With as much dignity as the situation allowed, I lowered him to the earth by the rear wheel. He never opened his eyes. Never breathed.
“Goodbye, Eddie. I’m sorry.” I didn’t know if he could hear me. I’m not even sure what I meant by it, because I hadn’t meant to say anything. The words fell out of me and lay with Eddie on the ground.
I quickly climbed back up on top of the Humvee feeling ridiculously exposed until I dropped down into the turret. Even though there was no imminent threat from my sector, I turned my attention back to the lane and waited. Whatever surge of Viking fortitude I had felt earlier was gone. Seeing Chen laid out lifeless upon the ground reminded me that I, too, was mortal. I was afraid again.
SO Note by Rodgers, Renee @ 21 March 2014
Chief Complaint: Anxiety. Alcohol abuse.
SM and this provider met for 30 minutes during Walk In Clinic hours at 2:30PM at BJACH BHD. SM states he wishes to establish mental health services at this time following recent PCS to FT Polk two weeks ago. SM started TBI assessment in January 2013 while stationed at FT Benning, GA. SM wishes to continue assessment process at this time. SM states he’s having problems with anxiety currently and that this time of year is an anniversary period of loss for him related to his service. SM made contact with a SM recently who shares this same anniversary period and was emotionally triggered by it. Anger and aggressive urges are also a concern. SM states he’s also received mental health care in Iraq. He is having sleep problems and currently uses alcohol to aid with this.
Assessment: ANXIETY DISORDER NOS
Mere minutes away from our imperiled group, York could see everything that the Bradley gunner saw, thanks to a closed-circuit screen in the troop compartment. In shades of thermal gray, York saw another Bradley sitting alone at the corner of Aeros and Silver, the area we called Home Depot because of the mounds upon mounds of gravel, sand, and other construction material for sale. No other vehicles were in sight.
York could hear conversation in his crew helmet between 1SG Casey Carson, commander of their Bradley, and the BC of the lone track. They were with Alpha Company whose vehicle had lost power. They sent their dismounts with the rest of the QRF and stayed back with the vehicle—driver, gunner, and Bradley commander—to secure it. Would they mind towing them back to base? Not at all. To York’s frustration, he found out that Denomy was tasking Spicer and Carson to recover the vehicle and tow it back to the FOB while the rest of the convoy pushed onward.
The driver and Bradley Commander or BC of the inoperable vehicle dismounted and quickly attached a heavy tow bar to the back of Carson’s Bradley. Within five minutes they were on their way. York gritted his teeth, impatient to join the fight. He felt like he had been tricked. Horribly, horribly tricked. He had jumped into the first available seat, rearing to go, and had, as a bad joke, been stuck towing another Bradley back into the FOB. Another five minutes and the Alpha company victor was safe inside FOB War Eagle.
Once at the FOB, he heard 1SG Carson say that they would be waiting in the base until the CO or someone else called them out. Fratricide happens, York knew, when friendly pieces move around the chess board without the other pieces knowing about it. The battle was moving too quickly and they had to wait until they were inserted into the plan again. York knew this made sense but hated that he was now sitting on the sidelines. Then the Bradley stopped and the ramp went down.
Pandemonium. That was the first word that came to York’s mind. Soldiers and vehicles were dashing madly about. He looked up and saw that the soldiers manning the towers were firing at something over the wall that he couldn’t see.
This wasn’t Swope’s first rodeo. He had seen combat before as a private during the first Desert Storm and was inured to the shock that most felt. As we set up the defense, the feeling that gripped him the strongest was pride. He saw his soldiers, many of whom he knew despised him for his detachment and relentless commitment to training, performing at a jaw-dropping level. He felt that swell of delight that a father feels when he lets go of the back of the bike for the first time and the child, laughing with delight, says, “Dad! I’m doing it!”
Swope could not keep up with how fast his soldiers had stacked up outside the door and then burst through to clear the building. He listened to the chatter on the radio and tried to discern how long it would take for the Quick Reaction Force to reach. As he listened, he watched Chen jump from the top of the vehicle in front of him. Wait, glasses—that was Fisk. Where? Fisk tugged open the door and reached inside. A second later he pulled the limp body of a large soldier. Chen?
