Ambush Alley: The Most Extraordinary Battle of the Iraq War (24 page)

12

Lieutenant Colonel Grabowski and his battalion staff were still in the open area just off to the east side of Ambush Alley, trying to build up a picture of the battlefield. Grabowski knew that Alpha was involved in a fight at the Euphrates Bridge. Captain Brooks had called him, wanting to know whether the tanks had finished refueling. He’d also received news that Charlie Company was now involved in some sort of firefight on the northern bridge. His staff had received worrying messages that Charlie had some casualties and needed a helo to medevac them out of there. But the landing zone was too hot and the medevac was canceled. The fight was tougher than he’d thought. But the next radio transmission he received took the battle to a new level. It was from a platoon commander with Charlie Company.

“Timberwolf. We’ve got air running on us. It’s an A-10. Get them to call that A-10 off of us. For God’s sake, sir, get them to stop.”

There was so much going on that Grabowski couldn’t grasp its impact.
How can there be an A-10 firing on our own marines?

Moments later, the forward command post received another call.

“Cease that damn fire. Abort air, abort air.”

It was the same voice again. Grabowski recognized it as that of Lieutenant Mike Seely, a Charlie Company platoon commander. Seely’s voice was breaking under the strain. Grabowski knew Seely as a solid marine who had won a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star for his action during Desert Storm. He remembered that Seely had told him of one episode during the campaign where he had been run on by an A-10. If anyone knew what he was talking about, it would be Seely. He got on the regimental net.

“We’ve got friendly air running on us. You’ve got to turn it off.”

A wave of frustration and helplessness swept over Grabowski.
Godamn.
This is about as bad as it can get.

13

Sergeant William Schaefer, in track 201, fighting with Charlie Company at the northern bridge, felt the battle spinning out of his control. Marines were being overwhelmed by enemy artillery, mortars, RPGs, and machine-gun fire, and now by friendly air. He still had no idea where his CO, Lieutenant Tracy, was, but he now saw other tracks desperately maneuvering on the road to get out of the way of the incoming rounds. He knew they had to move, too.

“Get in. We’ve got to get the fuck out of here.”

Lance Corporal Jared Martin and the others were still struggling to push Fribley’s lifeless body into the track through the small rear personnel hatch. Marines yelled and shouted in panic as they tried to wedge him in. They couldn’t get him in. His head got caught on the frame of the hatch. They stripped off the remains of his Kevlar jacket and ripped off his chemical suit and his cammies down to his PT gear. His guts were coming out of his back. They pushed again. There was not much holding him together because his rib cage had been blown out. They crumpled him in half and pushed him in.

From inside the track, Corporal Worthington, still unsure as to exactly what had hit them moments earlier, saw the marines loading up a bulky, formless shape. He looked closer. It was a person. Martin stared at him.

“Fribley’s dead.”

Just as they closed the rear hatch, another shell rocked them, sending more shrapnel down the open top hatch.

Wenztel yelled in agony and clutched his shoulder.

“I’m hit, I’m hit.”

On the roof of track 201, Private First Class Robinson was still trying to pull at the top hatch to close it. It wouldn’t move.

“Close the hatch, close the fucking hatch.”

“Just get in. We gotta get out of here. Get the fuck in.”

Robinson ducked inside. Schaefer lodged himself into the AAV commander’s seat. He ran a U.S. flag up the turret, hoping to ward off the A-10, which he could hear was still buzzing around. He was formulating his plan on the fly. He couldn’t see Captain Wittnam or Lieutenant Tracy. The driver of track C205—which carried the injured twenty-year-old Corporal Randy Glass and Corporal Mike Mead, along with the young Navy corpsman, Luis Fonseca—had decided to take off across the Canal Bridge and head back down Ambush Alley without waiting for orders. Schaefer knew none of this. But he did know that they couldn’t stay where they were. They were just getting shot up. He was going to take the track back down Ambush Alley toward Alpha’s position.
We need to get out of here,
and we need to get the wounded to the aid station.
He saw other tracks maneuvering around with the same idea. He sent out a message to the AAV commanders.

“Let’s go. Watch for the flag.”

Schaefer didn’t know how many tracks would follow him, but he saw that Corporal Elliot in 208—which was carrying several wounded, including much of the mortar crew—was in front and was already taking off and heading back south. He wondered whether the other tracks with him knew what he had decided to do. He had a horrible moment of doubt.
I hope I
was clear enough with my instructions.
He ordered Castleberry to get moving.

Castleberry gunned up 201’s engine and went into full combat lock. He closed his hatch and got back on the road. In front, lying in the dirt, were the remains of Lieutenant Pokorney. He made sure he steered around the lifeless body. Then he slotted in behind Elliot’s track and tried to stay as close as possible. He didn’t want to get left behind. Neither he nor Schaefer had any idea how many tracks were following.

