Hillah, Iraq.
Patrick, my particular friend, once commented that a man eating an apple was in control of the situation. The chow hall had a fresh shipment of Gala apples (the finest of apples) and I took two of them on this mission. I sat munching on one as we marshaled up with the Iraqi police vehicles. I have learned that two valuable things in combat are ammunition and food. I honestly probably didn’t need as much ammo as I carry, but I would rather not find out the minimum amount of ammunition one should bring to a gunfight. Also, gunfights make me hungry, thus the apples.
My left cargo pocket was stuffed with grenades, and I had opted to not carry my pistol in its drop holder, which covered up my right cargo pocket, in favor of apples. I thought of Patrick’s words as we got underway. I really didn’t feel in control of the situation, but I felt competent. With regard to combat, one is either competent, dead, or not sufficiently tested.
Tonight’s mission was standard fare, but run entirely by the Iraqi police: roll up an objective, secure it, and search for bad guys. We headed up north towards the objective, and I watched the landscape roll by to the sounds of lounge music playing on the stereo in the humvee. I finished the apple, and opened my bullet proof (well, bullet resistant, anyway) to toss the core on the roadside. Candidly, an apple core is probably some of the kindest litter the landscape has seen.
The evenings have turned cool of late, and many fires burned as we drove north. The fires washed out the night vision equipment. My monocular NVGs showed me a surreal vision of distorted night vision and analog sight of many, many fires, a green and orange blend that probably would have freaked out Timothy Leary. The smoke lingered in the humvee as we passed into the countryside. I was tired. Not just physically tired, but I manifested a weariness that went much deeper. I was reminded of the end of semesters in school. At this point, we know our jobs so well that we can run through the motions without thought, and we knew each other so well that one could read a mood by looks alone. The novelty of gunfights wears off quickly, and I knew a thing or two about calling air, and now we were in the last stages of being here, a nice feeling that could not be overindulged.
The Green Berets were keeping our operational tempo at a high pitch. We have completed over fifty missions, more than twice the average of ODA teams in country. I am proud to be a part of that, and I am glad that they keep up the op tempo as it makes time go fast. And I would rather it go fast, as that means I get home sooner. We crossed a set of railroad tracks, and the Iraqis stopped to consult their
maps. I got out to stretch, and then told my driver that I was walking right over there to urinate. We always make a point to tell someone when we step away, because if I have learned nothing else from hundreds of episodes of Star Trek and horror movies, the guy that wanders off unbeknownst for a moment always gets bushwhacked. And never wear a red shirt. Micturition is challenging in full Battle Rattle, but the job is made easier by not wearing underwear.
The Iraqis realized that we were on the back side of our objective, but it really made no difference which side we assaulted from, so we mounted back to up to hit the target. No matter how many times one does it, the assault itself never gets routine. There are too many variables to really feel comfortable, and I made sure I knew which pocket had the apples and which had the grenades as we rolled up.
The humvees fanned out, and the Americans took up rear positions as the Iraqis assaulted the objective. Yazoo 25 quickly set up the mortar to provide illumination. The Marines are very, very good at this now, and they had the mortar operational within two minutes. I rested my weapon on the hood, and watched while the Iraqi police blew down the gate in the low wall that surrounded the house. Gate destroyed and surprise achieved, the tension passed out of me as we were now masters of the situation. Time for an apple.
Sinatra played on the stereo, and I tried to appear in control of things as I enjoyed the Gala. The Marines fired illumination mortar rounds, and the flares were carried away quickly on the swift wind. The mission took a strange nature, turning into a distorted social gathering. The Marines and Green
Berets drifted from group to group, chatting, conversations coalescing and drifting while big band music played from Yazoo 25. I was reminded of a strange cocktail party, except the convivial laughter was mixed with mortar fire and the brush of gun metal instead of the clinking of ice.
They say that complacency kills, but we are looking for fights in these end of our war days. The Captain looked at me and said, “War rocks.” I tossed my apple core into a ditch, and wandered around talking. Staff Sergeant is an airline captain, and we spend a good deal of time talking about flying. We leaned up against Yazoo 25 talking about how nice it will be to be back at work. No one shoots at us there. The Marines ceased firing as the Iraqis came out. We saddled up, and rolled back to Camp Charlie without incident. I flew an American flag for my Beautiful Bride on this particular day, and I hope that she likes it.