“That old man is looking at me. He’s staring right at me.”
Somebody shot the old man again to force his gaze in another direction.
Castleberry didn’t know how long they would be able to hold out. He saw Sena still working with the radio. There was a weak signal, but there was so much chatter going on that he couldn’t break through. He heard Sena trying to call back to Captain Wittnam on the northern bridge.
“Palehorse 6, we’re south of the bridge one hundred meters, in a house to the east of the MSR.”
Again there was nothing.
“Why can’t we get any fucking comms?”
Castleberry wanted a go at it. He thought of himself as pretty useful with anything technical. At home in Seattle, while his brother had messed about with computers, Castleberry had done more manual things—fixing cars, stereos, anything that was broken. He turned the radio off for ten minutes to see if the batteries would recharge. This time he tried his AAV platoon commander, Lieutenant Tracy, call sign Whaler. If he was still on the northern bridge with Charlie, maybe the signal would reach him.
“Whaler. This is Castleberry, over. Tracy. This is Castleberry, over.”
On the northern bridge, Tracy had just climbed back into his track when he heard a faint noise on the radio. Through the static, he could just make out the name of Castleberry. He grabbed the radio.
“Castleberry, this is Tracy. Where are you? Over.”
Castleberry was elated at the response. It was the first time they had made contact with anybody since they’d taken over the house. He tried to tell Tracy about the dash down Ambush Alley and being stranded in the house. All Tracy could hear was empty static.
“You’re breaking up. I can’t understand.”
Castleberry was getting frustrated. He started to yell into the radio. He knew it was stupid, but he thought that if he shouted louder, something might get through.
“Castleberry. This is Tracy. I’m losing you. Click once if you can hear me.”
Castleberry clicked the radio key once.
“Good. Click once for yes, twice for no. Are you south of the north bridge?
He clicked the radio key once for yes.
“Are you at Alpha’s position?”
Castleberry clicked twice for no.
“Are you in your vehicle?”
Castleberry clicked twice again.
Tracy was worried. That’s not good news.
“Are you in the city?”
Castleberry clicked once for yes. Tracy paused, trying to come to terms with the fact that there was at least one marine stranded in the city without support.
On the roof, it had been quiet now for about fifteen minutes. Robinson found his mind wandering. He thought about his wife. They had met because they were both swimmers. He hadn’t written to her much in Kuwait, just a couple of brief notes scribbled on the back of some cardboard, or an MRE packet on which he’d written her address and Free Postage. The last one he’d written didn’t say much more than “Hey, how’s it going?” He hadn’t described much about life in Kuwait or what he did all day. She’s a clever girl. She can work it out. But now he didn’t know how he was going to explain to her about the house in Ambush Alley and the killing and the chaos. She had moved to Camp Lejeune with him but hated it on the East Coast and moved back to California, where she worked as a travel agent. He had missed having her around. After she left, he had to share a small room on base that contained a sink and three bunks with two other guys. The good thing was she flew back to see him every couple of weeks. She hated him going to Iraq and said he might die out there. But he made a promise to her that he wouldn’t get killed because he wanted to have kids with her. He’d even refused to write a death letter like some of the other marines did. He thought it was bad luck. I hope I’ll be able to keep my promise about having kids.
He wondered who would look through his pack if he died. There was an understanding among the marines that they would sanitize each other’s packs. They would get rid of the porn magazines and other private stuff that it wasn’t good for family or girlfriends to see. He’d heard of a marine who was killed in combat and whose wife had received, among his personal effects, letters a girlfriend had written to him. That wasn’t good.
He had no idea how long they’d been in the house. Time was of no relevance. It could have been five minutes; it could have been five hours. They were all feeling the strain and beginning to sag. Robinson watched someone write a death letter and give it to a fellow marine. He saw Martin, with blood streaming down his face, still posting security on the roof and was amazed that he didn’t act injured. It was the same with Seegert. He’d been on the roof like everyone else. Now Robinson saw that his triceps had been shredded. He thought about the injured marines downstairs. All I want to do is get them home. He hoped that if he were wounded, someone would look after him, too. Only hours earlier, he had remembered feeling all macho and that the marines would crush anything that stood in their way. Now he was terrified. We just might not make it out of this one. I’m scared. I want to go home. But home was such a long way away.
