William Christie 03 - The Blood We Shed

by William Christie

  "I been dreaming of this," Vincent said as he took off his pack.

  No radio communications meant no Cobra. I doubted that the intra-squad radio had the range to reach Jack O'Brien across the valley, but I consulted the list of frequencies I'd written on my left forearm and changed to 1st platoon's. No go. Then the Cobras' UHF push. Nothing but static.

  "Anyone got any ideas?" I yelled. "Anyone?"

  The helo crewman crawled over, still wearing his crash helmet. Just as I'd told him, he'd stuck to the Staff Sergeant like glue. He unsnapped a pocket in his survival vest, rooted around, and handed me something green. About the same size and shape as a paperback book. Yes. His survival radio.

  I leaned over and slapped him on top of the helmet. "Fucking A!"

  He gave me a thumbs up.

  Ironically, Captain Z had wanted each platoon commander to carry one of these on the raid, but the squadron never coughed them up in time.

  I opened the tape antenna and turned it to the guard channel that every pilot monitored as a matter of course. "Warrior zero-three, this is 2nd platoon. You up there, over?"

  The Reverend came back immediately. "Good to hear you, 2nd. Lose your radio?"

  "That's affirmative," I replied. "Let the Six know we're okay. Had some trouble with the mortars—three routines. You find the tube?"

  "Negative." It was hard to pick out something like that on the ground, especially since it could be anywhere within about a five mile radius. "I'll relay your traffic."

  He also had me switch off the emergency frequency to keep it open. Captain Z had been pissing up his toenails since watching the mortars drop and hearing us go off the air. Now I was clear to continue.

  Corporal Asuego's squad had taken all the casualties, so I brought Sergeant Turner's 2nd squad into the line and had 1st fall back to carry the wounded. Our stretchers could be dragged even easier than carried. We took the ammo off the casualties and sent it over to Sergeant Eberhardt.

  While all this was happening I got out my cleaning rod and punched the packed sand from the barrel of my M-16. Vincent looked like he didn't know what to do without a radio droning in his ear.

  "Were you awake for the mortars?" I asked him.

  "Jesus Christ, sir, you should have seen it. The first one went off right next to us, and then they started dropping all over the place. We couldn't do anything except suck sand. I about shit a cold purple Twinkie."

  That was my second combat laugh. A cold purple Twinkie? Never heard that one before.

  Vincent was still rolling. "It was fucked up, sir. But it was like the rounds were going into the sand before they blew. We would have been in the hurt locker otherwise. As soon as they stopped we got the fuck out of there, but then they started up again, dropping 'em between us and 2nd squad. You should have seen the Staff Sergeant and Sergeant Turner, sir. As soon as the mortars slacked off again they all got up and ran, fucking ran, right up to us. We put out rounds for cover, but they didn't give a shit about anyone shooting at them; they didn't want to get trapped by those mortars."

  Well, I was filled in on everything I missed, my rifle was working again, and the platoon was ready to go. With that mortar still operational I wasn't about to stay in one place any longer than I had to. The only good news was that a Western 81mm or Russian 82mm mortar round weighed about ten pounds each, so there couldn't be an infinite supply of them waiting to be shot at us.

  The Reverend was replaced by Thor, who was black instead of blonde and Viking. He came up on my survival radio frequency, and I briefed him on what had worked with the previous teams. Mainly keeping an eye on our distance to the objective and not bugging me for permission every time he wanted to engage a target.

  We were almost down to the end of the ridge. There seemed to be only one more obvious spot where the Yemenis could get any cover from our fire and that of the Cobras.

  Thor saturated the area with rockets and we went into the assault. My new handheld radio was great. Although hours of practice had made Vincent and I a ballroom dancing team to rival Fred and Ginger, life was much easier not being connected by that handset umbilical.

  Unlike the previous two times the return fire didn't slacken as we got closer. If anything it increased.

  I had an idea why. The Yemeni tribesmen were snipers and bushwhackers. They shot up their enemies, and when they no longer had the advantage faded away to fight another day. Close combat wasn't their thing. But every time they'd previously tried to bug out the Cobra had gunned them down. Now they were trapped on the end of a ridge with a steep downward slope of open ground behind them and nowhere to run. Stand or die time for them.

