Ambush Alley: The Most Extraordinary Battle of the Iraq War

by Tim Pritchard

  “Want to trade?”

  “Fucking A.”

  Castleberry was ecstatic to have his hands on a machine gun. He wasn’t an infantryman, but he loved the idea of firing such a powerful weapon. He was hyped up by the adrenaline. Fucking yeah. This is going to be awesome. He looked around the corner of a wall and came face-to-face with an Iraqi creeping up toward the track, not more than ten meters away. Castleberry pointed the machine gun at the Iraqi fighter and squeezed the trigger. All he heard was the chunk of a round that wouldn’t load. Fuck, he’s got an AK. Fuck, he’s going to kill me. He tried again. Nothing. He screamed out.

  “Shoot him. Shoot him.”

  Someone let off a round and the Iraqi collapsed. Castleberry shouted at one of the other marines who had an M203.

  “Give me that. I don’t know how to use this fucking thing.”

  They traded weapons, then Castleberry propped himself up behind the wall and started firing off rounds and grenades at anything that moved.

  Robinson, no longer weighed down by his SAW, set to work. He stayed low, kept tight with the others, and scanned up, down, left, and right in quick bursts. He was filled with the same buzz he experienced when he was a kid while surfing back home in Santa Cruz. Then he was focused on the changing waves, controlling his energy for that one moment when, with an explosive push, he would thrust himself up on the board and ride toward the beach. Every fiber in his body was now alert to what was going on around him. In training, they called it KOCOA—take in the Key terrain, Observe the fields of fire, take Cover and concealment, watch out for Obstacles, look for Avenues of approach. It was more intense than training in the wide-open desert. That’s how he liked it. When he thought about trying for Force Reconnaissance, he often imagined he would excel on a dangerous urban quick-reaction mission. Now here he was, in the thick of it. He was street fighting.

  “Hey, I’m over here. Hey, get me out of here.”

  Robinson peeked his head over the courtyard wall and saw Corporal James Carl still lying against the side of the track, yelling in pain. Rounds were pinging off the track around him. Most of the injured had been helped away from the track. Carl had somehow been left behind.

  “Hey. Over here. I’m here. Come back.”

  Robinson could tell he was trying hard to stay tough, but there was real desperation in his voice.

  He grabbed Doran, and the two of them jumped over the wall and ran toward Carl. By the time they got there, Corporal Jake Worthington, the Javelin gunner, was already in the dirt next to Carl, struggling to throw him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

  Worthington had been running for the courtyard when he’d realized that they’d left a marine behind at the track. In Worthington’s eyes, he was an injured marine, suffering and in pain, who needed help. He didn’t know that it was Corporal Carl. He’d tried to put him over his shoulder to carry him away from the incoming rounds, but he didn’t have the strength. He just didn’t have anything left. He couldn’t even lift him off the ground. Worthington saw rounds walking toward him, hitting the hull of the track and the dirt around his feet. He turned around to see a massive explosion as the deadlined track 208 went up in a fireball. I’m going to be that dumb-ass who goes to help someone and gets himself shot. I’m going to die. He looked up and saw Robinson and Doran coming to help. He was overwhelmed with gratitude. They’ve just saved my life.

  Worthington grabbed one of Carl’s arms and Doran the other. Then, while Robinson sprayed rounds from his M203 out into the street, the two dragged Carl away from the track. To Worthington, it looked as though Carl’s femoral artery was cut because blood was just pouring out of his leg. No way are we going to get him over that wall. He’s gonna die. Robinson let out another burst of fire and they dragged him to a blue-and-white iron gate set into a wall a short way from where the others were taking cover. Doran kicked the gate, but it didn’t budge. The four of them were now several meters away from the shelter of the track, exposed in the middle of Ambush Alley. Doran kicked the iron gate again. This time it gave way, and the four of them tumbled into the courtyard of a house.

  From the back room, a middle-aged Iraqi man came running out, shouting and quivering at the sight of the marines. He had his hands up in supplication. Robinson pointed his rifle at him.

  “Get out of here. Get the fuck out.”

