Authors: Claude Schmid
Suddenly, he sensed movement behind him. The rest of the platoon had worked its way into position. Men positioned themselves around the south side of the factory. Anyone in these kilns could not escape now. The target was caged.
Cooke reported. He was in position. Wynn listened.
Then Baumann said GO. Wynn told Wolf Two to move.
Just as the team moved, Wynn heard gunfire. AK47s: that poison crack in the air they immediately recognized. It was close. Then again.
“TUSSS!” Wynn heard a sound like a punctured tire. Tyson fell hard to the ground. Wynn went down too. Tyson lay with the left part of his face on the ground. His hands covered his mouth, as if he was trying to prevent himself from throwing up. Wynn darted over to him. Blood spurted from the back of Tyson’s neck.
More gunfire. More sharp knocking.
Wynn rolled over and looked to the front. Then back at Tyson. Wynn got up on his knees and shouted. “Medic! Medic!”
Wynn put his hand on Tyson’s neck. Blood coated his hand. Tyson made low mumbling sounds, but didn’t move. Wynn looked back. “Medic!” he shouted again.
Tyson lay mostly on his chest, so his first aid bandage pouch was under his body. Wynn, not wanting to move Tyson hastily in case he had a spinal wound, took out his own bandage, stripped the plastic covering off, unfolded it, and pressed in on top of the hole in Tyson’s neck.
More gunfire. American M4s this time. Then the AK47s again.
Then the knocking sound blended with the gunfire, like someone tapping rapidly on bricks with a hammer. It was the sound of bullets hitting Wynn’s kiln.
Cruz arrived, and slid down beside Tyson.
Tyson’s wounding had sucked Wynn out of the battle for a moment. Cruz worked Tyson. Wynn had to get back to leading his platoon. He couldn’t let a medical emergency divert him.
“Shit. Shit. Shit,” he heard Cruz say. But Wynn had already turned away. The gunfire continued, the loud air cracks chaotic.
Who was firing? From where? Confusion reigned. He wanted certainty; couldn’t get it. Had to stay calm. A gunfight burned around him. Both AK47s and M4s fired. No heavy guns yet.
Wynn grabbed his radio and called Cooke. “4, this is 1, what do you see? We’re going to need a MEDEVAC. Tyson’s been hit.”
More gunfire hammered.
A .50 cal opened up. It was a 3rd platoon weapon. Wynn rolled back to the other side of the kiln where he could see it. The .50 barked short bursts, spitting fire. Even from this distance, he could see the brass from the expended rounds ejecting like a shower.
Cooke hadn’t answered.
Wynn rolled back flat on his back and called again. “Four, you hear me?” Still no answer.
He waited for what seemed like an eternity. He took a quick glance back at Tyson, who Cruz had rolled over on his back. Weapons kept firing. Intermittent now. The breaks of silence oddly unreal. Then the .50 shot again, smothering other sounds.
The firing was to his left. Wynn had to move there to see better. To see what was happening. But Tyson had been shot there. He’d have to pass Tyson and Cruz to get there.
“Got it,” Cooke said on the radio. Wynn took that as confirmation that Cooke acknowledged his previous message.
Wynn moved. He circled around Tyson and Cruz. He did it on impulse, disregarding the fire, everything in him screaming he had to do it, running full speed to the next nearest kiln to his left, hearing bullets hitting nearby, whizzing past, skipping across the ground. He slid into the next kiln. Then he heard hammering on the back side of this kiln.
POP! POP! POP! A shooter fired at Wynn’s new position. Where were they?
“Moving forward!” somebody said on the radio. Cooke? Wynn thought it was Cooke.
More crew-served weapons opened up. From Cooke’s side now. A 240B this time. A crisp, buzzing sound, stitching across the ground. Hitting something, Wynn hoped.
Wynn moved further around the edge of this kiln, without hesitation, not thinking about it.
He could see Turnbeck across from him, behind another kiln. Kale would be— should be—on his far side.
The gunfire continued. Quieted a few seconds. Then started up again. A kiln stood about 50 meters ahead of Wynn. From there he could see number five better, and number five might be the source of the AK fire. He wasn’t sure.
Turnbeck should have smoke grenades. Wynn looked across the separation between where he was and Turnbeck. Turnbeck looked back.
Wynn called Cooke again. This time he answered immediately, his voice stressed.
“Roger, we’re moving forward. Think Ulricht nailed a few bastards. We’re getting into better position.”
