Outlaw Platoon

by Sean Parnell

  A rash of machine-gun fire ripped across Greeson’s Humvee. Sparks flared along its armored hide and walked right over Echavez’s turret. He ducked just as three bullets punctured the Mark 19’s ammunition feed tray. When he popped back up and checked his weapon, he yelled over to me, “Sir, the Mark 19’s damaged. I’ll have to single-shot it.”

  A Mark 19 fired in full auto will burn through a forty-round drum in a matter of seconds, delivering awesome quantities of explosive destruction on its target area. With ours crippled, it would function as little more than a glorified 203.

  “Do what you can with it,” I said.

  “Roger that, sir.”

  Greeson’s driver scooted into position. Our hilltop bristled with firepower. We were organized, and the men were brimming with rage at being on the receiving end of this fight for so long.

  It was time. I ordered, “Engage all known, likely, and suspected targets! Got it? Kill these bastards!”

  Outlaw Platoon was purpose-built for this moment. In one cathartic spasm, the platoon exploded in violent release. All the pent-up fury we felt burned forth into an unbridled torrent of firepower. Right then, the platoon coalesced into a single entity; I could feel it happen even as the men fired as one. I pumped my fist and moved down the line, shouting encouragement as I went.

  Ferguson and Garrett got the mortar into the fight again. Garrett took aim and let fly with another round. It scored a near miss on a machine-gun team dug in on the ridge. Bear reloaded. Garrett made a slight correction and fired again.

  “Holy shit!” somebody screamed as the round landed right between the enemy machine gunner and loader. Before smoke and dust obscured the scene, I saw pieces of both men blown sideways out of their fighting position.

  Garrett looked up to admire his handiwork. “Yeeaaah. Slayin’ yew bee-etches now!”

  I shouted in victory. My men were kicking ass. I was euphoric.

  A dark figure suddenly appeared on the top of the ridge. The man moved fast and fluidly, like a wraith. He caught the attention of Bray, who swung his eighty-pound weapon toward the running figure. His thumbs twitched on the butterfly triggers that sent jets of flame spewing from the Ma Deuce’s barrel. His first rounds, traveling at almost nine hundred meters a second, thrashed the ground behind the man. A nudge corrected his aim, and his next flutter on the trigger sent an inch-and-a-half-long bullet right into the man’s shoulder. The velocity and power of the hit ripped his entire arm off. Blood arced over him as the impact blew him off his feet. His body disappeared over the ridgeline.

  “HELL, YEAH!” somebody shouted.

  It was time to call Captain Dye and deluge the enemy with our 105s. “Blackhawk six, this is Blackhawk three-six.”

  “Go ahead, three-six.” Dye’s soft voice came across crystal clear this time. My voice competed with the sound of the gunfire, but I was able to give him our latest grid coordinate and update him on our situation.

  “Copy that, three-six. Am I good to start firing indirect?”

  “Roger that, six.”

  “Copy. Stand by. We’ve also got gunships coming your way.”

  I handed the radio to my forward observer, Josiah Reuter. “Talk ’em in. Your show. Get to it, and give ’em hell.”

  Reuter flashed a grin and took the handset.

  Above us, Bray found a target and hammered at it. “Yoooouuuu bet! Like that? Got ya, motherfucker! Gotcha!” His voice was consumed with fury.

  I checked on the west side of our perimeter. Using the scope mounted on his machine gun, Brown took aim at something on Gangikheyl Hill. Howard did the same. When they both opened up, their machine guns acted like a thresher, devastating everything in their paths. Men, trees, boulders were shredded by the awesome power of their M240s.

  They’ve got things well in hand. Focus on the most pressing threat—the ridge to our east.

  I heard the Mark 19 chug; despite the damage to the feed tray, Echavez had managed to get his weapon working. His 40mm grenade struck the ridgeline, adding to the smoke and dust smothering the enemy positions now.