  The man gesticulated wildly with his arms, screaming at them in Arabic.

  “Get the fuck out.”

  Robinson couldn’t access any of the Arabic words that he’d learned. He made a sweeping motion with his gun to get him to move out, but the man just stood there, shouting at him in a stream of Arabic. Then he let out a lone English word.

  “Family.”

  Robinson understood.

  “Family. Okay. Go get your family.”

  From the back room, a young girl and an older woman joined them. Robinson saw that they were terrified. The young girl pulled her clothes around her, concerned that strange men were looking at her.

  The older woman started to walk fast toward Worthington. In a panic, he aimed his rifle at her, ready to shoot. If she takes one more step toward me I’m gonna kill her. She took a step forward, reached out, and grabbed a scarf from a shelf behind him. She turned and ran panic stricken out of the back door. Worthington felt humiliated. I was about to shoot her, and all she wanted was her scarf.

  The man turned back toward them. This time he spoke in broken English.

  “Do you want anything?”

  Robinson looked up, surprised.

  “Yeah. Water. Water. Agua.”

  Worthington chuckled.

  “Hey, dude, he’s Iraqi, not Spanish.”

  The whole situation was terrifying, but Worthington couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Whatever. I’m Californian.”

  Robinson motioned again with his rifle.

  “Get out of here.”

  This time the man turned and ran out. Now they had time to look around. They were in a room about six meters square with carpets, a sofa, plain wooden furniture, and windows with grilles. Bags of flour or rice had been improvised as sandbags against the windows.

  “We got to clear these rooms.”

  Using room-entry techniques Robinson had learned from MOUT training, he ran through the house with Doran, checking that there was no one else in any of the other downstairs rooms. Robinson kept low, stayed away from windows, and darted into rooms while Doran covered for him, his rifle at the ready. He scanned up and down, to the left and right, kept fire discipline by not spraying rounds, cleared the room, and then moved on to the next one. He hurried through it, realizing that he ought to have taken more care. But it seemed to work. They had everyone out. The house was basic but homely, with five or six rooms—several steps up from the mud huts that they had seen on their way from Kuwait.

  With the downstairs clear, Worthington lay Carl in the front room. He took out his Swiss Army knife and hacked through Carl’s chemical suit trousers. The charcoal-lined suit was sodden with blood. He saw three wounds. One was a gaping hole in his thigh that was pumping blood. Two other wounds were on the shin of his leg, which was bloody and swollen. Worthington dropped his knife. Blood from Carl’s wounds squirted toward it with such force that the knife was covered with it and washed away. Worthington never found it again. He grabbed his first-aid kit from his butt pack and stabilized Carl by pushing bandages into the hole in his leg. Every muscle in Carl’s body was clenched with pain. As Worthington started to apply the pressure bandages, Carl groaned in agony.

  Robinson bounded up a staircase and emerged onto a flat roof with a small bricked-up room. There was a laundry line spanning its length and a small parapet, about two feet high, running around the roof’s perimeter. He checked his situational awareness. He knew that the rest of the marines were in a courtyard below him on the other side of the parapet. He didn’t want to put his head over the wall because he knew it would surprise them and they would shoot him.
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br />   He yelled back into the alley.

  “Is that you, Robinson?”

  He dared to look over the wall and saw Martin aiming an M16 right at his head from below.

  “Shit, I almost killed you.”

  “The house is clear. Get over here.”

  “How d’you get in?”

  It was too dangerous to go back into Ambush Alley and around the front. Castleberry, Honmichl, and Martin collected some loose bricks and built some steps to help them all get over the wall. Robinson stood on top of the wall and covered them while, one by one, they climbed over and fell into the cleared house. It reminded Robinson of training. Just like an obstacle course at Camp Lejeune.

  At that moment, an Iraqi who looked like the same man they had kicked out earlier came running into the house through the back door, gesticulating and ranting. Most marines had at some stage received their laminated card with the rules of engagement on it. “Treat civilians and their property with respect and dignity.” “Give a receipt to the property’s owner.” Now, though, surrounded by a hostile force, in hostile territory, the rules of engagement looked different. A screaming Iraqi, even one who just wanted his property back, was a dead Iraqi. Several marines let out a burst of gunfire and the man dropped to the ground. They piled up furniture against the back door to stop anyone else from running in.

