Carnivore Read online

  I don’t know how many guys I shot down in that ditch while Geary and his crew were transferring to my Bradley—50? More? More. A lot more. It was surreal. They weren’t expecting to see me, I wasn’t expecting to see them, but yet again I just happened to be in the right place, at the wrong time—for them.

  As soon as I didn’t have bad guys running at me, I retreated up the bank and got back into the Carnivore, which was now overstuffed with people. Geary, his gunner Dakel—I counted faces. We had his whole crew.

  “What the fuck, Forest, did you think that was a good place to park?” I said to Geary.

  “Jesus Christ” was all he could say, eyes wide. His guys were as freaked out as we were.

  Cramped didn’t even come close to describing it—I guess it was a good thing we’d used up almost all of our ammo, because otherwise Geary and his boys would never have fit. We all wanted to head back across the bridge to rejoin our troop, but the D5s started falling again between us and the bridge, sending up huge clouds of dirt. That berm had been a safe haven for us, so we headed back to it as fast as the Carnivore could roll—which wasn’t nearly quickly enough for our tastes.

  We found out later that the Iraqi D5 artillery team could see us on the road but couldn’t find us when we parked by the berm. That area was blocked from their view by trees and buildings, so their observer did not have a line of sight to us. We were in the perfect spot. They would launch rounds randomly into our general area. They would fire one, then fire another at a different spot, but you could tell they didn’t know how to hit us, because they weren’t adjusting. It was just random. They were looking for a fire pillar or smoke plume to know they hit us, and they never got it. As we were heading back to our protected spot, however, we took another RPG. It exploded next to the track, and we limped the last few meters.

  Geary’s people were in pretty good shape, and I was able to contact Bennett on the radio to call in some more mortars. Good news and more good news. We replaced some track on the Carnivore, but it wanted to pop off if we even looked at it funny, so we wouldn’t be able to go anywhere faster than a crawl.

  By that time the rest of the squadron was refueled, and not only were they hoping to come save our asses before we got killed, they wanted in on the fight as well. Captain McCoy put the call in for some air support, and pretty soon some Kiowa Warriors and A-10 Warthogs were doing gun runs on our side of the river, killing anything and everything that wasn’t us. The A-10 is an awesome piece of equipment, a slow-flying, tank-killing angel of death.

  Finally the rest of the squadron drove across and set up a bridgehead to protect us as we limped back across the two bridges. It had only been four or five hours, but it seemed like a lifetime since Broadhead and I had chased that truck into the compound. The Kiowas and Warthogs kept doing gun runs as we crossloaded ammo off Sergeant Wallace’s Bradley, then topped off our fuel. I was finally able to get our radios working consistently.

  When everybody was gassed up and organized, we went back across the river in force. Geary’s crew was still in the back of my Brad. As soon as we crossed the railroad bridge the mortars started up again. We spotted the mortar teams back in the tree line again and called for indirect fire. Our mortars answered theirs, only ours were a lot more accurate. Across the net, I could hear Sergeant Christner, one of the guys who talked me into staying in the unit instead of heading out to Texas, in his Bradley adjusting fire.

  We set up our vehicles in a blocking position around Geary’s Bradley. Geary and I checked out Circus Freaks and knew it would be hard to recover, but we had to try.

  “How do you want to do this?” I asked Geary, hunkered down behind the Carnivore, out of the line of fire.

  “If we try the wrong thing it’s going to roll, and then we’re fucked,” he said, looking at Circus Freaks. “What do you think?”

  I had Housey put his tank on the road to pull Geary’s Bradley, while we would push with the other two Bradleys. We tried pulling and pushing, but that damn Bradley wouldn’t move, and we started taking more fire. The gunner on Housey’s tank was firing at the Iraqis with the .50 and keeping them at bay while we worked on getting Geary’s vehicle unstuck, but one machine gunner on overwatch soon wasn’t enough. Iraqi soldiers showed up in everything—cars, trucks, even an ambulance. Yes, an ambulance with a Red Crescent on the side pulled up in front of the Fedayeen compound, and about ten soldiers got out and ran into the building. They immediately began shooting at us, so we engaged the structures with 25 mm HE. A van full of armed Fedayeen pulled up next, and we killed all of them as well. The fire got to be so heavy we had to abandon our rescue attempts. Our vehicles moved away from the stuck Bradley and set up in an overwatch position.

