Small miseries, like small debts, hit us in so many places, and meet us at so many turns and corners, that what they want in weight, they make up in number, and render it less hazardous to stand the fire of one cannon ball, than a volley composed of such a shower of bullets.
- Rudyard Kipling -
The shaking had stopped; what always came next was worse though. Distance. Vagueness. Emptiness. Detachment. The fight never ended.
Water circled around the plug taking with it dirt and grime, sand, dust and blood. The soldier sat unmoving upon the floor of the small shower cubicle in combat vest, full battle dress and boots, allowing the water to cascade over him, an attempt to wash away some of the filth...but knowing the taint would remain long after the shower and long after he'd returned to civilian life...If he survived service. His eyes closed and he was back in the field.
The lead vehicle erupted upwards in fire and smoke sand and rocks, the shockwave buffeting the second. Another FGM-148 Javelin hit the last vehicle and that was down. Hell opened up.
Simultaneously, small arms fire poured in, a withering stream of hot lead raking the sand, tinging off the armour and thudding into the starfire water white laminated glass of the Humvee. He could tell the difference between a direct strike and a ricochet and for a moment sat immobile listening to the tattoo of the incoming fire on the vehicle thinking it sounded musical...and then he moved.
Fire came from all directions, there was no cover except beneath the vehicle and from there he surveyed what he could see of the battlefield. Chaos. Disorganisation. Death.
A moment of desperation stabbed at him as he saw burning men falling out of the stricken vehicles; most fell to the ground, lumps of screaming burning flesh, rounds exploding as the fire set them off. He felt the urge to run, drag them behind the vehicle but there was nowhere to go.
Rounds raked the ground and vehicles spitting up dust, rocks and sand; RPG's streaked across the landscape and rifle fire, incoming and outbound, made thought almost impossible. Almost.
He thought - training making it easy - establish fire superiority.
Someone was shouting orders, or relaying them, radios squawked, others just shouted out of fear, anger or madness; it was easy to feel all three. Focus came, the rate and accuracy of fire improved as the unit settled in to what they knew best, remembered their training, and found courage.
The soldier lay beneath the Humvee picking out targets; his was the only long range gun in the unit, a bolt action model he preferred over semi-automatics - less jamming issues in the desert.
He ignored the short measured bursts of the 50 calibres atop the remaining vehicles and the SAW's, belt-fed FN Minimi' squad automatic weapons, as they chattered away. He blocked out the bursts of automatic fire from the units' smaller arms and hardly heard the traversing turret of the nearby Leopard ASI tank as it sent sent 105mm rounds across the landscape. If not for that tank they'd be done for, but it only carried 59 rounds...Then what? He pushed the thought aside and focused...
Scope for a target, calculate, aim, fire, verify - another one down - who's next.
The rounds were accurate, he was a skilled sniper, and he sent those fuckers to hell - No emotion, no joy, no fear...no thought at all that wasn't about the shot itself. Three, four, five...He picked strategic targets, machine gunners, mortar-men...They all fell to his rounds.
Hours went by like minutes and the engagement continued unabated. Air-strikes by the fast-movers, fighter-bombers, that screamed overhead gave them a moment or two as the enemy would retreat into caves and crevasses. The reduced rate of fire permitting time to shift, distribute ammunition, assess the situation, evaluate, plan and tend wounded...Then the RPG's would sing once more, a counterpoint to the barrage of small arms fire that poured in.
When the RPG struck the Humvee lifted off the ground.
It landed, the huge wheel only just missing his leg but it caught his mates, rolled down it, and he screamed. Blood flowed from the split the vehicle had caused in the leg. As if the enemy knew they were vulnerable their fire intensified. He had to move, the enemy fire and the burning vehicle making this position untenable. But where?
It's always a difficult decision, move oneself and equipment and resume the fight or drag a wounded, possibly dying buddy, to safety. He chose the latter, dragging the man 60 yards to the tank whilst under fire, rolled the screaming man into cover behind and slightly underneath it then racing back for rifles, ammunition and a pack pulled hastily from inside the rear of the burning Humvee.
The tank had taken a Javelin missle there was no turret anymore, it had popped off like a soda can lid. But it was safe enough, better than laying under a burning Humvee.
Taking stock, he realised his mate had taken rounds in the legs, probably as he was being dragged. Staunching the flow as best he could and reassuring his mate he'd live, he moved back to his gun even as his mate said, give me my fucking rifle, as he made to get up. He handed it over, helped prop him up so he could shoot and laid behind his own. Fear brings courage.
Night fell and as the sun sank over the horizon it took most of the fighting with it. It was beautiful, the sunset and the desert sky full of stars that followed. They seemed so close he could touch them. Beautiful, he said even as his mind rallied against the thought of something being beautiful in a place like this.
How could such beauty exist in such a god-forsaken land as this? How could such beauty exist when only yards away the grotesque shapes of men burned to death lay. How could such beauty exist amidst such violence and carnage? It made him sad. It made him angry that his mates lay dead and that he was here in the first place; he shouldn't be here. He smiled though...he was here, and he knew just what to do; slay every one of those enemy fighters. He knew they thought the same, especially for him; snipers were highly-prized targets. Not tonight fuckers, he thought.
