Al
Diwaniyah, Iraq. I had been in the desert for 16 days. The heat was exhausting,
the stress overwhelming, yet the adrenaline pumping through my veins was
intoxicating. As my body attempted to adjust to the extreme change in climate,
my mind experienced a struggle between the contemplation of an inevitable death
and the desire to survive. I was 20-years old. A child in the eyes of some, but
a man in the eyes of my country. I was certainly too young to die. On this day
I discovered how close I was… how close I was to death.
***************************************
Living
comfortably in the desert requires a great deal of ingenuity. Without air
conditioning, the inside of a canvas tent was bound to cook a man. I spent most
of this particular morning fine-tuning an air-induction system to my
“jack-shack” (which is simply a vulgar way of describing my partitioned section
of the tent). Let me tell you, if you think living in the desert sounds
difficult, try living in the desert… in a ten by twenty foot tent… with six
other dudes.
I
was forced to abandon my tinkering when I heard Staff Sergeant Jonothan Erich
enter the tent. I noticed my comrades eyeing him curiously as he explained the
instructions for our mission that evening. Erich had made the unfortunate
decision to grow a large mustache during this time away from his wife… the
inch-long, reddish-blonde sprigs jutted straight out of his face. This, coupled
with his rather large body size, made him look like a walrus. Everyone thought
so, but nobody told him. We needed something
to laugh at. “Alright guys…” he said, looking slightly confused by the awkward
expressions of his fellow soldiers. “This evening we’re doing convoy security.
We’ll be escorting thirty-one semi-trucks loaded with supplies to Baghdad
International Airport.”
The
transition from the cool tent to the burning air outside was breathtaking. It
was 110 degrees. Sweat trickled down my face as I lugged my Kevlar vest, helmet
bag, backpack (containing 800 rounds of ammo), and my M249 SAW to the Humvee…
which was about a half a mile away. Our company was called “Warhammer.” We were
the 3rd team in the 2nd squad of the 4th
platoon. There were eleven soldiers in this particular group; three per Humvee…
except for mine, which was the Lead Team – there were four soldiers in Charlie.
Erich
was Squad Leader. His love for power was always at odds with his general
cluelessness. Specialist Richard “the Dick” Mays was our driver. He thought he
knew everything about everything because he grew up in a military family. He
constantly tried to control our team, but the truck commander, Sergeant Michael
Dement, wouldn’t have it. Dement was the most professional of us all… and very religious. I, as I already stated,
was the gunner. Just a young, country boy from a small farm in the middle of
nowhere. We all got along great: I would play guitar and sing with Dement, work
out with Mays, and play tricks on Erich. But there was no fun to be had this
day.
After preparing
the Humvee, we headed out to bully the TCN’s into doing their jobs. A TCN is a
third-country national. The majority of them were to be found sitting outside
their trucks, usually in a group, smoking hashish out of hookahs and drinking
chai. Most were from Egypt and none spoke English – until you pointed a 9 mm.
at them. It generally happened like this:
I would say, “Get
in the truck and let’s go.”
The TCN would wave
his arms and say, “Ah, no English, no English…”
I would continue,
somewhat slower and louder, “Get… in… the… truck… and… let’s… go!”
The TCN would
continue, waving his arms even more frantically, “No English, no English!”
I would next draw
my 9 mm. from its holster, point it at the TCN’s face and say, “Get in the
truck and let’s go.”
He
would immediately rise, hold his arms up with his palms facing me and say,
“Okay! Okay!” When I turned to walk away, I would immediately hear a door slam
and the roar of an engine.
*************************************
I
stood in the gunner’s turret, enjoying the warm breeze and despising the dry,
brown landscape, as we headed toward the north checkpoint. Too soon, however, I
was required to keep my head down. As we approached an overpass, I grabbed
Mays’ M-4 and prepared to fire on any enemy attempting to attack. Although the
imagination often portrays such events in a comical way, a large rock falling
from an overpass onto a Humvee can cause a concerning amount of damage – and
injury… and there were quite a few crazy Haji’s who tried it. Thankfully, none
on this day. The relief of not having to open fire on the enemy didn’t last long.
My first kills would happen within a few short miles.
The
sky was beginning to darken. I got more nervous as it became harder to see into
the distance. I sat, on a horribly uncomfortable 3-inch strap, waiting. Waiting
for what, I didn’t know. I hadn’t yet experienced true combat. There was
silence within the Humvee and I could tell that everyone felt as I did. It was
easy, really, to laugh and carry on while the sun was glaring and spotting the
enemy was easy… but the dark changed everything. The anxiety filling the Humvee
was tangible.
I
saw a bright flash about ten yards in front of us and heard a ricochet of
bullets on the metal. I spotted two black figures, lying in the high grass,
continuing to open fire on the convoy with some sort of small arms – possibly
AK-47’s – though, it was hard to be certain. The sun was near setting by this
time. I exhibited utter disbelief as I ducked into the truck and anxiously
exclaimed, “Those motherfuckers are shooting at me.”
