Black Knights, Dark Days

by Fisk, J. Matthew;

  Physical Symptoms: muscle tension, numbness, shortness of breath, heart pounding, vision changes, choking sensations, trembling/shaking, tics and twitches, rapid heartbeat.

  Assessment: 1. MAJOR DEPRESSION, SINGLE EPISODE

  

  We were all aware of the setting sun, some more uneasy about it than others. Bellamy called out to no one in particular, “Conserve your ammo! Pick your targets. Leave everything alone outside of a hundred-fifty meters.”

  Good advice, too. We had ammunition, but what we didn’t have was a single clue about how long we’d have to make it stretch. Where was the QRF? And why weren’t the Kiowas engaging? I kept hearing them buzz overhead and wondered if they could see us.

  Before we deployed, heck, even before I rejoined the Army in May of 2003, I had sat enthralled before the movie Blackhawk Down. The combat was so realistically rendered that none of us could help but compare our current situation to that film. I heard Bourquin, perhaps rather optimistically, asking Bellamy who was going to play him in the movie about us. Logic told me that we would first need to survive before anyone even knew our story. Unless the cavalry arrived soon—1st CAV, that is—there would be no lone Spartan survivor sent from Thermopylae to sing our song.

  Still, it was entertaining listening to the cheerful banter. Me? Tom Cruise, probably. He’s too tall. Screw you! I want Jamie Fox to play me. Dude, he’s black. So? No one has to know I’m white! Everyone seemed to be holding together remarkably well. We had taken the worst sucker punch the enemy could throw and then had come back swinging. The Quick Reaction Force was on their way—Swope hadn’t let the cat out of the bag that they had been hit on Silver—and we would all be whisked to freedom soon.

  But it was getting dark now, and I was reminded about Blackhawk Down for another reason. The Rangers in that story had brought gear with them with the expectation that they would be back before afternoon tea. No need to bring Night Vision Devices on a day-time raid, silly goose. They left water and night-fighting gear in exchange for ammunition. I certainly don’t condemn the decision. I’m an Arkansas boy, after all; bring on the ammo! However, I did learn from their plight. Bring all of your gear, all of the time. Better to have it and not need it than the converse. Taking advantage of the lull in the fighting—my cross-road nemeses had not offered a peep since the woman with the bloody hands—I reached into a pouch and pulled out my AN/PVS-7B Night Vision Device and snapped it on to my pre-installed helmet mount. I didn’t need it yet, but when I did need it I would only have to swivel the goggles down and power up.

  I reminded others around me to go ahead and put their NVGs on. While everyone had seen the movie, not everyone had embraced the lessons learned. Most didn’t have their NODs, as we called them, and many were running out of water. The ammunition was holding for now, but we didn’t relish the thought of holding this alley against an all-out assault with black-garbed ninja wannabes swarming over the rooftops.

  Swope was able to provide some good news. “Here comes the QRF down Delta!”

  The news spread quickly as we began high-fiving each other. We were going back to that beautiful piece of dusty real estate that was looking better all the time.

  

  From the moment the QRF turned left on to Delta, the volume of enemy fire steadily increased to a fever pitch. Bullets ricocheted off of the LMTV’s armored cab and buried into the sandbags on the bed of the truck. Everyone fired in all directions, trying desperately to keep the enemy at bay. No matter how much they fired, though, it seemed that Mookie’s men were turning up the volume.

  Joe Thompson heard Arteaga scream, “Sergeant, I’m hit! I’m hit!”

  Thompson cursed and said, “Man, screw this!” He scrambled over to Arteaga who had rolled on his back, both hands on his knee. “Where are you hit at, Rafael?” Even after Arteaga removed his hands, Joe could barely see the two small holes in his ACUs. Thompson plucked a knife from his belt and thumbed it open with a single snap. Carefully, because the LMTV was bouncing as they hurtled down the street, he cut away the fabric around the Puppet’s knee.

  “Hey, dog! Why you cuttin’ my pants up? They’re going to charge me for that!”

  “Shut up, Rafael!”

  When Thompson ripped open Rafael’s trousers he saw what looked like a vampire’s kiss just below the young man’s knee cap. Arteaga looked up at Thompson, “They shot me, dog. They shot me. I can’t believe them fools shot me.”

