There is an increasingly troubling narrative that essentially argues that service in Iraq and Afghanistan explains the criminal behavior at Fort Hood. This is an over simplification of most veterans with PTSD who will never commit a crime, but moreover a profound misunderstanding of the nature of counterinsurgency in Iraq. By doctrine we were deescalators of violence not perpetuators and we most often recognized that our best weapons "did not shoot." Any Iraq or Afghanistan veteran will tell you, if you take a couple of minutes to talk to them from time to time, that most tense situations in combat were dangerous situations caused by unidentified enemies and US forces refrained engagement because of a lack of positive identification. Units that departed from this course committed crimes, and were the exception.
The most tense moment for me occurred in just this way, and I have been hesitant to publicly discuss the night of my worst concussion because the situation got heated and there was some understandable personal tensions going on, though only momentary, and that I may seem like I am criticizing other people. That is not the case, I am going to describe an awful situation when everyone had the right intentions, and calmer heads prevailed. This will emphasize my roll because of the limits of my own memory, but I will assure that just as many or more times other soldiers, non commissioned officers of superiors played similar roles. You might assume the situation to be exceptional, but I think that day gets to the marrow of the US Army's, at company level, propensity to deescalate violence rather than perpetuate it in Iraq. The argument that we are more violent is a profound misunderstanding of what we did in Iraq, and more often we chose non violence. Anyone using our war as an excuse is exploiting a popular idea base on very little material evidence.
My worst of moment of Iraq was after a suicide bombing, but the second worse occurred after and IED blew up and convoy of Bradley's while my platoon was set in over-watch to prevent just such an attack. I have not now, nor will I ever feel like a greater failure, than watching a piece of dirt that I had personally been observing for six hours with multiple soldiers pulling rotations blow up right in front of me. In the moment I could not even see it. The force of the blast was faster than my brain's ability to process the image and I was thrown down a stairwell by over pressure. I fell face down and I came to face up, as if it were glitch in the matrix. It could not have been a second but I lost some consciousness. I was dizzy, very confused, but a Lieutenant with eyes on IED. The platoon of Bradley's was from another battalion passing through our area so they had no idea that Americans were occupying our building and mechanized and airborne units use different night optics. Concussed or not we could all die if we did not immediately mark our position in every way possible. Their fire discipline saved our lives, but we we would be tested the same way very quickly.
Local Iraqi Army or Policemen ran to to occupy a road block to the north of the attack, but their winter cloths made them hard to identify. Balaclavas and no helmets made friendly force identification nearly impossible, and created very tense moment with a few of my soldiers fearing an insurgent attack. Simultaneously on my radio, my company commander was very unhappy that bomb blew up right in may face. Why wouldn't he be. I certainly was not happy about it and to this day I second guess myself about that night. So while dealing with dizziness, disorientation and terrible situation I was simultaneously getting my ass chewed and preventing soldiers who wanted to fire on what they thought was a very legitimate threat to our security. These soldier were woken from sleep by bomb less that 50 meters away, so anger was par for the course, but the enemy did not usually sit in the middle of the street and gaggle up like Iraq soldiers so I wanted to take the time for confirmation. Everyone was angry from the lowest private to the battalion commander and tempers were hotter than they should have been on the radio, mine included. Not hotter than human beings woken up by a bomb at 4 AM though. However, despite all of anger and frustration everyone's actions were exemplary. My soldiers wanted to fire, but headed orders, I kept command and control until my platoon sergeant got on top of things and until a my commander was on the ground. After they were on top of it I actually put microphone up because I was getting really loopy and having trouble grasping the basic geographic layout.
People say that no one trains you for days like that, but the truth is I was trained precisely for days like that. My service in Iraq was more often events when I was attacked and had no clear enemy to engage so I waited for better opportunity rather than risking the lives of innocent people. So I cannot by any stretch of the imagination understand how Iraq, and the war I fought could be a source of anything, but level headed others centered decision making under the most adverse, frustrating and enraging situations. Frankly I am sick and tired of being compared to criminals because I have PTSD from all the days that I made the emotionally draining, but the ultimately least violent decisions only to be characterized as some non thinking killer with no human agency or power over my situation in Iraq and its aftermath. I was then and I am now, like the vast majority of other veterans, making the best of a far from ideal situation, and I am beyond frustrated that every-time another mass murder happens all people with mental illnesses are lumped together with an incredible minority of violent criminals. Especially in the wake of war of occupation and counterinsurgency that stressed nonviolent outcomes whenever they could be attained.
Showing posts with label Combat Narratives. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Combat Narratives. Show all posts
April 21, 2014
February 19, 2013
The Terrible Moments That Define Us
Warning: This contains profanity and descriptions of war wounds.
