Ambush Alley: The Most Extraordinary Battle of the Iraq War

by Tim Pritchard

“Gunner, we are going downhill. Raise the gun tube.”

  He saw waves of Iraqis running about ahead of him, darting in and out of buildings, preparing to attack the tank. He made a point of not calling them hajjis. He called them Baathists or fedayeen. He shouted at his driver to avoid the marines who had taken up positions all around him.

  “There are grunts all over the ground, so be careful. I want you to pivot to the right. Okay, move forward, hard left.”

  He wanted to maneuver Dark Side ino a position where he could shoot long. He spotted machine-gun positions and bunkers. From what he could tell, Iraqi runners were resupplying the enemy’s defensive positions with RPGs. Another round zipped past his head. He had never felt such clarity of thought. The adrenaline was flowing, his mind was clicking. I am in the game.

  “See that wall? I want you to pull right up against that wall.”

  Dyer leaned out of the turret to make sure they didn’t hit anything.

  Gunfire poured down on them from roofs, windows, and behind buildings. Many of the marines on the ground around him were not shooting back. Maybe they were conserving ammo, but it was perplexing not to see them firing. Dyer worked on maneuvering his tank into a more effective position.

  “Driver. Hang right, hard right, hard right. Steady. Go straight.”

  It was hard to identify who was a threat. No one seemed to be in uniform. Some civilians had weapons; others were just standing around, looking as though they had been pushed out into the streets and didn’t know how to get away.

  “Hard left. Now, now, now.”

  He turned to see a group of Iraqis with weapons run into a building in front of him.

  “Gunner, coax, fire into that building.”

  His gunner, Corporal Bell, couldn’t see which target he meant.

  “Which building? I don’t see anything.”

  “Fire a Z pattern through that whole building. There is at least a fire team in there.”

  The hum of the NBC system came on and the heavy machine gun mounted on the same axis as the main gun started chattering. Chunks of masonry exploded in the air as Bell fired first one way, then another. When he ceased fire it was eerily quiet. Nothing inside the building moved.

  Dyer yelled down to the marines on the ground.

  “Where do you need fire?”

  One of the marines ran in front of the tank and fired two shots into a side alley. Dyer took it as a hint and fired the coax into the alleyway.

  From the radio chatter, Dyer could hear that the battalion net was still clogged by everybody talking at once. And those who were talking shouldn’t have been on it. Again he blamed it on Grabowski and Sosa. They want too much control. This is what happens when every movement has to be authorized by them. He wished the battalion command lived by a different maxim. You keep the dogs of war on a leash until it starts, then you cut them loose. He was both frustrated and relieved that he couldn’t raise either Grabowski or Sosa on the net.

  Suddenly, from around a corner of the same alleyway he had fired into earlier, an Iraqi with an RPG launcher on his shoulder popped out, took a knee, and fired. Dyer felt his heart freeze and drop into his chest. Fuck me. I’m gonna die. It was in freeze-frame. The gunner was rooted to the spot. Dyer stood still in his turret. The grenade spiraled toward him, trailing a snake of thick white smoke. He felt nauseous. I’m gonna die. In an instant it was over. The RPG flew past his head and exploded harmlessly behind him. The gunner disappeared around the corner. Dyer yelled at Bell.

  “Gunner. Fire into that building.”

  The tank rocked back as a round exploded out of the muzzle and smashed into a corner of the building, spraying bricks and mortar into the alleyway. I must have got him.

  The marines on the ground cheered and started pointing out targets. Iraqis were now trying to rush the tank on foot. He couldn’t help but admire their bravery and their confidence in their ability to win. But they were stupid with it. How on earth do they think they can take out a tank?

  Dyer worked between the main gun and the tank’s coaxial machine gun. The coax punched big holes into the Iraqi fighters as they ran through the streets toward him. They would fall back and drop to the dirt. When he hit them with the main gun, they simply disintegrated. There was nothing left of them. With each boom of the main gun, marines would cheer and big grins would appear on their faces. Dyer noticed they got back to the fighting with renewed vigor. It’s like they’ve been given a shot in the arm.

