“Where did the L-T go?” asked Davis.
Swope’s grimace was replaced with genuine puzzlement. He craned his neck around his door and noticed that Red 1 was gone. He snatched up his handset and shouted over the volume of fire on the Platoon internal net, “Red One, this is Red Four. We have not moved. What is your location? Red One, this is Red Four. Do you read me, over?”
The response came almost immediately, “Red Four, this is Red One Delta. Actual is on the battalion net. Hold one.” That was the L-T’s driver, Specialist Riddell. What was going on?
He heard nothing but static on the platoon net for tense seconds, but then he thought he heard, “…one KIA. We have one KIA, over!” It sounded like Riddell. Shit, this was bad. The worst thing a leader could ever face.
Not knowing if the TOC received the report, he picked up the battalion frequency and sent the message again, “Lancer Mike, this is Comanche Red Four! We are under heavy fire, taking casualties. We have one KIA, over!”
Everyone in the company was, in short order, trying to crowd around the radio, fascinated by the sounds of gunfire coming across the background of each transmission. The voices sounded excited, tense, almost panicked. Swearing to himself, York followed Fowler over to Captain Troy Denomy’s Bradley. They would be leaving shortly to go help. At least they had better be, or York would grab a vehicle and go himself.
York saw several of his soldiers already gathered around Comanche 6’s victor. “Get it on!” he shouted. “Get your gear on and get ready to roll!”
Fowler swore vigorously and said, “York, I’ve gotta grab my stuff. Don’t let ’em leave without me!” York nodded as Fowler left at a dead sprint.
As Swope was attempting once more to contact his platoon leader, a huge explosion off the left side rocked their vehicle onto two wheels. Coleman, facing to the rear, cursed as the RPG hit. Swope scrambled to hold on, thinking that the vehicle might rollover onto its side. He felt a momentary disconnection, his head ringing. He fought to clear his head and realized that they were still OK. Another rocket went wide and exploded 100 meters in front of him. He ducked and cursed again as another projectile sailed over his head.
“Coleman, are you hit?” he shouted up to his gunner.
“I’m good.” Coleman sounded almost cheerful. He saw another RPG team approaching from the south, drew down on them, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The .50 caliber machine gun had been in the military’s arsenal continuously for over 60 years, and sometimes the ol’ gal seemed to feel her age. Shit. Shit. Shit. Coleman grabbed the charging handle with his right hand and pulled hard. A new round seated; he felt it. He put the advancing rocket team in his sights and pulled the trigger, grateful that the temperamental gun worked this time. Both of the approaching figures were cut to pieces.
Coleman cut his victory dance short as three rounds impacted the small shield in front of him, ting, ting, ting. His heart skipped a beat and he felt the keen edge of fear for the first time.
Wow. I’m glad that thing is bulletproof, he thought.
He saw the guy who had shot at him, another rooftop jockey. Coleman levered the M2 up to engage, pressed the trigger, and was dismayed to find that the gun had jammed again. About every three to ten rounds it would jam, because the ammo can that he had bolted to the swing arm as a make-shift belt holder wasn’t lined up right to feed into the 50 cal. He picked up his M16, eyes never leaving the target, brought the rifle to his shoulder, and brought down the man who had given him such a start.
Everyone was firing now at the enemy that had engulfed them. Later, the news agencies would declare that 10,000 insurgents took part in that fight. It seemed to that small, determined band of men that all 10,000 were firing at them now.
Alpha Company had been tasked with providing the on-call QRF. No more than 20 minutes after the first report of trouble, they rolled out with two Bradleys and two Light Military Tactical Vehicles, cargo trucks full of soldiers that fairly bristled with weapons. York watched them pull out and had a momentary feeling of panic that he would be left behind. Bourquin was like a brother to him and needed his help. Nothing mattered more to him now than getting out there to bring them home alive. He would not be left behind to watch the baggage.
Wild was peripherally aware of his leaders’ conversations, but he was so deep in the zone that they might as well have been on another planet. He had never known such a sharpening of his senses. His eyes were drawn to a figure appearing on a second story building’s roof with an AK-47. The enemy raked the platoon sergeant’s Humvee with fire, rounds impacting around Coleman yet leaving him unscathed.
