Blood.
I remember the smell of blood mixed with gunpowder. The smell often described as having a coppery quality. I sometimes use that adjective myself, though not because I’m sure that I agree, but because it seems a convention. A convenient way to describe in a word the horrible, urgent, and necessary odor of a substance most primal. Blood always smells like blood to me. I only experience the smell as memory, as if some sort of synesthesia, or swapping of senses. I breathe in the smell from the corpses that shadows them like the memory of the squirrel looking up at me. The smell coats the back of my tongue with a miserable sweetness.
Blood and gunpowder is what I remember. Death.
I’m told that the mob only made it about ten meters farther after we opened fire. The L-T estimated that we killed about 40 people before they thought better of it and retreated. They left, pulling their dead and dying behind them. At least the ones without weapons did.
Here’s what happened as best as I can remember:
I saw the children approaching, the women. Madly tumbling toward us like street urchins in a maniacal Macy’s Parade. The Dia de los Muertos march as interpreted by angry Iraqis who refused to be occupied like the Palestinians. I leveled the huge gun at the crowd and pressed the trigger with both thumbs.
Click.
Nothing happened. Wild and Bellamy opened up on my left. Lieutenant Aguero joined Sala’am on my right as they, too, began firing. My heart skipped a beat as I grabbed the charging handle with my right hand and hauled back on it. Chu-chink. A live round dropped out of the bottom as another took its place in the chamber. I squeezed the trigger again only to be greeted with the sound of nothing happening. Shit, the timing or head space had been thrown off. Probably as we had been bouncing madly through the gauntlet of trash and metal to get back to our platoon, and I had given my weapon to Sala’am. Wait, where’s Chen’s? I twisted around and saw Chen’s M203—a combination rifle and grenade launcher—hanging by its strap from the rear turret shield. I plucked it off and placed the barrel on top of the turret shield to stabilize my aim. I stared down the M68 optic sight at a young boy who had no weapon.
Bullets were ripping through the crowd, dropping people by the handful. This wasn’t war. This was a damn slaughter. Up until now I had killed children with guns, children intent on rubbing me out as if they were doing no more than playing laser tag or Play Station. Most of this crowd had no weapons except their deadly resolve to come down the alley and snatch us up. Now they were dying for making the assumption that we were too weak, too noble in that foolish Marquis of Queensbury fashion, to defend ourselves. Well, we had all made our choice. We were going to fight so we could live. And damn them all for testing our resolve.
They were so close that I didn’t need to aim. Not for this. I left the red laser dot on a man’s chest, dropped my head, and began to pull the trigger. I made small, groaning noises, drowned by the roar of our weapons, as I pulled the trigger twice a second until the bolt locked to rear letting me know that the magazine was empty. Now I looked up at the carnage as my hands went through the autonomous action of reloading. Fifteen seconds of bloody work and they were still coming. Broken and bloody bodies piled in the street as hundreds of the insane steadily plunged forward.
SO note by Aycock, Lisa @ 24 June 2014
Chief Complaint: concentration
Patient reported minimal progress. Pt did not automatically pull down shades upon entering provider’s office. Pt stated he made a conscious effort not to pull the shades. Pt reports he continues to be successful not consuming alcohol. Pt disclosed he has 2 primary stuck points. Pt engaged in discussion regarding being on patrol & being ambushed. Pt stated the “gunner” in his vehicle was killed & he was required to take over his position. Pt stated his stuck point is the enemy placed women & children in front of themselves & marched toward pt and his battle buddies. Pt reported they were forced to shoot & the result was that a significant amount of women & children were killed. Pt disclosed the anger he cont’s to deal with. Pt able to discuss/process his feelings/emotions. Discusses pt’s guilt; discussed pt’s ability to forgive himself.