In fact, three other tracks were following Elliot and Schaefer. Track 206, carrying Corporal Matthew Juska and the injured tracker, Sergeant Michael Bitz, had slotted in behind 201. In the darkness of the track, Juska had no idea what they were doing or where they were going. From where he was, he could see nothing. What worried him was that they were exposed on the raised part of the road. He yelled at the driver.

“Get off the fucking road.”

The marines inside swayed wildly from side to side, drowning in the noise of the diesel engine, the smack of rounds hitting the outside of the track, and the roar of a plane overhead.
Where the fuck are we going?

Tagging behind track 206 was track 210, filled with twenty-five marines, none of them injured, including Staff Sergeant Anthony Pompos. Pompos didn’t quite know what he was doing there. As the shells and mortars had landed around them, they had become separated from the rest of the company, and someone had made a call to get back in the track.

“We are going to link up with the rest of Charlie Company.”

The hatches were closed and it was pitch black. Pompos assumed that they were just going to drive a few hundred meters to avoid the incoming and to link up with the rest of Charlie closer to the bridge. What he didn’t know was that in the chaos, the AAV driver had decided to join the rest of the medevac convoy and head all the way back down Ambush Alley.

Bringing up the rear of the five-vehicle medevac convoy was Corporal Michael Brown and a group of marines in track 207.

Circling overhead, the A-10 pilots looked down through their binoculars to see what damage they had done. The pilots saw that they had destroyed what they thought were enemy vehicles to the north of the bridge. But they also now saw five vehicles moving toward the bridge, heading back into the city. Gyrate 73 called back down to Mouth.

“Hey, you’ve got vehicles from the northern target sector progressing into the city.”

Mouth was alarmed. He assumed they were enemy vehicles coming into the city to attack them. He cleared the pilots hot to take out the vehicles, insisting on an east-to-west attack heading to avoid the possibility of missiles spilling over from the target area and landing in the city.

“This is Mouth. Those vehicles must not get into the city.”

The A-10s had been circling the area and firing on the target area north of the canal bridge for about twenty minutes. Now they had to make sure that the vehicles heading into the city did not get there. Gyrate 74 came in on a strafing run and fired off a Maverick.

In the troop compartment of track 201, Casey Robinson had no idea that they were now heading back down Ambush Alley. If he had known, he wouldn’t have jumped in. He felt his track being pounded from all sides. A massive explosion rocked the track and lifted it up in the air. He thought they were going to topple over, but they came back down again with a thump. His insides were shaking and his teeth were rattling with each new boom as mortars and shells landed around them. Inside, no one was saying much. He saw a line of pale, strained faces. At each whistle of a shell, they clenched their insides, waiting to see if this was the one that would explode them into tiny pieces.

Boom.

Another explosion thudded into the tracks. This time it blew open the rear hatch, leaving it swinging madly on its hinges. Those inside inched forward into the track, moving their legs as far from the swinging hatch as possible. As it banged against its frame, Robinson could see the dust and rocks whipped up outside while the track hurtled forward. Wounded marines were pumping out blood, and Robinson felt it dripping all over him. The belly of the track was sticky with the stuff. There was no corpsman with them, so they were relying on buddy aid. Marines grabbed anything they could find, ripping up T-shirts, scarves, and clothes to use as bandages to stem the flow of blood. His squad leader, Corporal Wentzel, who had been injured by shrapnel, was balled up in a corner sobbing. Blood was pouring down Martin’s forehead and Seegert was holding a bloody arm. Robinson noticed that they both seemed to still be in the game.

Above the medevac convoy, Gyrate 73 now positioned his plane in the shooter block for another bomb run. He came in on an east-west heading with two Maverick missiles. He saw what he thought was a small-size truck, heading across the bridge. He locked onto the vehicle as it was just south of the bridge and got ready to release one of the Mavericks.

On the ground, Corporal Elliot, in the commander’s hatch of the lead vehicle, Charlie 208, had sped across the Saddam Canal Bridge and into the mouth of Ambush Alley. Ahead of him lay the long stretch of road that would lead him to the Euphrates Bridge, the battalion aid station, and safety. He was still bleeding from a shrapnel wound to the neck. There were eleven marines with him. His driver, Lance Corporal Trevino, had earlier put the body of Corporal Chanawongse in the troop compartment. Now it was also loaded with the injured mortarmen, Corporal Jose Garibay, Private First Class Tamario Burkett, and Private Jonathan Gifford, who had been hit when Iraqi rounds smashed into Lieutenant Reid’s mortar position. He also had a 2nd Platoon squad leader, Sergeant Bren-don Reiss, who had been injured by mortar or artillery fire. Providing security for the track were Lance Corporal Donald J. Cline Jr., Lance Corporal Thomas Blair, Corporal Patrick Nixon, Lance Corporal Michael Williams, and twenty-year-old Private First Class Nolan Hutchings. Elliot’s track was also loaded with white phosphorous and illumination ammo for the 60 mm mortar in the troop compartment. With him in the up-gun station there were ninety-six rounds of 40 mm ammo and two hundred rounds of .50-cal ammo.

