by Piers Platt
“Red 5, Bulldawg X-Ray: air support requests you mark the target with 25mm fire, over.”
“This is Red 5, acknowledged. Marking target now.”
He fired a sustained burst of 25mm rounds into the building, the explosions from which were readily apparent to the pilot making a low pass over the city. The pilot locked the target into his targeting computer, banked hard, and then climbed to altitude again, lining himself up for the bombing run. Several thousand feet below, the Bradleys braced for the impact, eyes fixed on the building, which still showed multiple muzzle flashes from insurgents firing at their position. Several hundred yards away, a civilian car had inexplicably decided to brave the firefight to enter the city, a fact which no one noticed until after we had a chance to check out the targeting footage from the F-18. That guy had a hell of a shock that afternoon.
500 pounds of high explosive hit with a bright white flash, jets of smoke and debris streaking out of the cement building far into the air above. The small arms fire halted abruptly, those insurgents not caught within the blast radius concussed or temporarily deafened by the explosion. Realizing they were inviting further disaster by remaining on the edge of the city, the survivors quickly regrouped and retreated, but soon began opening fire on the Bradleys and Apaches once again.
It took them several minutes to locate the insurgents’ fallback positions, but Gunfighter 5 managed to do so after side-slipping several hundred yards to the west and training his thermal sights down a main street running south through the city before him.
“Red 5, Gunfighter 5, I’ve located the source of that small arms fire, over.”
“This is Red 5, roger – we’re moving to your location.”
“Gunfighter 5, roger – insurgents are using the Golden Mosque for cover. I can identify multiple gunmen behind a low wall on the perimeter of the mosque. Do I have permission to fire, over?”
Neathery paused, momentarily stumped. On the one hand, it is hammered into the soldier that his job is to gain and maintain contact, and once the initiative has been seized, to continue to assault enemy forces. These enemy were better-trained and more dangerous than any we had yet faced, but they were also losing, and everyone in the battle sensed this. On the other hand, it had been made crystal clear to us during our training that certain things in Islamic culture were completely unacceptable: mistreatment of women, disrespect towards the Koran, and anything that violated the sanctity of mosques, in particular. Violations of these principles would not only land us in serious hot water with our chain of command, they were also likely to incite widespread violence from the local populace.
Neathery erred on the side of caution, and relayed the latest situation to the troop commander, who, in turn, passed the buck on to Squadron headquarters, knowing full well that such a decision was well above his pay grade, too. While the enemy continued to fire, and the scouts and helicopters waited, Major Randall at Squadron headquarters sent the report on up to Division headquarters with a request for a speedy reply. But it didn’t stop there.
Even Division wasn’t willing to weigh in on this one – it had all the potential for a major public relations backlash. The assistant division commander picked up the secure telephone and dialed the number for Multi-National Forces Iraq Command in Baghdad, and succeeded in getting the highest ranking man in Iraq, Lieutenant General Metz, on the phone in a matter of minutes. General Metz mulled it over, and gave them permission to fire.
By the time word was relayed back to the forces in contact, however, the insurgents had gotten over their suicidal tendencies, and backed off from the fight, withdrawing farther back into the city and out of contact. It was still a hell of a day for coalition forces, however: our Bradleys had an estimated 15-20 kills between them, and the Apaches posted a similar number. In the back of our minds, however, we all knew that major operations to retake Samarra were just around the corner, and if all the insurgents we faced then were as hardcore and well-trained as those Red 5 and 6 had fought, it didn’t bode well for us.
* * *
My platoon was attached back to Anvil Troop the next week, and we soon began to hear rumors that the mission to retake Samarra was a “go.” Anvil’s commander, Captain Black, hinted at it in his troop meetings, and when all of the troop commanders were called to Squadron headquarters along with their Fire Support Officers and key operations center personnel, we knew it meant that Squadron would be issuing its official operations order. We also knew it would be a pretty epic operation incorporating most of the 1st Infantry Division’s combat forces, on a scale not yet attempted in our deployment. Some units would be entering the city and clearing it block by block, and the first units into the city would face stiff resistance and probably suffer casualties, but we didn’t know which units would be picked for which tasks.
