by Sean Parnell
I thought of Captain Waverly and his refusal to fire back at the enemy rocket teams that had pounded Bermel a few weeks before. If he were on the other end of the radio, I had no confidence he’d clear fire for us. But he was gone now. Lieutenant Colonel Toner had seen to that. Our new company commander, Captain Jason Dye, was a big unknown to us. We didn’t even know his reputation, and he was so fresh to the outfit that I had no idea how he’d respond to any request for fire support.
The first of the Toyota pickups jerked into gear and lumbered up the road. As First Sergeant Grigsby directed it into place, a second Toyota followed. His perimeter was taking shape.
I turned to tell Baldwin my next move. I noticed a bullet hole in his chest rack.
“Baldwin, are you okay?” Concern was evident in my voice.
“Never better, sir, why?”
I pointed at his chest. He reached into a bullet-scarred pouch and withdrew two spare magazines for his rifle. Both had been side-punched by a 7.62mm round.
“Looks like we both had close ones, sir,” he said while nodding at my pants. Another bullet had shredded the other pant leg. My ACUs looked as though they belonged to a castaway.
Another Toyota crept up the hill, closely followed by the marine major’s Humvee. My drivers saw the progress and spontaneously began to creep forward. The enemy split their fire. Some of the hilltop marksmen focused on our Humvees. Others traded shots with the men around me. In a fight like this one, firepower and accuracy are the components of victory. We didn’t yet have the power, but I knew we would be more accurate. I could feel the momentum slowly shifting.
“Baldwin, you got this?” I asked.
“Roger, sir.”
I took off for Pinholt and my truck’s radios. As I ran downhill, the weight of my body armor, rifle, and gear propelled me into an almost uncontrollable speed. Gravity took over; I was its passenger, and my legs barely kept up.
Just above the base of the incline, I passed Baldwin’s rig. McCleod had become outright defiant and now decided to stand up in his turret, practically daring the enemy to hit him.
Mouth dry, heart pounding, exaltation ruling my heart, I crossed the last stretch of open ground to my Humvee. Pinholt touched his brake. The rig was out of the lowest stretch of ground now, and as I reached inside the passenger side door and grabbed the radio handset, I prayed we’d have better reception.
“FOB Bermel, this is Blackhawk three-six.”
Captain Dye’s voice swelled out of the static: “Blackhawk three-six, this is Blackhawk six, go ahead.”
Dye spoke with an impossibly soft tone. I could barely hear him over all the gunfire.
“Blackhawk six, we are at the base of Gangikheyl Hill. We’ve been engaged by thirty-plus enemy on both sides of the road. Right now, we’re moving up the hill. Main focus has been to get the ANA consolidated at the top. We’ll join them there.”
“Roger that, Blackhawk three-six. Gimme a call when you’re in place, and I’ll start slinging rounds for you.”
“Thanks, six. Three-six out.”
Captain Dye just passed the test.
I tossed the handset away, grabbed a bottle of water, and chugged it down. Silently, I thanked Lieutenant Colonel Toner for sending us a commander who thought of us first.
“Pinholt, I’m going back up the hill. I’ll link up with you there.”
“Roger, sir.”
I hadn’t taken a half-dozen steps when he shouted, “Sir, Lieutenant Colonel Toner’s on the radio and wants to talk to you.”
“You talk to him, I need to get back into the fight.”
I took a few more steps up the slope before Pinholt yelled, “Sir, he doesn’t wanna talk to me. I think you need to come back.”
Annoyed, I rushed back to the Humvee.
“Blackhawk three-six, this is Cat six,” Toner growled. “If I say I wanna talk to you, don’t you put me on the horn with your radio operator. Got it?”
Chastised, I replied, “Roger, six.”
“Coordinate closely with the ANA. Make absolutely certain you don’t have a blue-on-blue incident. Understood?”
“Roger, that.”
“You’re doing a great job. Cat six out.” The radio went dead.
I stared at the handset.
Note to self: next time battalion commander calls, don’t palm him off on poor Pinholt.
