Davis told him, “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a scratch.”
Ben felt his arm growing cold and his face was numb. He turned to Davis and said through gritted teeth, “What does it look like?”
“A scratch, I said. Quit being a sissy. Keep going, you’ll be fine.”
“Oh, OK then. No big deal.” Hayhurst tried to shrug off the pain and numbness he felt in the socket of his shoulder joint. He rose above the wall, searching for a target, preferably the one who had sucker-punched him. He fired a few rounds at the corner of a nearby building where shadowy men emerged from time to time to rake the air with their indiscriminate marksmanship. He tried to lift his arm to support his weapon and felt it slip out of the socket. He bit off a yelp and squatted down again. This was not going to work.
Robinson saw that Hayhurst was going to be out of the fight for good. Plus, by wounding one man, the enemy had taken two soldiers out of the fight. Davis had to abandon his sector to give aid. Rob readjusted his perimeter quickly. He called Swope on the radio and informed him that Hayhurst was down and asked that they send Doc Guzman up to take a look at him.
In the meantime, Rob needed more men. He went to the west side and looked over. Wild and Riddell were standing on top of the CCP roof, rifles at the ready, but they weren’t engaging. Perfect.
Wild was so intent on scanning for a target that he almost didn’t hear. Then he thought he heard his name drifting down from the heavens. “Riddell, do you hear that?”
Riddell, whose face had a sickly cast to it, muttered, “I don’t know.”
Wild was sure that he heard something, “I think Sergeant Rob’s calling my name. Cover my lane a sec.” Wild walked back to the small entryway onto the rooftop. He looked up immediately saw Sergeant Rob; he was yelling, but Carl couldn’t tell if he was yelling at him. He put a hand to his ear. What the hell is he saying?
Wild called back to Riddell, “Hey, I think Sergeant Rob’s calling me; I’m going to go see what he wants. Are you going to be all right over here?”
Riddell gave a thumbs up and returned to scanning his sector.
Wild looked across and tried to figure out how to get over to Robinson. The rooftop he was on was at least as high as or a little taller than Robinson’s roof. It didn’t occur him to take the more pedestrian route. He looked over the edge and contemplated crawling. Oh, screw that, he thought. There was no ledge and crawling across would have left him exposed without being able to maneuver. Wild wasn’t one to back down from anything and didn’t plan to start now. He popped up, uttered the single vexation “Shit!” and sprinted across the rooftop. Painfully aware of how exposed he was, he jumped down to the roof below. He felt like Spiderman in DCUs.
It was maybe a seven-foot drop according to his knees. He looked down into the courtyard and saw that it was at almost the same height. He jumped again, barely feeling the impact, and climbed up the stairs to Rob’s rooftop.
Slightly winded, Wild asked, “Sergeant Rob, what’s going on?”
“Hayhurst’s been shot. I need you to cover down on his sector.”
“Roger, Sergeant.” Hayhurst was Wild’s friend, and he immediately felt a pang of concern. He saw that Ben was still at his position, nursing his left arm and trying to engage targets with his right.
Robinson took Hayhurst by the arm and moved him to the middle of the roof as Doc’s head appeared in the spider hole. Ben was still protesting that he was fine, and that if they’d just leave him alone he’d resume his post. He rotated his left arm at the shoulder to prove his point. An audible popping noise made everyone that heard it wince. Hayhurst’s face paled and his knee’s unhinged as he flopped to a sitting position. Nausea threatened to overtake him as a wave of pain rushed through his body.
“What happened to you? Did you forget to duck?” cracked Guzman as he cut the NCOs shirt away. He noticed right away that there was not very much blood at all. Good sign. Brachial artery still intact. Looks like he’s not going to bleed out. Two holes, entrance and exit? Some kind of spalling on the back. Shrapnel?
Hayhurst explained that he had been sitting with his back against the wall when he was struck from behind.
“What, you were just sitting there?” Shrapnel must be brick fragments then.
“Yeah, must have gone right in between the mortar.”
“Damn,” laughed Guzman, “They got you good, huh?”