One of my greatest sorrows is how some of the most memorable and significant events of my life were driven by bind hatred. I want to talk about an event that has challenged the very fabric of my humanity and has changed me. An event that probably lasted less than ten seconds has irrevocably altered my life. During my second deployment as Anti Tank Platoon leader I was serving as the escort for my Battalion's Operations Officer Major (now Lieutenant Colonel) Massaracahia. While placing our vehicles in positions to move out we heard an explosion. After the fact we learned that a mentally ill women, reported to be carrying a baby and, most likely remote detonated, blew up on a crowd of civilians waiting in line to receive compensation for damages to their homes (sustained during a massive clearing operation of the city). This was the most horrific event that I have ever experienced. There is still blood stains on my boots; blood that literally and figuratively will never wash away.
Because we were already in position to move my platoon was among the first elements to arrive and because my platoon had less than 4 soldiers who could dismount their vehicles, I went out to help who I could. I ran out with a combat life saving kit and came across the most significantly wounded human being I could ever imagine. At first he simply looked as if his injures were a severed leg, but when I tried to lift him his torsos gave in ways that they should not have. Gravity rather than the sinews of his body held him together (this moment was something I could not even remember in therapy and was blocked out until I wrote this account). His torso was rocked with multiple injuries that I could not even see through all of the blood and charred clothing.
He was bleeding from his head, but his worst injuries were on his left leg. Even with the damage to his abdomen I hoped maybe he could be saved so I struggled to find a place to put a tourniquet. But, his left hip more resembled ground beef than human flesh and it was hard to tell where the wound began. It was difficult to determine what parts his body was intact and what had liquefied. His leg was still technically connected, but by what I could not determine because it all resembled a bloody and dirty gelatin warmed by the sun into a substance that was slightly between liquid and solid. No place for a tourniquet and the wound was far to large for an occlusive dressing. This poor man whose only crime was trying to replace the damage cause by a major U.S. operation was going to die and there was nothing I could do. Worse, in that moment despite the carnage I noticed that their were multiple supporting elements coming to help and that the security was getting really disorganized.
I was a platoon leader and though every fiber of my body just wanted to comfort this man who was going to die. I could not save him and now this poor bastard would die alone on street corner in Tal A Far Iraq. I will never forget the look on his face when I left him there to die. He did not know I was leaving to keep others alive and that real threats were trying to exploit our lapsed security (threats I would help eliminate). That poor man just thought I had given up on him. It was like watching a man's soul die along with his body. I am sure there have been worse moments, but I cannot fathom a greater amount of grief that has ever existed than watching his face as I left to take charge of the perimeter. I know that I did the right thing, but he did not understand. He died on that street alone and abandoned as an expectant casualty.
I wanted to curse the world that made me look a man in his eyes, realize that he was beyond help, and move on to things that I could effect. I wanted to say fuck the universe that made me have to be so callous and so methodical. For a moment I hated a world that possessed hate to such a degree that a man might see another man suffering, recognize the tragedy, and be forced to move on because he was an expectant casualty. If I or someone I loved was exposed to a similar circumstance all I would wish was that someone could comfort them. But, I had a platoon to manage and the area was less than secure. I thought to myself "I can feel this later but I have a job to do right now." I would not be able to feel anything but anger for years.
I will never dispossess that moment, with the sorrow and empathy that I gained from that man's terrible injuries. Moreover, how I left him their to die alone. I will possess that man's humanity to my last breath. Yet, I have no idea who he actually was, what he did for a living or even his name. Watching a man in such pain, with no help for survival, die made me feel like I let him down. It broke down cultural barriers. No worldview is worth what happened to that poor man, and you would have to be taught to hate others your whole life in order to justify the brutal killing of civilians. I just cannot fathom what it took to commit such a terrible atrocity.
I hope to never believe so passionate about a cause that any actions are justified. Because when "the ends justify the means" where does it stop before another innocent man is lying on the ground bleeding out with no possibility of aid. I came from that broken, but better. In the years that followed I would be asked to train Iraqi units. My empathy for the Iraqi people became the source of strength for the most difficult time period of my life. But that is another story altogether. It is not necessarily the moments by themselves that define us, but how and what we learn for them. In the same set of circumstances, other men, even better people might have learned another lesson. In the end all I know is that I did all I could do and that is enough. I was not then nor am I right now afraid of what I felt in those moments (though at times in between and certainly in the future I will be). But, I have had to fight to get there and I will have to keep fighting in order stay where I am. All of that is worth it because that poor nameless man's life is not wasted because I struggle everyday to never forget what hatred brings to our world and that beyond all the misery of that moment, which will never go away or be made better, I am so beyond lucky to have survived it. Better to have my moral compass still intact. This has been the hardest battle I have ever fought, and I think I winning.
My take away is simple. Do something tangible that helps others everyday. That is all I could do then and it is all I can do now. But, that is not a burden, rather it is a hard earned privilege that I am lucky and better to have gained. I owe that nameless man who taught me this terrible, but valuable lesson and I owe myself to have the courage to face it and apply it. Lest it be for nothing.
Because we were already in position to move my platoon was among the first elements to arrive and because my platoon had less than 4 soldiers who could dismount their vehicles, I went out to help who I could. I ran out with a combat life saving kit and came across the most significantly wounded human being I could ever imagine. At first he simply looked as if his injures were a severed leg, but when I tried to lift him his torsos gave in ways that they should not have. Gravity rather than the sinews of his body held him together (this moment was something I could not even remember in therapy and was blocked out until I wrote this account). His torso was rocked with multiple injuries that I could not even see through all of the blood and charred clothing.
