Armored Cavalry
The wind of change blows straight,
Into the face of time,
Like a stormwind that will ring,
The freedom bell for peace of mind.
- Scorpions, Gorki Park
1730 hours, 26 February 1991
I stood on the back of my tank commander's seat and raised a pair of dented, green binoculars to my eyes. Scanning the horizon, I saw the same thing I had been looking at for the past five months -- endless desert. No trees, no bushes and, most important, no Iraqis. I pushed forward the radio switch on the right side of my combat vehicle crew helmet and talked to my second-in-command, located in the radio track about 3 kilometers behind me. "Black Five this is Black Six...tell our superiors that Area CLAW is free of enemy. We're moving forward to secure it." "Roger, Six," came back the voice of Lieutenant Aaron McClain, my executive officer. I had complete confidence that he would get the message to all concerned parties.
"Red and Blue," I called to my two scout platoon leaders, "standard box assembly area, center of mass grid 070620." Both platoon leaders acknowledged my transmission and launched their vehicles forward to establish the northern perimeter for our squadron's (parent unit) assembly area. My "White" and "Green" tank platoons followed wordlessly behind them, they knew the drill by heart.
I hoisted myself up onto my commander's hatch and reflected on the past few days. It was 5:30 p.m. on February 26, 1991. We had been pushing north into Iraq for the past two days, leaving Saudi Arabia and the Neutral Zone over 200 kilometers behind us. We had bypassed Kuwait entirely and, to use the words of my operations sergeant, "driven a very sharp stick right up Saddam Hussein's ass." We were the 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment from Fort Bliss, Texas. More specifically, the 3rd Squadron of that regiment. Comprised of about 150 combat vehicles and over 1,000 men, it was the most lethal armored force in existence.
I had the privilege of commanding I Troop within this squadron, or the "Nighthawks" as we called ourselves. The Nighthawks consisted of 155 soldiers, nine M1A1 Abrams tanks, twelve M3A2 Bradley Cavalry Fighting Vehicles, two self-propelled 4.2 inch mortars and all the support vehicles needed to keep them going. The Nighthawks had also led virtually every squadron operation since we landed at the port of Dhahran in September 1990. I pushed my goggles up onto my forehead and tried to wipe the grime from my eyes, succeeding only in adding another layer.
"How much fuel we got left, Milk?" I asked my driver.
Specialist Gerald Laudermilk replied, "About a quarter tank. We staying here tonight Paw?" Milk closely resembled Hoss from Bonanza. When I mentioned this, he took to calling me Paw in retaliation.
"Beats the hell out of me," I replied. "Don't count on it." "You've got the tank Mike," I told my gunner and hoisted myself out of the cupola.
As I vaulted off the tank, my knee painfully reminded me that the past eight years of doing that would surely make me a cripple. At age twenty-nine, I was practically a grandfather in the realm of armored warfare.
An M106 mortar carrier skidded across the crusty brown sand in front of me, kicking up a two-story cloud of dust. Dirty, leering faces peered out of the top from behind their M16 rifles and tinted goggles. The words "Tube Snake Boogie" and an obscene caricature were emblazoned on the side of the track.
"What's for chow?" queried a gargantuan infantryman from the top of the vehicle. Staff Sergeant John Kennedy commanded this mortar squad, all 280 pounds of him.
"Is that all you ever think about?" I asked.
"Lucky for you that I do boss," came the reply, along with a tin of T-Ration soyburgers sailing towards me.
"Much obliged Super K." I tossed the tin over to my tank crew, knowing that I would probably never see it again.
Approaching the radio track, I was greeted by the sight of a slight individual in a flak vest shouting "I don't give a shit if we're only here for two minutes! Put up that damn antenna before I kick your ass!" Sergeant Charles Eubank, the operations sergeant, always got his point across in record time.
"What's the word Eubie?"
"Hey Sir, what a cluster fuck coming up here, huh? Where were all those Iraqi infantry brigades the staff weenies told us about? All I saw was an old dog and a shot down fighter. There ain't been anybody out here since the Babylonians."
"Their intelligence estimates were a bit off weren't they?"
"About as off as my sex life."
"Where's the XO?"
"He's raising hell with the platoons, making sure they refuel and clean out their filters."
"Guidons, Guidons, this is Thunder X-Ray," squawked the radio. "All commanders report to this location ASAP. Acknowledge."
"Nighthawk, roger," replied Eubie. Then to me, "Have a pleasant meeting, Sir."
"Screw you, Eubie."
"Tembrock, get your ass over here and drive the CO to his meeting!"
My driver, Private First Class James Tembrock, had saved my sanity throughout this wonderful sojourn in the Middle East. This twenty year old Californian had a sense of humor that would make Darth Vader double over with laughter. Despite the danger, he had insisted on remaining forward with his canvas covered Humvee rather than joining the combat trains at the rear of the squadron. I had picked Tembrock as my driver because he was quick on his feet and an independent operator. After several months in the Arabian desert, I found that I had gained a good friend as well.
A New Mission
1800 hours, 26 February 1991
The soldiers I saw on my way to the headquarters wore a hodgepodge of uniforms. Some were desert camouflage, others were night camouflage, here and there was a forest green camouflage, and the ever present sprinkling of Nomex fire retardant coveralls. Our wonderful laundry service had "lost" over half the uniforms we sent out for cleaning. Some soldiers did not have even one complete uniform remaining. To the great displeasure of the colonels and generals, they wore mixtures of forest green and desert colored uniforms. I myself wore half desert and half Nomex. It amazed me that an Army backed by such industrial might had trouble clothing its soldiers.
