Combat and Other Shenanigans

by Piers Platt

  “So we’re going to go up to about 3,000 feet, then put the engine on ‘idle,’ and it tests the aircraft’s ability to remain airborne without power.”

  I looked over at him, eyebrows raised.

  “Or, well …” he struggled to think of a way to explain it to me. “Basically what it means is that we’ll be falling, but not that fast. You’ll hardly feel it.”

  Expert reassurances notwithstanding, this test sounded like one we should be doing much closer to the ground. Technically, I knew that helicopters were designed to remain airborne even if the engine fails: as long as the rotors are spinning, lift is being generated – if much more weakly – and the aircraft’s descent is slowed to a certain degree. This knowledge, however, was not at all comforting as I watched the altimeter continue to roll upwards. We were nearing 3,000 feet now, and I could see the entire FOB spread out below me, with the mud-colored roofs of Ad Duluiyah to the south, and beyond it, the Tigris River with its green-shrouded banks, shining in the afternoon sunlight. It was a beautiful sight, but the fact that we were only moving up and not forward was still unsettling to me. As was the height itself.

  Finally, Chief Beauregard had me read him the instructions, and he toggled the necessary controls to idle the engine, the roar of the engine changing pitch noticeably. He was right about the falling part – I could hardly tell we were losing altitude, although the altimeter told me we were dropping at about 10 feet per second. I was just starting to relax when a warning alarm started beeping insistently over the intercom system.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  Chief Beauregard punched a few buttons. “Looks like there’s an issue with the engine sump.”

  I decided to let him focus on flying and not bother asking what the hell an engine ‘sump’ was. Chances were, I didn’t want to know anyways. He kicked in the engine, slowing our descent, then turned to me. “Let’s try that test again.”

  “Okay,” I said, glancing back down at the flipbook on my knee. “Set engine to IDLE and note descent rate on altimeter,” I read. “If descent rate exceeds …”

  Beauregard had set it to idle again, and I felt the gentle drop as the altimeter began cycling through numbers. The warning beeps started again, immediately.

  “There’s that sump again,” Chief Beauregard told me, flicking a switch to silence the warning alarm. He sat thinking for a moment, as I watched the altimeter continue to spin, the ground rising to meet us. “Is there a section in there called ‘Warnings’ or ‘Cautions’?” he asked.

  I flipped hurriedly forward – there was. I read aloud.

  “If engine sump warning sounds, land immediately for crew safety.”

  “Huh,” he said, managing to sound both indifferent and slightly disappointed. “Okay, looks like we failed that check, so we better set down.”

  We did so without issue, and I clambered awkwardly out of the seat as Chief Beauregard shut down the aircraft. I’d never been so glad to be standing on Iraqi sand. Dave came out of the bunker nearby and walked up, taking his flight helmet and vest as I handed them to him.

  “How was it?” He asked.

  “Awesome,” I said, “until we failed the engine sump check and had to set down.”

  “Oh, no shit? Engine sump, interesting … I don’t think I’ve seen that one before.”

  He wandered off to learn more from Chief Beauregard. I was happy to catch my breath for a moment and enjoy the sensation of still being alive.

  * * *

  Christmas in Iraq is about as depressing as it gets. Headquarters gave everyone the day off, except for the Kiowas, who selflessly flew non-stop patrols around the FOB to deter any attacks while the guard posts were empty, but that extra time to ourselves just gave us all that much more time to realize how far from home we were, and how much we missed our loved ones. It rained steadily throughout the day to punctuate the mood, turning the sand into clay-like mud in the Iraqi version of a “white” Christmas.

  My fiancée and my family had sent me an immense amount of packages in preparation for the day, which we all appreciated – I shared about a dozen boxes of snacks and goodies with my platoon. Captain Hoffman had held a room-decorating contest, and some of the guys really got into it (first prize was an entire day off from operations), somehow getting hold of tinsel, fake Christmas trees, lights, the whole nine yards. Sergeant First Class Peterson completed his decorations by stealing a large inflatable fabric snowman from the top of a building on one of the big support FOBs. Someone else made a fake chimney out of a painted box, and arranged it to look like Santa was heading down it headfirst, his legs and combat boots kicking high in the air.

