by Walt Gragg
It took less than two minutes for Merker’s men to reach the rise and head down its far side. It felt significantly longer for those waiting near the angry tides. As Merker’s team disappeared, the time had come for the command element to move. Erickson came up from his crouch and headed inland. The others followed.
“Sergeant Ingram, when we reach the top, set up your machine gun in the middle of our defenses,” Erickson whispered.
“Will do, sir.”
“Corporal Smith, stick with me every second. I’ve got to have the radio where I can get to it without delay.”
“Just try to get away from me, sir,” the likable corporal from the tough streets of central Los Angeles said.
“Petty Officer Bright, stay by Gunny’s side so he can provide supporting fire should we have wounded needing attention,” Erickson directed the platoon’s corpsman.
“Yes, sir.”
It wasn’t long before Erickson and Fife were lying on the crest surveying the staid world around them. From their position they could see the three teams moving toward their objectives. Each had covered a quarter mile, halfway to their initial goal.
While the command group watched the trio’s progress, Hamilton Smith was on the radio with the invasion task force. He looked over at the lieutenant. “First wave of amtracs will launch in a few minutes, sir. Twelve M-1s are being loaded onto hovercraft as we speak. Tanks should be here within ten minutes of the amtracs.”
“Thanks, Corporal. Let them know that so far things are going as planned. No sign of anyone or anything near the beach.”
Without responding, Smith spoke into the radio once again.
The relentless minutes slowly passed as the cautious Americans reached the boundaries of their search areas. A half mile inland, Merker’s team set up a small defensive position directly in front of the center of the mile-wide landing zone. Laird and Charles finished their treks along the pounding waves and turned south, heading into the Sahara. Without incident, the torturous moments, one after the next, plodded on. Things couldn’t be proceeding any better. At least that’s how it appeared.
The situation, however, was about to change.
* * *
—
It was Laird’s scouts who first heard, and then moments later saw, the approaching enemy.
The Pan-Arabs were coming up a desert draw that until this moment had masked their presence from the recon team. There could be no mistaking what was headed their way. A significant force crammed in the rear of a lengthy line of battered pickup trucks was churning across the inhospitable sands. So far, the roving patrol had yet to spot the Marines. Even so, the struggling formation was moving directly toward them.
“Sir, we’ve got company!” Laird’s senior radio operator exclaimed.
“Where and how many?” Erickson replied.
“They’re less than a thousand yards away, coming up that big ravine south-by-southeast of us. Got to be at least a dozen small trucks, each carrying a number of men. Must be sixty of them, possibly more. Most are holding rifles, with some RPGs mixed in. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve also got a few machine guns and possibly a mortar team or two. What are your orders, sir?”
The threat was far too real. Unless the enemy changed course or the recon team took evasive action, there was no way the Pan-Arabs wouldn’t spot Laird’s men.
With so many in the approaching force, the lieutenant had little choice. “All three teams are to fall back on my location. We’ll consolidate our rifles and call for help. Is that understood? Avoid detection at any cost and fall back on my position immediately.”
After each team leader gave an affirmative response, Erickson turned to Hamilton Smith. “Tell Joyce and Davies to launch without delay.”
As the teams scurried toward the rise, the combat-experienced Erickson began plotting the potential engagement. He would use the two things the Americans had going for them—the black of night and the element of surprise—to his advantage. Before they could respond, he would hit the oncoming intruders with everything he had.
The platoon’s members soon arrived. Erickson turned toward Laird. “How far away is the enemy patrol?”
“Six hundred yards or so, sir. They should be leaving the gully soon and heading onto the open desert. As we watched their movements, they didn’t seem to be in a hurry. The trucks appeared to be going less than ten miles an hour as they pushed through the deep sands.”
“Were there any indications they’d spotted you?”
“No, sir, we were extremely careful to make sure that didn’t happen.”