Shit.
He could tell by the way that Chen’s body hung that the man was dead. They had a KIA after all. Swope felt his stomach sink and convulse. The coldness that swept over him covered up the instant grief and sorrow that threatened to undo him. It washed away the sadness and filled him with something useful. Something that would help him get his men out alive. Something that would get him back home to his wife in Texas.
Rage.
Aguero knew that several things had to happen at once. First they had to secure their battle space. He felt confident in their command of the alley. Just like the Spartans at the pass of Thermopylae, they had a good chance holding off any advancing horde that attempted to cram any number of people through either entrance. As long as their ammunition held. Second, they had to establish and maintain comms with the cavalry. Unless the good guys knew where to find them rescue was unlikely. Then they had to make sure that the injured were treated and that Battalion was ready to evacuate them for treatment as necessary.
Aguero’s thoughts turned to Chen, his gunner, his soldier. His eyes were drawn to the body of the fallen warrior as he lay in the dirty street. He wondered if he had failed him, if he had done something wrong that had caused this tragedy to befall such a decent young man. No, not me. THEM! The Lieutenant’s mind filled with a buzzing, glaring rage that blotted out thought and reason. Aguero had long been an angry man, but now he was a man possessed. He turned back toward Delta, the street where a good soldier had fallen, where even now a large number of people were gathering to kill the rest of them. His teeth clenched in a savage grin that lit his face for the rest of the battle.
Swope sat in his seat with his foot propping the door open. Aguero stood by his own vehicle with one arm draped on the open door and one on the roof of the vehicle with his head hanging inside the vehicle. They were both listening to the radio chatter. Everyone was trying to talk at once. Men, confused by the sound of it, were trying to get the “SITREP,” plying each other eagerly for more “INTEL,” and generally seeming to be running around in “CIRCLES.”
Volesky, call-sign Lancer 6, had received authority and responsibility for everything that happened in Sadr City at exactly the same moment that Red Platoon had been ambushed. The new field commander was just now getting a sense for the plight of the stranded platoon. He passed word through his operations center to Red 1 that he wanted Comanche Red Platoon to pull off of the alley and into the nearest house. They would have to defend themselves until he could leverage his assets to pull them out.
Swope shook his head as he heard the L-T acknowledge. “Did you hear that?” Aguero asked as he trotted up to his Platoon Sergeant.
“Roger, Sir, I heard it. But we can’t sit there and do that.”
“Why not?”
“If we pull out of these vehicles then we’re not going to be able to sit there and talk to Battalion.”
“We’ve got a man-pack don’t we?” The L-T had performed the Pre-Combat Inspection himself and knew for a fact that they had a portable radio with antennae and batteries in a backpack. He thought it was either in his vehicle or in Swope’s.
“Roger, we’ve got the man-pack, but it doesn’t have a power amp. Without that amp, the output wouldn’t be enough to sit
there and talk to Lancer Mike. Hell, that’s several miles back and the range just won’t cut it, especially with all these buildings in the way.”
Aguero cursed silently to himself and then not so silently. “Well, looks like we’re stuck in the alley then.”
“Roger, but we need to get somebody on a high OP right away. Once these shit-heads figure out that they can’t sit there and get in this alley, they’re gonna try to come across the roofs.”
Robinson appeared in the doorway, looked left then right, and trotted over to the L-T. “Sir, the courtyard is all clear. We got the family inside detained. They ain’t got no weapons. We’ve also got access to the roof.”
“Good. Get a crew-served weapon up there then.”
“Hooah.” Robinson glanced left and saw Bellamy lying in the alley behind the 240B. Rob ran up and kneeled beside him. “Hey, man. I need your 240.”
Bellamy glanced over his left shoulder at him. “I wouldn’t have a weapon then. I gave my rifle to Doc.”