  There were now four serious casualties and about twenty more or less able-bodied marines inside the house. Some of the marines began to panic. Jared Martin, blood still streaming down his eye from the shrapnel wound he received up at the bridge, tried to get his head together. We’ve got to calm down. Is everyone okay now? What’s going to happen next? We’re low on water and ammo. They knew they still had supplies in the track, including several boxes of ammo inside, but the track was still smoking. The whole thing might go up. Martin remembered that in the rush to get out, they had left behind the broken body of his buddy Fribley. He wished they had brought him with them.

  Robinson was dying of thirst from running around. He realized he was unbearably hot. There was so much going on that he hadn’t noticed it before. He threw off his chemical suit blouse and gas mask and got rid of his rubber overboots. He felt a hundred pounds lighter. He ran up to the roof with Castleberry, Martin, Ortiz, and some of the others. There they clicked into action. They divided up the areas they were going to cover, building up a base of fire around the SAW gun, the machine gun that was the backbone of a squad’s defense. It was an excellent position.

  “You got that building and that building. Next guy, you got that building and that building.”

  By posting marines a few meters apart, they could build overlapping sectors of fire and cover the whole street in front of them. They did a quick general scan of the buildings opposite. Then, as they’d been taught, they each made detailed scans of the street, gradually working their way outward in fifty-meter strips till they were looking at the rooftops opposite.

  It was only now that Robinson realized exactly where they were. He heard the explosion of huge mortars raining down in the distance to his right, sending up billowing mushroom clouds. It sounds like World War III. He believed the noise was coming from the north side of the Saddam Canal, by the bridge where they had been fighting earlier. The rest of Charlie Company must still be under attack. He worked out that to his left was the Euphrates Bridge, which they had crossed several hours earlier. He looked at the disabled track 201 in the street, in front of the house. From the way it was facing, he worked out their orientation. They must have left the northern bridge and been traveling south when they got hit. That means we are on our own in the middle of Ambush Alley.

  There were crowds of Iraqis about twenty meters from them, hiding in the alleyways opposite, inching closer. More of them started massing in the street. Robinson noticed that, strangely, some of them started waving, as if in welcome. He had no idea whether they were innocent civilians or fighters. He hadn’t been taught how to fight like this. All of a sudden a burst of gunfire erupted from within the crowd. The marines on the roof opened up. Some in the crowd scattered. Others fell to the ground.

  Castleberry was amazed at what a perfect place they’d found. From the roof they could see almost everything. They could also take shelter behind the low parapet. It was like their own fort. It’s like defending the Alamo. It wasn’t a comfortable sight, though. In the alleyways in front, to the left, and to the right, black-robed figures congregated, as though they were ready for an assault on the building.

  “Hajjis at the track.”

  Marines let out a burst of fire as an Iraqi tried to run across the street and steal a ruck hanging from the side of the track. He ducked for cover. Then another one darted out. This time the marines on the roof hit him with a burst of gunfire. He shuddered to a halt and fell to the ground as the rounds punched him in the torso. Another burst of gunfire stopped his writhing. More Iraqis made the suicide run to the track. Some of them managed to pull down the rucks hanging off the track. Others were just cut down in the middle of the street. Young boys were sent out on the raiding missions. Maybe the Iraqis thought the Americans wouldn’t shoot at young kids. Castleberry couldn’t understand why fathers, uncles, and older brothers would let the young boys risk their lives. It bothered him. But he shot them anyway. This is like shooting fish in a barrel.

  It was a continuous stream of orders and reassurance to each other. Nobody was in charge. They went with whoever shouted loudest and whoever came up with a good idea. But it was working. They were still alive.

  “I need more ammo.”

  “Milter, watch out. Hajjis behind you.”

  “Who needs some 203s?”