Assessment: Anxiety Disorder NOS
When the mob began to retreat, our weapons fell silent. Aguero spared a glance heavenward as if seeking guidance or demanding an apology. Through a haze of gun smoke he glimpsed a small bird gliding above the fray, unconcerned with the scene below. He felt a surreal wave wash over him, leaving him adrift in the notion that he was in some sort of war movie and not actually trapped behind enemy lines. The bird floated over the pile of bodies and out of sight behind a building where someone’s brightly colored laundry fluttered in the breeze. The sudden silence gave a fleeting sense of peace that did not exist.
Even as we repelled the macabre parade, the QRF was attempting to find a bypass around the obstacles meant to keep us in the ambush kill box. Route Silver had been a clear shot going out. It was full of pot holes, though that was normal. Now, just five minutes after having turned on to Delta, the landscape had completely changed. The enemy had used the scant few minutes that it had taken for the cumbersome LMTV to turn around to great advantage. Route Silver was now littered with impromptu barricades and obstacles. Scrap metal, steel I-beams, vehicle parts of every type, and piles of concrete blocks had been strewn about to fix the infidels in place long enough to deliver a killing blow.
Hunter managed to dodge the myriad of obstacles laid out for them so hastily on Silver. He was still able to see, even though the sun was starting to sink below the line of buildings to the west. They were taking fire from everywhere now, mostly to the south, but also from across the canal that was the northern border of Sadr City. Just shy of Aeros, they turned right on Alpha. Contact was not heavy to the east, which was mostly open field, but gunfire was in abundance from the buildings and alleys to their west. On their first jaunt down Silver, only the soldiers sitting on the left side had been busy. Now, since they were going the other way, the right side had their turn at all the fun and frolic. By the time they had traveled almost a mile and turned on to Copper, every one of them had learned what it meant to take another man’s life.
Specialist Jermaine Tyrell was no exception. Movement drew his eyes to a balcony. He saw a little kid, maybe 12 years old, wearing a blue shirt and wielding an AK-47. Fire flashed from the muzzle as the boy sprayed the weapon from side to side. He was surrounded by older men and younger children who were cheering him on as though he had just smashed a slow pitch and was rounding third base toward home. Tyrell had no time to contemplate this odd behavior before he unloaded the last of his 5.56 mm belt into the kid. He saw the kid fall and was glad that he didn’t have time to feel bad about it. One of the bullets struck an old man dressed in a white didashi. With an almost superhuman clarity of vision he could see the individual black and white checkers of the man’s headdress and the blooming red flower on the man’s chest. He didn’t want to think about it. The young kids cheering, the old men clapping their hands. The world no longer made sense.
Having failed to overwhelm our defenses with the patented Iranian tactic of sending weaponless women and children ahead of the courageous men, the insurgents wasted no time. They gave the kids weapons and sent them back after us. Coleman saw them first.
“Hey, guys,” he called. “We got more peekers, left side.”
At the northern corner, Coleman saw a small head just barely reveal itself and then disappear. A second later a small figure emerged, only half exposing himself this time, and fired a short burst before vanishing. Instead of following the last guy’s tactic of popping out after the infidels had fired, this kid learned from his dead playmate’s mistakes. He alternated popping out in full profile with just sticking his rifle around the corner and squeezing off a few blind shots. At least Coleman thought it was the same guy. Maybe there were two and one was more timid than the other. What
ever, Coleman thought, doesn’t matter. What did matter was that he was completely irritated that he kept missing the little bastard. He had been using the .50 cal when the angry mob had tried, quite unsuccessfully, to storm their position. He was using it now in the hope that the rounds would penetrate through the corner and take out the stupid SOB.
After a few failed attempts, Davis said, “Coleman, hold up. Let him go; I’ve got him.” Davis was on Coleman’s right side with the 240B. To Coleman’s amusement, Davis brought the 24-pound machine gun up to his shoulder like a hunting rifle and waited. Coleman was impressed that he could keep the heavy gun up like that without his arms shaking. Davis only had to wait a few seconds before the little jihadist popped into view again. He squeezed off a burst that threw the kid backward before he could fire the AK.