The squadron TOC (Tactical Operations Center) was a maelstrom of activity. Half of the staff were erecting shelters, while the other half were tearing down those already put up.
"I wonder what the Stick Man wants today," quipped Tembrock, referring to our squadron commander's dynamic physique.
"You'd better not let him hear you say that, or it will be Private Tembrock."
"If I say it twice, will he bust me to civilian and send me home?"
"I'll be first in line if that's the case."
I entered the TOC's canvas extension, dodging the onslaught of couriers and staff officers. Some of my fellow troop commanders were already present.
"Hi Bo, glad you could make it." The squadron commander's beanpole figure jutted out of the shadows. A smirk momentarily flitted across my face as I remembered Tembrock's comment.
"Wouldn't have missed this for the world, Sir," I replied.
Lieutenant Colonel John H. Daly Jr. was the scion of a five generation West Point aristocracy. His legacy ran from his father, a general officer, to his great-great-grandfather, a Civil War major general and Medal of Honor winner. All of his uncles were West Point graduates and all of his aunts had married West Point graduates. As icing on the cake, he had married the daughter of General Creighton Abrams, the World War II hero after whom the Abrams tank had been named. Two of his brothers-in-law were generals. The general consensus throughout the squadron was that Daly held his position because of who he knew, not what he knew. At Daly's side was Major William Martin, the squadron operations officer and driving intellect behind the unit.
"Hey buddy," said a quiet voice and a hand clapped me on the shoulder. Captain Rick Cortes, the K Troop commander, slid into place next to me. Cortes was nothing short of a superb troop commander. His unit was 100 percent reliable.
"How was the ride, Rico?"
"Pure bullshit," he chuckled.
"See anything?"
"Yeah, about ten thousand square miles of sand. Looks like the intelligence boys were completely off the mark again. I didn't see a single one of those Russian anti-tank guns they were screaming about."
"Your attention please, gentlemen" said Major Martin as the last troop commander entered the extension. "We are in receipt of orders to assault an airfield located approximately 60 kilometers to our east. This is a total change to our previous plan and we unfortunately cannot issue you any graphic control measures due to time constraints. We will give you a series of checkpoints instead. In short, we will make a 90 degree turn to the east instead of proceeding north to the Euphrates River." Martin's pointer flew over the map board, punctuating each statement he made.
"Right Bill," interrupted Colonel Daly, inserting himself in front of the map. Martin rolled his eyes skyward and surrendered the pointer. "This is the real thing guys," continued Daly. "I have reliable information that there is a battalion of Iraqi Republican Guards at this airfield. They are dug in and protected by minefields, so this won't be a cakewalk. Expect very stiff resistance. We will use the diamond assault formation for our attack." An exasperated groan escaped from the rear of the extension. Not the infamous diamond again. Daly ignored it and went on. "Tank company will take the point, K Troop on the left, I Troop on the right and L Troop in the rear. Our attached artillery battalion will fire an 8 minute, 288 round prep on the objective. After we cross the 37 north-south grid line, we will be in enemy territory. Everything to our front will be hostile from that point on. We will turn and hit the airfield from the north seven kilometers later." Daly's pointer slapped the map at an arbitrary spot. Martin quickly adjusted it to the proper location. "Any questions?"
"Hooo-ah, Sir," shouted the L Troop Commander, "we're finally going to kill something!"
"If you're so ready to kill" countered Cortes, "why don't you get your ass up front and I'll guard the rear for awhile?"
Muffled guffaws erupted from within the extension and radio tracks. The other captain's face colored with embarrassment. His lips twitched, but he refrained from entering a verbal battle that he had already lost.
"If there are no more questions, we will begin moving at 2000 hours," concluded Martin.
I glanced at my watch. It was already 1915 hours and it would take me another 15 minutes to get back to my troop. I stepped behind the map board and climbed into the S-2 (Intelligence Section) track.
"Hi Paul, mind if I borrow your radio for a minute?"
Captain Paul Hovey was the squadron intelligence officer. An ex-Marine and former tank commander himself, he knew the importance of accurate information on the battlefield. Unfortunately, he was alone in this regard and fought a never ending battle with the regimental intelligence officers and their make-believe enemies.
"Help yourself Bo," he said, his bloodshot eyes peering over a mass of charts and maps. "Want a soda?"
"Damn straight, thanks."
He tossed me a red, white and blue can that had an Arabic squiggle where the word "Pepsi" should have been. I switched the radio to my troop frequency and grabbed the microphone.
"Black Five, this is Black Six."
"Five here."
"Go green."
The radio beeped as we both turned on our speech scramblers.
"Five here," repeated McClain.
"Warning order. Mission: assault airfield vicinity grid PU447520. Expect heavy resistance from enemy infantry battalion. Departure time 2000 hours. Diamond formation, Nighthawks at 3 o'clock position ..." I sped through the rest of the order. "How's the re-fueling going?"
"Three tanks to go."
"You take care of that Aaron, have Blue Leader form up the troop."
"Roger, I'll inform him."
"I monitored the transmission," interjected Blue Leader, Lieutenant Jon Negin.
"Roger," I replied, "any questions?"
Both replied negative.
"I'll see you in half an hour then. Black Six out."
"Does Negin run the troop in your absence?" asked Hovey.
"Only the tactical part. Aaron has his hands full with the rest."
"Negin is a good kid. The best scout platoon leader we have in the squadron. I wish I could send him ahead to reconnoiter the field."
"Didn't regiment tell you what's there?"
"They just said a battalion of Iraqis, but they can't even tell me where their positions are or what they're equipped with."
"That's funny, we have total air superiority and an entire squadron of helicopters. What are they waiting for?"
