None Left Behind (5 page)

Today, the well-dressed combat soldier started with a set of flameretardant, heavy-duty digital-patterned ACUs (Advanced Combat Uniform) and rough-out tan boots. To that he added an armored vest padded with Kevlar SAPI plates that protected his front and back, both sides, shoulders, throat, armpits and, with the addition of a special flap, his family jewels. Theoretically, the armor would stop most shrapnel and bullets up to 7.62mm, the standard round for the Russian or Chicom-made AK-47 rifle used throughout much of the world. That meant the enemy now tried to aim his shots at the face, arms, or legs.

Optional knee pads protected against crawling and scrambling around in the rubble of a battlefield, not against bullets.

The FLK (Full Load Kit), or “flick,” took the place of the old LBE (Load-Bearing Equipment) webgear used since World War I. It was a vest worn outside personal body armor for toting ammo, grenades, and other battle essentials. It was designed in such a way that a flip of the skirt while in the prone position placed everything within easy hand's reach.

The modern soldier's assault pack wasn't that much different from those carried into battle as far back as the Civil War. Nor was the nature of its contents, only their character: plastic bottles of water; an extra MRE (Meal, Ready to Eat) or two; fresh socks and underwear; a weapons-cleaning kit; extra ammo; shaving kit; a paperback novel; a couple of to-be-reread letters from back home; and a few other items that might be needed or might make life a little more comfortable.

A Kevlar ACH (Advanced Combat Helmet), or “nitch” as it was called, topped off the ensemble. No previous American grunt had ever gone to war so heavily laden.

On top of everything else, Sammy Rhodes, twenty, lean with long muscles on a modest frame, carried his squad's “two-forty,” a 7.62mm
M240B machine gun that was the updated version of the old M60 used in Vietnam. It was a solid, dependable weapon with range enough to reach way out there and touch about anything. It weighed over twenty pounds with a belt of ammo in its feed tray.

Rhodes' mouth was dry, his tongue like a cactus in a bed of sand, as his squad loaded onto the waiting aircraft. Who would have ever thought he'd be flying in a dragonfly? Around him, his platoon mates kept up a running patter to conceal the apprehension they were all experiencing. Apprehension, hell! They were scared to death, and they were scared their buddies would know they were scared. They were also excited.

Dan “Corny” Courneya, a nineteen-year-old PFC from Michigan, crowded onto the canvas seating next to Rhodes. “This ain't no place for a Polar Bear!” he shouted to be heard above the noise. “Do you see any snow?”

“So this is war, huh?” marveled Christopher Murphy, a short, squat little PFC carrying a SAW (Squad Automatic Weapon). He squeezed in on the other side of Rhodes.

“Not much different so far from an FTX (Field Training Exercise) back at Drum, huh?” Rhodes said, surprised that the cactus in his mouth let him sound so calm.

Platoon Sergeant Burke stood up in the cargo compartment and waved his arms to be noticed. All the lights were off, except for the aircraft instruments, which provided scant illumination.

“All right, people. Keep your eyes open and the noise down when we hit the LZ. We're in bad guy country. This is what we came for.
Hoo-ra!”

War was hell, or so the old vets like to say. Up to this point, Rhodes' first time out, it wasn't so much hell as, well,
strange
. And scary. Glory and a place in history were okay; everybody wanted a piece of it. But mostly what Rhodes wanted was to avoid spilling his guts in Iraq. It was a bit disconcerting to consider that his sleeping bag might also serve as a body bag if he were killed.

The two choppers descended over the midnight land, coming in fast and steep to a stubbly grain field about 400 meters from the outskirts of Khargouli Village. Few lights shone from the houses this time of night, only a pinprick in a window here and there. Insomniacs perhaps. The field looked vacant through the two-dimensional, grainy-green imagery of the optics soldiers wore for night vision.

Sammy Rhodes leaned forward in his canvas seat to look out the chopper's open door as the bird flared and hovered a few feet above the ground. The next thing he knew, everything went into overdrive. Guys were slapping each other on the butt, arm, or leg to rush them out the doors. The pilots were in a hurry. Choppers were at their most vulnerable to small arms fire and RPGs during troop airlift operations.