“Good. With as slow as they’re moving, we’ve ample time to set up a nice little trap. Given the time of night and the fact they’re so far behind their own lines, the chances of them being prepared for what’s about to hit them are pretty slim. With any luck they won’t even realize we’re here until they’re right on top of us. By then it will be too late.”
* * *
—
Still unaware, the quarry came on. Erickson had been correct in his assessment. After far too many nights patrolling the same tired stretch without the slightest incident, the approaching force had become lackadaisical and more than a bit bored. Little did they know what awaited.
The ambush was set. The motionless Marines lay in a straight line facing southeast with the machine gun in the middle and the three Americans with grenade launchers attached to their M-16s dispersed throughout the force.
“Don’t fire until I give the command,” Erickson ordered. “Best thing that could happen would be for them to pass without ever realizing we’re here.”
But luck wasn’t with the hidden Marines. The roving patrol was headed straight for the furtive onslaught. Relentlessly, the ill-prepared prey came on, drawing closer and closer to the deadly trap. Barely one hundred yards separated them from an all-consuming tempest. The stilled Marines, hiding in the darkness, selected their targets from among the approaching line. The apathetic Pan-Arabs were about to pay dearly for their mistake.
“Open fire!” Erickson screamed.
In less than an instant, machine-gun bullets, accompanied by nineteen spitting rifles, ripped through the foreboding night. Lines of vivid tracers roared toward their ill-destined foe. Almost as one, all three grenade launchers fired. In seconds, a trio of lethal explosions tore through the black void. Each swiftly reloaded the tubes on the front of their rifles and launched a second grenade. The platoon of highly skilled marksmen brought a raging firestorm down around their overwhelmed opponents’ heads. In a handful of seconds, four crushed trucks were ablaze. Five . . . ten . . . fifteen souls were gone without ever realizing what had hit them. More would soon follow. The horrific screams of the wounded and dying filled a dispassionate world.
Unprepared and confused, the floundering patrol’s response was slow and disjointed. Erickson’s platoon didn’t hesitate, hitting the stricken ones with everything they had. Those in the front of the convoy had no chance. Before they could leap from the rear of the dilapidated trucks, they were devoured.
The staggering survivors turned their vehicles and ran toward the open sands. The Americans cut them down in great numbers. In the end only a single truck, its assailed engine releasing a steady stream of gray smoke, and a fortunate handful of soldiers would escape the malignant encounter.
It was over almost before it began. As the scant survivors disappeared, Erickson ordered his men to cease fire. He took a quick look around, quite satisfied with the result. More than fifty Libyans lay dead or dying. The scouts had survived nearly unharmed. Two wounded, neither seriously, was all they had suffered in the uneven struggle. The lieutenant understood, however, that with their foe now aware of their presence, they couldn’t let down their guard.
“Gunny, Joyce and Davies squads should be here in the next couple of minutes. Can you handle things here while I head back to the
beach to get them organized?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Corporal Smith, let the task force know what has happened, then I want you on me.”
Erickson took a final look around, leaped to his feet, and ran toward the fuming waters. He would be waiting when the hovercraft arrived.
Other than the distant cries of their severely wounded rivals, the meager elevation went quiet once again. This time, however, the lull would be short-lived. Their hand forced, the Americans no longer had surprise on their side. And things would soon be growing worse. As he stood on the beach waiting for the hovercraft to reach them, Erickson had no idea of how quickly that would happen.
“Sir, more hostiles,” Gunny said into his headset. There was an unmistakable urgency in the platoon sergeant’s voice.
“Where?”
“South of us. Out of nowhere, eight large military trucks came roaring across the desert. They’ve stopped approximately four hundred yards from our position. There are soldiers pouring from them. From what I see, it appears to be at least a company-size unit. Three enemy mortar teams are heading off to set up their tubes. The rest are running toward us.”
Whether the new arrivals had been backup for the first group of marauders or happened to be passing through the area as the fierce onslaught began, the Marines hadn’t a clue. Yet unexpectedly the daunting numbers the platoon faced had more than tripled.