Hovey shrugged his shoulders.
"Who ordered the attack?" I asked. "We're making a 90 degree turn from our original direction."
"Colonel Starr did."
"Thanks for the radio Paul, I'd better get going."
"Good luck Bo, keep your head down."
Flashback
1700 hours, 22 January 1991
Colonel Douglas H. Starr was the commander of the 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment. A West Point graduate and highly decorated Vietnam veteran, he was very charismatic and just as impetuous. The soldiers joked that his short stature had given him a "Napoleon complex" and it was universally known that he loved fast cars and fast women. Over a month earlier, on January 22, Starr had commandeered Negin's platoon as it patrolled several miles from the Iraqi border. He ordered them across the border to attack an Iraqi infantry position. Negin's Bradleys decimated the thirty Iraqis and their bunker complex. Negin's platoon suffered only minor casualties, despite the heavy action. Staff Sergeant Steve Ruch's Bradley sustained twelve hits from heavy caliber machine guns and light anti-tank weapons. The two scouts in the back of the vehicle were wounded by fragments of penetrating projectiles. Private First Class Kelly O'Con expertly drove the smoking track to safety, dodging hostile fire and saving the crew.
Ruch's wingman, Staff Sergeant Peter Baez became thoroughly enraged at the treatment of his partner. Jumping out of his vehicle with an M16, he charged the responsible enemy machine gun nest. His two scouts quickly joined him. Guns blazing, they terrified the Iraqi soldiers, who quickly threw down their weapons and raised their arms. Sergeant Bryan Hunt, the gunner on Baez's vehicle, sprayed a continuous stream of 25mm high explosive shells over Baez's head and into the remaining enemy positions. Hunt vividly recounted the spray of blood and flying limbs to me over a few beers a half year later.
Negin and his victorious scout platoon were instant heroes. They had fought the regiment's first battle since World War Two. The publicity shy lieutenant did not relish the attention and remained silent about the entire affair. A helicopter immediately snatched Colonel Starr from the scene and flew him to the corps headquarters, where it was rumored that General Schwartzkopf himself chewed him out for over an hour for blowing the entire Desert Storm operation. The appearance of six high-tech Bradleys three hundred miles west of where they should be had certainly tipped off Hussein that the main attack would bypass Kuwait entirely. Fortunately for Starr and the coalition, the Iraqis never made the connection. During the euphoria following the attack, one of the sergeants muttered "Stupid idiot almost got us all killed."
"Who's that?" I asked.
"Starr!" came the snarled, succinct reply.
Night March
Bang your head,
Metal health will drive you mad.
- Quiet Riot, Bang Your Head
1930 hours, 26 February 1991
I exited the TOC and ran into Cortes heading for his Humvee.
"How about that diamond formation?" he said with a poker face, but with amusement twinkling in his eyes. "I wish we could send a few scout platoons ahead to confirm what's at that airfield."
"You're reading my mind Rick. With all our heavy firepower up front, we'd better hit the enemy dead on."
"The diamond is Daly's baby. He's been dying to go down in the history books as the inventor of a new tactical maneuver."
"Remember, Martin invented the diamond."
"But you know who will take the credit if it works."
"Of course. Good luck out there Rick."
"You too buddy."
He climbed into his Humvee and sped off. I jumped into mine and saw Tembrock poring over a Playboy magazine with huge, gaping eyes.
"Sir, check out this gorgeous picture. Miss January is coming down and this is going up in her place."
I looked over his shoulder and saw a beer advertisement, complete with a plate of juicy steak. "I'd take that over Miss Jan right now too," I mused, spurred on by my rumbling stomach.
I hadn't eaten in 24 hours and I wondered when I would have a chance to do so. The static hiss of the radio announced that the Nighthawks were already on the move. My watch proclaimed that it was 1945 hours. Damn! There was never enough time.
"Hurry up and get us back to the troop Jim. Departure time is in 15 minutes."
The torrential downpour started at 2200 hours. Standing halfway out of my hatch, I was soaked to the bone within minutes, despite my wet weather gear. The high velocity winds forced water into every crevice of my clothing. Visions of the geographical briefing we had received at Fort Bliss floated wetly before me. I could have cheerfully choked the pencil-necked geek who righteously proclaimed that "it only rains about an inch every two years in the region you're going to." That chairborne idiot must have had a defective ruler. It had rained almost continuously for the past three days. Sometimes several inches of water covered the impenetrable desert floor. The moisture added a new dimension to the stench that already pervaded our bodies. The last showers had been weeks ago. Only heaven knew what manner of vermin infested our bodies now. The tank lurched to a stop and my ribs slammed into the rim of the hatch yet another time.
"Shit!" I groaned.
"Sorry 'bout that Paw," came Milk's voice over the intercom.
Tanks could stop on a dime. Human bodies were not as fortunate.
The two hour move to the new front line was through tortuous terrain. I continuously prayed that we would not roll any vehicles. I had prayed a lot over the past few days, for a variety of reasons. I checked the coordinates on my GPS (Global Positioning System). This small box picked up satellite transmissions and displayed your location to the nearest three feet on its tiny LCD screen. It could also tell you how fast you were going, what direction you were heading and how far it was to the next checkpoint. The GPS was a life saver, since we had very few maps and the flat terrain made it impossible to navigate by sight. A compass was totally useless on a tank. The armor plating made the needle spin in a circle. Our infantry generals had never quite grasped this dilemma and constantly berated us for not using them. My loader, Specialist Chris Hardman, tapped me on the shoulder. "Black Sabbath or the Scorpions," he proclaimed, holding a cassette in each black-gloved hand. I indicated the Scorpions and he placed it in the walkman. Music flowed out of our helmet headphones. Hardman had rigged the system so that any radio or intercom transmission would automatically cut off the music. Good old American ingenuity.
