by Reed Hill
Mathews grabbed the handset on the AN/VRC 97 radio, “Raven-Three-Six,” Mathews called to Major Dixon, the ops lead and head man on the ground for 2nd Battalion watching from the hills just to the east, “come in, this is Delta-six. We have enemies engaging – still nearly a klick from the objective, over.”
“Roger that, Delta-Six. Stay on course and proceed to the intercept as planned, Raven-Three-Six, over.”
Mathews glanced behind him to make sure that none of the seven Humvees and five trucks in his element stopped to play cat and mouse with those taking shots at them from among the trailers and manufactured homes. GPS showed them a half a klick when more gunfire ripped across the front of the Humvee send sparks up off the hood and putting a spider web of cracks in the upper corner of the windshield.
They topped a small mound and dogged some larger brush and the main enemy came into view. It was what they had seen through their binocs from the hills – about twenty five to thirty vehicles in a rough, umbrella formation in the northwest corner of the neighborhood strewn across a couple hundred yards. “Delta-Six, we’re coming in from the south. ETA one minute, over.” The semi-circle of enemy vehicles was spread out over several of the one or two acre desert lots, and Mathews prayed that the residents had the good sense to get out of there.
Hellfire was coming.
“Alpha-Six, we’ll be there in thirty seconds, that is three-zero seconds, over,” Captain Jackson’s call came in right on time. Coming across the open desert, Jackson’s team was to be the main blunt force element while Mathews’ crew would attack once the enemy engaged the northern crew.
Mathews snatched the mic from the console, “Delta-Six, go to formation Diamond. Get ready. We’re going in, over.”
At that call, the young corporal slammed on his Kevlar cover and jumped up the center turret hatch of the Humvee. Mathews tightened his lips when heard the corporal pull back the charging handle on the M2 .50 caliber heavy machine gun.
A quick peek in the side mirror showed the Humvees spreading out into an Arrowhead formation with a trail Humvee staying in the center, flanked by a pair of trucks in front of him, while Mathews' Humvee was joined by a pair of Humvees on each side and just behind.
Two hundred yards. Stay frosty.
At that moment, Mathews saw the fiery bloom and the accompanying explosion to the north. The sight and sound sent the hairs on Mathews’ neck to full attention.
“Alpha-Six, we’re taking heavy fire. RPGs. We’ve lost a Humvee, over.”
“Copy, Alpha-Six. Delta-Six coming in.” Mathews brought the handset down and pointed to the small incline just in front of them, and the private steered toward it. More gunfire peppered the front of the Humvee and bullet hit the windshield in the bottom right hitting Mathews’ seat a few inches from his right arm. “Delta-Six, setting up on a little ridge southwest. Firing positions. Engage!”
They brought their element to a stop, and Mathews saw a third bloom of fire from the northern position. Jackson was taking an ass-pounding.
We need to get in this fight.
Now.
It was at that moment that the Humvee trembled and it sounded like someone was making popcorn. Mathews felt the rumble and was reassured by the loud rattle of the M2 above them. Smoke and dirt began to obscure Mathews view out of the Humvee as more gunfire rattled around them, kicking up the sandy soil.
Mathews felt the ground quake beneath the Humvee and he turned to see the Humvee on his right flipped on its side by a ball of fire that appeared beneath it. Gouts of dirt and smoke spewed from the bottom of the burning vehicle as several men scrambled to get out of the doors with were now pointed skyward.
“Get out of there!” Mathews called seeing the fire spreading on the exposed bottom of the Humvee. The corporal above us was really letting loose on the M2 and Mathews heard the faint corresponding pings of lead on metal down range. Smoke swirled around the downed Humvee when Mathews gave the signal for the men to dismount and attack using their Humvee as cover.
Their firing position was good, slightly downhill in the relatively open field. By then, they had the attention of plenty of hostiles, too many to count accurately, but probably between thirty and forty that he could see. Undoubtedly there were more that he could not see, and those were the ones to worry about.
