gaze
meeting nothing but barren earth and vacant surroundings.
“They’re blowing a whistle! THEY’RE BLOWING A WHISTLE!!” flashed over the radio.
Seconds later, according to SSG Smith, “everything went to shit.”
“I was sitting there scanning around, scanning around, scanning around on my .50
cal and then we hit that speed bump and BAM!!” recalls SPC Schultz.
Hiding in the shadows was a Taliban operative waiting to launch a Russian-manufactured
Rocket-Propelled Grenade-7 (RPG-7) with dual warheads directly into the last MRAP.
Its flight produced barely a hum, but it struck with stunning velocity and force.
In the tick of a nanosecond the false calm erupted into a swirl of destruction.
With blinding suddenness, the RPG crashed into and sliced completely through the
right shell of the truck, entering the cabin of the vehicle. The concussion from
the explosion generated the loudest sound that Zac had ever heard in his life. It
was, as he describes it, like ten blasts from a shotgun, but with the individual
rounds all firing at the same time and each right in your face.
Penetrating the wall of steel just below the window opposite Zac, the RPG shot straight
in front of and under SPC Schultz. Whizzing through his legs and hemorrhaging a
trail of vapor in its wake, it crushed his right kneecap. Then, ricocheting crossways,
the round split through the interior of the MRAP, slamming into the ammo box and
setting off a simultaneous second explosion. Splintered shards—of both container
and contents—burst everywhere, pepper-spraying Zac’s body, SPC Schultz’s legs, and
SSG Gerk’s face and shoulders with shrapnel and scorching Zac’s right hand.
At that exact moment, the RPG slashed into Zac’s left forearm, shearing it below
the elbow while the combustion of the ammo box shattered his left kneecap and tore
the tendons and nerves in his leg all the way down to his toes. Another ragged and
charred fragment of the ammo box peeled off and flew up, ripping into Zac’s right
eye. From there the RPG exited out the other side of the MRAP and exploded. So instantaneous
had been the devastation that, to Zac, the discharge of the round and its contact
with the vehicle, along with the disintegration of the ammo box and the final report
of the RPG, all seemed like one massive explosion. In reality, they had been four
separate ones. Likely saving the lives of the five American soldiers was the fact
that the timed grenade had been fired at a distance too near the truck, which had
resulted in the shell detonating late and after its separation from its target.
The attack stopped the convoy in its tracks. The power of the blast bent the frame
of the MRAP and blew open its two back hatches. SPC Schultz thought an IED had detonated
underneath them. SSG Smith felt the vehicle “rock” and “shake.” SSG Young, his head
having been thrust into the bulletproof windshield of his side door with a force
that almost knocked him out, wondered “What in the hell had just happened?” In his
rearview mirror SGT Wakefield could see Zac’s truck enshrouded in smoke. Soldiers
inside the other MRAPs had heard the RPG explode, but were unsure what it was.
But inside the fourth truck was a horrible scene. The breach by the RPG had activated
the automatic fire extinguishers located just above where SSG Smith was sitting.
Engulfing him in a storm of dust and fumes, retardant was oozing so thick that it
was virtually impossible to see or breathe.
Amidst the blood and chemicals, Zac “looked around and then down at his arm and
saw that it was just dangling there.”
SSG Gerk, fighting through the pain of his own wounds and with his protective goggles
singed with fragments of jagged metal, glanced straight over at Zac. Surveying his
injuries, he screamed out: “You’re gonna be all right!”
Voices, hardened by the gravity of the moment, could be heard coming from every
direction. Up and down the line shouts boomed out: “Is everybody all right?” “Is
everybody all right?” “Is everybody all right?” A chorus of positive responses shot
back: “We’re okay!” “We’re okay!” “We’re okay!”
But after quickly evaluating the extent of Zac’s injuries, SSG Gerk yelled out:
“Blaisdell’s been hit! Blaisdell’s been hit!” What he said next was the most jarring
of all: “Blaisdell’s arm is bleeding pretty darn bad!”
In order to staunch the loss of blood Zac—who was still sitting upright in his seat—started
to reach down with his good arm for the tourniquet that all soldiers carry in combat.
He was intending to apply it to himself when SSG Gerk jumped over. In a flurry of
motion, he unwrapped the tourniquet from his kit and squeezed it around Zac’s left
arm, accomplishing the procedure in an “incredible” fifteen seconds, about half
of what is typically required. There was no panic in the sergeant whatsoever. According
to SPC Schultz, he worked “like lightning and knew exactly what to do.” He was,
in a word, “amazing!”
Gagging on retardant, he tried reporting in. Radioing the platoon sergeant in the
second truck, he managed to choke out the words: “3-4 has been hit!” “3-4 has been
hit!” meaning third platoon, fourth squad. Someone up ahead exclaimed: “Holy shit!”
But that had only been heard by SSG Young. Failing to pick up an audible response
and assuming that his device had stopped working, SSG Smith felt around with his
hands for another one. As he began to regain his faculties, he could make out some
of the chatter spitting over the wire between the other MRAPs. Soldiers were talking
over each other “trying to figure out how bad we had been hit,” SSG Smith recalls.
Meanwhile the thrust of the round had caused SSG Smith temporarily to lose both
his sight and hearing.
Simultaneously other Attack Company soldiers—the platoon sergeant and gunners—were
securing the perimeter around the trucks. SGT Wakefield and his men were checking
everywhere trying to ascertain from where the round had been fired and if anyone
had seen the shooter. No one had. With ongoing aid being rendered to Zac (despite
his injuries, SPC Schultz remained glued to his visual screen, monitoring the village
while SSG Gerk was attending to Zac), the convoy readied to move.
SSG Smith ordered the back hatches raised and secured. He had “no intention of stopping
for anything” in getting his wounded out of the “kill zone” and on their way to
medical assistance. “Let’s get out of here! Go! Go! Go! Punch it!” SSG Smith prodded
SSG Young who recalls thinking: “All I knew was I had to get my foot back on the
gas and get the hell out of there.” They all realized that Zac was in critical condition,
at risk of losing his arm and even his life, and his sergeants were committed to
doing whatever they could to help him.
But the soldiers in the second MRAP had picked up the vehicle commander’s distress
call. The convoy had proceeded a distance of some one hundred feet and reached a
bridge over a river that runs near the village, and there it stopped.
(Part 2 will be in the 9-6 issue)