  A good overwatch position is one that allows you to cover your guys and bring the hurt down on anyone who shows up wanting to cause trouble. You’re usually exposed, but danger comes with the job. A defilade position, on the other hand, is one where you’re protected from incoming fire.

  The Carnivore set up in a defilade position in the ditch next to the road. Geary’s guys helped us refill our ready boxes. While things weren’t as crazy as they had been, our troop had random engagements all day. Bad guys were grabbing civilians and walking behind them with AKs, moving from building to building. This was the first time we had to deal with Iraqis in civilian clothes, mixing with civilians, shooting at us. Command eventually rewrote the rules of engagement with regard to how to deal with civilians in the area, but as the guy with his hand on the trigger, it was a tough call to make. Do I risk getting killed by a bad guy using a civilian as a hostage, or do I engage and maybe kill someone whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time?

  Command called in air support, and Apache attack helicopters (AH-64Ds) came and hovered in the area, engaging all threats. The only problem was that they liked to hover behind our position, and the Iraqis kept shooting rockets at the aircraft.

  “You need to change position or relocate” was the radio call that went out to the pilots from our troop.

  “Negative, negative, we’re in a good spot here,” came the reply.

  “You need to leave,” we told them. “They can’t see us, but they can see you, and the rockets they’re shooting at you are impacting on us!”

  Our Kiowa Warrior scout helicopters (OH-58Ds) showed up then, and helped ID enemy positions so the mortars could put more fire on them. Shortly thereafter the Commander got on the radio.

  “Red 2, you need to displace and pull back to our side of the river. There is an air strike inbound.” I learned later the Kiowas had spotted a missile site and several other high-value targets beyond where we’d been positioned.

  We began moving back across the river. As we did, the Iraqi mortars started falling on us once more, but again their mortars fell short. McCoy and Broadhead took over watching Geary’s Bradley from a distance while we waited for the air strike. And waited. And waited. After six hours, we were finally told the air strike wasn’t going to happen (command was worried about collateral damage), and the troop moved back across the bridge. We crossed with Second Platoon, so we had a total of four tanks and six Bradleys. Geary and his crew went back over to his vehicle to do what they could, in hopes of recovering Circus Freaks. When it started getting dark we backed away from the road a bit, farther out in the center of the field, and tried to get some sleep in shifts.

  At that point we’d all been up for many days without any real sleep, and we were honestly delirious. We were on 50 percent security, with half the guys up and half of them sleeping. I was so exhausted and drained that I was seeing in black-and-white instead of color, but I took first watch. Lead from the front.

  There was a call across the radio that we were taking sniper fire and that one of the Bradley dismounts was engaging it. When you’re on watch you’re in the gunner’s position, using the thermal sight to scan for threats. I looked around using the thermal sight but couldn’t see anything. I got on the radio. “Engagin
g what?”

  “Sergeant Wallace’s dismount, Murphy, is engaging enemy sniper fire he can see through his NODs.”

  Roger that, I could hear Murphy’s rounds zinging over the top of my vehicle, but I still couldn’t see the sniper he was shooting at. I climbed out on top of the Bradley and looked in the direction he was shooting with my night vision, but I still couldn’t see anything. I called Wallace on the radio.

  “Tell Murphy to stop firing, he’s getting real close to my vehicle. I’m on the NOD, let me take a look.”

  “Roger that. Murphy says the guy is firing every five or six seconds.”

  Murphy finally stopped putting rounds right over the top of my Bradley and I scanned the direction in which he was shooting, seeing nothing. Nothing. Finally I noticed that I kept getting a light splash on top of my vehicle. I looked up and saw our firefly.

  At night, one way we identified each other was by putting infrared (IR) lights on top of our antennas. We called them fireflies, because they blinked every few seconds. I watched the firefly on top of my vehicle and counted the time between flashes, then got on the radio.