  Thompson felt the dark humor of the moment and would have laughed if bullets had not been flying so close that he could almost read the lot number stamped into the lead. Joe had pulled out a new field dressing that they had been given in Kuwait, which had been designed by the Israelis as some sort of super-bandage. It was composed of a combination of crushed shell fish, unicorn kisses, or some crap, that was supposed to work as a coagulant. Arteaga was hardly bleeding at all, but this was a good chance to use a new toy.

  Thompson had never trained how to use it, had never even opened it. When he did rip open the brown, wax paper wrapping the whole bandage fell out on to the sandbags. Real sanitary, that. Thompson was lying on his side and found the position awkward for performing first aid, even if vital to survival. He scooped it back up, the cloth ends trailing out and snagging up on his gear. Since he was turned mostly on his stomach, Thompson felt keenly exposed. I’m going to get shot in the ass.

  Thompson became so frustrated with trying to use the Israeli bandage with its built-in tourniquet that he threw it down in disgust. He reached up and snatched the old-school bandage from Arteaga’s own vest. Within 15 seconds he had wrapped it in place on Arteaga’s knee. “Keep pressure on that,” Thompson told him, and rolled back over into position.

  Rafael pushed down and winced. “Ah! It hurts!”

  Thompson said, “Well, no crap. Hold pressure on it anyway.”

  Fowler crawled over to assess the situation. “It’s all right, Rafael. It’s all right,” he said, “You’re going to make it.”

  Arteaga seemed to take heart at the news. “All right, cool, cool.”

  

  Arteaga felt as if he had just injected Speed into his system. His pulse raced, his heart pounded in his chest, and he was more alive than he had ever felt before. He grabbed his weapon, rolled over to his good knee and raised up as high as he could, daring someone to take him out. He began to fire the SAW, raking it back and forth as the ammo belt disappeared.

  Unleashing long burst of automatic fire, Arteaga screamed, “You can’t kill me! You can’t kill me! I’m a gangsta, dog! I’m a gangsta!” The young Latino was up on one knee, gun blazing, invoking the spirit of Tony Montana inviting his enemies to “say hello” to his little friend. Everyone laughed and kept firing.

  Arteaga’s arms eventually sagged and he lowered his weapon as a fit of nausea and weakness swept over him. He tried to bring the SAW back up, but it suddenly seemed so heavy. Fowler noticed the young man beginning to flag and told him to lay down and relax. Rafael slumped down to a reclining position and rested the barrel of his weapon on the side skirt of the truck. What was happening to him?

  

  Justin Rowe noticed that Puppet had stopped firing and moved to take up the slack. No sooner had he settled on a comfortable posture when he saw a target running toward them off their eight o’clock. Rowe had no time to think as the insurgent raised an AK to fire at them. Just as the man started to take cover in a doorway, Rowe pulled the trigger and saw a splat of blood decorate the door. The man pitched forward, dead.

  

  Le cried out, “I’m hit, I’m hit!” as he fell backwards. All sense of merriment fled Tyrell as he looked back at Le and saw smoke coming out of the hole in the man’s inner thigh. Le was screaming. Fowler whirled around and assessed Le’s injury. He was most worried about massive hemorrhaging from a femoral artery, one of the largest in the human body. He quickly enlarged the gash
in Le’s trousers and was relieved to find that the bullet had only dug a large furrow in the man’s leg. No bullet, no gouts of blood. Fowler used Le’s own bandage to bind his injury. Le quickly regained his composure and, ignoring the searing heat of the wound, resumed his post as if nothing had happened.

  

  Tyrell was peripherally aware of how close the bullet had come to the NCOs groin. He felt queasy and convinced that he, himself, was about to be shot in the nether regions. Dust was thick in the air as bullets struck sand bags. He wasn’t alone either. He saw Deaver pull sandbags on top of his own legs and groin.

