“Sir,” Riddell said calmly, “we’ve got to get off this fucking street.” I marveled that he could sound so tranquil. As if to punctuate his sentence for him, Chen opened up with the Ma-Deuce. The roar of the .50 caliber rounds spitting destruction left my ears ringing, a not-so-subtle reminder that I wasn’t wearing my hearing protection.
I fumbled with my ear plug case and belatedly shoved the soft plastic deep into my badly abused auditory canal with trembling hands. I wasn’t afraid yet, but the adrenaline coursing through me made my fingers shake. In fact, I felt a rush of exhilaration. I reared my head back gave voice to the rebel yell peculiar to the land of my birth. “Get ’em, Sergeant Chen!” I cried.
“Fisk!” yelled the L-T. “Shut up.” He was talking on one of the radios, but I couldn’t tell which one. I wanted to yell and cheer, excited as I was, but I realized then that the L-T was having a hard enough time hearing without my shenanigans.
“Give them a second to mount up,” Aguero yelled to his driver. He picked up the hand set for battalion and relayed, “Lancer Mike, this is Comanche Red One. We are in the middle of a complex ambush just south of the intersection of Gold and Delta. Enemy fire is heavy and sustained. We are returning to base time now. We need QRF support. I say again, we need QRF support.” He picked up the platoon mic and snapped, “All Comanche Red elements follow me out.” He shouted to his driver, “Riddell, let’s go!” Riddell pulled out as if the demons of Hades were nipping at his nethers.
I remember taking a communication class in college. We learned all about the sender, receiver, and message elements. We also learned about the role interference can play in disturbing the receipt of the message. It could be that the interference takes the form of people talking, music playing, background noise, or even racial prejudice. However, we never got to the chapter on the effects of heavy enemy contact and machine gun fire on receiving a message. I’m sure that if Lieutenant Aguero had been considering these practical matters rather than the more abstract matter of, say, surviving, then he would have been aware of the possibility that the rest of the platoon never heard his transmission.
A few hundred meters farther north, our vehicle was taking a beating. Bullets were striking the sides like a flurry of rocks. A slug struck my door so hard that it stung the side of my leg. I jerked my leg back, feeling for blood. The bullet hadn’t penetrated the thick armor, but it was enough to flip my perspective. I was suddenly not as excited about combat as I had been. In fact, I had my fill at that moment and would fully support the slogan: Make Love Not War. I raised my window up another notch so that my barrel barely stuck through.
Chen had his work cut out for him and wasn’t complaining one bit. He unleashed volley after volley from the Deuce. I could only see him from his waist down. He appeared to be doing some exotic sort of dance as he repositioned himself time and time again to take shots from different angles.
We passed the traffic circle on Route Gold which was a good 800 meters, or half mile, from where we had first received contact. The angry-looking old man whose mural was painted there on a mint-green concrete slab stared down at us as we rounded the deserted circle and continued north.
No sooner had we hit Delta again when I noticed that there was a lot of junk strewn across the road. A whole lot. Sadr City was a filthy trash pile to be sure, but I couldn’t recall seeing so much of it littered across the street. Then it struck me that these were obstacles deliberately placed to slow or stop our forward movement. This was where they planned to pin us down and finish the job. Riddell drove like a man inspired. He wove the heavy vehicle around metal poles tipped with spikes, large piles of rusty metal, old air conditioners. He powered through refrigerators and vendor stands. He drove over anything that wouldn’t move.
Before we had gone another 100 meters, Chen started yelling something down through the turret. I was so deafened by the gunfire that I couldn’t understand him. The L-T was giving a SITREP to battalion when Riddell picked up the platoon mike. He said something that I couldn’t make out, then handed the handset to the P-L.
“Sir! It’s (inaudible to me). They (something, something) back there.”
“What?” exclaimed the lieutenant. No problem hearing that.
Then I could finally hear what Chen was saying, “Sir! No one is behind us. They’re still back there!”
Up until that moment I had never heard a mortal swear as elegantly as did my fearless and profane leader. “Riddell! Turn us around!”