The insurgent was so ridiculously close that Carl could have looked into his eyes had not the westering sun washed out the man’s features, turning him into a retail-store clothing dummy—a perfect target. As he placed his weapon’s sights on the man’s chest, Wild experienced a surreal separation from reality in which his mind, realizing that he was about to take his first human life, began to whisper to him, This is just like a movie. In movies, the hero always said something cool or brutally hard core before he dispatched someone. A myriad of clichés and theatrical catch phrases rattled around in his head. But which one to choose? He fussed over it like a debutante anxiously trying on dresses, looking for that perfect one, as his finger tightened on the trigger. Carl screamed a terse profanity and followed it with a long burst of fire, dropping the man cold. Not perfect, but it would have to do. He found that the act was over quickly and heralded no acute twinge of consciousness. It was no harder than swatting a fly.
Before he had time to reflect further, a small man stepped out of the alley on the far side of the two-story building and raised an RPG in their direction. Wild, still trying to process the combat experience in terms he could understand, was struck with comparison of an old West shootout. Time became saturated and slow. His imagination transformed the outlaw’s green bandana into a black cowboy hat, the theme to High Plains Drifter filling the air. The outlaw brought his trusty RPG to his shoulder in slow motion even as Wild shifted his balance to bring his weapon to bear. Wild felt sickeningly sure that he wasn’t going to be fast enough. His front sight post centered on the man’s hips and he squeezed the trigger. Got ya’, ya’ dirty varmint. There’s only room enough for one of us in this town. Black Bart’s chest caved in as the 7.62mm rounds ripped through him. As he fell backward, his dying finger convulsed on the trigger and he fired the rocket straight up into the air.
Before Wild could celebrate, he heard a buzzing thrum in the air below him and looked down in time to watch with complete fascination as he saw a flurry of bullets zip by underneath his gun. He was so dumbfounded by his brush with death that he almost didn’t hear Robinson’s M4 carbine sounding off as the dead-eye NCO took the insurgent out.
They had won a momentary respite now, but none knew for how long. Perhaps they had defeated the ambush. Swope agreed to take over point while they walked everyone forward, clearing and engaging as they went.
“All right, we’re walking out of here,” yelled Davis. “Perry, go at a good walking pace. Use your doors for cover. Engage at will.”
Perry scrambled back into his seat, switched on the accessory power, and turned the ignition switch hard to the right. The engine failed altogether to roar to life. He twisted the switch again, harder, as if the vehicle just needed a little reminder about who was boss. No sound came from under the hood.
“What are you waiting for Perry? Start the damn engine,” cried Davis. Then everyone—quite understandably eager to leave—began shouting at him to start the engine.
“Start it. Let’s go.”
“It won’t start.” Perry yelled. “They shot the engine.”
Davis’ eyes went wide. Please be joking.
; Perry tried frantically again and again to crank the diesel engine. Nothing. It was dead.
Specialist Jermaine Tyrell had his battle-rattle on in nothing flat. They were all ready within seconds, but the leaders were still trying to understand the situation and develop an appropriate plan. Only after Red Platoon had radioed that they had lost two vehicles and were seeking cover in an alleyway did the magnitude of the event begin to register. Tyrell stood, helmet in hand, trying to hear what was going on. Swope relayed a grid to their location. Tyrell could hear it clear as day, along with the accompaniment of weapons firing in the background, but the Battalion TOC seemed to be having a difficult time. They asked him to repeat—say again, over—no less than five times before they acknowledged his transmission.
“Riddell,” shouted the lieutenant, “Who’s behind us? Are they still back there?”
Riddell took his eyes off the road briefly. “Sir, I can’t see. The mirror’s blown off.”