While it felt as if a lot had happened since taking over as scout platoon leader, in reality, it had been less than a month. I was still getting to know my men and my NCOs’ different strengths, and I still felt like a complete rookie when it came to scout operations. Much of what we had done so far was similar to what I had done in my tank platoon, but the Samarra mission would be wildly different – I understood how to maneuver tanks in a battle, but I was sure I was missing a whole book’s worth of valuable knowledge about how to employ Bradleys effectively. We reported to the Anvil Troop operations center several hours after the squadron order was completed, during which time Captain Black had written up his troop-level order. I expected that we would be given a few days’ time to prep for the Samarra mission, but Captain Black dispelled that misconception immediately.
“Operation Baton Rouge is a ‘go.’ We’re going into Samarra tomorrow night.”
Even though more time to prepare would not have made much difference, I felt my stomach drop.
“… and we’re going to be the first ones in.”
The Division plan was fairly complex, but our squadron’s piece of it was actually quite simple. 1-4 CAV, in true cavalry fashion, would be the first elements into Samarra, starting at midnight the following night. Our mission was to conduct simultaneous raids – Charlie Troop in the north, Anvil to the southeast – on the perimeter of the city, not with the objective to capture any specific insurgents or clear any buildings, just to drive up and give the bees’ nest a good whack, as it were. After destroying any enemy encountered, we would then conduct a “passage of lines” operation (it sounds fancy, but it just means letting another unit pass through your location and take over the fight) with 1-77 Armor and 1-18 Infantry, whose job it would be to undertake the exhausting and thankless task of clearing the city, house by house and room by room. 1-26 Infantry would be attacking the city from the west across the main Tigris bridge, and all three battalions would push their way inwards until they met at the center of the city, near the city’s famous Golden Mosque.
Meanwhile, as soon as the passage of lines was completed, Squadron would establish a cordon surrounding the city, in order to prevent any movement into or out of the city – the idea was that there would be a line of vehicles positioned in a giant arc around the entire city, from one edge of the Tigris to the other. That cordon was to remain in place for no more than three days, until the city had been cleared and 1-26 Infantry was ready to resume patrols in the now-pacified city.
“Bulldawg Troop is the main effort for the screen line,” Captain Black said, looking at me, “So you’ll revert to your troop following the passage of lines. Captain Hoffman is having his operations order brief in an hour.”
Great, I thought. Not one, but two commanders and two different orders. Just what I need to keep things simple and easy.
Captain Black wrapped up his order, paused for questions, and then dismissed us. I headed over to my own troop headquarters to hear what the next phase of the operation would look like.
Captain Hoffman, it turned out, was going on R&R leave, which left his second in command, First Lieutenant O’Brien, in charge of the troop. All of us found th
is a little odd – Baton Rouge was clearly the biggest operation of our tour, the most dangerous and complex mission we would undertake. I don’t know if Captain Hoffman asked to postpone his leave or not, but I’m pretty sure had I been in his position, I would have done so – there’s no way I was going to go on vacation while my soldiers invaded Samarra without me. First Lieutenant O’Brien, was a little miffed, too – the boss was leaving just as the big project was due, which left a lot of work on his plate. I could tell he was excited, though, as well – it’s not often you get to command a cavalry troop in such a scenario.
When First Lieutenant O’Brien had finished his order, Sergeant First Class Martin and I headed back to his room to discuss the plan with Neathery and Barnes. I issued them a brief Warning Order covering the basics of the situation, our mission, and tomorrow’s timeline, which they then passed on to the soldiers. With their help, I then drew up a working plan for the platoon, picking their brains to verify that we were covering all the bases and operating as soundly as possible. Then I headed back to my own room to write up the plan in full so I could brief it to the soldiers in the morning. Before I went to bed, I cleaned both my rifle and pistol, and emptied, cleaned, and then reloaded my magazines. I didn’t sleep long, but I was able to sleep soundly despite my nerves. I knew I would need the rest – we would all have to be awake for the next 48 hours or more.