“Here, take mine.” Rob extended his M4 carbine. Bellamy climbed stiffly to his feet and exchanged weapons with him, glad to have the lighter weapon for a while. Robinson disappeared back inside the courtyard while Bellamy opened the L-T’s door to provide a little more cover, grateful for a lull in the fighting that was not destined to last. Robinson dashed back inside without ever having noticed Chen, his friend and former gunner, lying beside the Humvee.
Swope leaned out of the window and said, “Hey, Sir! I need to get a status on our wounded to send up to higher.”
Lieutenant Aguero turned in time to see Wild emerging from the courtyard. His eyes had a distant, far-off look—ye olde thousand-yard stare. “Wild, consolidate the wounded inside. Have Doc see what he can do. Let me know who’s been hit.”
Wild looked down at Chen and nodded. He went back inside and emerged with Riddell and Doc. Doc Guzman went to the back of Red 4 to check on Haubert, who was sitting in his seat cradling his hand and rocking. Riddell and Wild managed to lift the large Asian warrior by his arms and legs and carry him to the kitchen now designated as the CCP or Casualty Collection Point.
Robinson climbed up to the roof to get the lay of the land. Whitewashed buildings of varying heights stretched in all directions. Most were two stories or less, but some rose a few stories taller. To the south, he could see black garbed figures swarming the rooftops a few hundred meters away. There was very little action to the west. Route Delta was clearly visible to their immediate east. A tall, slender building at the mouth of the alley obscured part of the sector, but not by much. A four-story spire immediately adjoining the courtyard to their east kept them from seeing the entrance to the lane they defended, and Rob thought that that was probably a better place to be right now. He would say something to the L-T. He couldn’t see very much north of the alley; could not, in fact, see their disabled Humvees. Rob was satisfied, though, that they could make anyone approaching from the south end of Delta pay dearly for passage.
As the soldiers mounted the steps, Robinson gave them sectors of fire. He placed Hayhurst on the northeast corner, Taylor on the southwest while Rob himself covered the southeast with the heavy machine gun. He couldn’t see any targets yet, but he knew that it would only be a matter of time before he saw the enemy approaching from rooftops to the south—just your friendly, neighborhood Shi-ites. Behind him he heard Hayhurst engaging someone out on Delta and smiled.
Hayhurst had a narrow vista of Route Delta from his position. He could see people running toward them. People with weapons. He began to engage with lethal precision. He was able to shoot five of them before they reached the mouth of the alley that Coleman held.
Hayhurst was awed by the reckless courage displayed by the enemy. Awed and enraged. He was an even-tempered, gentle guy, but he could feel nothing but hate and rage brewing inside him now. He saw a child step into the street from a side-alley doorway to the east with an assault rifle in his hands. The child could have been no more than eight or nine years old and wore black pants and a black top that was reminiscent of a martial arts gi. The child began firing at them, spraying the gun back and forth, barely able to stand up under the weapon’s recoil. Ben took aim and with a single shot the boy’s body crumpled like a large doll. The weapon clattered to the earth beside him.
A man wearing a didashi emerged from the same doorway. He was bent over with grief. His hands held no weapon, and were stretched palm outward in front of him. He walked slowly toward the body, weeping and uttering words Ben could not hear from the distance. Hayhurst was transfixed by the drama unfolding in front of his eyes and had a good idea how this particular tragedy was going to end. The father—for surely the man was at least a close relative—bent and picked up the rifle his son had hoped would be a one-way ticket to paradise. Don’t do it, Ben thought. Don’t you do it, you stupid son of a bitch. Don’t.
The father did. He raised the rifle toward the infidels with a defiant, mournful cry that was drowned out by the sound of Hayhurst’s weapon putting the man out of his misery. The rifle once again clattered to the earth.
Immediately another figure emerged from the same doorway at a sprint and snatched up the weapon. Damn it, Hayhurst thought, when will this end? He dropped the man with another well-placed shot. The rifle clattered to the earth once again, awaiting another hand to continue the endless cycle of violence and vengeance.