  Our method had been to soften them up and blind them with high explosive and white phosphorus 2.75" rockets, use the Hellfires sparingly against particularly stubborn resistance, then keep their heads down with 20mm cannon as we closed in.

  Now I got on the radio and told Thor, "Keep putting in Hellfires until we get danger close. Use them all if you have to, or I tell you to cease."

  "Roger," he replied.

  They came booming in on a steady rhythm like enormously expensive 155mm artillery shells. Even though we realized the benefit outweighed the danger, advancing toward those explosions was a contrary act you had to force your body to perform. Their noise was so intense that even with earplugs it felt like two hard thumbs pressing into the little mastoid pockets behind my ears.

  It was only when I could feel the missile parts zinging by that I shouted into the radio, "Thor, cease fire on the Hellfires, keep it up with the cannon." I looked over and Vincent had blood running down his face. He'd taken a piece under the eye. Maybe I'd waited too long.

  Something had happened. Our assault seemed to hesitate and stop. I sprang forward to get the line moving, but it didn't. I almost stood up right then. An officer gets more money, and salutes, and the bill comes due when an attack stalls and you have to set the example by making yourself a target to get things going again.

  But then I realized we hadn't stalled. The Marines, sensing the opposition, were pausing to fix bayonets.

  Jesus. The line lurched forward again. An RPG blew up right in front of Sergeant Turner and I. While I was shaking the sand from my eyes he readied and cocked his AT-4 in two bounds and fired a rocket right back at them.

  He'd fired from the prone, and when I looked over his trousers were smoking. The backblast had set his cammies on fire. I rolled toward him and shoveled sand onto his legs. Totally unaware of the reason for it, he looked back at me as if I'd gone nuts.

  I'd stopped hearing cannon fire from the Cobra. "Thor," I shouted into the radio, "keep that cannon going."

  "We're jammed," was the response.

  Fuck. We were on our own. "I'll be off the air for a while," I said, turning the radio off and stuffing it into my accessory pouch.

  Just like the MCCRES, it was time to put our heads down and assault. My head was thick and my stomach wobbly, but the cure seemed to be an overdose of adrenaline.

  Every time the Yemenis increased their rate of fire we matched it and surpassed it. Well-aimed single shots were the way to go 95% of the time, but at that moment we all should have been firing full auto to suppress them. Unfortunately our M-16A2's were capable of only semi-automatic and 3-round bursts. The ordnance experts and rifle range geeks were afraid that too much ammunition would be wasted otherwise. Their forefathers were the ones who had taken repeating rifles away from the 7th Cavalry just before Little Big Horn.

  It felt like I was only receiving slices of sensory input, not knowing whether what I was hearing had just started up or I simply hadn't noticed it before. Like the screaming. Angry screaming, and it was coming from the Marines around me. The same sound had probably been heard crossing the wheat field at Belleau Wood or the airstrip at Peleliu. The sound of the decision to hurl yourself forward rather than run away.

  Our grenades went out. It was almost choreographed by now. Another little hitch in the line as we waited for them to
go off.

  They blew and we were up. Then back down quick as dark balls came sailing back at us. So the bad guys had grenades left, too. Explosives blow up and out, and all we could do was suck dirt. Blasts like bone-jarring shocks, ringing my bell again.

  I didn't know if I'd caught any frags. The adrenaline was roaring so hard I may not have known if I was missing a limb. I shook my head to try and clear it, but felt like I was wearing a fifty pound helmet.

  I sprang forward to get the line moving again. I know that sand is brown and explosive smoke gray-black, but I seemed to be in the middle of a cloud of yellow.

  I didn't even think about not being able to see anyone, didn't worry about Marines not being with me. I think I was screaming too.

  We had to climb a low rise of jagged black basalt to get at them. Having learned the lesson from the last time I'd jumped over some rocks, I fished my next to last frag grenade out of a cloth bandoleer pocket.

