Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival

by Joe Nobody

  After his in-country Iraqi orientation, Bishop had been issued a rifle and gear. Next, Spider took Bishop out to see the “junk” they were supposed to protect. Spider’s company had been contracted to guard a pipeline, which was considered to be a prime target for the insurgents. The problem was that it was impossible to guard the entire section they were responsible for as it was much more than just a straight line of big pipe. There were valves, pumps, safety lines and spurs all up and down a five-mile stretch that Spider’s team was to guard. The whole situation was complicated by the fact that the equipment was a mixture of Russian, French, and American machinery. It had been purchased from whoever Saddam had been on speaking terms with at the time. As newer equipment had been installed, the old, broken pieces had been left right where they were.

  The man Bishop had replaced was an oilfield engineer who had been trying to figure out how all of the rusted “scrap” functioned. Spider’s team needed to know the role of every piece in order to prioritize how they would protect it. The important components would receive full-time security while non-critical or non-working equipment would be subject to timesaving random patrols.

  On the third day, Spider and Bishop were on their way back to the security company’s compound, driving their usual route. They attempted a turn and ran right into the Baghdad police blocking the street. After several minutes of hand gestures and words neither side understood, they finally understood that a street festival was in progress. The road was closed. Spider began to work his way back through the side streets, alleys and roads. Many were still blocked by debris, courtesy of the United States Air Force, and in short order, they were lost. They drove through suburban Baghdad for 20 very tense minutes when they finally spotted a US Marine Corps Humvee ahead. As they got closer, they realized there were actually several Humvees, loaded with lots of Marines, and both men relaxed.

  Spider parked the SUV and left to find the officer in charge of the convoy. A gunnery sergeant told him that the LT was in a shop trying to buy ice. Spider went off to talk to the man while Bishop decided to hang around a group of young marines and shoot the proverbial shit. One of the young men was telling stories and doing a pretty good imitation of President Bush. He was a bright-eyed young corporal from Spokane, Washington, and Bishop took an immediate liking to the kid.

  In a few minutes, someone yelled, “Mount up ladies!” and the Marines all began to shuffle toward their vehicles. Spider reappeared, telling Bishop they were going to join the Marine convoy and were to take the third spot when they pulled out.

  They fell into place behind a Humvee and had gone about half a kilometer when Bishop noticed that the streets were suddenly empty of people. “Hey Spider, where did all the people go?” Spider looked around and started to say, “Oh shit,” when the Humvee in front of them rose straight into the air. Bishop could remember seeing the rear tires rise off of the ground and then the windshield of their SUV turned snow white with cracks from the blast wave. The next thing he remembered was the seat belt of the SUV strangling him as he was hanging by it.

  Their SUV was lying on the driver’s side, and Bishop was suspended above a groaning Spider. He managed to put a boot on the console and tried to undo his seat belt, but it was jammed. He pulled his fighting knife from his chest rig and sliced into the seat belt once, then again and finally cut through. He managed to use his rifle barrel to punch out the glass from the passenger window and pulled himself out. Once he was on top of the passenger door, he looked back inside to check on his buddy. Spider was trying to clear his head and was bleeding out of his nose, but he gave Bishop the thumbs up and proceeded to unhook his seat belt. As soon as he was sure Spider was going to be okay, he looked up at the wrecked Humvee. It was lying on the driver’s door as well, and the front half was missing. Bishop could see one of the Marines had been thrown free of the vehicle but could not see the other man. A small “puff” came from the underside of the Humvee, and he knew instantly that it was starting to burn.