Wynn twisted, taking another look frontwards. Then he looked at Turnbeck again while gesticulating his plans to move. “We go to that kiln ahead! You got smoke, right?” Wynn shouted. He pointed with his gun to the kiln he wanted to move to.
Turnbeck looked startled, but acknowledged.
“Put smoke there, as far out front as possible.” Wynn pointed and shouted, mouthing his words like man screaming behind glass.
Turnbeck again nodded his head, but didn’t act. Was the usually unflappable Turnbeck rattled?
More gunfire. A long burst by the .50 cal, deep and angry.
“Understand?” Wynn yelled again, as loud as he could.
Wynn was baffled by the radio silence. In other firefights the radio had been crazy noisy. He didn’t have time to think about it. Their plan had specified that friendly firing from the Humvees would cease while dismounts cleared the kilns, unless specifically requested. Maybe he should warn them. He got on the radio.
“Wolf One and Two moving. Hold your fire.”
Wynn waited for an acknowledgement. Turnbeck still looked at him.
“Check fire, check fire,” came a command on the radio. Wynn didn’t recognize the voice.
He looked at Turnbeck again. Now Turnbeck, smoke grenade in hand, waited for Wynn’s command.
Wynn made the hand gesture, simulating a throw.
Turnbeck threw the grenade.
Now they moved. As fast as they could. Kale thought he’d never run faster. He ran lightly, imagining he was floating, his body tense for explosions. Then he was on the ground, again. Other Wolfhounds were on the ground, too. They were still moving. Kale started crawling, almost effortlessly, like he was being sucked towards a black hole. He kept checking his extremities. No, he wasn’t hit. He felt the hard weapon in his hands. He looked forward in the direction of the kilns and tried to get his composure back, grasping for stable thinking, filtering rebounding sensations, trying to make sense of it all. He saw nothing ahead. Smoke from the grenade obscured his vision.
Suddenly he sensed a weird sound suppression. All he heard was moving, grunting men. No .50 cal. No 240B. No more AK fire. Then he noticed a sour smell, like fresh urine. Sand stuck to his left hand. He looked at it. Had to be piss. He was crawling through a place where someone had recently urinated.
Someone fired, a ripping, cutting stream of bullets lasting five, six, seven seconds. A desperately defiant sound. Someone wasted a mag, for sure. He checked his body again, looking for blood. Nothing. Hadn’t been hit. Would friendly or enemy fire feel different? Stupid thought. He kept moving, still crawling, feeling exhilarated. Maybe too much adrenaline to feel more fear. He was calmer now than minutes before. Maybe you reached a sort of combat equilibrium at moments like this.
He looked at the kiln ahead of him.
“Move! Move!” Pauls commanded.
Kale was up on his feet and running before he realized it, his body responding faster than his mind. Maybe the training made that possible. Good training overcomes stress, they’d been told countless times.
He ran full speed toward the kiln’s wall, hard, unthinking, unable or unwilling to slow down, and smacked into the side of the kiln. Smoke rolled into his face, flooding his mouth. Bitter grit coated his teeth and tongue, as if he’d licked sand. He spat and nearly gagged. If not for his goggles, the same grit would be in his eyes.
He slid around the wall of the kiln, hugging the surface with his back as if he was edging around the rim of a cliff. Pauls moved ahead of him. Follow Pauls. Follow Pauls. The kiln entrance was to his left.
“Grenade!”
The word hit him like a passing train. He dropped, face down, closing his eyes so hard it hurt. Every sinew in his body tried to burrow into the dirt.
TEECACCKKK!!
The explosion screamed past him. He hugged the ground as if he was spinning, clawing the dirt like a frantic dog.
Whose grenade? Had Pauls thrown it? Had it come from inside the kiln?
Then close M4 fire split the air.
He opened his eyes. The concussion of the grenade still echoed inside him, disorienting him.
Pauls, now on his knees beside him, held his rifle in one hand inside the kiln and sprayed bullets. “Take that, fuckerrrrrrrrsssss!” he yelled, mouth open, teeth exposed like fangs, his face like a beast’s.
Sprinkles of debris still rained down from the grenade explosion. It must have exploded outside. Must have come from inside. Kale tried to stand, but couldn’t. Was he hurt? He felt unhinged, as if he’d fallen irretrievably into an impossible chasm, the walls around him shouting inexplicable accusations. He saw Pauls standing firm, still firing. Kale watched, still on the ground, fixated on Pauls’ open mouth as he screamed.