The rifle waited not long at all. Hayhurst was dumbfounded to see another man emerge from darkening doorway. He grabbed the leg of the man most recently shot and began to drag him back inside. As almost an afterthought, the man bent down and retrieved the AK-47 that had caused so much trouble. Hayhurst fired again, but his aim was fouled by some random act of chance or the intervention of a higher power. The bullet struck the man in the thigh, but he still managed to drag the corpse inside.
Well, you sure paid dearly for that crappy little weapon, he thought.
Guzman was not a doctor, not even a Physician’s Assistant, but the common protocol was that medics assigned to a line platoon were inevitably called “Doc.” Doc Guzman was an experienced medic who had never seen combat until that day. No amount of training could have prepared him for this. As he led a nearly catatonic Haubert to the newly established Casualty Collection Point, he knew that the NCO was edging into shock. Guzman himself had been so frightened by his ride in the unarmored Humvee that he would be surprised if his underwear was unstained. His hands were still shaking. He sat Haubert down in the corner and tried to calm his own nerves. His knowledge and skills would be desperately needed very soon, he feared, and he had to get a grip on himself.
Then Wild and Riddell brought in the limp form of Chen with small, shuffling steps as they labored under his weight. They laid him down slowly, as though not to hurt him, and then Wild ran out toward the stairs. Riddell looked at Guzman, and said, “What can we do?”
Guzman took a deep breath, and, just like that, felt the shakes depart him. “Help me get his gear off.”
Doc held the man in an upright position while Riddell pulled the ballistic vest off of him. Guzman saw immediately that Chen’s entire right side was drenched with blood and the sick, coppery odor of it washed over him. Working quickly, he opened Chen’s shirt and felt the man’s neck for a pulse. Nothing. He wasn’t breathing and his skin was cool to the touch. Doc could see a small hole between Chen’s fourth and fifth rib, and he knew that he could do nothing for him. Guzman began to treat him anyway, not with any hope, but rather to give himself something to do that he understood in this madness. He removed a J-tube from his medic bag and started to insert it. When he opened the man’s mouth, more blood issued forth. Doc reached in with two fingers and swept the air way clear. He inserted the J-tube, wishing that he had a suction apparatus with him to clear his lungs.
“Riddell, we’re starting CPR. Give him three
short breaths in cycles of two when I tell you. Begin now.”
Riddell bent to the task. He puffed three times, paused, turned his head to watch the chest rise as he had been taught, and then repeated. The chest did not rise and, Guzman knew that was because no air was making it to the lungs. The airway was clogged with blood and/or the lungs were surrounded with fluid by now that was squeezing them like a huge fist. Guzman placed one palm on top of the other, laced his fingers together and with his arms locked pressed firmly down and up on Chen’s sternum once, twice, three times. Pause. Riddell gave three more breaths then three more. More blood oozed from Chen’s mouth. His chest did not rise.
“It’s not working!” gasped Riddell. “I can’t get any air in him.”
“He’s gone,” said Guzman. “He’s dead. There’s nothing we can do. I don’t have the right equipment to help him.” Guzman stood shakily, looking down at the body.
“You’re not going to give up,” growled Riddell. “We’ve got to help him.”
“It’s over. He’s dead.” We’re not God, he thought. We’re not gods.
Wild was descending into the courtyard to join a newly erupting battle in the alley when he caught a glimpse into the kitchen of a Soldier bent over the body of Chen. It was Riddell. The battle outside forgotten, Wild was drawn almost against his will toward the CCP. As he approached he saw that Riddell was attempting CPR. He rose from giving rescue breaths and began to beat wildly upon the fallen Soldier’s chest. Riddell’s fists landed with a sickening thud on the warrior’s sternum.
Wild stood in the doorway, wishing that he would stop so that he didn’t have to hear that awful sound. Doc Guzman was standing opposite Riddell, his medic bag open, arms hanging at his side like the limp banners of a defeated army. Haubert sat in a corner with his back to them, rocking. Wild looked up and locked eyes with Guzman, whom he had never gotten along with very well. Why was he just standing there? Why didn’t he help Riddell? Why was he giving up on Chen? Wild’s heart filled with rage and disgust. He spun on his heels and went to look for something to kill.
Black Knights, Dark Days Page 15
