Dyer was concerned. That was the call sign for a Charlie Company platoon commander. On battalion tac 1 you might hear the commander or his deputy, sometimes called the 6 or the 5, but not the 3, the platoon commander. You get your ass handed to you if you are on the battalion net and not supposed to be there. Something is badly wrong.
“Palehorse 3, this is Panzer 5. Roll to 158.”
Dyer wanted to speak to him on the company net so that they could get away from the cacophony of chatter on the battalion net.
“Panzer 5, this is Palehorse 3.”
“Roger. Send it.”
It was Lieutenant Seely, Charlie Company’s 3rd Platoon commander.
“We are cut off behind enemy lines and we are completely surrounded and we are taking casualties. We have a platoon cut off from the rest of the company and our forward observer is dead. Our FiST leader is wounded. I’ve tried Timberwolf, but I’m getting no response.”
“What’s your position?”
The radio went quiet while Seely was checking his grid coordinates. Just then, Dyer saw a muzzle flash from a window on the third story of a distant building on the right side of the road. At the same time, an AK round cracked past his ear. There you are, you son of a bitch! It was the sniper. He yelled at his gunner.
“Bell. Kill that son of a bitch. Colocate an MPAT round with that fucking sniper. Fire the main gun!”
Boom.
The round just blew a big hole in the window and the surrounding wall. The floor of the building where he’d seen the muzzle flash just disintegrated. The sniping stopped.
Dyer looked down to see Hawkins in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the turret. Unaware that Dyer was about to fire the main gun, Hawkins had been hanging out of the turret watching the helos make their gun run. The concussive force of the main gun had knocked him off his feet. Oh my God, he’s dead. To Dyer’s relief, Hawkins stirred and threw him an accusatory stare.
Palehorse 3 came back on the radio with a grid reference. Dyer couldn’t believe it when he heard it.
“Say again.”
The grid reference would put them beyond the Saddam Canal Bridge. That means Charlie is well north of where anyone can help them.
“Roger. Stand by.”
He didn’t want to leave the poor guy hanging on the radio, but he needed to talk to Major Peeples.
Near Dyer’s tank, as the search team looked through the wreckage of Charlie track 206 for survivors, Alpha’s marines saw another AAV speeding south through Ambush Alley into their position. The Alpha marines didn’t know it, but it was Charlie 207, the track driven by Corporal Brown, which had turned round to pick up Lieutenant Swantner and Sergeant Schaefer when they had jumped out of the deadlined track 201. Inside, Schaefer was shaking with fear and his blood was pumping with adrenaline. Of the five medevac tracks in the convoy that had set off together from the northern bridge, only two, 210 and 207, had made it safely back to the southern bridge.
Brown brought the track to a halt just north of the Euphrates Bridge. Schaefer jumped out, ecstatic to be out of the terrifying darkness. He didn’t know where to go or what to do. There were so many things he thought he should be doing that he didn’t know where to start. He saw one of Alpha’s tracks, bristling with antennae, parked off to the side of the road on the east side of the bridge. He presumed it was the C7 command track. He was hyped up and desperate. I’ve got to get some help to Charlie. I’ve got to let them know what a fucking mess it is up there. He wrenched open the back hatch of the track, finally relieved to be in a position to help. A captain, closest to the door, stepped back in shock. The poor guy thinks I’m an Iraqi come to kill him. Inside there was a bank of radios, boards with Post-it notes, and marines with headsets plotting positions on maps.
The words tumbled out. Schaefer explained who he was, about the fight that Charlie was having on the northern bridge, about the destroyed tracks in Ambush Alley, that the marines inside might have been killed while trying to get out. He said that Captain Wittnam and Lieutenant Tracy might also be dead.
The captain shook his head. He said there was too much going on at the Euphrates Bridge and that they didn’t have any one they could spare.
“There’s nothing we can do to help you right now.”
Schaefer was frustrated and disgusted. He ran over to one of the tanks, Desert Knight, and banged on the hatch. An officer popped his head out. It was Major Peeples.
