At the Ice Palace, Captain Smith decided to shift the headquarters element to Rage 2’s position at building 17. During our previous days at COP Firecracker, Lieutenant Thomas had bragged about the comfort and warmth of his abandoned five-story Iraqi apartment complex that was pockmarked with the scars of war. The Marines of his platoon told stories of a basement full of every different type of soda imaginable, and most returned to COP Firecracker with two-liter bottles of RC cola and Pepsi.
Whether Captain Smith was tired of constantly being cold and wanted to check out this mythical place or simply wanted to let Lieutenant Jahelka run his platoon without his presence did not matter. I was leaving the Ice Palace for a location where two fireplaces roared heat into the air and the Marines wore dresses, sipping on sugar water while they fought. Of course, this was based on speculation, but soon I would see for myself.
We packed up our gear, including the Wasp UAV, and staged on the first floor. On top of my assault pack was a rolled red hajji blanket that drooped down so far, it almost touched the ground. Just about all of the headquarters Marines carried their own blankets, concerned that building 17 wouldn’t have any for us when we got there.
Before we left, Tarheel requested Rage 6 on the net and asked him to link up with Comanche 6 near the Racetrack-Give Me intersection. Comanche’s commander wanted to scope out the position we had initially seized during our first stay in Qatana. He was concerned that the building would look directly into his future COP and was considering using it as an observation post to deny its use to the enemy.
Rage 6 accepted the task. We left the Ice Palace moments later and headed the 300 meters to the building. Standing along Racetrack with the moon shining down made me realize how vulnerable we were. There wasn’t the usual squad of infantrymen for security, only headquarters. Two of the seven Marines carried large radios and stared aimlessly at the ground. Albin had the thirty-pound UAV in his pack and wasn’t very mobile. Bustamante carried a camera, a tripod, and other public affairs-type equipment, and Captain Smith was on the radio trying to get Comanche on the net.
The only person besides Albin and me who was capable of providing security was the interpreter, Marlo. What I knew and he didn’t was that his AK-47 was loaded with fake 7.62mm bullets. Instead of firing a projectile at the enemy when he pulled the trigger, his gun was designed so that the bullets would melt the weapon’s barrel, rendering it useless.
We really did trust our Iraqi counterparts.
I always wondered how many interpreters had tried to kill their American friends to get us to resort to such betrayal. I thought about telling Marlo, then and there, that he might as well throw stones at the insurgents. I figured it would be better than his trying to do something heroic, only to discover what we had done.
Directly across the street were the VBIED factory and the home of the three brothers we had raided a week before. There were no American positions in that direction now, and the insurgents were most likely observing our progress on the new COP. I wondered whether they would attack us.
A few hundred meters down Racetrack was the Abd-al Sala’am mosque, where Mullah Qahttan preached. It was the same place where a meeting between a Zarqawi lieutenant and a 1920s Revolutionary Brigade leader in December 2005 had resulted in a bitter street battle between the two insurgent groups. Now I stood in that same street with five Americans and an Iraqi. Much had changed since 2005.
The noises of the engineers building COP Qatana calmed my mind. The cacophony drowned out my thoughts of our surroundings.
The few anxious moments passed, and Comanche showed up. Captain Smith discussed his thoughts on the building with his fellow company commander, while we congregated in a small group around the two men. There were now twenty Marines in the area that we had previously occupied. I had anticipated feeling more secure when Comanche arrived, but I was only more paranoid. The group of Marines broke noise and light discipline, shouting to one another and shining their Surefire incandescent lamps at random objects. A few of them smoked.
Where did these guys think they were? Recruits at boot camp were more capable than this group of Marines. I scolded Eakin for taking a puff on someone’s cigarette. The corrective action was really intended to get Captain Smith’s attention. It worked; he heard my voice and looked around. Seeing the mess of stationary men, he directed me to get the group ready to go. I was relieved.
I was ready to die for my country, but I didn’t intend for it to happen because of another’s stupidity.
We headed toward the working engineers, and Comanche went the opposite direction, doing their own reconnaissance of the area surrounding the future COP.
