Relatively safe in the enclosed cab of the up-armored M114, I nevertheless gripped my rifle tighter. Not afraid—more like a novice opera singer about to take the stage in front of a packed house. As a guitarist, I have often played to entertain people and, no matter how many listen, I always have a brief attack of the butterflies before I strike the first chord. That was exactly how I felt in that moment. Ready to play, nervous that I’d play the wrong tune.
“Fisk, be sure you’re writing this stuff down,” the L-T called, hand-mike dangling from the helmet strap on his left side.
I was trying to decide how to phrase what I was seeing. “Roger, Sir!” I dropped my head to the page with the black pen between my teeth, considering. In scrawling letters made jittery by the bouncing vehicle I wrote “1730hrs…”
I noted the abrupt decrease in traffic and also noticed that there were far fewer pedestrians around this side of Delta and Gold. Odd. There were always people out and about around here at this hour.
A big bump, jostling my arm. I steady the pen, pause for a second, and then wrote, “Pass by Sadr Bur. Large Crowd immediately scatters away from us…”
We kept going, and in the next 30 seconds, nothing but wind filled the streets. I glanced up, left, then right, noting the absolute calm in the neighborhood. No living thing stirred. I had never known such palpable tension in my young life until then. I bent back to my notebook and wrote, “No traffic to our front…”
At that exact moment a young man named Hashimi fired his AK-47 from the west side of the street. I glanced casually at my watch and noted that the time was 1734. Back home in Texas, it was Sunday at 0834. Many would be getting ready for Sunday school and church or perhaps sleeping off a bender from the night before. Without knowing why I said it, I cried, “Here we go!”
SO note by Gordon, Francis @ 23 MAY 2008
Chief complaint—Was in an ambush with my platoon, It was pretty bad. Become anxious esp when I try to write it down. Memory problems, problems with concentration…I think I have flashbacks, nightmares very frequent until last year. Pretty much the same nightmare. Later on had a mortar land very close. It hit from behind and could have taken my head off. We got evac’ed and when I stood up I couldn’t stand up and I couldn’t hear. My equilibrium was off for about a week. I don’t know how long I was unconscious. My wife says I have become short of temper, irritable, snappy…
Assessment: ADJUSTMENT DISORDER
ACT II: INNOCENCE LOST
Ambush
Red 1 had already cleared the traffic circle at Route Gold as the gigantic painting of Muhammed al Sadr stared down with stern disapproval.
“Contact left!” cried Chen.
“Stop, Riddell. Chen, do you see where it’s coming from?” demanded the lieutenant. The streets were still empty as the victor lurched to a halt. Aguero had heard the shot behind them, and was scanning both sides of the street to gauge the scope of the attack. Would there be more than one gunman? He vividly recalled his week of riding with the 2nd ACR guys. Then on several occasions, shots had been fired while their patrol was in the vicinity. Each time the shooter had merely been engaging in that peculiar Iraqi custom known as ‘celebratory fire.’ Either their favorite soccer player had scored a goal or there was a wedding or some other event that required a festive bout of gun play reminiscent of a Wild West saloon. None of his counterparts had seemed overly concerned. They had merely dismounted, found the elated gunman, and arrested him. He was deposited at the nearest Iraqi police station for them to deal with. One time, the culprit had even been falling-down drunk. No alcohol in Muslim countries, indeed.
Aguero didn’t want to overreact now. Let the situation play out a second longer. Could just be an over-zealous idiot.
“Hey! Where did it come from?” Bellamy called out from behind his 240B. The echo effect from the surrounding brick buildings masked the shooter’s position. “I just heard small-arms fire!”
The convoy slammed to a halt behind the L-T as everyone tried to identify the location of the shooter. Staff Sergeant Stanley Haubert ordered Guzman, who was completely exposed in the rear, to dismount and take cover on the vehicle’s right flank.