  

  Coleman saw the QRF. He knew when they were close because he saw 7.62mm tracers flashing down the street toward an unseen foe. That was the Bradley’s coaxial machine gun, and it was gorgeous to behold. He saw the first Bradley pass the alleyway, heading south. Obviously they were going to form a defensive circle around the mouth of the alley to pull them out safely. Another BFV zoomed by, and Coleman wondered how wide their perimeter was going to be. When the third combat vehicle—an LMTV loaded with his comrades—rolled by, he realized that the rescue party couldn’t see them and were going to miss their location. How do I get their attention? he wondered. Do I shoot at them? The .50 caliber rounds wouldn’t hurt a Bradley’s thick hide, but it might be a good way to get some very unwanted 25mm attention. He began to yell as loud as he could, hoping that the next vehicle would hear him. Futility. A soft-skin Humvee passed. Coleman saw Burkholder on the gun and called to him. Nothing. Another LMTV. The Soldiers facing him were barely exposed and had their attention focused on the rooftops. A fourth Bradley passed with its turret pointed over the rear deck a sign that it was the last vehicle in the group. They had passed them by! Coleman felt suddenly sick.

  Coleman turned to Swope and said with a dismayed shake of the head, “They’re gone. What’s going on?”

  

  Swope said nothing in reply as he continued to call desperately over the radio to his Company Commander. The radio was so clogged with chatter, however, that the Senior NCO couldn’t tell if anyone knew that the rescue force had just passed them.

  He tried again. “Comanche 6, this is Comanche Red 4, you have passed our position, how copy, over?”

  A tense second passed then he heard Comanche 6’s voice punctuated by small-arms fire, “Roger, Comanche Red 4. We are in heavy contact, taking casualties. We’re going to push another unit over to you.”

  Swope sat in the vehicle with the mike cradled loosely in his hand as he absorbed the information. He took a deep breath. “Acknowledged, Comanche 6. ETA?”

  

  The Light Military Tactical Vehicle had endured a whole heap of abuse. The tires were all flat from 7.62mm lead and an abundance of scrap metal in the streets. The engine made an awful racket. Winkler, riding shotgun, heard the driver mutter a single phrase over and over like a prayer, Come on, come on, please just make it back, make it back; that’s all I’m asking you to do.

  Then the Bradley in front of them stopped in the middle of the most lethal street in the world. The most popular topic of discussion among the very concerned tenants of the LMTV was What the hell is going on? They were stopped for about two minutes while Denomy tried to sort out the snarl of information coming from Swope, who was screaming that they had just passed by them, his other two platoons in sector, and a Battalion Commander directing a 1,000 piece running battle while simultaneously engaging bad guys from his Humvee window. The seconds passed grudgingly.

  Winkler could hear someone pounding on the cab while shouting, What the hell is going on? Get the hell out of here. Get the hell out of here.

  Finally, decisions were made and the convoy moved south. They hit Route Gold and turned left, noticing an almost immediate relief in contact. As fast as the tortured LMTV would run, they pressed on to Aeros on Sadr City’s far eastern side then turned north. Within a few minutes, and only a few potshots later, they reached a convocation of American soldiers and vehicles at the intersection of Copper and Aeros.

  

  The rally point was under sporadic fire when Denomy’s convoy arrived. Second, or White Platoon had several soldiers on the ground attempting to suppress the enemy. From the condition of their vehicles, the other platoons had fared just as badly. Arteaga saw one of his closest friends, Miranda, pulling security from a Humvee mounted machine gun. Another comrade, Sergeant Garza, was putting his soldiers on line in preparation for a ground assault.

  When they passed them by Arteaga called out, “Hey dog, I’m hit.”

  Miranda looked up and replied, “Hey, dog, I’ve got blood running down my forehead.”

  Rafael laughed, “We’re both screwed.”

  

  It took a few minutes to consolidate all of the wounded from both Charlie and Alpha companies. Tyrell and Deaver, both SAW gunners, were told to escort the battered LMTV back to the FOB and assist with the MEDEVAC. The LMTV limped toward home, barely making it outside the FOB gate before the engine seized up. Hunter continued to chant his “Please make it home” prayer the whole way. Medics and other volunteers flooded in to help unload, prioritize, and then reload the more critically wounded onto an ambulance. Arteaga tried to walk, but Winkler made him sit down and wait. Tyrell and Deaver helped Puppet and Le down onto a couple of stretchers, preparing to take them inside.

