Ambush Alley: The Most Extraordinary Battle of the Iraq War (28 page)

17

A few hundred meters north of the foot of the Euphrates Bridge, Sergeant Frank Walker, Lance Corporal Dante Reece, and Lance Corporal Christopher Rigolato from Alpha’s 2nd Platoon were dug in behind walls and ditches at their position at the southern end of Ambush Alley. They were trying to protect the perimeter around the bridge by taking out enemy fighters running through the warren of alleys in front of them. Rigolato could see the numbers of people in the streets still swelling. It made him nervous. He was beginning to have trouble identifying who was a threat. A woman walked out with her hands up. She then ducked away to reveal an Iraqi fighter letting loose with an AK-47.

Iraqis sprinted across the road, running for their lives, but Rigolato wasn’t sure if they were hostiles. Several children got caught in the crossfire and crumpled to the ground. The 60 mm mortars were taking out lumps of people’s houses, exploding balconies and rooftops. Rigolato was glad the marines had superior marksmanship. The way some of the Iraqis were fighting was suicidal. He watched as one man emerged from cover and dropped down on one knee. But before he could put the RPG launcher to his shoulder, he was cut down in a hail of fire.

Above the noise of gunfire and RPG explosions the group of marines heard the roar of a military vehicle. They looked up to see a lone track, heading south through Ambush Alley, back toward them. Smoke was pouring out of the back. They were confused.
Who the fuck is that? Where did
that track come from?
It came limping through their lines, and as it passed they could see it was dragging its rear ramp, leaving a trail of sparks. Just before the track reached the foot of the Euphrates Bridge, it came to a halt in the middle of the street. It was being buffeted from both sides by AK-47 fire and RPGs. Rigolato watched in horror as the white plume of an RPG smashed into its right flank, shaking it mercilessly. The track jumped up off the ground, coming back down again with a loud thud. Seconds later, another RPG flew into its top hatch, detonating the ammo inside and shattering the vehicle’s frame.

Rigolato gasped as the track burst into flames. Yet the sight mesmerized him.
There will be mass casualties. No one can survive that.
Next to him, Reece, who thought that his platoon was having a hard time of it, now saw that someone else was in bigger trouble.
This is really crazy. They’re cut
up real bad. Someone has been in the wolf’s mouth. They both wondered whether any of their buddies were inside.

Walker assumed the track belonged to another of Alpha Company’s platoons. He had no idea that it was Charlie Company’s track 206, which had set off from the northern bridge minutes earlier to evacuate the wounded. Moments later, another track appeared down Ambush Alley, braking suddenly to avoid smashing into the back of track 206. It was Charlie’s track 210, filled with the twenty-five able-bodied marines who had mistakenly joined up with the medevac convoy. Track 210 pulled past the destroyed track and continued toward the safety of Alpha’s position at the Euphrates Bridge. When the ramp dropped, the disorientated young marines from Charlie emerged from the rear. Many of them had no idea that they were back at the Euphrates Bridge and that the marines crouched behind the walls were from Alpha Company.

As 206 burned, marines from Alpha’s 3rd Platoon who were dug in by the bridge, closest to where the track had been hit, ran up Ambush Alley toward the smoldering structure. Under fire, they began digging through the debris to pull out survivors. It was carnage. There were pools of blood, bits of flesh melted onto hot metal, a severed leg still wearing a boot lying among playing cards, a magazine, cans of Coke, and a small bloodstained teddy bear. Swearing and panicked and shouting at each other, they tried to make sense of the chaos. None of them had ever seen anything like this.

“They are fucking dead, they are dead. Oh my God. Get in there. Get in there now and pull them out.”

“Fuck. Help me. Fuck. Fuck. Fucking get over here and help me.”

“Oh my God, I can’t believe this. Did you see his leg? It was blown off. It was blown off.”

From their position north of the destroyed track, Rigolato, Reece, and Walker saw the marines crowding around the rear, trying to pull bodies from the wreckage. One body wouldn’t fit into the back of a Hummer, so the stretcher remained upright, the dead man’s leg partly blown away. Then they started receiving rounds from a building behind them. They turned their focus away from the blackened track and got on with the task of taking cover and watching out for their position.