When we made it through the Racetrack-Give Me intersection, I turned around to see that Captain Smith had halted the formation ten feet behind me. I turned back to the front and got Albin’s attention to halt. Jogging back to Rage 6, I figured out why we were stopped. One body was missing. Marlo had walked off with Comanche or was lost. I kicked myself, knowing that it was my responsibility to ensure that everyone was aware of what was going on. When I had told Marlo to get ready to move, he probably didn’t realize we were headed in a different direction than the other Marines. So when people started to move, he went with them. I felt horrible; not only did Marlo have fake bullets, but I had left him behind.
In seconds, Captain Smith confirmed with Comanche that our interpreter was with them. We kneeled next to the Ministry of Oil building, waiting for a team of Comanche Marines to bring Marlo back to us.
Down the street I spotted a Marine from Rage 2, waiting for us at the intersection of Fire Station and Racetrack. I walked the 150 meters over to him and recognized that it was Corporal Bradford.
“What’s up, sir? You guys waiting for something to happen?” he asked.
“No, I lost the interpreter,” I replied. “It will be a few minutes.” Bradford smiled and informed the rest of Rage 2 about the delay via his PRR. Eventually, Marlo made it back to our small group, and we headed to building 17.
I followed Bradford north on Fire Station. He went in a straight line to a massive three-floor building on the left. It was a strong defensive position, isolated by streets on all sides. The open space limited the enemy’s ability to close on the building. Lieutenant Thomas met us at the only entrance, a narrow stairwell that could barely fit a large man. At the top of the stairs a Marine was posted in a plastic lawn chair: the gatekeeper. Once inside the building, you were on the second-floor balcony, overlooking a central courtyard.
Below, I could hear a couple of Marines rummaging through what I thought was trash. Then I heard what they were talking about, “Dude, where is that hajji stuff in the green bottles?” said one of the men.
“I don’t know; just grab one of these Pepsis, man. I didn’t bring my flashlight, and it’s creepy as fuck down here in the dark,” replied the other.
I looked at James Thomas. “It’s true?!” I asked in astonishment.
He smiled at me and said, “Would I lie to you?”
We headed up the next staircase, only a few yards from the first, and went to the third floor. On the eastern side of the building, Lieutenant Thomas had set up his own COC. I followed him and Captain Smith into the small room.
Unexpected heat blasted me in the face as I went in. The room was filled with smoke and a thick aroma of kerosene. On the far wall was a duct-taped map of Qatana. Two chairs and a couple of sleeping bags were arranged around a centrally located kerosene heater. A few radios lined the wall facing the courtyard, their antennas reaching up through a cracked window that provided visibility of the inner portions of the building. Staff Sergeant Tyson Hall, Rage 2’s platoon sergeant, sat next to the map on his sleeping bag. A hajji cigarette was lit in his hand. The professional Marine stood and greeted the group as we entered.
Lieutenant Thomas quickly briefed Captain Smith on Davila’s SKT patrol and the defenses of the position. Outside the structure was a maze of trip-flares and other hastily emplaced early-wa
rning devices. Each of the four corners of the building had a machine gun position, two on the third floor and two on the second. A five-foot retaining wall surrounded the roof, providing substantial cover for Marines to assist the static positions in responding to an insurgent attack.
After the orientation by Lieutenant Thomas, Captain Smith dropped his pack on the floor, declaring, “I know where I am crashing tonight.” His radio operator set up the battalion net in the room, and the headquarters element was officially stationary.
I went down to the second floor to check out my new sleeping arrangement. Sergeant Peter Kastner, Rage 2’s third squad leader, had set up a room directly under the COC with small mats and a few blankets. When I arrived, Albin and Eakin had already stocked the small space with a dozen bottles of Pepsi products. There were enough blankets for me not to care that there was no kerosene heater.
