Dust and Stars
An Iraq War JournalBack to the War on Saddam Hussein Page
An extract fromBy Karl Zinsmeister
Final Assault
I got wind that the climactic raid of the 82nd Airborne's liberation of Samawah will take place starting around midnight tonight, and culminating in an infantry assault across the bridges spanning the Euphrates. The dense north side of the river--the stronghold of the guerillas who had poured withering fire onto the 325 during the first push to take the bridges a couple days earlier--will now be frontally attacked and occupied.
This time, the men will be immediately preceded over the bridges by Bradleys and other armored vehicles from the 41st Infantry Regiment, assigned to support the 82nd here. In addition, the 82nd's artillery, plus AC-130 gunships, will bombard the riverfront bunkers and buildings where many of the machine guns, mortars, and RPG firing positions are dug in. And Apache and Kiowa helicopters will be in the air with us, armed with missiles, rockets, and machine guns.
That is all any foot soldier could ever hope for. But the final responsibility for sweeping the streets and cleaning out the buildings--one room at a time--is going to fall on men working the old-fashioned way: with rifles, pistols, and knives.
Toy Soldiers
Just before any grassroots infantry assault takes place, U.S. army units always run what is called a "rock drill." This is a kind of low-tech war game, where enemy and friendly forces are laid out on the floor of a tent or building, along with symbols for landmarks, roads, and geographical features. Then company and platoon commanders walk through the battle plan, deciding the nitty gritty of who will attack which objective, from what direction, with what lines of fire, and so forth.
The "rock drill" name comes from the fact that these are traditionally staged using stones, sticks, sand--whatever the fighters can lay their hands upon at the battlefield. In our case, the 3-D scenario was set up in one room of the commandered Iraqi army barracks where we were squatting, using bricks, cardboard cut from boxes, fabric curtain strips to represent roads, and chunks of foam sliced off mattresses. Parachute cord tied to water bottles delineated the map grid lines that would show up on each platoon's GPS position locator. Critical buildings that needed to be seized were code-named for U.S. Presidents. Vital roads and alleys were given titles of different automobiles. Duct tape indicated the location of trenches through which the fedayeen would flow to the battle zone. In addition, a couple dozen blown-up aerial maps of the neighborhood were distributed to squad leaders--quite a short-order feat in these squalid surroundings, accomplished with portable generators and HP wide-format printers hooked to laptop computers holding various defense intelligence topo maps on their hard drives.
Time was tight. The stakes were high. At 17:00, a dozen or so mostly young commanders clustered around the floor map in a sweaty circle. The tone was hard, the language brutal, the pace racing.
It had been learned that Karim Hamdany, a member of Saddam Hussein's inner circle and a four-star uniformed general in the Republican Guard, had come down from Baghdad to organize the local resistance. Street intersections had been built up with fighting positions. Machine gun nests were dug in and sandbagged in many locations. RPGs and ammunition were stashed in scores of buildings across the northern neighborhoods.
Guerillas would be secreted among innocent townspeople, whom they would use for cover. "This town is about to turn," explained the operations officer. "Lots of people are excited. We've got friendly locals waving at and approaching our patrols now. But this actually causes problems, because the irregulars mix in with them to get close, then drop a grenade or an RPG onto a humvee. This is a dangerous phase. We've got PsyOp teams broadcasting on the streets now, telling people that the coalition forces are conducting risky operations and that they need to stay in their homes to be safe. We'll keep putting out that message, and for now anyone who approaches you has to be considered a potential enemy. Be on guard at all times."
Hotspots, choke points, and problem buildings are identified. Decisions are made on which squads should attack each. Snipers are assigned positions on high buildings. There is heavy emphasis on the rules of engagement, on fields of fire and physical operational limits, all of which are carefully calibrated to avoid fratricide or collateral civilian damage.
The infantry will move in open stake trucks starting around 22:30 tonight. The vehicles will drive under blackout conditions to a location a few kilometers from the attack zone. Troopers will then dismount and silently walk the remaining distance using their night vision goggles. Just before dawn there will be a 300 meter sprint across a metal bridge, with the assault to begin immediately upon reaching the north bank of the Euphrates River.
2nd Battalion's Charlie Company will spearhead the fight. Alpha and Bravo Company will work on the right and left flanks. And the Delta Company troopers in humvees with Mark 19s and other heavy roof-mounted guns will provide cover and engage any heavy enemy weapons or "technicals" that pop up. ("Technical" is the military term for a civilian vehicle that has been modified into a mobile gun truck.) I'm going in with Charlie Company.
Building a Bonfire
After the rock drill, commanders go back to their companies and platoons and brief them on their assignments. The battle plan rapidly trickles down to each part of the fighting machine. Squads working with flashlights and headlamps hash out details and rehearse movements.
Then a yellow glow begins to build in a barracks courtyard. This is unusual. We have operated, necessarily, under strict light discipline during our whole time in Iraq, with either no night illumination allowed, or just red or green pinlights. The glow is fast becoming an orange-red roar, toward which we all instinctively begin to shift. As a captain pushes past me I hear him murmur, "Holy shit, I ask five privates to build me a campfire and this is what I get!"
A giant pyre now rages, fueled by several foam mattresses some enthusiastic young pyromaniacs have tossed into the flames. In a land of wood, this bonfire would be a terror. But Iraq is not a land of wood; it is a land of dust and sand and broken concrete.
Charlie Company is ordered to fall in. Painted red by firelight and ferocity, 120 men form in neat ranks. "At ease men. Gather around me," barks Captain Adam Carson. Carson has been company commander for one year and three months. He saw his first combat three days earlier. But he is prepared.
