“Get out there and fight, Stanley!”
Haubert held up his hand and muttered something that the L-T couldn’t hear.
“Damn it, Stanley! Pick up your weapon, go out there and fight!” Aguero knew what shock was, and he knew about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He was so angry at the moment, though, that he honestly didn’t care how bad Haubert’s injuries were—he was on the verge of grabbing the NCO by the collar and throwing him out into the street.
Stanley Haubert turned his back to the lieutenant and sat down, mumbling something over and over that was not quite audible. Aguero hurled a curse at him and spun around.
Guzman appeared behind him. “Yeah,” said the medic, “He’s pretty much gone.”
“Screw him.” The L-T walked out, searching for something to kill.
Break time was over. The Jaeesh Al-Mahdi fighters had returned from the momentary distraction by the rescue team. Another squad of insurgents attempted to storm Coleman’s side of the alley while a small group traveled from roof to roof on the southern end. As the militia once again tried to assault their position, rifle fire began to kick up dust and chips of brick and mortar.
Doc Guzman and Taylor called out to Robinson as if reciting lyrics to their least favorite song, “I’ve got enemy movement over here!”
Robinson moved to Taylor’s corner first and yelled, “light ʼem up. What are you waiting for?” He turned away, running crouched over toward the two when a bullet knocked him down. Rob thought this might be the end. He didn’t feel anything and worried that shock was already taking hold of him. He felt his hips and nearly panicked when his hands encountered a spreading wetness on his backside. “I’m shot!” he exclaimed.
Rogers scrambled over to him and assessed the wound. “Rob, I’ve got bad news. You’re canteen is not going to make it.”
Rob looked over his shoulder as Rogers tossed his canteen in front of him. Water poured from a hole near the bottom. “Dude! That had me scared as hell!” Rob chuckled at himself and got back up.
Rogers and Bourquin were back on the machine gun. A sudden burst of return fire from the street kicked up dust obliging them both to duck. Rogers rolled over to his knees and yelled, “Shit!”
“What’s wrong? You hit?” Bourquin asked as he kept firing.
“No, man. I gotta shit!”
Bourquin laughed hard. “Go right over there then and try not to get your ass shot off!”
Rogers scuttled over and dropped his pants. “Damn,” the former fire-fighter said. “I need something to wipe with.”
Bourquin threw him a cloth bandoleer from the ammo packaging. “Don’t squeeze the Charmin!”
SO note by Rodgers, Renee @ 2 April 2014
Chief complaint: periods of Anxiety
SM is groomed for session. He is Caucasian, dressed in military clothing; he is tall and has a large build; he is mildly overweight. The SM is balding; he wears glasses and appears slightly older than his stated age. SM and this provider met for 50 minutes at BJACH BHD. SM describes panic yesterday evening as he read interviews he conducted of fellow SMs who spent time together in combat. SM states he is writing a book about related events and that this is also the anniversary week of that combat experience. Provider reinforces idea of adaptive vs. maladaptive coping methods. SM has plans to meet friends from prior service at FT Hood this weekend. He and his spouse are also repeating vows in front of friends and family.
Assessment: Anxiety Disorder NO
Since the woman with her damnable bloody hands and my brief foray into blindness, my end of the alley had been quiet. I imagined that the little kids who had been so doggedly trying to kill me had been overcome with remorse at the consequence of their actions and decided to go home. Or maybe I had managed to take them out. Either way, I was grateful for the quiet. Darkness was almost complete and I had my NVGs at the ready. The illumination was good, however, and my ability to see in the dark is excellent.
Behind me, I kept hearing people swapping battlefield rumors. Soldiers in combat are worse than housewives in a beauty salon for gossip. Yeah, the tanks are at the police station. No, the tanks are turning back. The tanks are at the police station again. Charlie 6 can’t make it back. They lost everyone in the convoy. The Mahdi Army is surrendering. On and on.
