Pucker factor

1000, 19 December 2004, was the moment I had been waiting for since I volunteered for this mission: to take an Iraqi unit into combat operations as an embedded advisor. I’m assigned to 2nd Brigade, 9th Battalion, 3rd Company of the Iraqi Intervention Force. I’m joined by one other member of our original ten man team, Gunnery Sergeant John Boudreaux. Gunny Boudreaux has a knack for greasing the squeaky wheel and always having that little something extra to make even the most miserable environment a bit more bearable. He’s on his twilight tour here in Iraq. By the time we get home he’ll be a heartbeat from retirement. I, on the other hand, can look forward to twelve more years in my beloved Corps.

East Fallujah Iraqi Camp, EFIC, buzzed with activity and 9th Battalion was unusually early. By 0930 they were loaded in the convoy trucks and chomping at the bit to move to Fallujah. I couldn’t blame them. Sitting on my ass for over a week waiting for go time wasn’t exactly my cup of tea. This movement was long overdue. The convoy rolled with armored humvees front and rear, a spattering of four door Nissan gun trucks with steel plates bolted to the doors, and a seemingly endless train of open troop trucks. My team was sandwiched strategically within the convoy. We were also in Nissans, but no steel plates protected us from enemy fire. Only our M16s protruding from the windows were any indication we meant business.

I wedged myself behind the driver’s seat, my legs filling the six inch gap between the seats. I compressed my upper body, scrunched down as far as I could, and squeezed my kevlar helmet through the door and into the cab. It was a damn tight fit, taking another three minutes to settle in, wrestle my rifle into position, and reach the drink tube of my CamelBak. I gave Gunny the thumbs up in the rear view mirror signaling I was good to go. We didn’t need to speak. He knew the dangers ahead. Hell, he knew how cramped the back seat could be in full combat gear.

The convoy rolled out of EFIC one by one and it didn’t take long before it was stretched over the span of a mile. The divided, four lane road we traveled to the heart of the city was lovingly coined Fran, the U.S. military’s way of making sense of all the Arabic street names. All roads running east and west were named alphabetically by women’s names, and north and south roads by men’s. The scheme was plastered over all the maps and made sense to us, and it was all that mattered.

RCT-1 and RCT-7 had been clearing the city block by agonizing block since the siege began. Everything south of Fran and northwest of Ethan was more or less cleared. Only minor pockets of resistance remained. The real problems were in the northeast sectors, as of yet untouched by any military forces. Our firm base would occupy that intersection. 3rd Company in a mansion on the northeast, 2nd Company in a mosque on the southeast, 1st Company in a bombed out hospital on the southwest, and 9th Battalion Headquarters nestled snuggly between 2nd and 3rd, just southeast of our field of fire.

The drive time was thankfully short. 3rd Company was unloaded and setting up machine gun positions by the time Gunny and I retrieved our gear and stepped into the mansion. The house itself was in remarkably good shape. The initial assault on the building had been isolated to the front door and one room on the south side. The real damage came from looting. The interior was a shambles. Pieces of a six foot chandelier lay scattered across overturned furniture and pillaged dresser drawers. There wasn’t a single item that hadn’t been picked through, appraised, and discarded. To Gunny and I, the real valuables were left behind: blankets, linen, pillows, rugs, and mattresses.

We immediately claimed a room with a strategic view of the intersection and went to work to make it feel more like home. The floor was littered with glass and concrete from ricocheting bullets. Three large, ornate rugs were in the corner, neatly rolled. We planned on taking full advantage of them once we cleared the remainder of the debris. While Gunny was putting on the finishing touches and rolling out the rugs, I dusted off a couple of racks I found outside. They were framed in steel with plywood supports and heavy as hell. We succeeded in placing them against adjoining walls only after a few minutes of wrestling. I beat the majority of the dirt out of the mattresses and wedged them into place over the plywood boards. Almost a perfect fit, but good enough for government work. As Gunny tinkered with his gear I decided it was a good opportunity to check the machine gun positions on the roof. I eyeballed my flak jacket, kevlar, and rifle leaning against the wall. It was going to be a quick run and wasn’t very far away, so I opted to leave my gear and headed to the roof.

Despite how gloomy the day had been, the setting sun was finally poking through the clouds just above the horizon. The Iraqis were still fine tuning their positions. The good news was they were all pointing in the correct directions. I put my hands on my hips and turned south, overlooking the mosque where First Company was located. The sun played off the stained glass. I was caught for a minute watching the dazzling display of colors when I heard a low rush of air in the distance. Unmanned planes had been conducting reconnaissance in this area for days and I looked skyward to pinpoint the sound. I stepped clockwise around to the west, letting the sun warm the underside of my chin, and squinted. The sound was almost on top of me, but still no plane. I turned due north, only a second or two after my initial inquisitive gaze, and saw a tiny tendril of smoke in the distance hovering mere feet above the rooftops. I pinpointed the object.

