by Sean Parnell
“Hold up. What was that?” Herrera asked over the radio.
The column stopped in the middle of the burned, roofless dwellings.
“I thought I saw an RPG team running on Hill 2522,” Herrera reported.
I glanced at my map. That was a ridge about half a click east of the village, across the wadi system that served as part of Route Excel.
The sunset had bathed Bermel Valley in a crimson glow, making Kamid Ghul’s ruins look sinister and imposing. It was a weird hour to be starting a mission.
A puff of white smoke rose from Hill 2522, stark against the hellish sky. A split second later, a rocket-propelled grenade exploded next to our column. Before we could react, the hills to the southeast flared with muzzle flashes. Red tracer rounds zipped like laser bolts between our trucks. Others struck home, ricocheting crazily upward into the red sky.
Our gunners traversed right and returned fire. But then another enemy force opened up on us from the northeast. I scanned the ridges in that direction and guessed we were facing another forty or fifty men from those positions.
By taking a different route, we’d bisected an ambush they’d established for us. How they’d known we were coming was anyone’s guess, but they had intended to turn Route Excel into a kilometer-long kill zone. The team atop Hill 2522 was probably just scouts with an RPG whose job it had been to alert the rest of the ambush force to our approach.
We’d triggered the ambush early and from a different direction than they had expected. As we pulled into a perimeter around the village, their fire was disjointed and not nearly as accurate as usual. We’d thrown them off guard, and they had reflexively opened fire. Had they waited until we’d turned onto Excel, the northern part of the ambush force would have been able to hit us as they’d originally designed.
The sun fell behind the ridges to the west, casting darkness over our raging battle. The enemy seemed content to spray us from a distance. We hammered back at them with our crew-served weapons, our Mark 19s chugging out grenades in steady bursts.
Our dismounts got out of the trucks and turned the village’s dwellings into fighting positions. When the squad and team leaders finished their work, they huddled up in the middle of the perimeter. Captain Herrera had taken our 60mm mortar team and was busy directing its employment. For a moment, I wished Captain Dye were here. Having two platoons to manage was awkward since I couldn’t really give orders to Delta, I could only give the platoon’s squad leaders guidance.
Each man in the leaders’ circle gave me a quick status report. They had everything well in hand. Given the darkness and the amount of fire, we’d been through this enough to know that trying to stay in communication with one another via radio would be difficult. In past fights, I’d moved around the perimeter. In the darkness, that didn’t make much sense since it would be hard to find our NCOs, even with night-vision goggles.
“Meet back here in fifteen minutes,” I said. The huddle broke. The firing rose in volume and intensity. The enemy was getting their legs under them after our surprise appearance from the west. We swapped lead and high explosives from long range, the long, flaming streaks of tracer rounds gave the scene an almost sci-fi appearance. I flicked my night vision down over my eye, and the battlefield was transformed into shades of green.
Just as our leaders returned to the middle of the perimeter, the enemy commander made his move. Hall, whose rig was on the eastern side of the perimeter, said calmly, “Sir, they’re rushin’ us. Comin’ at our hill now.”
I looked around our huddle. Delta’s squad leaders were solid. Big Red had mentored them, set the example, and they’d long since come into their own. Mine were ready for some payback.
“Okay, we’ve been through this before,” I told them. “We’re gonna have to hold them off. I’ll work the indirect. You do whatever you gotta do. Meet back in twenty for a sit rep.”
The huddle broke. I went to call for artillery with our forward observer.
The two enemy forces struck the northeast and southeast parts of our perimeter in one pell-mell charge. This time, they did not bound as on June 10; instead they ran straight for us. Wheat picked out a leader and sniped him in midstride. He went down with a wound to the shoulder. In a flash, two insurgents grabbed their fallen comrade and whisked him to the rear. Their casualty evacuation was stunningly fast.
They reached the base of the hill now, and our gunners discovered that they couldn’t depress their weapons enough to track them. They pulled out rifles and started blazing away.
Below us, the enemy’s undulating war cry rose in the darkness. Through our night vision, we saw them charge, triggering their AKs from the hip. None of them had our technology advantage, and the night was so black now that they stumbled over roots and rocks, making a headlong rush into the teeth of our firepower.
Right then, the first 105 shells exploded in their midst. We’d called for fire dangerously close. Captain Dye, who was at the operations center at Bermel, had made sure we had ample support again. The gunners back on base had poured it on, mixing high-explosive shells with white phosphorus, the dreaded “Wiley Pete.” The gunners called this deadly mixture “Shake and Bake.” The high explosives shook the ground, while the Wiley Pete cooked anything it touched.
A curtain of fire and steel, streaked with tendrils of phosphorus, erupted behind the enemy’s main line of advance. We’d pinned them against us. If they tried to break contact, they would be massacred by the artillery fire. If they stayed in place, they’d be mowed down by our men. If they tried to close, we’d mow them down faster.