“Hey, there’s something big going on over there.”
Robinson woke from his reverie. He looked south and saw Cobras circling among the buildings away to the east of Ambush Alley. Something is going down a couple of klicks away. He thought for a moment that the helos were going to turn and swoop toward them. Then they would be in trouble.
Worthington grabbed some metal foil from the house and tried to signal to the Cobras in the sky. It didn’t seem to work. He broke some glass and tried to reflect the sun toward the eyes of the pilots. Other marines grabbed laundry and the orange air panel from inside the track and waved them at the helos in the distance. But the helos ignored the marines and just kept pounding the buildings in front. Smoke billowed out from between the buildings followed by a long crackle of gunfire and an enormous boom. Maybe Bravo is finally on its way to get us out of here? But if he was honest with himself, he was no longer sure where any of the companies were or whether anyone was going to come and get them out.
Robinson, Olivas, Martin, and Castleberry sat under the shelter of the parapet on the roof. Worthington manned his SAW position in the courtyard. Smith worked on Carl, Trevino, and Elliot in the front room. They felt alone, abandoned, let down. In the midst of the anxiety and tension there was now a new, even more uncomfortable sensation taking root. They didn’t recognize it yet, but it was the early traces of what was growing into a burning, bitter anger.
23
Major Peeples and Captain Dyer, in their tanks Desert Knight and Dark Side, accelerated to forty-five miles per hour as they screamed up Ambush Alley toward the Saddam Canal Bridge. Small-arms fire pinged off the side of the tanks, but they were going so fast that Peeples hardly noticed it. Halfway along, he saw what looked like a marine step out into the road and try and flag him down. It was Major Sosa, with pistol drawn. Peeples drew up beside him. What the hell is he doing?
Sosa yelled up at him.
“Charlie Company needs you up north.”
“I know that. That’s where I’m going.”
“Well, get going then.”
Peeples jumped up again on his tank. It was a strange conversation. But at least he now knew the location of the battalion forward command post. He sped north toward the canal bridge, hardly noticing the amount of fire raining down on him. Just before reaching it something caught his eye. He saw a burning AAV, and in the dirt around it, the torso of a marine. He’d never seen a dead marine before. It was a sight that burned into his memory. He faced forward again and continued toward the bridge.
Just behind him in Dark Side, Dyer’s driver, Lance Corporal Shirley, was swerving the tank in and out of the telephone poles to avoid the RPG rounds that were coming at them from both sides of the road. In the turret, Dyer was targeting a retreating RPG gunner with his coax. As he swung the turret back to a forward position, he caught a glimpse of a red cloth and the
distinctive shape of some marine helmets on the roof of a house on the east side of Ambush Alley. It was not much more than a flash, but he guessed that they were marines. He wondered what they were doing there. He logged the house’s position in his mind. There was no way he was going to stop. He was going at forty-five miles per hour and was under fire.
Following Peeples’s tank, he rolled up to and across the flat span of the canal bridge and got his first view of the battlefield on the north side. Holy shit. Dyer again thought of a movie. The air was thick with dirt, smoke, and flying metal. Mud was being thrown up in the air as mortars and artillery shells impacted on the ground. He saw there was hardly any space between the impact holes. Small-arms fire whizzed around him. This is like the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan.
Lying in a swamp near the span of the canal bridge, marines from Charlie Company’s 2nd Platoon were trying to identify targets. They had been receiving fire from under the bridge all day. They could see figures running about in the reeds trying to take potshots at them. Lance Corporal Eric Killeen was worried. If there were a concerted push from the north, they would be sandwiched.