  “Wallace, get Murphy on the radio and have him call out when the guy shoots.”

  Murphy got on the radio, and in just a few seconds he yelled out, “All right, he’s firing!”

  I yelled into the radio, “He’s not firing, you moron, you’ve been shooting at my Bradley for half an hour!”

  That firefly was only a foot over my head. The next morning the whole back of my turret was paint splashes because Murphy had shot it close to thirty times. That’s how tired we all were.

  When it was my time to sleep, I took my turn on the turret floor of the Bradley. My legs were horribly swollen from standing up for the better part of five days, and even as tired as I was it was hard to get comfortable. Being pincushioned by shrapnel and having a burst eardrum wasn’t making it any easier. We took mortar and small-arms fire all night as the Iraqis probed us, which was pretty inconsiderate of them.

  Geary worked all night getting his Bradley back up. He was able to recover Circus Freaks, finally. The next morning he spotted a dismounted team that had made it within 200 meters of my Bradley. His gunner took them out with the coax, and we all moved back up onto the road. We continued to watch troops move into that Fedayeen compound all day, and we let our Commander know about it, but our orders were just to sit.

  The police station and Fedayeen compound were approximately 800 meters from the railroad bridge, and we were about 500 meters from them. We could see a lot of activity inside that compound. We had sporadic contact in the area, nothing major, but I started getting a bad feeling.

  I got Broadhead on the radio. “White 4, Red 2, you need to call the Commander, tell him to let us go in there and clean the place out before those bastards start dropping mortars on us again.”

  “Roger that. Wait one.”

  A few minutes later Broadhead called me on the radio. “It’s a go.”

  Broadhead took the lead, and I followed right on his tail, everybody else rolling behind us. His tank hit the gate, and a few seconds later I punched a hole in the wall next to where Broadhead went in. The wall I knocked over landed on guys who were getting ready to shoot an RPG into the side of Broadhead’s tank.

  The Fedayeen training compound was maybe 100 meters square, with buildings all around. It was like being in a football stadium, with buildings instead of bleachers, and everyone in them trying to kill you. We took fire from a nearby guardhouse, and I told Sperry, “Run over that fucking thing.” Guardhouse 0, Carnivore 1.

  Dozens—hundreds—of guys ran out of the buildings firing AKs, PKMs, and RPGs at us. If I’d thought the police compound firefight was bad, it was nothing compared to this, as Iraqis came from every direction, every building, and started trying to kill us with all they had. It was like being inside an anthill. The sound of guns firing was a constant roar. They were wearing the same salad suit camouflage that the Iraqis in the police compound had on the day before, a British-type pattern that didn’t do them any good inside the walls.

  “Holy shit!” Soprano yelled. He couldn’t shoot people fast enough.

  “How many guys are out there?” Sully shouted.

  Hunkered down inside the Bradley, literally surrounded by people trying to kill us, I traversed the turret in a 360-degree arc with my finger on the trigger of the coax. Do you know how many enemy have to be swarming your position before spinning the belt-fed machine gun in a complete circle seems like a useful option? Surrounded by bad guys firing from the buildings around us, Soprano seemed to dump 25 mm HE into almost every door and window. Broadhead’s .50 was going continuously, and he was slamming the buildings with 120 mm HEAT rounds, the explosions rocking everything.

  Groups of soldiers would run from one building to another, firing at us. We kept driving and shooting, driving and shooting. We took out communication towers. Somebody would fire an RPG at us from a small building, and we would blow it apart. Groups of soldiers would rush us, and we would mow them down or drive them back with our machine guns. Soprano was working the main gun and the coax, switching back and forth. I was firing the M4 as fast as I could empty and reload the carbine.

  I spotted an Iraqi pointing an RPG at us, and before I could do anything I saw it coming at us in slow motion again. I knew we were fucked. There was nothing we could do; I could only watch it coming in to kill us.

  All of a sudden there was an explosion that knocked me back down inside the hatch. When I stood up I had splinters all over me, the air was filled with this white cloud, and I could taste it on my lips . . .

  “Goddammit!” I looked down.

