I have no idea what I looked like, because the first thing Captain Z said to me was, "You all right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Change of plan. You're going out on the first bird with all the wounded."
We discussed the technical details, and soon the '53's could be heard coming over the mountains.
The LZ was tight—one helo at a time. The '53 landed amid a hurricane of dust.
As I walked by the prisoners one of them was trying to shout something through his tape gag. And Lance Corporal Francois was telling him, "Shut up, motherfucker. Your juice is water right now."
I counted everyone aboard. The stretchers went on the deck down the center of the fuselage. Only one corpsman stayed behind at the LZ. Doctor Patel and all the rest were aboard.
The '53 lifted off, shuddered, and then dropped like a rock, wheels bouncing on the ground. We all held our breath as it took the pilot two more tries before he could get enough of that thin high altitude air under his rotors to get airborne. We seemed to go up a foot at a time until we cleared the peaks.
Then the village was gone. Even sealed off from it inside the familiar throbbing fuselage of a departing helicopter, it's wreckage lay at our feet.
When we went feet wet over the ocean I passed the word to unload, clear, and lock all weapons.
The SMAW gunner with the bad chest wound was Corporal Cushing, whose wife's flowers Captain Carbonelli had stolen a million years ago. Over the ocean they began giving him CPR.
Our helicopter was flaring to land when the doorgunner yelled over the intercom that we were still over the water. Then he threw himself spread-eagle face down onto the floor. I was the only one in the back with a headset, but everyone else knew that it was not a good sign when the crew assumed the crash position.
I found out later that the copilot—a first lieutenant whose uncertain hand we felt every time he took the controls—had gotten confused and almost landed us on the water instead of the flight deck thirty feet away. These things happened sometimes while wearing night vision goggles.
The pilot immediately grabbed the stick and put us on the deck. Major pucker factor, as the aviators liked to say.
As soon as we landed and the ramp went down we were inundated with corpsmen in white reflective vests and flight deck helmets. We all sat still as they hurried the wounded out.
I sent two Marines with them to guard our prisoners, afraid some well-meaning sailor would cut off their handcuffs and hand them a scalpel or something.
Then I stood up and 2nd platoon followed me off the helo. When we were all in the passageway on the 02 level, the hatch dogged shut behind us, I went down the line and shook every Marine's hand, looked him in the eye, and thanked him for the job he'd done.
"Does this mean we get the Combat Action Ribbon, sir?" Corporal Crockett asked me with a smile.
"You earned it tonight," I told him. My tough guys had really taken it to them. And no one who hadn't been there with us would ever know what we were feeling then.
"Don't forget that five dollars a day hazardous duty pay, Crazy," Staff Sergeant Frederick said, smiling.
"Yeah, we're fucking rolling in it now," Corporal Reilly said sardonically.
The Staff Sergeant took charge of the platoon then, and I went to sickbay.
After calling down for a couple of the ship's Masters at Arms to take over guarding the prisoners, there was nothing for me to do but wait for word. Sitting in a hard plastic chair amid all the rushing activity, I could hardly even sense my own body. It felt as if I'd spent the whole night getting electric shocks and would never be able to rest again. I begged a handful of aspirins for my headache.
Then the IMC blared out: "All Echo Company Marines report to the troop marshaling area ASAP. All Echo Company Marines report to the troop marshaling area ASAP."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
All the other lieutenants had gone from the flight deck right down to the marshaling area, so I was the last to show up. Something was going on, because Marines and Sailors were dragging fresh cases of ammunition off the hoists from the magazines.
I broke into the huddle. "Sorry, sir, I was at sickbay."
"The FARP is in trouble," said Captain Zimmerman. "As they were pulling out they came under fire. One helo's down in the zone. We're going back in."
"Casualties, sir?" said Nichols.
"Forget about all that," Captain Z snapped. "The situation's changing by the minute, and whatever reports we've already gotten are out of date by now. I'm not going to base my planning on them. We'll fly in, I'll talk direct to Paul Federico and take a look at the ground, then let you know what I want to do."