I motioned Hardman towards me and went over the checkpoints with him. Chris looked, talked and acted like Bart Simpson, so that's what we called him. His "rad" California attitude belied an intelligent mind and swift comprehension rate. Bart was responsible for navigating the tank when I became embroiled in tactical operations. He was thoroughly familiar with the GPS and armored tactical principles. In a pinch, he could even relay my commands to the troop for a few minutes while I was otherwise occupied. Bart nodded his head at each checkpoint and then slipped the night vision goggles over his face.
"How far can you see Bart?"
"Barely fifty meters. Too many clouds."
The weather briefing had indicated 96 percent illumination from the moon tonight. Too bad the meteorologist didn't take mother nature's clouds into account.
"Just keep us from running into another tank or a ravine," I urged him.
"For sure, Sir."
"How are the thermals?" I asked my gunner, Sergeant Mike Harrison. Harrison gazed up at me from the bowels of the steel behemoth and raised up a thumb. Pictures of Miss February, Christy Thom, glowed softly in the green light around his station. She had become the tank's mascot over the past few weeks. Harrison was the antithesis to Milk and Bart. We all joked that he wouldn't crack a smile even if he was getting laid. He was also the best damn gunner in the troop. He could cut a broom stick in half at 1000 meters with the 120mm cannon. His stoic manner kept the effusive loader and driver in check, ensuring that the vehicle was always combat ready. This was Harrison's tank. I just rode on it.
I dropped down into the tank and squinted into the sight extension. Varying shades of green thermal images swam into sharp focus before me. The thermal sight constructed a picture based on the different temperatures of objects. It needed no light whatsoever to function. The only problem was that it possessed almost no depth perception or color differentiation. People and vehicles glowed bright green and were highly visible from several miles away. I could see the tank company about 2,000 meters to my left front, its vehicles shooting rooster tails of heated mud fifteen feet into the air. I briefly scanned the control panel to make sure the gun safety was on. It was a needless measure. Harrison took care of it flawlessly.
The tank halted suddenly, punishing my forehead this time. As I rose out of the hatch, an inferno unleashed around me. A 155mm self-propelled artillery piece to our left belched fire into the pitch black eastern heavens. Others in the distance began shooting also. A quick glance at the GPS told me we were 2 kilometers from the front line. The tank company must be right on it. The howitzers continued to send death eastward for the next eight minutes. Almost three hundred 155mm high explosive shells hurtled towards the airfield. That was enough fire power to destroy an entire city block. I hoped it would take care of most of the Iraqi battalion. The silence that followed was deafening. The diamond began moving again.
Passage of Lines
2300 hours, 26 February 1991
The grim faces of the cavalrymen on the front line surfaced momentarily from the gloom as we slid past them into enemy territory. I reported crossing the line to my executive officer and he relayed the report to the squadron. I cursed the mental midget who had designed command tanks with only one transmitter. You could hear both the squadron and troop frequencies, but only talk on one of them. Army doctrine required that I remain on the troop frequency and control my unit, while the radio track communicated with the squadron. McClain and Eubank were very well trained in this mission and handled it perfectly. Daly had even told the entire squadron that I Troop had achieved the communications standard the other units should strive to meet. Still, I was uncomfortable being able to transmit on only one frequency. "Keep your weapons on safe and your eyes wide open," I transmitted to my troop. "Good luck, gents."
The tank company was drifting north. Daly and Martin exhorted them to get back on track, but they inexplicably continued to drift. The rest of the squadron was tied in to them so we also drifted. As we neared the airfield, my troop was about even with where the center of the squadron should have been. I strained my eyes, but saw only murky darkness. Bart and Harrison could do no better with their goggles and thermals. "I've got a tower and fence to my right!" hissed the radio. Lieutenant Mel Wilson, my "Red" Scout Platoon Leader, had spotted the airfield! I closed my hatch over me and directed Bart to do the same. Peering out of the "protected open" slit that remained, I took the Beretta out of my shoulder holster, pulled back the charging handle and slid the gun back into place. It was 0100 hours.
Assault on Umm Hajul
0100 hours, 27 February 1991
I had McClain request permission from Daly to enter the field. Granted! I directed Lieutenant John Drake to take his "White" Tank Platoon in. Sparks flew as Drake's tanks smashed through the perimeter fence, entering the airfield from the north. Still no sign of enemy movement. They must be in fox holes. The Republican Guards were not amateurs. They were surely aware of how to hide from our thermals. Wilson's platoon followed "White" through the gaping holes in the fence. "Red and White, secure the tower and hangars," I ordered as I entered the field myself. The two platoons swung west and surrounded the buildings. The scouts began methodically clearing them.
"Milk, face the tank east so we can cover the exposed flank until the other two platoons get here."
"Roger."
The tank pivoted left ninety degrees.
"I see dismounts ... 1,200 meters," said Harrison over the intercom.
"How many?"
"Two...no, three. Moving away from us."
I dropped down to my sight extension and saw three tiny green figures glowing brightly. The laser range finder flashed from 1220 to 1230. They were indeed moving away from us.
"Black Five, this is Black Six. Spotted three dismounts moving southeast at grid 445505. Maintaining contact. Relay that higher and request guidance."
"Roger six," said Eubie's voice answering for McClain, "don't even think about going after them until you get some backup."
"Roger. Blue, get a section up here ASAP."
"Bravo Section is on the way," replied Negin.
Ruch and Baez were enroute to join me.
"Black Six, this is Red One," said Wilson several minutes later. "No sign of enemy in the hangars or tower."
