RecCenter.com

It isn't as if these things were built for comfort. Amphibious Assault Vehicles are designed for function, not fashion, and when the on-going joke about how many grunts can fit into an AAV punch-line is always "one more" … you can just imagine how crowded they get. A 37 ton armored transport outfitted with a fifty-caliber machine gun and a 40-millimeter grenade launcher mounted to the turret is quite a sight. To witness this beast barreling through the desert like a giant Rottweiler headed into the heat of hell is a thing of terror and awe. These vessels are capable of traveling upwards of 55 mph fully loaded with crew, gear, ammo and 110 extra gallons of fuel in two brown 55 gallon drums affixed to the steel plated roof. The deep horror noise of 45 bored out diesel engines growling collectively like a pack of wolves- coats the darkness with pervasive fear. Beset to do good in the guise of evil, the sight and sounds of the first battalion of the fifth marine regiment tearing through the dense desert flatlands is comparable to apocalyptic thunder storms, maybe the ferocious roar of god, or the devil. This was just the situation I found myself in this late, hot night in March 2003. I was being thrown around the back of one of these vehicles along with 23 others in the midst of explosions, gun fire and an air of the unknown. Locked in a terrifying experience, no windows and no idea of what is going on the outside and our only inkling of the happenings are the eruptions of radio transmissions from a loud-speaker squawk box, a piece communication equipment that resembles a 1970s era walkie-talkie, that is strapped to the wall. The herk-and-jerk motions of quick acceleration and sudden stops are discombobulating and the menacing rat-a-tat-tat of the fifty caliber machine gun is a constant source of fear. I am surrounded by noise and yelling, and combined with every breath, fear. "What the fuck is going on out there"-a faceless, high pitched voice squeals over the noise of the engine, radio and gunfire. "Sounds like world war three," another anonymous Marine answers with enthusiastic yip. As we came to a halt there was a series of transmissions over the box: "Hog three, Hog 3 three, this is 6 link up with Hog 2 on the flanks." ('Hog' is the call sign for the AAV crew leader, each vehicle was given a specific number and all vehicles were broken into teams of 3 AAVs, making up squads, 3 squads making up a platoon of nine AAVs.) "Roger six, three is in position." A barrage of gunfire bursts cut through the transmission and havoc is unleashed again as we blast forward throwing a young Marine directly on top of me, the butt of his rifle inadvertently striking me in the chin. In a daze I push the young man off of me and put my hand to my face (which was half metal already due to an unexplained bar fight in Mexico,) and as my fingers touch the sticky viscous of blood the pain begins to seer through my head. Moments later through the sporadic fire, an AAV crew member was screaming over the radio that his grenade was jammed- "The breech is jammed, the fuckin' breech is jammed…" A booming voice cut through all the gunfire, and spit-crackle-fuzz of radio traffic and saying- "Break, break-break…" the radio command to take precedence over any transmission already on the net, " … alright, everyone calm down," the voice had the pattern of authority and confidence. "We are all professionals here, and we know what we are doing-"- At that moment in an instant of irony a resounding clank and 'faloooomp' noise as the Mark 19 breech is slammed shut and the round being sent soaring out into the night unintentionally cut the authoritarian short. A 40 millimeter concussion rocked our track slightly. "What the hell was that?" reply a terse bark-and a damn good question over the radio. "Yeah, we’re all professionals here, professional assholes," I thought aloud. "Hey Sergeant, what was that?" some young Marine sitting close to me asked. I didn't have the heart to lie, but what was I going to say. Sorry kid, you're probably going to die. These "professionals" we are surrounded by are incompetent, just like you and someone's mistake is gonna get you sent home in a box. "Nothing kid, nothing." He can’t see me shaking my head or the unavoidable inconsistent resolve in my eyes. "Did we just get hit?" Somebody said from the corner opposite me. "Oh fuck, we just got hit," a ripple of assumptions grew to an orchestra of complaining and frightful voices in this tight, hot, scary box of death we rode in –how fucked could this get I thought, and already I couldn't wait for this night to be over with. I was already starting to replay the dumb mistakes we had witnessed in the mere 5 hours this war had lasted thus far. We had already seized objective one-and the mission was considered a success, however far from being executed in a swift manner. Objective one was reminiscent of part three stooges part keystone cops and one part a lame episode of M.A.S.H. Being attached to this platoon on these missions was bad enough, being a sniper was dangerous enough. Hell, being alive is dangerous enough. Now I found myself surrounded by people that seemed hell-bent on screwing things up and risking the forty U.S Marines in their care, the team and me included. The crash course of action that had been set to take place was to go like this: After crossing the LOD (line of departure) the element that I happened to be attached to was headed to a rock formation that supposedly holds a squad (12) enemy combatants. Upon arriving at the rocks we were to dismount in the dark and sweep through the area, securing this tactically significant set of rocks, remount in the AAVs and move onto the Gas Oil Separation Plants at the Romalyn oil fields. The significance of the GOSPS was essential to any subsequent missions and was our first foothold in the largest sand box I had ever seen. When the oil came from the ground, the GOSPs were the first stop to separate usable