Another barrel poked around the north-side corner and fired blindly. Crap, thought Coleman as a bullet zinged off of his turret shield. They’re just as likely to hit us without looking. These guys really suck. He felt like laughing, but he still didn’t relish the thought of being offed by some little turd that wasn’t even shaving yet. The dark humor seemed to help, though. The laughter was building up inside him, more madness than frivolity, but it felt good. Hell, bring it on, why not? Everyone’s gotta die, and this was kind of fun. He sent another burst of half-inch diameter bullets after his would-be killer. Choke on it.
I heard everyone around Red 4 begin to fire in rapid succession. An angry bullet went by my ear close enough to make me swat the air as if to be rid of a winged pest. I was so scared at that moment that every time a bullet was fired I uttered a single, staccato profanity like a man with Tourette Syndrome singing along to bad karaoke. I couldn’t stop myself from saying, Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
I saw a sneaky little face appear from the southern corner of the intersection in front of me. I tucked the rifle into my shoulder and yelled, “I’ve got a peeker on the left, fifty meters.” Two small heads peeked out next, and I held my fire. I saw no weapons yet, and after what I had just been forced to do, felt no desire to shoot a non-combatant. Both black-clad children jumped defiantly into the alley and began to spray our area with 7.62mm contempt. I hesitated as a couple of lucky rounds hit my turret shield. Wild and Bellamy returned fire, and I joined them a split second later. The kids were quick, though, melting back out of sight.
SO note by Rodgers, Renee @ 16 April 2014
Chief complaint: periods of anxiety
SM reports chronic feelings of anger. SM states he is hyperalert much of the time. He notes increased heart rate; signs of paranoia when anxious. Problems with concentration. SM states he struggles to stay focused, even with simple tasks. Poor sleep quality: delayed onset, disruption, nightmares. SM uses ETOH to cope at times. Drinking 2-3 times a week, up to 5-6 drinks. SM shares how the reunion and wedding service for he and his spouse went at FT Hood over the past weekend. SM says both events were meaningful to him. Provider and he also discuss post combat stress related to killing children and adolescents in combat. SM shares how impact of this trauma effects his feelings about having kids now. SM referred to Acute Stress Reaction Group.
Assessment: Anxiety Disorder NOS: R/O PTSD; R/O Panic Disorder
Eric Bourquin appeared at Coleman’s left, drawn by the gunfire. “Hey. You want any HE put somewhere?” The young NCO held up his M203 grenade launcher for emphasis. HE stands for High Explosives and Bourquin was just itching to make something highly explode.
“Hell, yeah,” Coleman cried. “I’ve been trying to get these little bastards on the left side at the corner. Put one right at the end of the alley.”
“All right, I’ve got you.” Bourquin’s heart thrilled with excitement as he prepared to fire his first live 40mm grenade in combat. Yes. This was going to be sweet. An imaginary MP3 player in his head cued up a slammin’ track from Shai’Halud, one of his favorite emo metal bands. He plucked a blue-tipped grenade from a pouch on his vest. The grenade launcher, attached to the bottom of his rifle, was little more than a black tube with its own firing mechanism. With his left hand he thumbed the release lever and pushed the tube open. He slid the bullet-shaped grenade all the way into the barrel of the launcher and then pulled it shut. The launcher sealed with a satisfying click as the trigger armed. He tucked the 203 under his arm and put the building’s corner in the quadrant sight attached to the weapon’s side. It had a ferocious kick that would break your nose if you tried to fire it like a regular rifle, which made aiming at and actually hitting your target awkward and difficult. Bourquin pulled the trigger and saw the grenade slam into a white car in front of them. The hood flew open; windows shattered.
Coleman roared with laughter. “What the hell are you shooting at?”
“It broke,” Bourquin said with disgust. Coleman glanced over and saw that he was holding his rifle in one hand and the grenade launcher in the other. The weapon had come apart in two pieces.
Coleman laughed harder, tears squirting from his eyes, “Oh, my God, you have got to be kidding me. Why did you break it?”