“What do you need?”
Schaefer told him that Charlie Company was stranded on the northern bridge, that they were taking casualties and that they needed help.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Schaefer jumped off the tank and headed back to his track. He was in a world of his own, pissed off, manic with frustration and anger. It was a world that was crumbling around him. The Marine Corps had been his life since he was eighteen. It had given him a home and friends. He’d joined because he’d gotten tired of his parents, back home in Charleston, South Carolina, manipulating him and using their money to control him. He’d gone to a military academy, but it cost $16,000 a year, and they kept on saying that unless he got better grades, they would stop paying his fees. By the end of his freshman year, he was sick of them and decided to jack it in and join the Marines. They walk taller and prouder than the other branches of the military. Who wouldn’t want to join them? As a tracker, he’d been sent to Bosnia and Egypt, but Iraq was the first time he’d seen combat. When his dad found out he was going, he was disparaging.
“Son, you’ll be nothing but a bullet catcher.”
His father’s comment had pissed him off at the time. But now he wondered whether the Marine Corps really was the secure home he’d thought it was. As he crossed the open street, he took fire from some Iraqis in a building off to the side. Instead of taking cover, he just stood there in the middle of the dusty street, punching out rounds from his M16. He was possessed, temporarily insane with hate and fury. Part of him knew that standing in the open like that was against everything he had ever been taught. But part of him didn’t care anymore.
Some marine snipers looked at him with astonishment as he made his way back to his track.
“Where are you going, Sergeant?”
“I’m going back up there.”
“We’ll go with you.”
Brown was waiting for him. Schaefer didn’t know whether Castleberry and the others from track 201 were alive or dead. He felt bad that he’d left them there. They were his marines to look after, and he’d abandoned them. Overwhelming feelings of guilt mixed with anger and bitterness at the way the marine captain had reacted when he’d asked for his help began to take over. He didn’t stop to think what a dangerous and stupid move it was to go back along Ambush Alley for a third time in a single AAV. Brown turned to Schaefer.
“I think we’re going to die.”
“Probably so.”
“Let’s do it.”
Major Peeples now knew that he was not the only one who was experiencing difficulty in communicating with the battalion staff. Captain Brooks was also finding it difficult to break through the chatter and give out important information. But at least his knowledge of the battlefield was becoming clearer. Captain Dyer had just informed him about the distress call he had received from Charlie on the northern bridge. It confirmed what the Charlie AAV platoon commander, Sergeant Schaefer, had just told him. Charlie Company is in trouble, and the battalion commander doesn’t know what the hell is going on. Peeples had never been in combat before, but it had been drummed into him during training that sometimes the battalion command structure is not going to be able to control the fight. To reassert control of the battle, marines were trained to break down into squads or into the smallest unit of four-man fire teams. A large, chaotic battle can still be won by breaking it down into smaller fights. Ducking to avoid the incoming small-arms fire, Peeples ran over to Brooks.
“Charlie Company is having a rough time. They are taking a lot of casualties. They nee
d some tanks up there.”
Peeples saw Brooks’s face drop. He knew Brooks didn’t want to lose those tanks. Since they’d arrived, they had begun to turn the tide.
“Are you going to take all four tanks?”
Peeples saw the distress on Brooks’s face. His face looks as though I’ve just kicked him in the nuts.
“I’m going to leave two here with you, and I’m going to take the other two north.”
He jumped back on Desert Knight and told the driver that they were going to drive straight through Ambush Alley.
“Here’s what you are going to do. You are going to pull back the cadillacs as far as possible and you are going to shoot down this road as fast as we can go. Do you understand?”
“Roger that, sir.”
Peeples called his XO, Scott Dyer, to follow him in Dark Side.
“Captain Dyer, get your tank on the road and follow me.”
Dyer maneuvered his tank behind Desert Knight. He saw that the other two tanks from 3rd Platoon, Red 1 and Red 2, were not following them.