In the morning, before I gave my own platoon order, we met with Captain Black one more time to back-brief him on the mission, talking through our individual platoon plans and being quizzed on details and contingencies. There were no significant updates to the enemy situation from the previous night – estimates still ranged from 300 to 3,000 insurgents, with a core of experienced foreign fighters. They had almost certainly established defensive positions in key buildings, road blocks and barricades in the streets, and daisy-chained IEDs and booby-traps throughout the city.
My platoon formed up outside Sergeant First Class Martin’s room, grabbing a seat on camp chairs or on the ground. I used a dry-erase marker to roughly sketch two large maps on the wall – one depicting the southeastern quadrant of Samarra, the other showing the whole city and the area to the east where our screen line would be established during the second phase of the operation.
“Gentlemen: Operation Baton Rouge.” I gave them a second to get their notebooks and pencils out, then launched into the detailed brief. It took just under an hour, but by quizzing them at the end, I could tell they had paid close attention. “Okay, you guys know what you have to take care of. I’ve got satellite imagery and digital maps with graphics for each Bradley commander, we’re going to have a rehearsal this afternoon at 1500, then line up on the main road at 2130 for final inspection and checks.”
The afternoon went by in a blur, as I juggled last minute details with my platoon and final meetings to receive intelligence and operational updates. Dinner at the chow hall that evening was somewhat surreal – the base had the unmistakable highly-charged atmosphere of a sports team before a championship game. Everyone had their own way of dealing with nerves or excitement – some were boisterously loud, others withdrawn and contemplative. For my part, I could hardly eat, and it wasn’t just the soggy, bland food. I grabbed a couple granola bars and shoved them in my cargo pocket, in case my appetite returned later.
Out on the main road, my Bradleys were lined up last in Anvil Troop’s vehicle line-up, since we would be on the southern flank of the assault. Walking back along the line of tracks, I ran into Bill Oberfeld, my opposite number in Anvil Troop, and shook his hand.
“Good luck, Bill.”
“You too.”
My Bradley commanders were already checking their soldiers when I got there, each man going over his crew’s weapons and equipment with a practiced eye, quizzing the younger soldiers as he spot-checked.
“What’s our mission?”
Private Richards pulled out his notepad and began reading our mission statement back to Staff Sergeant Neathery. I interrupted him.
“Richards: without the help of your notebook.”
“Uh, I didn’t memorize it, sir.”
“That’s okay, neither did I. What are we doing tonight?”
“We’re going into Samarra, sir. We’re attacking with Anvil Troop, then we hand things over to 2nd Brigade, and we set up a screen line.”
“Right on,” I told him.
Staff Sergeant Neathery handed Richards his weapon back, satisfied it was clean and fully functional. I continued down the line, pausing to quiz a few more soldiers, checking a first aid kit, asking to see extra batteries, or the meals and water we would need over the next three days, or the vehicle’s latest maintenance report. I ended at Staff Sergeant Barnes’ Bradley, where he had completed his checks and was lounging in his trademark reclined position on the Bradley’s passenger bench, feet out on the back ramp.
“What’s up, sir?” He asked, yawning.
“Not much,” I said, mimicking his casually indifferent manner. “You guys all ready?”
Sergeant Zach Newsome, Barnes’ gunner, snorted at my question. “Sheeeit. Are you ready, sir?”
“We’ll see, huh, Zach?” I answered, smiling in the dim light from the Bradley’s blue-green interior lights.
“Damn straight.” He answered, taking a bite out of a bagel.
“As long as you got a good plan, that’s all that matters,” Staff Sergeant Barnes interjected, shifting on the bench to get more comfortable. “Like you, Zach. Your plan was to go to the chow hall and just bring back one bagel for yourself, and fuck the rest of us.”
I laughed, and started heading back towards my own vehicle to set my gear in position.