fuels. These facilities were imperative to the mission, because whoever controlled these plants would have a heavy hand in the reestablishment of the country once Saddam Hussein was ousted. At least that's what they told us. With every mission there had been an estimated amount of confusion, but nothing to drastic ... Nothing like this. This resembled more of a training mission that was poorly organized and insufficiently implemented. But it wasn't, this was the real thing … I was pretty sure that after the debacle at the rock formation (objective one) that the powers that be we going to get me and mine friends killed. At objective one we had all dismounted the vehicles; my team and I hang back and let the platoon we were riding with take the lead. Immediately they walked into a series of barbed and razor wire getting caught up and tumbling over one another. There was no gunfire, no enemy at this location, but the Marines were allowed to exercise their abilities to make an exceptional amount of noise and become greatly confused in the dark. There is an understandable amount of confusion and miscommunication in the dark, donning our night vision goggles we hung back and watched this rabble of Marines in a hue of incandescent green fumbling and stumbling over each other. As my team made little jokes at this despicable display, a few Marines began to argue and almost got into fist-fights in the middle of the assault. "Combat, huh? This seems to be a poor display of how Uncle Sam wasted time and money on these jerks," one of the guys said from just over my shoulder. "Man these guys are gonna get us killed," came a muffled voice from my other side. I realized how unsure the team was of our safety in our present assignment. These attachment special designated missions were important, but, how do we keep out of the melee that seemed to follow this other platoon around. I said something about watching each others backs, and we all got up and double-timed it back to the AAV just as the grunts were done mounting up. I assumed my seat in the very last spot and we moved on. I had just begun to hope that objective one would be the worst of the confusion, until the misfired grenade incident in the AAV, after that I just gave up and assumed the worst was going to happen, but still hoped I could make the best prevail. Hours elapsed since objective one and the now notorious grenade discharge. Bobbing back and forth in the rear of the AAV some Marines would doze off for a few moments, but most were sitting eyes wide staring around. I was busy checking my communications headsets, and trying to figure out how far we were until the next stop. Objective two was the GOSPs, and according to intelligence it was going to be heavily guarded. We were going to be dropped off at the southeastern corner. The AAVs were to pull up in a defensive, open all exhausts to blow out enough smoke to cover our four man movement up the burm that surrounds the four separate GOSPs. Once we reached the top, we were to blow a hole in the perimeter fence using a makeshift breach and a M57 time fuse detonator I have hanging from my flak jacket. Moving in two man bounding positions, we were to eliminate any targets on the way and travel all the way to the northern point of the burm. Once there, we would set two positions, one on the north east corner, and one on the northwest. From that point we were to cover the movement of a company plus of marines as they cleared and secured the GOSPs. In total a 2 square mile facility, with building, structures, trees and enemies. While I am checking my gear, going over the plan in my head and trying not to jostle around the explosive detonated I have strapped to my flak-jacket the track comes to a hulking stop and I hear "Seminole drop point" (Seminole was Call sign for Scout Sniper Team)over my headset. Waiting a few moments for the AAV exhaust to create a smoke screen, we all look at one another with a tense unspoken understanding that what we are stepping out into is a hostile zone. With a hard turn on the latch of the individual troop hatch in the back left corner of the AAV loading ramp it falls open to a greenish gray of smoke, sand and uncertainty. The four of us immediately set in or circular defense. With a few quick glances around, we realize that we are nowhere near the southeastern corner, not even the southwestern corner, we are at the center of the western wall looking straight up a sandy burm that is way too steep to get up quickly or covertly. "Fucking idiots dropped in the wrong position …" someone said. "Ya think," I responded as the smoke began to dissipate. We had gone from being inside a serious piece of military weaponry- to- in only a few short moments, four guys in a very vulnerable situation. "Let's go," I said and we began a hard strut back toward the AAV that was quickly moving away from us. "Hog 3 this is Echo Five Sierra," running in the sand with so much gear was quickly taking its toll and the AAVs were getting further and further away. "Say again your last," the request for a repeat was like music in my headset, and I quickly explained in stride what had happened. At my behest the vehicle slowed to a crawl as we approached and the little hatch dropped back open and the four of us got back in. "What the fuck are you doing?" one of the inside Marines asked over the engine. Normally I would've ignored such a phrased question, but in our present state of fatigue I managed to get out something about being off our mark. I then got on the radio and conveyed to higher authorities the change in the plan, and awaited the next string of orders. The next objective was a mere 700 meters away so when higher sent word that we were to support the main effort I was not surprised. With a nod the team dropped all non mission essential gear where they were half-bent, half laying on top of these Marines and we prepared to do it on the fly. One more sudden halt, and the words "Seminole drop" and we were back