Reid took out his wiz wheel, a chart which told him how much propellant he needed for the round to hit the target and what elevation the mortar needed to be set on. He began to issue firing orders.
“Line it up on the fucking big-ass white building. Charge 1. Elevation 1420.”
A marine pulled off the safety pin and dropped a round into the barrel. Reid didn’t even watch as the round soared toward the building. He was already yelling orders at Corporal Manny Espinoza for the next round.
“You just keep firing up that military compound.”
Fred Pokorney grabbed him.
“We’ve got no comms. We’ve got no communications. I don’t know if it’s a transmitting problem or whether we are out of range.”
“Well, keep working on it. Until we get comms, we can’t get any arty.”
Reid lay down on the road and looked for some targets. He put some dots on his maps. He really needed those comms so that they could get some artillery rounds on those targets. Fred was the arty expert. Reid was there to give guidance and to deconflict the area by making sure that he didn’t have weapons systems or aircraft interfering with each other, but Fred Pokorney had to do his job.
“Fred, put fire on these two points. I don’t care how you do it, use the work-around nets. Those grids aren’t perfect, so you need to do your arty shit to refine them a bit. If you need me, I’ll be with the 60s over there. They are all we’ve got right now.”
Reid pulled one of the mortar squads out of action and redirected their fires away from the compound to the north and got them to fire to the west, where there was a big berm with Iraqis and their vehicles in exposed positions. Reid was concerned about mortar ammunition. They had only packed out with ninety high-explosive rounds, thirty illumination rounds to light up the landscape, and thirty white phosphorous rounds that explode on impact and burn white hot. He was going through his combat load pretty fast.
Jordan ran up to him and lay down on the road next to him.
“Torres is wounded.”
“What the fuck?”
Reid couldn’t believe it. Torres was one of his most experienced machine gunners and a section leader. Reid had deliberately put him in charge of a young section. There was a lot of punch in his Weapons Platoon. But the M240G machine guns were the backbone of the company’s firepower. To hear that Torres was down was a massive blow. Jordan saw the look of horror on Reid’s face and tried to soothe him.
“He’s bad, but not that bad.”
Reid still couldn’t quite compute what Jordan was telling him and carried on looking at him in disbelief.
“Sir, it’s all right. I already killed two or three of their guys, so now we’re even. So what do you want to do?”
Reid had only been in the battalion for two years and was grateful for Jordan’s experience. Jordan, a native Texan whose home was now in Enfield, Connecticut, was forty-two and had been in the Marine Corps for twelve years. He had served in Panama, Bosnia, and during the Gulf War. The younger marines looked to him to make sure everything was okay. If he was worried, they should be worried. But when Reid looked at Jordan, he seemed to be taking it in his stride. No. It was more than that. He seemed to be having a good time. He suspected that Jordan had told his marines to take care of him. Whenever he got off a track, he always found that one of the marines had already pulled off his pack. When he got back in again, he would find that his pack was already loaded. They would even save their chili and macaroni MREs for him because they knew he hated the other choices. The marines in his platoon took care of their lieutenant.
“Hey, we need to redirect any machine guns we can find and get them faced back toward the city to the southwest.”
Jordan sprinted across the road to sort out the machine guns. Reid was lying on the elevated roadside near his three mortars. He could see 1st Platoon on the other side of the road but had no idea where 2nd and 3rd were located. Reid was not sure whether everyone had made it across the canal. Through his binoculars, he saw teams of black-robed fighters with rocket-propelled grenades out to the west. They ran out of some buildings about six hundred meters away and lobbed RGP rounds toward them. None of them were accurate. They must have just pointed the things up in the air and hoped for the best. Kentucky windage, Reid called it. He told his mortars to aim toward them and helped them out by taking an M16, propping it up in the dirt as a makeshift aiming stake.
“Elevation 1242. Charge two. Fire two rounds.”
By firing two rounds, he could be sure that the explosions he was seeing were his rather than a random hit. He watched them land and made his corrections.