  I opened my presents and ate lunch at the chow hall before calling home to thank everyone for my presents. The brief conversation made me more homesick, however. I was watching one of my new DVDs in my room when I heard a knock on the door, and opened it to find my platoon, formed up in the rain, facing my door.

  “Uhh …” I stammered. “What’s up, guys?”

  I was half-expecting a Christmas “rolling up” (the tradition of hazing Lieutenants), but under Staff Sergeant Barnes’ direction, they broke into a rousing rendition of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” followed by another carol which nearly stalled midway through due to poorly-remembered lyrics. I had to grin – it was just what I needed. I had been Scrooging about, feeling lonely and sorry for myself, when all along I had been surrounded by the closest friends I would ever have. After they were done, I went to go thank Barnes and Neathery for the caroling.

  “Don’t sweat it, sir – those boys owed it to you, with all those packages you’ve been handing out,” Barnes told me.

  “I can’t take credit for that,” I replied, “That’s all on my family back home.”

  “Well, I’m just saying … not every platoon has that.”

  The conversation shifted, and we talked about what we had purchased online to ship home for our loved ones for Christmas. Barnes wanted to send his wife something more than he already had, but he was out of ideas.

  “What do you think, Dex? You’re the one with the college degree – what should I get her?”

  I scratched my head, deciding to have some fun. “… well, I dunno. You could go kinky.”

  Barnes snorted. “Yeah, that’s good. Here ya go, honey, I decided to ‘go kinky’ this year, hope you like it! A big dildo with a bow on it. Good one, sir.”

  Neathery and I laughed.

  Barnes moved on. “You know what pisses me off, though? You know what my mother-in-law always gets us for Christmas? Instead of just one nice present, every year, she goes and drops like 30 bucks at the dollar store, and we get a box full of cheap-ass junk.”

  * * *

  Later that month, Staff Sergeant Barnes and I drew several weeks of Quick Reaction Force duty, which meant keeping our Bradleys parked near the Squadron headquarters at all times, ready to roll if we were needed for a special mission. On the second day, Squadron called us up. I jogged out to the road, where the Bradleys were starting up, and found Captain Hoffman with a satellite printout in his hand. He looked excited.

  “Okay,” he said, “Intelligence has a lead on one of the Turkey brothers.”

  I smiled, “Oh yeah, those guys!” The Turkey brothers were known insurgents that lived in the local town of Ad Duluiyah – I had led a raid of their home several weeks before, without success.

  “This is a big deal: this mission is all the way from Washington,” Hoffman continued, a little out of breath. “We’re tracking his cell phone’s location. I need you to conduct a hasty raid on his house to capture him.”

  “Okay sir, but I just have two Bradleys in my patrol. Are we getting any other support for this?”

  “Negative – there’s no one else available.”

  “I’m not going to be able to cordon off that target building at all,” I warned him.

  “Just do your best,” he said. I could hear the aggravation in his voice.

  “Roge
r, sir.”

  “Leave as soon as possible.” He headed back to Squadron headquarters, and I called my soldiers in, giving them a quick lowdown on the mission.

  “Cordon and search?” Barnes said, looking meaningfully around at the eight of us. “With who?”

  I laughed. “That’s what I said. It’s just us.”

  “Okay, whatever. Do we at least know which house it is?”

  “Yeah, it’s the same one we hit last month, remember?”

  Barnes frowned at me. “Sir, I didn’t go to no college – I can’t remember which damn house we hit!”

  It was typical self-deprecating Barnes. Just a few days prior, while out on a routine patrol, he had noticed an Iraqi man hiding one arm in his shirt. Barnes had remembered that Squadron’s Most Wanted list included a one-handed man, so they stopped and pulled his arm out of his shirt – the man was missing a hand. Bad memory, my ass.