outside in the fray. Moving quickly through and clearing a shed type structure we established our first position from a small heap of sand. I kneel on back of my shooter and send in the radio message that we are in position to the west. I watch as the other two team members kick sand up with the pitter-patter of a quick sprint to set in an elevated and mutually supporting position a few hundred meters to our right. As the AAVs move forward I notice a group of 4 men off to the west with small arms weapons. I point them to my shooter; send word to our other two. Once I transmit the appropriate radio message to command we commence firing. As the sand spits up from the impact of the rounds the targets become frantic, as I watch these men tumble over from our gunshots a sense of surrealistic shock takes effect, but the adrenaline is flowing and after the enemies are dead the AAVs move into dismount positions and we pick up and begin our second mad dash to find a new position covering the Marines. A swarm of tan and brown bodies spill out the back of these giant machines, they get into long horizontal line across mounds of sand and rubble. A few begin to fire to the front, even though they have no targets, the adrenaline becomes too much for some of these young men and almost instantly the entire collection of men are laying down a wall of lead into the open morning desert. This sight of hundreds of Marines firing simultaneously is an awe inspiring dance of bullets impacting into the desert floor. In the heat of this moment as I surveyed the western approach across the front of these gun toting Middle Eastern cowboys, silence pervades my senses and all I hear is the slow breath and dull thumping rhythm of my heart. As we move in quick galloping steps to a new position I spot a much larger group of men moving behind a series of sandy hills about 1400 meters off in the distance. I send this information across the net as we set into our final position. The objective limit is a long road that stretches directly in front of us; into the eastern distance it wraps around where I had just seen those people go. I crouch down in our position, "Be advised Alpha six the group retreating to the east will be intersecting that road, how copy?" "Solid copy, keep this net clear…" a curt and unnecessarily disqualifying order comes in reply- telling me to be quiet on that particular channel. I let my eyes drift across the horizon as a noise explodes like a high pitched whistle as a motorcycle screams out in front of us out of nowhere. CRACK- a single shot and I watch the man get lifted from his seat as the motorbike spin off the road and he lands flat on his back. A few spasms followed by a choking hack and the man, who I now see is very young lay still. His lifeless form wasn't more then 25 feet from me and I could almost see his soul sneak out of his mouth and soft shadow rising in the crisp morning air. The entire objective had lasted only twenty minutes when we heard the order to load up on the AAVs. It seems too soon I said aloud. All the Marines moved at once en masse moving toward the vehicles. Hanging back I heard my other two teammates in a muffled radio transmission, looking that way I saw them pointing down the road. I saw the trucks just as I heard a jumbled: "Enem …" CRACKLE … "eeen …" YEENUZZ … "ight." With so much traffic on the radio they sent it over our inner transmission at the same moment, so I was sure I heard something that most had missed. "CONTACT FRONT!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. This is a command that every Marine knows from boot camp, it means that an enemy is in imminent range. I immediately begin firing at the two pick up trucks with men in the truck beds firing Ak47s in our direction. The Marines adjust their movement and assume firing positions. The fire cascades through the company in a flurry of aggression. Both trucks were utterly decimated in seconds as the men leapt from the beds and cabs in a last ditch effort to escape alive. A squad of Marines advances on the position in an eerie silence followed by bursts of shots and an all clear call. As the action took more of a cinematic feel I notice something terrible in stop-freeze frame movements. A Marine clutches his side and falls to a knee in a strange motion. Forgetting all my responsibilities to my team I break out in a sprint toward the fallen man screaming "Corpsman" for the Naval Medic assigned to this particular platoon. Every corpsman is lovingly referred to as "Doc". Arriving to the wounded man at the same time I immediately ripped the man's gear open and saw the oozing red stain spread across hiss side, torso and down his leg. Cutting through his desert camouflage trousers, the blood spurts out hitting me in the arm and my hands instinctively go to the wound applying pressure. The man yelps in pain and lurches up, but I apply a strong arm onto his chest holding him down. I look at the Doc. As the corpsman takes charge of the situation I grab the man's hand and for the first time realize he is the officer in charge of the platoon I am attached to. He is pleading with as his gaze; his young, angular face is quickly becoming more and more ghostly white. A stretcher is brought and I help lift him onto it, still holding his hand. He is looking up at me, not knowing me and professing his desire to live. I tell him he will be fine as the Doc is saying into the radio it is a femoral artery wound and he classifies the injured as "urgent". I look down into his pale face and brush the sand from his forehead telling him it is going to be all right, the chopper is inbound. He is squeezing my hand and praying to god. As the chopper lands we move him onto it. I don't mention that his stare was vacant and he is no longer squeezing my hand. Doc slaps me on the back as we run back to our individual positions. "Thanks Sergeant," he says with sincerity. As I grab my gear I hear the order to load up so we turn and head back toward the AAV.