by David Rose
“RECON!”
“Cross over.”
Into the air leaped a Rope, suspended for just a moment in the witchy twilight of the barracks lights, and then dove into the bursting ice. We followed. Under, over, and through the ice, sometimes swimming, other times at a crawl. The ice sheet was annihilated into fragments of pale muck.
Standing on the other side—signifying the run’s completion, the pond was the night’s final task. The group dive; a Fuck You to anything that could pain a mortal man.
23
ON THE RIVERS OF BABYLON
“Every morning someone wakes wanting to kill you. When you walk down the street, they are waiting, and you want to kill them, too.”
—Brian Mockenhaupt,
I Miss Iraq. I Miss My Gun. I Miss My War.
FALL 2004
What would end up being the Marine Corps’ bloodiest battle since the Vietnam War, the second battle of Fallujah, aka Operation Phantom Fury, had begun. Days prior, there was a feeling in the air that I had never felt prior, and not even the remotest replication after. The volume was down on everything. For me, at least, it reminded me of walking around in a silent movie, just with a few drab industrial and desert colors. The camp laundry had a list of units that were unable to use their services, and we knew these were the ones that were to be staging north of the city.
If the wind could have talked, somehow expressing the collective consciousness blanketing the area, it would have most likely said, “You joined for this, motherfucker. Your fear, your uncertainty. . . none of it matters now. Some powerful people far away want you in that city and your ass is going in there.”
Several people expressed how much sense it made to just drop a tactical nuke on the city, but the war effort required something of a more discriminate resolution.
Initiated, peculiarly, just two days before the Marine Corps birthday, my platoon found itself not only not in the city, but sitting in the damn farmlands south of the war, in sight of the northern shore of the Euphrates River. 2D Recon was tasked with surrounding the bottom edge of Fallujah. My company, particularly my platoon, were to intercept any reinforcements that would try to support the fortified insurgency within. There was a settled, collective disappointment among us, knowing the military had pumped a lot of money into all our training yet we were not fighting in the city with the infantry units. The infantry; groups of men so pissed off and ready to kill that covertly entering a neighboring infantry unit’s battle space was far more terrifying than breaching a house to potentially shoot a man in a sandy dress.
“Yeah grunts are yut yut as hell and basically are equivalent to battered housewives in that for some inexplicable reason they continually re-enlist to undergo more beratement while in the rear and deployed, but those poor abused souls are like ants when it comes to war. Everything in their path will be devoured.”
—Recon Marine and private contractor extraordinaire
More than just their willingness to fight was the reality of their continual injection into the most violent of places. That is the truest honor of the infantry; the casual, expendable nature of their existence—and I never had greater respect for them than the moment I realized this, south of Fallujah.
More than one person expressed painful discontent that we were to watch for potential river crossers instead of fighting building to building, as our Marine forefathers had done in Hue City in 1968. In fact, it was Hue City that the fight was compared to, by our own CO, just before kicking off for the operation. To hear the gunfire, know that potentially the greatest battle of our lifetime was going on, just out of arm’s reach, was sheer agony for those who joined for the sole purpose of combat experience.
The AO up until Phantom Fury, generally speaking, had been annoyingly tranquil. However, during Phantom Fury, and the days surrounding both its official beginning and end, things erupted. We started taking the losses from IEDs; contact with the enemy was being made. Roaring Apaches, explosions, and fires were to be witnessed and experienced as the excitement grew. It was confirmed in this small era what generations of warfighters have expressed in their own ways, that war contains both the most extreme moments of boredom and yet the most extreme moments of exhilaration that there is to be known.
In mid-November, almost two years to the minute that I had graduated from boot camp, a four-man augmented team set out for a reconnaissance and surveillance mission on the Euphrates. The majority of my team proper, and the addition of Alex. Alex was former Army. One the best operators in the battalion, but due to possessing diminished social skills in a realm undeniably familiar to my own, he rarely got credit for his universal viability.