Red 4, at the rear, estimated that they had traveled maybe 200 meters from the Sadr Bureau. The platoon sergeant whipped his head to the left. “OK, was that gunfire?” knowing full well that it was.
“Roger,” answered Bourquin from behind him.
“Where did that come from?” Swope asked.
To Shane Coleman, the rapid pop, pop, pop of the Kalishnakov rifle seemed to come from behind him—he was facing the rear—and to his right. He called down, “Contact! Small arms off the nine o’clock!”
Swope, a veteran of the first Gulf War and the only one among us to already have his Combat Infantryman’s badge, felt the familiar red fury settle over him like a cold, burning blanket. His eyes relentlessly scanned the buildings next to them, and he began to develop a plan about how best to maneuver his men into that urban labyrinth to kill the sons of bitches that had dared to throw lead their way.
Davis, the self-described cowboy from North Dakota, at first confused the sound of gunfire with some ambiguous mechanical sound coming from someone in the vehicle behind him. Although closer to the gunman than anyone else, he found his echo-location foiled by the poor acoustics. He saw the L-T come to a screeching halt in front of him, but didn’t see him getting out. He cast a glance behind him and noticed that everyone was bailing out of Haubert’s truck. He wondered why everyone was outside their vehicle. Must have had contact, he decided. Davis began to bark orders in rapid progression. “Wild, Contact left. Denney, dismount, take cover on this side. Rob! Hold it down until I get back.” Davis was left guessing at enemy locations based on the direction everyone in the truck behind him was facing. He heard nothing on his radio, but couldn’t afford to stay in his seat to listen. The L-T, to his front, still hadn’t dismounted, which meant that the best source for information was Red 3. Davis sprinted back to Haubert’s truck to find out what was happening.
Wild, Staff Sergeant Davis’ gunner, had heard the shots and was momentarily stunned with disbelief. He knew that this had been coming, but now that the moment was upon him his mind refused to accept that someone was actually trying to kill him. He picked up movement behind one of the numerous tin-metal vendor stalls popular in the markets that reminded him of a mailbox or trashcan. The man stood up, no weapon evident, and threw his arms up over his head in a kind of double wave. Wild, mindful of the rules of war, waved the man off of the street. Even though the sudden rush of adrenaline had him on a razor’s edge, he was anchored by his training.
“Oh shit, we’re about to get hit with something!” Wild exclaimed to no one in particular. The streets were now as quiet as a tomb. It was silent just long enough for his heart to sink into his combat boots.
Aguero dismounted and stood with the door to his back as he peered back at the convoy, trying to decipher what was going on. I opened my door and put one leg on the ground. He hadn’t given the dismount order, and I wanted to be able to get back in quickly. If this was an ambush, then our drill was to just push through, so it wouldn’t do to get left behind. I brought my rifle up and scanned rooftops, looking for a threat. Most of the buildings here were the bland three- to four-story tenements that afforded plenty of high ground to a determined enemy. Chen still had the .50 cal oriented to our front but was casting nervous glances to his left from where we had received fire. “Sergeant Chen, I’ve got your nine o’clock!” I yelled.
Chen kept the .50 cal pointed forward as he twisted left in the turret, left hand supporting his weight as he tried to identify a target. There had only been one burst of three to five rounds and then silence. We all knew from the start what type of weapon was being fired at us. An AK-47 had a unique sound: a loos
e, metallic rattle like it was about to fall apart when fired, quite unlike the M16 or anything else in the U.S. arsenal.
Our next course of action would be dictated by the situation. We were only taking fire on one side from one or two hostiles. If that was all that it turned out to be, we would follow standard react-to-contact drills and eliminate the enemy. Half the platoon would fix the enemy in place by directing so much fire their way that they wouldn’t be able to move. Meanwhile, the other half of the platoon would move to the left or right using available cover—anything that will stop a bullet—and concealment—anything that will hide you—to close in and kill or capture them. The L-T and Swope would be the ones to make that call. However, if it turned out that we were in the middle of a complex ambush in spite of the low initial volume of fire, our move would be to get the hell out as quickly as possible.