  I’d bolted a wooden ammo box on the Commander’s side of the track. In it I had my little Coleman stove, my coffee, my sugar, my creamer, and a couple of coffee cups, even a piece of Corian countertop we could use as a little tabletop while we sat around and BS’ed. That was the Crazy Horse Café, which I’d written on the side of the box. The box that was now gone.

  The RPG hit the Crazy Horse Café and blew up. It blew the box off the side of the Bradley, and the box acted like reactive armor—it gave its life to save the Carnivore. However, all I could do was taste my sugar and creamer swirling through the air in a white cloud, like a cocaine bust gone wrong, which made me even angrier. The Iraqi who’d killed the Crazy Horse Café was standing there looking at the swirling cloud of coffee and creamer, and I put a burst into him. Fucker.

  My radio wasn’t working for shit, and I could only communicate with Broadhead. I found out later that the rest of the platoon was behind the compound where they’d discovered a number of mortar positions. They were as busy as we were.

  In military parlance, “black on ammo” means you are out. By the time we stopped taking incoming, we were black on 7.62 for the coax and black on HE for the 25 mm main gun. We were black on ammo for the M4s and Berettas. We literally had nothing left but DU rounds for the main gun, and my commandeered AK.

  Broadhead dismounted his tank and was inspecting one of the Iraqi arms rooms when an enemy soldier walked in on him. Just like the Old West, it was a quick draw—Broadhead with his pistol and the Iraqi with his AK-47. Broadhead emptied his M9 pistol into him. The Iraqi officer only got one round off, and it hit the floor.

  There was a flagpole in the compound and I had Sperry run over it, which made me feel all sorts of warm and fuzzy. We took their flag, which now hangs in the 3rd Infantry Division Museum at Fort Stewart.

  How long were we in there? I could only guess. Time seems to lose meaning in those situations, but we were told later it was less than half an hour. It seemed a lot longer. There were bodies everywhere. We were still taking a lot of sporadic fire from the buildings and could see movement behind a lot of the rubble. The last thing we were going to do was clear the buildings on foot: we’d need a company of infantry, so Broadhead and I pulled back.

  We joined Christner and the rest of First and Second Platoons to the north of the compo
und where they’d been providing overwatch. We had six Bradleys and four M1s on line, and we just pounded the shit out of the compound with whatever ammunition we had left. We also called Sergeant Bennett with the mortar platoon and had him drop rounds into the compound. Fuck moderation. We shot through the walls, through the buildings, into the fuel tanks behind the compound, everything. Burning fuel splashed everywhere, helping us level the place. I later heard that we’d killed an entire battalion of infantry inside those walls. There was a small number of wounded and prisoners that we dealt with as best we could, then we got relieved by Apache Troop. When we headed back across the bridge, the area behind us was nothing but a huge fireball.

  Life is strange, to say the least. God really has a dysfunctional sense of humor. Two years later, during my second tour with Crazy Horse, I was talking to George, my interpreter in Baghdad. He was a great interpreter—I think his English was better than mine. George had a bunch of scars—bullet wounds—but a lot of the Iraqis we worked with did. You learned not to ask about them, because there was no way to know if they had earned them fighting Iran, the Kurds, or us. George was telling us the day he gained respect for the Bradley. It was back in 2003 at the beginning of the war, and he was in an infantry battalion at a base in a town called As Samawah.

  That got my attention. “Um . . . oh, really?” I said. Sully was with me on the second tour as well, and he sat up, his eyes darting between me and George.

  “Yes. This steel beast pushed the wall down to my post and started killing everyone.”

  “At As Samawah?” I said, just to be sure.

  “Uh . . .” Sully started to say, but I shushed him.

  “Yes,” George told me. “It shot us in the buildings, killed us when we attacked, killed us without mercy. But I was not scared, I was brave. I jumped up and fired an RPG at the beast. My aim was true. But I could not believe what happened. There was a huge ball of fire, and black-and-white smoke . . . but the smoke cleared, and I saw it did nothing to the vehicle, the Bradley. Nothing. Then the soldier on top of the vehicle turned and shot me with a machine gun four times.”