Before I went to bed, I walked across the hallway to go to the bathroom. The standard hole in the floor was overflowing with urine. A staunch smell of piss emanated from the tile floor. It was complemented by the scent of shit. Behind me was a black garbage bag filled to the top with Wag-Bags. Sergeant Kastner heard me commenting on the situation from his sleeping bag. “Use the empty soda bottle against the wall, sir!” he shouted to me. I found the Pepsi bottle he was referring to and made my deposit. I went to sleep dreaming about the revolutionary invention of indoor plumbing.
I woke the next morning to the sun shining down on my face. Our window was perfectly positioned for a natural wake-up call. I headed up to the COC and made sure nothing significant had happened during my period of rest. Captain Smith was in a zombielike state. I could tell he hadn’t slept at all in the few hours I was out. I went back downstairs to get the Vector and my bandolier of ammunition. I wanted to check out each fighting position and get a general idea of where the insurgents had consistently been engaging Rage 2 from.
On my way down to the room, I heard a ruckus coming from one of the apartments on the far side of the second floor. I headed over to check out the commotion. When I opened the door, I was in shock. The apartment was fully furnished, and Marines were everywhere. They were lying on a couch and two stacked mattresses. One was prancing around in a ladies’ nightgown. In the kitchen Corporal Davila was cooking eggs on a stove. My jaw was hanging down to my knees.
Davila turned and saw me in the doorway. I pointed at his cross-dressing Marine. “Don’t mind him, sir; he’s good for morale!” stated the squad leader. I walked toward Davila, who offered me some scrambled eggs. I turned him down; there was no way I could impose on such a rare commodity.
Hearing my refusal, one of the Marines spoke to me over the ruckus in the living room. “Sir, we already had some and we’re about to go on post; live it up!” he said.
Again, I refused. Davila explained to me that during the previous night’s SKT, he had paid the Iraqi whose home they were in for a large quantity of eggs. Now they were celebrating life before manning their posts.
I took a seat on the couch and watched the tomfoolery. After a few moments I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “You know, Rage 3 is freezing their asses off five hundred meters from here while you all have a fairy prancing around your furnished apartment, stuffing your faces with scrambled eggs,” I scolded.
The Marines quickly responded to my jealousy with their greatest asset—sarcasm. “Those poor bastards!” said one. Another was more direct and asked, “Don’t you wish you were in Rage 2, sir?” I laughed at the group. Then I ate some of the best scrambled eggs ever made.
When I was done, I headed back to the room and prepared to go to each fighting position. Before I headed out, I went to our pleasant bathroom to fill my own Wag-Bag. Eggs go through me quickly. I shut the wooden door behind me, isolating myself in the stench. Halfway through my unpleasant experience, Eakin walked in. He caught a glimpse of his lieutenant I am sure he will never forget. Squatting and holding the green bag up to my freezing ass, I asked him if I could help him with something. He quickly left the room.
Minutes later, I headed to the first fighting position. It was on the second floor and was the south-facing window that insurgents had shot at the day before. I could make out the building that Rage 1 was in on the left side of the horizon. Corporal Davila was at the position, checking on his Marines. He gave me a quick rundown on the structure used by the hajjis. It was about 350 meters away and had three visible floors. The first floor was not visible, blocked by the sprawl of single-level structures surrounding it.
The top floor was similar to the top of the Ice Palace. It was a small, roughly five-hundred-square-foot room that opened up to the roof. Through the Vector, it looked like a plywood table, and sandbags were set up inside the large picture window that stared at us.
The insurgent sniper position was plainly visible.
Davila walked away to go check on the rest of his Marines. He hadn’t made it out of the room when I shouted at him, “Davila, get on the 240!” referring to the unmanned machine gun on my right. I had scanned down one floor and was staring into the first window from the left. A black garbage bag that had been covering the window was now blowing from a slight breeze. Behind the garbage bag was the side profile of an Iraqi’s black hair, dark skin, and black shirt. He was staring out of another window, in the direction of Rage 1 and the Ice Palace. A rifle leaned against the wall next to him.
For the first time I was staring at my enemy. Blood rushed through my body, pumping a heightened sense of awareness to my extremities. I turned back to see Davila stationary a few feet from me. “Serious?” he asked.