  He now had a clearer view of how the Iraqis were managing to keep in the fight. Some of them were talking into cell phones and what he recognized as French-made infantry radios. He guessed they were target spotting for the mortar and the RPG teams and calling for taxis to drop off more fighters and ammo. If only Special Forces had shut down the cell phone network. He was relieved that he had ordered in extra ammo. In Kuwait, he had fought with the battalion staff, particularly the logistics officer, Captain Christopher Lynch, to get what he wanted. He knew that others in the staff had bitched about how much ammo he requested, but already he was eating through the main gun and the .50-cal rounds. He had adopted a simple survival strategy when dealing with the battalion staff. I have to work with these guys, but I don’t have to like them.

  Captain Mike Brooks looked over toward the tankers. They weren’t buttoned up; instead, they were out of their turrets manning their guns and looking for targets. Infantry sometimes looked down on tankers, but now Brooks had to admire their courage. They didn’t often train with armored vehicles. But he could see their value. With each terrifying shot, the ground shook. It was awe inspiring. Whatever the tank targeted, the incoming fire from that position just stopped. Even the concussive force of each round going off seemed to wear down the energy with which the city’s defenders were prepared to fight. He’d never understood what a difference a tank can make on the battlefield. For the first time in hours, he felt he was beginning to reassert some control.

  12

  Lieutenant Colonel Grabowski and his battalion staff were still in the open area just off to the east side of Ambush Alley, trying to build up a picture of the battlefield. Grabowski knew that Alpha was involved in a fight at the Euphrates Bridge. Captain Brooks had called him, wanting to know whether the tanks had finished refueling. He’d also received news that Charlie Company was now involved in some sort of firefight on the northern bridge. His staff had received worrying messages that Charlie had some casualties and needed a helo to medevac them out of there. But the landing zone was too hot and the medevac was canceled. The fight was tougher than he’d thought. But the next radio transmission he received took the battle to a new level. It was from a platoon commander with Charlie Company.

  “Timberwolf. We’ve got air running on us. It’s an A-10. Get them to call that A-10 off of us. For God’s sake, sir, get them to stop.”

  There was so much going on that Grabowski couldn’t grasp its impact. How can there be an A-10 firing on our own marines?

  Moments later, the forward command post received another call.

  “Cease that damn fire. Abort air, abort air.”

  It was the same voice again. Grabowski recognized it as that of Lieutenant Mike Seely, a Charlie Company platoon commander. Seely’s voice was breaking under the strain. Grabowski knew Seely as a solid marine who had won a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star for his action during Desert Storm. He remembered that Seely had told him of one episode during the campaign where he had been run on by an A-10. If anyone knew what he was talking about, it would be Seely. He got on the regimental net.

  “We’ve got friendly air running on us. You’ve got to turn it off.”

  A wave of frustration and helplessness swept over Grabowski. Godamn. This is about as bad as it can get.

  13

  Sergeant William Schaefer, in track 201, fighting with Charlie Company at the northern bridge, felt the battle spinning out of his control. Marines were being overwhelmed by enemy artillery, mortars, RPGs, and machine-gun fire, and n
ow by friendly air. He still had no idea where his CO, Lieutenant Tracy, was, but he now saw other tracks desperately maneuvering on the road to get out of the way of the incoming rounds. He knew they had to move, too.

  “Get in. We’ve got to get the fuck out of here.”

  Lance Corporal Jared Martin and the others were still struggling to push Fribley’s lifeless body into the track through the small rear personnel hatch. Marines yelled and shouted in panic as they tried to wedge him in. They couldn’t get him in. His head got caught on the frame of the hatch. They stripped off the remains of his Kevlar jacket and ripped off his chemical suit and his cammies down to his PT gear. His guts were coming out of his back. They pushed again. There was not much holding him together because his rib cage had been blown out. They crumpled him in half and pushed him in.

  From inside the track, Corporal Worthington, still unsure as to exactly what had hit them moments earlier, saw the marines loading up a bulky, formless shape. He looked closer. It was a person. Martin stared at him.

  “Fribley’s dead.”

  Just as they closed the rear hatch, another shell rocked them, sending more shrapnel down the open top hatch.

