Shooter Galloway

by Roy F. Chandler

  Galloway checked, and the security team was facing out, but Shooter suspected that the men were half asleep with their minds a thousand miles away. If their eyes saw, they would come to life instantly, but there couldn’t be much more boring than just laying and staring—only to crawl another short distance and wait again.

  Shooter asked, “What else could it be? Are there animals out here that make holes in berms?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe it isn’t even a hole.”

  Shooter got back behind the big scope. “I’d like to punch a round into the middle of it and see what happened.”

  Smith said, “Let’s do it and go home.”

  A rifle cracked distantly, and Shooter Galloway jerked all over. For an instant, Smith thought he had been shot just like Doane, but Galloway was still looking.

  When he spoke, Shooter’s voice was controlled, but Smith could detect a special tension.

  “By golly, Smitty, we’ve got him.” Suddenly, the familiarity fit.

  “I saw muzzle flash in that hole as clear as I can see you. He’s laying back in there, exposing nothing. No wonder nobody could find him. Mortars couldn’t hurt him if they did locate him. It would take artillery to dig him out.”

  Smith said, “Maybe we should report and have them run a tank out here. They could flatten him or blow him out of there.”

  ”Nope.” Galloway was sure of this one. “He’d hear the tank and be long gone and probably have something big waiting for the tank.

  “We’ve got it right. Send a sniper to get a sniper. If I can put a round into that hole I’ll get him sure.”

  “You think he stays in there between shots, Shooter?” They were swiftly trading positions.

  Settling behind the sniper rifle, Galloway said, “Hell, he might live in there. I wouldn’t think he would come in and out during daylight, unless he had to. He might take a stretch behind that ridge once in a while, but my guess is that he is right there, maybe resting on his gun or maybe looking out to see if he got any reaction.”

  Smith questioned, “What can he see to shoot at? He’s a mile from most of our people.”

  “We are careless back that far. He’ll see people walking and standing in the open. Hell, we do that all of the time. He’s just launching rounds, and like Gunny said, they’re falling almost straight down.”

  Shooter was nearly ready. “Does the distance look about the same to you?”

  “Yeah, these ridges are running almost parallel. The range is about the same as it was to the decoy Doane shot at.”

  Galloway found sweat on his forehead. He wiped it away with a finger, moving little and moving slowly.

  “I wish we had one of those new Bushnell range finders that look like half a binocular. I’d sure like to know how far we really are shooting.”

  “Yeah, they ought to issue them, but the damned things cost a lot, I heard.”

  Shooter said, “Ok, I’m ready.” His position was good. They were both in a low spot with late afternoon shadow disguising them. The rifle lay solidly on Doane’s pack, and Galloway lay straight behind it with his legs spread and straight. The army and a lot of civilian shooters liked to lie at an angle, and marksmen often cocked the right leg. Marines used the angle for unsupported prone, but when a rifle was solidly rested, the straight-line position was best.

  Smith said, “I’m set. No wind at all.” He concentrated on seeing the bullet’s path or even better, its strike.

  Galloway touched his trigger. His sight lay rock-steady, the opening in the distant berm resting on top of the mil dot.

  Deep in his concentration, no extraneous thoughts touched Galloway’s mind. He squeezed, and the rifle fired.

  Shooter’s thought was, that felt good, but Smith’s pronouncement was clear.

  “Perfect! I saw it go, right in the hole.”

  Smith swung his head to grin at Galloway, but Galloway’s concentration was still on the target. Quickly, Smith got back to business.

  Shooter did not see his bullet hit. The range was too great for the ten-power. He chambered a live round and got his sight back on target. He strained to see—movement, a change in light, a rifle barrel exposed, a helmet showing above the low ridge, a . . . ? There was nothing.

  Then from the left, behind the ridge there was movement. Someone running or crawling toward the hole in the berm, he thought. Going recklessly fast, and showing himself more than a little. Rushing to the rescue? Galloway swung his rifle onto the scurrying figure.

  The tiny and distant shape rose and fell, and sometimes disappeared but Shooter hung with it, tightening his trigger pressure when he could, waiting when he had to.

  How much lead? Shooter’s conscious mind could not calculate. Instinct and a thousand shots on crows and prairie dogs took hold. The Iraqi hurrying behind the partial protection of the sand ridge came to a low section and chose to go for it.

  Shooter’s rifle cracked, the report sharp in the still air.

  The figure seemed to dive into the ground as if seeking cover and Galloway figured he had missed. He operated his bolt on the last round in his magazine, and turned to tell Smith that they were moving out.

  Smith was already sliding from his observing spot, scope in hand, and an astonished look on his face.

  “My God, Galloway, you got that guy moving. What a shot! He went down, dead before he landed, it looked to me.”

  Galloway was not that sure, but Smith was making up for any doubts. The spotter called to the Marines on security. “Galloway got ‘em both— in two shots—one moving fast.”

  Shooter broke into the soft but enthusiastic oohrahs. “Let’s go. They won’t be calm about this. Move out—back the way we came.

