by Piers Platt
The Commanding General didn’t show it when he visited, but he was pretty much appalled at the living conditions out at FOB Rex. We had put a lot of work into the place by this point – we tripled the wire around the outpost, fortified the entrance, replaced the tents with trailers to live in (though without generators and air conditioning, we never got around to using them), and cleaned up the trash that blew in on a daily basis from the neighboring countryside. Iraqis don’t have trash collection or designated dumps – they burn their trash, or just toss it wherever, which means that it blows all over the place in the wind and the whole country smells like a landfill. The farming and lack of sewage in most places don’t help the odor situation, either – you get used to it after a while, but most of us found the stench over-powering when we first arrived in country.
So after the months of work we’d put in, rumor made its way down to us that FOB Rex was officially condemned and scheduled for replacement. We were both relieved and slightly annoyed – why couldn’t they have realized that it was a shithole before we spent months here? About the same time another piece of news reached us, which I had the job of breaking to my soldiers. I pulled everyone together at the retrans site in the early evening as we finished up an MRE meal. I looked around at my men – they were dusty and tired, their uniforms stained with tank grease and gun oil and sweat, yet they were smiling and laughing, enjoying the cooler air and freedom to relax for a few hours. Some of them had been home for leave already, the rest, like me, were still waiting our turn. Every single one of them could have told me, precisely and without hesitation, the number of days we had been in theater, and the number that still remained in our 12-month tour. We had recently passed the halfway point.
I took a deep breath, and shook my head, chagrined. “It’s bad news, guys.” I paused. “The Department of Defense has extended 1st Infantry Division’s tour by a month.”
The smiles and laughter disappeared abruptly. Someone spat, the impact kicking up a small cloud of dust. Someone else swore quietly. We were all thinking the same thing – this meant another month away from our families, another month of long hours and crappy conditions, and another month in harm’s way. And it meant we were back to being less than halfway done. They asked a few questions, I told them what I knew about why it was being done – something to do with troop levels and rotation schedules – it didn’t really matter. In our own ways, we each put it behind us, said “fuck it,” and went back about our jobs. In light of other deployment extensions (for the 2007-2008 “surge,” the standard Army tour was increased from 12 to 15 months), our own extension was minor, but it was still an ass-kicker at the time. 1st Armored Division got it far worse, however: their tour was extended to 15 months while they were in the process of returning to Germany. Some poor bastards were already home, relaxing with their families, and they were told to pack their gear and get back on the plane.
Chapter Seven
“I love the fucking Army, and the Army loves fucking me.”
-Graffiti in a porta-john at FOB Mackenzie
We knew that the Cajun Mousetrap operations were just a precursor to a bigger mission to retake Samarra, but an operation of that scale would take some time to coordinate, so in the interim we returned to the drudgery of our observation post missions at FOB Rex. In September, I was back at FOB Mackenzie on a 24 hour rest rotation, stripping down for my first shower in days, when a runner from the command post knocked on my door and informed me that Captain Hoffman wanted to see me immediately. I sighed and pulled my gear back on, then jogged over to the bunker where our troop had set up shop.
“Sir – you wanted to see me?”
“Vince Taylor’s going in for surgery, and he’s not coming back,” he told me.
Vince was platoon leader of 1st / Red Platoon, one of our two scout platoons. He had deployed to Iraq with an injured ankle that should have been operated on months before, but he chose to ignore the pain to be with his men when they went downrange. It was an admirable decision, but the injury was getting worse, and he was worried that his infirmity would put his soldiers at risk in a critical situation. When he could no longer hide his limp, he was ordered to see a doctor, who sent him back to Germany to get operated on immediately. Before he left, Vince had managed to convince Captain Hoffman and the Squadron Commander to leave his platoon leader slot open for a short while, so that if the doctors in Germany told him he could safely put off the surgery, or if the surgery and recovery were exceptionally quick, he might return to his old job. That was no longer a possibility, and it left his platoon without an officer.
Captain Hoffman continued: “The squadron commander and I want you to take over his platoon.”