“Unless you want him to get away!” I responded. The veteran Marine quickly manned the 240G medium machine gun. I shouted in an authoritative tone, almost as if bullets were already flying, “The same building you just briefed me on! Second floor from the top, first window in on the left; fire when ready!”
A burst of machine gun fire ripped toward the building. The Iraqi immediately ducked out of view. “One meter down! One meter down!” I corrected Davila’s tight burst based off the tracer round. I directed another three or four bursts at the window and gave him the command to cease fire. I continued to scan the building’s windows, waiting for the Iraqi to poke his head out. I turned around to see a group of Marines videotaping. I gave one of the Marines the Vector and instructed him to maintain observation on the building. Then I went to find Lieutenant Thomas.
I met him on the balcony. I started to recount what had happened, but he cut me short. One of the Marines who had been manning the position before I got there had already explained it to him.
“I am going to put a rocket into that sniper position on the roof,” he said.
I nodded in agreement. “I doubt that we hit him with the machine gun,” I said. “He ducked for cover after the initial burst. He’s probably watching us from behind the sandbags up there.” Even if the insurgent wasn’t on the top floor, destroying the visible firing platform was worthy of the rocket itself. The enemy was clearly using the building.
A groggy Captain Smith showed up moments later. He had just fallen asleep before we opened fire, and now I was keeping him up. I brought him over to the position and explained the situation to him. He subsequently approved Lieutenant Thomas’s plan to hit the position with a shoulder-fired rocket. It was going to be a tough shot, right about the max effective range of a SMAW. Corporal Bradford was up for the task, though. He quickly readied his team.
The 240G and a squad of Marines on the roof opened fire on the building, suppressing any would-be insurgents while Bradford lined up his shot.
I watched from the same position that I had directed Davila’s fire from. As Davila had been before him, the Marine manning the 240G was incredibly accurate with his fire. The impacts of his rounds raked the window he aimed at. A small flash of light came from the target. I figured it was an M203 grenade exploding, but it was followed by another smaller flash and a loud smack in the side of our building.
Was the
insurgent shooting back?
The intensity of our rifle fire picked up. Bradford fired the rocket. The round fell significantly short of the target, hitting the roof of a single-level structure between our opposing fighting positions. A flock of pigeons flew through the cloud of white smoke given off by the explosion.
There was another flash from the target.
I watched our exchange of gunfire in amazement. The deafening sounds and sight of our overwhelming rifle fire led me to shout in excitement. The sniper had moved to exactly where I thought he would.
Lieutenant Thomas shouted, “Cease firing!” over the ruckus. The Marines on the roof couldn’t hear him, and a tank along Racetrack had identified where we were aiming. The Abrams was now firing its coax machine gun at the west-facing side of the building. I watched some of its rounds impact into a telephone pole. Chunks of wood flew through the air.
We eventually ceased our firing and began to analyze the enemy position. The sandbags and the sniper platform remained. Without the impact of the rocket, we had done nothing but sling thousands of rounds at the enemy. “Bradford, get another rocket ready,” Lieutenant Thomas said over the PRR.
“I got it this time, sir. I underestimated the effect of the distance on the rocket’s trajectory,” replied the Marine.
James Thomas decided that the next rocket shot was worthy of motivational music. From his stereo, the sounds of Ozzy Osbourne’s “War Pigs” reverberated throughout the apartment complex.
Captain Smith ordered the tank on Racetrack not to fire unless we requested it. He also limited the number of Marines firing in suppression and did not allow any machine guns to open up unless we took fire. Rage 6 was controlling the chaos that was our previous engagement. This time everyone would cease fire when told to do so.
Lieutenant Thomas began the suppression with a single shot from his rifle. A dozen of his Marines followed suit and began to suppress the target. Bradford took the second SMAW shot. The rocket slammed into the building maybe a foot above the large window. It was almost a direct hit. A cloud of smoke and debris blew out of the room. The dark brown color of the cloud indicated that a large amount of dirt was present, probably from the sandbagged fighting position.
Rage Company Page 19