  He reached forward and charged his weapon, his right arm bulging with the effort. He scanned for targets for several seconds until he discovered an enemy soldier partially concealed high in a pine tree perhaps a football field away. He snapped off a shot at him. The grenade struck the insurgent’s center mass and buried itself in his flesh before detonating. One leg spun crazily out of the tree, tumbling end over end as branches and needles flew in all directions. His head and arms separated in a fan of blood; I could have sworn I heard the meaty slap as they returned to earth.

  The first of the 105 shells freight trained overhead. The ground shook as they impacted on the far side of the ridge. The rate of fire increased as Reuter coached the artillerymen onto their targets. Soon their explosions intermingled, creating a continuous rumble that drowned out almost every other sound.

  Echavez tried to fire again, but his Mark 19 refused to function. He tinkered with the weapon. With a quick pull on the bolt handle, he jacked another shell into the chamber manually. The barrel spat a cone of fire, and another grenade pounded the ridge.

  Brown unleashed on another target. A puff of red erupted from the man he’d spotted, and down he went in a heap.

  “Fuck those guys! They don’t have shit on us!” McCleod screamed. He blasted away with another devastating volley. All along the line, the men screamed and taunted in adrenaline-fueled release.

  Brown shouted over to me, “Sir, I see ’em running off the hill to the south!”

  Bray confirmed it on the east side too: “They’re trying to break contact.”

  We were driving them away. Now was the time to deliver the coup de grâce.

  Captain Dye called over the radio to let me know that the base’s quick reaction force, a platoon of heavily armed trucks that Lieutenant Colonel Toner had attached to us from Delta Company, would be arriving soon from the north. The Delta element came from our battalion’s heavy-weapons company. Originally designed to be an antitank element, these platoons were just large enough to crew their weapons and vehicles. Whereas we rolled with thirty to forty men on each patrol, Delta Company’s platoons had fewer than twenty. They wouldn’t be able to kick dismounts out to us, but their Mark 19s and .50-calibers would be a welcome addition. I told Greeson to handle that linkup and get them into position to plus up our perimeter.

  For us to do this right and finish the enemy off, I’d need the ANA’s help. But as a platoon leader, it wasn’t my job to maneuver a company’s worth of troops. Yet the marine major hadn’t left his Humvee. By rank, he should have been coordinating the fight, but he had not even contacted me over the radio. Instead, he’d left First Sergeant Grigsby alone to lead the Afghan troops.

  There’s nobody else to do it. Get it done.

  There was no time for niceties; we needed to act quickly. I found First Sergeant Grigsby and told him what I wanted. He nodded enthusiastically before going off to round up his men.

  Captain Dye’s voice came through my handheld radio. “Three-six, this is six. Copy?”

  “Go ahead, six.”

  “We just picked up a radio intercept that they’re withdrawing to the south.”

  The Prophet spooks must have heard some enemy radio transmissions. Their tidbit matched with what my gunners were seeing.

  “They’re carrying ten dead and have at least another five wounded with them.”

  “Copy that, six.”

  We had to get after them, now.

  On the east side of the perimeter, I found Baldwin and Campbell.

  “Baldwin, grab your squad. Campbell, give me a fire team. We’re gonna counterattack. Grigsby and the ANA are going to lead out,” I pointed to a mud-walled house on the ridge beyond the wadi. It was the only dwelling for miles around, and it looked like a likely place for the enemy to be. “The
y’ll clear that building while we take the top of the ridge.”

  Baldwin broke into a smile. He looked almost rapturous, and I remembered how a few weeks back, he’d asked Lieutenant Colonel Toner, “Sir, when the hell are we gonna get to kill bad guys?”

  Toner loved that sort of question. “Sergeant Baldwin, don’t you worry, I have a feeling it’ll be real soon.”

  Baldwin had not joined the army for college money. He hadn’t joined because he couldn’t find a job. He’d joined to kill the sons of bitches responsible for 9/11. This was his moment, and it made him positively glow.

  Over the thunder of artillery volleys, I heard the Apache gunships closing in on us. I keyed my radio and told Reuter, “Have one of the Apaches sweep south to cut off their exfil route. I want the other one on our shoulder, covering us as we move. Got it?”