“Right two. Drop one.”
Once on target, his mortarmen turned the traversing handwheel one turn after each round and fired a can of eight rounds. It allowed his mortar squad leaders, Corporals Patrick Nixon and Jose Garibay and Lance Corporal Joshua Stickney, to cover a wider area. Reid stood up to get a better view to the west.
Pokorney rushed over to him and tackled him to the ground.
“You stupid fucker. You’re going to get us all killed.”
Reid looked up at the sky and noticed for the first time that hot metal was whizzing around from every direction. He’d had such tunnel vision, focusing on his mortars, that he hadn’t noticed the increase in gunfire. Fuck. We really are getting shot at.
Lance Corporal Michael Williams, who carried Reid’s radio, handed him the handset.
“Sir, Lieutenant Swantner is calling you on the radio.”
Reid heard the urgency in the 1st Platoon commander’s voice.
“Palehorse 4, this is 1. We’re taking mortar fire. Do something about it.”
Reid was frustrated. What did Swantner think Reid’s men were doing?
“We’ve got all three mortars putting rounds downrange. That’s all we’ve got right now. Comm to battalion is down right now.”
He really needed the 81 mm mortars or artillery. They had a wider killing radius of thirty-five to fifty meters. But they were all to the south, and the FiST had not yet managed to get communication with them. Reid had four radios at his disposal, but he couldn’t get anyone up on them. If we can get hold of the forward command post or Bravo, we can relay everything to the artillery batteries through them. He didn’t think about using the radios on the track. There was just too much going on. In any case, the tracks weren’t set to the firenet frequencies, and they would have had to spend time plugging in new frequencies. We’ll just have to work with the 60 mm mortars and keep working out the comms. Reid shouted at Garibay.
“Pick up your shit and bring your crew. We’re going to move your position sixty meters to the south.” As the small group ran south, Reid looked back to find Jordan running along behind with two more cans of ammo. He began to feel even better. This is working. Things are working out.
From the top of track 201, Casey Robinson had watched the drama of the burning track 211. He saw marines scrambling out of the track and hitting the dirt. Thick black smoke poured from its hatches and floated over the wide expanse of desolate wasteland into a cloudless sky.
Below him, in the driver’s compartment, Edward Castleberry lowered the ramp. It was the sign he gave for the 1st Platoon marines in the rear to dismount and to start doing their infantry stuff. As a tracker, he had to stay with his vehicle, ready to maneuver it in case the track was targeted. Sergeant Schaefer, the AAV commander, stayed with him to provide supporting fires from the track’s up-gun system. A third tracker, Lance Corporal Kyle Smith, who looked after the crew compartment, passed up ammo.
Robinson and the twenty marines in back of 201 tumbled down the ramp, disorientated. Many of them had been cooped up inside the track for hours and struggled to run without their legs collapsing from under them. A round snapped past Robinson’s head, followed by the whistle of what he thought were incoming mortars. The missile exploded about fifteen meters away, shaking the ground around him. Another one came over.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
It was a terrifying, awesome thud. So that’s what live mortars sound like. It went quiet again. He ran out into the mud fields and launched himself into the dirt behind some low berms. It would have to do for the moment while he worked out where everyone was. Other marines from his squad jumped breathlessly into the ditch beside him, glancing at each other anxiously. They were wearing kneepads, already ripped and battered from diving onto the hard, stony ground.
He needed to get situational awareness. To his left, on the south side of the canal, were the low buildings of the city. Occasional bursts of gunfire came from that direction. Straight ahead, looking west, were long flat mud fields, dotted with a few huts and brick buildings. To his right, in the north, was a large white building that he guessed was the military complex they’d been told about. Behind him, to the east, was the road they’d just driven along. It was raised, so he couldn’t see what was on the other side, but he guessed the landscape was similar to the scrubby expanse in front of him. He went back to a basic lesson on infantry skills. When you can accomplish it, get into an o fensive position. The aim was to take the fight to the Iraqis.