Rhodes leaped into the darkness, stumbled under the weight of his heavy weapon and gear when he hit the ground, and went to his knees. He scrambled to his feet, weapon ready, his heart pounding so hard in his chest he thought everybody in Khargouli could hear it. Immediately, the Black Hawks lifted up in a black wind tunnel and were gone, behind them on the field the awful, ringing silence that followed an air assault after the machines were gone and there was nothing left but men.

Lieutenant Vargo and Sergeant Burke got the patrol into overwatch and it moved out toward the sound of a dog yapping in its sleep and a rooster crowing. In the air hung the stench of animal dung and human feces and garbage, unmistakable indications of a settlement nearby. In their NVs (night-vision devices) and body armor, the guys looked goggle-eyed and bulked up to unbelievable proportions. Soldier noises of breath coming in gasps and gear rattling sounded loud enough to summon every
hajji with a homemade bomb and a rifle from here to Baghdad. Rhodes imagined an ambush waiting behind every bush.

Moving in the dark toward the back approach to Khargouli, the patrol negotiated neglected fields and weaved through a maze of levees, ditches, irrigation canals, and reed patches. Dusty country lanes bordered by tall, vertical-thatch fences and crude, mud-walled huts helped point the way. Lieutenant Vargo coordinated the effort through constant radio contact with Second Platoon.

A narrow canal temporarily halted the platoon near the rear of the town. It seemed shallow enough. Through NVs, Rhodes watched Murphy, Joe Anzak, and several others ease into water up to their waists and wade on across, weapons above their heads.

Rhodes didn't think to follow the footsteps of the others. He searched for footing at his own crossing and waded in, hoisting the heavy two-forty above his head. The water reached his chest. Four or five more steps and he would be across.

Suddenly, the bottom of the canal fell out from underneath his boots. Weighted down with Kevlar, the machine gun, extra ammo and grenades, he sank instantly in ten feet of water. There was no way he could stay afloat, much less attempt to swim. As he went under, the first thought that came to mind was that, on his first day at war, he was going to drown in a canal filled with Third World shit and filth.

But he was determined not to drown without a struggle. As the warm water closed over his head, he kicked off the grassy bottom and lunged, reaching with one hand and holding onto the machine gun with the other. The lieutenant would have his ass if he lost it.

He reached as far as he could, desperately grasping with his hand, the only part of him above water. He caught a fistful of grass and reeds. He pulled and, to his dismay, felt the grass break free in his hand.

The next thing he knew, arms were dragging him out of the canal. A couple of men had thrown themselves belly-down in the reeds and grabbed his arm at the last possible moment. He lay on his back looking up at the black sky while he spluttered and gasped for breath.

“You are one lucky Joe that we saw your hand before you went under for good,” Murphy said, kneeling over him.

Rhodes didn't feel so lucky. He coughed up water. “I swallowed some of that stuff. What kind of bugs and shit you reckon I'll get?”

Murphy chuckled. “Your dick'll probably fall off.”

Sergeant Burke hurried back. “Keep the chatter down, for God's sake. What do you think this is, a Girl Scout outing? Rhodes, next time you want to go for a swim, take off your clothes. Let's move out. We got a job to do.”

Rhodes was peeved. Hell, he was pissed off. He almost drowned and what did he get? Nothing but more shit from the sergeant.

Movement the rest of the way was slow and dangerous as the patrol approached the rear of the village. Lieutenant Vargo set up his blocking force on an extended line across a cleared field next to a road that presented the most likely avenue of escape for anybody the boys of Second Platoon might flush out.

By this time, Rhodes was shivering from his unscheduled submersion. Air in the desert could be surprisingly chill at night. Under instructions from the lieutenant, he set up his machine gun to cover a foot path leading out of the darkened village and settled down to watch and wait, dripping water and hugging himself against the cold.

From over to his right flank, he overheard a whispered exchange as Sergeant Burke repositioned Murphy and PFC Timothy Grom. By this time, Rhodes was so fucking miserable he could give a fuck about anything. It was a long time until the sun came up again, and everything was so quiet he doubted anything was going to happen. This was probably a dry hole, and that was fine by him.

Sergeant Burke went on down the line. Grom and Murphy were still shuffling about in the dark, finding a place of cover and concealment to continue their vigil, when a rifle shot almost caused Rhodes to jump out from under his nitch. He heard the unmistakable crack of a bullet zipping past his two buddies.