He was bleeding from his head, but his worst injuries were on his left leg. Even with the damage to his abdomen I hoped maybe he could be saved so I struggled to find a place to put a tourniquet. But, his left hip more resembled ground beef than human flesh and it was hard to tell where the wound began. It was difficult to determine what parts his body was intact and what had liquefied. His leg was still technically connected, but by what I could not determine because it all resembled a bloody and dirty gelatin warmed by the sun into a substance that was slightly between liquid and solid. No place for a tourniquet and the wound was far to large for an occlusive dressing. This poor man whose only crime was trying to replace the damage cause by a major U.S. operation was going to die and there was nothing I could do. Worse, in that moment despite the carnage I noticed that their were multiple supporting elements coming to help and that the security was getting really disorganized.
I was a platoon leader and though every fiber of my body just wanted to comfort this man who was going to die. I could not save him and now this poor bastard would die alone on street corner in Tal A Far Iraq. I will never forget the look on his face when I left him there to die. He did not know I was leaving to keep others alive and that real threats were trying to exploit our lapsed security (threats I would help eliminate). That poor man just thought I had given up on him. It was like watching a man's soul die along with his body. I am sure there have been worse moments, but I cannot fathom a greater amount of grief that has ever existed than watching his face as I left to take charge of the perimeter. I know that I did the right thing, but he did not understand. He died on that street alone and abandoned as an expectant casualty.
I wanted to curse the world that made me look a man in his eyes, realize that he was beyond help, and move on to things that I could effect. I wanted to say fuck the universe that made me have to be so callous and so methodical. For a moment I hated a world that possessed hate to such a degree that a man might see another man suffering, recognize the tragedy, and be forced to move on because he was an expectant casualty. If I or someone I loved was exposed to a similar circumstance all I would wish was that someone could comfort them. But, I had a platoon to manage and the area was less than secure. I thought to myself "I can feel this later but I have a job to do right now." I would not be able to feel anything but anger for years.
I will never dispossess that moment, with the sorrow and empathy that I gained from that man's terrible injuries. Moreover, how I left him their to die alone. I will possess that man's humanity to my last breath. Yet, I have no idea who he actually was, what he did for a living or even his name. Watching a man in such pain, with no help for survival, die made me feel like I let him down. It broke down cultural barriers. No worldview is worth what happened to that poor man, and you would have to be taught to hate others your whole life in order to justify the brutal killing of civilians. I just cannot fathom what it took to commit such a terrible atrocity.
I hope to never believe so passionate about a cause that any actions are justified. Because when "the ends justify the means" where does it stop before another innocent man is lying on the ground bleeding out with no possibility of aid. I came from that broken, but better. In the years that followed I would be asked to train Iraqi units. My empathy for the Iraqi people became the source of strength for the most difficult time period of my life. But that is another story altogether. It is not necessarily the moments by themselves that define us, but how and what we learn for them. In the same set of circumstances, other men, even better people might have learned another lesson. In the end all I know is that I did all I could do and that is enough. I was not then nor am I right now afraid of what I felt in those moments (though at times in between and certainly in the future I will be). But, I have had to fight to get there and I will have to keep fighting in order stay where I am. All of that is worth it because that poor nameless man's life is not wasted because I struggle everyday to never forget what hatred brings to our world and that beyond all the misery of that moment, which will never go away or be made better, I am so beyond lucky to have survived it. Better to have my moral compass still intact. This has been the hardest battle I have ever fought, and I think I winning.My take away is simple. Do something tangible that helps others everyday. That is all I could do then and it is all I can do now. But, that is not a burden, rather it is a hard earned privilege that I am lucky and better to have gained. I owe that nameless man who taught me this terrible, but valuable lesson and I owe myself to have the courage to face it and apply it. Lest it be for nothing.
January 10, 2013
Combat Narratives Part 2
Our first official campaign was against the Iraqi Republican Guard, a highly trained mechanized division under Saddam Hussein. They never ran from or surrender to our overwhelming force. The 3rd Brigade of the 1st Armored Division had over 20,000 enemy kills in three campaigns. My crew was the spear tip and I drove for 172 hours in the largest tank battle in the history of war in the 100 Hour Ground War. The Army VII Corps' mission was to cut off the Iraqi Republican Guard supply lines before our descent into Kuwait and attack, attack, attack everything along the way.
Blazing 50 Mph across the sands towards the front line, my 32 ton combat loaded Bradley drove over a sand dune into a landmine field stopping us in our tracks and throwing everyone inside forward. Sgt Tickle flipped out and started cussing why we had stopped and I could hear my captain in the background cursing. As they both continued the barrage of swearing and demanding I screamed, “Shut the fuck up and look out your window, we're in a landmine field!” As reality sunk in, I assessed our trajectory into the field and found we had landed at an angle and missed detonating a single mine. What took less than two seconds to get into, took us about 15 to 20 minutes to get out of. A paltry amount of time when you have all you need; but our job was to guide our tanks into battle. Being 20 minutes late was not an option. In this moment we melded as a squad, we had becoming one body. I felt a welling of emotions circling despair; I was to succumb or prevail and tuned into my machine, environment and crew in a way I had never experienced.