Tracy was trying to organize his two remaining fully functioning vehicles into a defensive perimeter. He hadn’t fired the gun on his track for some time. He’d assumed that the Iraqis thought they’d all quit when the AAVs went south. He didn’t want to let them know that those two tracks were still functioning. I’ve just got to sit here quietly and not attract any attention.
Captain Dan Wittnam was by the bridge, taking cover under the raised road that headed north. For several hours he’d been expecting tank support to arrive. It was about 1600, and soon it would get dark. Where are those fucking tanks?
From across the bridge, the marines of Charlie Company heard a rumble and felt the ground shake. Killeen thought Iraqi tanks were on their way. He thought the company was almost certainly lost.
Wittnam and Tracy also heard the roar. They raised their heads above the road and saw two M1A1 Abrams rumbling over the bridge. Tracy’s stomach leaped. This is the greatest thing I’ve ever seen.
From the turret of his M1A1 tank, Peeples saw that Charlie Company was getting hit hard. Mortar shells were coming in from the southern bank of the canal; rounds were coming in from the west and east. He headed for the AAV with the diamond symbol denoting the commander’s track. As soon as he stopped, Dan Wittnam jumped onto the tank. He looked beat up and anxious.
“What do you need?”
Wittnam pointed to some buildings back toward the city from where they were taking most of the artillery fire. Peeples ordered his loader to load a high-explosive round. Any second, the Iraqis are going to bracket fire on me. I’ve got to find them before they get me. His gunner sent out a laser shot to get a range on a building and then fired the main gun. There was a deafening boom. The building crumbled. Wittnam stayed on the tank, pointing out targets.
“We’re taking fire from that building there. The one with the machine gun on the roof.”
“Roger that. I see it. Hey, gunner, I want you to put two rounds right on that building with the red door.”
“Roger that.”
The gunner looked through the crosshairs on his sight and fired a couple of times. The tank rocked back. Boom. Boom. The building exploded.
Wittnam was relieved. We’re gonna have the north side of this bridge for the rest of the war.
“Panzer 5, this is Palehorse 3. We are separated from the rest of the company and we are getting heavy fire from the north.”
It was Lieutenant Seely, the same marine on the radio who had alerted Captain Dyer to Charlie’s plight. Peeples directed Dyer and his tank to head north and find them. From the turret, Dyer looked for Lieutenant Seely and the platoon of marines who had become separated from the rest of Charlie. About five hundred meters away, he discovered them, a ragged platoon of marines, dug in like ticks, targeting a large building complex to the north with nothing but machine guns and M16 rifles. They had no mortars with them, and their FiST members had been cut up in the fight. Artillery and mortar shells were landing all around them. Dyer remembered from briefings that the large white building was an Iraqi army complex. He got onto his gunner, Corporal Bell.
“Put some rounds into those buildings. Fire into the high points. And hose the whole complex down with the coax.”
The turret traversed until the barrel of the gun pointed at the complex. He fired the main gun, and the marines around him cheered as a fountain of dust exploded from behind the building’s white walls.
Tracy, hunkered down by the canal, now remembered the radio message he had received from Castleberry. He knew that at least one marine was somewhere in the city. And what about the figures I saw running along the bank of the canal when one of the convoy tracks was hit crossing back into the city? They could be marines, too. He couldn’t look for them with his two remaining tracks. They were too vulnerable. The only vehicle that had the armor and firepower to venture back down Ambush Alley was a tank. He got hold of Major Peeples.
“We have marines in the city.”
Peeples recalled the conversation he’d had with Sergeant Schaefer of Charlie Company. He, too, had told him that there were marines in the city. There were no comms with the battalion commander. He decided that he was the only one who was in a position to provide any help. He spoke to Captain Wittnam.
“I’m going to leave my XO here, but I’m going back into the city to find those missing marines.”
Once more, Desert Knight took off into Ambush Alley.