“Roger, Gunny. Reinforcements are still a couple of minutes out. Can you hold your position until they arrive?”
“Negative, sir. We’re outnumbered ten-to-one. With what I see coming this way, we’ll be overwhelmed before help can reach us. It’s not ideal, but our best hope might be to pull back and dig in on the beach. Request permission to withdraw the men and retreat toward the shoreline to buy us some time.”
Erickson had complete faith in his platoon sergeant’s judgment. “I sure hate to give up the high ground, Gunny. But do what you need to do.”
3
3:38 A.M., OCTOBER 17
3RD PLATOON, BRAVO COMPANY, 2ND RECONNAISSANCE BATTALION, 2ND MARINE DIVISION
THE SANDS OF NORTHERN EGYPT
With only the flickering flames from the destroyed trucks to guide them in the blossoming battle with the Americans, up and down the beach the Pan-Arabs were shooting in every direction. The resolute lieutenant could see the streaking gunfire. The ghastly images appeared to be coming right for him. He could sense the bullets striking all around the settling hovercraft. He could hear the lurid sounds of a seeking death whizzing past. A pair of mortar rounds exploded on his left. Deadly shell fragments ripped through the horrific night. Erickson’s agile mind registered that he was picking up movement everywhere he looked on the dunes above the beleaguered platoon. For the moment, there was no time to worry about such things. The reinforcements had to get ashore. If they failed to do so, it wouldn’t be long before the mortars found the landing craft’s range and destroyed them all with a single blow.
“Go! Go! Go!” he yelled while furiously waving his arm.
The lead Humvee, with its four-man fire team, roared out of the opening. Toward the rear of the vehicle, Sergeant Joyce was positioned behind the .50-caliber machine gun. The moment the tires splashed in the knee-deep waters, the combat-ready squad leader pulled the trigger. The first of many five-shell bursts was expelled from the imposing gun’s barrel. Corporal Johnson’s Humvee was right behind. The second vehicle’s machine gun was soon firing.
“Concentrate your efforts on the low bluffs where the beach meets the desert!” the lieutenant screamed at the passing crews. “That’s where most of the firing’s coming from.”
The initial Humvee hurried down the nightmarish seashore to the left. Johnson’s felt its way along the fierce waves on the right. They’d go out a short distance to hold the flanks and keep their opponent from getting behind the Marines as they attempted to reclaim the high ground. While they raced along the perilous water’s edge, each gunner focused on the small rise. Both came under extreme fire.
The final Humvee roared down the ramp and headed onto the thick sands. Corporal Whitehurst stood next to its TOW missile tube. A short distance from the landing craft, Whitehurst ordered his team to stop. His driver remained behind the steering wheel with the engine idling. Despite the mounting attention the stationary vehicle was receiving, Whitehurst stayed in his position just to the left of the antitank missile. He was ready to launch a TOW at the first sign of enemy armor. His 7.62-caliber machine gunner leaped from the front passenger seat. Using the Humvee for protection, he took up a supporting position. On the other side of the vehicle, the team’s final member slid from the rear seat and began shooting his M-16.
The moment Whitehurst’s Humvee cleared the ramp, the remaining fire teams scurried to escape the murderous confines of the motionless craft. Beneath a withering onslaught from the Chosen One’s defenders, they rushed in every direction.
When he reached the end of the ramp and was poised to leap into the frenetic tides, a first of the Americans went down beneath the grievous assault. The lance corporal tumbled into the unsettled ocean at the edge of the craft. His mortal wound was so shockingly sudden and totally lethal that the dead Marine uttered not a sound. Those behind him in their mad dash for the beseeching sands were splattered with flying fragments of fractured skull and shattered brain cells. A half dozen stumbled over their dead comrade and fell into the spiraling currents. Spewing salt water and obscenities, they struggled to their feet. Each of the fallen Marines fought to regain his senses. A widening pool of blood trailed from the floating body. Pushed by the angry currents, it wafted toward the shoreline. While he stood thigh-deep in the churning waters, a faint ring of red formed on Erickson’s pant leg.