Dement,
Mays, and Erich spoke in unison: “Well, shoot back!” From the moment my tracers
hit the two attackers, it was as if I was watching the incident from the back
passenger seat. In this dreamlike state, I watched myself fire on them. I saw
the bullets make contact and I saw the silhouettes collapse. I had no time to
feel anything, besides the confusion of an atmosphere riddled with blinding
flashes and booming noises. Suddenly, there were fifty or more additional
enemies firing small arms at the convoy. As we gained speed I continued to fire
in the direction of the enemy. Bullets were hungry for flesh, the noise aimed
to confuse and disorient, and it was all I could do to hold the .50 cal. steady
and focus on surviving the attack.
I
suffered a moment of terror when a ricochet made contact with the top of my
hand. I saw myself, moving in slow-motion from a vantage point outside of my
own body and I felt a rage mixed with pity as I opened fire on them again. There
was no time to dawdle over the possibility of having been shot. The pain was
severe, yet I continued to shoot. The noise was suddenly muffled and behind the
slow, softened gunfire, I heard Dement holler a contact report over the radio
and request assistance. The Humvee was slowing down… I looked toward the end of
the convoy and saw that a semi had been hit. We were forced to stop – in the middle
of a darkened highway – in the middle of a furious firefight.
Mays
jumped out of the truck to launch an illumination round. The slow-moving
fireball landed in the dry field, instantaneously consuming it with flames. As
Dement called for fire support, the rest of us continued our attack on the
enemy, who were now much more visible. Those who had been lying down,
attempting to hide among the tall grass, were forced to abandon their positions
as the fire assaulted them. Mays, armed with an M-4, patiently waited for dark
figures to rise from the burning grass. Each person who popped up was
immediately struck and fell, somewhat comically, to the ground.
Suddenly,
I saw massive flashes of light and heard deafening booms as two Bradley Tanks
unloaded their guns on the enemy. During this moment of admiration for the
assistance, I noticed that a TCN toward the end of the convoy had been shot and
was attempting to escape the cab of his truck. A moment later, I witnessed Corporal
Eric Martin abandon his truck and sprint toward the injured truck driver. As
Martin ran, I envisioned an action movie. There were bullets flying between his
legs and above his head. I had no idea how he managed to survive, let alone
make it without a scratch… but he did. Martin grabbed the mortally-wounded man,
and dragged him behind the axle of the truck and out of the way of gunfire.
As I stood in the
turret watching this scene unfold, a bullet flew close by my right ear. My
heart was beating frantically as I hastily ducked into the turret, peering through
the slim open space. I saw no one. There was silence. The tanks had ceased
fire, as had my comrades. The enemy was extinguished, yet the flames continued
to burn. I exited the truck and rushed to assist the injured TCN. After
receiving a GSW to the hip, he acquired additional injuries when he fell from
the cab of the truck onto the blacktop. He was bleeding profusely. The man was
barely breathing and quickly losing consciousness. As I attempted to apply
pressure to the wound his bones crunched under my hand until I could feel the
flatness of the road beneath him. We got him bandaged up and started an IV. He
was flown out a short while later. And died a short while after that.
My team returned
to our truck at the front of the convoy, scarcely breathing a word, where the
tank operators were shining a spotlight on the flaming field. The only bodies
visible were the two I had killed at the beginning of the incident. The others
were either engulfed by flames or had fled. The tank operators offered to take
care of the bodies, for which I was incredibly thankful. I had no interest in a
closer inspection of those dead by my hand. There was no time to reflect; no
time to feel. We were instructed to return to order and continue our mission.
I was wide awake
as we flew down the highway. My faculties were operating more strongly than
they ever had. Then I felt a bump. Mays stopped the Humvee, claiming that we
must have had a flat tire. We blacked out (so as not to be seen), then I checked
the surrounding fields with night-vision goggles to make sure that it was safe
to exit the vehicle and check the tire. After an all-clear, Mays decided to
perform the repair. “Dement,” I whispered, “I’ve – got – to – pee.” Dement
shrugged at me as if to say, “Whatever.”
I climbed onto the
roof of the Humvee and maneuvered to the front, right side of the vehicle. As I
was peeing off the edge, I reflected on the incident and silently let out a
sigh of relief that I had survived. Or perhaps it was a sigh of relief that I
could finally empty my bladder. Whatever I was thinking about, I definitely
didn’t notice that Dement had opened his door to exit the vehicle. He stepped
out into a strong stream of urine and I was immediately subject to a torrent of
undistinguishable curses. When he had escaped the contents of my bladder, he
turned away from me and mumbled, “Bowman, if you hadn’t just saved our lives back
there, I would kick your ass.”
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