Dez (our sniper), Alex and Chase (our automatic weapons), and I (our radio operator and OJT spotter for Dez) left our patrol base on foot. In the early morning, we found a thick patch of vegetation on the lip of the steep downhill of the riverbank. We spread out, with Alex taking the north with our biggest gun, the M240G. Dez and I overlooked the river, facing south. Chase, with his SAW, took security in an eastern direction, as it was the most open. Directly to our north, about a hundred meters away, was a blacktop road on the summit of a berm. Between the river and this berm was a field for farming, with ancient and tiny ditches running east to west.
Not really sure what to look out for, we all basically just soaked in the happenings of the morning, as the sun rose and activity increased.
Around 10 a.m., a gathering of cars parked behind a large area of defilade, directly across the river from our position. On our side of the river, Dez and I noticed a car, on the road behind us, pass our position three different times. We were concealed yes, but not like canopy jungle, and we hadn’t dug in or built a hide. We were merely an observation post with some firepower, and we got the feeling the opposing team was well aware of our presence. In fact, this thing occurred many times to covert elements throughout the war in Iraq. Covert success was certainly achieved, but in the heavily populated farmlands on the outskirts of cities, it was almost impossible to stay hidden for long.
It was at around 10:15 a.m. when we saw the canoe launch into the water. From the defilade three men embarked northbound, toward us. Approximately three hundred meters to our east, this canoe was clipping along. We couldn’t believe it; someone was actually trying to cross.
Dez and I decided quickly to call it into our platoon commander.
Waiting on orders, I zeroed in on the contents of the canoe. In time, I have forgotten about the other two men, but one I remember clear as day. He was in a black man dress and had shaggy black hair with a short beard. His back to me, he bent forward, awkwardly so, in a poor attempt to act like all was somehow normal. I had him in my sights. I trained on a solid space between the shoulders, following the pace of the canoe, as I waited for orders to shoot or apprehend.
Unfortunately, killer instinct did not win the day and we were ordered to physically apprehend the three. It was a source of frustration and borderline shame for many years that we were told not to blast them right out of the water.
Chase and I uprooted ourselves from the prone and began to run down the river’s edge to meet them at the shore.
Immediately yelps and shouts shot from across the river. From behind the cars and vegetation a man was yelling frantically, his voice rising above all the rest. I knew something was about to happen. For just a moment I felt like gravity had lessened and blades of grass were rising to meet my eyes as my feet floated above the dirt.
The first burst of enemy gunfire erupted in my right ear. With enough timing and uniformity to impress a synchronized swimmer, Chase and I dived and rolled into a pitifully shallow ditch. To those who have experienced it, being on the receiving end of an awakened AK-47 carries with it the unforgettable and distinct zing of the 7.62 projectiles. The noise almost sounds like it starts with a V, and as the sound passes (long after the bullet) it turns into a whiney Z. I knew Alex and Dez were to my right, about fifty feet, and Chase was to my left at about fifteen, bu
t I couldn’t see any of them. All I could see was the lip of the tiny berm I was hiding behind, its sparse grass, and the impacts of bullets all around me. A few rounds burst into the earth so close to my face that dirt flew in my mouth.
The gunfire was not relenting. I wondered if I got blasted in the face would I know it.
I rose up, arching my back as far as I could, exposing my head and shoulders and looking across the river. I returned fire: chaotic, unaimed, and a full mag gone into the general area behind the defilade. There is an undeniable power that comes with efficient training. I heard myself calling out “changing magazines,” just as I had done one hundred times before on the ranges and in the shoot-houses. It was as if someone else had jumped into my body, some classic Marine, seen on the old posters. I performed my combat reload and this time sighted in to take shots on whoever was spraying us with small arms fire. I really couldn’t see anyone clearly, just vague shapes and hues and muzzle-flashes. It was good enough.