“Hey, Red 1!” I stopped and back-tracked around to the rear of Sergeant First Class Martin’s Brad, where he was seated on the step into the turret, a pair of radio handsets held to each ear.
“Mission’s cancelled,” he said, when I ducked in and squatted by him.
“You’re fucking kidding,” I said.
“Nope,” he shook his head. “Stand down. Order just came from Anvil 6.”
The order had technically come all the way down from the Iraqi Prime Minister, who had decided, for reasons unknown but probably political, that he didn’t want U.S. forces going into Samarra just yet. Along the line in the dark, we swore in frustration and disappointment, not all of which was pretended. Though I was somewhat relieved, I would have preferred to have just gotten it over with, and all of us welcomed the chance to take the initiative for once and show the enemy how we could fight on our terms. As the soldiers took the vehicles back to the motor pool, I walked back to the rooms with Barnes and Martin. We were too keyed up to sleep, so we hung out for a while in Martin’s room, making meaningless small talk about the mission and why it had been cancelled. Sergeant First Class Peterson from the mortars section dropped in later, and the conversation turned to women, as it often did.
“I’m gonna get me a sugar-mama when we get back,” Barnes told us.
Martin was already laughing: “There you go again.”
“No, I’m serious – a nice old broad, with tons of money. I’ll give her two of my best years, and then I want half!”
“Aren’t you married?” I reminded him, chuckling.
“Details, sir – that’s just details.”
“Ah,” I said.
Barnes had his fantasy, and he was determined to run with it. “I’ll be lying awake at night, feeling a little frisky, and I’ll roll over and be like,” he dropped to a whisper, “‘Take your teeth out …’”
Peterson snorted. “You’re not right, man. I dunno, I think the whole marriage thing is fucked up to begin with. I think marriage should be like enlistment contracts, you know? You sign up for three years, and then when your time’s up, you say: ‘Honey, we’re in our reenlistment window, we gotta talk about what we want to do. Things are going pretty well, so we can sign up for another three years, or we can just do a six-month extension to think about it
for a little more.’”
“You might be onto something there,” I told him.
“Right? Think how low the divorce rate would be.”
Eventually, the stresses of the day caught up to me, and I headed off to my own room to try to get a solid night’s sleep.
Chapter Eight
“Hey, big guy: you got any weapons of mass destruction in there?”
-Red Platoon scout, pointing to the trunk of an Iraqi’s car while searching it at a checkpoint
The next morning we were told that Prime Minister Allawi had green-lit the mission to clear Samarra again, but that it was too late to go tonight, so everything had been pushed back until tomorrow. We were used to playing the waiting game, but we still hated being jerked around. So naturally, by mid-afternoon, Baton Rouge was back on for that night.
We had to scramble to get everything ready, but we made it – barely. As we were lining up, conducting final checks on the road just as we had the night before, two Airmen found me in the dark. They were both cameramen on an Air Force documentary team, assigned to cover the assault on Samarra from the front lines, and they wanted a ride to the action. Red 6 and I had the fewest dismounts on our tracks, so I gave him the photographer and crammed the videographer into the back of my Brad. I wasn’t sure his experience level – what he’d seen and done in Iraq so far, in terms of enemy action.
“It’s going to get hot,” I warned him.
“Oh, I know – I’ve been in a Brad before. The engine heat makes it like a damn sauna,” he said.
“No,” I said, “I mean we’re going to see some action – there’s gonna be some serious shooting.”
“That’s good, sir! Makes for better videos.”
“Okay, just so you know,” I said.
This time there was no eleventh-hour cancellation – Operation Baton Rouge was on, and nothing in the world could stop it. At 10:30 p.m. on the 30th of September, we left the front gate with Anvil Troop, heading south towards Route Dover, the highway west to Samarra. We kept our lights on most of the way, but just before the city appeared over the horizon, we flipped off our headlights, the drivers switching on their night-vision periscopes and infrared headlights. The net was hushed, subdued, but my heart was pounding so loud I thought I could hear it over the roar of the diesel throbbing beneath me. It was a cool night, the summer’s heat finally starting to abate.