meantime, a kind of skirmishing force had been sent forward to probe the outskirts of Hillah and to clear all the obstacles in the road.
By midafternoon, the units that had moved forward were in contact. Their brazen move to take down the Iraqi obstacles was too much for the Iraqi defenders to handle. It was an assault on the defendersâ pride, and they had chosen confrontation. Events were already unfolding as I dialed into the brigade net, 101.3 WRAK, All Rakkasans, All the Time.
Two Iraqis were already KIA. Two soldiers from Alpha Company had also been wounded, as had one soldier from our company. The Voice said that it was the soldier from Delta who had been the most severely wounded. A piece of shrapnel from an exploding hand grenade had hit him in the face.
I recognized the brigade commander giving instructions. There was talk of maneuvering to take a building, of firing tank rounds into buildings. It was surreal. It was like listening to a game on the radio.
He goes into the shotgun . . . he drops back . . .
I stuck my head out of the truck to see if I could hear any of the fighting. Nothing. Just a light breeze in the grass and a few voices in the truck parked next to me. I looked up and saw a few wispy clouds and a handful of flying birds. I couldnât hear any of the telltale sounds of combatâno thuds or poppop-pops. I guessed that we were still too far away to hear small arms fire. Around me, most guys in the company were just milling about, either bullshitting or lounging in their vehicles. They didnât seem to care that a battle was unfolding six miles away. They didnât seem to care that come morning, it would be us.
I wasnât any different. As if I had no personal stake in the affair, I felt just as interested as if I had been listening to an embedded reporter on CNN back home.
Wow, look honey. Those soldiers are in a fight on TV. Whatâs for dinner?
For a guy with friends in the line of fire
at that very moment
, I managed to surprise even myself. I hadnât yet realized just how desensitized I was becoming.
By late afternoon the fighting was over. That evening a guy I knew gave me the rundown. He told of an Iraqi who feigned surrender, and then of the Iraqiâs comrades who appeared on a flank and began throwing hand grenades. He had ordered his platoon to launch high-explosive grenades from a Mk 19 into each window of a multistory building from which they had taken fire. He told of picking up the shell casings of rounds he had fired. He was keeping them as souvenirs.
By nightfall my detachment had become even creepier by normal standards. The orders had been given, maps had been laminated and disseminated, and the vehicles had been aligned for the morning attack. I had spent an hour trying to get a map of Hillah from the intelligence guys, and then another hour leaning over the hood of my truck in the dark trying to use a permanent marker to properly mark all of the objectives on the map.
I was sitting in the front seat again, listening to music, when Phil, my roommate from back in the States, walked over to me. To Lieutenant Philip Dickinson, another Delta platoon leader, the idea of charging into battle was even newer than it was to me. He had been in Afghanistan with us, but had arrived as a replacement, two days after Anaconda.
It is a chill and dusty morning outside the tents at Kandahar International Airport, and we are shaving out of canteen cups filled with cold water. Iâve yet to put on my desert camouflage top when I notice a band of new guys have entered our encampment. The first thing
that strikes me is how
fresh
they look, with their pressed uniforms and spotless baggage. Captain K. still has shaving cream on his face when Phil introduces himself as the new officer. Captain K. grunts something and points the clueless-looking new platoon leader over to me. As he walks over, I stick out my hand and say, âHowâs it going?â
I turned the
By midafternoon, the units that had moved forward were in contact. Their brazen move to take down the Iraqi obstacles was too much for the Iraqi defenders to handle. It was an assault on the defendersâ pride, and they had chosen confrontation. Events were already unfolding as I dialed into the brigade net, 101.3 WRAK, All Rakkasans, All the Time.
Two Iraqis were already KIA. Two soldiers from Alpha Company had also been wounded, as had one soldier from our company. The Voice said that it was the soldier from Delta who had been the most severely wounded. A piece of shrapnel from an exploding hand grenade had hit him in the face.
I recognized the brigade commander giving instructions. There was talk of maneuvering to take a building, of firing tank rounds into buildings. It was surreal. It was like listening to a game on the radio.
He goes into the shotgun . . . he drops back . . .
I stuck my head out of the truck to see if I could hear any of the fighting. Nothing. Just a light breeze in the grass and a few voices in the truck parked next to me. I looked up and saw a few wispy clouds and a handful of flying birds. I couldnât hear any of the telltale sounds of combatâno thuds or poppop-pops. I guessed that we were still too far away to hear small arms fire. Around me, most guys in the company were just milling about, either bullshitting or lounging in their vehicles. They didnât seem to care that a battle was unfolding six miles away. They didnât seem to care that come morning, it would be us.
I wasnât any different. As if I had no personal stake in the affair, I felt just as interested as if I had been listening to an embedded reporter on CNN back home.
Wow, look honey. Those soldiers are in a fight on TV. Whatâs for dinner?
For a guy with friends in the line of fire
at that very moment
, I managed to surprise even myself. I hadnât yet realized just how desensitized I was becoming.
By late afternoon the fighting was over. That evening a guy I knew gave me the rundown. He told of an Iraqi who feigned surrender, and then of the Iraqiâs comrades who appeared on a flank and began throwing hand grenades. He had ordered his platoon to launch high-explosive grenades from a Mk 19 into each window of a multistory building from which they had taken fire. He told of picking up the shell casings of rounds he had fired. He was keeping them as souvenirs.
By nightfall my detachment had become even creepier by normal standards. The orders had been given, maps had been laminated and disseminated, and the vehicles had been aligned for the morning attack. I had spent an hour trying to get a map of Hillah from the intelligence guys, and then another hour leaning over the hood of my truck in the dark trying to use a permanent marker to properly mark all of the objectives on the map.
I was sitting in the front seat again, listening to music, when Phil, my roommate from back in the States, walked over to me. To Lieutenant Philip Dickinson, another Delta platoon leader, the idea of charging into battle was even newer than it was to me. He had been in Afghanistan with us, but had arrived as a replacement, two days after Anaconda.
It is a chill and dusty morning outside the tents at Kandahar International Airport, and we are shaving out of canteen cups filled with cold water. Iâve yet to put on my desert camouflage top when I notice a band of new guys have entered our encampment. The first thing
that strikes me is how
fresh
they look, with their pressed uniforms and spotless baggage. Captain K. still has shaving cream on his face when Phil introduces himself as the new officer. Captain K. grunts something and points the clueless-looking new platoon leader over to me. As he walks over, I stick out my hand and say, âHowâs it going?â
I turned the
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