"Roger. Assume defensive positions and secure all the buildings. White, back him up."
Both platoon leaders confirmed my orders.
"Nighthawk Six, this is Thunder Six," squawked Daly's voice, "switch to my frequency immediately."
"Black Five, kindly inform Thunder Six that if I drop off my troop frequency, I will lose control of my unit. Please remind him that this would not be a smart move right now."
Daly's calls became more insistent.
"Bart, switch to squadron freq."
The tank and Bravo Section continued to lumber forward.
"Thunder Six, this is Nighthawk Six."
"What's going on there?" said Daly.
I repeated what McClain had told him one minute earlier.
"OK, stay on my frequency."
"That's impossible. As you know, these vehicles have only one transmitter. I have a unit that I need to control."
"Well, think of something. Thunder Six out."
"Bart, switch back to troop freq... and start eating some transistors so we can shit another radio for the squadron commander."
"They've stopped," said Harrison.
Ruch confirmed this over the radio. "Looks like they're entering a building"
"Roger," I replied, "close to 200 meters and hold. Blue, status report."
"About 1,000 meters behind you," said Negin, "ETA 5 minutes."
The rest of "Blue" platoon would be here soon. That made me feel somewhat better. Bravo section halted and intently scanned their surroundings. Thank God for Ruch and Baez. At least there were two proven combat vets up front. They would not lose their heads. I cracked open the hatch and placed the GPS on top of the tank. Its built in antenna could not receive satellite transmissions through the tank's armor. There were external antennas in the regiment, but the staff officers in the rear had grabbed them all as symbols of prestige. The combat troops, who really needed them, had to fend for themselves. I looked into the thermals again and saw figures entering and exiting a square dwelling. They were so large at 10 power that they almost filled the sight. They were helmetless and did not appear to carry any weapons.
"Black Five, this is Black Six. Ask Thunder Six for permission to fire warning shots. I'd like to see if we can get these guys to surrender."
Daly replied to McClain's query. "This is Thunder Six...wait one." .... pause .... "This is Thunder Six, permission granted."
"OK Mike, point the coax 45 degrees left and fire into the air," I said, checking that direction to confirm there was nothing there.
"On the way," said Harrison.
The staccato of the coaxial machine gun ripped into the night, sending a glowing line of tracers through the sky. The enemy dropped to the ground and crawled to protected positions. Not a single one made any sign of wanting to surrender. Probably too scared at first. I'd give them another few minutes.
"They're shooting at us," stated a calm voice over the radio, in contrast to the tense situation.
"I see tracers over the Brads," confirmed Milk.
Harrison switched the sight to 3 power and I could see green dots arcing over Bravo Section.
"Bravo, this is Black Six. Return fire, suppression only. Black Five, report our situation to higher."
Twenty-five millimeter high explosive rounds began exploding against the side building. McClain's voice began to relay what had transpired over the squadron net. Daly immediately broke in and directed me to switch to the squadron frequency.
"Black five, please explain to Thunder Six why that is impossible. Tell him I can hear every word he is saying."
To Harrison, "Squeeze off twenty coax rounds Mike, don't kill anybody, just scare them."
To Bravo Section, "Cease fire Bravo, these guys aren't going anywhere."
Daly's powerful transmitter drowned out the rest of the transmissions as he continued calling for me to switch to his frequency.
"Bart, turn off the squadron net."
"With pleasure, Sir."
"Cease fire, cease fire, cease fire," I called out over the troop frequency. "All elements acknowledge. Anybody take any hits?"
The platoons checked in one by one, acknowledging the cease fire. Thankfully, nobody had been hit.
"Put all your weapons back on safe. These guys are probably scared to death. I want to give them a chance to surrender. Don't shoot unless they start using anti-tank weapons."
I faced Bart, "Turn on the squadron net again."
I prepared for another verbal joust with Colonel Daly.
Side Show
0110 hours, 27 February 1991
Sergeant First Class Bobby Martin perched on his seat under his "protected open" tank hatch. He was the platoon sergeant for the "Green" tank platoon. An avid biker with "Zig Zag Man" tattooed across his chest, Bobby was a hard core veteran of sixteen years on tanks. What few people knew, is that he had also been one of my tank commanders when I was a brand new lieutenant eight years earlier. The man was a bottomless pit of knowledge and experience. A loud crash rocked his tank, tossing him down into the gunner's position and tilting the vehicle at an awkward angle.
Temporarily dazed, Bobby focused his eyes and found himself looking up at his own seat. His gunner squirmed helplessly below him.
"What the fuck was that?!?"
No answer. He realized that his helmet had become disconnected. A piercing pain shot through his left knee as he pulled himself up again. He touched it and felt the warm, sticky ooze of blood. One of the pins from his numerous motorcycle accidents had become dislodged. He plugged in his helmet again.
"We get hit sarge?" asked his loader.
"I don't think so, nothing's burning and they'd have finished us off by now."
"I think we hit a mine or a ditch," said the driver.
"Put it in gear and see if you can get us out of here."
The tracks groaned horribly and the entire hull began to shudder.
"No way sarge," said the driver. "I think both the idler arms are crushed."
"Green Three, this is Green Four," called Martin to his wingman, Sergeant Rafael Fernandez. "Hold up. I've got to jump to your vehicle."
"Roger, we're holding," replied Fernandez.
Martin unholstered his Beretta and hauled himself out of his tank, struggling to keep from sliding down the canted armor and into the ditch. Greatly favoring his good leg, he limped towards Green Three. Fernandez reached down and helped pull Martin aboard.
"What happened to your leg?" he asked. "You want me to call a medic?"