“Let’s push forward.”
Someone yelled that they should head out toward the canal to expand the security perimeter. It seemed like a good idea. They split into squads of twelve marines. One squad covered while the other leapfrogged them in bounds, just as they had done in training. Then they took cover and provided covering fire for the first squad to leapfrog them. They moved forward, running through a muddy landscape crisscrossed with ditches and mounds, toward the canal, getting closer to where the fire was coming from. Robinson realized he was doing things without even thinking. And the marines around him were doing the same. All that mind-numbing training was paying off.
“Go, go. First squad, go.”
Up ahead of him, running along the banks of the canal, he saw black-robed figures getting in positions to fight.
Captain Wittnam was about two hundred meters on the north side of the Saddam Canal Bridge when he turned to see the smoking track 211 grind to a halt in the middle of the road on the bridge’s north side. He saw marines jump out the back. There were flames licking its sides, but it was still mobile and it didn’t look too serious.
He had expected to see Bravo and the forward CP once he crossed the bridge, but there was no sign of them. He now realized his decision to move straight up Ambush Alley was based on the mistaken assumption that it was the route that Bravo had also taken. To the north and east was flat, muddy scrubland. To the west and south, toward and beyond the Saddam Canal Bridge, it was swampy, crisscrossed with smaller irrigation canals. It was reasonably good cover. Parallel to the road heading north there were small berms and ditches on both the east and west sides. He was surprised that the terrain on either side of the road was so uneven. From the maps and satellite photos, it had looked as though they would be able to maneuver their tanks and tracks over it. Now he realized it was impassable to most of his heavy vehicles. His marines had used the ground well and were set up in firing lines behind the berms. He grabbed the radio handset and called back on the main battalion tactical net with his position at the 39 northing.
“Timberwolf 6. This is Palehorse 6. I am on the bridge.”
There was no reply. He looked at the bridge’s plain, concrete span and couldn’t believe that this was what they were fighting for. He repeated the coordinates of his position. It still wasn’t clear if Lieutenant Colonel Grabowski had got the information. There was too much chatter on the radio. Everyone was trying to talk at once. He jumped out of the track and set about trying to organize his marines into a defense. He knew from Intel that there were two Iraqi brigades to the north of his position. They’d been told that one was an Iraqi commando brigade and the other was part of the 23rd Infantry Brigade. And they might have tanks. They mustn’t be allowed to come back in and reinforce the city. He would have to fight on two fronts: protecting the bridge from an attack from the north, and making sure that no one could seize it from the south. He was worried about the possibility of taking on Iraqi tanks, but looking around at the barren landscape he felt that for the moment, at least, there was no imminent threat. The level of incoming fire was only a few rounds per minute. It won’t be long before Bravo gets up here to reinforce us.
5
Lieutenant Colonel Rick Grabowski and the staff from his forward command post were trying to work out exactly how many vehicles were stuck in the mud in the streets on the east side of the city. The latest toll was three tanks, three Humvees, and three AAVs, including the C7, the battalion’s forward command vehicle, which contained all the radios and electronics for command and control. But it was hard keeping count. Several times a track managed to haul itself free, only to get caught in another mud bog. The AAVs that were on solid ground couldn’t get close enough to tow out the sinking vehicles without themselves sinking into the mud. The towropes were not long enough. The marines had trained for almost every eventuality. But none of them had trained for this. Thirty minutes ago, Grabowski had set off with such optimism across the Euphrates Bridge. Now he found himself under fire and unable to go anywhere.
Fedayeen fighters appeared at the entrances to alleyways, on roofs, and in the windows of houses, trying to get close enough to attack the stricken vehicles. The CAAT Humvees equipped with TOW missiles and heavy machine guns were weaving in and out of the alleyways shooting at any potential threat, trying to keep the encroaching crowds away from their perimeter. The tanks could still traverse their turrets and fire their main guns. As soon as any technical got too close, the tanks’ gunners would fire an MPAT round and obliterate it.