While Chase and I were hugging the ditch, Alex had repositioned the M240G to face the enemy, and had worked out a series of terribly ill-timed malfunctions. It was soon after I had reloaded that Alex let loose on all across the river. A full belt of ammo dropped them like flies. Those who scattered were picked off by Dez, watching from the glass of his M40 sniper rifle. Dez took three headshots, and three men fell. This lethal point-area combination allowed us to gain fire superiority, a transition whose thrill only a lucky few may know. However, despite the howling M240G and our collective concentration on the deathly bushes hiding our targets, the enemy wasn’t done.
Chase was yelling. Through the noise I could make out his southern draw, pounding out a lone syllable. I strained my ear. It became clear.
“Rose!”
“Yeah?!”
“They err shootin at us from over here!” The three who’d crossed the river had made their way to Chase’s position. Hidden in thick vegetation, the three sprayed 7.62 at Chase and me.
“Are you hit?!” I yelled.
“Nah man, but—”
“Bro, your gonna have to hold ‘em!”
His voice was washed over by gunfire, maybe mine, maybe his own. All I could decipher was two “fucks” and what sounded like my name again.
We were essentially in an L-shaped ambush, a dangerous and desperate place to be. On his back, rolling from left to right, literally dodging the walked-on rounds from several AKs, Chase damn near melted his SAW barrel as he took on the three.
Enemy gunfire waned for a moment, and I realized I had a radio on my back. Of all the communication training I received, and all the communications I performed in Iraq (including once relaying for my entire company during a three-platoon op, involving everything from staging a vehicle patrol base to surveillance to infiltrating multiple buildings), it was this combat sitrep75 that I was the most proud of. Sounds easy enough; get on a radio and say what’s happening, and essentially that’s all it is. However, talking to my platoon sergeant and explaining in the clearest voice possible our position, multiple enemy positions, status of Marines, approximate number of enemy, etc., all while being shot at. . . it was again the testament to efficient training to be able to execute such a thing in the manner in which it was done. And at the helm of this experience, mixed in with my frantic dissemination of any significant detail I could discern and relay, was my late platoon sergeant’s voice.
“Rose, I need to know what is your current status?” He said, as calm and collected as a salesman.
A glance left, Chase wasn’t motionless and covered in red. A peak to the right, the M240G smoking and crisp shots from the M40, “We’re all up Gunny—but we’re pinned down!”
“I understand.”
Chase’s SAW roared out a volley and mixed with the M240G, engulfing me in a cacophony of sheer noise. Soon I could hear the radio again.
“Rose, I need to know their positions, we’re going to try to call in air.”
My mind tried to wrap around this simplest of information, yet its contents were foggy and elusive. Looking down at the green and yellow strands of grass, I muttered to myself the facts that I was piecing together. A zing by my head later; we are on the. . . north side—“Uh, we got a dozen or so on the south shore of the river, and three on the north—we are in an L shaped Gunny, we don’t have shit for cover—we’re totally pinned!” My mouth was dry, and with the last globule of saliva in it, I spat out a few blades of grass that had flown onto my tongue as a lone 7.62 round exploded into the nearby ground.
“I understand.” He said. His voice this time taking me to a lower stress level, albeit still a furious adrenalized pounding of the senses. My heart beat through my blouse, my armor, the attached mag pouches, and into the ground below. “Just hold what you got, we are in route.”
“Roger, Gunny.”
“Everyone get back to their vehicles”, I heard him yell through his still-keyed handset. “Rose, I—”, his voice was ripped out of my ear as my attention was averted to a new volley of enemy gunfire. My handset was flopped to the ground beside me as I reengaged a few muzzle flashes.
Firing another burst, then stopping to try to assess, I could hear Alex and Dez were both shouting at me.
“The 40 is running low, dude!” Alex yelled.
“Rose, you got my ammo, man. I got two rounds left.” Added Dez, concealed near the only real bush in our group’s proximity. The M240G was our lifeline. Alex had gone through almost six hundred rounds, and his remaining one hundred was in my radio bag.
