After serving 15 years in the Army, I am left with reflection. Troubling memories that cloud my thoughts of times where things went terribly wrong. Some things in this life stay with you.
My worst day in combat...
The day started out like any other day. It was hot in Afghanistan and in the month of March, the weather was already turning to what felt like summer. I was a Platoon Sergeant for a group of 35 soldiers in the remote combat outpost called COP Fortress, in Kunar Province. A province known for its violent history.
Our sleeping quarters were made of plywood and were riddled with bullet holes as a reminder of previous attacks on the outpost. We landed under fire, and would leave in grand fashion, sling-loading our howitzers under the cover of darkness, some months later.
Then, all hell broke lose. The first explosion was inside the "wire". The signature whistle, then like a firework, BOOM. We were taking incoming enemy mortar fire. One after one, I make the call up to my fire direction team, who is located in a makeshift "tactical operations center" while simultaneously giving the order to all of my troops to take cover.
The fear of not knowing where the next round will land is always on the back of your mind, but your mind is racing, working through contingency plans. I find myself in a bunker with my two section chiefs. They are my go-to non-commissioned officers and are in direct control of 10 troops each.
I start the process of ensuring that we have accountability of our troops. This is done over radio. One by one we go down the list to ensure that everyone is present and in one of the many bunkers that litter the compound. Now, when I say bunker, what I mean is a concrete structure that is about 12 inches thick, but has openings on ether side. Like a Lego block, there are bunkers strategically placed throughout our COP.
I call down to the entrance control point where I have two soldiers on guard duty, and get a response "Smoke, we took a round down here, but we are all right". Now, the term "Smoke" is a term used in the field artillery community to identify a Platoon Sergeant. I instruct them to take cover and to keep me updated, and they comply.
Suddenly, another round lands, but this one is uncomfortably close. It shakes the structure that our bunker is attached to, so we decide to find another bunker. So, we sprint from one point to another, until we reach another bunker that is closer to the bulk of my troops.
In the field artillery, we don't see combat like an infantryman would. There are distinct differences. For instance, when we are attacked by indirect fire, like what was going on here, the entire outpost is hunkered down. We have target acquisition assets that are able to, some times, pinpoint where the fire is coming from.
If we are able to ensure that there are no civilians in the area, and we have eyes on the suspected area we are taking the fire from, we will return fire, which usually shuts down any incoming fire that we are taking. Our cannons are deadly accurate and the lethal 155mm high explosive projectile will make anyone have a "bad day".
I get the order over my radio..."27, this is Bulldog 6, I need 4th Section to get on Azimuth 4800". Now, I feel as if my job is to ensure the safety of my troops and I dislike orders that puts them in danger if there is no reward or potential to effectively eliminate the enemy fire, so I ask, "Bulldog 6, this is 27, do we have an active fire mission?". The first order was asking me to send a section of my troops, (about 10 guys) out in the open to manually shift the direction the howitzer was pointed.
I guess the brass did not like me questioning his authority, cause the next thing out of the microphone was a bunch of yelling and what-not, so I instruct my guys to hurry up and get their protective gear on if they have not already done so. Some of them were in the showers, some were asleep when we got initially attacked... it was chaotic, but I wanted to ensure I gave them as much protection as I could.
In the military, we wear body armor and helmets meant to protect you from small arms fire and up to a rifle round. Thick plates line the vests at the torso and in the back. They limit damage, but do not give 100% protection from a blast. The best thing to do if a blast happens in your vicinity, is to hit the ground and hope for the best...true story...but you will probably not even know what hit you until the smoke clears.
So, me and ten or so troops ran out and turned the gun on the direction that was directed, in quick succession and then we all sprinted back to a bunker and awaited approval of the fire mission. You see, we had to get approval for every round we fired out of our guns. Higher-ups had to approve the uses of 155mm on the battlefield due to their destructive nature. One round has a kill radius of 50 meters. That is 150 feet for you to visualize. We scare the enemy, and we are scary accurate, which makes us a prime target for their indirect attacks.
Then, the waiting game...after taking over 20 rounds of indirect, we hear the sound of relief. Helicopters can be heard overhead, and I hear the pilot over the radio contacting the tactical operations center (TOC) asking for where to start the search. For what seems like an hour goes by, and then I overhear the helicopter pilots come back on station and inform the TOC that they needed to head back to base to refuel, and that they observed no activity.
Now, the enemy we faced in Afghanistan was resilient. They adapted well to our capabilities and our rules of engagement. Some would argue, me being one, that they use our rules of engagement, and exploit them. Using the cave systems littering the mountainous region of Kunar Province was their forte.
This is all in the back of my mind. All the sudden, the celebrated "All clear" is called. The term "all clear" is exactly how it sounds. Meaning, you are free to go about your business, as they don't anticipate any more activity. I get a call over the radio, "27, this is Bulldog 6, I need you to go and check out where the round landed earlier, near the gun pit".
Now, this is what haunts me. In the back of my mind, I had a gut-wrenching feeling that something was about to go terribly wrong. I call down to my guys at the entrance control point, and ask them their status. I get the new response of "One of the rounds landed, but it didn't function down here". I tell them to keep their distance and we would get EOD (Explosive Ordinance Disposal) to come down and take a look.
