Duke called up to us, “Get the LAW ready.” The LAW was a proved piece of ordnance, only ours didn’t look so good just then. “Here,” Pooster said, handing me the bent LAW. “You’ve fired more of these than I have.”
Oh, great. So I prepared the LAW for firing, extending the launch tube and arming it for use. I was wondering just what would happen if I fired that weapon with the exhaust tube practically bent behind my head. It looked like a big, dangerous green banana.
The BTR coming up to the gate stopped and opened fire with its 14.5mm. It may have been just a single shot or a short burst, but there was a big explosion in the front yard. It looked like the round fired from the BTR had hit and detonated one of our Claymores.
That stopped the vehicle for a moment, but then it moved forward again. We weren’t supposed to take a shot unless we were directly threatened. This BTR had threatened us, but I didn’t have a clear shot. Besides my not trusting the LAW, trees and brush were between it and me. I only had the one shot and had to make it good. If I missed, the BTR would know where we were and could open up on us with its heavy machine gun.
But I never had to take the shot. For whatever reason, the BTR moved a little farther forward, then backed off. The other BTRs also backed off, and the troops that had been reported as accompanying them couldn’t be seen. Things became very calm again, with only the occasional shot to add a little excitement.
CHAPTER 17
A LONG DAY AND A NIGHT
The Navy was making air strikes on Fort Frederick to knock out the antiaircraft guns that were making the skies so dangerous and helping to prevent the helicopters from picking us up. Our sniper with the .50 caliber spotted someone up at Fort Frederick, either an officer or maybe a spotter who was helping direct their guns. Either way, the sniper figured he could nail the guy with the big .50. Duke recommended against taking the shot. Rules of engagement and all.
But one shot with even a big .50 wouldn’t have made much of a difference a few moments later. Navy A-7 Corsairs showed up and made several gun runs, strafing the fort with their 20mm cannons. Then their bombing runs, when they dropped 250-pound bombs into Fort Frederick, caused a bunch of secondary explosions. There was a grim satisfaction for us in seeing the explosions. The Fort Frederick guns had brought down the Cobra gunships earlier.
The only communications we had were through our Motorola MX-360s. Captain Gormly and his team had gone into the airport that the Rangers had taken and set up a SEAL command post. Now our radios were starting to go dead and the communications were getting weak. But we did manage to call in our own air support, relaying the request through Captain Gormly’s team and on to whatever air assets were available. Gormly’s radio operator, after talking to us, called out to a ship on his SATCOM, which directed the aircraft. Not the most efficient way of getting commo, but it worked.
The strike we wanted was on the mansion near us, from which we had been taking fire off and on all day. Several of us were told to go up to a higher window and spot for the air strike, directing their fire onto the targets we wanted hit. Originally we were going to go up to the roof, but the occasional RPGs still bouncing around made that option a poor one. Instead we watched from a high window and called in strike effects over our radios.
In the room there was a can of Coke that looked mighty tempting. We shared it and watched the aircraft come in. That Coke made a big difference to the taste in my mouth. It was considerably better than canteen water and dried tobacco.
The air strikes leveled the house. But the troops inside must have had bunkers. Later we saw them running away from the rubble like ants from a big footprint.
Night started to fall by 1730 hours, and we got word from one of the gunships overhead that about thirty people were penetrating the area around the house. My shooting partner and I were told to move to a forward position. We got down low in front of a big tree. The M60s were behind us. If we saw the enemy coming we were supposed to open up on full automatic and stay low. The M60s would be firing right over our heads.
Shooting over our heads. Okay, right. We each knew how hard the others had trained. We trusted our Teammates. That was a confidence builder.
But my partner was wounded in his elbow. The arm was stiff and he was concerned about being able to reload fast. I thought about the M60s backing us up. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I don’t think we’ll have to.”
While we were getting ready, Duke was busy inside the house. The radios were running down, and most had gone dead. We needed air support as soon as we could get it. Using the governor’s regular telephone, Duke just called back to Hurbert Field in Florida and eventually got connected to the right people.
It was early in the morning, 0100 or 0200 hours. We could hear a single Specter gunship circling above us. The AC-130 Specter was a heavily armed version of the C-130 cargo plane. Out of the left side of the bird extended two 7.62mm Miniguns, then two 20mm Vulcan cannons, the Minigun’s big brother, two 40mm Bofors cannons, and, near the tail, a 105mm howitzer.
All this firepower could be concentrated on a fairly small area, directed by a full suite of optical and electronic devices. What we couldn’t see, Specter could both see and hit.
When Duke called in the air strike, Specter opened up. Out by our tree, my partner and I didn’t know the air strike had been called in, since our radios had been dead for a while. Suddenly we both heard the quiet POOP, POOP, POOP of the Specter’s 40mm gun opening up. I hope they’re coming this way, I thought.
Then the ground erupted in front of our position by the tree, the shells appearing to impact only thirty yards or so from where we lay. In spite of being as low to the ground as we could get, we dug in a little deeper, willing our bodies to become flatter and make a smaller target. Just the pressing down, I think, dug us in a good four or five inches. Each of us outside the building could be seen by the AC-130 because we all had glint tape sewn into the tops of our hats. The tape reflected more than enough to make each of us stand out clearly to the gunners on board the bird. Still, I didn’t feel entirely safe.
