by DJ Scott
“Not much. You probably heard them emptying mags from their AKs from up in the rocks. Captain Singh took out a few with the M-25. We took two wounded.”
“I count five of them KIA and one wounded. And their major weapon system is out of action. With the engine out, they can’t even traverse the damn machine gun. I call that progress.”
Chapter 57
September 13, 2017 2200Z (Sept.14, 0100 AST)
South of Simpson’s Notch
Captain Kelli Moore heard the distant automatic weapons fire from her position south of the notch. She ached to know more about what was happening back at their main position, but without a functional radio, she could not keep sending people back just to get a report. About twenty minutes earlier, Sergeant Leach had come down in the Humvee to let her know about the Sergeant Major’s successful engagement with the BTR. They discussed the fact that the Yemeni action was so far fairly trivial and aimed at keeping them all on edge. They agreed something bigger had to be coming.
Moore surveyed her preparations once again. She had two of the M240G machine guns well dug in and a third in one of the Humvees as a mobile firing platform, which could move to add fire wherever it was needed. Each weapon had eighteen 200 round ammo cans, 3600 rounds per gun—substantial ammo load by any standard. Each of the automatic weapons was manned by two of her MPs.
There were two additional fighting positions, each with two MPs armed with M-4 5.56 mm rifles and 420 rounds each. They had scrounged a few hand grenades, and Moore had three illumination flares. She shared a position in the center with Kim Stoller, their corpsman. Stoller, a nursing student at Michigan, had no deployment experience, but she had thrown herself into digging as secure a position as possible and had even incorporated a few pieces of heavy sheet metal from the aircraft which had apparently been responsible for creating the gap they were now preparing to defend. At the moment, each team was also preparing a fighting position to fall back to, if necessary. Everything that could be done was being done. All that was left was the waiting.
Chapter 58
September 13, 2017 2345Z (Sept. 14, 0245 local)
South of the ridge
The battle had begun. About two dozen of al-Ahmar’s men had moved into the rocks and opened up with a heavy stream of fire in the general direction of McGregor’s positions. A steady, but disciplined, return fire from their two M-240G machine guns and the M-4 rifles began to take its toll on the attackers. Captain Singh, still manning the sniper rifle, was making a mark as well.
After half an hour of trading fire at a range of about a hundred meters, ten of the Yemenis mounted a frontal assault, delivering fierce fire from their Ak-47s as well as throwing grenades. The well prepared positions and M-240 machine guns gave the defenders a decisive advantage.
The rest of the assault force, however, ran down the road and once clear of the rocks moved west into the open desert. Their plan was immediately apparent. While McGregor and his troops were occupied with a direct assault, at least a dozen Yemenis would get past them into the desert and conduct a flanking attack. They would be in a position to attack from almost any direction.
McGregor looked to First Sergeant Johanssen, with whom he was sharing a fighting position.
“We need to go after them,” Johanssen said. “We can’t let them run around back there all night. Most of our guys are wounded and not too mobile. I’m on this.”
Johanssen ran quickly to Sergeant Major Campbell who grabbed the Carl-Gustav, and the two men headed back towards the rear.
McGregor decided he had to help deal with this critical threat. His people were already taking the frontal attack apart. In a minute he found Johanssen, Campbell, Captain Singh, and HM2 Brad Greene. “I’m joining your little grouse hunt.”
“Unwise, Commander,” replied Captain Singh as he loaded few fresh rounds into the magazine of the sniper rifle.
“Probably, but here I am.”
“Very well then, here’s the plan.”
Johanssen gave a quick outline of what he had in mind. The group spread out and began to advance. Sergeant Major Campbell pointed the Carl-Gustav skyward and fired. There was an orange flash from the exhaust and they could see the round as it started on its upward trajectory. After a few seconds it burst into a brilliant flare that illuminated the desert like a small sun.