About a half hour after darkness fell, the massive main gun of an Abrams tank shattered the momentary lull with a 120mm shell—a bunker buster. A column of M1 tanks were rolling toward us from the south. They weren’t troubled by such things as obstacles or debris. The bunker buster round was designed to punch a massive hole through any obstacle.
We were happy as collective clams. I didn’t even have to turn around to hear the tanks as they passed. One…two…three tanks rolled by, and I had a momentary feeling of dread that these guys were going to pass us by as well.
Attracting their attention was foremost on the Platoon Sergeant’s mind. He tried to raise them on the net, but was unsure if his radio was transmitting. He could plainly hear them talking but could not hear a reply. He began flashing the vehicle’s headlights and honking the horn.
High above them, Robinson and Bourquin were having an animated discussion about their fear of escaping discovery. The first rescue party had missed them in broad daylight even with the coordinates provided by Swope. The two NCOs determined that it wouldn’t happen twice. The fire they had previously started to get the helicopter’s attention had died. They hoped that if the idea worked once, then it would work twice. Bourquin tore off his other sleeve, revealing a second arm completely covered with tattoos. He lit the end of his sleeve with his cigarette lighter and let the flames build. He then stood up, exposing himself to enemy fire, and began to wave the improvised brand back and forth. He knew that the tanks had thermal sights that could detect even faint heat signatures, but they mostly looked out not up. He hoped that the waving motion would attract the attention of either the tank commanders or their loaders who often rode with the hatch open. Robinson ripped off his sleeve as well and added his make-shift torch to the effort.
Either the radio or flailing torches paid off. The third tank in the order of march stopped directly in front of the alley.
Speed was of the essence now, Swope knew. They had to break down their defenses quickly and get everyone loaded up. He was sure that he wouldn’t have to cajole his soldiers to get them high-stepping. They would need to account for all their weapon systems. The wounded and dead would have to be loaded and the vehicles recovered. He was pretty sure that the M1114 Humvees would still roll, but they were banged up. It was great to see all that firepower out there, though he had no illusions about what lay ahead. They weren’t home yet. He called up to the rooftop observation post on the radio and told them to break down everything and get downstairs on the double. He ran into the courtyard and shouted the good news to the guys in the CCP. “The tanks are here! Get ready to move.”
Lieutenant Aguero left the preparations in his Platoon Sergeant’s capable hands. He ran out toward the tank platoon, wounds forgotten, to have a pow-wow with whoever was in charge. A tall figure extracted himself from the top of the tank, M4 carbine in hand, and jumped to the ground. The name tape said ‘Moore.’ The rank said ‘Captain.’
“Glad to see you,” quipped Aguero, “Mind if we get a ride?”
“That’s the point,” said Captain Moore, “We’re going to need your guys to ride on top of the tanks just behind the buzzle rack.”
Aguero nodded sagely as the senior man spoke, but he was thinking, I saw it in a book once. I don’t have a clue what the hell you’re talking about. I’ve never even been on a tank.
He let the Captain talk a moment longer, going on about ‘this man here’ and ‘that man there’ before he interjected. “
How about if I put my wounded on one tank and then I can just stuff everybody else inside two Humvees?” The L-T was keenly aware of how much his soldiers had endured just driving through the nightmarish ambush, especially the guys in the combat convertibles. He balked at putting his men out in the open unnecessarily. Aguero knew that they couldn’t squeeze everyone inside two Humvees. He thought it best, even if cruelly pragmatic, that he keep his non-wounded guys healthy. In the days to come, he was sure that he would need as many able bodies as they could find. The tank commander agreed readily enough and ran back to his tank. The L-T ran back to his platoon to brief them about the plan and supervise the load out.
Robinson heard the Platoon Sergeant telling them to collapse down into the alley, even as everyone laughed and cheered when the tank column stopped at their front door. No one was about to argue. Soldiers can be lazy from time to time, and, on occasion, will brag about it. Those who achieve the rank of Specialist often talk about “shamming” and “getting over” on the same par as the seven Army values. Our guys were no different. This night, however, every one of them was a convert to the new religion of velocity. Those on the roof had gathered their equipment and ex-filtrated down to the alley within a matter of seconds. All, that is, except for Robinson, Bourquin, and Wild who were having a spirited debate.