  Wenztel yelled in agony and clutched his shoulder.

  “I’m hit, I’m hit.”

  On the roof of track 201, Private First Class Robinson was still trying to pull at the top hatch to close it. It wouldn’t move.

  “Close the hatch, close the fucking hatch.”

  “Just get in. We gotta get out of here. Get the fuck in.”

  Robinson ducked inside. Schaefer lodged himself into the AAV commander’s seat. He ran a U.S. flag up the turret, hoping to ward off the A-10, which he could hear was still buzzing around. He was formulating his plan on the fly. He couldn’t see Captain Wittnam or Lieutenant Tracy. The driver of track C205—which carried the injured twenty-year-old Corporal Randy Glass and Corporal Mike Mead, along with the young Navy corpsman, Luis Fonseca—had decided to take off across the Canal Bridge and head back down Ambush Alley without waiting for orders. Schaefer knew none of this. But he did know that they couldn’t stay where they were. They were just getting shot up. He was going to take the track back down Ambush Alley toward Alpha’s position. We need to get out of here, and we need to get the wounded to the aid station. He saw other tracks maneuvering around with the same idea. He sent out a message to the AAV commanders.

  “Let’s go. Watch for the flag.”

  Schaefer didn’t know how many tracks would follow him, but he saw that Corporal Elliot in 208—which was carrying several wounded, including much of the mortar crew—was in front and was already taking off and heading back south. He wondered whether the other tracks with him knew what he had decided to do. He had a horrible moment of doubt. I hope I was clear enough with my instructions. He ordered Castleberry to get moving.

  Castleberry gunned up 201’s engine and went into full combat lock. He closed his hatch and got back on the road. In front, lying in the dirt, were the remains of Lieutenant Pokorney. He made sure he steered around the lifeless body. Then he slotted in behind Elliot’s track and tried to stay as close as possible. He didn’t want to get left behind. Neither he nor Schaefer had any idea how many tracks were following.

  In fact, three other tracks were following Elliot and Schaefer. Track 206, carrying Corporal Matthew Juska and the injured tracker, Sergeant Michael Bitz, had slotted in behind 201. In the darkness of the track, Juska had no idea what they were doing or where they were going. From where he was, he could see nothing. What worried him was that they were exposed on the raised part of the road. He yelled at the driver.

  “Get off the fucking road.”

  The marines inside swayed wildly from side to side, drowning in the noise of the diesel engine, the smack of rounds hitting the outside of the track, and the roar of a plane overhead. Where the fuck are we going?

  Tagging behind track 206 was track 210, filled with twenty-five marines, none of them injured, including Staff Sergeant Anthony Pompos. Pompos didn’t quite know what he was doing there. As the shells and mortars had landed around them, they had become separated from the rest of the company, and someone had made a call to get back in the track.

  “We are going to link up with the rest of Charlie Company.”

  The hatches were closed and it was pitch black. Pompos assumed that they were just going to drive a few hundred meters to avoid the incoming and to link up with the rest of Charlie closer to the bridge. What he didn’t know was that in the chaos, the AAV driver had decided to join the rest of the medevac convoy and head all the way back down Ambush Alley.

  Bringing up the rear of the five-vehicle medevac convoy was Corporal Michael Brown and a group of marines in track 207.

  Circling overhead, the A-10 pilots looked down through their binoculars to see what damage they had done. The pilots saw that they had destroyed what they thought were enemy vehicles to the north of the bridge. But they also now saw five vehicles moving toward the bridge, heading back into the city. Gyrate 73 called back down to Mouth.

  “Hey, you’ve got vehicles from the northern target sector progressing into the city.”

  Mouth was alarmed. He assumed they were enemy vehicles coming into the city to attack them. He cleared the pilots hot to take out the vehicles, insisting on an east-to-west attack heading to avoid the possibility of missiles spilling over from the target area and landing in the city.

  “This is Mouth. Those vehicles must not get into the city.”

  The A-10s had been circling the area and firing on the target area north of the canal bridge for about twenty minutes. Now they had to make sure that the vehicles heading into the city did not get there. Gyrate 74 came in on a strafing run and fired off a Maverick.

