Night time in this far away land is a time of uncertainty and apprehension. The blackness of the hours between sunset and the dawn are unlike anything I have ever experienced anywhere else on the planet.

I have circled the globe three times in my life, and yet I find this world completely distant from every culture and society I have ever lived in prior to arriving at this firebase.

A survey of the countryside beyond the “wire” after the sun sets reveals little evidence of human habitation, although I am completely aware that there are people, their families and their homes just a short distance beyond the safe confines of this compound. There are no street lights, neon signs or even the sounds of a busy thoroughfare with people conducting the routine affairs of daily living.

It’s absolutely dark and quiet. The landscape has only a sprinkling of lights and they are scattered, void of any distinct pattern or discernible organization. No urban commercial developments and no typical civil engineering infrastructures to support the citizens.

The water comes from a river, and the lighting is from an oil lamp. If you are of monetary means, you may be fortunate enough to possess a generator. Otherwise you heat your home with wood and cook over a wood-fired stove. I am amazed at this existence and marvel at the simplicity, but I am also completely aware of the dangers posed by the environment surrounding these walls.

On this particularly dark evening, a group of insurgents have been busy placing an Improvised Explosive Device on a roadway frequently traveled by coalition forces.

Their activity is stealthy. They do not want to be caught and they are hopeful that their efforts will result in the deaths of Americans.

These are violent acts of cowardice and intimidation, using devices that terrorize, maim and cripple indiscriminately. The bomb doesn’t know the difference between a child or a soldier, an ambulance or an armored vehicle.

Tonight the insurgents fail in their attempts to plant their IED. Their activity is observed and reported. The chase is on. Their failed attempt to flee results in a flipped vehicle causing death to some of the insurgents and life threatening injuries to the others.

Fortunately no IED was planted on this dark night. For those who died, their luck had run its course. For those who survived, their luck had just begun. The insurgent survivors were now patients in our clinic. The team and I were now providing emergency medical care, which included life saving measures on the Taliban. Only moments earlier these insurgents were trying to kill Americans, however now it was the Americans who were trying to keep them alive.

I remember the day our nation was attacked on September 11, 2001. I recall the anger I felt as I watched the television and saw the Twin Towers crumble with innocent civilians trapped inside. I also remember visions of our Pentagon under attack and the wreckage of an airliner strewn across a field in Pennsylvania.

The radical ideology that spawned the cowardly attack on our nation and the people responsible had been given safe haven in this very land where I am currently deployed. I was now charged with providing medical treatment to a human being who would kill me if given the opportunity.

The patient’s complicated leg fracture meant going to surgery immediately. The young surgeon performed a world-class procedure with the precision and stamina that would impress any collection of medical specialists in the United States, ensuring a superior outcome. The patient would be able to walk again.

The talent I provided was more brawn than brain. I held onto his fractured leg providing traction for the duration of the procedure that went well into the wee hours of the morning. During the next evening’s post-operative recovery period, I happened to be on the ward and decided to play my banjo for the medics covering the night shift.

We had an assortment of patients on the ward, including the Taliban patient. After playing through a few verses of Dooley and John Hardy, I noticed that the patient was beginning to smile at me. I concluded my mini concert that evening by playing my favorite old-time gospel song. The Taliban patients went to sleep that night listening to that age-old southern hymn “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” I am my brother’s keeper.