Pauls dropped to his knees, on all fours. Then he was gone through the kiln door. Not right. Can’t be alone. He can’t leave me. I can’t leave him. Kale got to his feet and slid rapidly around the rest of the kiln to the entrance, as if pulled a magnet.
Pauls’ boot soles extended outside the entrance. The rest of his body was inside. Kale knelt again, hesitating to lean down. He must peer inside the kiln, inside to where Pauls was. Then Pauls’ boots slithered inside, disappearing like an animal’s tail. H
is
turn now. He must go in. For a second, Kale observed the scene as if it was all a paused movie, a tense scene in which a main character had gone through a door that the audience knew he shouldn’t have. Everything waited on what would follow.
TEECACKKK!!
Another rattling explosion, not quite as close. Grenade near another kiln? The blast broke Kale from a trance. He bent forward, low enough that he thought he could go through the door, and charged in. Inside he expected he’d see a chaotic scene, the flashing of muzzle shots, angry expressions on the faces of men facing death, but it was pitch dark, and he saw nothing. He stumbled, catching his balance by dropping to a knee. His breathing was stressed, as if he were deep in a mine. Then he made out indistinct lumps against walls. He knew they were bodies, crashed on the floor from their wounds.
“You motherfuckerrrrrrrs!” Pauls screamed again.
Cuebas and Moose rushed up to the last target kiln, number five, alone. The rest of Wolf One and Two remained in overwatch, some behind other kilns, some in prone positions nearby. To Moose, the 25 meters he had to cross was a magnificent space: the distance between steel and power and money, and insignificance. The war in Iraq had brought him and the others to this place. Every day he felt as if he understood it less, but that whether or not he understood it mattered less, too. What mattered was how it made him feel. And he felt good. The thrill kept coming back and made him reach farther than ever before. He looked at the kiln with a mixture of pity and voracity. No way would whatever was in there survive.
They arrived in a full run, his body starved for oxygen. He noticed a freshly bloody sandal lying outside the kiln. He listened, trying to determine whether anyone was inside. No sound. Could it be empty? The kiln was no more than an 18-foot diameter blister of earth: a manmade place, where struggling men had gone to work and produced bricks, to feed and shelter and rest and dream. Cuebas waited across from Moose, on the other side of the kiln. The two of them spoke with their eyes. Cuebas had seen the bloody sandal too. The kiln door was on the other side. They needed to slide around to it. Like the other kilns, this entrance was low, no more than four feet high, like the opening to an igloo.
Moose saw Cuebas’ eyes awash with anxiety. What did his own eyes show? He wanted to project firmness and fearlessness. Gunfire had ceased again. Everything waited on clearing this kiln. He could no longer smell the rancid smoke from the grenades and gunfire, nor the dry chalky desert. They circled slowly around to the kiln door. To call it a door would be too much. No door left. No hinges. A roughed-out rectangular hole with a sheet covering it. A sheet? That wasn’t normal. Someone must be using the kiln. Moose inched closer to the entrance. His hand held a grenade. Cuebas followed.
So far the platoon had done well. Right by the book. No way would he lower the standard.
He and Cuebas continued to edge around the kiln.
An arm’s reach from the entrance now, Moose looked for any signs of booby traps, for wires on the ground or across the entrance, or roughed-up dirt. He saw none. No signs of digging. No wires. No signs of anything in the ground. Just the sandal.
The sheet was slightly ajar but hadn’t moved. Bright sunlight now illuminated the entrance like a stage. He couldn’t see inside enough to see anything. He reached back and tapped Cuebas. Cuebas dashed to the other side of the door. Weapons were up. Both men crouched slightly and leaned forward toward the kiln entrance. An eye signal decided it. Moose had the grenade in his hand.
“Come out!” Moose yelled.
No answer. One second. Two seconds.
“Last chance, come out!” Nothing.
More eye talk. Moose stowed his grenade.
Without further hesitation, they went in, Moose first. He had the left side wall. Snap: he took a mental picture of the inside of the structure, hoping to instantaneously detect any suspicious object or person. His eyes blazed. Nothing. Too dark. Keep moving. By then Moose had lunged across most of the width of the kiln. His eyes swept the walls and the ceiling. Cuebas did the same with the other side and the floor. Clear. Nothing on the walls. Nothing there. Too fucking dark. The place was remarkably quiet, insultingly quiet. Empty? An underground passage?