Riddell screeched to a stop, did a quick two-point turn over a pile of rubbish, and sped back toward the platoon. He managed to find the exact route he had carved through the piles of garbage and hastily strewn obstacles. The enemy was only too glad to take their shot at us again. I was reminded of what it sounds like to be in a car during a bad hail storm.
Within a minute we had regained the traffic circle. The rest of the patrol came quickly into view. They were firing on both sides of the street but had moved for the most part to the driver’s side of their vehicles. As we approached, the L-T directed his driver to go down the side where everyone was taking shelter, wearing looks of disbelief, shock, anger, and fear.
When we pulled even with Swope’s truck, the L-T jumped out and told Riddell to get us turned around. Aguero hustled over to confer with his senior NCO while Riddell did another two-point turn and slid to a stop.
Aguero and Swope had a brief discussion about the situation. The L-T told them about the obstacles that had been emplaced up ahead and what he intended to do. The Iraqi Police station—from which we had watched the Mahdi Militia demonstration—was about a mile down the road, just past Route Copper. He said that we would bust through this ambush and take shelter in the station until reinforcements arrived and higher had a chance to figure out how they wanted to play this.
Swope nodded his agreement. “Good. We’re sitting ducks out here. We’ve got to get off this damn street!”
Aguero hustled back to his vehicle while Swope relayed the plan to his section leaders over the net. He had told Davis to keep an ear to the radio, and Davis passed that up to Haubert. Red Two and Red Three acknowledged the transmission, and Swope saw that everyone was loading up. He turned to his crew and shouted, “Hey, get in the vehicles! We’re getting out of here!”
Specialist Rafael Arteaga had been with his platoon earlier that morning. He was one of several who were told to stay behind when the mission continued after lunch. He had been lounging on his mattress of lumpy duffel bags, talking to his friend Specialist Miranda from another platoon, and enjoying the lazy afternoon when he had heard the call from his platoon leader come across the radio. He rushed over and crowded around the makeshift company command post with others who couldn’t at first comprehend what they were hearing. Could this really be happening?
Time flowed like a lazy old man on a Sunday drive. The moment the ambush was initiated until the L-T returned to the platoon had been just over five minutes. It took less than a minute for Aguero to realize that we were in a complex ambush and order everyone to plow through it. It took two minutes to clear through the traffic circle while the rest of the platoon engaged an ever-increasing number of insurgents. It took a little over two minutes for us to get back. The subjective experience, however, was much, much longer.
Now it only took about 10 seconds for everyone to load back up, probably less since they were highly motivated to leave. As we pulled into the front, I perceived the devastating effect the enemy fire had wrought when we passed the gauntlet in our heavily armored vehicle. With mounting horror, it dawned on me that we had to now try and get everyone—even the lightly armored Humvees—through that hell and to the other side. We passed first Haubert, then Davis, and I tried to imagine those unarmored trucks going through all that. They would never make it. A wave of relief washed over me that I wasn’t sitting in one of those combat convertibles. And then came the g
uilt.
As the L-T led the mad attempt to break through the ambush, things went from bad to worse. I heard an explosion to our rear. A loud whoosh filled the air somewhere behind and to the right. It was followed almost immediately by a loud cracking boom. That was my introduction to the RPG, or rocket-propelled grenade. I don’t know where exactly it hit or how far back, but immediately following the explosion came a smell that has stayed with me. I’ve never smelled anything like it since. The bouquet could best be described as a combination of acrid dust and burning brake pads with a hint of ammonia.
Riddell had a good feel now for the best path through the obstacle course set up for our amusement by the Mahdi Army. We roared through the deserted traffic circle again, and the volume of RPG attacks exploded as we crossed Gold and continued north. At speeds approaching 40 miles per hour—which feels damned fast in a M1114—he slalomed back and forth through the path he had already carved out. The L-T cursed as he was tossed mercilessly about the cab while he tried to use the radio. Meanwhile, bullets bounced off the armor like a shower of gravel.