  “Roger, sir.”

  Grigsby and the ANA burst out of the perimeter and swept down into the wadi. Here it flattened out into more of a depression than the steep-banked terrain obstacle we had faced back on the low ground. They negotiated the slope with ease as some of the Afghan troops fired from the hip while they ran.

  I turned to Baldwin and Campbell. “Okay, follow me.”

  Our gunners poured the lead out, covering our movement with a barrage of fire. Baldwin and Campbell motioned to their men. As one, we rose and streamed off our hilltop straight for the enemy’s positions, our weapons up, ready to engage should any insurgents appear before us.

  The Afghans reached the house. They stacked up next to the door, then kicked it in on First Sergeant Grigsby’s orders. As their entry squad rushed inside, our section from Outlaw Platoon ran past them and assaulted the ridge. Behind us, Sabo had his gunners shift fire so they didn’t accidentally hit us. The Apache buzzed overhead, its crew searching for any threat. Every part of the attack functioned with seamless precision.

  We reached the top of the ridge without receiving a single bullet. The enemy had melted away. The men spread out and took up fighting positions. When it became clear that the enemy would not contest us, Baldwin I went back down to the house along with Reuter and Wheat.

  Until the enemy showed up, it appeared, the dwelling had been abandoned for a long time. Neglected walls and dust and dirt everywhere attested to its disuse. Baldwin peered into one room and gestured for me to join him. I stuck my head into the doorway and saw several stretchers, blood still pooled on them, lined up on the floor. Crimson-stained khaki man jams lay scattered in heaps throughout the room.

  “Check this out,” Wheat said, looking at a pile of discarded prescription bottles issued by a Pakistani hospital. Soiled pressure dressings, torn packages for other medical supplies, and syringes completed the scene. This was their casualty collection point. They were sophisticated enough to designate one. That took training and a lot of advance planning.

  Outside, the firing died down. The artillery barrage lifted. The Apaches went off in search of the enemy. Soon the battlefield, still shrouded in smoke and dust, fell silent. By the time we had all the components in place for our counterattack, the enemy had simply vanished.

  The adrenaline in my body drained away. The excitement and high I’d felt evaporated, replaced by sudden exhaustion. The men went through the same change. They grew quiet, and their faces reflected their fatigue. I checked my watch and was stunned to see that it was almost dinner hour. We’d been in the fight all afternoon.

  There was no way we could pursue the ambush force. It would be dark soon. We needed ammunition, and my men were smoked. Still, I hated to give the enemy a free pass. Perhaps we could return tomorrow and hunt them down.

  In the meantime, we had one final task waiting for us. Along with the ANA, our assault force walked the ridge to search and clear the enemy’s fighting positions.

  At the nearest insurgent machine-gun nest, we found thousands of spent shell casings piled around their dugout. Inside were discarded snack wrappers, a few empty water bottles. Blood splattered the flattened grass. At the next position, we discovered a red-brown trail leading up over the ridge, indicative of a casualty who had been dragged off by his comrades. Our search uncovered several more. We’d hurt them. Badly.

  The nest hit by Garrett’s mortar still smoldered from the round’s impact. Ragged bits of flesh and bone coated the ground on either side. I didn’t see anything larger than part of a boot, a fragment of the machine gunner’s foot still inside. Figure at least twelve dead, not the ten reported by the Prophet spooks. There wasn’t enough left of those guys for the enemy to carry off.

  At the top of the ridge, we located the spot where the RPG teams had been emplaced. Chewing gum wrappers littered the area, and in their haste to escape our firepower, the enemy had left behind their reloads and several launchers. We policed them up and brought them back to our hilltop perimeter.

  As we worked, I noticed Yusef moving between the U.S. and Afghan elements. He’d come out with Delta Platoon and had had the stones to dismount. Bruce Lee had never emerged from his Humvee. I made a mental note of that. In the future, I’d want Yusef out with our platoon as much as possible. Short of Abdul, Yusef was the best we had.