As I left the truck again, Pinholt said, “Sir, take a radio.” He tossed me a portable one.
“Thanks!”
The Dragunov cracked. I ducked and waited. Apparently, the enemy sniper had picked a new target. A surge of fury went through me.
He’s shooting at one of my men.
We needed to find that guy and kill him. Snipers are significant force multipliers. One good sniper can pin down an entire company. Fortunately, this one didn’t seem to be very good. So far . . .
“Hey, sir, what’s happenin’?” The voice cut through the din of battle like no other.
From out of the dust and smoke billowing behind my truck, a short, wiry figure emerged. Cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, a can of German Bitburger near beer in one hand, freshly promoted Sergeant First Class Greg Greeson strolled serenely through the storm of shot and shell, a pair of ballistic sunglasses concealing his eyes.
I gaped at him. A burst of machine-gun fire ripped up the ground between us. A few scattered AK rounds Indy-whipped overhead. He seemed oblivious to the threat as he waddled, bow-legged toward me. Greeson always walked with his toes pointed out at forty-five-degree angles, as if he’d spent a lifetime in the saddle and felt uncomfortable with his heels on the ground.
“What’s goin’ on, sir?” he asked again in his Sling Blade meets Sam Elliott voice. Though he’d been in the army for more than twenty years, he hadn’t lost his Arkansas twang. I was at a loss for words.
As he reached me, he unrolled a long, mirth-filled laugh. “Hey, sir, you just need to calm the fuck down!”
He chortled again, like a man watching his son play in his first Little League game. Perhaps he was fondly reminiscing about his first moments under fire as he watched me.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked, still unable to process the spectacle that was my platoon sergeant. Greeson had just been promoted into that slot. As the senior noncommissioned officer, his main job was to handle any casualties and ensure the men had plenty of ammunition and water. He was also my second-in-command. If I went down, the platoon would be his.
He took a long pull from his can of near beer, then smiled. “Comin’ to see you, sir.”
Greeson had been in every shithole post the army can send a career NCO to. Before I graduated from grade school, he had already earned his first CIB while fighting with the 7th Infantry Division in Panama. His face was furrowed from decades of hard living—he drank hard and smoked three packs of cigarettes a day. He’d seen everything more than once, and his icy calm in the midst of chaos had made him a hero to the company’s young privates.
“Where’s the CCP?” I asked, referring to our designated casualty collection point. It was the place any wounded men would be carried to for treatment and evacuation.
Greeson looked down the column of Humvees and drawled, “Hell, sir, we’re surrounded. How ’bout right fuuuckin’ here?”
“Fair enough,” I said.
He let out another I remember those days sort of cackle that got drowned out with another swig of Bitburger. When he’d first come to the platoon in April, I had asked him what he wanted to do once he retired. “Gonna be a part-time gunsmith, full-time alcoholic, sir.”
A 7.62mm bullet pinged off my Humvee. I ducked.
“Don’t worry ’bout nothin’, sir. Yer doin’ great.”
He exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke, quaffed the dregs of his near beer, and pitched the can into the dirt.
&nb
sp; “Thanks,” I managed. I went on to explain what my plan was. He listened and nodded his head. After I finished, Greeson regarded the ridge beyond the wadi as if noticing it for the first time.
“Fuckers,” he muttered with all the menace of a cagey old lion about to thin out a herd of gazelles.
“I’ll see you on the high ground!” I shouted as I started back up the incline.
“Go get ’em, sir!” Greeson headed off to confer with Sabo, who was moving between the trucks and shouting instructions to the gunners.
I broke into a trot. I could hear more M4s banging away from Baldwin’s perimeter.
More of my soldiers streamed up the road with me. Aleksandr Nosov, our Russian M249 light machine gunner, ran past me, hefting his twenty-pound weapon as if it were a child’s toy. About my own age, he was a born infantryman. Close on his heels came Sergeant Bennett Garvin, one of Baldwin’s team leaders.
The incoming didn’t seem as intense on this last passage through the gauntlet. Smoke and dust shrouded much of the ridge, and every few seconds a mortar round or 203 grenade pounded the enemy’s fighting positions.