Sgt T had to stand out of his hatch exposed giving directions to thread us back through our tracks laid, without any deviance from the trail. Sgt Tickle to me, “Straight, stop! Left back, stop. Right, back, stop. Forward left, stop!” As I was driving blind as my thoughts went to a conversation we had the night before. I was complaining about driving for two days straight without sleep, and Sgt Tickle says, “The only way your backup driver is going to drive is if you are dead! Got that soldier?” Welling with pride from the high praise to his biggest pain in the ass private. I had his implicit trust and felt respected and honored. The instant bond enabled me too read the inflections in his voice, his marked tone indicating we were on the track in the sand. An abrupt, “Straight ahead! Right, straight, left.”
I kept an eye on the horizon for the enemy and the ground for unexploded ordnance, not just for me but my brigade to follow. The problem compounded by staying awake for days peering out four periscopes ranging from 8 o'clock to 1:00 o'clock in the heat with fatigue and boredom made it especially hard at night watching the one-inch by half-inch red nighttime lights on the rear my leading vehicles. One on the right most vehicle of the 1st brigade and the left most of the 2nd brigade; my first job was to keep in between each with a mile in between in a reversed diamond figure with 3rd brigade on the rear single point. Keeping my eyes on two read lights on the back of vehicles 1 to 2 miles from me became a dancing ritual of fidgeting and flexing my body and wiggling and squinting to stay awake. After two days of no sleep, I though four days would be impossible – seven days only if my life depended on it.
Before we went into battle while sitting on a ridge waiting our orders I watched the Multiple Long Range Rocket systems launched live rounds from behind, hailing the night with eerily beautiful red streaks filling the horizons. Underneath the belly of the deadly mosaic red lines our Apache helicopters erupted with Hell-fire missiles, snaking through the air without aim and at the last-minute ministering vaporizing showers of demise. Coming through the nighttime curtain of fire where our artillery rounds lobbing to find their targets with a core shaking boom, boom, boom resounding a boosted repetition of bursting bombs rending reality from unlucky enemy crews. Beneath the Apaches our M1A Main Battle Tanks were firing and hitting the enemy tanks with columns of flame erupting 100 feet in the air, flipping turrets end over end atop jets of roiling plasma. In the closest I saw bodies rendered, splayed and sprayed within the ejecta in showers of molten metal and steel. The first a religious experience, the next several thousand was getting the job done. I heard somewhere from the muted distant, “Move out!”
Dodging bursting bombs while wreathing and fracking my spine. God help me! He answered, smothering me with heaps and mounds of apathy. Driving through eruptions of earth and reason, exploding ordnance ringing off the edges of my Bradley as shock waves tumble through my steel trap. Bracing against my slanted seat and butterfly steering wheel and driving the blade deep into the enemy. The physics of war upending earth all around as we thread between artillery rounds, to the right one of our Bradley's throw track in a hard turn in the sand. I slammed the gear in reverse and backed out of the artillery barrage driving 50 mph trusting my Track Commander with his steady sharp commands of, “Left, right. Straight.” I was watching as the lobbing bombs attempting to find our target, “Boom!” and a pause further away, “Boom.” Sgt Tickle says, “Right! Straight. Left, right, left.”
We pulled back far enough to dismount and watched one of our Bradley's repair track in an artillery barrage inside a ferocious tank battle set against the fiery sky. After letting down the back troop-hatch to let the guys get a breather, I got out to join them so we can watch our guys changing track. It took them and outstanding 15 minutes of a 45 min process. As we stood together on the back hatch watching the battle, we begin to hear a pesky whistling sound coming in, louder and louder. As we all started looking around, KA-BOOM! The heated blast rung my ears and my skin went dry, just out of the kill zone considering none of us took any shrapnel. I was in the driver's seat from the back landing hatch screaming at our team before half of them got in, “Get your fucking asses in!” As I started to raise the rear dismount hatch, looking back over the gear as the last soldier jumped in as the seal set shut. My head was ringing as I slapped the driver's hatch release for the second time; combat operations when the drivers hatch door clangs.
Somewhere in the blazing haze of timelessness after our third engagement Private E1 and PFC Lee's assignment was the cleaning our dead vehicles of weapons and intelligence. We were walking side by side each taking a 180 degree sector to scan. Our M16's slung in the ready as I look off into at scorched earthed damns hiding distorted hulking bombed out shells, shuddering and wondering how anything survived and where all the bodies were. Private E1 says “Lee, check this out!” With his right foot cocked back ready to kick tuna fish looking can with shinny spider legs. Instantaneously I grabbed him and his gear pitching us both over, body slamming Private E1. Then jumped up cussing, “You stupid ass mother-fucker! You almost kicked one of our air-dispersal anti-personnel mines!” I was not recommending him for a promotion.