“Don’t know that I’d call it good,” muttered Hayhurst. “Still, if I’d been sitting a little further left…”
“Damn.” Guzman didn’t say anything else as he pulled out two gauze field dressings and applied one to each hole. The surgeons would have to dig out the bullet. It was lodged between the ball and socket of his shoulder joint, causing the loud, unnerving pop. And pain. Hayhurst traded sectors with Davis. Davis didn’t feel that the south end was much of a threat now, and Ben was starting to look pretty rough. Hayhurst tried to stay alert but as the pain sunk deeper and deeper, concentrating on anything was becoming impossible.
Carl Wild, still brimming with restless energy, looked around the roof to see where he could best fit in. He wanted what he was doing to matter, to make a difference. Just standing or sitting around while there was action to be had somewhere was a gigantic ‘no go’ in his book. He saw Hayhurst, in pain but smiling, leaned up against the southern wall. Taylor was kneeling in the busy northeast corner with his eyes barely above the top of the wall. Davis was propped against the middle of the north wall with his head tilted back. It was the same spot where Hayhurst had been hit, but Davis looked too tired to care. Even the Doc managed to bag a bad guy. The medic picked out a gun-toting jihadist less than 70 meters away and pulled the trigger. No one was more surprised than Guzman when the man jumped as if stung and fell straight down.
Wild approached the heavy machine gun team of Bourquin and Rogers with an offer of respite. Rogers nodded and stretched out on the tar-covered roof.
“Watch yourself,” warned Rogers, as Wild settled in. “That wall won’t stop shit.”
“Yeah,” agreed Bourquin, “That’s how Ben got tagged. Round came right through.”
“So basically,” Wild said with a wry grin, “you’re saying…”
“Yeah, we’re pretty much screwed!” laughed Bourquin. Wild joined him in round of manic laughter that was devoid of the shaky tone that one would attribute to a nervous person fighting for his life. The laughter was cleansing, like a man facing the gallows who had come to terms with his maker and then asked the executioner to pull his finger.
Wild was disappointed to have nothing to shoot at. All was quiet below. For a time, he, Bourquin, and Rogers took turns behind the gun, each hoping for a little action, a little chance to pay back some for their fallen. They stalked from position to position like hungry lions, each quickly growing bored and swapping out with each other wordlessly.
Wild realized that their field of view was much better here than it had been in the other spot. He yelled down to Riddell that he should go downstairs to help out in the alley. “I can cover your sector better up here,” he added. Riddell didn’t even bother acknowledging. He moved quickly and disappeared back down the stairs out of Wild’s sight. The sun, he noted, was beginning to set.
Thompson was the first person injured in the vehicle, though not the last. They had just turned down Delta into the mass of obstacles set out to slow their progress. He was firing left-handed from the window behind the CO when a stray bullet hit the door. The round fragmented, pieces flying in all directions. Two of the fragments lodged into Thompson’s right hand. The metal bits burned, and Joe shook his hand as if to extinguish flames. He shone a flashlight on it, fearing what he might see. It wasn’t bleeding and he could still move his fingers, so he put it out of his mind for the moment. He would take care of his now throbbing hand later, should he survive the night
.
“Thompson, what’s wrong?” Dumdie called over to him.
“I’m hit, but I’m OK. I’m all right.” Indeed, he felt more than all right. He felt almost immortal.
Denomy knew that they were getting close to his embattled platoon. He glanced down alley after alley as they flashed by, hoping to catch a glimpse of American soldiers. Instead, he saw large groups of people huddled down each lane. He couldn’t see any weapons and they weren’t shooting at his convoy, so he let them be. They had plenty of work firing at the insurgents who were using the rooftops to rain metal down upon them. His gunner, Specialist Craig Burkholder, was engaging rooftop targets on the left and right, but there were too many. The doors were lightly armored, and there was no cover of any kind on his vehicle. The noise from the crew-served weapon was so deafening that the commander’s numbed ears could hardly hear anything now over the radio. Suddenly, Denomy felt a burning sting in his left shoulder and swatted it as if he were shooing a fly.