  “Okay, well I remember where the house is, so I’ll lead the way,” I told him, which was what he had wanted all along.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll take your gunner and the dismounted scouts and clear the house when we reach the target, you guys can cover us from road with the Bradleys. Let’s do this bullshit.”

  We loaded up and headed out the gate, pushing the Bradleys hard. It might have been a ridiculous mission, but we’d give it a shot. I took us straight to the house, stopping in front and blocking traffic on the main road. Wasser hopped out of the gunner’s hatch next to me, joining the dismount team and Staff Sergeant Barnes on the ground. As they kicked in the door, I reported our status to headquarters. They came out a few minutes later, empty-handed, and after a cursory search of the area around the building, Wasser climbed back onto the turret, shaking his head.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Roger.” I reported in, and we headed back to FOB Mackenzie. Twenty minutes later, we pulled in through the front gate, and I was about to hop down to clear my weapons, when Bulldawg X-Ray came on the troop net.

  “Red 1, X-Ray – hold at your current location.”

  “Here we go again,” Barnes told me on our platoon net.

  Hoffman hurried over to us, even more excited this time, and I met him behind my Bradley.

  “We got another update from Washington – the NSA is monitoring his cell phone conversations. He was talking to some guy on the phone when you got there, and he told the guy that he had to leave his house because soldiers were coming for him! You guys almost got him!”

  I was tempted to remind him of the famous Army phrase that “almost” only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, but before I could say anything, Hoffman spoke again.

  “I want you to go back and hit the house again, but this time I want you to search some of the surrounding area, too – chances are he’s still right in that area and hasn’t gone far.”

  “Sir, I agree, but I can’t cordon off a whole city block with four scouts and two vehicles with skeleton crews,” I told him. “Are there any helicopters up … or anyone else that can augment us?”

  “Negative,” he said, frowning.

  “We don’t have a picture of this guy,” I went on. “So now that he’s left his house, we could drive right past him and not even know it. The only identifying feature we have is the fact that he has a cell phone, and all he has to do is toss it—”

  Impatient, Hoffman cut me off. “Lieutenant Platt, don’t be so negative.”

  I realized that I could argue all afternoon with no effect, so I climbed back into my turret and we headed out again. As we drove back into town, Barnes and I put together a plan over the radio that would somewhat accomplish the intent of the mission. He stopped a block short of the target, while I pushed on a block past the house. Covering them with the Bradleys, we then kicked out our dismounted scouts, who patrolled slowly up the street, the two halves of the patrol converging on the target building. It was a pretty meager net – though they checked down alleys and side streets, and searched military age males as they encountered them, we all felt frustrated at the futility of it all. It was clearly an important mission – this guy was a known insurgent with a rap sheet long enough to have put him on Washington’s radar, and yet all we could muster to try to catch him was eight soldiers in two Bradleys, because everyone else was too busy out securing routes and escorting supply convoys. If there was ever an argument for needing more troops in Iraq, this was it.

  We didn’t find the Turkey brother, of course, but there was a silver lining to this cloud. Because of all the unwanted attention he was getting from us in Ad Duluiyah, Mr. Turkey left town that day, fleeing across the Tigris into 1-77 Armor’s area of operations. They pinpointed his cell phone location again at a farmhouse out in the countryside, and 1-77 was able to raid the place. This time, since the target house was isolated and 1-77 scraped together enough forces to do it properly, he did not escape.

  * * *

  After Christmas, Squadron decided to piggyback on the success of Operation Baton Rouge in Samarra, and launch a massive series of raids in the local towns outside FOB Mackenzie. Bulldawg Troop was assigned several targets in Ad Montessim, the same town where my first raid leading Red Platoon had taken place, not far from the checkpoint we had manned during Operation Baton Rouge.

  With three platoons still tied up manning the checkpoints outside Samarra, that left my platoon plus First Lieutenant Thomas’ and Sergeant First Class Peterson’s mortars to conduct the raid on our own – and it was a complex one. We would attempt three coordinated, simultaneous raids on opposite sides of the town: while the Mortars platoon hit a house in the town itself, my platoon would take down two buildings on the outskirts, one targeting an artillery Colonel from the former Iraqi Army who was suspected of masterminding rocket attacks on FOB Mackenzie, and the other looking for a man who acted as a driver for one of the insurgent leaders in Samarra.