About a hundred meters to the south, they could see seven men advancing in a widely-spaced skirmish line. Singh, already in a sitting position, fired two quick shots. One man went down immediately, and the man to his right staggered, obviously hit, but kept moving forward. At this point the Yemenis opened fire as did McGregor—also seated—Campbell, and Greene. After about thirty seconds, during which well over a hundred rounds were fired by both sides, all the Yemenis were down.
During the firefight McGregor felt what seemed like a hard slap on the side of his right thigh. The pain had now progressed to an aching, burning sensation. Looking down, the waning light of the flare revealed a six inch furrow, about a quarter of an inch deep on the outside of his leg, halfway between the hip and knee. It was just starting to bleed. The aching became more intense, and it took concentrated mental effort to pull a battle dressing off his body armor, open it, and wrap it around his leg.
He tried to stand, which he was able to do, but the throbbing became even worse. It occurred to him that his wound was no worse than those suffered by most of their other wounded. Were all of them hurting this much and still fighting? Hoping to get a better dressing and something for pain, McGregor looked for HM2 Greene, who was not far behind him, applying a battle dressing to First Sergeant Johanssen’s left arm.
“First one hit me right in the chest, knocked me down,” Johanssen said, “but the plate in my body armor stopped it. As soon as I got back up, one of them hit me in the arm.”
“Through and through wound Doc,” Greene said, “but I think the arm is fractured.”
McGregor felt for a pulse. “Circulation’s okay.” He scratched Johanssen’s fingertips. “Can you feel that?”
“Yeah, but it’s really starting to ache.” Johanssen looked down at the dressing on McGregor’s leg. “Jesus, Doc. They got you too?”
“Just a divot. We need to get back to the ambulance and let Russell take a look at your arm.” They began to walk back, slowly. As they walked, he realized the seven men they’d just killed did not account for everyone they saw break out from the road cut.
They all began to move faster when they heard fire coming from near the vehicles.
As they approached the ambulances, they saw several dead Yemenis on the ground, and three more advancing very close to the wounded. Behind one of the ambulances, they saw Lieutenants Russell and Ellis, under fire. HM2 Kales had pulled back from her fighting position to help, and one Marine with multiple dressings was firing an M-4 while lying on a litter. To McGregor’s surprise, his friend Jim Russell was standing totally exposed and firing at the Yemenis with his pistol.
As they got closer, it was difficult to tell exactly what was happening. People were running back and forth; weapons were being fired in several directions, and there were frantic shouts in English and in Arabic. Finally, as they arrived at the small aid station, things seemed to have settled down. There were now four dead Yemenis on the ground, one only a few meters away. Still that didn’t account for . . .
McGregor was about to ask Russell for a report when they heard a high pitched cry.
McGregor and Campbell rushed around to the far side of ambulance where they saw Nicole Ellis. A Yemeni soldier was behind her with one arm around her neck and the other holding a knife to her throat. “Back,” he screamed. “I will kill her.”
McGregor took a step forward, raising his hands, but this apparently alarmed the man. He pulled the knife away from her neck and stabbed the young PA in the side of the leg. She gasped, but did not scream. Then she surprised everyone. �
�Will somebody just shoot this asshole?”
For a few seconds they all stood frozen. Then Captain Randeep Singh, standing behind and to the left of McGregor, considered the tactical situation. He held the Mark-25 sniper rifle in his wounded left hand. There was no way to raise the weapon, get his right hand to the trigger, get the long barrel on target, and fire before the young woman’s throat was cut. His right hand, however, rested on the butt of the WW2 era Browning automatic pistol his grandfather had carried up Monte Casino. In a move he had attempted only at the range, but never in combat, the Royal Marine drew, cocked the hammer, and in one continuous motion drew, raised the weapon, and fired.
The shot exploded, and the Yemeni crumpled to the ground. McGregor stepped forward to see a bullet hole below his right eye and Nicole Ellis bent forward gripping her right leg.