As Mathews exited the vehicle a voice cut through the static on the radio. It was Captain Jackson again, “We’re getting hammered over here!”
Mathews’ mind raced. We need an air strike. Artillery. Something.
None of that was available to help and Mathews knew this, cursing inside.
Another explosion rocked a second Humvee, this one to their left, and Mathews saw the sparking shots hitting it as well as his own vehicle. Based on the high shots, it looked as if they were targeting the lone soldier in the turret on the M2. It was smart. The big .50 caliber automatic rifle was the deadliest weapon they had, and if they could take that out, their chances of being seriously hurt went down dramatically.
The left Humvee was ablaze in an instant at the occupants rushed to exit the flaming vehicle, with one catching fire on his back and leaping into the dirt. Mathews spied the mangled body in the driver’s seat and the lead passenger struggling to exit the Humvee, dazed and bloodied.
At that moment, the body of the corporal on the M2 slumped down inside the vehicle and the large rifle rotated and went skyward, with no one to aim it. Mathews shouted to the back of the truck, “Someone get up on that fifty!” He then threw his door open and crouched at the edge of the open door, using it as cover. One of the three men in the rear got up to the turret and the remaining two joined him outside, weapons at high ready.
This is getting ugly.
Mathews brought up his M-4 and gave a quick three shot burst in the direction of the enemy, trying to provide some suppressive fire while his mind raced for how to move forward from where they were. These insurgents weren’t untrained and under-armed.
These weren’t a bunch of simple hajjis.
Mathews switched to his company net and called out on his handset, “Delta Company, this is Delta-Six. Keep the fifties going at all costs. Suggest going to forty-mikes as much as possible. Delta-Six, over.”
A bunch of affirmative responses came in quickly, as Mathews turned his rifle back to the insurgents spotting a couple of enemy combatants, both in red-tiger fatigues, run across the field of fire carrying something heavy, possibly a large machine gun. One fell as his bullet found a home in the small of his back, and Mathews rapidly fired another pair of shots at the other foe, but the man managed to slip behind a truck.
There was another booming detonation that hit Jackson’s northern position followed by the accompanying blossom of smoke and fire. More heavy gunfire plinked the Humvee’s open door and he saw one of Delta company men dragging himself toward the turned over vehicle trying to find cover. He was missing his leg from the knee down.
Mathews peered through the armored-glass window of his door and saw maybe twenty-five muzzle flashes from the area of vehicles. He scanned to the right, and there appeared to be a dozen more muzzle flashes coming from the area of the mobile home area and the tall water tanks nearby. We’re getting flanked!
He quickly dialed in the Battalion channel on the radio, “Delta-Six, we’re getting flanked from the east. Estimate those forces, from your location, over.” Mathews prayed that it was good news, but the grumpy pessimist in him wagged a middle finger in his face. This didn’t look good. His hackles rose up on his neck as more explosions rocked their position.
We need to get our shit together or this is going to be a blood bath.
*****
Outside of Crystal City, Texas - July 6th, 2017 – 9:25 a.m.
Darren Schmidt gave the field one more look before radioing the all clear to those on the northwest side of town. Then he saw movement to the west, the dust trails of several vehicles. Eight. No it was ten. He snatched the CB radio’s handset, “This is Schmidt, we have mo
vement, vehicles coming from the southwest, over.” He scanned the horizon from his view atop the little ridge west of town, and saw one of John Lott’s crews, four or five vehicles off to their north, making a sweep a few miles away. Good timing.
Harvey Murray surveyed the landscape with his tired, old eyes and brought his own binoculars to his eyes, “Son-of-a-bitch.”
“Tell the buys to get strapped up. It’s time to go to work.” Schmidt glanced at Murray and went back to the binocs. This is going to be a fight.
Schmidt brought the mic closer to his face, “There’s ten vehicles coming, fairly low speed still.” Schmidt breathed out a heavy sigh. Then he saw another column of perhaps eight vehicles coming out of the west-northwest, heading toward Lott’s patrol group. “Another enemy group. Looks like eight more to the west-northwest. I think this it.”