  C'mon, c'mon. My swollen fingers felt as stiff as wood. I yanked the pin and the whole grenade popped right out of my hand. Still dangling from the pin, fortunately. Christ. I shifted it over to my left hand and finally worked the pin out. I yelled at myself to hurry before Sergeant Turner's squad got out in front of me. Pin out, spoon off, a long count of three for a short throw, and then shouting, "Frag out!" with a spectacularly dorky left-handed toss over the rocks like a basketball free throw.

  Another jarring blast, then scrambling over. A figure dashed across my front. I snapped off two quick shots, doubting I hit him, and didn't follow up for fear of hitting unseen Marines.

  I crept forward, then dropped into a crouch as some of our own 5.56mm rounds passed overhead with sharper, higher-velocity cracks. "Watch your sectors of fire," I hissed into the intra-squad radio. Not that it would do much good besides make me feel better. It was just a part of combat you had to accept.

  Movement off to my right that seemed to key off my voice. My rifle was pointed the other way. A long burst from a SAW while I was still turning. First in my peripheral vision, then straight on: a Yemeni fallen onto his back. Vincent darting forward, screaming like a banshee. And not stopping, not shooting, but driving his bayonet into the man's chest. A boot on the neck, a twist of the rifle, and he yanked the blade out, his eyes wild.

  Holy shit. Why didn't he just shoot the guy? And I guess the answer is that in combat we get unrestricted access to the dark part of our hearts that wonders what it would be like to stick a bayonet into someone.

  It had been Conahey with the SAW. Everyone seemed to be yelling their heads off, but I remember him coming over those rocks dead silent as usual, flicking an opaque gaze first to Vincent and the Yemeni, then to me, then continuing on.

  We all did now, cautiously, not knowing where the rest of the platoon was with the rocks obscuring side-to-side vision. The roar of gunfire had pretty much stopped, but random shots still rang out all around.

  The rocks tapered down into sand and scrub again. We stopped before we reached it. The sun was almost at its apex, and the heat was blinding. Mirage shimmered up from the sand. It had to be over a hundred degrees. Yeah, it was a dry heat—but so was an oven.

  I knew I ought to move down the line and see what was happening, but my legs felt like jelly and I just couldn't make myself move.

  I also knew if I sat down it might take more will than I had at that moment to get me back up. I leaned against the rocks and waited for the ammo and casualty reports to come in, trying to marshal my strength. The water in my canteen tasted even more like plastic when it was hot, and it was very hot.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Nothing like nagging guilt over your personal responsibilities to help you get your second wind. I turned the survival radio back on as I made my way down the line. The Grinch was back overhead.

  Sergeant Eberhardt, as always, was looking crushed under the weight of his burdens. I'd learned not to read anything into that, because he always looked that way. He had one more wounded. Hauser, one of the new PFC's. Who, the Sergeant told me, had probably run into the blast of his own grenade.

  Sergeant Turner had two wounded, one of them bad. Lance Corporal Donato had taken a burst right across the chest. One round went through his vest and nicked him in the side, two were stopped by the ceramic ballistic plate, which then shattered and let the third into his lung.

  Doc Bob hadn't arrived yet, but the rest of Donato's fire team had gotten a battle dressing on him. I checked their work, and it was good. They'd slapped the plastic dressing packaging over the "sucking" chest wound, which, with the chest cavity pierced, breathed whenever he did. The plastic resealed the chest, allowing the lung to reinflate. Then the battle dressing tied on tight over the plastic.

  Doc Bob, who'd been everywhere all day, jogged up and started an IV. "We've got to get him out of here as soon as we can, sir," he told me privately as soon as he'd finished.

  The Grinch relayed my message to Captain Z, and came back with an order to move all the wounded down into the valley.

  I didn't care much for dragging badly wounded Marines down a hill, but had learned how to choose my words to keep from getting into arguments I'd inevitably lose. "I've got seven wounded, only two of them walking," I said to the Grinch. I didn't include myself of course. "I've got enough men to carry them down the hill, or hold this ridge. But I don't have enough to do both. We've got to take them off from up here."

  A time lag while that was passed and considered. Then an order to prepare a landing zone on the ridge. Staff Sergeant Frederick got moving on that.