Desperate now, the trapped insurgents bolted for us, their wounded and dying carpeting the hillside in their wake.
There was a confidence in the men that we’d lacked on June 10. We’d seen this drill before with a more talented enemy force, and the men reacted with ruthless violence. No shouting this time. No euphoric moments or episodes of near despair. Our emotions remained even-keeled, cold but laced with controlled rage that had been bottled up inside us for weeks. We unleashed it all in a merciless torrent.
The enemy closed to twenty-five meters. We could see those wicked eight-inch knives dangling from their belts. The sight infuriated us. The men fired and reloaded with accomplished speed. The artillery rain grew ever more intense.
Over the radio, Captain Dye reported that he’d dispatched Second Platoon as our quick reaction force. They were bringing out more ammunition and supplies. I was grateful to have it, but part of me did not want to deal with Sergeant Burley. Lieutenant Taylor had left a few weeks before to tend to a family emergency back home. Second was all Burley’s platoon now, and his posing had become even more grandiose without Taylor there. Silently, I wished again Captain Dye was out here with us. I’d have to coordinate all three of the company’s platoons now.
Twenty minutes later, the NCOs returned to the middle of the perimeter. A lull had descended on the battlefield as the enemy’s lead waves had been killed almost to the last man. One at a time, our squad leaders reported the situation to be well in hand.
Hall triumphantly announced, “We’re fuckin’ wasting ’em, sir!”
“Yeah,” Campbell echoed, “the men are slaughtering ’em.”
Behind us, the moon rose over the endless ridges of the Hindu Kush, brightening the battlefield with a silvery glow.
“They’re coming again, sir.”
“You know what to do.” The huddle broke, and back into action they
went.
The slaughter continued unabated for almost three hours. Again and again, the insurgents threw themselves blindly at our perimeter. Their tracers flew around us wildly as they shot into the darkness that only our technology could penetrate. They had no support-by-fire positions on the ridges to suppress us, and only one of our soldiers was slightly wounded.
Even without our heavy weapons in the fight, we cut them down with cold fury. As they started up the hill one final time, ignoring their screaming wounded lying helpless in the dirt, our men lobbed hand grenades down the slope into their armorless ranks. Through our night vision, we could see the fading heat signatures from their dismembered remains.
We killed so many of them that their casualty evacuation plan collapsed. They simply didn’t have the manpower left to pull their men out. The torn bodies lay uncollected on the hillside, bits of white phosphorous embedded within them. Their fat sizzled and popped for hours, until the metallic stench of the Wiley Pete blended with the sickly odor of burned flesh. Hell’s barbecue.
The squad leaders joined me in one more leaders’ huddle at the end of the fight. Campbell reported that his rig had been heavily damaged. One soldier had taken a minor shrapnel wound from an enemy hand grenade. The rest of both platoons were good to go.
Sergeant R. Kelly walked up to us. We looked up at him through our night-vision goggles. This was the first time I’d seen him all night.
“This ain’t so bad!” he exclaimed, his smile shining white-green in our goggles, “Whatcha all been bitchin’ about?”
He unleashed a peal of laughter. Nobody responded. The other NCOs turned back to one another and continued with the status update. Kelly stood looking down at us for a moment, then wandered away. As he left, I heard somebody mutter, “Save your shit and get away from me.”
Second Platoon arrived, Burley all over-the-top energy. His voice echoed over the hilltop as he bellowed orders at his men. Greeson jumped out of one of Second Platoon’s trucks and on bowlegs sauntered over to us.
“Hey, sir,” he said, sounding like Sling Blade, “lookitcha, acting all John Wayne out here without me.”
Where the hell have you been?” I asked. It had taken us forty-five minutes to get to this abandoned village after leaving Bermel. It had taken Burley and our quick reaction force three and half hours to cover the same distance.
Greeson leaned forward and whispered, “Goddamned Second Platoon draggin’ their asses.”
Greeson later told me that Burley had called up a possible roadside bomb a few kilometers away from our fight. He had ordered the platoon to stop. As they sat parked on the road out of the fight, Greeson grew increasingly frustrated. He saw no evidence of a roadside bomb, and nothing was being done to investigate or clear anything in the road ahead. But since he was only a passenger, he could not do anything about it. As soon the assaults against us had ended, Burley declared the road ahead clear and the platoon had continued on its way to us.
At least we had most of the company inside our perimeter now, which would give us a lot more firepower in case the enemy stormed our positions again. Though they probed us a couple of times, and a few tracers shot up through the night as they randomly strafed our hilltop, they made no further attacks. We took nothing for granted, not after what we’d been through. We spent the night in readiness, awake and alert, watching the mountains through our night-vision goggles.
Early the next morning, we remained on the battlefield until the ANA swept the hillside to search the burned bodies scattered around us. We took no contact; the enemy had withdrawn. Moral victory achieved, we pulled out and returned to Bermel to trade out Campbell’s truck. After a quick bite, we went out searching for trouble, but the enemy was nowhere to be found. We later estimated that we had killed between forty-five and sixty of the enemy on July 26, so it was no wonder we didn’t see them the next day. Even they were starting to run low on bodies. Or at least, so we thought.