 |
| My squad |
Sgt T had to stand out of his hatch exposed giving directions to thread us back through our tracks laid, without any deviance from the trail. Sgt Tickle to me, “Straight, stop! Left back, stop. Right, back, stop. Forward left, stop!” As I was driving blind as my thoughts went to a conversation we had the night before. I was complaining about driving for two days straight without sleep, and Sgt Tickle says, “The only way your backup driver is going to drive is if you are dead! Got that soldier?” Welling with pride from the high praise to his biggest pain in the ass private. I had his implicit trust and felt respected and honored. The instant bond enabled me too read the inflections in his voice, his marked tone indicating we were on the track in the sand. An abrupt, “Straight ahead! Right, straight, left.”
 |
| Me |
Before we went into battle while sitting on a ridge waiting our orders I watched the Multiple Long Range Rocket systems launched live rounds from behind, hailing the night with eerily beautiful red streaks filling the horizons. Underneath the belly of the deadly mosaic red lines our Apache helicopters erupted with Hell-fire missiles, snaking through the air without aim and at the last-minute ministering vaporizing showers of demise. Coming through the nighttime curtain of fire where our artillery rounds lobbing to find their targets with a core shaking boom, boom, boom resounding a boosted repetition of bursting bombs rending reality from unlucky enemy crews. Beneath the Apaches our M1A Main Battle Tanks were firing and hitting the enemy tanks with columns of flame erupting 100 feet in the air, flipping turrets end over end atop jets of roiling plasma. In the closest I saw bodies rendered, splayed and sprayed within the ejecta in showers of molten metal and steel. The first a religious experience, the next several thousand was getting the job done. I heard somewhere from the muted distant, “Move out!”
Dodging bursting bombs while wreathing and fracking my spine. God help me! He answered, smothering me with heaps and mounds of apathy. Driving through eruptions of earth and reason, exploding ordnance ringing off the edges of my Bradley as shock waves tumble through my steel trap. Bracing against my slanted seat and butterfly steering wheel and driving the blade deep into the enemy. The physics of war upending earth all around as we thread between artillery rounds, to the right one of our Bradley's throw track in a hard turn in the sand. I slammed the gear in reverse and backed out of the artillery barrage driving 50 mph trusting my Track Commander with his steady sharp commands of, “Left, right. Straight.” I was watching as the lobbing bombs attempting to find our target, “Boom!” and a pause further away, “Boom.” Sgt Tickle says, “Right! Straight. Left, right, left.”
We pulled back far enough to dismount and watched one of our Bradley's repair track in an artillery barrage inside a ferocious tank battle set against the fiery sky. After letting down the back troop-hatch to let the guys get a breather, I got out to join them so we can watch our guys changing track. It took them and outstanding 15 minutes of a 45 min process. As we stood together on the back hatch watching the battle, we begin to hear a pesky whistling sound coming in, louder and louder. As we all started looking around, KA-BOOM! The heated blast rung my ears and my skin went dry, just out of the kill zone considering none of us took any shrapnel. I was in the driver's seat from the back landing hatch screaming at our team before half of them got in, “Get your fucking asses in!” As I started to raise the rear dismount hatch, looking back over the gear as the last soldier jumped in as the seal set shut. My head was ringing as I slapped the driver's hatch release for the second time; combat operations when the drivers hatch door clangs.
Somewhere in the blazing haze of timelessness after our third engagement Private E1 and PFC Lee's assignment was the cleaning our dead vehicles of weapons and intelligence. We were walking side by side each taking a 180 degree sector to scan. Our M16's slung in the ready as I look off into at scorched earthed damns hiding distorted hulking bombed out shells, shuddering and wondering how anything survived and where all the bodies were. Private E1 says “Lee, check this out!” With his right foot cocked back ready to kick tuna fish looking can with shinny spider legs. Instantaneously I grabbed him and his gear pitching us both over, body slamming Private E1. Then jumped up cussing, “You stupid ass mother-fucker! You almost kicked one of our air-dispersal anti-personnel mines!” I was not recommending him for a promotion.
January 9, 2013
Combat Narratives Part 1
The soldiers of Delta Company, 6th battalion, 6th Infantry of the 1st Armored Division were sitting around the television in Bamberg, Germany. Rumors were going around that we would be called up and mobilized to go to Operation Desert Shield. The scrolling list of divisions being activated for deployment came down to ours, my heart sank. I was trembling and knew if an armored division was going that I would see combat. Feeding the rumors was our abrupt training from the boxy Vietnam era M119 armored personnel carries to new $2.5 million Bradley Fighting Vehicles. I was a Private First Class 11 Bravo with a brand new Expert Infantry Badge. The 11 Bravo's mission was running 5 miles one day and force march 7 miles with full ruck sacks the next, 6 days a week while the Bradley crews trained to drive, fight and command.
