Grabowski’s worst fear was that a pilot in the air, particularly an Air Force pilot with no history of working with the Marines, might mistake them for enemy forces.
Grabowski had it written in the operations order: “We will not authorize Type 3 CAS unless approved by the Battalion Commander.” This meant that any request for a Type 3 CAS had to go through Grabowski himself.
10
As Bravo Company was making its way through the eastern edge of the city, and Charlie Company was crossing onto the northern bridge, two USAF A-10 Thunderbolts were flying several thousand feet above Nasiriyah on their way from Al Jaber Air Base in Kuwait toward Baghdad. They were heading for a grid location in southern Baghdad where they were to execute a bombing mission on unidentified targets. It was a clear day with a light wind. At the controls of the lead aircraft was an A-10 pilot with twelve years experience and twenty-two hundred flying hours under his belt. He was a major in the Pennsylvania Air National Guard, and his unit had been attached to the 332nd Air Expeditionary Wing for Operation Iraqi Freedom. Over the radio, he went by his call sign of Gyrate 73. He felt relaxed and calm and perfectly in control of his plane and his surroundings. This was his sixth mission in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom, and each mission had gone exactly as planned. There was no threat from the Iraqi air force. All its jets had been wiped out during Desert Storm and the first days of Iraqi Freedom. Gyrate 73 only had to resist the pressure of becoming too gung ho about the upcoming bombing mission to the south of Baghdad. The temptation to drop their bombs on any target was strong. We’re not going out there with our fangs hanging out. We’re coming back with munitions if we don’t have a target to hit. We’re not just going to hit anything.
His wingman, Gyrate 74, also a major in the Pennsylvania Air National Guard, had several years experience flying in Iraq. They included missions for Operation Southern Watch, enforcing the no-fly zone over the south of the country, which was imposed on Iraq at the end of the first Gulf war. While both pilots knew they were on a potential bomb run, they listened carefully to the chatter on the radio. They might get a change of bombing mission, or a call to provide emergency close air support for troops fighting on the ground.
The plane they were flying was nicknamed the “Warthog.” The A-10 had an ugly, squat nose cone with antennae poking out in different directions from its frame. It carried five 100-pound bombs, high-explosive rockets, and Maverick and Sidewinder missiles. But what made it unique and fearsome was the twenty-two-foot-long, two-ton Avenger 30 mm Gatling gun, mounted on the underside of the nose. It was the most powerful gun ever mounted on an airplane. The seven revolving barrels fired thirty-nine hundred armor-piercing or high-explosive rounds per minute. The armor-piercing rounds, the size of milk bottles, contained a slug of depleted uranium that penetrated into armor, turning it into hot molten metal that ignited and burned. A-10 pilots liked to think of their plane as an aggressive, down-and-dirty type of aircraft that could fly in among the enemy, close enough so that the cannons could rip apart armored formations in minutes.
Thousands of feet below, traveling in the company command vehicle, was Bravo’s forward air controller. His call sign was Mouth. He had been a FAC with 1st Battalion, 2nd Marines for over a year. He also had five years experience as a F/A-18 Hornet weapons information systems officer. He had been to combined arms exercises three times, once as a FAC. But this was his first time in combat. It had been a baptism of fire. All morning he had been calling in close air support from Apache and Cobra attack helicopters as 1/2 Marines had made their way up Route 7, across the railway bridge, onto the Euphrates Bridge, and into Nasiriyah. So far, though, the CAS had worked well. Even though he was weary from the battalion’s fast march from Kuwait, he had managed to plot positions on his map, receive and send communications over two radios, maintain his awareness of the battlefield, and control the firepower of the helos. They had successfully taken out several tanks by the railroad bridge. He now had them hovering overhead, making sure that they provided supporting fire to the tanks that were still mired in the mud. He kept them close to Bravo’s position. He didn’t want them flying too far north, where they might get shot down.
Mouth felt he had close air support under control when he got a radio transmission from the battalion air officer, a hundred meters or so away at Grabowski’s forward command post. The air officer’s radio was broken. He was having difficulty communicating with regiment and the battalion main command post. He hardly had any situational awareness. The only person he could talk to was Mouth.