"No. Damn pin from my bike accident came loose. I'll be OK. Which one of you is getting off?"
Fernandez indicated his gunner, Corporal Dan Sabia.
"This is bullshit!" countered Sabia. "You guys break it and I get to baby-sit it."
"Take good care of my tank Danny," said Martin. "Don't take too much of my stuff."
Martin was universally known for his well stocked provisions. His platoon never went hungry.
"You bet," smiled Sabia and disappeared into the gloom, tanker's bag over his shoulder and pistol in his hand.
Green Three sped forward, trying to catch up to its platoon, which was behind "Blue" Platoon. In the thermal sight, Martin saw a picture that chilled his blood. An Iraqi BTR60 infantry carrier was moving towards the troop from the east. Shadowy figures of other vehicles moved behind it. A counterattack!
"Laze to that BTR and arm the gun," he told his gunner. He then called his platoon leader, Lieutenant Bill Martinez. "Green One, this is Green Four."
"Go ahead Four."
"We've got a possible enemy counterattack on our left flank. Suggest you orient your elements that way."
"Roger, don't shoot unless you have a positive ID."
"Don't worry, we won't."
Before Martinez could call me, he and Sergeant Martin had determined that this was not an enemy attack, but Colonel Daly with his command group. Part of his group was a German-built reconnaissance vehicle that looked almost exactly like a BTR60.
"Black Six, Green One."
"Go ahead Green."
"We've got six friendly vehicles approaching from the east. I say again, six friendlies from the east at a high rate of speed. Do not fire them up. Appears to be the command group."
"Roger Green One. All elements acknowledge Green's transmission. Black Five, see if you can find out what the hell is going on."
"Its Thunder Six," confirmed McClain.
The squadron commander and his entourage had almost become worm bait. They had disregarded the critical rule of informing a combat unit of their intentions before approaching it. They now moved into positions between "Blue" Platoon's vehicles, making it impossible to determine who was where anymore. The veins in my temple throbbed. I might expect a brand new lieutenant to rush up onto the flank of a unit in contact, but a lieutenant colonel should have known better.
A Second Close Call
Lookin’ at the devil, grinnin’ at his gun
Fingers start shakin’, I begin to run
Bullets start chasin’, I begin to stop
We begin to wrestle I was on the top
- Sly and the Family Stone, Thank You (falettinme be mice elf agin)
0115 hours, 27 February 1991
The enemy structure burned brightly, having been set ablaze by Bravo's high explosive rounds. Something inside the building exploded at irregular intervals. The enemy was crawling away from the blaze, but still gave no indication that they were going to surrender.
"Nighthawk Six, this is Thunder Six."
"This is Nighthawk Five," answered McClain.
"Have your commander dismount his scouts and sweep the objective."
"Roger, I'll tell him."
"I heard him Black Five," I replied. "Relay to him that I strongly recommend against it. I can get only ten guys on the ground. That's not good enough against six confirmed, dug in enemy and several hundred more possibly around here in foxholes. That's what I'd be waiting for us to do if I were the enemy commander. Our guys will be dead before they get ten feet from the tracks."
Daly kept insisting that our scouts leave their vehicles. Before I could answer again, Harrison slapped my leg, indicating that I should look through the sight. I saw two figures approaching Bravo Section from the east. It looked like they had worked their way towards us from the blazing building. One of them carried a satchel of some sort.
"Co-ax, Mike! Laze, but don't shoot yet." "Blue Five, this is Black Six. You've got possible enemy dismounts approaching you from your left. Be alert."
"Roger," replied Staff Sergeant Ruch.
I watched Harrison track the two figures with the coaxial machine gun. One of them turned to look at us and ... the hair on the back of my neck stood on end! He was wearing an American Kevlar helmet! I reached over Harrison's shoulder and flipped the safety switch on.
"Hold fire, hold fire," I shouted over the radio. "Blue Five, those are friendly dismounts. Find out who the hell they are. All Nighthawk elements, I want to know who dismounted people from his vehicle."
Each platoon reported back negative.
Ruch came back on the air and said, "Its an infantry captain. He's from Thunder Six's track and he's ordering us to dismount."
Daly again!
"Countermand that order until we know what's going on, and remind that grunt captain that I'm the one in command of this unit, not him."
"Black Five, kindly inform Thunder Six that we almost blew away his emissaries and ask him to notify us next time he puts people on the ground in the middle of a fire fight."
"Roger," replied McClain.
A loud Arabic voice startled me. A Humvee from psychological operations unit pulled into our position. Its loudspeaker broadcast surrender ultimatums in Arabic towards the enemy.
"It's too late," radioed Ruch, "we've already got guys on the ground."
Dammit! "Get out there Steve, and keep them away from that burning building."
"Roger."
Fatal Shots
Ooh, a storm is threatening my very life today
If I don't get some shelter, oh yeah I'm gonna fade away
War, children, it's just a shot away, it's just a shot away
- Rolling Stones, Gimme Shelter
0120 hours, 27 February 1991
Harrison slapped my leg again and I looked into the sight. One of the enemy figures was moving forward! He rushed over to one of his comrades, hoisted him to his feet and began carrying him to safety. Daly's voice erupted over the squadron frequency.
"He's getting away! He's getting away!"
A split second later, a machine gun chattered and the figure staggered. My stomach knotted painfully as I saw the burning, green slugs rip through his glowing body. Bright green blood and pieces of hot green flesh sprayed out behind him as he sank to his knees. A second burst finished the job. Who the hell had violated my cease fire orders!
"Cease fire! Cease fire! Cease fire dammit!" I yelled into my helmet microphone. "I want to know who the hell shot that guy...immediately. All elements acknowledge."