I saw in everyone's eyes exactly what I was feeling. We'd gotten out, we were safe, we'd allowed ourselves to give in to the exhaustion, and now we had to go back in. It was a major psychological hurdle.
I'd leap it by taking my Marines over it. When I told them there were wide eyes and disbelief. Everyone seemed to sag. I could always tell from the undertone of muttering how they were feeling about something. Bitching meant everything was good to go. But they were sullen and silent, and that was contagious. Time to be a lieutenant.
"Listen up!" I said sharply. "We've got Marines in trouble. Marines in trouble. I'm not taking anyone with me who doesn't have the balls to get them out. Anyone who isn't up for it," I said, pointing, "pick up your trash and stand over by that bulkhead. We don't fucking need you."
Everyone looked at each other. Even the couple who'd been looking at the bulkhead didn't move.
I said to the Staff Sergeant, "Tell Mitchell and Hauser to gear up. They're coming along." The two PFC's I'd left behind. It was going to be a daylight fight, and we were going to need everyone.
This was why the Marines and I didn't play cards together. A platoon commander had to have some distance, because some of the Marines I'd just manipulated into coming with me were probably going to lose their lives because of it.
Now I was spitting out orders to the squad leaders. "It's going to be hot. Everyone get their pile off and fill their canteens and Camelbak's up full. Take NVG's but put them in the butt packs. Full basic load, plus double bandoliers and double frag grenades. Any flash-bangs left, leave 'em here. We're short one SMAW team, so everyone who doesn't have a SAW or 203 carries an AT-4. SAWs and 203's carry a claymore."
And then, because the 90% always have to pay for the 10% who just can't seem to do what they're told, for whatever reason, I took out a 1-quart canteen and led the platoon in downing it. Forced hydration, crucial in any hot weather environment—vital in the desert.
The water must have given me a brainstorm. "Corporal Asuego, take your squad down to the mess deck and get some doughnuts or bread or anything we can eat fast with our hands. Enough for the whole company. Okay, move."
Remember what I said about giving Marines orders? I don't want to paint with a broad brush, because there were Sailors who dropped everything and broke their asses to get us back into the fight. But when the mess officer told Corporal Asuego there was no way he could have one tray let alone trays of doughnuts and danish, not to mention ten cases of cold soda, he found himself looking down the barrel of a loaded M-16.
And, of course, being Marines they didn't return with their booty in a spirit of quiet satisfaction. They came back whooping, "We jacked the motherfucker!"
Another officer got the M-16 treatment when he protested our pulling metal-frame Stokes stretchers off the bulkheads to handle extra casualties. "That's Navy property," he said.
"Fuck off, sir," was the reply given at gunpoint. Typical of Marines, it was still quasi-respectful despite the circumstances.
We loaded up the stretchers with ammo cans in case we needed resupply.
Our refueling and rearming took longer than the helicopters, the time being divided between loading magazines and ramming pastry into our faces. It was amazing the morale effect from one tiny detail. Sugar, caffeine, and a fresh load of adrenaline pumped everyone right back up.
>
As we stood by in our helo serials I was going down the lines inspecting everyone's gear. Captain Z walked over and said, "Good work on the chow, 2nd platoon." He slapped an embarrassed Corporal Asuego on the back of the helmet. "The Marines were hungry enough to eat the ass out of a rag doll."
Everyone in the vicinity cracked up, "Better not thank us too fast, sir," I said. "You may have to deal with some fallout."
"Oh?"
"Well, for starters, there may be some squids filing claims for posttraumatic stress disorder."
His reply was one voiced often in the Corps, but almost never by company commanders. He winked at Corporal Asuego and said, "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The FARP site was a relatively flat valley sandwiched between two long jagged ridges that were sealed at one end by a shorter cross-compartment ridge that left the ground in the shape of a U. Every piece of land in that part of Yemen flat enough to land helicopters on was surrounded by high ground.