  He hopped off the wreckage and ran toward the now burning Humvee. He found a foothold and climbed up so he could look inside and saw a Marine still strapped into the passenger seat. The fire was making the frame very hot under Bishop’s arm. He had to get the man out of there. He pulled his knife again and sliced through the seat belt. Bishop reached in, grabbed the man’s plate carrier and pulled with everything he had. He pulled so hard that the momentum carried him and the Marine off of the side of the Humvee and they landed in a heap beside the vehicle. He knew something was not right even before he hit the ground. He should not have been able to pull a fully loaded man out like that. He sat up to check it out and grasped that he had pulled out only half of a man. The lower half was still in the Humvee. A stunned Bishop just sat there staring at the man’s intestines unraveling on the ground.

  Bishop didn’t realize it at the moment, but his ears no longer functioned. During all of the turmoil, it had never dawned on him that there was a complete absence of noise. He noticed movement and looked up to see the gunny motioning him to get down and mouthing something. What was he saying? …..in….in…in coming….INCOMING! Bishop started to lay flat when a mortar exploded 20 feet away causing the ground to shake so hard that he actually bounced. Hot air blew off his hat, and the dead Marine’s body was flung on top of him. He shook his head to clear the bright white lines that were crossing his vision. He started to get up, but his legs would not answer the commands being sent by his brain. It was the first time in Bishop’s life that he was so frightened he could not move. No, he thought, Oh God please not now, not in front of the Marines. Move, God Damnit! Move your ass, old man; and he willed his legs to start pumping in any direction. He managed to get up and had made two half-crawling steps when the gunny waved violently for him to get down again.

  The second mortar hit right as Bishop’s cheek made it to the hot sand. His legs were picked up and flung sideways by the force of the blast. He ended up completely disoriented with grit in his mouth and eyes. His next memory was of being dragged away, face down, from the burning Humvee and seeing combat boots landing step by precious step on both sides of his head. Two Marines were dragging him away from the kill zone. They pulled him behind a low wall where a corpsman started looking him over.

  Once the corpsman had verified that Bishop was both unharmed and one of the luckiest people he had ever met, Bishop drained three full bottles of water. With his senses recovering, he started slowly wandering around. The Marines were waiting on their CO to fly in on a bird so that a full report could be made. So the Chicken Shit Syndrome is not unique to the Army, he thought. The lieutenant in charge of the convoy appeared at Bishop’s side to check if he were okay. Bishop asked, “What the hell was that all about, Lieutenant? What happened?”

  “The terrorists have a new trick; Division calls them improvised explosive devices or IEDs. They take old artillery shells and make bombs out them. Most times, they plant them next to the road and wait for us to go by. Every now and then, like today, they get real clever and lob a few mortar shells or have a sniper fire rounds at us right after the detonation. They have no chance against us in a stand-up gunfight, so they are doing this shit to break us down.” He thanked Bishop for pulling his man out of the fire and proceeded elsewhere to take care of business.

  It was then that Bishop realized he had not seen the young corporal who did the Bush imitations and went to find him. Bishop approached the gunny and asked where the kid was. The gunny gave him an odd look and said, “You pulled half of him out of that Humvee, sir. He rests in that bag over there.”

  Everything became clear in Bishop’s mind. He remembered asking Spider where all of the people had gone, and then the explosion occurred. He looked back along their route where people had already returned to their shops and stalls along the street. He then thought about the obvious effort required to plant the roadside bomb and then walk off the distance for the mortar crew. All of those people back there could not have missed seeing that bomb
being buried or the terrorists counting steps as they walked away. He glanced over at the half-full body bag, and his rage boiled over.

  He grabbed his rifle and began walking toward the Iraqi people on the street. He began shouting at the top of his lungs, “You knew! You rotten fuckers, you knew! Why didn’t you warn us? I’m going to kill every last one of you fuckers! A hundred of you bitches are not worth that kid!”

  Bishop was pulling his rifle up to his shoulder when a very large hand grabbed the weapon and spun him around. It was the gunny, and he calmly said, “Sir, you’re not going to kill anyone with that weapon. You don’t have a magazine in it.” Bishop just blinked as it took a second to comprehend. He looked down at his M4 and broke out laughing. It was empty and as dangerous as a baby rattle. The nervous laughter was contagious, and a few nearby Marines got a good chuckle as well. He shrugged his shoulders and headed back to find Spider. He wanted to know when they were going to blow this pop-stand.