Gunnery Sergeant Justin Lehew and some marines from 3rd Platoon continued to fight their way through the debris in the troop compartment of the track. They pulled out two mutilated bodies, but they were so badly mashed up they didn’t recognize them as thirty-one-year-old Sergeant Michael Bitz, whose wife had given birth to twins a month before, and twenty-two-year-old Lance Corporal Thomas Slocum. The insides of the track were so blackened and twisted that they were about to give up hope of finding any other survivors when one of the rescue team thought he heard a cough.
There must be another marine inside.
They searched through the rubble again with renewed vigor. Buried inside was Corporal Matthew Juska. He was unconscious but alive.

At the foot of the Euphrates Bridge, Captain Brooks had seen the track explode in Ambush Alley. He also saw some of the tracks speeding into his position from Ambush Alley. He had no idea that the AAVs were from Charlie Company. He assumed that the wrecked track in the middle of the road was one of his. A marine ran up to him with the bad news.

“We’ve got casualties, sir.”

For Brooks, it all changed at that moment. War had become a terrible force. He’d known, of course, that there was always the possibility of taking casualties, but he never really thought it would happen. He wondered who they were but then stopped himself.
I’ve got to act. I’ve got to get a
helo in there to save lives.
His forward air controller had already got on guard to an emergency channel and called for a helicopter to evacuate the wounded.

Looking around, Brooks saw that the other tracks were vulnerable. News of the casualties was spreading. He feared that his marines would lose heart. He got out of his track and ran down the lines of his marines.

“You’re doing a good job.”

“Keep doing what you are doing.”

He wanted them to see his face. He wanted them to see that he was calm, that he thought everything was going well. The knowledge that his men took very seriously the distinguished fighting tradition of the United States Marine Corps gave him some comfort.
They don’t want to be the
first ones to screw things up.

What are my options?
His mission was to hang on to the Euphrates Bridge until 2nd Battalion, 8th Marines conducted a relief in place with him. Then he was to link up with Bravo and Charlie at the northern bridge. The relief in place was supposed to be a straightforward formality. He had gotten together with the company commanders from 2/8 a few days earlier. They had all agreed that it should only take them an hour to reach the Euphrates Bridge and relieve him. Brooks guessed that he had already been there for nearly three hours. His plan didn’t call for him to seize a city block, fortify it, and dig in for the long haul. None of them had predicted that the Iraqis would be so determined. If he was going to stay there any longer, he would have to change tactics. He now had four tanks with him, but deep inside, he was worried.
What is going to happen?

Once again he got back on the radio, frustrated that it took him so long to break through all the chatter.

“Timberwolf, this is Tomahawk 6. I need to know where 2/8 is. We are taking casualties. An RPG has just destroyed one of my amtracks. I have definitely got KIAs, and I don’t know how many. I need to hand over the bridge to 2/8 and work my way north. My best place is with Charlie Company.”

Brooks was burning with frustration. He wanted to move. Even with the tanks, his position was still not completely secure. There was probably a good reason why 2/8 hadn’t come to relieve him, but he cursed them nevertheless.
Where the fuck are they?

18

From their pause in an open area just to the east of Ambush Alley, about halfway between the southern bridge and the northern bridge, Lieutenant Colonel Grabowski and Major Sosa could see both ways up the Alley. They saw two disabled tracks in the distance, off to the north. To the south, the blast of explosions, the billowing smoke, and the helos flying overhead told them that Alpha was still engaged in a firefight by the Euphrates Bridge. Neither of them yet had a clear idea of exactly what was going on. Some moments earlier, Sosa had been surprised to see one of Charlie’s amtracks sweep toward him from the northern bridge. It was track 207, commanded by Corporal Brown, one of the five tracks from the Charlie medevac convoy on its way south to evacuate the wounded. Lieutenant Swantner had spotted Sosa in the middle of the road. He yelled out to him.

“Captain Wittnam is dead. Charlie is taking casualties.”