Like individual musicians adding their instruments to a rising symphony of destruction, the enemy began to fire. Most of the contact came from the left side, but soon from the right, front, and rear as well.
Justin Bellamy stood dazed behind his machine gun. While everyone else had dismounted to the right of the vehicle for what cover they could find, he remained standing out in the open, manning his weapon. He was keenly aware of how exposed he was and wondered if he was about to make the last down payment on the proverbial farm. “God!” he cried, “I’m coming home. I’m going to die.”
Specialist Taylor, his driver, reached across the vehicle and struck him in the leg and said, “Sergeant Bellamy, get down!”
As if Taylor had hit Bellamy’s power switch, the gunner’s mind snapped into focus. He saw a flash of weapons fire coming from a second-story rooftop and drew down on the man who was trying to take his life.
Specialist Wild heard Bellamy’s machine gun open up behind him with a long burst of fire. He felt a sick surety as he heard a bullet whiz over his head that he was going to die a twisted heap in the dirt of an ungrateful city. He was scared plenty, almost to the point of paralysis, but the Bellamy’s return fire goosed him into action. It was time to fight.
Bourquin and Hayhurst took shelter on the right side of the Platoon Sergeant’s vehicle and desperately tried to find a target.
“Hey, where are they at?” called Coleman from the gunner’s turret. He had the best vantage point but could not positively ID a bad guy.
“Shoot!” cried Bourquin.
“At what?” Coleman said indignantly. “I don’t see anybody!”
“Just lay down suppressive fire,” meaning that Coleman should fire off rounds in the general direction from which they had been fired upon in order to keep the enemies’ heads down. Until they knew what was going on, suppressing the enemy’s ability to shoot at them was their top priority. Just then Bourquin saw a small figure dressed in black leaning out to fire at them. “Up there in the window!” he yelled.
“All right. Roger!” Coleman knew in an instant that was the heavy machine gun could not elevate high enough. He traded it for his M16 rifle and managed to drop the man in black with two well-aimed shots.
The sounds of machine gun fire saturated the air. Black-garbed figures scurried to and fro across alleys and streets. Swope saw a near-magical transformation take place in his soldiers as the initial fear and shock gave way to training, and the young men became professional killers methodically plying their trade. His men began to call out the familiar litany of distance and direction to each other.
“Shit-head in the open to your seven o’clock, seventy-five meters!”
“Roger, engaging!”
“Second-story building to your left, first corner window. Guy in black with an AK.”
Sergeant Chen yelled down from the turret. "Sir, they’re firing from everywhere!”
A round hit the windshield of the lead Humvee and cracked it. Aguero snapped off a splendid malediction and then said, “Well, just shoot back!”
Chen repeated, “They’re everywhere!”
“Then shoot everything!”
The L-T was on the radio yelling at Lancer Mike, “We’re in contact!”
Another round hit the windshield as Lancer Mike asked, “What type of contact?”
“Heavy contact!”
York and Fowler were sitting around shooting the breeze, both feeling equally pleased that their Platoon Daddy had told them to stay back. The whole escort mission had been tedious, and, to their mind, a quasi-insulting use of a hard-core Infantry Soldier. Swope had left York in charge as the senior guy, so the gigantic redhead chose a quiet spot in their motor pool-slash-hotel where he could manage the guard tower his Soldiers were manning while keeping an eye on their baggage. As he and Fowler sat talking, Corporal Erwin—a guy from another platoon—pulled up to them in a Humvee, dust billowing behind him.
“Hey, Sergeant York. I think your boys are under contact. Listen.”
Erwin had his radio set to monitor the battalion frequency. What York heard next would haunt him forever. Swope’s voice, usually so quiet and monotone that you had to strain to hear him, was blaring across the speakers, frantically calling that they were under heavy contact.