My heart beat faster – getting a scout platoon was a highly sought after promotion, but also an entirely new challenge, and one I would have to tackle while running combat missions.
“Thank you, sir. I hope I’m up to it. When do I take over?”
“In about a week,” he said. “Red Platoon’s acting as Squadron quick reaction force right now, so there’s no big rush. Second Lieutenant Takashi will take over your platoon – he’s been in Headquarters Troop for a few months now, waiting for a platoon. Work out a timeline to sign over your tank platoon equipment to him.”
“Roger.”
“In the meantime, I want you to take him with you next time you go out to the retrans site, do a good solid battle handoff with him, show him the ropes, the whole deal.”
“Okay, roger, sir.”
A week gave me very little time to get things in order to hand off my current responsibilities, much less start learning my new ones. I called over to Squadron headquarters to find out where Lieutenant Takashi was, so I could introduce myself and we could start planning for the handoff. Next I went to the motor pool to find Staff Sergeant Peiper and let him know what was happening. I found our crews changing a road wheel on one of the tanks.
“Hey, Sergeant … got some news.”
“Oh yeah, sir? Did they finally decide to stop sending us out to FOB Rex?”
I shook my head ruefully. “No, sorry – we’re still going out. But we’ll be taking your new platoon leader with us tomorrow. I’m taking over Red platoon in a week.”
“No shit? Who’s the new guy?”
“A guy called Takashi.”
“Have you met him?” He would be Peiper’s new wingman, so Peiper was anxious to know more about him – particularly how he might handle the fact that his platoon sergeant (Dude) was such a mess.
“Yeah, I just talked to him for a while. I let him know about Dude and told him to listen to you and Kean if he wants to get out of here in one piece.”
Peiper snorted at the mention of Dude, but I could see he was still uneasy.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” I said. “You and Kean run this platoon, he’s just along for the ride. He’ll learn that. I’m not worried about the platoon as long as you two are around.”
“Yeah. We saved your ass, that’s for sure.”
I laughed. “You did, no question.” I put out my hand. “Seriously, though – thanks for everything you taught me. I’m only getting a scout platoon because you and Kean kept me steered in the right direction. And I couldn’t have asked for a better wingman. It’s been an honor.”
He shook my hand – I knew he hated serious moments like this, but I wanted him to know how much I appreciated him as a mentor and friend.
“You were a real good platoon leader, sir.”
“Thanks – that means a lot to me.” And it did – the typical officer / NCO relationship is based on a lot of good-natured rivalry and banter, insults being the most common form of communication. A good officer will instinctively know that he’s doing well as a leader despite these insults from his NCOs, but it was good to hear it from a respected veteran like Peiper.
“I’ll miss you guys,” I told him. “Stay out of trouble.”
He grinned at me, his eyes sparkling mischievously: “Who, me?”
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I was heading back to my room to see if I couldn’t take that shower when another one of the soldiers from our troop operations center sauntered up.
“Green 1! Bulldawg 6 needs to see you right now.”
I frowned. “Damn it, I was just there! About what?”
“Dunno, sir, he just told me to come get you ASAP.”
I headed back towards the troop bunker. I was more than a little pissed – with less than 24 hours back at base before my tanks were due out at the retrans site again, every hour was precious. I made my way to the bunker, pushing in the door painted in cavalry red and white, and knocked on Captain Hoffman’s office door again.
“Come in. Oh, Platt – good. Change of mission. Red platoon’s been attached to Anvil Troop for a raid tomorrow night. You’ll be leading them on that raid.”
I was completely caught by surprise: not just that I would take over immediately, but that my first mission would be a raid – the most complex and demanding mission in our bag of tricks – and with another troop, no less. I smiled wryly: “It’s a good thing Red Platoon’s got good NCOs, sir.”
In the back of my mind, the guilty, lazy part of me was celebrating the happy fact that I wouldn’t be back at FOB Rex in 24 hours. Hoffman was still talking to me.
“Sorry, can you say again, sir?”