“Mouth, I need you to get on guard and get any air support you can find.”
That was serious. Going on guard meant using the emergency channel to pick up whatever air support was in the area. And that meant using Air Force assets, too, rather than just the Marine planes and helos that he had trained with. He picked up the handset.
“On guard, on guard, on guard. This is Mouth in the vicinity of Nasiriyah. We have troops in contact and need immediate air support.”
Several fixed-wing planes checked in with him, including what Mouth thought was a single A-10. He didn’t have time to write down the correct call sign, but with the interference from the radio transmission he remembered it as Jenke 78. He consulted with Captain Tim Newland, Bravo’s CO, to find out where the air support would be most effective. They agreed to send the aircraft north of the Saddam Canal Bridge, beyond the 3-8 grid line, to destroy enemy formations up there. Newland had told him that the battalion would be moving toward that bridge and they didn’t want enemy reinforcements coming to meet them.
In the air, the two A-10 pilots, Gyrate 73 and his wingman, Gyrate 74, heard the on-guard call from Mouth and checked in with him. They listened as the Bravo FAC told them about the tanks stuck in the mud and the fight they were involved in down below.
“I need you to take out targets north of the canal bridge. That’s the northern bridge on the eastern side of the city.”
The A-10s flew in circles to the northeast of the city, trying to make sure that they knew where they were. Intel had briefed them that there was an antiaircraft threat in the area from Roland radar guided surface-to-air missiles. There was also a danger of SA-7 SAMs, small, handheld surface-to-air missiles, but so far there had been no sign of them. This was not a reconnaissance or patrol flight, like the ones they had done in the past. There was a real possibility of contact. The hairs on the back of the necks of both pilots were standing up as they heard Mouth directing them first toward the bridge at the Euphrates and then the Saddam Canal Bridge.
“I am between the two bridges, on the eastern side of the road.”
Gyrate 73 called his wingman, circling overhead in a cover position. He wanted to make sure that they were talking about the same area.
“Gyrate 74, this is Gyrate 73. I’m not really sure what he’s talking about.”
“Let me take the tactical lead. I think I know where he is.”
“Yeah, let’s make sure we know what we’re talking about.”
Gyrate 74 swapped flying positions with Gyrate 73, and over the radio Gyrate 74 and Mouth went through the positions again. The A-10’s specialty was getting close to where the action was. The pilots needed to get eyes on the target, rather than use remote-targeting systems. To do that, they needed to be talked onto the target. Mouth described the Euphrates Bridge, then told them to walk their eyes onto Ambush Alley and then onto the northern Saddam Canal Bridge. Gyrate 74 began to pick out the landmarks, following Mouth’s description.
“Mouth, I think I know where you are. I got an open field where I’d like to put down a couple of rockets where I think is north of your position. Tell me if you see them.”
Gyrate 74 fired a couple of phosphorous rockets to mark the area, but they didn’t produce enough smoke and Mouth didn’t see them.
The pilots picked up binoculars and scanned the landscape below for some other means of verifying their location. Then some helos came into view, flying across the
canal from north to south. On the other side of the bridge, they saw a burning vehicle pouring out black smoke. Gyrate 73 assumed that the helos had just fired missiles on the vehicle.
“Mouth, do you see the helos and do you see the smoke?”
“Yes, I see the smoke. That is within our target area.”
From the air, Gyrate 73 could now see other vehicles on the road. From 15,000 feet, through binoculars, there appeared to be eight or nine vehicles. Gyrate 74 thought they looked like dark pickup trucks. He was confident that they had correctly identified the target area. His battle-space awareness was growing with each second. They had practiced close air support over and over again so that they wouldn’t hit friendlies. What had been missing from training were classes in identifying U.S. Marine Corps vehicles. The A-10 pilots thought that they had identified an enemy armored formation. What they didn’t know was that the vehicles on the ground were Charlie’s AAVs and that the smoke was from Charlie 211, the track that had been hit as it charged up Ambush Alley.