"You," he pauses for emphasis, "are all part of history. After that nasty firefight at the bridges two days ago, you have already seen more combat than any unit of the 82nd Airborne since the 1960s. Now we're going to finish that job.
"I need guys who can hit targets. I need guys who will do anything to protect their buddies. I need guys who are ready to kill.
"Unlike last time, we're going in tonight with some armor. And Apaches. And with Delta Company. I'm gonna be damn glad to have the Delta boys with us. We're gonna need them. But gun trucks stand out. They can get cornered on tight city streets. They're a juicy target for an RPG.
"If one of those trucks get hit, I want you to treat it like a damn downed helicopter. I want you to run to that vehicle and get everybody out. We're not leaving anybody behind, understand?
"And I want you to remember something. You are Americans. Americans don't shoot women and children. They don't kill soldiers who have surrendered. That what the assholes we're up against do. That's what we're fighting. We're gonna do things differently.
"But if your life is in danger, you shoot. And you shoot to kill."
A quiet burst of "hoo-ah"--the airborne cry of enthusiasm and seriousness--rises from the circle of men.
The commander ends by reading Psalm 144, with its tribute to those who battle against unrighteousness. "How's everyone feeling?"
Instantly, a roaring "HOO-AH" surges from 120 throats.
Crack Shot
After being dismissed, the soldiers wolf down some quick food and as much water as they can drink, then find a corner where they can stretch out in the dust for a couple hours of sleep. Most troopers remain amazingly loose. I ask one soldier if I can perch on a comfortable ledge next to him. "Roger," he answers. "It's a free country. Or at least it's fixing to be."
I eventually settle my backpack next to Sergeant Patrick Duhon, a proud Cajun from Abbeville, Louisiana and Sergeant Chad Meggison a radio operator from Waverly, Illinois. We're joined by Air Force Sergeant Donnavon Huss, one of about 40 forward air controllers assigned to accompany the various field commanders of the 82nd Airborne to call in air strikes from the F-15s, Tomcats, and myriad other aircraft circling invisibly overhead most of the day and night.
"Old Hollywood was in his element tonight, huh?" suggests Duhon, using Captain Carson's universal nickname. "Yeah, he did alright," the others agree quietly. This is a flinty trio, not easily impressed. They are veteran fighters with experience in Afghanistan, Bosnia, and many points in between.
Huss shows me the black laser illuminator he uses to guide bombs dropped from miles above the earth onto targets as precisely as a dentist puts in a filling. The size and shape of a common flashlight, and powered by just four AA batteries, the laser can inscribe a brilliant spot on a building a mile away. The light is of a frequency invisible to humans not wearing NODs, but the pointer will blind anyone it hits in the eyes, so we scan the horizon carefully with his goggles before he lets me play at marking a distant water tower with the device.
The banter among the sergeants turns to an amazing shot made a day or two earlier by a sniper with the 2nd Battalion, Specialist Stewart. The group had been tasked to seize the Samawah water treatment plant. While perched on a high tower on a nearly moonless night, Stewart scoped, all the way across the city, the silhouette of a man with an RPG strapped to his back. The man was moving on the roof of a building, and visible only in flickering outline. Using a .50 caliber rifle in the seated position, Stewart lined up his shot. Duhon, Meggison, and Huss watched him squeeze the trigger.
Even with the high muzzle velocity of the .50 cal., it took more than two full seconds after the gun fired before the bullet arrived at its target. Suddenly, the guerilla slumped and rolled off his building. Stunned, the Sergeants checked the grid locations. A 1,440 meter rifle shot--a colossal achievement that got Stewart written up the next day for a medal nomination.
"Man, you might as well call that a one-mile plug," suggested one of the men.
"Until that moment, the most amazing shot I ever saw was one taken by my daddy. We live in a rural area, all surrounded by fields, and my dad looked out a bathroom window and saw a coyote trotting up a hillside. He let out a holler and ran for his Browning. I followed him out into the yard. Almost immediately the coyote got wind of us and started to hauling. That coyote was at a dead run when dad let fly. Lord, that dog flipped in the air three times before he landed. We walked it off: 500 paces. My dad can shoot."
Phantasm
Soon, men have settled themselves quietly on the ground in a handful of pods. Only the radio operators and a few others are still finetuning their equipment. For most, weapons have long since been cleaned and loaded, magazines stacked, canteens filled. Several soldiers are privately writing things by pinlight. I think I know what. Heavy breaths and scattered snoring mark the lucky men.
The early night soon grows phantasmagoric. In the dark overhead, a sonic catalogue of various aircraft noises rapidly builds. A few miles off, bombs begin to pop, and missiles whir. The light show reaches a peak when the 105 millimeter cannon of an AC-130--a kind of tank, Bradley, and gun truck all in one flying package--begins to rip.
In a circle all around our camp, the infernal hounds of Iraq begin their horrible yipping, choking, yowling barks. Some squeal as if caught in the jaws of some other dog; perhaps they are. The wheezing and gas-passing of the men increases. Some of the dreamers are ejaculating names and bizarre fragments of phrases in their disturbed somnolence.
The burning foam mattresses, which seemed such a bold stroke a couple hours ago, are now just a source of reeking stink. "That smell is gonna kill me," someone mutters. Now the artillery, very nearby, follows the Air Force into explosive action. The dog howling crescendos. I find myself fantasizing that Sergeant Huss has called in an airstrike to silence their aggressive mawing. A B-52 carpet-bombing to restore the audial peace.
Then everything outside the city goes quiet. In the fresh silence I begin to detect a new sound: the clanking creak of tank treads. The armored vehicles of the 41st are now moving into the lair of the Samawah guerillas. These are gentler, more distant sounds. But they do not relent.
The hours crawl. Finally, hands are shaking men awake.
E-mail: tae@aei.org