  A sniper opened fire from a good distance away. The rounds bounced off of the armored cab and further deflated one of the front tires. The personnel coming out to help flinched. The newly minted veterans of Sadr City barely blinked. Compared to what they had just gone through, a few pot shots were nothing. The FOB Mayor, Sergeant Major Garner, ran out of the gate yelling at everyone to get the wounded behind the vehicles before someone was killed. Tyrell just smiled.

  

  Swope looked up as he heard the Kiowas pass over again trying to find us. “Comanche Red 4, still cannot identify, over,” they broadcast, voices devoid of emotion. Swope knew soldiers. He knew that if he felt like his heart had turned to stone, then his boys were sucking twice as hard. The Kiowas were still blind to them in spite of the VS-17 panel and the smoke grenades. They simply had to fly too fast—swapping speed for armor—to spot a five-foot-square piece of fabric.

  “Bourquin, why don’t you get up on the roof and moon the choppers?” Swope drawled when the skinny NCO appeared to gather more ammo. “If that white heiny of yours don’t sit there and flag them down, nothing will.”

  Eric prepared a witty rejoinder in defense of his alabaster posterior but was struck dumb by a flash of inspiration. He sprinted up the stairs.

  Bourquin climbed on to the roof, breathless. “We need to start a fire!” he exclaimed.

  “What?” Robinson looked at Bourquin like he was crazy.

  “A fire! The birds can’t make out our panel. We need to make smoke, a lot of smoke, to attract their attention.”

  Rob wasted no time. He, Rogers, and Bourquin began to gather up everything they thought might burn. There was a stick of some unknown wood that was dry and broke into kindling easily. Bourquin ripped off first one sleeve, then another and tore the cloth into strips. Rob, recognizing the utility of sacrificing a uniform for the greater good, followed suit. Within seconds, the materials they had gathered were burning brightly. Davis pitched over a couple of rubber flip-flops near his position. The burning rubber sent up billowing dark black clouds.

  Davis called over the radio, “Red 1, this is OP 1. We got a fire going. Ask if they can see us now, over.”

  

  Swope relayed to the Kiowa pilot. He waited in tense silence as they heard the thumping of approaching rotors. Please, please, please.

  “Roger, Comanche Red, I have visual. I repeat, I have visual of your location. Commencing run.” Within seconds came the glorious sounds of heavy machine gun fire as the attack choppers moved in.

  

  Denomy was nonplu
ssed by their inability to find and extract his platoon. They had taken numerous casualties, though thankfully no one else in his company had been killed. A matter of providence or luck—take your choice. He was not going to send his soldiers back into that mess unprotected. They had so few armored vehicles, though. This was supposed to be a humanitarian mission, not the worst combat seen in a decade. Once he sent the LMTVs with his wounded back to the FOB he prepared to personally lead another attempt with White Platoon’s Bradleys.

  Denomy asked for volunteers to accompany him back into the city. Thompson instantly raised his hand. Dumdee, a squad leader from another platoon also volunteered. Rowe, too, started to climb into the open bed of the Humvee, but Fowler grabbed his arm. “No, you don’t. I got this,” he said. Rowe tried to get into the back seat, but Thompson grabbed his arm. “Sit this one out. I got this.”

  

  Ben Hayhurst was killing people in bunches on the rooftop. He had been pulling security off of the northeast corner with a clear line of sight on Route Delta for some time. After the action had died down, he let Taylor pick up his zone while he crouched down to rest for a minute and drink some water. Three kids suddenly appeared, one wielding an AK-47. Before Taylor could draw a bead on them and fire, the young fighter sent a wild volley their way, raking the rifle back and forth like a hero from a bad action movie. One of the rounds slid through a tiny crack in the wall and lodged in Ben Hayhurst’s left shoulder. It felt as though a small rock had struck his shoulder followed by a sharp, burning sensation. As an added bonus, it blew concrete and plaster everywhere, fracturing his jaw and blowing out his eardrum. Taylor shot the kid and his friends scattered.

  Hayhurst felt disoriented and confused. What the hell just hit me? he thought. He wondered how he had been hit when he was behind cover. Perhaps an RPG? As quickly as the pain came, it subsided as his adrenaline kicked into overdrive. He slumped down at the base of the low wall, growling and holding his shoulder. Davis ran to him, keeping a low profile. Hayhurst’s eyes were shut tightly. “They shot me!” he exclaimed.