  We approached the town from opposite directions, but managed to hit our targets just as the Mortars hit theirs. Staff Sergeant Barnes led the ground team going after the Colonel, while just down the block, Sergeant Landry’s team kicked in the chauffeur’s door. The Colonel was not at home, and while they started a thorough search of his house, Sergeant Landry’s team reported “dry hole” (no one home) as well. Landry, however, soon found contraband: wires, detonators, and AK-47s, and as they were gathering this up, an Eagle Troop air weapons team raised me on the troop net.

  “Bulldawg Red 1, Eagle 33: we have a squirter identified in the weeds west of the target house, over.”

  I relayed the message to Landry on the ground, who pushed his team outside and quickly tracked the man down, aided by the infrared spotlight from the helicopter. As they were bringing him in, we got another report of a “squirter” from Squadron headquarters – apparently we had a fighter jet on station, and his imaging system had picked up a guy fleeing from a house we hadn’t even sent a team to. The pilot sent us the grid coordinates via Squadron, but by the time I was able to move Staff Sergeant Barnes’ team there, the guy had displaced. I could see us playing this game all night – asking where he was, waiting several minutes for the location to get relayed to us, having him move before we got there – and apparently, so could the fighter pilot, because he activated a laser designator as my scouts were regrouping. It was invisible to the naked eye, but through night vision goggles it looked like an alien death ray, a massive beam of green light streaking out of the empty sky, winking on and off repeatedly and designating the man’s location.

  Barnes’ team worked their way through the weeds again, following the beam, but to their chagrin they found the man had swum across a canal. They backtracked to a bridge, slogged back to the crossing site, and followed the trail of wet grass up to a house nearby. In the front yard was a pile of wet clothes. On the doorstep, a pair of waterlogged, muddy sandals. And inside, when they cleared the house, there was a slightly damp man in bed, pretending to sleep.

  “Nice try, dick,” Barnes told him, before handcuffing him and m
arching him outside.

  * * *

  With our tour in Iraq almost up, 1st Infantry Division was already thinking ahead to how it would move 10,000 soldiers and all their vehicles and equipment back to Germany. At the troop level, this transportation planning is conducted by a platoon leader who’s assigned to be the Unit Movement Officer as an extra duty. Unfortunately for me, Lieutenant Taylor had been the UMO when we deployed, and Captain Hoffman had picked me to replace him. First, however, I would need to be trained and certified by attending a week-long course in Kuwait.

  It’s hard to complain about an assignment that gets you out of combat and caught up on sleep with three hot meals a day, but I was reluctant to leave my men. I trusted my NCOs fully to run things in my absence, but as a leader, it ran against my instincts to disappear for a week to Kuwait in the midst of an arduous operation. I registered my complaints, but they were overruled, and the next day I found myself on a Blackhawk heading for FOB Speicher, where I would be catching a C-130 on to Kuwait, along with Staff Sergeant Lapierre from Blue Platoon, who would be taking a course on Hazardous Materials handling procedures to assist me.

  Flying in Iraq is closer to hitch-hiking than anything else. You arrive at the airfield, put your name on a list to be added to the next flight going in your direction, and wait until they call your name. There’s never a set schedule, and your flight is rarely going directly to your destination. This happened to be the case for my flight to Kuwait, which was routed through Baghdad first.

  We made a combat landing in Baghdad at about 9 p.m. that evening, the pilot dropping us into a brutally sharp descent before leveling out at the last minute and touching down on the tarmac at Baghdad International Airport. In Baghdad, to my surprise, we took on about 40 Iraqi policemen, who looked like little kids on Christmas morning as they climbed excitedly aboard – for most, it was their first-ever flight. I wandered over to one of the Air Force crewmen, who was double-checking the locking mechanism keeping our baggage pallet in place on the aft ramp.