Negative reports flowed in.
"I saw who did it," blurted a nameless voice over the troop frequency. "It came from Thunder Six's track."
"Son-of-a-bitch shot the poor guy in cold blood!" cried another voice through the static.
"Keep that bastard away from us before I kill him myself!" exclaimed a third.
I could hear the roar of my heart pounding in my head. "Clear the net!" I ordered. "Everybody shut up unless you have a valid report!"
"I've got one," reported Baez. "We've got a couple of American soldiers on the ground here from 1st Armored Division."
"Clarify that," I replied. "Did we liberate prisoners?"
"Stand by."
"Negative," said Baez.
"What the hell do you mean negative?"
"I mean that there are no Iraqis here! We've been attacking our own people! They occupied this field over twelve hours ago!"
I felt a giant, phantom fist smash into my forehead. My universe shattered into a million fragments. Its bad enough to be forced to kill people, but to attack your own countrymen!?! Those bastards! How dare they set us against our brothers! An overwhelming rage swept over me and I fought to control it. "What are the casualties, Pete," I called to Baez.
"One dead, one wounded."
"How badly wounded?"
"Leg wound. It hurts but he'll be OK."
"Black Five, Black Six. Call for a dust off chopper. Pete, get everybody back from that building."
An instant later, an enormous orange fireball lit up the sky. The building seemed to lift off the ground and spew forth hellish, yellow flames. I could see bodies flying through the air as though they were in a James Bond movie. Six of my scouts were on the ground there! The concussion rocked my tank a few seconds later and smoking debris rained down upon us. A wave of hot air rushed into the tank through the slit in my hatch.
"Holy shit!" exclaimed Bart. "That must have been a big one. We're over 100 meters away."
"They're all down!" cried Harrison. "They're all fucking dead!"
I was too stunned to comment. I just looked into the sight at the flaming wreckage. One of the figures stirred! Then another! More of them began to rise and gingerly examine themselves.
"Medic track is on the way," said McClain over the troop net. Thank you God for my efficient XO!
"This is Blue Six," came Baez's voice. "No casualties! I say again, no casualties! How's that for luck?"
"Its the first good luck we've had all night," I replied.
The Morning After
Here I am,
Will you send me an angel,
Here I am,
In the land of the morning star.
- Scorpions, Send Me An Angel
0600 hours, 27 February 1991
A miserable, smoky gray dawn broke over the desolate airfield. The burning Rumaila oil fields to the south were wreaking havoc with the atmosphere. A Blackhawk helicopter evacuated the body of Corporal Douglas "Lance" Fielder to the regimental aid station. The pilot had first refused to evacuate the wounded Sergeant Napier, until McClain had changed his mind by drawing his pistol. Steve Ruch sat alongside my vehicle for over an hour, his face buried in his hands, muttering "those bastards" over and over again.
Our "enemy" had been a squad of combat engineers from the 1st Armored Division. The "building" had been their broken down ammunition carrier, filled with demolition charges. They had been waiting for someone from their unit to recover it. The 1st Armored Division had passed through the airfield on the previous day. How could such a colossal screw up have occurred? We asked the engineers why they didn't leave when the artillery hit the field. Their lieutenant stated that they had neither seen nor heard any artillery. Where had the artillery shells landed? The explosions would have been audible for at least ten miles, so the shells had landed in a totally different area. What was going on here? I looked around and saw no sign that there had ever been any Iraqis at the field, much less a battalion. Every pane of glass in the tower was still intact. If Iraqis had been here, the six weeks of U.S. air strikes would surely have broken a few of those. I felt thoroughly betrayed. Had our superiors lied to us or misled us? Why?
Lieutenant Colonel John H. Daly, Jr. walked up to my tank. "I need to talk to you Bo," he said. I jumped down from the turret, my knee almost collapsing again. Daly took me aside and said in a low voice, "We have to keep this under our hats. Do you understand Bo?" I nodded my affirmation, wondering what the hell he was talking about. Another Blackhawk touched down not far from us. Two figures in Kevlar helmets and load harnesses jumped out. Incongruously, one of them carried a briefcase. He walked towards us and said, "Good morning gentlemen. I'm Captain Jaquot from the Judge Advocate General's Office. Colonel Starr sent me to conduct an investigation on the fratricide committed here last night."
A Different Perspective
13:30 hours, 28 March 1991
Warm, golden rays of sunshine streamed out from between the clouds for the first time since we crossed the Iraqi border several lifetimes ago. I barely noticed them. My world was permanently overcast. Our Squadron Chaplain, Captain Ted Nichols, had expended herculean efforts to break me, and many others, out of the deep depression that enveloped us. Although I was still functioning as a troop commander, my heart was not into my job with the enthusiasm and pride I had felt throughout the years. During the months before the ground offensive, I had steeled myself for many possibilities. Capture, torture, maiming, death, and the most chilling possibility that I would have to send some of my soldiers to their deaths. Never, in my wildest nightmares, did the possibility of assaulting, wounding and killing my own countrymen enter into the equation. I was wholly unequipped to deal with it. Only my responsibility to the soldiers under my command kept me going with any semblance of normalcy.
I kept to myself unless matters of duty presented themselves. My soldiers seemed to sense my pain and did not intrude upon my world of solitude. I did not have to venture outside the comfort of my perimeter until Lieutenant Colonel Daly summoned all commanders to a command and staff meeting over a day later. Our squadron had become the regimental reserve, following behind the other two squadrons as they cleared the Qalib Al Luhays Airfield about 30 kilometers farther east. I had heard the muffled reports of tank cannon and Bradley chain guns from that direction during the previous day. I did not think of my friends and acquaintances in those forward units. My thoughts were consumed with hopes that we were not killing each other again.