“Panzer 6, this is Panzer 5. I don’t see Red 1 moving. Is Red 1 coming?”
“Negative, I’m leaving Red here. I need to leave some tank support for Alpha Company. It’s just you and me.”
Dyer had seen the number of Iraqis that were running up and down Ambush Alley resupplying their ammo and getting into position. He’d seen the machine-gun and RPG positions along the road. He really didn’t want to be driving all the way up it. Another RPG whooshed past his head as they took off up Ambush Alley. Oh shit. The major must have brass balls. Huge brass balls.
21
Captain Mike Brooks’s heart sunk as he watched Peeples disappear with two tanks into the mouth of Ambush Alley. He now had only two tanks to safeguard his position at the Euphrates Bridge. The aggression and initiative displayed by Peeples had impressed Brooks. He didn’t wait for orders from the battalion commander. Would his actions stand up in a doctrinal textbook? Maybe. Maybe not. Anyway, he is now carrying a lot of the success of the battalion on his shoulders.
Brooks now had a much clearer picture of the battlefield. It was now confirmed that the AAV that had been hit in his position was not one of his tracks. The track and its dead and wounded were from Charlie Company. He also now knew, from survivors from the convoy, that Charlie Company had taken the northern bridge but were in one hell of a fight to hold on to it. But he had heard nothing from Bravo or the forward command post for some time. I guess they are still heading north around the east side of the city. It must be taking longer than planned. He didn’t know that several tanks and tracks were stuck in the mud. He had never asked the battalion commander. He had just wanted simple answers to his simple questions. He had too many things going on where he was located to find out what was happening at the forward CP. Nevertheless, he felt uncomfortable not knowing where the other units were. It’s not good warfighting skills. You need to know where everyone is to reduce fratricide. Because he did not know exactly where the other battalion units were, his FiST was forced to coordinate fire support by knowing where friendly forces weren’t.
They were still receiving RPG and small-arms fire from the buildings at the mouth of Ambush Alley. Rounds were still cracking over his head, and mortar shells and RPGs were exploding only yards away.
He ran back to his C7 to work out what he was going to do. He did know that the three companies were now in separate parts of the city and unable to support each other. The longer it goes on like that, the bigger a problem it will become. Brooks had assets with him—the 81 mm mortar platoon, a CAAT section, tanks, a forward air controller, and now a platoon of Charlie’s own marines—that would make a huge difference in Charlie’s fight. The longer we sit here, the more dire the situation is going to be.
He couldn’t move until 2nd Battalion, 8th Marines conducted the relief in place. There was no sign of them on the bridge. He tried to think one step ahead, formulating in his mind suggestions that he could throw at the battalion commander. He knew that Dan Wittnam, Charlie Company’s commander, was in trouble. Dan was a close friend. Personal loyalty was involved, too. Dan needs help. Bravo is stuck to the east. I am the only person who can help him. He was realizing that he needed to leave the Euphrates Bridge and head north along Ambush Alley to help out Charlie at the Saddam Canal Bridge. Now he wanted to speak to the battalion commander or the operations officer so that he could make it happen.
“Timberwolf, this is Tomahawk 6. Do you read me?”
There was nothing.
He tried to reach the main command post.
“Main, this is Tomahawk 6.”
He thought back to war games and training. If ever there were a tactical problem thrown at you in peacetime, this would rival any of them. But he wasn’t training. This was for real. This is the sort of situation you only ever read about. He had to make a decision, and there was no one to help him. Should he move now and help Charlie, even though 2/8 had not arrived to secure the Euphrates Bridge? Commander’s Intent told him that at the end of the day, his mission was to help secure the northern bridge. The longer he waited, the more likely it was that Charlie would have to surrender the bridge. I am not going to stand by idly and allow Charlie Company to get chopped up or take further casualties when I could be in a position to assist them.