Elliot looked for threats as the track reached the mouth of Ambush Alley. He didn’t hear the A-10 overhead. Out of nowhere there was an ear-shattering noise, a huge explosion, and heat and light seemed to pour into Elliot’s turret. He felt the vehicle rock, fill with black smoke, and come to a halt.
What the fuck is happening?

“Everybody, get out. Get out. Get out of the track.”

He forced his way out of the turret and slid down the side of the track onto the dirt road. There was a searing pain in his leg. He yelled to the nine marines in back of the track.

“Get out. Get out.”

Trevino had felt the track lift in the air as an explosion came in on top of them. He pulled himself out of the driver’s hatch and slid down the other side of the track.

“Get out of the rear door.”

Elliot didn’t realize that all nine marines in the troop compartment had been blown apart by the blast.

Castleberry, driving track 201, was sticking close to Elliot’s track when he saw the white flash shoot into 208’s cargo hatch. There was a huge explosion, and he saw Elliot’s track jump several feet off the ground. One side of the track just ripped open. Pieces of flesh flew out into the road in front of him. Blood hit his vision block, turning the toughened glass red.

From the turret of 201, Schaefer saw 208 lift in the air so high that he could see the underside of the vehicle. Thick black smoke poured out, and a hand and an arm bounced across the road in front of him. Blood and debris stuck to the gun mounts and the bulletproof glass around his turret.
Nobody can survive that.

From the air, Gyrate 73 could see that he had scored a direct hit. He and his wingman received a delighted call from
Mouth.

“Hey, you’re putting smiles on the faces of the guys down here.”

“Well, you’ve got a couple of Guard guys up here trying to do our best.”

Robinson and the other marines in the troop compartment of 201 were oblivious to the A-10s overhead and the explosion that had blown track 208 apart. They just felt the track swing from side to side, shaken by loud booms. Through the gaps in the crowded track, Robinson could see Castleberry going crazy, swinging the steering mechanism first one way and then the other.

Castleberry first steered hard right to avoid smashing into track 208 and then hard left. He felt the track shudder. The steering wasn’t responding. He screamed into the intercom.

“Sergeant. We’ve lost steering. We’re going down.”

“What the fuck, Castleberry?”

Schaefer’s first thought was that Castleberry had fucked up. He had set him right so many times during training that he thought he’d done something stupid again.

“Hold on.”

Castleberry was heading straight for some sort of telephone pole. The only thing he could think to do was run it over. He gunned the 525-horsepower engine, hoping to smash through it.

“Hold on. Hold on.”

He braced himself as the track hit the pole, bounced off to the left, and headed toward some houses on the east side of Ambush Alley. Castleberry stamped on the brakes and the track came to a halt in front of a two-story concrete house. At the same time, something ripped open his hatch, shredded his CVC communications helmet, and blew him right down into his seat.

Schaefer, on the right side of the vehicle, felt heat come up through the turret. He thought he’d been wounded and grabbed his back, feeling for signs of hot, sticky blood. He was fine, but the track was completely immobile. He turned around to see everybody in the rear of the track staring at him with wild, confused eyes.

“Everyone out. Everyone out. Get the fuck out.”

Then he got on the radio to the other tracks. He knew that some of them might have been hit. But if they stayed in the middle of Ambush Alley, none of them would survive.

“Don’t stop. Keep on moving.”

From the air, the A-10 pilots saw that they had scored a couple of direct hits on the vehicles below. Some of the vehicles seemed to be maneuvering off the main road to take cover in some of the side streets. It made another gun run risky. They knew that the farther into the city they chased the vehicles, the greater the likelihood that they would hit civilians or even marines.

Gyrate 73 still had one Maverick left. He locked on to another vehicle still out in the open and rolled in for his final approach. Then, just as he was about to release the missile, the radio crackled.

“Cease fire, cease fire, cease fire.”

Gyrate 73 and Gyrate 74 were confused.

“Hey, did you hear that? Who called it? What’s going on?”

On the ground, Mouth, the Bravo FAC, also heard the cease-fire call on the radio. He grabbed his FiST leader.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Battalion thinks there may be some friendlies north of the bridge.”

Mouth’s first thought was that battalion had been confused about which bridge he was targeting.
They think I’m targeting areas to the north of the
southern bridge, not the northern bridge.