Tembrock looked at me with pain-filled eyes as I entered the Hummer, but did not say anything. We drove wordlessly to the squadron command post. I was stunned by the upbeat atmosphere as I entered the canvas extension. Staff officers were joking with the other commanders. Everybody had a smile on his face. Enthusiasm filled the air. I noticed Lieutenant Colonel Daly, grinning ear to ear, speaking with his two deputies. The ever-present liaison officer from the 82nd Airborne Division was at his side again as well. Major Martin glanced at me as I entered, a brief flash of uneasiness passing between us. Apparently, I was the last commander to arrive. "OK gentlemen," announced Martin above the effusive voices, "lets get started."
The briefing was fairly quick and uneventful. Our reserve role was not very taxing or complicated. The L Troop Commander displayed his usual disappointment that the squadron was not out in front, being backed up this time by the tank company commander, Captain Dan Gray. I said nothing, but felt as though every eye in the extension was on me. Was it my fault that we were withdrawn from the front line? What could I have done to prevent what had transpired? Why the hell hadn't they told us that there were friendly forces in the area!? Who the hell had sent us on that assault anyway. ... and why the hell was everybody acting like it was business as usual? I had a very sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and quickly departed the moment the meeting adjourned.
"Hey Bo, wait up!" The L Troop Commander's voice interrupted the methodical crunch of my boots in the sand as I headed back to my Hummer. I turned slowly to face him, meeting his smiling face with a mixture of shame and anger.
"Great job at the airfield the other night!"
My ears roared as adrenaline flowed into my nervous system. My vision seemed to turn crimson and my head felt glowing hot.
"Fuck you!"
I shoved him back with both hands, then advanced on him, grabbing a fistful of his BDU uniform at the collar. I stopped myself an instant before my other fist connected with his head. His face registered total confusion, not the gloating sneer I expected. Something was wrong here.
"What the hell's wrong with you?!" he sputtered.
"We killed our own people at that airfield!" I retorted.
"What?! What are you talking about?"
"Didn't you hear?"
"All I heard was that you kicked some major ass out there and bagged about 50 Iraqi prisoners."
"The only thing we bagged was a squad of American engineers and ..."
Lieutenant Colonel John H. Daly Jr. inserted himself between us. "OK, OK ... that's enough. I need to have a word alone with Captain Friesen." The L Troop Commander saluted and withdrew from the area. "Come over here Bo," said Daly, as he led me about fifty yards from the nearest person.
"What was that all about, Bo?"
"Sir, I was reacting to what I thought was a sarcastic comment by the L Troop Commander about what happened at the airfield. Why doesn't he know about the fratricide.?"
"Lower your voice, Bo. We are purposefully keeping a lid on this until the investigation is complete."
"But Sir ... telling them that we kicked ass and captured Iraqis ..."
"Nobody's telling anybody anything. We just need to keep this quiet until the investigation is over."
I said nothing, but could feel that I was not exuding confidence in his statements.
"You performed very well out on the airfield Bo," Daly continued. "I'm recommending you for a Bronze Star with 'V' device for valor."
My ears began roaring again. I could not believe what I had just heard. My lower lip trembled as I tried to speak. Failing the first attempt, I took a deep breath and tried again. My words came out slowly and detached, sounding as though somebody else were speaking.
"A Bronze Star for valor!? ... for attacking and killing Americans!? You've got to be kidding, Sir!"
Judging by the look on Daly's face, this obviously was not the response he had expected, or perhaps required. A very pregnant pause filled the air as both of us locked eyes for what seemed like an eternity. I fought hard to keep the torrents of inexplicable anger below the surface. I was unsure about the origins of this anger, but none of this made any sense. Whatever the issue at stake, both of us sensed that there would be no resolution today.
"Give it to someone else," I retorted.
Realizing it was a stupid move, but unable to stop myself, I tore the captain bars from my collar and hurled them into the sand between us.
"They can have those too!"
I saluted, turned on my heel and marched back to my Hummer.
Three Weeks Later
Just get me to the airport, put me on a plane
Hurry hurry hurry, before I go insane
I can't control my fingers. I can't control my brain
Oh no no no no no
- The Ramones, I Wanna Be Sedated
0900 hours, 18 March 1991
I sat on the curb of a parking lot next to Rick Cortes in Jubail, Saudi Arabia. We had exchanged our helmets for floppy hats, washed our vehicles and loaded them aboard the transport ships. On the return trip from Iraq, I had witnessed soldiers in a supply depot burning thousands of brand new desert uniforms. Anger welled up inside me as I thought about how many of us had gone without proper uniforms for months. It was all irrelevant now. We were waiting for the buses to take our two units to the Dhahran airport. We would be some of the first troops to go home. My elation was dampened by the sight of Lance Fielder's dead body still fresh in my mind. I knew that I would carry it with me for many years to come, possibly forever.
"Tell me something Rick."
"You got it."
"That night we hit the Umm Hajul airfield...what were you guys doing while we were shooting at each other?"
"Not a damn thing."
"You mean Daly just had you halt in place?"
"Not even that. He just forgot about us for three or four hours."
I was incredulous. I could not believe Daly had neglected three quarters of his squadron in the middle of a combat zone. "He just blew you off and left you there? What would have happened if there really had been an Iraqi counterattack?"
"Who knows" said Cortes, nonplused, "we had no clue what was going on."
"One more thing Rick. When did you find out that we killed one of our own there?"
"About a week after it happened."
"Did Daly tell you?"
"No, I heard it through the grapevine.
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