Aguero spared a glance into his own and saw that it was gone, too. He could not stop himself from thinking, Can this possibly get any worse? Either no one was listening, or they could not hear his radio call. His gunner was dead and they were cut off from the rest of their platoon. They had made it to relative safety. He could hear gunfire to the south, but since he had shot that one shit-head—and the second one from a bouncing vehicle, he thought with only a touch of pride—the bullets had stopped pinging off of the M1114’s tough hide. Now, as he stood outside his vehicle, much too pissed to be scared, he could barely make out the rest of the platoon stopped behind him about 400 meters. He yelled and waved and screamed at them to come on, get moving. He saw that they had dismounted. Something must be wrong. Well, wronger.
“All right, Riddell. Turn around.”
Riddell, distressed by the news, asked, “Why?”
“Because they’re back there.”
“Well, they’ll follow. They’ll catch up.” Riddell seemed concerned for the first time since the fight began.
“No, we’re going back.” Aguero snapped, all too prescient of the cost. He knew that he was safe now, but he also refused to put his own safety over those he had chosen to lead and serve. He could smell the blood of Chen filling the vehicle, an aroma strong, unsettling, and full of reproach. I’m sorry, Eddie, he thought, I’m so very sorry.
Riddell turned the vehicle sharply around to the right and took to the sidewalk, which had little or no trash blocking it. Realizing that we were heading toward a friendly element now, I released the turret lock and twisted around to face north. The turret was not mechanized and took considerable muscle to turn it. I was careful not to step on Chen but found it impossible to avoid. I had hoped that he would pull out of it, or that maybe Sala’am could resuscitate him, and didn’t want to bruise him unnecessarily.
And, oh Lordy, did we ever go back through the shit. Because I was facing the rear, I couldn’t see where we were headed so each bump caught me by surprise. Dirt and pavement began to puff and pop in front of me. I heard a bullet whine by my head, buzzing like an angry wasp. It bore no resemblance whatsoever to a movie sound effect.
SO note by Davis, Asha @ 22 July 2014
Chief complaint: [intake]
Appears to be fixated on focus concerns despite negative work-up, questionable validity of the extent of his memory loss given tendency to contradict himself. Also inquired about MEB which brings up potential of secondary gain. SM is a transfer from Dr. Gorton. Most recently prescribed Celexa; reports he was ‘unable to function, dropping things at work’ on this medicine. Notes he initially saught [sic] treatment for concentration concerns, but also had anxiety. This has been worse since 2008. Currently reports feeling flat, depressed most of the time. Wife recently became pregnant, yet he is ‘scared of kids.’ Says he did not recall he shot kids until someone else wrote a book about it. Feels guilt from this, as well as ‘7 men died trying to save me.’ Has constant anger, felt more anxious related to the active shooter drill on post today. Sees ‘shadows or shapes out of the corner of my eye.’
Assessment: Anxiety Disorder NOS.
Robinson and Denney frantically waved for Red 3, Haubert’s vehicle, to come closer. Taylor pulled up to within a few feet and strained to hear what they were saying. Why weren’t they moving? At first he didn’t want to believe his ears, ringing as they were from Bellamy’s gun. They were saying, “It won’t start. It’s dead.”
He turned to look at his vehicle commander Haubert for guidance, then realized with a start that he had been hit. When had it happened? He couldn’t say for sure. Blood was leaking from one corner of his mouth and he was cradling a bloody hand to his chest and rocking back forth. His eyes had the glazed and far-away look of someone in shock.
“Sergeant Haubert,” Taylor yelled. The wounded man turned slowly to look at him with eyes that did not seem to comprehend his own name. Ah, great. Their leader was catatonic and the only other non-commissioned officer was too busy keeping the bad guys off of them to do anything else. Shit. Jon was not ready for this. He was too young, too inexperienced to handle this responsibility. But who else would do it? Taylor opened his mouth to say something else, realized that it was a waste of time, and turned his focus back to the more pressing issue. Red 2 was out of commission. They had trained on performing vehicle recovery under fire before using towing cables, but they had no such cables now. They had worked out a recovery method using ratchet straps and had tested it out at the National Training Center in Fort Irwin, California. It had worked just fine. The problem was that it took a couple of minutes to get the straps hooked up. A couple of more minutes in this mess, and they would all surely die. His mind hit on a more practical solution. He decided to…
“…push you. Hold on,” he shouted. Denney and Robinson nodded understanding and enthusiastically agreed saying,
“Yeah. Push us. Push us,” they cried in frantic chorus.