From his position on the ground south of the canal bridge, Mouth could see smoke rising to the north. He knew from talking to Captain Newland that there should be no friendly forces north of the 3-8 grid line running along the canal. Like the A-10 pilots, Mouth assumed the smoke was from an enemy vehicle. He called back to the pilot to confirm that the target area only contained enemy forces.
“No one is north of the 3-8 grid. There are no friendlies north of the canal.”
It was 1355. Gyrate 73 now knew he had his targets. He made one final check on his map. He now told Mouth about the number of vehicles he could see below him. From his map, he confirmed that they were all north of the 3-8 grid line. Okay. Nobody is north of the canal. Everything we are seeing, all the burning vehicles, they are north of the canal and north of the 3-8 grid line.
Mouth got in touch with Captain Newland. He wanted to double-check that there were no friendly forces in the area. He was working off an aerial photo overlaid with grids. He knew from the plan that Bravo was supposed to be the lead unit. He got back to the pilot and put any gun runs on hold.
“Stand by while I check on the lead trace.”
Newland again confirmed to Mouth that there were no friendly forces ahead of the 3-8 grid line.
At the northern bridge, just as the A-10s were circling overhead, Sergeant William Schaefer, manning the up-gun system of track 201, was trying to keep his fear and anxiety under control. He’d heard over the radio that the LZ was too hot for the helos to evacuate Charlie’s wounded marines, yet with every minute that went by more of them were being brought to his track. He was beginning to panic. Their position was becoming increasingly fragile. If they didn’t do something, they would be overwhelmed. He tried furiously to contact Lieutenant Tracy, his AAV platoon commander, on the radio, but he couldn’t raise him. There was so much noise going on from incoming missiles that he didn’t notice the sound of the A-10s flying overhead.
“I’m hit, I’m hit.”
It was Axel, the call sign for Corporal Elliot, the vehicle commander of track 208. He was screaming in agony from a shrapnel wound to the neck, asking for help. Lance Corporal Castleberry, Schaefer’s driver, also heard the screaming. They were both freaked. Schaefer radioed back to Elliot, “I’m coming for you.” As he clicked out of the transmission he felt bad. That’s a blatant lie. I’m too busy to help him out. Schaefer tried to contact Tracy again using their call signs.
“Whaler, this is Eight Ball. Can you hear me?”
There was just static on the radio. When Schaefer looked up from his gunsights, he couldn’t see anyone. Everybody seemed to have disappeared. I’m the oldest guy in the platoon. If Lieutenant Tracy is not around, I’m in charge. At that moment, with chaos descending around him, he feared the worst. Everyone else is dead. I am now the platoon commander. The weight of the responsibility was terrible. He was terrified. This sucks. We need to be more proactive. If we just sit here we’re gonna get torn up. He yelled to Castleberry.
“Drop the ramp.”
Marines started yelling out.
“Back to the track.”
“Let’s go, let’s go.”
Private First Class Casey Robinson was still out in the mud fields on the west side of the road when he heard the cry go up.
“First squad back to the track.”
He didn’t know where the cry came from. Maybe Lance Corporal Roberto Sena, the radio operator, had received the call on his PRC-148 field radio. Or maybe his platoon commander, Lieutenant Scott Swantner, had called his squad leader. He had no idea how long they’d been out there. Maybe thirty minutes. Possibly an hour. Time had lost all meaning for him. He did know things were not good. We’re taking a hell of a beating. He began to run back toward the track. He knew they were supposed to do it in a more coordinated fashion, covering each other while they were moving in bounds, but he no longer knew who he had with him. Some marines were injured. Others seemed not to be running with him, as if they were too scared to get out of the fighting holes they’d begun to dig for themselves. It was every marine for himself. Other members of his team seemed to be heading off toward the wrong track. He looked back and saw that Private First Class Gino Detone and Corporal Brad Richter had stayed out in the field. This is confusing. This is not right. He was grateful the enemy wasn’t that smart. They led out a lot, firing aimlessly toward the marines, but then it would all go quiet. It gave him a bit more breathing space. He waited for a lull and then he ran, lugging his heavy M249 and ammo across the berms and ditches. The mud tried to suck him in, but long evenings working out at the gym, swimming in the pool, and surfing when he went home to California on liberty had given him the edge. Even with all his gear, his powerful legs pushed him easily across the muddy fields. When the firing started back up, he fell to the ground, listening in surprise to how loud and heavy his breathing sounded. He waited for a lull, picked up his weapon, and ran for the track.