A moment later, I found Baldwin in the middle of the road, not far from Garrett and Bear Ferguson. The pickup we’d been using for cover in the middle of the perimeter had disappeared over the crest of the knoll.
“How’s it goin’ here?” I asked.
Baldwin took a swig of water, “It’s all good, sir. We got things under control. Garrett ’n’ Roberts are wipin’ guys out.”
Sergeant Campbell staggered into our perimeter, his face shining with sweat. “Mother of God!” he exclaimed, “This shit is heavy.” He was carrying an assault pack full of extra 60mm mortar rounds for Garrett. Now he slipped the straps off his shoulder and uttered an indignant curse.
“Check this out, I almost got my ass shot off,” he said as he held up the pack for us to see. Several 7.62mm-sized bullet holes had punctured its side.
“How the hell did those not detonate one of the mortar rounds?” Baldwin marveled.
“Crazy shit,” Campbell replied. He dragged the pack over to Garrett and started unloading the rounds for him.
“Where are the ANA?” I asked Baldwin.
“Grigby’s got ’em all wrangled up and squared away at the top of the hill,” he replied.
Excellent. The road was clear. Our trucks could get out of the low ground.
Campbell returned to us and we had a quick leaders’ meeting, our first while under fire.
“Okay, guys, let’s get everyone to the top and link up with the ANA. Once we do that, we’ll get some artillery support.”
I looked up the road. The platoon’s perimeter was about 150 meters from the crest of the knoll. I noticed that the road above us was much less exposed. Trees, rocks, and dirt berms lined either side and would provide us with ample cover as we moved.
I returned my attention to my squad leaders, “Okay, I’m pretty certain I heard a Dragunov out there. Means we have a sniper.”
Wheat overheard me. He was lying prone behind a rocky outcropping. “Yes, they do, sir. I heard the Dragunov, and I’m searching for the sniper now.”
“Good job. Stay on him, Wheat.”
“Roger, sir.”
Below us, the trucks inched up the incline. Underpowered and without a running start to gain speed, they crawled forward with engines roaring. I could see McCleod in his turret, racking the bolt of his M2 .50-caliber machine gun, his face contorted by rage. Behind him, Bray was shouting something, but his words were swallowed in the din.
“Okay,” I said, “We’ll move out in just a minute. The trucks can meet us at the crest.”
Baldwin and Campbell nodded in unison.
“Then what?” Baldwin asked.
“We attack.”
Seven
The Becoming
Okay, let’s move to the top of the hill and secure a perimeter before the trucks get up there.”
Baldwin and Campbell sprang into action.
“Bennett!” Baldwin shouted to his team leader, Sergeant Garvin, “Grab your guys and let’s go!”
Campbell returned to his men. “Okay, first squad! Get yer asses up!”
Baldwin dashed for the knoll’s crest, Garvin and the rest of his squad in trail. A few seconds later, Ferguson and Garrett went after them. Garrett ran like a jackrabbit, despite hefting the mortar tube over one shoulder again.
Campbell’s men rallied to him. They waited until Baldwin reached the top of the hill before following Second Squad. Their boots kicked up miniclouds of moondust as they ran. Without our guys shooting back, I feared that the volume of enemy fire would increase. I listened for the expected uptick, but it didn’t happen. They still swept the road with their machine guns, but the bursts came in longer intervals now. Maybe we had already inflicted damage on them.
Down the road, the trucks continued to rumble toward us. I stood between the two elements of the platoon, rifle in one hand, radio in the other. After taking a last look around to make sure we hadn’t left anyone behind, I tacked on to the rear of Campbell’s squad. When I reached the top of the knoll, I found it flattened out onto a broad plateau that would allow us to spread out and maximize our platoon’s firepower. No more being bottled up on the road.
Baldwin was already emplacing his men. Garvin was shouting orders to his team. Campbell pointed out where he wanted his squad. The men scrambled off the road to find good fighting positions among the trees and rocks. Wheat, unflappable as ever, hefted his M4 and strolled through the firefight, eyeing the ground professionally in search of the best possible sniper hide.