“I said Anvil 6 is having the raid operations order tomorrow at 1000. Represent Bulldawg Troop well, Red 1.”
Red 1: my new call-sign. I smiled – despite everything, it had a nice ring to it.
“Yessir.”
I was worried about my new platoon sergeant – Sergeant First Class Martin – and the other NCOs in 1st Platoon, though. I wasn’t sure how they would take to relinquishing control of the platoon, after nearly two months of successfully running things on their own without an officer around. In 4th Platoon, it had taken me a few months of working with Peiper and Kean to earn their respect and build a strong working relationship, and though my reputation as a competent leader preceded me from that job, I knew there would be a similar “break-in” period as the Red Platoon NCOs and I got used to working with each other – except that this time, we’d have to do that in combat. I knocked on the door of Sergeant First Class Martin’s room.
“Come in.”
He was lying on his bed, watching a DVD on his laptop and munching some chips.
“Hey, Sergeant Martin.”
“What’s up, P-squared?”
“Well …” I hesitated. “Bulldawg 6 just told me I’m your new platoon leader, starting now.”
“No shit? Good: now I don’t have to go to all his bullshit meetings anymore – you can.”
I laughed – I shouldn’t have worried about Martin. Probably the most universally-liked NCO in Squadron, Sergeant First Class Martin was as easy-going as he was calm and firm under pressure. Soft-spoken in comparison to a lot of his peers, when Martin chose to speak up, soldiers of all ranks listened closely. An experienced Bradley Master Gunner, he had a knack for developing young soldiers that had resulted in a tightly-knit, disciplined platoon.
“Naw, congratulations, sir,” he stood and shook my hand. “It’s good to have you.”
Martin stuck his head out the door and sent one of our scouts over to find our two section sergeants, so that we could hold a platoon meeting to discuss the upcoming raid. Staff Sergeant Neathery and Staff Sergeant Barnes soon showed up, sauntering into the room and stacking their rifles by the door.
“Well … a brand new platoon leader.” Neathery said, looking me up and down appraisingly.
“Shit. Why couldn’t they have given us Mongo?” Barnes muttered, implying I was his last choice to be their platoon leader.
I laughed, but before I could retaliate Martin jumped in to my defense.
“Easy now, easy – someone’s gotta do all the paperwork around here.”
The ice broken, we set down to discussing the platoon. It had worked well for me back in my tank platoon, so I started the same way with the three of them.
“Look – I don’t know jack about scout operations, so I’m going to be leaning on you guys for a bit until I get on my feet, okay? To start with, how do we operate?”
“What, doctrinally, or here in Iraq?” Martin asked, chuckling.
I shrugged. “Both.”
“Doctrinally, you’ve got your six vehicles, which you can split into Alpha Section – the 1, 2, and 3 tracks, and Bravo Section – 4, 5, and 6.” Martin told me.
“Okay, like the two sections in the tank platoons.”
“This ain’t like tanking, sir,” Barnes corrected, offended.
“You can also split off a Charlie Section, giving you three sections of two Brads each,” Martin continued.
“And here in Iraq?” I asked.
“You know how it is – doctrine goes out the window. We usually roll with two tracks. 1 goes with 5, 2 goes with 3, and I roll with 6,” Martin explained. “But we mix it up, too.”
“Dismounts?” I prompted.
Barnes snorted with disgust. “We’re supposed to have at least two, if not three, per track. Supposed to. With you here now, we’ve got 25 swinging dicks in the platoon – so that would be about one dismount per track, after you account for each Bradley needing a gunner, commander, and driver. But with R&R and details like sending a guy to run the sign-in sheet at the fucking internet center, and another guy to wash dishes, that works out to … not enough. We shut down a track every now and then to scrape together more dismounts.”
It was the same story as in my tank platoon – we hadn’t been filled at 100% strength until five months after we arrived in Iraq, but that still added up to less than 100% when you factored in R&R leave and soldiers on details. We talked for a while more about where they had been operating, what the enemy situation was like in the sector, and what the plan for the following day’s raid would look like. At the end of it, I felt slightly more comfortable, though I knew I still had a lot to learn. As we wrapped things up, Barnes switched subjects, and asked me if I was married.