The next day, our once overweight forward observer, Cole, came to see me. He’d been working out nonstop since arriving at Bermel several months before. He’d dropped more than twenty pounds, looked lean and mean, and was all set to go out on patrol with us. The first sergeant had cleared him to roll beyond the wire, and he was eager to rejoin us and be part of our band again. A few more days in the gym, a couple more after that for final preparations, and he’d transition back to us. In the meantime, he was still working with the aviation guys to schedule seats on available helicopters.
“Sir, we have a bird coming in an hour. Aren’t you supposed to go on leave? Do you want a slot?”
Cole was wearing ridiculous yellow sneakers. Through my exhaustion, I gaped at them. “Uh, yeah, Cole. That’d be great. But what the hell?” I said, pointing at his shoes.
He grinned. “They’re cool!”
“Cole, they look like Big Bird shoes.”
“They make me run like the wind, sir. Run like the wind.”
I had no time to shower, barely time to pack. I threw a few things into a bag. I’d change my uniform later.
Cole checked back with me about a half hour later. “Sir, the flight’s full. But I’m going to get you on it, don’t you worry!”
He told me to get out to the landing zone and wait for the helicopter.
I said a hasty good-bye to the platoon—I had no time to do anything else—and made my way to the pad. The abrupt farewell, even if it was temporary, felt jagged and raw. Truth was, as much as I wanted to see my family back home, I didn’t want to leave the one I had here.
A pair of Chinooks appeared on the western horizon. I’d once heard a Black Hawk pilot quip, “Those Chinooks look as ugly as two palm trees fuckin’ a Dumpster.”
Regarding them now, I could see the resemblance.
Cole dashed up to me a moment after they’d touched down. “Got ya a spot, sir! You know I’ll always take care of ya!”
I was profoundly grateful. “Yeah, Cole, you sure do. I’ll see you when I get back.”
He smiled and waved. “Can’t wait to be out there with ya, sir!”
I shook his hand and thanked him for all he’d done for me. He seemed embarrassed. He hated to have attention drawn to himself and felt most comfortable working in the background, taking care of the platoon any way he could.
I climbed aboard the Chinook with Brian Bray, who was also going home on his midtour leave. Cole had scored two seats for us on a full bird.
When we landed at Bagram, Bray and I headed to the fixed-wing terminal together. Bagram looked like a stateside base compared to where we’d been. Signs advertised salsa dance nights, jewelry shops, a café called Green Bean Coffee. The main drag, Disney Drive, was cluttered with vehicles, the sidewalks full of military personnel from all over the world. Koreans, Jordanians, Poles, Czechs, sour-looking French aviators, all shouldered past us as we carried our bags to the terminal entrance. We passed one reader board that said, SAFETY FIRST. DO NOT WEAR EAR BUDS WHILE JOGGING.
We were swimming upstream in an ocean of Fobbits on that main road, Bray and I looking utterly out of place in our filthy, battleworn ACUs. My IBA still had bloodstains on it from June 10.
Inevitably, our condition attracted unwanted attention.
“Lieutenant?” A U.S. Army major demanded. He stood staring at me, hands on hips, a look of disgust on his face. His ACUs were so clean and well fitting that I assumed they had been tailored and pressed. He wore no combat badges, no sign that
he was a Ranger or even infantry. I had never noticed that sort of thing until that moment. I wondered if he was going to be salsa dancing tonight.
“Yes, sir?” I asked wearily.
“Clean yourself up. Your uniform’s a disgrace.”
His war and mine were so different that there would be no way for our worlds to meet. I didn’t even have the energy to try.
Twenty-three
The Far Side of the Sky
August 16, 2006
Ocean City, Maryland
They’re charging up the hill!”
Like shades, the enemy slides around trees and rocks, slithering ever closer. Masked faces, chest rigs bulging with extra ammunition, their pulsing voices howl their alien war cry.
“Lilililililililililililililili . . .”
Our men fire their last rifle rounds. Campbell’s fifty falls silent. Pilon’s SAW spits flame no more. Sabo, bloody-faced and saucer-eyed, turns to me and shouts something I cannot understand. Greeson drains his last mag. I check my rifle. I have no bullets left. Not even a last round for myself.
This is the end.
The enemy pours over the ridge, firing into my men. I fall to a knee. There’s nothing left but to fight with rifle butt and fists.
My men lie facedown in heaps around our smoking trucks. Those wicked knives are unsheathed. A blade shines in the morning’s sunlight, held high for me to see. They straddle my men, pull their heads up by their hair to expose their Adam’s apples. A few gurgle with fear, and with yawning horror I realize that some are still alive.
I watch from my knees, raging at my impotence. I cannot act. I cannot move. I am an observer of the beheadings of those I love the most.