I felt like a pin ball in a machine headed toward tilt. No one wore a seatbelt. We never did, since they were so hard to get on over our armor. Since every second counted when responding to an attack, the need for speedy egress trumped all else. I saw that Aguero was having the Devil’s own time trying to communicate on two radios while being slammed around in his seat. He looked out his window then suddenly let go of the radio, dropped the window, and stuck his short M4 carbine out. Without any hope of hitting his target, he fired off several rounds at a figure dressed like a ninja with a green bandana. I was astonished when the insurgent fell backwards and did not move.
Behind us, the others fell farther and farther behind. The whole street burned. Thick smoke billowed from tires that the enemy had set on fire to either channel our movement or obscure theirs. The L-T could not see behind him anyway, as his mirror had been shot off. Riddell tried to glance back at the rest of the convoy and discovered that his own mirror was also destroyed. The volume of fire that we were wading through was insane, and I worried for the soldiers in the two unprotected vehicles.
“Sergeant Chen, can you see them back there?” yelled the lieutenant.
“Yes, Sir!” Chen unleashed another long and deafening burst of fire from the deuce. I whooped and hollered my encouragement to him.
“Are you OK, Sergeant?” I called.
“Yeah, I’m good!” He was in the middle of a steel rain that I couldn’t imagine weathering and wasn’t even breathing hard. Another fusillade rapped against the side of the vehicle, and I heard the big warrior behind the gun let out a sound like a cross between a weak cough and a whoosh. Chen’s legs unhinged and he dropped straight down then straight back, face up on top of the olive-green ammo cans.
“Chen’s hit!” I screamed. My heart turned inside out and time froze. I put my weapon muzzle down into the floorboard of the seat and twisted sideways onto my knees to begin the process of casualty evaluation. This precise battle drill had eight distinct steps—at that time—upon which we are rigorously trained. I had attended the Combat Life Saver course several times and had performed well. I could start an intravenous feed and knew how to treat everything from abdominal gunshot wounds to insect stings. I remember learning CPR on the plastic dummy the medics called Andy. Andy was made of soft plastic, cold to the touch, and left the student feeling slightly dirty after practicing the artificial breathing and chest compressions. Academically, I was well-versed—for an infantry guy—on any medical issues that would cross our path. Or so I thought.
Lieutenant Aguero turned around to look at Chen, “Where’s he hit? How bad is it?”
I was searching for a sign of blood, entry wound, trauma, something. “I can’t see where he’s hit!” I called. Panic began to settle in, leaving me cold and numb.
Sala’am leaned over him from the other side, searching. “There is no wound, no blood,” he said. “He has a pulse!”
“He’s not breathing,” I noted. His eyes were closed. Chen had a prominent jaw with just the suggestion of an under-bite. His lips were parted, revealing a neat row of teeth stained with blood.
Riddell, still roaring down the street and swerving hard right and left, glanced back once. He reached across with his right hand and pulled out a Combat Life Saver bag, our standard issue first-aid kit, plus an IV starter bag. Without taking his eyes off the road he unzipped the bag and felt around until he found what he was looking for. He produced a white piece of plastic that resembled a question mark. He handed it back without looking. “Use this!”
It’s called a J-tube, made for insertion into the throat to keep the airway open during CPR. The vehicle was still bouncing and bucking like a rodeo bronc as I put my thumb on the fallen warrior’s chin and pushed downward and prepared to insert the tube with the hook side down.
Blood poured out of his mouth, along with something else. I noted a small piece of pinkish, bloody meat that landed on his chest next to his jaw. Revulsion, horror and panic struck me at once when I realized that he had bitten off the tip of his own tongue. His face was rapidly turning pale, and he still was not breathing. I put the index and middle finger of my left hand over his left carotid artery. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even a flutter. He must have been shot through the chest, and now his lungs were filled with blood. Without being able to clear out all that blood and with a hole in his lung, CPR suddenly seemed like a useless endeavor.