  There were no prisoners, not even any wounded ones. I wasn't particularly shocked by that. If you were in the assault and someone popped up in front of you, and you waited to see whether their hands were up, then you were slow enough to die. And everybody on the ground got two rounds as you went by, or you were asking to get shot in the back. Marines in the assault were not necessarily in their right minds. The idea that the savage violence of close combat can be controlled by rules probably sounds reasonable to anyone who hasn't experienced it.

  I had a word with each of the Marines as I went down the line, to get an idea how they were doing. Just like me: both tired and wired, if that was possible.

  "Do you know how much ass we kicked, sir?" Lance Corporal Francois shouted to me.

  "All they had, Francois," I said, thumping him on the back. "All they had."

  Corporal Reilly had been shot through both legs. The Marines in his team told me he'd paused to tie on two tourniquets, then resumed firing until the squad was too far ahead.

  He was conscious, but full of morphine. "What, did you slip on the deck?" I asked him.

  "No, sir. I got shot in both legs."

  Note to self: no joking banter with Marines zonked out on painkillers.

  Huddling with the squad leaders, I told Sergeant Eberhardt to push down and across the small connecting ridge until he made contact with Jack O'Brien and 1st platoon. Sergeant Turner would head back to secure the far end of the ridge. And after we got the wounded out Corporal Asuego would hold the center.

  "Whatever you do," I said, "stay the hell away from all these rocky outcroppings we had to take away from them. They'll be targets if that mortar opens up again. Keep good eyes on the downhill slope and surrounding terrain, but just observation posts. Keep most of your people in defilade on the valley side. Okay, anybody have any better ideas?"

  A shaking of heads.

  "You've done a great job so far," I said. "Let's not get cocky and careless—or fall asleep."

  I turned to the helo crewman who'd been dogging the Staff Sergeant's footsteps all day. "You can go out with the wounded. Thanks for the radio. I'll get it back to you aboard ship."

  He actually shook my hand, saying, "I'm never bitching about my job again, sir."

  I grinned at that. Too bad the Marine Corps didn't give out a combat infantryman badge like the Army. I would have gotten it for him.

  Retracing our steps was even more grisly
than the original trip. Starved of everything in that harsh environment, clouds of flies had appeared to frantically attack the moisture of the spilled blood. Sergeant Turner detailed a fire team to collect all the weapons and documents. The barrels and RPG launchers would be bent between a couple of boulders, and the bolts scattered in the sand.

  As I was giving the incoming '53 a zone brief, we experienced some conflict over the LZ marking. I wanted to keep using my mirror, feeling that a smoke grenade was just a way of announcing to everyone in the vicinity that a helicopter was about to land. Not to mention a really handy aiming point. But the pilot, worried about landing atop a ridge, insisted that he needed something to gauge the wind. So a smoke it was.

  The sky was pure azure, not a cloud in sight. We could see the two incoming helos a long way off.

  A faint pop seemed to come from some hills about a half mile away.

  Thinking it was the mortar, I shouted, "Take cover!"

  But a thin plume of smoke rose from the ground, corkscrewing upward. I thumbed the survival radio to the guard frequency. "SAM in the air! SAM in the air! SAM in the air!"

  I knew I'd gotten through when I saw the '53's bank so hard they almost looped, simultaneously popping twin streams of white magnesium flares, countermeasures to decoy the heat-seeking missile. The helos dove toward the ground as the missile came up. The SAM didn't follow them, instead chasing after the flares. Probably an old Russian SA-7, since the newer ones had more sensitive seeker heads that could tell the difference between flares and hot engines.

  I tossed my smoke grenade, wondering if they were going to keep coming in or pull back and regroup.

  They kept coming in. One right into the valley, the other toward me, blurting out, "I see your green smoke," as a mere formality. Roaring down the ridge at full power, hugging the ground, aimed right at me standing with my arms outstretched. Then nothing but gray helo belly as it reared up and slapped down in front of me.

  They kept the rotors on full power instead of feathering them. I could sympathize with wanting to get into the air immediately if anything else happened, but the rotor wash was like hurricane velocity wind. The stretcher bearers were leaning into it, bent forward almost horizontal, literally moving forward one step at a time against its force.