Davis twisted around and shouted at Rob and Denney to get in Haubert’s vehicle. With the speed borne of panic, they both rushed Red 3 and vaulted into the bed.
Taylor eased the vehicle forward until he felt the bumpers connect and then rammed the accelerator to the floor. To his delight, both vehicles lunged forward, and they were off again. They were going to make it.
Perry, his power steering completely gone, was using every ounce of strength he had to steer the dead Humvee around the largest obstacles. Bullets zipped by from everywhere competing for his attention. It looked like an actual hail storm. Round after round hit Perry’s window and whizzed by in front of him. His mirror shattered. An RPG whooshed over his head. Perry flinched, keenly aware that he was in a convertible and living on borrowed time. I don’t think I’m gonna make it. His father was a pastor back in Texas and Perry shared his faith in God. He prayed now as he never had.
Sergeant Tuan Le was the training room NCO, the commander’s secretary and adjutant. He had earlier stretched a tarp from two Bradleys that were parked side-by-side in order to provide some relief from the noon-time sun and serve as the Comanche base of operations. Now dozens of men were gathered around listening. No one made a sound for almost five minutes as they listened to the drama unfolding as if on an old-timey radio broadcast. Surely this was a joke. Some sort of War of the Worlds broadcast just for funsies. Maybe it was a small ambush and Red platoon would plow through it. They were American infantry soldiers, after all. What could these illiterate goat herders do to them anyway?
Then the paralysis broke like a bad fever. Someone started yelling, “Headquarters Platoon, we’re moving out. Break everything down. Let’s go.” Le began frantically tearing the CP down, getting the tracked vehicles ready to move. He knew that they were going to need all the armor and firepower that they could find. Charlie Company had only the vehicles that they had driven from Kuwait, a collection
of Humvees and LMTV cargo trucks with sandbags lining the bed and thin sheets of steel bolted to the side. There were only four Bradley Fighting Vehicles to be had now in this heavy mechanized company. They had been told to leave the rest in Fort Hood because that would send the wrong message to the Iraqis’ hearts and minds.
SO note by Rodgers, Renee @ 29 April 2014
Patient is a 41 year old male Army captain. SM reports chronic feelings of anger. Episodic rage. SM describes what appears to be emotional numbing. Recalls falling in love with wife (intensity of feelings at the time) and more difficulty sensing feelings now, other than at very high levels. History of homicides while in combat and feelings of anger he now has in retrospect. SM has deficits in self-regulation skills, coupled with problems related to emotional numbing and finding himself in emotional extremes, primarily panic and rage states.
Assessment: Anxiety Disorder NOS: R/O PTSD
Movement caught my eye. I looked up to my two o’clock and saw three small figures dressed in black, huddled together on the roof of a four-story building. Yellow-orange flame exploded from the mid-section of the one in the middle. Muzzle flash. These sons of bitches were shooting at me. How dare they? I was about to be killed by some a-hole wearing cliché black. I mean, if I’ve got to go, please God, don’t let it be at the hands of one with neither style nor imagination. Something about the scale bothered me. The tiny figure holding the flashing RPK—for it was undoubtedly a heavy machine gun—was less than 150 meters away. A man-size target at that distance is bigger. I knew this as a jeweler who doesn’t need his loupe to tell a real diamond from zirconium. That meant that the target was sub-man sized, or as we say in the business, child-sized. My blood froze.
The child pulled the trigger again, angry flashes of flame signaling his intent to take my life. RPK, I thought again. Heavy machine gun. The kid on his left is his ammo handler; on his right is the spotter. My eyes, sharpened by impending death, saw that they each wore a karate-kid style green bandana. I could see clearly the formation of kids in the school lot we had visited yesterday. Black clad, green bandanas. Holy shit, they were training little mujahedeen fighters. How many more? The kid was closer this time, two shots from his burst pinged off of the rear of the Humvee.
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