“Let’s take a look at that leg.” Jim Russell helped her to a litter and began to cut away the leg of her camouflage pants.
Singh, holstering the pistol, came up behind the Sergeant Major and gave a satisfied smile. Campbell said, “A little low sir. You were aiming for his eye weren’t you?” They headed back to their positions.
As Russell cleaned and dressed their PA’s wound, he reported on their other casualties.
“They hit us pretty hard, Mike. Lot of grenades. We have three KIA, two of the wounded from the 1/28 plus one of their platoon corpsmen, Andre Watson.”
Damn. Watson, a tall, impossibly thin, African American was less than a year way from becoming his family’s first college graduate.
“Three gunshot wounds, all extremities. One pretty bad, probable amputation. Six with grenade shrapnel, only one looks really bad, going to cost someone an eye.”
“Plus First Sergeant Johanssen took a bullet in the arm,” McGregor said. “Greene thinks the humerus is fractured. Take a look at it when you have a chance. Circulation and nerves seem all right to me, though.”
“And then there’s Nicole’s stab wound. Not too deep though. I am worried we have so little for pain control, and we’re about out of antibiotics. And what happened to your leg?”
“Grazed by a bullet. Should be okay until I can get more definitive care. To be honest, we’ll either be out of here very soon or it isn’t going to matter. Use up whatever we’ve got. We won’t need it later.”
Russell just nodded and went back to work.
With all the wounded being given what care was available, McGregor took a short break. He sat on the hood of his Humvee and sipped a cup of MRE coffee he’d heated with the little propane stove he brought with him everywhere. He was talking with the two Royal Marines about whether to send someone to the ridge top to recon the Yemeni positions when the battle began at Simpson’s Notch. Fierce barrages of automatic weapons fire were almost continuous. Tracers were visible in the dark. Two times they spotted pop-up illumination flares, but the terrain did not permit them to see any of the action.
“We need to know if they’re going to hit us again,” McGregor said. “If all their remaining troops are hitting Captain Moore, we need to get some help over there. But we have so many wounded, we can’t spare anyone until we know for sure if they’re playing us or if they really are committed to the attack on the notch. Sergeant Major, I know I’m asking you for more than anyone else, but I need you to recon their position.”
“Certainly, Commander. As long as I don’t have to haul that bloody Carl-Gustav, should be no problem.” He picked up his ruck and his weapon, and he headed off.
“Don’t feel you’re abusing us Commander,” Captain Singh said. “We’ve done field exercises tougher than this. After all, you do know what RM stands for don’t you?”
McGregor look at him expectantly.
“The Real Marines,” which he delivered with an exaggerated Cambridge accent.
McGregor had to laugh. “Just don’t let my First Sergeant hear you say that.”
Chapter 59
September 14, 2017 0115Z (0415 AST)
South of Simpson’s Notch
McGregor lay on the hood of his Humvee, trying to keep his leg elevated. About ten minutes after Campbell left, two quick shots rang out, then silence.
Five minutes after that, Campbell was back.
“Nobody’s left alive north of those rocks,” he said. “They had two lads with a radio watching their rear, but it looks like the rest of them went off to hit us through that notch. Their vehicles are there, nothing useful in any of them. If we had more mobile people, I’d say hit them from the rear on foot. As it is, probably best to just head over in the vehicles.”
“Agreed,” replied McGregor. “Let’s take one ambulance with HM2 Greene and Lt Russell. Two Humvees. You and Captain Singh in one. Try to find a couple people who can still pull a trigger. Sergeant Leach and I will take the other.”
In five minutes they were on their way. It took only a few minutes more to travel the distance to the notch. There was a haze of cordite smoke hanging in the still air, which stung McGregor’s eyes and assaulted his nostrils. The sun was beginning to glow on the eastern horizon, and that, combined with the moon, allowed for fair visibility.
Unfortunately.