Hardly daring to believe his ears, York thought, Wow, they’re really in something deep. They’re in bad, bad shape.
York heard the battalion commander, Lancer 6 himself, break across the transmission and urge the NCO to take a deep breath and repeat their grid location. Lieutenant Colonel Gary Volesky had been in charge of this wonderful city for a whole ten minutes. Now the Battalion net was awash with confusion as either Red 1 or Red 4 tried to transmit their situation. In the background was the ever-present roar of machine gun fire.
SO note by McGowan, Doris @ 28 APR 2008
SM seen 50 minutes at CTMC. Patient reports being in an accident couple of weeks ago. He reports driving and having a flashback. He states that he released the brake in his car and rear-ended another driver. Per self-report he began writing a book in 12/07 about his 03/04-03/05 deployment. Since that time spouse has stated within the last few months he has been distant and withdrawn, inc irritability, possible anxiety related somatic complaints such as inc heart rate and chest tightening when recollecting events, dec concentration, and reexperiencing reported. SM stated prior to starting the book he had no problems. He expressed skepticism toward therapy/counseling, as well as psychotropic medication use.
Psychological Symptoms: Anxiety…Feeling guilty and disturbing or unusual thoughts, feelings, or sensations. Nightmares related to deployment and/or violence, less frequency since beginning book, possible flashbacks, intrusive thoughts.
Assessment: 1. ADJUSTMENT DISORDER: R/O PTS
The situation was getting ugly quickly. I still could see nothing, but the volume of AK-47 fire rose like a the voices of man and wife locked in a domestic squabble over which way the roll of toilet paper should face. The L-T was talking rapidly into his mike to someone as he stood outside his door. My heart was pounding hot blood through my veins. There were so many windows, so many doors and rooftops and alleys to cover. Anyone could pop out at any minute and begin spraying us with lead. My adrenaline-fueled mind suddenly flashed back to playing a game called Hogan’s Alley on the early Nintendo System. I could remember how fast my heart would beat as the 32-bit hooligans jumped out to take their shots at me. A mad desire to burst out laughing gripped me even as my head darted from side to side.
I caught the L-T hurling himself back inside from the corner of my eye. Taking the cue, I pulled my legs in and shut the door. I dropped the window down half-way and stuck out the barrel of my rifle. My field of vision was limited, but I still hoped to keep the heat off of Chen as much as possible.
Lieutenant Aguero’s mind raced through everything he had studied abo
ut leading men in a fire fight. Uppermost in his mind was the only aggressive act committed in Sadr City against Coalition Forces during the past year: the enthusiastic young scout platoon that had pissed off the locals by removing a flag of religious significance. They had shortly thereafter been hit by a hasty ambush that was about 300 meters long conducted by approximately 50 angry Muslims.
Was it possible that they were using the same tactic now? He thought it likely. The ever-escalating volume of fire told him that this was indeed a deliberate, well-planned ambush. He realized that the hundreds of people that had been loading onto buses all day long at the Sadr Bureau were most likely the same ones positioned against them right now.
Hundreds. All out here to kill them.
They had to get off this damn street. He hoped that it would be as easy as tucking their heads and barreling through the kill zone, maybe, hopefully only three football fields long. If all went well, they would just drive like hell until no one was shooting at them anymore, hang the very next right, and beat feet to the FOB. He was aware that the Iraqis outside the Sadr Bureau had seemed surprised, like they had been caught flat-footed before they could fully set the trap. He held on to the glimmer of hope that once they made it three, maybe four hundred meters that they would be in the clear. Surely they couldn’t have prepared much more than that.
I began to hear what sounded like rocks hitting the sides of the vehicle. There was a sound of shattering glass as a stray bullet hit the L-T’s side view mirror. We were now taking fire from both sides. Aguero gave no sign that he noticed. He spoke quickly into the handset to the rest of his platoon, “Get everyone mounted up. We’re leaving time now!”
Black Knights, Dark Days Page 9