“Nope – engaged. College sweetheart.”
“You got a picture?”
I pulled out my wallet and fished out a worn photo of my fiancée, handing it over. They inspected it in turn. Barnes – ever the loudmouth wiseass – couldn’t resist commenting.
“She’s hot, sir!”
I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. He pressed on.
“You better hurry up and marry her soon. She’s back home just dodging dicks right now.”
* * *
The raid I would be leading Red Platoon on for my first mission as a scout platoon leader was an attempt to capture the #1 High Value Target in Samarra, an Iraqi insurgent leader who had supposedly called for a meeting among his subordinates at a house south of the city, along the Tigris. I wrote out my operations order that evening, then called the men together the following morning, anxious to make a good impression. After briefing them on the raid, I quizzed a few of the soldiers on the key details, and then turned them over to their NCOs.
“How was that?” I asked Sergeant First Class Martin, as our scouts started to head out to prepare for the mission.
“Fine,” he shrugged. “Don’t sweat it.”
A dark-haired Sergeant walked up to us and stuck out his hand.
“Sergeant Wasser – I’m your new gunner, sir.”
I shook his hand, “So you’re my babysitter, huh?”
Martin slapped Wasser on the back. “Wasser here knows his way around the turret – he’ll take care of you,” he told me.
“Yeah, speaking of which – can you take me out to the motor pool and walk me through some stuff on the Bradley?” I asked Wasser.
He nodded eagerly, “Sure, sir. We’re headed out to prep the tracks now.”
One big perk of running a scout platoon, I discovered, was the fact that we had two Humvees assigned to us, which meant that we could drive to the motor pool instead of walking the hot, sweaty mile or so. At the
Bradleys, I met my new driver, a young Specialist known to all as “Scooter.” Scooter wore coke-bottle glasses thick enough to cause me slight alarm.
“What’s your vision like, Scooter?”
“20-20, as long as I’ve got these on, sir!”
“Keep ‘em on, then,” I chuckled.
From his driver’s station, Scooter lowered the ramp at the back of the passenger compartment, and we walked up it into the rear of the vehicle. The M3 Bradley is designed both as a fighting vehicle in its own right, and an armored personnel carrier. In its infantry configuration, it carries up to six soldiers in the back, on two narrow benches lining the walls of the compartment. In its cavalry configuration, the right-hand bench is replaced by a storage rack holding extra anti-tank missile rounds. The rear end of the vehicle is a thick steel-plate ramp with a door in it – dismounts can either go in and out through the door, or the driver can lower the whole ramp to the ground, which is hinged at its base. The vehicle’s turret sits at the front of the passenger compartment, and is accessible via a door that the commander and gunner can awkwardly squeeze through. The door is closed for safety during operations – otherwise, someone might get a limb caught in the spinning turret mechanism. The driver’s seat is accessible both through its own external hatch on the front left of the vehicle, and by crawling through the “hell-hole,” a narrow crawlspace next to the turret which connects the driver’s station to the rear compartment.
The gunner and Bradley commander sit side-by-side up in the turret, with the gunner on the left. Each man has his own hatch in the roof above, and his own controls for operating the turret and weapons systems. The Bradley’s main armament is the 25mm Bushmaster, a cannon capable of firing 200 rounds per minute, either singly or in sustained bursts. The gunner, moreover, can choose what type of round he wants to fire, and switch between the two on the fly. As in the tank, the two main rounds are AP (armor-piercing) and HE (high explosive). In Iraq, we used AP rounds only to punch holes in walls the enemy was using for cover – HE was the killing round. Because the gun is much smaller than a tank’s, it rotates in the turret faster and has a wider range of movement, making it a far more effective weapon for close-quarters urban combat. As on the tank, the Bradley also packs a co-axial machine gun mounted alongside the main gun.