Back home, we had trained hard for this exact moment. But all the rehearsals and drills can never prepare you for what combat feels like. That is battle’s great trap. There is no way to psychologically prepare a man for that first clash. The literature of combat is riddled with examples of men panicking in their inaugural firefight. Some lose all reason and cannot function, curling into a protective fetal position. But a few, the hardy few, find in battle a home that has eluded them elsewhere in their lives. A man’s psychological composition determines his reaction; most of the time even he won’t know how the threat of death will play upon his psyche until the first round cracks by his head.
That day, as the afternoon shadows grew long, I watched my men perform everything asked of them with flawless precision. Roberts had ducked down behind some concealment and had already touched off another 203 round. Garvin moved between his team members with complete disregard for his own safety. Garrett unslung the mortar and prepared it for action. He and Bear Ferguson made an incredible team, though in the civilian world they were such different individuals that I doubt they’d have even had anything to say to each other.
Down the line, Nosov popped his bipod down, dived into the dirt behind a rock, and set his light machine gun in position. Born and raised in Murmansk, Nosov had come to the United States only a few years before. Back at Fort Drum, when I had been trying to get to know the men, I had asked him why he joined the army. I expected to hear that he’d done it to gain citizenship. Instead, he earnestly replied, “I want to go to war.”
He was getting his wish now, that was for sure.
The sight of every man rising to the occasion generated a wave of pure love in me. A good leader is supposed to inspire his men. But great men inspire their leader.
Baldwin’s rocket-scarred Humvee limped up the rise. McCleod stood high in the turret as usual, his face telegraphing his emotions. His pissed off meter was pegged. Holding his .50-caliber’s handles, he scowled and shouted epithets at the enemy.
My machine gunners were a prideful lot. They judged themselves by their marksmanship and attention to detail. I’d learned in training that their identities were grounded in their skill with their weapons. On the range, second place was unacceptable. They were not graceful
in defeat, and they competed furiously against one another.
Right now, they’d been getting the hell pounded out of them by their enemy counterparts. Instead of inspiring terror the beating evoked angry indignation in McCleod. I could see his impatience to fight back wrestling with his innate sense of discipline. It takes a special kind of man to let the enemy target him and not shoot back.
That was about to change. First Sergeant Grigsby had his entire Afghan force assembled on the hill. There would be no blue-on-blue fratricide now. Weapons free time.
I motioned to Baldwin’s rig to take up a position facing the ridge. “Orient east!” I shouted to McCleod. He nodded sharply and petted the receiver of his Ma Deuce. He knew his moment was about to come.
Next in line came Pinholt, driving my Humvee. Bray was in the turret, watching me intently. His face mirrored McCleod’s. I pointed to the east. We’d pit his fifty cal against the enemy gunners on the ridge.
Down the road, Chris Brown emerged from the turret of Sabo’s Humvee, his owlish eyes full of conflicting fear and anger. Chris was a tremendous young man, full of life, deeply sensitive, and possessing a sharp intelligence that I had come to appreciate in our countless hours on patrol together. Usually he gunned my truck, but for this mission he had swapped with Bray.
He’d come to be almost like a younger brother to me. Right now I could see him struggling, and I wasn’t sure how to help him.
He bucked back against his fear. When he saw Bray and McCleod seemingly impervious to the bullets still cracking around us, he rose a little higher in the turret. Slowly, his right hand reached forward, grasped the charging handle on his machine gun, and racked the bolt.
That’s it, brother.
His rig swung to the back side of our new position, ready to deal with the threat on Gangikheyl Hill. The next Humvee rolled up with Mark Howard in the turret. I sent it to reinforce the west side.
Last in line was Greeson’s Humvee with Private Erwin Echavez manning the Mark 19 automatic grenade launcher. This was our best heavy weapon, one that when unleashed could cause absolute havoc to the enemy. Already Echavez had swung the turret to the east, ready to engage the second he received the order.