Late in the day our captain called us into the hallway outside his office and read the orders. It was then I decided to become a driver instead of the 11 Bravo dismounting and clearing trenches out the back of our Bradley. It was fun in training, but I didn't think it would be in combat. It turned out that our driver wasn't taking his job serious so I stepped up and asked to take his place. The next day I was sitting in the driver's seat familiarizing myself with the controls. I caught on pretty quick except for the steering was tricky, you have to give it gas to turn and the brakes consists of letting off the gas pedal. We went out everyday to train on a two-week threshold till we had to load up our vehicles to ship them out, I didn't receive the 3 months of training everyone else did.
In two weeks I learned how to drive my Bradley Fighting Vehicle before we loaded them up at the rail yard. During a late night training mission in Germany, around one am it was cold and wet with a heavy mist in the air. We were convoying on a narrow 16 feet wide road with our 14 foot wide Bradleys when we came upon narrow road on a sheer cliff. Turning is also transmission driven, to make it work you must hit the gas pedal. The more you turn the more power needed. I let off the throttle and the rubber padded tracks began to slide toward the edge, as I was peering down the cliff I punched the gas pedal just as the road disappeared underneigh us left turning as hard as I could. We stopped sliding and turned with only a half a track left on the road. The guys in the back never knew they were almost part of a training fatality.
We sat on our asses for two weeks when I arrived in the sandy lands of King Khalid Military City, Saudi Arabia. The warehouse we were bunking in was setup for soldiers awaiting vehicles to come into port. I found out later that the same building we were in was hit by a scud missile two weeks after we left, killing a couple of National Guardsmen. After our vehicles came in we had them painted in desert camouflage. Then we lined up to load up on missiles, 25mm armored piercing sabot rounds along with high explosives rounds, 7.62mm and 5.56mm ammo and grenades. We made all our checks and topped off on fuel and moved out to our base to set up.
Our company set up our first base camp in a low-lying area. By the time we finished setting up the tents, it started to rain. I had last guard duty, so I hit my cot. When I woke we were in 2 feet of water and someone was telling me to get out of bed we were moving out. A little lake had filled in so we packed everything up again and moved out to another base. After setting up our second base, we got into mission mode. We started training for offensive maneuvers immediately, in Germany we trained on defensive. Once in training maneuvers we received orders to retreat. I started turning my vehicle in a tight turn and threw our track in the sand. It took us about 4 hours to put the track back on, I would not make that mistake again. We trained on and around our base for about three and half months with the bombing of Baghdad in the background day and night. I still hear the boom, boom, boom, boom; just like yesterday.
Earlier in the week we received reports the Iraqi suicide bombers were dressing as Bedouins with captured military equipment. While on guard duty one night we spotted a slanted box on tracks, an M119 armored personnel carrier about the penetrate our perimeter The M119 keeps coming. We try to radio him, no answer. The vehicle on our left fires a warning shot, it keeps coming. We radio again and fire a second warning shot. The vehicle breaches our perimeter as we dismount and surround it. By all rights of war we should have killed this vehicle, but out pops a second lieutenant out of his hatch. It was a tense moment. Private Roman and another of our great sergeants lead our opposing force with fingers on triggers of our M16s, our barbed wire caught up in his tracks. He was on the wrong radio frequency and didn't know the password, so we held him until higher up said it was okay to let him go.
Base camp life was pulling guard duty four hours on and four hours off, write letters and train for offensive maneuvers One day during maneuvers we got the word to move out, I gunned it and blew the motor. So we spent the rest of the day helping the mechanics put in a new motor and transmission. It was a nice break in our regimen and I found out how much the motor can take in the sand and that would come in handy later in combat. We were getting close to moving out, Christmas had come and gone. I got to call home around that time. I was ready to go, it was February when we bugged out toward Iraq. The bombing of Baghdad everyday and night was wearing on me, all I could think about was how many people our bombs were killing. I was ready to go when we mounted up and headed into Iraq.
I was an Infantry soldier driving on point for the 3rd Brigade, my job was to lead our M1A1 Abrams Tanks into combat. Broiling inside my body armor and a full body zip up fire-retardant suit, covered by an olive drab chemical warfare suit commonly used in Germany during the winter. It was one hundred and ten degrees outside and 160 degrees inside the belly of my Bradley sitting next to a 600 HP Cummings turbo-charged diesel engine and separated by a 3/16” steel plate; with a ledge perfect to cook my Meals Ready to Eat. Sipping water became a survival skill and the only way to make your alloted three quarts a day last. During training missions I got in the habit of leaving my hatch open due to the heat and fought with my track commander to have it open until combat operations.
On or around February 22, 1991 we had reports of regular infantry soldiers in Saddam’s army surrendering in droves. The following day we saw thousands of people scattered in the shimmering heat surrendering some with weapons milling about lost in and billowing sandy red tinted sky as our tracks rolled by. At home in Kentucky we have rolling hills and trees everywhere so my sense of the horizon broadened tenfold when nothing stood in the way of belly of the desert. Our assignment was to get online with the rest of the VII Corps on the Iraqi border to cut off the Iraqi Republican Guard from retreating. We set out in convoy toward the front line. That night we received an after-action report, five Marines killed when a Stryker came across an enemy T-72 tank with its turret turned around. Geneva Convention Rule of War for surrender. When the marines encroached enough they turned their barrels around and killed our five Marines. I was shaking all over, mad as hell and wanted revenge.