The substance of the argument lay in who was going to be the last one off of the roof. The discourse was lively, cordial, and light-hearted. They were jockeying and jostling with each other to be the last one off the battlefield like Mel Gibson’s character in We Were Soldiers. Bourquin attempted to settle the discussion by pulling rank. Rob reminded him with a cackle that he had more time in rank than Bourquin had time in the Army. Pushing each other and laughing like brothers—which we all were by that point—they joined the mass exodus down to the lane.
Riddell hurriedly took his seat behind the wheel of Red 1 and prayed silently that it would make the journey home. He noted that his baby was riddled with bullets. It had holes in the radiator hose, the transmission was done, all four tires were flat, and the air cleaner had holes in it. The exhaust line had been crushed by the debris in the road. Yet despite all that, it still managed to crank up. Hopefully it would run long enough to get them to safety.
I kept my rifle at the ready in case some misguided insurgent wanted to make a last minute bid for the 72 Virgin grand prize. Others were piling in to the vehicle now; I can’t even remember exactly who. I was psyching myself up for the trip out, telling myself over and over that ‘it’s a good day to die’ in the hopes that my mind would believe the hype. Davis postponed my chance at Valhalla and a warrior’s death a little longer by ordering me to drop down and not to worry about pulling security. The tanks were firepower enough, he pointed out, and we weren’t going to risk our lives needlessly. He got no argument from me, I can tell you.
Hayhurst left the terrified Iraqi family behind when Rogers and a few others came in to get Chen. In the alleyway, Comanche Red Platoon was collectively preparing to get out of Dodge. Swope saw Hayhurst standing in the gateway and told him to get in Red 4. Ben walked toward the front passenger door in a daze, shock from his wounds threatening to shut him down. He opened the door and climbed in.
“Not in my seat!” yelled Swope, “Get in the back!” Swope realized then that the man was wounded and seemed to not be all there. He opened the rear door for Hayhurst and hurriedly shut it for him as soon as the he was seated. Well, not quite. The door shoved him, shoulder first, into the rear panel of the vehicle, causing far more pain than the bullet had. His vision grayed out for a minute even as he called down curses upon the Platoon Sergeant.
Loading Chen was difficult in more ways than simply emotional, which they would all grapple with for years. A dead body has a weight many times greater than what a scale would read. The heavy man’s limp form would not cooperate with their best efforts. They spent valuable time trying to perform a simple task that was like trying to thread a noodle through a needle.
Swope cursed, frustrated. “All right. Put him on the hood and we’ll sit there and back out of here. Perry! Get behind the wheel, go!” Swope hated to do it. The dead soldier deserved to be borne off the field in honor, but if they didn’t hurry, more would join the unfortunate man. Rogers and Coleman laid him as reverently as they could on the hood of the truck. Coleman remounted the gun turret even as Perry began to back the vehicle out under Swope’s guidance.
Perry, with no mirrors and four flat tires, could barely maneuver the battered Humvee. He inadvertently hooked the bumper on the same vehicle that Bourquin had tagged with his defunct grenade launcher. Swope pulled him forward about ten feet and told him to ram that SOB through the car if he had to. Perry gunned the engine hard and plowed into it. The car turned sideways and was shoved into the street with such momentum that it came up on two wheels.
Davis stood next to Riddell’s window as the young man followed in Perry’s wake. I was squatting on my haunches, leaned up against Wild or Denney, I can’t remember who. Coleman told me that he had seven people crammed into his victor and we had at least that many. This would be the first time in Mechanized Infantry history that you would never hear a grunt complain about being crammed into a vehicle.
Lieutenant Aguero reiterated the order for the wounded to ride on the tanks. Swope, recalling the bandage he had seen on Hayhurst, pulled him out of the Humvee and asked Bellamy to help him get on the back of a tank. Bellamy decided to ride with him. Robinson and Davis climbed aboard the tank in front of theirs in the order of march.