Too late I realized a rocket propelled grenade (RPG) was whistling directly at me. Time slowed to a crawl. The cone of the rocket went from the size of a pinhead to a golf ball to a teacup. I knew when it hit me I would simply become a pink mist. I sandwich bag funeral was the only option. I registered only the scream of the rocket and the white tip on the end of the cone. My thoughts did not turn to my days as a child roaming free on the North Dakota prairie. They did not turn to my first kiss or high school graduation. Sunlight did not beam from the heavens nor angles called me home. I was alone with The End of Everything, packaged neatly in an explosive, green cone less then two feet long. My hands remained on my hips and serenity overtook me.

Suddenly the trajectory shifted. I craned my neck and watched the RPG arch slightly west, over my head, and explode violently into a building adjacent to 2nd Company less than 100 meters away. My paralysis broke.

“Holy shit!” I raced to the roof access steps, knowing I had a heartbeat to get out of the line of fire. SNAP! SNAP! Rifle rounds impacted the exposed north wall two feet left of my head as I took the steps three at a time. I button hooked right at the bottom, behind the safety of the solid concrete walls of the building, and to our room where my gear was waiting.

“They got the mosque, Guns,” I blurted to Gunny. I threw my flak jacket over my left shoulder. “RPG. They hit the mosque!” I secured my flak jacket and kevlar helmet, pulled my M16 of my rack, and took a knee next to the front hatch waiting for the word.

“To the roof?” I was hoping for an answer I liked. Gunny was gearing up as well.

“Sounds good,” he said and gave me the green light.

“Catch ya topside!” I sprinted for the roof steps as the machine gun next to them opened fire to the north. SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!

I couldn’t tell if the fire was friendly or not and paused at the base of the steps in relative cover of a nearby wall. The Iraqi on the machine gun was dressed in a track suit and flip flops. He was closest when the attack began and gave me a terrified look. I flashed him the thumbs up and he resumed fire, grimacing like Sylvester Stallone in Rambo III. I took advantage of the cover fire and bounded back up the steps to the roof. In addition to the eight Iraqis manning the four machine gun positions, half of the damn company had joined the fray for their chance to get some action. A chain reaction followed. Three companies in a 500 meter radius were sending enough rounds downrange to repel every German in World War II.

I barrel rolled over the top two steps and low crawled to the north wall. Hot, spent, brass casings rained down on me from the machine gun a foot away. I pressed my back against the wall, inched slowly upward, and peeked over the edge. Nothing. No RPGs. No snipers. No enemy. It was a hit and run. All that remained were dozens of our own Iraqi soldiers firing uncontrollably into the dusk. The Motorola radio on my left shoulder crackled into life.

“This is Drifter 6. I need a sit-rep!” It was Major Labbe at battalion headquarters. I guessed they were probably getting cut in half by the crossfire.

“Aman aman aman!” I screamed the Arabic word for safe to the Iraqi next to me standing on the trigger. No response. I violently grabbed his shoulder. “Aman goddammit!” His head snapped in my direction. He heaved for breath.

“This is 3 Alpha,” I hollered over the din. “RPG and sniper attack from the north. No known casualties. We gotta settle these fuckers down now!” I ceased transmitting and broke into a low, shuffling run across the roof. “Aman! Aman!” I yelled again and again from one Iraqi to the next. Gunny Boudreaux circled the roof in the opposite direction, shutting down random gunfire to my right. Iraqis huddled along the roof wall, clutching their rifles protectively to their chests, looking to us for direction. We split the machine gun positions and did our best to pantomime our intentions: maintain visual on the direction of attack but do not shoot. I hoped they got the idea.

“This is Drifter 2.” It was First Lieutenant Navarro from the mosque. “Everybody’s good to go over here. The RPG impacted the building next to us.” I breathed a sigh of relief.

“You got accountability?” Major Labbe again.

“Yes sir. One Iraqi was pissing in the alley when it hit. He’s a bit shaken up and covered in urine, but otherwise unhurt.”

“Roger. Did anyone see where it came from?” He apparently hadn’t heard my initial report over the firing. I piped up.

“Drifter 3 Alpha here. I had eyes on the RPG. It sailed right over my damn head from the north. The Iraqis are reporting sniper fire as well.” I hesitated to confirm it until I saw the impacts for myself. “We’ve got everybody shut down for now.”

“Good to go.” Drifter 6 sounded more relaxed. “Let me know if anything develops.”

“Roger. 3 Alpha out.” I turned my attention to the Iraqis. Fear and adrenaline were contagious diseases. Gunny and I had to pull the extra bodies off the roof ASAP.

I physically grabbed arms, jackets, and weapons and put two Iraqis per machine gun nest. We busied ourselves with removing the rest.

“Meesta Meesta! Finished?” The Iraqi who first opened fire looked at me inquisitively. His erratic cover fire saved my ass.

“Finished,” I replied and gave him the thumbs up. He grinned as broad as any child in a toy store. “Now get your ass of this roof.” I pointed down the steps but couldn’t keep from smiling myself. He shook my hand and walked away.