“Copy, we see them,” a voice on the radio came through a little garbled. “We’re going to need some help with eight. We’re calling Lott to see if anyone else is close.”
They mounted up and rolled a little ways down the side of the incline taking up the good spots of trees and brush they had spotted earlier and getting their outlines off the top of the hill. The caravan rolled forward about one klick away now. Schmidt could see that Lott’s group was engaged in the north, but so far they had not been spotted since they had done a decent job of disguising their vehicles with foliage and native grasses, parking them in the outcroppings of high bee brush as best as possible.
The column was proceeding across the field slightly to their north astride one of the ranch roads that connected up to the dirt road and Cometa Road. They were heading toward a ranch house to their immediate north, Schmidt guessed with the intention of heading north to hook up to Cometa Road from there. “Let them come another five hundred yards past that ranch house, and then let them have it. Wait for my shot everyone.”
They were in good position to fire at any point from where they were. If they played their cards right, they wouldn’t need to move.
Lucky.
Another three or four hundred yards and they would be in excellent ambush position, if they could keep from being spotted.
Thirty seconds more.
Schmidt hoped everyone could keep their nerve. He was astonished that they had not been spotted at that point, since they were about parallel with the opposition and the vehicles weren’t well hidden from that angle. The caravan moved forward a little ways further and then stopped suddenly, about two hundred yards from them.
Schmidt put his front sight on the passenger on the lead truck, and slowed his breathing a bit, seeing the man look around. His target’s eyes got large as he realized what was happening spotting something from their position. The man sat up a little higher and started to say something, when Schmidt pulled the trigger. The thug never got to say another word.
At that moment, a dozen other shots rang out riddling the convoy with bullets, and Schmidt took aim on another target, this one a shirtless criminal with a blue bandana tied around his face like a robber. He collapsed to the truck bed struck in the chest when Schmidt unleashed a volley of three shots.
Schmidt saw several other marauders fall to their gunfire before they even got oriented to where they needed to fire. Keep it up and they’ll start to panic.
A moment later Schmidt felt a round fly by, followed by another. Several more bullets came close hitting in the dirt nearby, “They’re on to us! Keep down and stay on them!”
Their gunfire remained intense, and Schmidt was encouraged. A quick glance showed that all but a couple of men were firing their weapons. One younger, skinny man could only merely bring himself to sit behind some bee brush facing opposite the fight, clinging to his rifle and looking around like an antelope surrounded by a pride of lions. The other man just knelt stone-faced and ashen using the butt of his rifle to claw at the dirt as if he was going to dig a last minute foxhole.
At the sound of another barrage of gunfire from his crew, Schmidt saw several other of the insurgents fall from the backs of the trucks and into the dust. Keep it going. They’re going to lose heart if they keep losing men. So far, no one on Schmidt’s side had been hit.
He chided himself for speaking too soon as a bullet tore through an older man in a high cream ridge top sending him to the dirt howling in pain. Schmidt found another target as the ruffians began to take cover on the far side of their vehicles. There were at least ten thugs lying motionless or squirming in the dirt. Several men among the criminals began shouting orders in Spanish, but Schmidt couldn’t make any of it out, knowing very little of the language.
At that moment, he gave Harve Murray the signal they had agreed upon earlier. Murray and six men fell back to the trucks and started a long crouching sprint around to the northeast. They had decided that if they got into a protracted fire fight that they would take a group, those with some military background, to a different firing position and try to gain or at least separate their attention.
Risky.
It was probably more danger than Schmidt wanted for those men, but it was Harve Murray’s call at the end of the day. A number of them were older, like Murray, and perhaps felt that it was their duty to increase their odds. Schmidt cursed inwardly feeling as if they didn’t really need the tactic – they were doing well. Murray knew his men, so it was on him. Schmidt wanted keep the twenty guys he had focused and confident, so he got behind his weapon.