Brooks moved around with the field radio to get a clearer signal. Although the buildings were only one or two stories, they seemed to be interfering with reception. He tried a different radio, but it didn’t help. Finally, he got through to the assistant operations officer, Captain Hernley, at the main CP some fifteen kilometers away. He almost shouted at the voice at the end of the line.
“I have no comms with the battalion commander. I need to know where 2/8 is so I can turn the bridge over to them.”
“Two-Eight is already in position.”
Brooks looked back to the Euphrates Bridge. Then he looked at the casevac helicopter still waiting in an alleyway off Ambush Alley for the wounded from track 206 to be loaded up.
“I don’t see ’em. Can you check that? I’m evacuating casualties. As soon as this helo lifts, I’m going to call you again and I’m going to tell you what I’m going to do.”
Brooks ran over to his men, warning them to prepare to move out.
“Pass the word. When the helo lifts, we are going to make best possible speed to Charlie’s position.”
Fifty meters away, the 81 mm mortar platoon was still firing. He yelled at them.
“When this helo lifts, we’re leaving.”
He saw them looking at him blankly. They had no idea who the hell he was.
“I’m the fucking company commander. And when this helo lifts, we are leaving.”
They sprang into action.
He ran back to the track and got on the radio to Hernley.
“What’s the status of 2/8?”
“To the best of my knowledge, 2/8 is in position on the bridge. They say they are on the bridge.”
Brooks once again stood up and looked across the span of the bridge.
“Listen. I’m on the fucking bridge and I don’t fucking see them.”
Brooks made a quick calculation. The railway bridge had confused him earlier in the day. Either they are on the railway bridge, not the Euphrates Bridge, in which case it will take them too long to get here, or they are holding and not coming. He asked himself whether he was prepared to undergo the scrutiny of leaving before he’d done a positive handover to 2/8. He decided he was. He reached for the radio.
“When this helo lifts, I’m going to go up north and relieve the pressure on Charlie.”
22
The Charlie marines had now been in the house on Ambush Alley for about an hour, and for the first time they felt as though they had a semblance of control. They expected a Marine convoy to come and rescue them at any moment. With all its technical and military know-how, the Marine Corps must be able to get to them. For the past few minutes, it had been calm. But there w
as something about the way the black-robed figures appeared and then disappeared from alleyways and windows that made them feel that it was about to kick off again. Castleberry was perched behind the parapet with a good view down Ambush Alley when he saw a motorbike with two soldiers on it coming up the street toward them. They were the first uniformed soldiers he’d seen all day. The guy on the back was firing an AK at the house as he sped along the street. All the marines on the roof got into firing positions.
They’d killed so many people that Castleberry didn’t feel much anymore. It has turned into a game to see who can kill the most Iraqis. When the motorbike came into firing range, all the marines on the roof were on it. There were bursts of gunfire from M16s, M249s, M203s. It was a 203 grenade that hit the motorbike first, punching a hole through the driver as the bike spilled from under him. The marines on the roof let out a cheer. The passenger tried to pick up the bike and kick-start it. He was a sitting duck. There was another burst of gunfire. We’ve wasted him in a hail of fire. The roof erupted again in cheering.
Worthington, down in the courtyard, saw the marines yelling and hollering with delight, doing a victory dance as if they’d scored a touchdown.
“Yo, that’s what I’m talking about. Whoa.”
Robinson was so hyped up that any movement was now a threat. He spotted a white pickup truck careering down the road. This is dangerous. If the car manages to knock down a wall, they will overrun us. He took aim with his machine gun and fired. The truck veered wildly off the road and exploded.
Castleberry recognized the change in atmosphere. Killing had become routine and easy. An old man with a stick walked right along Ambush Alley in front of the house. Nobody was taking any chances. A marine fired at him. The old man crumpled to his knees, his face looking in the direction of the house. Milter was freaked out.
“He’s looking at me. He’s fucking looking at me.”
Castleberry could see that the old man wasn’t looking at anyone. There was no movement. He was obviously dead. It didn’t stop Milter.
Ambush Alley: The Most Extraordinary Battle of the Iraq War Page 28