Both of Captain Moore’s Humvees were riddled with bullet holes. Between the Marines and the notch lay dozens of dead Yemenis, with even more mingled among the U.S. positions. The ground was littered with thousands of shell casings—several fighting positions were filled almost ankle deep with them. Only two of the Marines were moving.
“Dear God,” McGregor said. “Is everyone else dead?”
He had his people spread out and look for wounded. He, too, began to limp from position to position. The first two Marines he found were dead. The third was Kelli Moore. She was on her back, no body armor, a curved dagger protruding from her left chest. She was barely breathing, but she was breathing. Her neck veins were distended and her face dusky blue.
Tension pneumothorax.
Jim Russell immediately saw what McGregor saw. He produced a large needle from his medical bag and said, “Mike, I’ve got this.”
“The hell you do. Give me that.”
Russell gently pushed him away. “Mike, trust me. I’m on this. Check the others.”
He produced a large pair of shears and cut up the side of the Captain’s camouflage and t-shirts and exposed the knife.
She had a tattoo—an elaborate Celtic design—on her left side just below her green sports bra—its symmetry was shattered by the knife blade protruding from the center.
Russell felt for Moore’s upper ribs and inserted the needle just above one of them. There was a prominent hiss as the air that had collected around her lung began to escape, allowing the lung to expand. He then gently pulled the knife from her chest and covered the wound with a dressing that would prevent more air from entering.
How many times had McGregor told people Russell was the smartest guy in the regiment? He had to trust him on this. McGregor glanced at a blood-soaked Yemeni officer with a K-bar knife protruding from under his chin. He turned back and noted the empty sheath on Kelli Moore’s belt. So she’d given as good as she got.
What would the late Major Griggs say about that?
Not far away, McGregor found a corporal he didn’t recognize still holding a dressing against the fatal chest wound of a second Lieutenant. The Lieutenant’s eyes were already getting cloudy. He gently pulled the corporal’s hand away from the wound. “She needed a surgeon. You did all you could.”
Seeing the young corporal was still bleeding from several untreated shrapnel wounds he got her up and helped her back to the ambulance, where Brad Greene began to dress her wounds. As he turned to find more wounded, he added, “Don’t worry about your Lieutenant, we’ll get her in a few minutes. Everyone’s going home.”
About ten meters from the dead Lieutenant, he found HM3 Kim Stoller lying in her fighting position. He noted the C
aptain’s bars on her body armor and understood that she was wearing Kelli Moore’s. Stoller was conscious, but seemed disoriented. He saw battle dressings on both legs and her right arm. Nonetheless her pulse was strong.
He shook her and forced her to look at him. “Stoller, what the hell happened here?”
The young corpsman slowly focused, then grasped his hand and sat up. He then saw that she had been lying on a burned and shredded flak jacket. So the shrapnel wounds had come from a grenade, which had damaged her body armor. And Moore had given hers to her corpsman.
The corpsman took a deep breath. “It was . . . they started out up there. Up in those rocks. They must have had a lot of ammunition since they just emptied magazines from their AK’s for a while. We put out a lot of fire too. After about twenty minutes, they just . . . charged. It was like squad rushes, a couple of dozen rushing forward about twenty meters and then going to the ground to provide cover fire for the next group. We chewed them up, but they kept coming.” Her voice was strengthening. “When they got within fifty meters, the ones still alive just charged straight at us. I had been moving around trying to treat the wounded and contribute to the fight as best I could, but we were getting hit faster than I could work. Then I got hit by the grenade. I was knocked out for I don’t know how long. When I came to, I hurt all over and was wearing Captain Moore’s kevlar. Is she okay?”
“Knife wound in the chest. Russell’s putting in a chest tube right now. I think she’ll be all right.”
“And the guy that gave it to her?”
“Knife wound to the neck. He’s not all right.”
“Knife wound, that fits. They fired so many rounds they ran out, and finally so did we. I saw a couple of our girls fixing bayonets.”