  In the troop compartment of track 201, Casey Robinson had no idea that they were now heading back down Ambush Alley. If he had known, he wouldn’t have jumped in. He felt his track being pounded from all sides. A massive explosion rocked the track and lifted it up in the air. He thought they were going to topple over, but they came back down again with a thump. His insides were shaking and his teeth were rattling with each new boom as mortars and shells landed around them. Inside, no one was saying much. He saw a line of pale, strained faces. At each whistle of a shell, they clenched their insides, waiting to see if this was the one that would explode them into tiny pieces.

  Boom.

  Another explosion thudded into the tracks. This time it blew open the rear hatch, leaving it swinging madly on its hinges. Those inside inched forward into the track, moving their legs as far from the swinging hatch as possible. As it banged against its frame, Robinson could see the dust and rocks whipped up outside while the track hurtled forward. Wounded marines were pumping out blood, and Robinson felt it dripping all over him. The belly of the track was sticky with the stuff. There was no corpsman with them, so they were relying on buddy aid. Marines grabbed anything they could find, ripping up T-shirts, scarves, and clothes to use as bandages to stem the flow of blood. His squad leader, Corporal Wentzel, who had been injured by shrapnel, was balled up in a corner sobbing. Blood was pouring down Martin’s forehead and Seegert was holding a bloody arm. Robinson noticed that they both seemed to still be in the game.

  Above the medevac convoy, Gyrate 73 now positioned his plane in the shooter block for another bomb run. He came in on an east-west heading with two Maverick missiles. He saw what he thought was a small-size truck, heading across the bridge. He locked onto the vehicle as it was just south of the bridge and got ready to release one of the Mavericks.

  On the ground, Corporal Elliot, in the commander’s hatch of the lead vehicle, Charlie 208, had sped across the Saddam Canal Bridge and into the mouth of Ambush Alley. Ahead of him lay the long stretch of road that would lead him to the Euphrates Bridge, the battalion aid station, and safety. He was still bleeding from a shrapnel wound to the neck. There were eleven marines with him. His driver, Lance Corporal Trevino, had earlier put the body of Corpora
l Chanawongse in the troop compartment. Now it was also loaded with the injured mortarmen, Corporal Jose Garibay, Private First Class Tamario Burkett, and Private Jonathan Gifford, who had been hit when Iraqi rounds smashed into Lieutenant Reid’s mortar position. He also had a 2nd Platoon squad leader, Sergeant Bren-don Reiss, who had been injured by mortar or artillery fire. Providing security for the track were Lance Corporal Donald J. Cline Jr., Lance Corporal Thomas Blair, Corporal Patrick Nixon, Lance Corporal Michael Williams, and twenty-year-old Private First Class Nolan Hutchings. Elliot’s track was also loaded with white phosphorous and illumination ammo for the 60 mm mortar in the troop compartment. With him in the up-gun station there were ninety-six rounds of 40 mm ammo and two hundred rounds of .50-cal ammo.

  Elliot looked for threats as the track reached the mouth of Ambush Alley. He didn’t hear the A-10 overhead. Out of nowhere there was an ear-shattering noise, a huge explosion, and heat and light seemed to pour into Elliot’s turret. He felt the vehicle rock, fill with black smoke, and come to a halt. What the fuck is happening?

  “Everybody, get out. Get out. Get out of the track.”

  He forced his way out of the turret and slid down the side of the track onto the dirt road. There was a searing pain in his leg. He yelled to the nine marines in back of the track.

  “Get out. Get out.”

  Trevino had felt the track lift in the air as an explosion came in on top of them. He pulled himself out of the driver’s hatch and slid down the other side of the track.

  “Get out of the rear door.”

  Elliot didn’t realize that all nine marines in the troop compartment had been blown apart by the blast.

  Castleberry, driving track 201, was sticking close to Elliot’s track when he saw the white flash shoot into 208’s cargo hatch. There was a huge explosion, and he saw Elliot’s track jump several feet off the ground. One side of the track just ripped open. Pieces of flesh flew out into the road in front of him. Blood hit his vision block, turning the toughened glass red.