Admittedly, the last thing I wanted to do was expose myself, again.
“Come on man, I got a liddle left! I’ll cover you,” Alex yelled.
So be it. There really was no choice.
On a three count, I uprooted my chest from the flattened grass and immediately heard the stew of both Alex’s machine gun and the enemy rifles.
I have no way of knowing how close their rounds got to me as I ran toward Alex, prone and focused. I do know the zings fluttered in the air around me, like mosquitos, or maybe irksome tiny angels.
With a scream from the gut right out of a Hollywood movie, I dove next to Alex and went for his ammo in my bag. My hand grabbed Dez’s first, which ended up landing short of him after I hurled the bandoleer his way. Alex and I reloaded the M240G together, fast, thoughtless—right out of the training ranges of SOI. Knelt down next to the feed tray, without the time to take my own fighting position, my right ear received a deafening blast from the machine gun, so loud I could barely stand it.
It is interesting how the human mind and the human ego operate. I remember when my grandmother would fall out of her bed; she would lie and say she was doing stretching exercises. No bother the worry of why she was physically failing; it was her pride she focused on. On a battlefield in Iraq, when at any moment a hot metal projectile could rip one to shreds, reciprocity of all things demanded its relevancy. Fair was fair, and I made things right by leaning over Alex and blasting a full magazine into the enemy’s concealment, making sure I was as close to his head as possible.
Distant, thundering, implosive booms came from nowhere.
“There’s our boys,” Alex yelled over the roar of his own ears, and with such movie bravado I couldn’t help but smile. And indeed it was our boys. Looking over my right shoulder, the rest of my platoon was in our vehicles, on the road atop the berm. From the vehicles came those thunderous blasts—MK-19 grenades impacting into earth and buildings alike. The coming of our platoon, the amazing feeling, watching them laying waste to everything on the side of the river where the main threat had originated.
However, even our side of the river wasn’t safe from their broad destruction. Telephone poles and wires shook, burst, and fell as Hell was unleashed on that Mesopotamian shithole. Derrick was on one of our MK-19s, identified as such due to his wild blond hair that could actually be seen from our position. Upon realizing this, Dez had a minor freak-out, more terrifled of Derrick’s assistance than the gunfight itself. Derr
ick’s grenades exploded all above us as the magnificent disarray decimated all that it touched.
A group got out on foot and started running toward our position; over their heads continued the crew-served weapons.
Something happened as I waited for them to link up with us. The imminent threat of death had left, and a sense of euphoria had taken its place. I scanned the south side of the river for any signs of life. There was. A woman. She was dressed in a solid blue burka, and had made her way to the water’s edge, bucket in hand. I put her in my sights. I rubbed my left index finger against the trigger and relaxed my breathing. I pressed against the trigger, gently. I heard a few sporadic zings from the diehard remnants across the river, hiding behind their cars. They sounded incredibly distant, though, and I watched the woman as her bucket was almost filled. She acted like no firefight had even taken place. It meant something to me, not sure what, to have her in my sights. I owned her life as long as she was in them, and her next breath was dependent upon the choice of one of my fingers. She stood. No EOTech for this; I had my front site post perfectly center mass, on her back. The post followed her blue garbed back as she began to walk back up the bank with the bucket of water on top of her head. I heard noises and the ground was pulsing. I released her from my sights, giving her back her life. I turned to see several platoon-mates halting their run to take a knee at my side.
What occurred next was a type of dubious “rescue.” The truth is, it was the gun trucks that did what was needed to be done. This bizarre, superfluous charge to save us was just some mad dash to see the place where the fight had already been won.
I recall someone assisting in packing my radio bag for me, and in the process kerplunked an M20376 round into the Euphrates. Occasional blasts from the crew-serves. At some point our platoon sergeant was going ape shit. “You NEVER fire a .50-cal directly over friendlies’ heads [indistinguishable], you dumb shit!”