After 24 hours of continuous driving we convoyed down through a wadi, a low-lying basin perfect for a desert ambush when I saw swimming silhouettes of people and jeeps on our left flank night sky. I reported to my Track Commander Sergeant Dan Tickle, small in stature but great at command. I hated him in garrison but loved him in the field, I would have given my life for him if I didn't kill him first. The Ground War had not been officially set off yet, so we had to get permission to fire upon an advancing enemy. They kept coming, higher up ordered our company online and our command vehicle fired three warning shots, boom, boom, boom. Then death squeezed from the gunner's fingertips with 25mm automatic fire boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. The next day our after action reported we had killed 30 Iraqis trying to surrender. The silhouettes on the horizon have haunted my sights and nights since.
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| Dco 6th/6th Infantry, 1st AD |
In two weeks I learned how to drive my Bradley Fighting Vehicle before we loaded them up at the rail yard. During a late night training mission in Germany, around one am it was cold and wet with a heavy mist in the air. We were convoying on a narrow 16 feet wide road with our 14 foot wide Bradleys when we came upon narrow road on a sheer cliff. Turning is also transmission driven, to make it work you must hit the gas pedal. The more you turn the more power needed. I let off the throttle and the rubber padded tracks began to slide toward the edge, as I was peering down the cliff I punched the gas pedal just as the road disappeared underneigh us left turning as hard as I could. We stopped sliding and turned with only a half a track left on the road. The guys in the back never knew they were almost part of a training fatality.
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| Our Bradley and Crew |
Our company set up our first base camp in a low-lying area. By the time we finished setting up the tents, it started to rain. I had last guard duty, so I hit my cot. When I woke we were in 2 feet of water and someone was telling me to get out of bed we were moving out. A little lake had filled in so we packed everything up again and moved out to another base. After setting up our second base, we got into mission mode. We started training for offensive maneuvers immediately, in Germany we trained on defensive. Once in training maneuvers we received orders to retreat. I started turning my vehicle in a tight turn and threw our track in the sand. It took us about 4 hours to put the track back on, I would not make that mistake again. We trained on and around our base for about three and half months with the bombing of Baghdad in the background day and night. I still hear the boom, boom, boom, boom; just like yesterday.
Earlier in the week we received reports the Iraqi suicide bombers were dressing as Bedouins with captured military equipment. While on guard duty one night we spotted a slanted box on tracks, an M119 armored personnel carrier about the penetrate our perimeter The M119 keeps coming. We try to radio him, no answer. The vehicle on our left fires a warning shot, it keeps coming. We radio again and fire a second warning shot. The vehicle breaches our perimeter as we dismount and surround it. By all rights of war we should have killed this vehicle, but out pops a second lieutenant out of his hatch. It was a tense moment. Private Roman and another of our great sergeants lead our opposing force with fingers on triggers of our M16s, our barbed wire caught up in his tracks. He was on the wrong radio frequency and didn't know the password, so we held him until higher up said it was okay to let him go.
Base camp life was pulling guard duty four hours on and four hours off, write letters and train for offensive maneuvers One day during maneuvers we got the word to move out, I gunned it and blew the motor. So we spent the rest of the day helping the mechanics put in a new motor and transmission. It was a nice break in our regimen and I found out how much the motor can take in the sand and that would come in handy later in combat. We were getting close to moving out, Christmas had come and gone. I got to call home around that time. I was ready to go, it was February when we bugged out toward Iraq. The bombing of Baghdad everyday and night was wearing on me, all I could think about was how many people our bombs were killing. I was ready to go when we mounted up and headed into Iraq.
I was an Infantry soldier driving on point for the 3rd Brigade, my job was to lead our M1A1 Abrams Tanks into combat. Broiling inside my body armor and a full body zip up fire-retardant suit, covered by an olive drab chemical warfare suit commonly used in Germany during the winter. It was one hundred and ten degrees outside and 160 degrees inside the belly of my Bradley sitting next to a 600 HP Cummings turbo-charged diesel engine and separated by a 3/16” steel plate; with a ledge perfect to cook my Meals Ready to Eat. Sipping water became a survival skill and the only way to make your alloted three quarts a day last. During training missions I got in the habit of leaving my hatch open due to the heat and fought with my track commander to have it open until combat operations.
On or around February 22, 1991 we had reports of regular infantry soldiers in Saddam’s army surrendering in droves. The following day we saw thousands of people scattered in the shimmering heat surrendering some with weapons milling about lost in and billowing sandy red tinted sky as our tracks rolled by. At home in Kentucky we have rolling hills and trees everywhere so my sense of the horizon broadened tenfold when nothing stood in the way of belly of the desert. Our assignment was to get online with the rest of the VII Corps on the Iraqi border to cut off the Iraqi Republican Guard from retreating. We set out in convoy toward the front line. That night we received an after-action report, five Marines killed when a Stryker came across an enemy T-72 tank with its turret turned around. Geneva Convention Rule of War for surrender. When the marines encroached enough they turned their barrels around and killed our five Marines. I was shaking all over, mad as hell and wanted revenge.