24
The marines in the two houses along Ambush Alley had been holed up for two hours. They were hot, thirsty, and exhausted. The initial euphoria that had kept them alive during those early frantic moments was ebbing away. They had still not managed to get any meaningful radio message out to the forward command. There was the distinct possibility that no one knew they were there. Lance Corporal Jared Martin, sweat, dirt, and dried blood staining his face, looked up at the sky from his position on the roof. We have about two hours before the sun goes down. Then we’re gonna be real screwed.
A few minutes earlier, they had heard the rumble of tanks coming from the south toward them. They had all scrambled to wave the tanks down. Someone had grabbed the orange air panel. Worthington, Doran, and Martin had waved their rifles and Kevlar helmets. But the tanks had thundered by without stopping. Soon there was nothing but a cloud of dust and a distant rumble. The atmosphere on the roof had descended into despair. They all had the same thought. We are going to die here.
Jared Martin forced himself to stay in the game. Within his sector of fire there was a small alleyway on the other side of the street. Several times an Iraqi had emerged from behind the wall and raised an RPG to his shoulder. Each time he came out, Martin got off a round to send him diving back behind the wall before he could fire. Martin waited for him. This time he was too late. He saw the Iraqi dive into the street and fire off the RPG before he could get his M16 round off. Martin watched as the RPG arced toward him, trailing its thick white smoke. It’s going to hit us. Just before it made contact, it veered off into a power line above his head, exploding in a shower of sparks. Next time that hajji comes out, I’m going to drop him. A minute later, the Iraqi appeared behind the same corner. Martin was ready. He let off a burst from the M16 and the man crumpled.
Castleberry and Robinson were realizing that they were not going to get out of there. Robinson had already started to plan the defense of the houses in case they had to spend the night there. During training, they had always been encouraged to think What If? It was something that came naturally to Robinson. He had spent his whole life working out how to get out of difficult situations, from having an escape route if the police caught him fighting on the Santa Cruz beaches, to a story he could tell if he was accused of using steroids. Now his mind was buzzing with tasks they needed to do if they were going to make the houses secure before nightfall. Then the marines on the roof heard anothe
r distant rumble of an armored vehicle from the southern end of Ambush Alley.
“Hey, get up here, everyone. We’ve got vehicles.”
From the sound, Castleberry recognized that this time it wasn’t a tank. It was an AAV. All of them grabbed something to wave. Castleberry saw that someone was waving some pink ladies underwear.
As a tracker, Castleberry recognized every track in his platoon. He was amazed therefore to see that the lone vehicle coming up the road was Brown’s track. He didn’t know that Schaefer was inside, on his way back to Charlie’s position at the northern bridge. He watched the vehicle come toward them at speed. At the same moment, an Iraqi came out of an alley and took a knee, ready to fire an RPG at the track.
“Stop. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Stop.”
Castleberry yelled at the Iraqi uselessly. He was a long way away, but Castleberry, in a fury, unloaded a full magazine of thirty rounds at him. That’s our ticket out of here. I’m not going to let him screw us. I’m going to shoot this guy.
The AAV accelerated and disappeared back into the dust toward the northern bridge. It didn’t even appear to have seen them. Castleberry could see that the sight of it broke the spirit of some of the marines.
“It’s okay, guys. He’ll be back. We’ll be out of here.”
Castleberry tried to encourage them. He said that the trackers had seen them. In fact, he was just as dismayed. We’re fucked. We’re screwed. But he kept his thoughts to himself. If I were them, I wouldn’t want to hear that.
He thought about the time he’d spent with his wife, just before he’d left for Kuwait. It now upset him that they hadn’t spent more time together. They’d been high school sweethearts, and they married a year ago. She was visiting her parents when he got the news that he was going to Iraq. It was just after New Year’s, and by the time she was back they had only five days together. And most of the time he was working his butt off getting ready to depart. That sucked. When they got the order to go, they drove the amtracks to Camp Lejeune’s Onslow Beach and swam the tracks out to the ships. The lines on the ship to call home for a few minutes were so long that he had decided against calling her. He wondered now whether that was a mistake.
Ambush Alley: The Most Extraordinary Battle of the Iraq War Page 29