Thompson was also hit again, this time in his right shoulder. It was superficial, although it stung like bite of a burning wasp. He saw his commander flinch in front of him. Thompson was able to make out blood coming from the CO’s left shoulder. Thompson, ignoring his own wounds, leaned forward and pulled out Denomy’s own field dressing from the case on the CO’s left shoulder. Joe began trying to apply the bandage to his commander’s shoulder as the vehicle bounced wildly over debris, and the commander attempted to contact Red 1 on the radio. Thompson felt like he was trying to put socks on a restless toddler while riding a roller coaster.
Out of the corner of his eye, Thompson saw the smoke trail of an incoming RPG from the left. The rocket sizzled as it sped toward them out of the growing darkness, hit a piece of garbage ten feet away, and exploded. A large chunk of burning frag ripped through the door and took a chunk out of Dumdie’s shin. The NCO began to scream as he bucked wildly in his seat. Thompson grabbed the man and pulled him toward the center of the vehicle so that he could assess his injury. Joe had to lay sideways across the middle to get a look at the injury. He was concerned once again that, with his ass pointed toward the rooftop snipers, it would be too juicy a target to pass up.
Dumdie groaned and cried out as Thompson shone a light on the man’s leg. A huge piece of the man’s shinbone was missing, and he was gushing blood. Thompson retrieved Dumdie’s field dressing and slapped it on the wound. He held pressure on the leg even though it made the NCO writhe in pain. It wasn’t enough to kill him, but the shock certainly could if they didn’t get him help soon.
“Sir! Dumdie’s hit bad! He’s bleeding heavy from the leg!”
“Roger that!” Denomy yelled back. He had been mulling their situation over. They were heavily outnumbered by a determined and prepared enemy. He had a nebulous picture of his combat strength. Hell, the wounded in his own vehicle were stacking up. The pitiful groaning from Dumdie was enough to override the last reservations he had about violating the Rules of Engagement. The ROE, particularly the limitations on the types of ammo that could be employed, had been directed for use in a humanitarian relief setting devoid of a persistent threat. The situation had changed and he was ready to lay his career on the line to make a tough call. He picked up the radio and said, “All Comanche elements, this is Comanche 6. Twenty-five millimeter High Explosive rounds are authorized. I say again, go hot on 25mm HE. Engage at will!”
Denomy wasn’t entirely sure that they heard him until the heavy whump-whump of the Bradley Fighting Vehicles’ main guns began to beat the air. It was one of the sweetest sounds he had ever heard. Between salvos, Denomy heard his boss—Lieutenant Colonel Volesky—over the radio. “Comanche 6, this is Lancer 6. Go ahead and authorize HE on your Bradleys.”
Denomy casually replied, “I’ve already done that, Sir.”
Captain Denomy looked to his left and noticed that his driver, Specialist Seth Weibley, had been wounded. Now everyone in his vehicle, including himself, was a casualty, though none as severe as Dumdie. The NCO had quieted but was still rocking with pain. Thompson tried to keep him talking. If he lost consciousness, he could easily slip into shock and die. “Stay with me, Sergeant!” Denomy made the call to abandon the rescue attempt and push south down Route Delta to link up with the rest of Task Force Lancer.
By this time, the Battalion had gained control of the southern end of the city. Just outside the District Area Council building, the government edifice at the corner of Florida and Delta, they had established a hasty Casualty Collection Point. Alpha Company had been hit hard and they were still trying to load out the wounded and dying.
Here, Troy Denomy put a badly wounded Alpha soldier in his seat and told his driver to follow their escort back to the FOB. He then dashed off for a face-to-face with his boss.
Thompson didn’t see him again until much later that night. JT called back to Fowler, who had been in the open for their entire jaunt down Hell’s Alley, worried that it was too quiet back there. At first he heard no answer. Panicking, he looked over his shoulder. Aaron Fowler was sitting calmly, a self-applied pressure bandage over his bloody knee, smoking a cigarette.
“You know you can’t smoke within fifty feet of a military vehicle, right?” Thompson was grinning. Fowler offered him a few anatomically impossible pass-times for his consideration and continued to puff. They both laughed.