“Shut up,” muttered Bourquin, who was thoroughly disappointed. “Made by the lowest damn bidder.” Coleman couldn’t stop laughing, even as the little peeker fired at them again.
Bellamy, Wild and Sala’am had opened the doors of the Humvee and used them for cover like large, armored wings. Wild, on my right, rested the barrel of his rifle on top of the door to assist his aim. Sala’am was by his side, kneeling in the dusty road. The pair of murderous children lunged out again and raked their rifles left to right. Sala’am felt a small, hot sting as a bullet grazed his leg. He said nothing about it, but answered their fire with a burst of his own. We all joined him, our accurate fire sending chips of brick flying in all directions. The kids didn’t reappear as I waited tensely, the red dot of my scope anticipating their return.
Bellamy heard the guys behind him continue to fire and dashed over to see if they needed help. He regretted now giving up the 240 to Rob because he couldn’t use Rob’s scope. Something had happened to the M68; an oily film covered the lens that rendered it opaque. It was like looking through a glass of milk. He tried to wipe it off with no luck. He was literally shooting from the hip. He saw that Coleman was rocking the .50 cal, Davis was shooting his 240B like a squirrel rifle, and Bourquin was walking toward him with his M203 in two pieces and a scowl on his face.
“Don’t ask,” he said, and walked into the courtyard shaking his head.
Bellamy saw Lieutenant Aguero’s face frozen in a hideous smile. He walked slowly past Swope as he sat talking on the radio, rifle hanging limply from its strap. At the rear of the Humvee he paused, hands on hips. Bellamy saw the barrel of an assault rifle edge around the north corner. He ducked instinctively as flames flashed from the muzzle. Small, white puffs of dust exploded first from the south wall, then north, then south again as the slugs ricocheted toward them. Aguero never moved, never flinched. He extended both arms forward, as if to make a conciliatory let’s hug gesture, then extended both middle fingers skyward. The L-T took about five steps forward, shouting profanity with such vehemence that Bellamy had no trouble hearing him over the roar of the Ma Deuce. The Lieutenant continued to hurl insults at the mothers of his enemy, daring them to take their best shot in language guaranteed to melt their faces off if they had courage to show them.
“Sir,” Bellamy shouted, “What are you doing? Get back here.” The dismayed NCO ran forward to stand beside his leader, intent on making him seek cover, when he saw movement on the other side of Delta. A man with a rifle scurried from a pile of broken concrete to a junked out car. Bellamy brought the rifle up to his waist, feeling ridiculously like an action hero cliché, and lined up a shot. Without a sight he had no hope of hitting the man, but wanted to try and keep his head down while they pulled back a little. Bellamy was surprised and delighted when the u
nlucky insurgent dropped after three shots. That makes ten. Bellamy put a hand on the L-T’s shoulder, who was still breathing fiery vows to the enemy. “Come on, Sir. Let’s find some cover.” Aguero followed, turning his back to Delta with deliberate scorn.
Lieutenant Aguero stood between the two Humvees now, facing to the east, trying to calm himself down. He had never known such blinding rage in his life, but he knew he had to master himself in order to give his platoon a fighting chance at survival.
As he stood taking deep, calming breaths, something like a small rock struck him on top of the kevlar. He caught a peripheral glimpse of a dark sphere bounce against the wall and then roll behind him. It was a smooth Russian grenade. He wanted to keep watching it, fascinated by this object from the heavens, this escapee from a war-movie prop closet. The explosion propelled Lieutenant Aguero forward on to the hood of Red 4. The world was at first nothing but noise and light, then all sound abruptly ceased. He slid to the ground and wondered if he had just been killed.
His ears rang and he couldn’t move his right arm and leg. Oh, this is not good. Aguero stood up and began to evaluate himself to make sure he still had all his parts intact. He felt his head. Spinning, but still attached, good. He held up both hands in front of his eyes and shook them. Can’t feel the right. Not good. Can’t feel my leg or my ear. Also not good. Well, they’re still there, at least. Just not working that well.
Black Knights, Dark Days Page 17