The roar of those 40mm and 20mm shells exploding cost me a good part of my hearing in later years. But at the time we didn’t care about the noise. Whatever targets were creeping up on us in the dark were no longer a problem after the Specter’s one or two gun runs.
The gunship had only enough fuel or ammunition for a few runs. Then it had to return to base for refueling and rearming. Before it left, the pilot relayed to us that two targets were running away from the governor’s house, the rest not being in a position to ever run again.
After the gun run we were pulled back to the house as the perimeter was tightened up. But I had to go back out to the tree where we had been lying. When we had been in that position, I had taken out an extra magazine and laid it down next to my weapon, thinking I just might have a chance to reload if it came to a firefight. When I got back to the mansion I realized that I’d left that loaded mag back on the ground. “Well,” our chief said, “go get it.” So I had to work my way back to that tree and find my ammunition.
Eventually we were all back at the mansion. Everyone had to be close in as protection against the darkness. The guys who weren’t on watch were supposed to catch whatever rest they could. I don’t know about the others, but I couldn’t even try to sleep.
I don’t smoke cigarettes as a habit, but tobacco can help keep you alert. One of the guys was smoking and I bummed a couple of drags from him. He was one of our Vietnam vets, and I asked him, “How does this compare to Vietnam?”
“Vietnam was fun,” he answered. “This ain’t fucking fun! This is for the Marines to dig in and hold.” He handed the butt over and continued growling. “And the next time you come to combat, bring your own damned cigarettes.”
We had a laugh over that.
The morning finally came, and with it came word that a unit of Marines had landed nearby and were making their way to the governor’s mansion. Grenada was almost secured, and
the Marines would escort us out of the area. Some young Marine recon-type walked up to one of our guys who was out by the back fence. The kid was all of maybe eighteen years old, and his eyeballs were bulging as he came up to a SEAL just sitting on a rock.
“Hey,” my Teammate called out. “Are you in the Marines?”
“Yeah,” the kid answered.
“You coming here to get us?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
Easy, right? So much for conflict between the Navy and the Marines.
Governor Scoon and his party made up the nucleus of our group as we extracted from the area on foot. With the Marines keeping a wide perimeter, we maintained our own fields of fire and stayed around the governor’s party.
One of our M60 gunners was escorting Scoon, so I swapped him my weapon for his M60. Walking on the outer edge of our group, I kept the M60 loaded and ready. As we walked down the street, you could see this one local sitting in a rocker on his porch, a blanket covering his lower body. He had bloodshot eyes, so we knew he had gotten about the same amount of sleep as we had the night before. He could easily have been one of the few survivors of the Specter strike.
“Hey, guys,” we were told, “don’t take your eyes off him.”
There could have been a weapon under that blanket. Or he could just be a local who had stayed up to watch the show. Either way, we weren’t trusting the situation.
As we left the grounds of the governor’s house, we saw burned-out trucks at the side of the road. Weapons, especially AK-47s, were scattered all over. In one truck were the remains of one of the ZU-23mm antiaircraft guns that had caused us so much trouble. The vehicles were destroyed, and blood was spattered everywhere. The Specter had done its job and just hammered the area. Someone had gathered up the bodies, but it was obvious to all who could see the scene that men had died here.
For us, though, the situation was finally a good one. We approached an open field, and a halt was called to our little parade. Helos were coming in to pick us up, but there weren’t enough available to get us all in one go. So the plan was for the governor and his party to go out in the first bird and the rest of us to be shuttled out a little later.
This wasn’t a problem. Of course, the sudden loud explosion nearby made it seem like there might be a problem. After that long day and night, we were a bit jumpy at loud noises. But we were told that it was simply a cache being destroyed by the Marine Recon people.
Lady Scoon was trying hard to show her appreciation for everything we had done for her and her family. She had a number of charm bracelets on and was breaking them down, passing out the trinkets as souvenirs. I still have the one she gave me. It says Te Amo, I love you in Spanish. That little bit of jewelry is in the shadow box I had made for my retirement, among other mementos. The family must have felt well protected, in spite of our appearance. A report written by Governor Scoon arrived at the command later and praised us for everything we had done.
Those bits of jewelry weren’t the only souvenirs we took from Grenada. We came up to a flagpole flying the Grenadian flag as we were leaving the area. “Denny?” one of the guys said to me, looking at the pole.
“You’ve got it,” I answered, and I laid my weapon down and climbed up the pole.
That flag hangs at Assault Group Three today, a trophy of our first combat.
Now the first bird arrived, and Governor Scoon was ushered aboard. Several of our guys, including a couple of the officers, went with him. The bird soon returned to pick up the rest of us and get us to the airport. The crew chief of the returning bird, who was manning the door gun, put on a big smile and lifted his visor. It was one of our officers who had left in the first bird. He had come back to help ensure that the extraction went okay.