Sleep never came, it was too cold and too hostile.
He huddled with his mate for warmth and scoped the surrounding terrain with NVG's. Blackhawk's swooped in now and then, rained fire upon the enemy with twin 7.62 machine guns; it held them in place, slowed them down - time mattered - our armoured support column was on the way. We're ok cobber, we'll fucking live through this, them kill 'em all, he spoke quietly to his buddy, but he'd passed out again.
The dawn brought more fire. He fired back alone now, his mate had faded away, alive, but barely.
Outgoing fire was less intense. Sporadic. He'd done an ammo check earlier: two magazines for the F88 Austeyr and 64 rounds for his long gun. Not good. He figured the others weren't much better off but how many *others there were he didn't know, comms went out in the night.
The soldier drifted a moment; he'd been awake for over 24 hours and was flagging.
He thought about before...he thought about home. He thought about the people he left there. He thought about her. He'd refused to allow her to come to the airport when he deployed. He regretted that now. He thought about the letter he'd written, the one she'd receive if he died. He wondered if it said enough. He wondered what she'd be told if he fell, but was more concerned about what hadn't said and what he'd never be able to say should he not make it.
An RPG brought him back from his reverie and he resumed his deadly hunt. Eleven, twelve...He lost count.
They never killed them all.
The recently re-tasked AC-130H Spectre gunship poured accurate 40mm cannon-fire onto the heavy machinegun positions, twin A-10 Warthogs added incendiary cluster bombs, Mark 84's, and fire from their brutal 30×173mm GAU-8/A Avenger auto-cannons. On the ground a column rolled in, three tanks and APC's, the QRF arrived adding their fire.
Fire superiority. Finally.
They didn't kill them all, but the enemy all decided they had somewhere else to be and the need to get there very quickly. Some managed it, many did not.
He refused to leave the battlefield and as the action was mopped up he moved around talking with his unit; most of them. Some hadn't made it and some were on MEDEVAC's out already. He'd seen his mate onto a Blackhawk with promises to come see him; it was unlikely though, his buddy would be in Germany having his legs removed within 24 hours, but he'd live.
Cold water brought him back to the moment. He was shivering from the water or for some other reason, he couldn't tell. A half hour later he was sleeping like the dead.
A couple days later, in the mess, the chow tasted a little better than before, the Pepsi just a little more sweet. Life seemed better when one found more of it, against all odds. It wasn't his first contact, that was much worse - the first always is -but this was different somehow; or maybe it was him that was different. He'd spent days analysing the contact, what went wrong and why, what went right and why. Evaluate. Strategize. Plan.
He'd taken the time to speak to the chaps. Some spoke openly, some had retreated inside themselves...all were changed. It was a mean fight and they'd been brutalised. Mental note - morale low.
He read the AAR wincing slightly as the words brought it back to life. The after action report always seemed so matter of fact, so cold...It was emotionless.
It didn't speak of fear and courage.
It never described the sound of bullets thudding into vehicles and flesh.
It didn't describe the pain, horror and desperation of combat.
It never spoke of the beautiful desert sky at night or the moment you realise you're sitting in a puddle of another mans blood.
It didn't speak about death, delivering it or receiving it.
It didn't mention the elation of making an impact, achieving an objective...or the desolation he felt at the taking of a life. The AAR was truth, but a lie at the same time.
It was the dichotomy of war.
On a call home he'd spoken about long days of boredom and routine tasks:
Cleaning weapons and equipment, working out, studying intelligence reports, the dancing Elvis they'd put on the dashboard of the Humvee, the food; he deflected conversation to what was happening back home.
He lied to her. She didn't need to know what happened here, couldn't know.
He didn't tell her about the fate of the tank crew, whose tank had saved his life; that they had died in fire and pain, screaming to the last.
He didn't tell her about his mate who would wheel himself around in a chair for the rest of his life. He didn't tell her he cried last night. He didn't tell her he wanted to kill them all and that the unit kept his tally on a whiteboard, nor did he tell her the number - Ever.
He didn't tell her he wanted to come home; it just seemed an unrealistic goal.
He didn't tell her he was afraid he was not the man she once knew and would probably never be him again. He feared she would realise it though, and sometimes thought it best that she did. He didn't tell her that he'd had enough, that sometimes his hands shook so much he couldn't hold his coffee. He told no one any of it, especially not her.
The call ended...and he suddenly wanted to tell her everything.
As he ate he thought of a phrase he'd used a few times:
"Count the bodies and call it victory."
He used it after actions sometimes. But was it victory? Was it? He knew part of him died each time he took a life or one of the men fell. He knew he moved farther away from the man he had been with each action or engagement.
What he didn't know was who he was; the lines seemed blurred these days.
No, it was unlikely he'd look back on this and call it victory.
Design and create your ideal life, don't live it by default - Tomorrow isn't promised so be humble and kind
Any images in this post are my own