Sosa and Grabowki stared at each other in silence. They had heard the reports of casualties at Alpha’s position, but this was different. This was someone they knew. Someone they worked with every day. Could it be true?

Dan is dead. Charlie is hurting.
Sosa was now worried.
We might not
accomplish our mission.
All sorts of options went through his head. He couldn’t build up a picture of what was going on. There were sporadic reports that the vehicles in the mud had been pulled free and had then got stuck again. He went back to the basics of the mission.
We’ve got to get to
the north of the city. We’ve got to help Charlie hold that northern bridge.
Maybe it was hard-hearted, but he wanted to push forward for the bridge. He didn’t want to wait until the mired vehicles were pulled out.
The infantry platoon we’ve left with our tanks can look after themselves. I’ve got
to get combat power forward. I’ve got to win back e fective command and
control.
His mind was buzzing with questions.
What instructions can I
give to the companies to get them from where they are to where they need
to be?

He ran up to Grabowski.

“Sir, we’ve got to get north. We’ve got to send Bravo up to the northern bridge to help Charlie.”

Grabowski was frustrated. He too wasn’t clear about the exact location of the different companies or what was going on in their positions. But he was reluctant to leave the tanks, Humvees, and amtracks stuck in the mud.
If
you have an asset, you don’t abandon it.
Charlie was being fired on by the A-10 and was taking casualties. Now he had also picked up Brooks’s urgent radio transmission telling him about the casualties at Alpha’s position and asking for 2/8 to relieve him. Grabowski was silent for a moment. It was going from bad to worse.
Oh God. What do I tell this guy?
He tried to remain calm, yet his head was spinning with the update on casualties and all its ramifications. He couldn’t authorize Alpha to move out until 2/8 had arrived to replace them. And 2/8 was not his responsibility. They were tied into what regiment was doing. All he could do was reassure Mike Brooks that he would communicate with regiment and find 2/8’s location.

“Tomahawk, this is Timberwolf 6. I need you to hang on there. Do what you can to evacuate the casualties and keep me abreast of the situation. We’ll get 2/8 up there as soon as possible. Let me know when 2/8 links up with you.”

On the south side of the Euphrates Bridge, the regimental commander of 2nd Marines, Colonel Ronald Bailey, was moving his command post up from its position several miles south of the city toward the dump by the railroad bridge. He needed to stay within communications range of 1st Battalion, 2nd Marines as the battalion moved into Nasiriyah. Each time he stopped, he set up his Humvees in a protective perimeter around his staff. A platoon of marines was guarding the Humvees. In the center of the defense, he and his staff worked the radios to find out what was going on.

As the regimental commander, it was his job to help shape the fight for the battalions under his command. For months they had worked out a careful plan of how the battalions would move into Nasiriyah but from the radio reports coming in, it was clear that the battle was not working out like that. He was almost overwhelmed by the amount of information coming at him from different directions. It was hectic and heavy. His staff besieged him with confused and changing messages about what was happening to 1st Battalion, 2nd Marines inside the city.
The one thing I do know is
that they are in one hell of a fight.

He got onto his battalion staff.

“We need to know where 2/8 is.”

Twice Grabowski had asked him to get 2nd Battalion, 8th Marines up to the Euphrates Bridge to relieve Captain Brooks’s Alpha Company. From the tone of Grabowski’s voice, he knew it was urgent. He didn’t ask Grabowski too many questions, and he didn’t monitor the battalion net. That was like spying on someone else’s e-mail. He certainly didn’t know that they had tanks stuck in the mud. He was hazy on Charlie’s position. He had no idea that they had marines holed up in a house in Ambush Alley. He left Grabowski alone until he asked for help.
It’s Rick’s fight. I
can only help him win it.

“Two-Eight is still south of the railway bridge.”