We regrouped at the airport, which was securely in U.S. hands. The 82nd Airborne was in now and securing the area. The confusion that had dogged the operation hadn’t been limited to us. Most of the guys from the 82nd had thought they were on a training operation, just like the Air Force C5A pilots on the way out. They were short of gear, and we ended up stripping out our ammo and giving them every magazine we had. It wasn’t like we were going to use it now.
While we were waiting at the airport, I had a sobering reminder of the cost of this little operation. A jeep pulled up with a stretcher on it, holding the body of a U.S. Ranger killed in the fighting. This was the first time I was ever close to a dead body in combat, especially one of our own. Bodies that I had seen in car accidents and mountain climbing just didn’t have the same impact as that dead Ranger. We were all a little quiet for a while then.
A C-141 landed and picked us up for the trip back to the States. We landed and reported to a U.S. Army base for a debriefing on the op. We were back in isolation and couldn’t contact anyone outside our little portion of the base. They had chow and some beer for us and put us into one of their transient barracks. This was a chance for us to decompress a bit from the combat high we had been on for the last two days. They told us to get a good night’s rest, but we were still way too hyped up to get much sleep. For most of the night, we just sat up and talked.
CHAPTER 18
OUR TEAMMATES
The next day, our debrief actually began. It was a full mission debrief from the captain on down. Now we learned about how Gormly’s bird had almost been shot from the sky. Then it was the turn of the guys on the radio station op. The site itself turned out to have been only a transmitter; the main studios were back in Saint George, the capital of Grenada. But the transmitter had been taken and secured without any problems. People who had been manning the station were secured, and the site went off the air.
While our guys were waiting for helicopters to come in and pick them up, a large number of Grenadian soldiers showed up, along with a BTR-60PB armored personnel carrier. That’s when the shit started to hit the fan.
From a guard’s booth near the chain-link fence that surrounded the station, the guys took out one of the trucks with a 40mm grenade from an M203. The local troops weren’t too excited about storming the station after that. But they had a Cuban adviser with them who had one of these command sticks, and he was swatting his troops, getting them into a line to assault the site.
With the BTR approaching, one of our guys fired the other RAW, which worked a whole lot better than ours had. The rocket fired straight, but hit the chain-link fence and detonated before it got to the BTR. Still, the blast was so strong and the RAW warhead so close to the BTR that it jammed the turret. Now that KPV heavy machine gun couldn’t be aimed at the buildings or much of anything else.
But the remaining Grenadian troops lined up behind the BTR and prepared to assault the site. With the increasing fire coming in on them, the leader of the SEAL detachment decided to abandon the site. There was no way our guys had enough firepower to go force-on-force with the much larger group of Grenadian troops. It was time to E&E. They pulled out through an open field, toward the ocean. Before they left, they rendered the station inoperable.
Leapfrogging away from the station, one group of SEALs would protect the others as they pulled back. Then the unit that was farthest away would cover the first guys. But that Cuban adviser was doing his job too, swatting his troops on the rump and getting them to lay down a base of fire.
In spite of their movement, some of our guys were hit as they pulled out. One guy took a round from an AK in his leg, high up near the hip. Another was hit in the triceps. The radio man had the SATCOM shot right off his back.
When they got to the water, everyone followed our standard operating procedures, breaking up into shooter pairs and making their way out to sea, stripping down and caching their first-line gear so it couldn’t be found by the enemy. Some of the men went to a local marina and commandeered a small sailboat. Others hit the water and swam out to sea where they were picked up by Navy assets. The guys in the boat were rescued by a Little Bird helicopter that lowered a caving ladder to them. That gave our wounded comrades an a
irlift out that kept them from a long swim. Everyone was recovered safely. The E&E plan had proved itself. And it all proved the worth of our training.
Then it was our turn to talk about the op at Scoon’s mansion. In spite of the seriousness of the debriefing situation, some of the guys still found time for a gag.
We were waiting around in a lounge with padded chairs and a couple of pool tables. We had been told to stay awake, but that was a lot easier said than done. One of the guys stretched out on one of the pool tables and promptly fell asleep. Not wanting to see a Teammate get in trouble, or to let a good opportunity for a gag go by, one of the guys made it look like sleeping beauty was paying attention. Taking some chalk and a pen, he whitened the lids of our sleeping Teammate’s eyes and drew in open eyeballs on the chalk.
So much for being in a heightened state of tension and having those combat-tuned catlike reflexes. Our guy never woke up. But it was pretty funny to see him lying there with his “eyes” wide open.
The debrief at the Army base reminded me of something else: why I got out of the Army. When we first came back from combat, our Army hosts treated us well. They hosted a steak cookout that evening, and we indulged in a few beverages after the official work was done. We were all pretty beat and slept soundly in the transient barracks they assigned us. But the next day, before we were allowed to leave the barracks, we had to clean the place up as if we were preparing for an inspection.
Buffing floors and polishing bathroom fixtures was not what we expected to have to do after getting back from a combat mission. It was like being back in basic training again. The guys grumbled, but the work was done. Only it wasn’t done quite to the master sergeant’s satisfaction. We failed the damned inspection and had to clean up some more! Now the guys were seriously pissed.
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