  “Golder, you lead, and everybody keep low. If they get a glimpse of us, they’ll aim for us.”

  Golder moved, but Galloway could almost feel mortar rounds climbing from their tubes to descend in accelerating velocities to explode on impact sending fragments screaming across the flat and almost featureless land. Or even worse, the Iraqis might have some air bursting ordnance. Galloway felt his skin crawl.

  They were nearly back to Doane’s firing position when the first mortar round fell far behind them. Belatedly, Shooter realized it might not be smart to return to where they were last fired at and near where he had zeroed the rifle, but it was too late now. The team scratched ahead.

  Mortar rounds began marching toward them falling almost where they had crawled and closing fast. Shooter guessed that the Iraqis had prepared fires for this rather obvious defiladed swale. Probably the mortars were firing a pre-programmed pattern that was included in the sniper’s plan for luring someone foolish into coming after him. They made their turn out of the swale and toward the assembly point Galloway had chosen before the first shooting.

  Shooter was making hard going of it. His lungs were heaving, and his knees and elbows were scraped raw. He was crawling with his own M16, the M40A1 sniper rifle, and his personal gear. Dragging Doane’s pack was miserably awkward, but as rounds burst and fragments whined, Galloway crowded the man ahead of him.

  As tail end Charlie, Shooter was crowding Smith’s heels and wishing they would all crawl faster. A burning pain slashed across his thighs and was gone. In his rush, with explosions pushing ever closer, Shooter forgot the momentary smarting and urged his team ahead toward friendly positions.

  Then, they were clear of it, and almost as if realizing the targets had escaped, the mortar shells quit falling. Ahead, Golder called to entrenched Marines that they were coming in, and far behind them a heavy rumble of Marine Corps counter-battery fire thudded into Iraqi positions.

  Galloway’s team reached a bulldozed trench deep enough for them to stand. Another hundred yards along, and Golder pulled up and waited. Shooter hustled to the front, slapping each shoulder in thanks and congratulation as he passed.

  He handed Doane’s pack to Smith. “Damn, you lug this for a while, Smitty. I’m about worn down from dragging it. Felt like a dead bo
dy.”

  Smith’s thoughts were elsewhere. “We should have called in. They’re going to shoot me.”

  Shooter was brave. “Blame it on me, but I hope everybody will be pleased that we got that bastard. Maybe they will overlook a few irregularities.”

  One of the fire team said, “My damned knees are on fire. All the skin is gone, and my elbows aren’t much better.”

  Someone was unsympathetic. “Yeah, but you‘ve met the enemy.”

  “I did? Hell, I didn’t see anybody or anything.”

  “‘War is hell,’ William Tecumseh Sherman.”

  With awe in his voice, Smith said, “I can’t believe it, Shooter. We really did get that bastard.”

  Then he said, “Holy hell, Galloway, you’re bleeding. Both of your pant legs are soaked with blood.”

  Shooter tried to look, but the wounds were on the back of his legs, and he became aware of burning across his thighs.

  Shooter said, “Well, it can’t be too bad. I don’t feel anything important, and I’m not falling down. Let’s get on in, and I’ll have the Corpsman take a look.

  +++

  Shooter’s legs were bandaged, and the wounds burned like fire, but he had been shot with antibiotics and a few stitches had been taken. Whatever had sizzled across him had kept going, but it had sliced like a knife.

  He had thought the excitement of their sniping would have died down by the time he returned from the aid station, but there was a debriefing that poked into details neither he nor Smith had thought about, and many wished to hear the story firsthand.

  Galloway felt as if he were holding court. Within his platoon, much had been made of their team’s success. The Gunny asked him who in hell he thought he was, doing what he did, but it was hard to argue with success, and the Gunnery Sergeant was clearly pleased with the outcome.

  The First Sergeant had come by to hear the story. He said, “Damned good job, Galloway. Where did you learn to shoot a sniper rifle?” Shooter claimed it was hunting experience in Montana.

  “How’re your wounds?”

  “Scratches, Top. Barely broke the skin.”

  The First Sergeant was dubious, but it was a Marine’s answer, and he accepted it.

  Corporal Doane came for his rifle, his gear, and his spotter. Doane’s eyes were bad, and he would not be shooting for some time. He listened to Galloway’s story with avid attention.

  “Damn, I knew in my soul that I shouldn’t try that third shot, but . . . ?

  “How did you hold, exactly, Galloway?” Shooter explained again, and Smith and Doane left for their own outfit.

  The Platoon Leader appeared and listened. He said “Good Job.” Congratulations had also come down from battalion.

  The team members got to tell and retell what had happened based on Galloway’s explanations. It was speculated among the grunts that Galloway’s was the first kill by their battalion. Those with rank did not speculate or comment on such details.

  Lance Corporal Gabriel Galloway had fought the Iraqis rifle to rifle, killed his enemies, and had earned a Purple Heart with a wound that was not disabling. Every Marine that heard envied him.