I was sure Federico had put outposts on those ridges. They'd either been driven off by a larger force, or someone had waited until the platoon pulled back to get on their helicopter.
All we had going in with us was a pair of Cobras. To keep two continuously over the target area meant that one pair had to be on deck refueling and another enroute.
Dawn meant no more advantage from night vision equipment. They could see us just as well as we could them. We circled out of small arms range, the rising sun to our backs. Too high to make out Marines on the ground, but a '53 was burning in the middle of the LZ.
This was the maddening part. I had a pretty good idea what ought to be done, but had to sit and wait for someone else to make the call. And even if theirs was fucked up, I'd have to do it anyway.
Since none of the battalion staff was on my helo I could actually listen in to the discussion over a headset. I know the responsibility was crushing, but it took them forever to pull the trigger.
At least they came to the right decision. Combat in mountains was a lot like urban combat. You never wanted to fight your way uphill if you could start at the highest point and attack down.
I acknowledged my orders over the headset and waved Staff Sergeant Frederick and the squad leaders up to the starboard gunner's window. I pointed and shouted what was known as a fragmentary, or frag order.
"We're going to take, clear, and hold that ridgeline. We'll fast rope onto the high open end and sweep down. First platoon will be doing the same on the other side of the valley. Third platoon is in reserve."
With proper dispersion between the Marines, there was only room for two squads on line going down the long axis of the ridge, so I said, "First squad on the left. Third squad on the right. Third is the base squad." Then to Sergeant Turner, "I want you behind us, far enough back to be out of our AT-4 backblast area. Cover our rear and take care of any fire we get from the flanks. Remember we've got 1st platoon on our right, but keep a close eye on that short ridge to our right front." He nodded. Then to the machine-gun squad leader, "One gun on the far left flank, one on the right." I crossed my arms to show him how I wanted his fire to be able to cover our front. He nodded. And to the Staff Sergeant, "You stay with Sergeant Turner. I'll be with Corporal Asuego." Then to them all, "Everyone understand the plan?" They did. "Questions?" There were none. "Okay, go tell the troops. Give me a thumbs up when you're ready."
They went down the lines of seats and briefed their team leaders. When the thumbs went up I reported over the headset that we were ready.
A few minutes later the helos broke from the racetrack pattern and went down. I had an immediate uneasy feeling because we were heading straight in with no maneuvering or jinking. That shit was okay at night, but it wasn't a good time for Marine helicopter pilots to be acting like peacetime bus drivers.
As we bore in tracers began rising up at us. An optical illusion made them seem deceptively slow, almost floating. I signaled the platoon to get ready.
The port side doorgunner opened up with his .50 cal.. I kept hearing pinging sounds and thought: what a great time for some engine trouble.
Then I saw the little dots of sunlight appearing in the fuselage and realized that the pinging was bullets punching through the skin.
Lance Corporal Carter, who'd obviously seen Apocalypse Now, took off his helmet and sat on it. Until Sergeant Turner shouted, "You can live without your balls! You can't live without your brain, dipshit!" Carter thought that over and put his helmet back on.
"I don't want to live without my balls," Lance Corporal Vincent muttered beside me.
We came in with our nose facing down the ridgeline. Which meant that after we fast roped out the back we'd have to pass underneath the helicopter to get into position. I tried to persuade the pilots to turn the bird a bit sideways to take care of that and allow at least one of the door guns to fire down the ridge, but if there was one certainty in life it was that pilots never listened to anyone, especially not infantry lieutenants.
Just as the '53 slowed and flared to a hover, PFC Mitchell seemed to launch out of his seat. The safety belt caught him and threw him back. His upper body fell forward onto his knees.
I'd let the poor kid come along and he hadn't even made it out of the helicopter. And now I had to do worse. "Leave him!" I shouted, signaling the fast rope out.