  The Double Tap

  In the parking garage across from the hospital a news crew had been setting up cameras to cover the riot. A wide pillar had deflected most of the blast wave, and a camera ended up pointed at Bishop and Rita lying in the street. The picture was beamed back to the station for several minutes as the crew was too disoriented to realize they were broadcasting live. The picture of an elderly woman lying disheveled in the street with a man half-draped over her gurney was one of those rare images that would change history. The live footage was broadcast throughout the world. A single frame would be published in all of the major newspapers over the next few days.

  As Bishop’s head began to clear the cobwebs, he checked his body for major injury. He had enough presence to slowly flex and move everything to see what worked. He discovered his left arm wasn’t responding well, but it felt like shoulder pain and not a broken arm. There goes half of my sex life he thought. It hurt like hell to breathe. He managed to get up and check on Rita, but it was obvious she was gone. He sat down and covered her face with a sheet after giving her a kiss on the forehead. That’s from Terri. The blast had killed Rita instantly; and in a way, Bishop was glad it had been quick. He immediately felt guilt at his sense of relief and then pushed it out of his mind. He decided he would just lie back down and wait on help to arrive.

  When Ali’s delivery truck had exploded, the blast shattered every window for three blocks. There was a crater in Fannin Street over 20 feet in diameter and 10 feet deep. Several cars and trucks on the street had been blown over or set on fire. Houston General Hospital lost the stone facade for its first three stories. The entire first floor was devastated. The office building across from the hospital suffered similar damage, and one corner looked close to collapse. Bodies littered the street in both directions. The blast set off car alarms as far away as NASA. Some thought Houston had been hit by a nuclear bomb because of the small mushroom cloud that rose over the scene.

  Bishop, of course, knew none of this. He was gathering his wits to stand up when he smelled something rotten in the air. What is that? It took his mind a few seconds to register the odor. GAS! Adrenaline pumped through his body, and he managed to get to his feet and start moving away from the area as fast as he could. He could hear the whine of sirens close by and expected to see help arriving at any moment. Instinct directed him to put distance between himself and the blast zone. He suddenly remembered the truck was parked nearby and headed in that direction. Two police cars went roaring past, followed closely by an ambulance. Seeing that help was arriving actually gave him more strength. He could now hear an orchestra of sirens in the distance. It sounded like there were hundreds of emergency vehicles descending on the area. Bishop was almost to his truck. He reached in his pocket for the keys when his shadow became very intense, and suddenly the entire street was flooded white with light. While this blast wave didn’t knock him down, he could feel the heat and heard the roar as the ground shook for a second time in less than five minutes. He turned to see a giant fireball rise over the top of the five-story hospital. The leaking natural gas had been sparked, and Bishop could only hope that the first responders were not close when it had exploded. He made it to his truck and reached for his cell phone. It was gone. Well shit, he thought, Terri has to be going insane with worry. I have to get in touch with her somehow.

  Terri had been glued to the TV watching the coverage. The media had helicopters and ground crews. The station she was watching had a reporter interviewing someone right in front of the hospital when the truck exploded. The screen went completely white, and she heard the voice of the anchor, apologizing for apparent loss of signal. An uneasy pause of about 10 seconds ensued, when the station switched to the helicopter view. The devastation from the aerial feed was clear. Terri was getting dressed for the trip to the hospital when the picture of Bishop and Rita lying in the street appeared on her television. While she could not be 100% sure with the smoke and the angle of the shot, she knew in her heart that she was looking at the lifeless bodies of her mother and husband. Her body began to jerk uncontrollably when the man stirred. She did not blink or breathe for several seconds until finally seeing him move again. He got up to check on the woman lying beside the gurney. She saw the man bend over, kiss the woman on the head, and then cover her face. When he reached for the blanket, his head rose up enough, and Terri saw it was her husband. Bishop was alive … but her mother was dead. She just sat stunned, watching the television with hot tears of both relief and remorse rolling down her cheeks.