  Chapter 14

  Kuwait

  February, 1991

  The convoy of USMC armored vehicles plowed across the hard desert floor smashing everything in its path. Iraqi armor challenged and was blasted into flaming wreckage. Iraqi infantrymen poured from their trenches and sandy bunkers to surrender in droves that became hordes. Marine Corps LVTP-7 personnel carriers swerved to avoid clumps of weaponless Iraqi soldiers waiting for someone to tell them what to do or where to go. Saddam Hussein’s Mother of All Battles had become a sick joke to both sides.

  Sweltering within the airless personnel carriers, Marines welcomed irregular halts as prisoners of war were organized and marched to the rear. Surrendering infantry was routinely frisked, organized into lines, and pointed south.

  The dozens of prisoners became hundreds, which rapidly multiplied into thousands. Marine squads were reduced to oversized fire teams as men were detailed to direct the mass of POWs to assembly points where they would be held until departure for destinations equipped to feed and water an army of men unwilling to waste their lives fighting an overwhelming force.

  When they dismounted, the Marines could look across the vast desert flats to billowing smoke columns and clouds darker than the fiercest of storms. Each smoke column denoted a burning oil well, and to the east the sky was as black as a night without stars. What he could not hold, Saddam Hussein was determined to destroy.

  Along the Marines’ route of march and to the farthest horizon smaller smoke pillars marked tank or artillery kills that had turned Iraqi armor into smoldering junk, and even further ahead, air strikes were destroying everything that attempted to flee.

  Shooter Galloway slouched within the aluminum shell of their LVT in resigned discomfort. The battalion radio net spoke warnings of fake surrenders with attacks by rifle and grenade-bearing Iraqi soldiers occasionally supported by mortars. Some of the squad was gone as prisoner escorts, but there were trouble spots, and no personnel carrier was denuded of its infantry.

  Most feared were the shoulder-fired rocket-propelled grenades that, although wildly inaccurate, could pierce lighter armor. Being hammered while inside a personnel carrier was a legitimate worry, and Shooter longed for open where a Marine could maneuver, choose cover, and return fire.

  Galloway was pressed against his best friend, their Naval corpsman, Doc Dyer. At each pause, Dyer dismounted to examine minor wounds among the surrendering Iraqis. So far, his expertise had not been severely tested, and that suited the Doc.

  Dyer said, “My bladder’s full. I hope we stop soon.”

  Shooter was unsympathetic. “Piss in your helmet, Doc.”

  “As a civilized man, I prefer a bit of privacy when I am performing routine bodily functions.”

  Shooter grinned, “I sure won’t look. I can’t tell about some of these other grunts, though.”

  One of Galloway’s fire team said, “I don’t see why we all couldn’t piss in Doc’s helmet. He could hold it steady until we were done.” There was rough laughter at the corpsman’s expense.

  Dyer changed the subject. “Entertain me, Shooter. Tell me about those .300 Weatherby rifles you think our snipers should be using.”

  Shooter was willing—anything to sidetrack the boredom and the deeper but hidden anxiety at what might erupt at any instant—but he dutifully groused.

  “For God’s sake, Doc, there’s a war going on. Haven’t you ever seen a war movie? We’re supposed to be sharing photos of our girls back home and talking about Mom’s apple pie—serious stuff, Dyer.”

  Upon completion of his four-year college degree, Pre-Med student, Frank Dyer had stunned his wealthy family by enlisting in the US Navy with expectations of becoming a medical corpsman serving United States Marine Corps infantry.

  Frankie Dyer explained to his appalled family that he wished to serve his country, and despite family and guidance counselor recommendations that he would be more valuable as a fully educated and licensed medical doctor, the twenty-two year old took the oath—and half way through his enlistment, along came the Gulf War.

  Dyer was a city boy from a well-to-do family, and he was older than most around him. Although popular, Dyer did not really blend with the rough and usually blasphemous enlisted men—some of whom had not completed high school. None of whom had attended college.

  Dyer preferred talk of politics and religion and enjoyed philosophical reasonings—subjects examined only peripherally among the troops. Enlisted Marines chose female conquests, barroom brawls, hunting, movies, and hard rock or country music to argue over. Dyer could enjoy the hunting tales but had to admit that most Marines were not talented storytellers. They tended to drag out a yarn with emphasis on how big the horns were rather than the pleasures of the hunt.

  Doc Dyer was also not a Marine. He could be respected, even admired, for his medical skills and
liked as an individual, but he was not in the Corps. Being a Marine counted among the enlisted men. Where they could complain and bitch about the Corps, an outsider, even a Navy corpsman, could not.

  Dyer found Lance Corporal Galloway and attached himself as if Velcroed. Galloway had the benefit of a private high school education. He had traveled and lived in the west—a mysterious and adventurous land to Dyer’s far more urbanized and controlled New York City experience. Gabriel Galloway was steady for his tender years. He could talk about almost anything, and he listened well. Frankie Dyer particularly appreciated that last part. An educated man could become hungry for out-of-the-ordinary conversation.