Each soldier on the roof shared the same thought when Robinson told them that the QRF had again been repelled: are we screwed now or what? Then everyone laughed. They had no idea of the horror that the convoy was plowing through, but would have laughed just the same had they known. Not from cruelty—that their brothers were experiencing the same baptism by fire into the fraternity of warriors—but rather from an acceptance that their fate was still in the balance. They could all yet die, so they laughed and laughed to keep the fear at bay.
Riddell appeared with two boxes of 5.56mm ammo. He moved to the middle of the roof and told everyone to throw him their empty magazines. Everyone gladly complied; multiple mags clattered to the ground around him. Rob, noting that Hayhurst was no longer able to focus on anything but pain, told him to pull in and help Riddell. Between the two of them, they completed the task quickly, making good use of the speed-loaders included with each box of bullets.
Wild retrieved enough magazines to replace his expended basic load of seven. As he began stowing each gray metal magazine into an empty pouch, he noticed that every bullet that he could see in the mag’s opening were tipped with orange
“Tracers?” Wild groaned. “You idiot, you brought all the tracer rounds.”
“They’ll kill just the same,” Riddell said with a touch of defensiveness.
“Yeah,” conceded Wild, “And melt the barrel down, too.” He shrugged. At least it would be one hell of a last stand.
“Christ, I need a cigarette!” sighed Bourquin.
“Here,” said Wild, “They’re Miami’s, but better than nothing.”
“Let me get one of those, man,” said Riddell. Wild ended up passing a smoke to each man on the rooftop except for Rogers, who declined. They shared the tobacco without saying anything, wondering how long they would have to hold on until help could find them. Hayhurst puffed on the Iraqi-made cigarette with his back to the very wall that had ejected the bullet that hit him. Doc had cut his sleeve away to the shoulder. Two tiny dots of red could be seen through the white of the bandages. Wild sat beside him and told Bourquin to snap a picture.
Eric Bourquin saw the white edges of Hayhurst’s bandages were beginning to turn red. Each time he moved his shoulder the wrong way, the sickening pop made Bourquin wince as though he were watching someone get kicked in the gonads. Bourquin picked up Roger’s shotgun—unused since breaching the door—and handed it to Ben. “Why don’t you take this and trade out with Perry guarding the detainees?”
Hayhurst descended from the LP/OP, easing past the blocked stairwell, bandaged and bloody, holding a shotgun. He walked across the courtyard and called to Perry so that he wouldn’t be spooked. “Friendly coming in!”
Perry turned to him and nodded. The young private did a double-take when he saw the Sergeant’s bandaged and bloody shoulder. The family he had been guarding had been speaking to each other comfortingly in low voices until the wounded Arizona native entered the room. They fell dead quiet when they saw his expression and the large-bore shotgun in hands that trembled with rage.
Perry noted the look, too, and recognized it for what it was. He had felt the same thing earlier when he had been faced with the offensive sight of Chen’s body and needed someone to blame. Almost everyone who had come in to pay their last respects—as if the tiny kitchen, reeking of stale cooking oil and blood, were a funeral parlor—had mirrored that same expression. Perry asked the NCO what he was supposed to do now. Hayhurst said nothing; his burning eyes locked on to the cowering family, but pointed up. Perry understood. He went upstairs to the LP/OP to see what he could do.
By happy coincidence, Aguero came limping into the CCP to pay his last respects to his gunner. He paused in the doorway as he noted Hayhurst standing watch over Chen and their involuntary Iraqi hosts. The wounded man’s posture told Aguero that the young lad from Arizona was considering Texas-style justice, holding a shotgun with one hand and cradling a bandaged arm.
Aguero stood over Chen’s body, sharing Ben’s anger. Anger and sadness and then more anger to cover up the sadness. He didn’t know what to say, couldn’t think of anything that didn’t reek of sympathy-card insincerity. The only thing in his heart at that moment was, I’m sorry. The L-T caught movement from the corner of his eye and saw Haubert rocking back and forth in a dark corner. Aguero burned with rage.
Black Knights, Dark Days Page 22