Mark Owen: No Hero

I counted five dead fighters. By this point in the war, we were very conscious of not running to our death, so we paused for a moment. The base of the “L” stayed in place. We were hoping the enemy hadn’t noticed the rest of us off to their right flank. Our position hadn’t fired yet in an effort to stay undetected.

Within minutes I heard the troop chief’s voice over the radio.

“OK, guys, the base is going to hold position and the maneuver is commencing assault at this time.”

This meant that the maneuver, or our side of the “L,” was going to start slowly clearing our way through the buildings. We’d done this a million times before and the tactic was nothing new. The simple “L” ambush or assault has been used throughout history.

I made a quick check of my gear and took a knee and waited for the order to move.

“OK,” I heard the troop chief say over the radio. “Take it.”

Our entire element got up and began slowly bounding forward in pairs. Two or three SEALs would slowly make their way forward with guns at the ready, stopping a short distance ahead of the next group. They would then take a knee and hold security while the rest of the unit bounded past them.

It wasn’t fast, and I’m sure it wasn’t sexy, but it was the safest way to close on the enemy. Especially when we’d already lost the element of surprise.

I could see a few lasers scanning doorways. The natural instinct is to move quickly, but we continued to move at a glacial pace, always ready to open fire at the first sign of trouble. We were just about to enter the village when we saw four men in a dead sprint racing back to the bedrolls.

“Looks like these guys forgot something,” I heard over the radio.

These guys must have had balls of steel to attempt a dead sprint back to retrieve their guns, especially since their weapons and bedrolls were now littered with the bodies of their dead friends.

I was less than one hundred yards from them. I raised my gun and zeroed in on the first guy in the group. He looked anxious as they sprinted, his eyes wide. He practically slid to a stop, his chest heaving, and started to root through the folds of his bedroll. The first man got to his bedroll and knelt down. I could see him pull out an AK-47.

I put my laser on his chest and fired. My teammates also opened fire. We all hit the same guy in rapid succession, spinning him down. Our rounds kicked up a little dust cloud, covering the area where the man once stood. I tracked to the next guy, only to watch as he fell forward in a heap. One by one, I followed our lasers to the next target until all four were on the ground, unmoving.

Again, we paused to assess the situation.

I took a knee and began scanning the surrounding buildings, waiting for any more “heroes.” Phil, my team leader, took a knee next to me, and I could hear him whisper.

“That was interesting,” he said. “I guess they really want to fight. Let’s take it slow and careful tonight. These guys mean business.”

“Let’s keep moving,” the troop chief interrupted over the radio.

Phil and I got up and continued moving toward the closest building. I stopped at the doorway and waited. Phil squeezed my arm to signal me to go inside. The house was small, with a foyer leading to a single room. The house was muggy inside, and I didn’t see anything as I scanned the room. A rug covered the tile floor and a ratty sofa sat at one end. I could hear my teammates moving into the kitchen just off the foyer.

I quickly moved through the main room and entered a sleeping room. No one was inside, but I could see mats and pillows on the floor. The house was deserted.

“One building clear, at least fifteen more to go,” I thought as we started toward another house.

Maybe the house was empty because the civilians that lived there left when the fighters showed up. Or maybe it was connected to the fighters and they’d fallen back and were still waiting for us in the dark. I cleared my head and tried to focus back on the task at hand.

My team spent the next thirty minutes clearing house after house. I was behind Phil later as we walked up the road. The village was a maze and we hadn’t run into any more fighters. We knew they hadn’t just disappeared. They had to be there somewhere. I scanned every doorway and window, watching for a fighter to pop out.

Up ahead, I caught a glimpse of a guy peering out of a door. He was tucked back in the doorway, but not far enough. I could see the muzzle of his AK-47 as he waited for us to come closer. Thankfully it was dark. At least it was dark to him. We had our night vision goggles.

I wasn’t sure Phil saw him at first. The man pulled his head back quickly and I saw Phil’s laser shine on where his head once was. The man slowly slid his head back into view as he attempted to get a look at our position. Phil’s laser was now on the man’s forehead.

I heard several suppressed shots from Phil’s MP7, and the man’s head disappeared from view.

I held security on the road and additional buildings as Phil and the rest of the team entered the doorway where the fighter once stood. The house was on the far side of the group of buildings we’d just cleared.

I looked back at the door after Phil and the team went inside. I could see the Iraqi fighter’s feet in the doorway. Over the radio, I could hear my teammates working with the AC-130 to track down two squirters.

Two fighters ran through the village, popped out the other end, and tried to hide by running out into the open desert. They stood out immediately on the infrared cameras carried by the ISR and AC-130. A team of four SEALs and a combat dog raced out of the village after the fighters. The AC-130 banked and headed toward the group. I was keeping track of their progress on the radio. Finally, I heard the thump of the AC-130’s guns.

When my teammates got to the bodies, it was a shocking scene. It looked like one of the fighters was blown completely inside out. A round from the plane’s one-hundred-and-five-millimeter howitzer must have hit him. The one-hundred-and-five-millimeter shell is twice the size of a bowling pin, and it can do some serious damage.

Back in the village, I was still holding security when Phil’s voice came over the net.

“Alpha Two, Alpha One,” Phil said, using our call signs. “Need you in here.”

I keyed my radio.

“Roger,” I said. “Coming in.”

I stepped over the fighter’s body and saw Phil and two of my teammates searching the main room. The gun the fighter had been holding was leaning against the far wall of the foyer. Phil had taken the magazine out and cleared the chamber.

I looked back at the dead fighter. His head was lying away from the doorway leading to the main room. Had the fighter not exposed himself in the doorway, there was a good chance neither Phil nor I would have seen him. If he’d had a little patience, he would have had the jump on us.

Phil had clearly popped him with a great shot. The bullet hit him just above his nose, flush in the bottom of his forehead. Half of his face was torn off, leaving one good eye staring blankly at the ceiling. Blood was slowly pooling up around the back of the fighter’s head.

I started to look away when a flicker of movement caught my eye. A ratty-ass-looking calico kitten, its fur matted to its skinny rib cage, was at the edge of the blood pool. I have no idea where it came from, but it wasn’t uncommon to see cats prowling around the villages in Iraq. The kitten sniffed at the pool, and then I saw its pink tongue dart out and lick the blood.

I expected to see dead bodies, and I had more or less gotten used to it by this point, but there was something about the ratty cat and the blood that didn’t seem right. I didn’t expect it. It was pretty fucking gruesome.