For an instant, he thought it might be an AD, accidental discharge. Except it came from somewhere in the village. Although he had never
heard an AK-47 discharged, he knew the sound of a 5.56 M-4—and that wasn't it.

Murphy and Grom hit the ground as though poled with an ax, Murphy swearing and excited and crawling fast on his belly toward the nearest tree, like a crippled insect. Grom lay where he fell with his face buried in the dirt. This was the first time either of them had been shot at, the first time the platoon had drawn fire.

“Grom! Grom, you hit?” someone called out.

“Naw, man.”

“Just lay there, buddy. He can't see you in the weeds.”

“I think I pissed my pants.”

Sergeant Burke raced along the front. “Hold your fire. Don't anybody shoot. We got people in the town.”

That wasn't the only reason to hold fire. Hajji knew the rules of engagement under which the Americans operated better than the new kids on the block did. That was how he reduced his chances of being caught and punished. Shoot and scoot. That was his MO. Use a residential neighborhood, a mosque, or some other public place into which no American GI would dare return fire. Pop off a round or two and then haul ass.

This was fucked-up,
Rhodes thought,
when they could shoot at you but you couldn't shoot back.

“Break! Break! Break!” The L.T. (lieutenant) was on the radio with Delta HQ and Second Platoon. “Contact! We have contact. One sniper. Stand by.”

Excitement surged through the platoon, but it didn't last long. In fact, the contact, such as it was, was almost a disappointment after all the buildup prior to the start of the mission. Just the single shot and after that, aside from the barking of dogs inside the town, nothing else. Second Platoon on its way through Khargouli rousted a couple of teenagers sneaking around with a jug of hooch.

It wasn't much of a war so far.

That is, it wasn't much of a war unless
you
were the one getting shot at. Then it was
war
whether it was one shot or a barrage. Murphy seemed surprised and indignant that someone had actually tried to kill him.

“The son-of-a-bitch shot at me! Did you see that? The bastard tried to waste me.”

“We need to get the motherfucker,” Grom said, furious and scared at the same time.

“Relax,” Corporal Jimenez counseled. “This is just the beginning. You'll get your chance for payback.”

By now, all PFC Rhodes wanted was to get this shit over with and go home. The first night in battle hadn't been kind to him. First, he damned near drowned. Then the hajjis started taking potshots. He had a feeling things were going to get much worse before they got better.

By the time of Operation
Desert Storm,
the first Iraqi war in 1991, the four-wheel-drive, wide-bodied High-Mobility Multipurpose Vehicle M998 or updated M1114 (HMMWV, “hummer,” “humvee”) had largely supplanted most light trucks within the U.S. military, including the old workhorse quarter-ton Jeep used since World War II and the Vietnam-era APC (Armored Personnel Carrier). At least seventeen configurations of the heavy-duty vehicle were now in service, ranging from cargo/troop carriers and ambulances to automatic weapons platforms and TOW missile carriers.

The army had drafted final specifications for the HMMWV in 1979 after concluding that militarized civilian trucks no longer satisfied tactical requirements. The hummer first saw combat in Operation
Just Cause,
the U.S. invasion of Panama in 1989. Over 10,000 were employed by Coalition forces during Operation
Iraqi Freedom
beginning in 2003.

Like the quarter-ton Jeep, the original hummer was designed for operations behind friendly lines and therefore was not armored against intense small arms fire, much less against machine guns and RPGs. It was not until after the Somalia disaster that the army recognized the need for a more protected vehicle to be used in urban combat.

AM General, a subsidiary of American Motors Corporation, began limited production of a fully armored humvee in 1996, the M1114. Only a few of those were available prior to the invasion of Iraq in 2003. “Up-armor” kits were installed instead on the original prototypes. These kits included armored doors with bullet-resistant glass, side and rear armor plates, and a ballistic windshield.

Where up-armor kits were unavailable, inventive soldiers improvised “hillbilly armor” out of scrap metal. In December 2004, Secretary of
Defense Donald Rumsfeld came under harsh political criticism for failing to provide better-equipped trucks. As a result, most hummers in the war zones were either immediately up-armored or replaced. By the time the 10
^th
Mountain Division deployed its 2
^nd
BCT, nearly all hummers in Iraq were the new, improved version.