  “I’m out of rounds, I’m out of rounds.”

  “I need water over here.”

  “Hajjis running for the track.”

  They’d only been there fifteen minutes and already the area around track 201 was scattered with dead Iraqis. Castleberry couldn’t explain why they kept rushing out into the street, only to be mowed down by the marines on the roof. You’d have thought they would have got the idea.

  Farther up the road, strewn around the burning track 208, Robinson saw pieces of dead marines. He could hardly look at the sight. The track was still burning and beginning to cook off. Inside were boxes of ammo. The track was letting off sparks and flames. He regretted that they were losing so much ammo and firepower from the guns mounted on the track. But at least the hajjis can’t get at it to break down our defense. It didn’t stop them from trying, though. Young Iraqi boys dashed to the track and tried to pull down the rucks attached to its side, or grabbed Kevlars and equipment from the dead marines lying on the ground.

  Robinson knew that they now had to let battalion know where they were. He watched the radio telephone operator, Lance Corporal Sena, doing his radio operator thing while crouched behind the parapet. He was fiddling with the handheld radio.

  “The battery is dead. I can’t get no comms. I can’t get no comms.”

  Robinson’s heart sank. If we can’t get comms, they won’t find us. We’re stuck. He found Wentzel. Wentzel was no longer balled up. He was more energized. He now looked to be more in the game.

  “I need to get back to the track and get some batteries for the radio.”

  Wentzel wouldn’t let him go. He was worried that if the Iraqis started firing on the track again it might hit the ammo stored inside and then the whole thing would blow.

  He went downstairs to find Worthington. Both Worthington and Wentzel were corporals. Theoretically, they had the same authority. If Wentzel wouldn’t let him go, maybe Worthington would. He found Worthington still patching up Carl in the front room.

  “I need to get back to the track.”

  “I know, but let’s wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “Wait till we’ve got a situation here. Just hang on.”

  Robinson didn’t like the answer. They needed to get supplies from the track. The Marine Corps had taught him aggress
iveness, boldness, initiative. But now he felt driven by something instinctive. Something he hadn’t learned. Something he’d always lived with. He wanted to go to the track just to get something done, to get anything done. He felt a constant battle between giving in to fear and being inspired by it. He’d learned through Marine infantry school that fear was infectious. It could spread hopelessness and despair. Or it could be controlled and channeled to inspire those around him to fight. He left Worthington and put his energies into strengthening the defense for the house. Their position was good, but there was some dead space in a small alley to the left of them where, even from the roof, they still couldn’t see anyone approaching. If we can get the house next door, we will be in a much safer position. He grabbed Olivas and Milter, ran downstairs, climbed over the eight-foot-high wall separating the houses, and ran into the courtyard of the house next door. The family inside took off pretty quick. This time Robinson knew what to expect from the layout of the rooms. He cleared the house by the book, methodically going from room to room. He kept low and tight with Olivas and Milter while they covered him. There was no one else inside the house. He went up the stone stairs onto the roof. There was a full view of both sides of Ambush Alley.

  The first few minutes after the marines had taken over the house were chaotic and disorientating. Now Castleberry’s initial, overwhelming panic had begun to subside. He had regained some situational awareness, and they had repelled the first wave of Iraqi fighters. He hadn’t seen Sergeant Schaefer or Lieutenant Swantner and had no idea whether they had survived. Now he looked up to see Robinson on the roof of the house next door. On ship and in Kuwait, Castleberry had talked with Robinson about his desire to join Force Recon. Now he saw him strutting about on the roof of the house next door as if he owned it. I don’t believe it. He’s having a good time. He’s in full Recon mode.

  “You are beautiful, man. You are beautiful.”

  “This house is clear, dude. We’re good.”

  “Get back over this side.”

  Looking at the space between the two houses, Robinson saw that if you had the balls you could get from one house to the other by jumping the gap between the two roofs rather than going back to ground level and climbing over walls. He felt the same nervous excitement he used to have when he was about to ride an awesome wave, a wave that might be too powerful for him. He took a breath, gave himself a short run-up, and jumped the gap.