After 24 hours of continuous driving we convoyed down through a wadi, a low-lying basin perfect for a desert ambush when I saw swimming silhouettes of people and jeeps on our left flank night sky. I reported to my Track Commander Sergeant Dan Tickle, small in stature but great at command. I hated him in garrison but loved him in the field, I would have given my life for him if I didn't kill him first. The Ground War had not been officially set off yet, so we had to get permission to fire upon an advancing enemy. They kept coming, higher up ordered our company online and our command vehicle fired three warning shots, boom, boom, boom. Then death squeezed from the gunner's fingertips with 25mm automatic fire boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. The next day our after action reported we had killed 30 Iraqis trying to surrender. The silhouettes on the horizon have haunted my sights and nights since.
August 9, 2011
The Intimacy of War
Reclaiming parts of my memory has helped to regain lost bits and pieces of myself; by putting together this Combat Narrative I will regain a significant part of my life that has influenced me in many negative ways otherwise. This recording of my narrative will assist me further in reclaiming my past and coming to terms with my complete Combat Narrative over time. Watch it unfold here and at the Graffiti of War Project Blog.
Our second engagement commenced within the 100 Hour Ground War, but to get there I had to drive balls to the wall as part of the Army’s VII Corps mission to cut off the Iraqi forces before our hail Mary pass into Kuwait. As I was blazing 50 MPH across the sands towards the front line my 32 ton combat loaded Bradley drove over a sand dune and straight into a landmine field. Sgt T flipped out and started cussing and I could hear my captain in the background cursing and asking why we had stopped. As they both continued the barrage of swearing and demanding I screamed, “Shut the fuck up and look out your window, we are in a landmine field!” As the reality of situation sunk in, I assessed our trajectory into the field and found we had landed at an angle and missed detonating a single mine stopping us in our tracks.
August 18, 2008
Are You Saying That you Killed People in Cold Blood?
I had posted an article Dissociative Spectrum on A Soldier's Perspective.
This response was registered first,
On or around February 13, 1991 one day before my second son was born and four days away from my eldest sons second birthday.
We were getting close to moving out, Christmas had come and gone. I was able to call home during that time. By this time I was ready to go, it was February and I had been listening to Baghdad being bombed for about four months straight. Everyday, all day boom boom boom off in the distance, I can still hear them. All I could think about was how many people our bombs were killing, so when we got the call to go I was ready. We mounted up into my Bradley Fighting Vehicle and headed into Iraq.
Our assignment was to cut the Iraqi Republican Guard off from retreating back into Iraq. We set out on convoy toward the front line with me driving on point. A report comes over my headphones that a couple of Iraqi tanks with their turrets turned backward, Geneva Convention for surrender, approached some Marine armored vehicles. When they were in range they turned and fired on them, killing three of our troops. I was shaking all over, mad as hell and could not wait to get some payback.
I was getting myself psyched up going into driving straight for 24 hours. Later after 48 hours of continuous driving I saw silhouettes appearing on the left flank on the horizon during the night and reported it to my track commander. My TC and I hated each other, but respected one another and would have no other.
Having received the reports the night before we were weary of enemy activity. One of our Bradley's fired 3 warning shots, with permission of higher up as the ground war had not officially started yet. They kept coming and we were given permission to fire upon the enemy.
Later in the next day we received an account of the engagement. A brigade of foot soldiers had been trying to surrender and we killed them.
This response was registered first,
Are you saying that you killed people in cold blood?in response to my,
The Iraqi soldiers we killed that were trying to surrender.The responder also asks,
Why?and then the next comment:
Yes RG (Roman General, me also), what is the full story?The full story:
On or around February 13, 1991 one day before my second son was born and four days away from my eldest sons second birthday.
We were getting close to moving out, Christmas had come and gone. I was able to call home during that time. By this time I was ready to go, it was February and I had been listening to Baghdad being bombed for about four months straight. Everyday, all day boom boom boom off in the distance, I can still hear them. All I could think about was how many people our bombs were killing, so when we got the call to go I was ready. We mounted up into my Bradley Fighting Vehicle and headed into Iraq.
Our assignment was to cut the Iraqi Republican Guard off from retreating back into Iraq. We set out on convoy toward the front line with me driving on point. A report comes over my headphones that a couple of Iraqi tanks with their turrets turned backward, Geneva Convention for surrender, approached some Marine armored vehicles. When they were in range they turned and fired on them, killing three of our troops. I was shaking all over, mad as hell and could not wait to get some payback.
I was getting myself psyched up going into driving straight for 24 hours. Later after 48 hours of continuous driving I saw silhouettes appearing on the left flank on the horizon during the night and reported it to my track commander. My TC and I hated each other, but respected one another and would have no other.
Having received the reports the night before we were weary of enemy activity. One of our Bradley's fired 3 warning shots, with permission of higher up as the ground war had not officially started yet. They kept coming and we were given permission to fire upon the enemy.
Later in the next day we received an account of the engagement. A brigade of foot soldiers had been trying to surrender and we killed them.
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