Schaefer was yelling at them to get in. The track was being loaded up with wounded. Robinson peered inside. There were so many bodies in there that he couldn’t work out how they could all fit in.
“Get in, we’re moving. Get the fuck in.”
As Robinson climbed up to the top of the track, a mortar slammed down next to him, tearing up the roof and sending metal flying into the open hatch. He could hear screams of pain from inside.
“I’m hit. I’m fucking hit.”
Robinson stood on the roof and tried to pull the hatch shut. It stuck. He bent his knees, straightened his back, and pulled it again with all his strength. The damn thing won’t budge.
“Let’s fucking go. We’ve got to go.”
Castleberry freaked out. Even though they were already overloaded, there were still people missing from 1st Squad. He knew that he was not supposed to go until he had everyone with him.
“Hold on, we’ve got more to load up.”
Schaefer screamed back at him.
“They’re on another fucking track. Let’s go. We need to get out of here.”
Neither Castleberry nor Schaefer heard the groaning of the A-10s as the planes began to circle lower overhead. There was too much noise going on right around them. Castleberry could hear people yelling over all of the four nets he was monitoring: battalion tac 1 and tac 2, the company net, and the AAV platoon frequency. He shouted at those still trying to come in through the back hatch.
“Just get the fuck in.”
On the opposite side of the road, closer to the canal bridge, Lance Corporal Thomas Quirk was still lying in a ditch, sheltering from the incoming rounds. He looked around. There was no one from his fire team with him. Private First Class Gary Labarge jumped into the ditch carrying an M249 SAW. Quirk wondered why he wasn’t firing it.
“I don’t have any rounds. I got the weapon but no rounds.”
“Holy shit.”
Quirk ran down the lines, screaming at marines to pull out some magazines for him. The 249 normally used belt-fed ammunitio
n, but you could also load it with 5.56 mm rounds from an M16 magazine. It was unorthodox, but it worked. Quirk threw the magazines at Labarge, who started loading them into the magazine well. At that moment they heard a new sound, the whistle of incoming missiles.
Vrrrrm. Vrmmm. Vrmmm.
Ever since he’d been a kid, he’d played these games where someone would imitate the whistle of an incoming shell and then it would explode and they’d fall to the ground like idiots. Now it was happening for real. This is as scary as shit.
VRRRMMMMM.
Quirk felt warm air shoot past his ear and heard a thud about five meters in front of him. Holy shit. He turned to Labarge.
“What the fuck was that?”
“You don’t want to know, brother.”
“Fuck the bullshit, what the fuck was it?”
“That was a mortar. It missed your head by about a foot and a half. It was a dud, thank God.”
“Maybe we should get the fuck out of here.”
The twelve marines in the ditch piled out. Using the road as defilade, they ran back south toward the bridge. Behind them, just as in the movies, rounds kicked up dust in their wake.
Dadadadadada. Dadadadada.
Then Quirk heard another noise. It was a growling, groaning noise from above. A noise he’d never heard before, a bit like a buzz saw.
“What’s that fucking noise?”
“It’s an A-10.”
“What the fuck is an A-10?”
At the same time, a hundred meters or so north of Quirk’s position, First Lieutenant Ben Reid, blood still running from his face, ran back to the location where his mortar squad had been hit. The bodies were still there, lying in pools of blood. Corporal Garibay hadn’t moved. He was moaning and groaning like a kid with bellyache. Reid didn’t stop to find out what was wrong with him.
“There will be a track coming over. You need to get these guys loaded up. I don’t care how much it hurts. If I don’t make it back to here, you need to get out of here and find the battalion aid station and get these guys help. I am going to grab some guys to help us out.”
Ambush Alley: The Most Extraordinary Battle of the Iraq War Page 20