“Suppressing fire. Let ‘em have it!” Schmidt knew Murray would need some distraction, so he got his men going to make sure the enemy was properly focused. The whole plan could go to shit in heartbeat, if the opposition decided to focus on the flanking squad.
Schmidt thought that they would largely out of view for the opposition, and the threat of twenty muzzles pointed at them bring hell on them was more troubling than seven old men creeping through the scrub. At least he hoped they thought so.
Another one of his guys caught a bullet, a short, round fella in a green mesh hat. It looked bad, but Schmidt screwed his head on and kept firing. Another couple of foes were knocked back taking rounds under the heavy, suppressive fire they were providing for Murray. That’s at least a dozen they’ve lost.
Schmidt saw his chamber stay open and nothing happened when he pulled the trigger. He had lost his round count, and hoped it wasn’t a jam. He pulled the magazine loose and saw that it was empty and quickly pulled another from his back pocket, gave it a quick look and tap. Seemed good to go. As he slammed it in the mag well, he heard the rat-tat-tat of gunfire from the northeast. Murray was in position.
Hot damn!
Schmidt pulled the charging handle and let loose a couple of rounds on a thug he spied peeking from the rear of the red 4x4 opposite him. Several of his guys stopped to re-load but Murray and his crew were pouring it on them from their position from the swiveling heads and muzzle flashes pointing to the east.
A pair of foes fell from behind their cover, one hit through the sunglasses which lay near his bleeding head while another grabbed at his guts pull himself backwards on an elbow. Then came a bunch of shouting in Spanish, again nothing that Schmidt could discern.
A mad scramble ensued among the opposition as they wrestled to get back in their vehicles. A few more fell to gunfire as they struggled to get their men in the trucks and provide any decent return fire. The left several men in the dirt and abandoned four trucks as they sped off.
Schmidt let out a heavy breath as the caravan limped away to the southwest. Would they be back?
“Hopefully, we won’t see them again,” a young man in a sweat-stained Houston Astros cap looked at him with a slight frown.
“Never can tell,” Schmidt muttered looking around to assess the damage. “Sometimes it’s hard to understand what they are thinking.”
“Whatever it was when they came, quickly changed to ‘I want to survive.’ At least I’d like to think so.”
“I hear you, kid,” Schmidt allowed himself a small smile as he went over t
o the man with the chest wound. A buddy was already helping him, but he looked beyond saving. “I hope they tell all their buddies to ‘Stay away from Crystal City.’”
As the fat man expired his last breath, Schmidt pushed his eyelids down and his friend’s lip began to quiver as he knelt in the dirt.
“Nothing would make me happier than to never see any of this again.”
*****
Outside of Fort Stockton, Texas - July 6th, 2017 – 1:45 p.m.
“Guys, I just got off the horn with Battalion HQ,” Mathews looked out over the men of Delta Company. “We’re not going to be making another push to El Paso, today.” There wasn’t much chatter, just a few murmurs of acquiescence and a few of regret. There were many who seemed relieved. Mathews thought it was a tough call but a good one.
They had regrouped to the hills from the first assault and made another push at Major Dixon’s insistence. He was right to make the call. They hadn’t gotten to the city proper at all. At about 0900 they had attacked the eastern edge again, that time without any flanking maneuvers or pinch strategy.
Blunt trauma.
The results were traumatic, no doubt.
They were repelled yet again, and had to retreat to the hills a second time.
Delta Company had lost forty percent of their strength on the morning’s two ops, with ten percent KIA and the rest were wounded. They hadn’t even gotten close to the Intelligence Center.
We just cannot go at them brute force. Not without airpower and artillery.
Too outnumbered.
It brought home just how dependent the modern military had become on air power and the projection of munitions. That and the use of special infantry fire teams and tactics. He thought he had heard that in the past few years, nearly fifty percent of the ground forces were special ops qualified. That change was reflected in the kinds of conflicts the Pentagon expected to be fighting in 2016 and beyond. That hadn’t tricked down into the Texas Guard, however.