Under fire, Grabowski was still trying to get communications with his subordinate units. The radio operators in the C7 were still having difficulties receiving and sending radio messages. The two-story houses they were bumped up against were masking the VHF signals. Even in his Humvee, he couldn’t get a consistent signal among the labyrinth of houses.
“Can’t we get the goddamn comms up?”
He was desperate to contact Charlie Company. He had been trying to speak to Captain Wittnam ever since they had got stuck some thirty minutes ago. He had no idea where Charlie was. He wanted to make sure that Wittnam didn’t send his company around to the east as in the original plan. Otherwise, they too would get stuck in the same mud bog where his tanks and tracks were now floundering. I’ve got to get through to him and stop him, otherwise it is going to get ugly. Then what would we do? He heard snatches of panicked radio transmissions that seemed to suggest that Charlie Company was engaged in some fight with the enemy, but it was difficult to work out exactly where they were and what was going on. And just when he thought he was getting to grips with what was being said, the signal would cut out. Where is Charlie Company?
“Palehorse 6, this is Timberwolf 6.”
“Palehorse 6, this is Timberwolf 6.”
All he heard back was an incoherent mess of radio traffic. There were too many people talking at once and no one made any sense. It was like a basketball court where a dozen people were shooting into the same basket and knocking each other out of the way.
He reckoned that some of the younger kids were so nervous that they were “hot miking”—occupying the net and cutting everyone out by keying in the handset even when they weren’t talking.
Then he heard a brief transmission. He could only just make it out.
“Timberwolf 6. This is Palehorse 6. I am on the bridge.”
Grabowski keyed in to talk back to Wittnam.
“Palehorse 6. This is Timberwolf 6. Which bridge are you on? Repeat. Which bridge are you on?”
The signal cut out. Grabowski’s frustration was growing. It was his job to know where all his companies were. He couldn’t direct the fighting unless he knew what was going on. Which bridge is he on?
He knew that the regimental commander, Colonel Bailey, was waiting for news that they’d taken the northern bridge. He’d already told him that they�
��d seized the southern bridge over the Euphrates. Bailey was now moving from the regimental CP several kilometers south of the Euphrates Bridge to the foot of the bridge itself. Grabowski hoped that he wouldn’t want to come up any farther. He has no business going farther. He wanted to be left to get on with his job. I don’t want the regimental commander in the middle of all this shit.
“Hey, sir.”
It was the battalion fire support officer, responsible for fire support coordination. He had been monitoring the radios from the sinking C7.
“Charlie Company is on the second bridge.”
Grabowski hit the hood of his Humvee with delight.
“Great. We have got both bridges.”
He got straight on the radio to report the success to Bailey. He knew that his CO would be getting pressure from Brigadier General Natonski for news on how it was going.
“Viking 6, this is Timberwolf 6. We have now got both bridges.”
Grabowski breathed easier. He was still in the shit, but things were looking up. I have a marine rifle company on the north bridge and one on the south bridge, and there is nothing in that city that can push them o f. All we need now is to get those tanks up there.
Standing a few yards away, Major David Sosa, the battalion’s operations officer, was figuring out what their next move should be. The very heart of the battalion’s decision-making process, the C7 command-and-control vehicle, was stuck in the mud. The forward command staff, including the intelligence officer, the fire support officer, the forward air controller, and the battalion commander, had been forced to dismount to try to get their own comms up outside the C7. He almost didn’t notice the fighting going on around him. It reminded him of being in a pool with his head underwater. When he was talking on the radio, there was only a faint muffled background sound. When he put the radio down, it was like coming up for air. He heard rounds whizzing over his head, smelled the stink of the muddy, stagnant water, saw marines crawling into ditches to reinforce the perimeter.
Ambush Alley: The Most Extraordinary Battle of the Iraq War Page 16
