G Hopf: The End

Fallujah, Iraq

“Target acquired!” yelled Sgt. Gordon Van Zandt, his face planted firmly on the day sight of the TOW anti-tank missile system.

Gordon could hear gunfire cracking around him. He focused on the target he had acquired, a small window. Inside, an Iraqi sniper was pinning down a squad of Marines further up the road. The glint of the sniper’s scope and an occasional flash from the muzzle gave away the sniper’s position.

After the pinned-down squad was notified that no air support was available, Gordon’s TOW squad was called up to take out the sniper’s nest. TOW’s had been initially designed to destroy armored vehicles; the previous Gulf War had proven their farther-ranging battlefield application, bunker busting.

Gordon steadied his breathing and kept the cross hairs on the target while his driver, Lance Corporal Bivens, crouched outside the vehicle, alongside the rear driver’s side with his SAW machine gun against his shoulder.

Bivens yelled, “Back blast area all secure!” Bivens was not your poster model of a Marine physique. He was small in stature, lean and only stood around 5 feet 6 inches. But his nickname, “Pit Bull,” said more about him than anything else could, he was a staunch fighter and had proven himself a worthy opponent in hand-to-hand combat.

Immediately, Gordon reached up with his right hand, lifted the arming lever, and shouted back, “Gun up!”

He placed his hands gently back on the traversing unit’s control knobs and with his right thumb flipped up the trigger guard.

Just then, he saw the sniper’s rifle barrel emerge from the shadows of the small room he occupied. Not willing to waste another second, Gordon yelled out, “Fire in the hole!”

He pressed down on the trigger.

A loud pop and whiz came from the TOW. Within a couple of seconds the loud blast of the missile leaving the tube on its way to the target rattled Gordon’s ears. He tracked the missile through his sight as it flew to its target. After only a few moments, he saw a flash of light. The missile had struck its target. All Gordon could see now was dark smoke billowing out of the room.

“Impact, target destroyed!” he yelled out. He reached up, released the bridge clamp unlocking the missile, and tossed the empty tube onto the ground.

Bivens slung his SAW and quickly opened the Hummer’s rear hatch. He grabbed a new missile and handed it to Gordon who loaded it into the launch tube with precision speed and closed the bridge clamp down. He jumped behind the scope, assessed the damage, and looked for more targets.

After feeling secure, he looked up from the gun and shouted out to Bivens, “We got that fucking Muj, jump back in, and let’s drive up to assist the grunts.”

Bivens jumped back into the driver’s seat and proceeded toward the Marine squad.

“Bivens, radio the Battalion Forward HQ and order a medi-vac.”

“Roger that,” Bivens replied, grabbing the radio.

Bivens and Gordon pulled up to the Marines.

Grabbing his M-4 rifle, Gordon jumped off the top of the Hummer. He looked back to Bivens, “Stand watch while I attend to these guys.”

“Roger that,” Bivens replied as he crawled up into the hatch.

Gordon saw before him chunks of building, combat gear and discarded weapons. Amongst the debris he also found 11 Marines, some battered and bloody. Some were sitting up against the wall of a building in an alleyway, but others just lay on the ground motionless. He couldn’t tell if they were dead or not. Gordon could remember the first time he took fire; the sights of destruction and death were surreal then. Now, they had become commonplace.

Gordon approached the first Marine, knelt down, and asked, “What’s your condition?”

“Shot in the gut. This really fucking sucks,” the wounded Marine lance corporal muttered.

“Listen. We’ll get you out of here soon.” Gordon assured as he lifted up the bandage on the first Marine’s stomach.

“Corpsman? How’s it looking here?” Gordon shouted over to the Navy Corpsman attending to another wounded Marine.

“Much easier without that fucking Hajji shooting at us,” the Corpsman responded while bandaging another Marine.

“Thanks for blasting that Muj. You were a godsend,” a second Marine told Gordon as he walked over.

Gordon looked up at the second Marine and noticed blood running down his leg and all over his left arm.

“How you holding up?” Gordon asked.

“Shit, Sergeant, I’ve seen better days, but I’ll live.”

“Good, man. Who’s in charge here?”

“Well, it was Corporal Davies, but the sniper took him down first. A shot through the head,” the second Marine explained, gesturing toward his squad leader’s lifeless body lying in the alleyway.

“What’s your unit?” Gordon asked.

“1 stSquad, 3rd platoon, India Company, 3/1, Sergeant, and I’m Lance Corporal Smith. Just call me Smitty”

“I’m Sergeant Van Zandt, Weapons, 3/1, nice to meet you, Devil Dog,” Gordon said, patting Smitty on his good shoulder.

Gordon proceeded to check on each wounded Marine. The Marines of 3 rdBattalion, 1 stMarines had been fighting their way toward their objective for almost ten days now. The fight was tough, but these men were Marines. Even though they had suffered casualties they were determined. The Thundering Third would reach their objective or die trying. However, dying wasn’t an option for any of these Marines; it was their job to ensure it was the enemy who died for his cause.

Gordon came upon a Marine who was severely wounded; he dropped to one knee and examined the man’s wounds. Gordon could tell from the markings on his bloody uniform that the man was a private first class; he couldn’t be any older than 20. Gordon couldn’t help but make the grim prediction that this young Marine probably wouldn’t see his 21st birthday. Gordon grabbed the Marine’s hand and asked, “How you doing, Marine?”

Without opening his eyes, the young PFC whispered “I’m cold…very cold.”

Gordon could see the large pool of blood collecting under the wounded Marine. He bent down to his ear and whispered, “We got the fucker that did this and we’ll get you out of here soon, I promise.”

A Hummer rumbled to a stop in front of the squad. Two Marines sprung from the rear doors, stretcher in hand and ran to the wounded Marines. One by one, they loaded the most critical into the vehicle.

Just as they began backing away from the scene, a black streak from the south soared toward the Hummer and struck its cab. The explosion knocked Gordon to the ground.

Gordon opened his eyes. He wasn’t sure how long he had been unconscious. The yelling, screaming, and gunfire seemed strangely faint and distant. His eyes burned; all he could see was deep black smoke billowing over him. He tried to get up, but intense pain shot up his back.

“God damn it!” he screamed. He took a deep breath and forced himself to sit up. His movements were slow, but he knew he needed to get up and start doing something. He looked around and found Bivens behind the TOW, scanning the area. The burning chassis and four smoldering tires of the ambulance were still there, but not much else. All onboard were definitely dead; he could make out two burning corpses in the front seats. The charred bodies were slumped over, flames dancing out of their open mouths.

He saw the squad’s remaining Marines taking cover and engaging something down the street. Gordon rose to his feet, balanced himself, and headed toward his Hummer.

“Bivens, if you got a shot, take it!” he commanded.

“Nothing, Sergeant. My visibility is not that great with all the smoke. Wait a minute…I see the fucker. Target acquired!”