I was half-right. He had been shot through chest, the bullet entering just under his right armpit and piercing his chest cavity, maybe even one or both lungs. If I had been taught lifesaving techniques that became standard in 2006, then I could have possibly saved his life. When the sac surrounding the lungs is pierced, it fills up with blood and other fluids until the pressure is too great for the lungs to work against. They usually collapse, with death following close behind.
But the Army had yet to experience the vast number of casualties with this signature, not-necessarily fatal, injury. Within a year, they would notice the alarming trend, and within two years they would add side armor to our vests and training to line soldiers on how to drain off fluid in this sort of wound. So, in a sense, Chen’s death was not in vain. Lessons were learned and other lives have since been saved.
Yet the 2004 very frightened version of me was sitting in the middle of a fire fight with a good man’s blood on my hands, struggling with an interior debate. Should I invest time into a most likely futile effort, or should I get up and man the now-silent gun? Chen’s life was important to me. All of our lives were important to me. Years of training for this moment already dictated the answer: when in contact, security remains the priority. Rendering first aid to friend and foe always happens once the objective is reached. I never thought I would have to apply such a clinical doctrine while staring at the dying face of a friend.
I sat back and exhaled a ragged breath. “He’s gone.” Above me the gaping hole in the roof—the gunner’s turret—sat empty. The big gun was silent, perhaps mourning the fallen.
Riddell heard me and I could hear the disbelief in his reply. “Give him mouth to mouth!”
“It’s no use,” I said, my lips numb. My eyes never left the turret. “He’s got blood coming out of his mouth. He’s dead.”
A silence like the grave filled the truck.
“Lancer Mike, this is Comanche Red One. We have one KIA. I repeat, we have one KIA.” The L-T, his ashen face furious, handed the platoon net to his driver. “Tell Red Four.”
SO Note by Fields, Boyce @ 10 NOV 2011
Chief complaint: depression, anhedonia, nightmares, feeling on guard, avoidance and feeling numb or detached
Patient … is married and has deployed twice to Iraq. Patient is from Arkansas. SM is a college graduate…His parents divorced when he was 14yo. He was the only child. SM st
ayed with his mother. Denied having any family history of alcoholism or mental illness. Patient does drink on occasion. Stated he has never had an alcohol incident or been to ASAP. His religious preference is Protestant. SM said he [did] not have any financial or legal problems. Patient is having some marital problems. He has been seen by a mental health provider in the past for depression. He has taken Prozac. Patient said he had suicidal thoughts while taking the medication.
A/P: 1. Adjustment Disorder
York heard Riddell’s frantic voice coming over the radio screaming that someone had been hit, was bleeding out of the mouth and had fallen down into his truck. His heart sank as fear for his brothers’ safety gripped him. He was overcome with a mad desire to rush out of the gate in the nearest vehicle. He began to shake and couldn’t stop.
“Sir, we need somebody on the gun,” I heard Riddell say, calmly, as though discussing interior décor options.
Lieutenant Aguero looked back, twisting far enough around to see Sala’am sitting behind him. “See what you can do for Sergeant Chen. Fisk,” he said to me, “get on that gun.”
“Roger that, Sir!” As if I hadn’t already thought of that. My eyes had not left the turret. I could see a beautiful blue sky through the round hole in the roof. A calm sky with not a cloud to be seen, unaffected by what was going on beneath. Chen was dead. For all I knew, others were joining him, even now. The thrill that I had felt at the thought of being a warrior had left the moment that my Asian buddy had collapsed in a heap with a bullet in his chest. That was the reality that awaited me behind that gun. The peck-peck-peck of the bullets striking the vehicle had not let up in the slightest, and spoke to me like Morse code. Stand your ass up and see what happens. Stop. This is not like you thought it would be as a snotty-nosed kid playing army with toy guns. Stop. We’re all real out here where there is no I got you first; No you didn’t bullshit going on. Stop. You’ll end up just like him in nothing flat if you stand up now. Stop. Your breathing, your pulse, your life will also—stop.
Black Knights, Dark Days Page 10