The ridge was typical desert terrain: sand and knee high scrub bushes broken by rocks and rock outcroppings. I stationed myself at the bottom of the rope, directing Marines to go around the helicopter left and right, staying as far away from it as possible. If the helo had hovered a little lower they wouldn't be as much of a target, but I'd given up trying to reason with pilots.
Fire was coming in heavy. The only way to suppress it was to send heavier fire back, but I had less than a squad on the ground. Only the fact that nearly everyone was shooting high at the helo kept us from being pinned down while we were all strung out. It was a fucking mess.
I looked up to see the '53 lurch and drop. I grabbed the Marine coming off the rope and threw him down the slope out of the way. The helo slammed into the rocks, and I fell back as the tail rotor came down like a screaming circular saw, so close I could almost taste the metal.
I landed hard on the AT-4 rocket strapped across my back, and it tangled up in my legs because I was rolling as if I was on fire, something I expected to happen as soon as the helicopter blew up.
But when I stopped and looked up through the rotor wash sandstorm I could see the helo tilted on one side on the rocks, rotors still intact and beating though barely missing the ground. I also saw the rest of the platoon charging out the back ramp, making the hard right to avoid the tail rotor, asshole to elbow like cattle going through a chute, the Staff Sergeant driving them hard from behind.
To say that chaos reigned would be an understatement. That it reigned for such a brief period of time was really due to the fear that the '53 was going to continue tipping over and send a million shattered fragments of rotor blade among us. This gave everyone the incentive to sprint down the slope on each side to get around and away from the helo. And at least on the side of the ridge we were masked from most of the incoming fire.
Loud whooshing sounds overhead. As I scrambled back up the slope I saw that one of the Cobras had fired half a pod of unguided 2.75 inch rockets down the ridge. Some were white phosphorus, and the spreading blooms of white smoke gave us some screening.
The rounds snapping overhead had us crawling until we reached the protection of a rock outcropping. And made us very thankful for those urban warfare knee and elbow pads.
The cover gave the squad and team leaders a chance to shake their troops out and give me a head count. I thought we were in deep shit, but except for Mitchell, who was still on the helo, I had everyone present and, though banged up, none incapacitated. I actually had one extra. One of the helo crew decided that staying in the bird wasn't the best course of action. He was on the ground in flight suit, gloves, and
helmet, the smoked visor still pulled over his eyes, his Beretta in his hand.
"Welcome to the grunts," I shouted, then pointed to Staff Sergeant Frederick. "Stick to him like glue."
He watched forlornly as the '53 increased pitch and shuddered into the air, the crew visibly fighting to keep it from pitching over. I had to give them credit for not trying it until we were out of the way. The bird actually stayed up, one engine blowing black smoke. An empty '53 was overpowered even with only two out of three engines working. The undercarriage was all smashed up, one wheel dangling like a broken leg. Good luck landing back on the ship. That was their problem, but one less '53 was ours.
And now I had to go into the attack. It was like going into the attack after just finishing a marathon.
CHAPTER TWENTY
All the clever maneuvering, night fighting, raiding, and infiltration we did in training was wonderful, but now I knew why the experience of combat always led military units to load up on firepower. Because no matter what you'd prefer, you were eventually going to find yourself in a stand-up daytime fight with no room to maneuver.
The noise rose as the two squads spread across the ridgeline and set out to gain fire superiority. My binoculars turned out to be invaluable. The sun was behind me so I didn't have to worry about reflections glinting off the lenses. You rarely see a clear target to shoot at on a battlefield. Too much exposure is a death sentence, so everyone stays well under cover.
I picked out the likely spots based on the terrain where I'd be taking cover, movement I could see, or muzzle blast dust signature. I fired tracers into those areas, the squad leader whose sector of fire it was followed with a few more tracers of his own, then the team leaders fired a 40mm grenade whose prominent explosion brought their Marines on target. Soon there were 3 squad automatic weapons, 10 M-16's, and 3 M-203 grenade launchers concentrated together.
William Christie 03 - The Blood We Shed Page 20