Struck in the side by a burst of automatic gunfire, another Marine dropped in the ardent sea. The impacting bullets had penetrated his fleeing frame a fraction of an inch above the protection of his body armor. With great effort, he pulled himself to the violent ocean’s edge before the final labored breaths deserted him. The attackers were beginning to find the range.
The scattering squads exited the idling craft and dashed for the windswept shore. Twenty yards inland, the lead elements started digging in alongside the recon platoon. On the right, a third and fourth running figure went down. Neither had reached solid ground. The first, his kneecap crushed by an AK-47’s bullet, dragged himself onto the sands. The second moved not at all. His flowing blood soon added to the growing crimson foam tugging at the bitter waters. The incessant firing on both sides intensified. The enemy barrage zeroed in on the landing zone. Without warning, a whistling mortar round exploded in the center of one of Sergeant Joyce’s fire teams. Four fresh-faced reinforcements were added to the ever-expanding rolls of those who hadn’t survived to witness the coming day.
Radioman Smith rejoined Erickson. “Everyone’s ashore, Lieutenant,” Smith said.
“Good. Let’s get out of this damn water and find some shelter so we can figure out exactly what we’re up against.”
“I’m with you, sir.”
Erickson banged on the side of the craft. The ramp slowly rose while the anxious sailors worked to free their rebellious charge from the sandbar’s clutches. The moment it was clear of the restricting sands, it whirled about and raced back toward the fleet.
An additional mortar round exploded in the bloody tides near where the fleeing hovercraft had rested. At incredible speed, menacing fragments flew in every direction. As he fought to reach the fragile shore, the overpowering force of the explosion knocked Erickson to his knees. A sharp-edged sliver searched out the platoon’s leader. It sliced through his fatigue jacket and bored into his exposed flesh. The serrated metal embedded itself deep within the well-developed biceps on his left arm. Searing pain leaped into his startled brain. The stunned lieutenant fell face forward into the briny sea. Beneath his pack he fought with all he had t
o find his footing. The relentless tides tugged at his floundering form. The strong currents started pulling him toward the ocean’s depths. Hamilton Smith grabbed the embattled lieutenant and dragged him to his feet. Fresh blood ran down Erickson’s arm from the malicious rip in his shirtsleeve.
“You okay, sir?”
Erickson glanced at the torn sleeve. The intense anguish wasn’t subsiding in the slightest.
Nevertheless, for the moment there was nothing he could do.
“I’ll live,” he said. “Let’s get out of here while we still can.”
Beneath their antagonists’ riotous assault, Erickson sprinted forward past the line of dug-in Marines. He dove headfirst into a small depression. Smith threw himself down next to him.
James Fife raced up carrying the handful of satchel charges brought by the newly arriving squads. He joined Erickson and Smith. Sergeant Merker and one of his scouts leapfrogged forward. They took up defensive positions in front of the platoon’s leaders.
“What’re our losses so far?” Erickson asked Fife.
“At least six to eight of Joyce and Davies’s men. Three of ours including Staff Sergeant Laird. But it’s going to go a hell of a lot higher if we don’t get off this stinkin’ beach real soon.”
“Still confident we’re up against a company of infantry?”
“Yes, sir. From what I saw when they arrived, that remains my best guess.”
Erickson poked his head up from the sands. There was no letup in the onslaught. “Are we strong enough to take them out and regain control of the beachhead?”
“I’d bet next month’s paycheck on it, sir. Despite the fierceness of their attack, we really did catch them by surprise. There isn’t much cohesiveness to their efforts. They seem quite confused and have had no time to fortify their positions. If we hit them with everything we’ve got, we should be able to take back the high ground. We’ll no doubt suffer additional losses, but it’ll be far worse if we stay where we are.”