It was one of the regimental staff confirming that 2/8 was making slow progress along the road into the city. They were under attack the whole way, held up by enemy snipers and RPG teams lining the route. Bailey knew that he couldn’t just order 2/8 to go straight for the bridge. Part of the regiment’s mission was to clear the route into the city so that the combat service support units to the rear of the column wouldn’t have to fight their way through. He’d chosen 2/8 to clear the route because they’d had extra MOUT training. But they were in soft-skinned trucks, not AAVs or tanks. There were just too many pieces to move around. Whenever he raised his head from the intensity of discussions with his staff, he was aware that shots were flying overhead. There were crowds of civilians heading away from the city, and he had to monitor them constantly to make sure they weren’t suicide bombers or some sort of threat. He wasn’t surprised that they now found themselves in such a fight. When the intel had come in about the Iraqis welcoming the Marines into Nasiriyah, he didn’t take it seriously.
If someone was going to invade my country, I’d
fight like hell to get them out of there.

Bailey had grown up with stories of the military from his grandfather, who had fought in the U.S. Army under General Patton. Like many African Americans, Bailey had more of an affinity with the Army. The Army had a longer tradition of recruiting African Americans. The U.S. Marine Corps only recruited African Americans from the mid-1940s. That’s why he’d been on an Army ROTC program, studying biology and chemistry at a small college in Tennessee. He’d wanted to go to jump school to be a Ranger, but there weren’t enough places and he didn’t want to wait an extra year. It was only when he met a Marine captain at the student center who goaded him about not being tough enough for the Corps that Bailey started to become interested.
Me, not tough enough? I’ll show you.
He decided to go to the summer Platoon Leaders Class at the Marine Corps base in Quantico, Virginia. When he got back to college, he sported a military-style haircut and went around giving the Marine “hoorah” cry. He was captain of the football team, and it wasn’t long before the rest of his players started cutting their hair and acting like marines, too. With the promise of $900 back pay, he turned his back on the idea of becoming a teacher or a professional football coach and signed up for the Marines. He took his football training with him, though. He likened his role in the Marine Corps to the best college football coaches, such as Woody Hayes at Ohio State and Ara Parseghian at Notre Dame. They talked about winning and he wanted that same aggressive spirit in his marines. The Marine Corps’ history, traditions, and customs excited him. He loved the commercial in which a young recruit climbs a wall and around him appear flashes of the Corps’s history and weaponry to support him on his ascent.
We are standing on the shoulders of our history and the traditions of our Corps.
He loved it that his call sign was Viking 6 in recognition of the 2nd Marines’ long history of cold-weather training in Norway.
That’s what it’s about.
Tradition and history.

For years he had been frustrated. Each time there was a major fight, he was elsewhere. He missed out on Beirut. When Grenada happened, he was at school. Then, during Desert Storm, he was on ceremonial duties at Marine Barracks in Washington, D.C. He felt like an unused player in a football game who was always sitting on the sidelines. He took comfort in the fact that Dwight D. Eisenhower didn’t see combat until he became a general officer.

Twenty-eight years after joining the Marine Corps, he was finally at war.
Now I’m playing. Now I’m in combat as part of the toughest and the best.
It was like a big football game. Nothing he’d learned in training prepared him for the reality of it.
Once the adrenaline flows, no one knows how they
are going to react.

He concentrated on getting all the regimental assets working for the battalion. He was also concerned about the flanks.
We need to bolster our
force to get through the rest of the day. We need to make sure we have the
firepower to hold onto what we’ve got.
He thought about what he could do to anchor his position as the day went on. The 1st Marine Division was still pressing to go through. There was nothing on the road between 2/8, heading for the Euphrates Bridge, and his regimental HQ. He started working on a plan to get 3rd Battalion, 2nd Marines and the LAR battalion to reinforce his position.

“Have we got air up there?”

The question was aimed at his air officer, call sign Bear. Bailey wanted to make sure Grabowski had all the assets he needed, whether it be attack aircraft or casevac helos.

As he watched the smoke billowing up on the horizon, the helicopters pounding the enemy positions, and the civilians fleeing the city, he didn’t debate the right or wrong of what they were doing. He took an oath that he would uphold the Constitution of the United States. He was patriotic. He would do what the country asked him to do. He was asked to go to war and he was there. One hundred percent.