Bellamy and Hayhurst were just settling into their positions when they saw Swope, Bourquin, Denney, and Wild bearing Chen’s body toward their tank. “Help us get him up on the buzzle rack,” Swope said. Swope watched as his three soldiers pressed the fallen hero over their heads and gently pushed him onto the deck of the tank. Their hands dropped to their sides almost as if they were performing a funeral rite at Arlington National Cemetery. They all said simultaneously, as if on cue, “I’m sorry.” It came out as if they were singing a song. A sad, simple dirge for a good man gone too soon.
Bellamy’s heart went numb as he grabbed his dead friend’s arm. Hayhurst couldn’t use his wounded arm so he wrapped his legs around some unfamiliar protuberance and pulled with his good arm. With great effort they were able to place Chen behind the tank commander’s hatch in the spot where Hayhurst had been. Ben laid across Chen’s body. He felt so numb from the shock of his wound that the strangeness of laying on top of his dead friend did not sink in until much later.
“Swope, let me know when you have a hundred percent accountability of everybody and we’ll roll,” said Lieutenant Aguero.
Accountability. A very important word in Army parlance. Knowing where your people are is the most basic of leadership functions. Equipment and personnel must be accounted for before movement can begin. Under optimal conditions, this drill only takes a minute at most.
Ten minutes stretched into a seeming eternity as the leadership, nigh to panic, tried to figure out why instead of 20 soldiers—five per vehicle—they could only come up with 19. Did you count the interpreter? Yes. Did you count Chen? Yes. Recount everybody in the Humvees. I did. Shine a light in there, dammit!
Aguero swore violently and muttered, “What the hell is going on?”
Bellamy offered Aguero and Bourquin a smoke.
“Yeah, sure.” Smoking within 50 feet of a military vehicle wasn’t the most dangerous thing he had done all day long, and a smoke sounded pretty good right now.
Just then Sergeant Bourquin saw something on a rooftop, right above the alley they had just evacuated. “Sir, there’s something up there! I don’t know what it is but it keeps moving.”
“Shoot it,” said the L-T with no more concern than if
they were discussing politics.
Bourquin sighted in on the target, aimed center mass and fired.
The Lieutenant laughed hard. He had donned his own NVD and saw the target clearly. “Congratulations, Sergeant! You just took out a really nasty insurgent flag. And it was heading right for us!”
“Sir, we’re good!” Swope shouted over the roar of the tank engines. “I was looking for twenty soldiers, but I forgot that we left York in the rear when we changed the COMSEC at lunch.”
“Lucky him,” Aguero noted. “It’s been a long day at the office, Sergeant. What do you say we blow this joint?”
“Roger that, Sir!” growled Swope as he climbed into his victor. “Let’s roll!” he shouted.
Lieutenant Aguero gave a thumbs-up to Moore that they were ready as he ran to his own vehicle. Moore transmitted to his Battalion Commander that they were pulling out, time now.
Captain Moore twisted around and shouted at Hayhurst, “We’re going to shoot the main gun like a mother! If the guy behind me has to shoot, you need to stay low because the blast could kill you. I say again, the concussion could kill you, so you need to stay low.”
Hayhurst thought, I’m going to die.
As Lieutenant Aguero reached his Humvee, he realized that he had already put someone in his seat, and he didn’t feel like kicking the soldier out. He just didn’t have it in him to do that right then. As he looked around for an empty spot he heard Davis call to him, “Sir! Come up here with me!” Aguero sprinted to the Abrams tank and leapt up as nimbly as he would have done ten years ago, uninjured and with no gear.
The tank column pulled out, heading north toward a safety that was completely uncertain.
SO note by Rodgers, Renee @ 31 March 2014
Chief complaint: periods of anxiety
SM states the 4th of April is the anniversary of his first combat experience. He recently reestablished contact with a tank commander by email. SM states he did not have a difficult anniversary period in 2013 but he has prior to this. SM reports anger, intrusive thoughts, and problems with sleep.
Black Knights, Dark Days Page 23