I then head down to the gun pit, to inspect the guns to see if any of them took any damage. I walk over to the first gun, and look it up and down, not noticing anything out of the ordinary, and then I one of my soldier runs over and says that they found where the round landed.
At the point where the first picture in this blog is taken from, is where that round landed. It left about a 2 foot crater, and peppered the barriers that can be seen in the photo with shrapnel. By this time, my commander had arrived to the gun pit, and proceeded to check out the crater left by the incoming round.
I turn to him and tell him that I am going to go down and check the entrance control point to see what is going on down there. As soon as I turn to walk out of the gun pit, I hear a boom directly behind me. The thing about a mortar round is that if you are close enough, it makes it extremely hard to gauge distance. I knew that something had exploded behind me, but did not know how close. Later, I would inspect the crater, and would determine I was approximately 30 feet from the point of impact. There was some obstruction in the way between me and it, so I was not hit.
It is the little things in combat that stick with you in times like this. I was standing directly where the impact occurred, not even 20 seconds earlier. I instinctively ran. That is the truth of the matter, when danger hits you directly in the face, fight or flight kicks in. Instincts take over. I knew the round had landed behind me, but did not know where. Our area surrounding the gun pit consisted of a maze of hesco barriers. The picture below shows what I am talking about. Basically, they are steel reinforced, cardboard boxes that are filled with dirt.
I run around the corner where a bunker is located, and I see one of my troops. He is alone and is guarding what looks to be the entire platoon's rifles. I ask him, "where did that round land"? He tells me that he is unsure but he thinks it landed on the helicopter landing zone. There was an open area just outside of the gun pit that was used by helicopters to push supplies out to us. Then I heard the unthinkable. I hear one of my troops yelling out "MEDIC". Repeatedly, like a wave, he calls out for help.
I instruct the troop guarding the rifles to stay put and ensure that no one attempts to take any of the rifles, and I run around the side of the building between me and the gun pit. I see one of my troops being carried into the building right beside the gun pit. By this time, the medics arrive. I head into the building to see the damage and see two of my soldiers on the ground. The medics start going to work on them, stripping them of their gear, stripping them of their clothing, exposing the open wounds.
I stand over the more seriously wounded troop and I begin a dialogue, or attempt to. I tell him things like, "Hey, stay with me", and I try to keep his mind off of his injuries. By this time, my entire gunline has crammed into the small building made of concrete. They are in a connecting room, and the medic states the need for a couple of litters.
Now, a litter is used to carry wounded troops. The closest one is outside and at this point, I am taking over. I tell everyone to stay put, as the thought of another one of them getting hurt because of an action I dictated was eating me up. I ran outside and found two litters and came back in record succession.
One of the litters is found to be non-functional, so I direct two of my troops to go and secure another one that is working properly. I can remember the stare I received from one of the troops when I told him to go outside and to get another litter. I had to raise my voice and repeat myself before his brain could comprehend what I was asking him to do.
We then ran, and when I say ran, I mean ran as fast as we could considering we were carrying a grown man between four people, to the aid station that was a couple hundred meters away. Due to most of the structures being made of plywood, and the aid station being no exception, it was not deemed a safe place, so I instructed the troops that carried over the litter to occupy a nearby bunker until we stopped taking incoming rounds.
The entire time that all of this has been going on, we were taking round after round of incoming mortar fire, in the same vicinity. The medic totally strips down the most wounded out of the bunch. He has about a quarter sized hole in his upper chest and the medic looks over at me and says, "Well if you are going to stand there, you might as well be useful", and he instructs me to apply pressure to the wound while he works up adding pain medicine to his IV.
Then, the call comes down. "MEDEVAC is 5 minutes out". The term "medevac" means that a helicopter is about to land to take out the wounded, so they can be taken to a proper facility at a larger base. We had roughly one company of infantry soldiers and us, so less than 200 soldiers in total. We didn't have a physician on hand, only a couple of combat medics.
So, by this time, the infantry First Sergeant arrives along with my commander. He asks, "where is the litter team"? I said, "You are looking at them". So, my commander, me and the infantry First Sergeant take positions along with one of the combat medics, and I give the instruction of "UP" and we are off to the Helicopter Landing Zone to meet the Helicopter.
All-in-all, six Purple Hearts were given out that day. Four of my guys that were closest to the blast, got pinholes littered throughout their bodies. The molten lead from the round detonating had literally acted like a shotgun blast. The most severely wounded had about fifty holes in his body and him and one of the other guys had to get waivers to travel back home due to their bodies setting off metal detectors at the airport.
The firing tapered off and finally quit after another hour or so. Later, we found that the most severely wounded was only about 3 feet from the blast site, and it is a miracle that he survived. Now, my story is tame. Many troops out there, who have served, have had way worse "worst day experiences". I am by no means attempting to say that my worst day was any worse than anybody else's.
My takeaways...
Life is unpredictable, learn to appreciate when things are going well.
Stress and fear are obstacles that can be overcome given the right motivating factor.
Life is short, live each day as if it were your last.
Finally, live without regret, what is in the past is in the past, and only you can let your past dictate your future...
*Hope you liked my experience. Feel free to upvote and or comment below.