  Bishop drove toward home. He didn’t know what else to do. He was in extreme pain, and it was becoming harder and harder for him to catch his breath. Somehow, he kept on course, navigated the traffic, and ended up in his driveway. He managed to open the door and thought at least Terri wouldn’t have to search for his body. He started to get out, but the step down out of the truck was his undoing, and he did a full-face plant into the grass. The neighbors will think I stumbled home drunk and passed out in the yard.

  Terri heard Bishop’s truck pull into the driveway and was on her way out the door when she saw him fall. She rushed to his side yelling, “Bishop, are you all right?”

  “Well babe, there were these three big guys at the bar, and, well…you should see the other dudes.”

  “Bishop, this is no time for jokes.” Terri’s tone was unmistakable.

  “Terri,” Bishop said with serious eyes, “I am sorry baby, but your Mom is dead. I tried; I really tried, but she is gone. She didn’t feel any pain.”

  Terri said, “Bishop, we can talk about that later. I am so relieved you made it home. Let’s get you taken care of.” She tried to help him up, but his weight was too much for her. She ran across the street and rang the neighbor’s doorbell. With help from friends, they managed to get Bishop into bed, and a nurse friend came over to check him out. Terri decided to call for an ambulance and have Bishop taken to a local hospital, but was informed by the dispatcher that every available ambulance in the city was being diverted to the medical center. She decided to drive him there herself, but he would have none of it, half-heartedly vowing to kick anyone’s ass who tried to move him from the bed.

  Houston, Texas - July 31, 2015

  Aftermath

  Bishop had been lying in bed all day, watching the news and letting Terri take care of him. He was actually feeling a bit better, but needed to get both his shoulder and ribs checked out. The cable news channels were covering the Houston explosion from every possible angle. Over 1,200 people were dead, and another 650 were injured. The fires were still burning, and the Houston Fire Department was struggling with a combination of poor water pressure and a lack of manpower. The department suffered from cutbacks just like every other city agency in the last few years. The mayor had asked for help from Dallas and other nearby cities, but so far those departments had responded with only token assistance, as they were shorthanded, too.

  The initial reaction by several experts was that the whole affair had been a terrorist attack. The 24x7-news cove
rage concluded that the explosion was a truck bomb and that a sleeper cell of jihadists had taken advantage of the crowd gathered in front of the hospital and detonated the weapon. Bishop didn’t buy it. The crowd at the hospital had been impromptu and compared to a football game or other event, had been quite small. If a terror cell were going to stage an attack, why go after such a small crowd?

  Wall Street reacted poorly to the news. Already down by over 50% since the start of the depression, stocks plunged even further in anticipation of additional attacks and the reaction of the US government. The president had done what presidents always do and expressed sorrow, while pledging to bring justice to those responsible. America was already a war-weary country, and the vast majority of the population blamed 16 years of war for a large part of the current economic situation. While all but a skeleton force of US troops had been pulled from foreign battlefields, the money had been spent. Money that many believed would have been better utilized at home.

  The prospect of more war, combined with an already unemployed and frustrated people, brought out protestors. Clashes with police were becoming common in every major city. It didn’t help that Houston General was part of a nationwide system of hospitals with facilities in 12 major metropolitan areas. While no other medical center experienced a disaster like Houston General, the emotional and economic ripples were felt throughout the other eleven communities. This compounded an already tense situation in these areas that led to protests, mobs, and even minor looting.

  In Atlanta, riot police had been deployed, and two young men had been killed in the resulting encounter. As the news of the shootings spread, it wasn’t long before a full uprising broke out. The nation witnessed violence on a scale not seen since the Rodney King verdict in Los Angeles, years before.