  Miraculously, only one Afghan soldier had been slightly wounded in the fight. Greeson ordered that he be carried to his Humvee, where he’d established a new casualty collection point. I went over to check on him and saw that our medic, Doc Pantoja, had already bandaged the young soldier. He’d taking a grazing shot to the side of his abdomen. Nothing serious. It amazed me that, given all the small-arms fire we had faced that day, this was all the enemy had been able to achieve.

  Long after dusk, we began the slow drive back to Bermel. We needed to repair or swap out our battered vehicles. Somehow, despite all the rockets and bullets we had taken, the vehicles still functioned, but we couldn’t continue our six-day patrol without a pit stop at the FOB.

  As we drove, I touched my St. Christopher medal, recalling the day I learned my grandfather had died. I got the news just before we were supposed to deploy to Afghanistan, and I had to drive all night to get back to Pennsylvania.

  After the memorial, my grandmother had come to me and said, “Sean, your grandfather let himself go. He said this way he would be able to watch over you while you are in Afghanistan.”

  She had reached for my hands. In hers she held his St. Christopher medal. My grandpap had worn it every day since she had given it to him on Christmas Day of 1949. “Take this. It will keep you safe.”

  I should have died today. Perhaps it really had kept me safe.

  We rolled through the gate sometime before midnight, our bullet-scarred trucks garnering lots of attention from the guards. Everyone back at base had heard about our fight, and the rest of the men from our platoon had turned out to watch our return.

  At our parking area, we dismounted amid a boisterous reception. The men bear-hugged and high-fived as they recounted moments in the fight. Marcel Rowley, our platoon’s Southern California skate punk, limped over to me. He’d been stung by a poisonous scorpion a few days earlier and was still recovering from the wound.

  “Wow,” he said as he greeted me. “Look at you, sir, all victorious.”

  We shook hands and slapped shoulders. “Wish I could’ve been out there with you, sir.”

  “You heal up, Rowley. You’ll be out with us soon.”

  Under his excitement, I could see he was hurting. And it wasn’t because of the scorpion sting.

  Before I could offer anything else, Cole bounded over and raised his hand for a high five. We smacked palms as he said, “Way to go, sir! Way to go!”

  “The men did great today,” I replied.

  Cole had just arrived at Bermel. Prior to our departure from Fort Drum, Lieutenant Colonel Toner had ordered all men whose wives or girlfriends were in the late stages of pregnancy to stay home so they could be present for the birth of their children. Cole’s young
wife had been due in January, so he had remained behind to be with her. Watching us depart was a crushing blow to Cole. He was all heart.

  “You guys kicked ass today!” he said. Then, with a mix of guilt and shame in his voice, he added, “I’m sorry I’m not out there with you yet, sir. This is killing me.”

  I gave Cole a man hug. He had come to Bermel overweight and out of shape. Caring for a newborn will do that to a person. First Sergeant Christopher had told him that he would have to drop twenty pounds before he could leave the wire. Since then, Cole had been hitting the gym three times a day so he could get out there with us.

  “Cole, listen to me,” I said to him. “You are a member of this platoon no matter what. Got it?”

  Behind his jovial smile, I could see in his eyes that he did not feel that way. His weight had separated him from the rest of the platoon, and that was hard for him to take.

  “Yes, sir. I’m losing the weight. I’m working hard. I’ll be out there as soon as I can.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a minute, Cole.”

  He started off to talk to other members of the platoon. As he left, I asked him, “Hey, how’s your son doing?”

  “Outstanding, sir. He’s something else. I’m glad I was there for him.” He left unsaid, “Now I need to be there for my brothers here.”

  Around me, the spontaneous celebrations ebbed as my sergeants got the men to work on the vehicles. They were going to need a lot of attention before they could roll out again; in the meantime, I needed to report to Captain Dye.

  I walked over to the tactical operations center, where First Sergeant Christopher greeted me with a wry smile on his face. “Lieutenant, your voice sounded a little anxious over the radio.”

  My uniform was still drenched with sweat. My hair looked as though I’d just walked out of the shower. A flare of anger welled in me before I realized he was teasing.