Wesley Gray - Embedded

Fortunately we didn’t have Jaffer along for the patrol. In my mind this cut the probability of my dying enormously. Instead our patrol leader was Hussein, a forty-five-year-old Iraqi, with twenty-five years in the Iraqi army as an infantryman and special operations soldier. Hussein was as close to being a logical person as Iraqi people can get.

Hussein and I agreed on a basic patrol plan. It was sophisticated enough to accomplish the mission, but simple enough to ensure everyone’s survival. We would sweep south through the palm groves for two kilometers and move west across Boardwalk into the villages. From that point we would push north back to the WTF through the villages, look for suspicious material, and ask the locals for information. While moving through the palm groves, we would split into two groups, one of four and one of six. Sergeant Kelley’s group of four would trail closest to the Euphrates, looking for car batteries, generators, and triggermen who could be initiating IEDs. My group of six would travel along the western edge of the palm groves searching for the copper command wires along the ground.

We gingerly traversed the palm groves. As we commenced the movement south, I became furious. Daylight had revealed that if we had shifted our patrol from last night another hundred meters west, we could have completely dodged the reeds, jungle thicket, and mud pits that had caused us so much anguish. My resentment wore off quickly as I realized it was an amazing day to be in Iraq. The sun was shining, the temperature was hovering around seventy degrees, and we were on a long walk (okay, a combat patrol, but close enough). We came across farmers tilling their lands, sheepherders attending to their flocks, and kids playing games. I stopped to talk with everyone who would listen.

Suddenly the ignition of a single AK-47 round screamed in my ears. A symphony of gunfire followed. “Holy shit, how many fuckin’ dudes are shooting at us?” I muttered to myself. My primal sensory abilities rose to a level I had never experienced. It was exhilarating. This shit was for real.

In the midst of the chaos it took me a moment to realize what was happening. It was likely that one sniper round had been fired in our direction and the remainder of the rounds were from the infamous “Iraqi fire blossom,” a colloquial term for the phenomenon that occurs when Iraqi army soldiers are attacked. When under fire every jundi in the immediate vicinity starts firing all their rounds in all directions. The event creates a cloud of firepower that resembles a blooming flower. In many cases the biggest danger in Iraq is not the insurgents but the Iraqi fire blossom.

I took cover when the fire started and began to scan through my rifle scope for the attacker. I was staring into a palm grove thicket and could barely see thirty feet in front of me. Revenge was not probable, and it seemed the gunfight was over. I radioed to Sergeant Kelley, “We are gonna take cover here and lay down covering fire; you guys push south and try to flank this bastard.” Kelley was excited to get in the action, as he knew we were in a perfect formation to catch the insurgents for once. He radioed back, “Roger, we are pushing south. Make sure the Iraqis don’t shoot our asses.” I replied, “Good to go. For your information, it sounded as though the fire was close range, maybe two hundred meters away. Don’t push farther than five hundred meters if you can help it.”

After my radio transmission with Kelley, I concentrated on the fight. I quickly realized a round aimed for my head had instead wasted the jundi who was patrolling ten feet in front of me. He cried in agony, flailing around as though he was on fire. Time to use some of Doc McGinnis’s combat lifesaver knowledge, I thought, as my adrenaline kicked in and everything started to slow down.

Espi and I rushed to help the fallen jundi while everyone else posted security. This Iraqi was the luckiest bastard on the planet. The round had penetrated his leather gloves hanging from his flak jacket, and his two magazines and had gone through his entire SAPI (small-arms protective insert) plate. The round had stopped at the inside edge of his flak jacket, causing a small scratch and a silver dollar-sized burn on his chest directly over his heart. The pressure from the round had cracked his ribs, but he was going to live to tell the tale.

I radioed back to Major Gaines, “Shadow One, this is Shadow Two, we have one friendly routine casualty. Request QRF. Stand by for details.” Following the transmission Sergeant Kelley radioed, “We are heading back to your position. We can’t get through the brush up ahead—too fucking thick.”

Within minutes Kelley and his crew had linked up with our force. We had a powwow with Hussein and decided that the best course of action would be to move back in pairs to a berm that was 150 meters behind us. Kelley’s crew would go back first and we would follow. From there we would bound to the nearest home, where we could find and wait for the QRF. Once everyone got word of the plan, Kelley’s Iraqi fire team began bounding back to the berm as we provided covering fire.

Kelley and his jundi sprinted to the earthen berm. I looked back to be certain everyone was okay and we had our sectors of fire covered. I gazed on the battlefield. All the jundi were hugging the ground, like cheese melted into a hamburger. These guys were scared shitless. In the midst of this, I saw Espi, snuggled up to a tree, trying to light a cigarette, seemingly oblivious to the immediate threat we had encountered. Perplexed, I hollered to Espi, “Dude, are you fuckin’ Dirty Harry, man?” He replied, “Sir, I have seen this happen hundreds of time and it makes me go crazy. I have a new SOP—to light up a cigarette first thing after a firefight or I end up doing something stupid. I can put it out if you really want.” I smirked and said, “Naw man, it’s all good. Just keep your fucking head down. You can be my bounding buddy to the berm.”

I wanted to hug Espi after his cigarette incident. His actions calmed me down and had me laughing aloud. My mind was thinking clearly again. “Espi, you ready to move out?” He responded, “Roger, Sir, I’m moving.” I covered Espi as he bounded back to the berm where everyone else was taking cover. We continued to cover each other and move until we were the final ones to reach the berm.

Once at the berm Kelley grabbed four of the jundi and hauled ass to a large Iraqi home a hundred meters from the edge of the berm. After they established a foothold in the home, they waved the rest of us to move the casualty into it. Hussein and a couple of jundi grabbed the injured soldier. Hussein yelled to me, “Jamal, cover us.” In response we provided cover fire while Hussein and his men moved the casualty to the home.

Another sniper round went flying over our heads, coming from the direction of Boardwalk. “Aw fuck, here we go again,” yelled Moody in his thick Arab accent. We were facing fire from multiple snipers and they almost had us surrounded. Everyone took cover. I looked up and down the berm and everyone was clean. Before I could blink the Iraqis did what they do best under fire—get out of the area. The old saying “When in Rome, do as the Romans do” became immediately relevant. Bounding was a tactically sound idea, but we needed to get out of the kill zone—in a hurry. Everyone crouched under the berm and ran as fast as they could into the courtyard of the home Kelley and his men had under control.

Exhausted, Moody rushed to give me the bad news. “Jamal, my fuckin’ radio is back at the berm!” I did the calculations in my head: a one-hundred-dollar UHF commercial Motorola radio or risk people’s lives. The solution to that problem was easy—to hell with the radio!