unedited, unearthed

Another random part leading in to days in combat

The whole place smelled like vomit. My hands were sweating and shaky. This was my first trip “outside the wire”, and my chest was exploding. Two Iraqi gate guards sat with their decrepit Ak-47’s on their laps, smirking as we slowly rolled out into the dust. Perhaps they were thinking of the mortar attack they would launch against us later that night. Two days before, a convoy that was travelling no more than 3 kilometers, out of this very same gate,  was struck by what we called a “catastrophic”. Our 1SG’s driver, renowned in the company for his legendary 2 mile run times, lost both of his legs. Later in the patrol we would roll right past the crater it left in the ground, complete with strewn about half-rolls of bloody gauze still lingering on the scene.

Normally we travelled in a convoy that consisted of 4 HMMWV up-armored trucks. At this time in the conflict we were still conducting what we called “presence patrols”, which were basically a movement to contact. We were to roll out and move through the surrounding neighborhoods, called “mahallas”, with the point being to emphasize the fact that we were there, and we were vigilant. Being that we were a tank company, each platoon consisted of roughly 16 Soldiers before attachments. Attachments were medics, mechanics, communications guys, etc. That meant in an ideal situation each truck would have a crew of 4 or 5. There was a driver, the vehicle commander, who was always seated in the front passenger seat, the gunner, and any passengers in the back seats were termed as “dismounts”. I showed how green I was by always insisting to be on the gun. Later on, I would abhor being there. On this patrol, though, I sat in the gunners turret on top of the truck, surrounded by 1” steel armor that when standing would come to about the middle of my chest. I was behind a .50 caliber M2 heavy barrel machine gun. This weapon would tear through light armor like paper. The rounds it fires are massive. These were the exact same weapon systems used in some anti-aircraft platforms. It was a favorite of “tankers”, who seemed to be some of the only Soldiers that could tame its temperamental nature and penchant for not working correctly. It was also a violation of the Geneva Convention to fire these rounds at “infantry” targets (meaning people) unless they were in a bunker you were trying to destroy. Needless to say, the Geneva Convention can be likened to having a referee in a streetfight. The .50 was pretty adept when it came to ending streetfights.

Trucks (or tanks) in a column are given vehicle numbers. It goes like this: The first number is always your platoon designator. For example, if you are in first platoon, the first number is “1”. The second number designates the vehicle commander’s position in the platoon. 1 is the platoon leader (a lieutenant), and 4 is the platoon sergeant. 2 and 3 are the 2^nd in charge of the alpha and bravo sections. In a normal lineup, the vehicles travel with the 2 in front, the 1 and 4 in the middle, and the 3 in the back. I was in second platoon on the 2 vehicle, thus we were called “22”. In military lingo we don’t say “twenty-two”, just “two-two”.  Confusing, I know. Such is the Army, and its endless acronyms and etymology.

We were first. Suffice to say, that didn’t always mean we were going to be the ones that got hit. As I mentioned before, we were always in proximity with either the Iraqi Police or the Iraqi Army. Sometimes in direct “joint patrols” with their entities. They were astoundingly lazy and weak-willed, and had a very thinly veiled hatred for the US forces. The feeling was mutual. These patrols and training sessions, though, were nothing more than a reconnaissance mission for future attacks when our “friends” too their uniforms off (or left them on). This allowed them to know where the command elements in patrols were, and they usually hit the right one. They knew that the platoon leader and platoon sergeant were almost never in the lead vehicle, so if they controlled the attacks, they would usually hit the middle of the column. I say “if”, because sometimes the explosions were triggered by crude pressure triggers, and would explode under whomever drove over it. Right now in this moment, though, I didn’t know that yet. I was so hyper-aware of everything going on around me that I flailed and shuffled my turret back and forth, scanning and aiming at every scowling face on the street. I scrutinized every piece of debris on the road; every shred of paper or trash. In Iraq, that’s a lot of scrutinizing. The smell was stifling. I tied a bandana around my face, partly to keep from choking on the eternally swirling dust, and partly to try to stem the flow of that foul stench. I surmised that I was close to hell. In a few hours, I would feel its fire.