INGERSOLL: It’s Veterans Day, So Here’s A War Story
LET’S TELL A WAR STORY
We used to do these long runs on base in California, usually on the weekends.
We’d just pick a direction and go. Four out, four back. Then we’d all gather up on someone’s front or back lawn in the base housing developments, grill and drink a thousand beers.
I remember saying to one of the guys at one point that if they lost track of me on my second pump, I’d just disappear into the country.
Pretty much what I did. I got to Iraq the second time and found myself traipsing around Camp Fallujah, outside Fallujah proper. One gunny answered his office door in the middle of the day with the QWERTY keyboard keys clearly imprinted on his face.
He’d been sleeping.
The other was going through a divorce and didn’t want to be bothered tasking me.
Three years in, a corporal. My then-wife had left me destitute. My friends were all damaged. I was fresh out of fucks.
“If you give me nothing to do, I’ll be on the next helicopter out.”
“Sure, sure, just check back with me tomorrow.”
I’ll never forget the helicopter making a pass the first time, kicking up a shit ton of dust, this opaque orange cloud. We rose back up and circled around again. Again, it kicked up this giant cloud of dust.
The crew chief walked back to where I was prepped and leaned into my ear.
“Throw your bags out and then jump!”
“What?”
“Throw your bags out and then jump, they don’t want to land because they can’t see!”
“Shit, are you serious? How high are we?”
“You’ll live! Just go!”
It’s hard to imagine that almost everyone involved in this particular shit sandwich was under the age of 27, including the pilots.
I chucked a duffel out the rear end of the helicopter and the opaque orange cloud swallowed it. I didn’t see it land. If it was any consolation, we appeared to be hovering pretty steadily.
So I jumped.
There is no tomorrow.
—
“I don’t think this is a good idea, sir.”
I was the last person to say something. We were all prepping to go on a long run south along the Syrian border to inspect the various border forts in our area of operations. It was already drizzling.
Rain in western Iraq is a funny thing. It has a bad habit of turning bad.
Our route was basically a series of dry riverbeds crossing an Arizona-like desert, rolling high and low lands the whole way. I’d done the route with the team now a couple times during my time attached to them. I’d basically become an operating member of the squad. My job was to operate and maintain the 240 medium machine gun.
This was in part out of necessity. They only had about 20 Marines out here. The base had 100 or so Iraqi troops, and the adjacent forts, placed every 15 miles or so north and south along the border, each had about 25-30 Iraqi soldiers. They were short-staffed and needed every hand possible.
There had been a few recent controversies. One regarded Delta operators conducting strikes inside Syria, which understandably pissed the Syrians off. The other regarded the use of automatic grenade launchers, which had subsequently been recalled as a result.
A senior officer had visited the fort on a morale call and noticed we’d kept ours.
“You’re not supposed to have that, captain,” he’d said to our skipper.
“Well, sir, we’re an hour from the nearest nine-line and we’re surrounded by the enemy.”
He chuckled, “Fair enough, but I never saw it.”
—
When you’ve flown in military helicopters enough, you start to get a bit of a sense. What sounds right, what doesn’t. The crew chiefs’ body language actually speaks. The bird speaks. You can tell when she’s hurting, laboring to respond, or when she’s strong, when all elements are firing.
I’m in Baghdad for some reason. Oh, I know, some kind of gathering of Iraqi Special Forces guys. The days here become one giant day. When you’re in country, there is no “weekend.” Every day is Monday. Time becomes a senseless loop. Day is perpetual sun. Night, in the winter, is a torture of cold. If you’ve had any experiences, those are still with you, as alive as if they just happened. Happening, in fact. On repeat, happening again. Looping. I was just in a monsoon on the border. What am I doing here? I’m not even here. I’m leaving again. It’s dusk. I’m on the flight line. I can hear the whine of rotary wings pushed to the limit. The incoming birds. They were late. They’re coming now, real low and real fast. I hadn’t paid attention to the gear when the flights were set up, but I can tell by the sound they’re 46s. Real low and real fast. Something up?
“You public affairs?”
This is from behind me. In front of me are two Iraqi guys I’m chaperoning to another base. Some ancillary duty I ended up with, which is itself another long story. In front of them are four tricked-out, tatted-up Black Water contractors, looking all cool and certainly acting like it.
To my rear though, the voice, an Air Force Tech Sergeant. He’s practically shining, he’s so clean. Could I see him from orbit?
“Yes, public affairs.”
“Wild, we have the same job, man!”
On the other hand, I’m filthy. If it weren’t for the Iraqis in front of me, I’d be the stench in this line of suck. Hanging from my flak jacket by a D-ring is a Canon camera. Otherwise, I look like a regular Marine with a pack. Likely how he ID’d me. Camera geeks are camera geeks everywhere.
I look behind the guy and he’s got a junior airman trailing him. She’s as pearly as he is, and she’s gripping the handle of a giant hardcase rolly.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Oh, it’s all our gear, you know, photo, video, editing computers, microphones. The whole kit and kaboodle,” he cracked off a laugh. He reminds me of the Sicilian from the movie Princess Bride. “What’s that, a Canon 1D?”
“Yeah.”
I’m exhausted. I’ve been to four provinces and then had to do some brief PR duty inside the wire at Baghdad to appease the masters who’d caught up with me eventually.
His talking turned into babble behind me, punctuated by that laugh, every time cutting my nerves. I guess I kept up enough of a front that he thought I was listening, which might have been a mistake, because I was silently hoping he’d shut his damned trap.
I decided once the helos arrived I’d stick the two Iraqis between him and me as a buffer.
Then I heard them. Real fast and real low.
—
“You might want to get down. That thing snaps, it’ll decapitate you.”
It was the second time we needed to tug one of the humvees out of a flooded riverbed. The rain was coming down in sheets now. The desert had turned into a veiny web of rivers, each with hidden depth. Every time we drove through one it was a gamble.
“What am I supposed to do about the damned Syrians? They’re flagging us constantly!”
“Well, if they shoot at us, kill ‘em all. At least the gun’ll keep you warm, ha!”
Freezing cold rain on top of a potential international incident. Great.
We’re soaked. The river swelled. The humvee shifted. Water up to the doors. One behind us was free, as was the one in front, but we were hopelessly stuck.
Eventually the Syrian patrol that was shadowing us moved on. Smart.
We had to dismount because the humvee might be swept away, but we had nowhere to go. Thigh-deep in freezing cold water. The doc starts prepping us for hypothermia. We’re effed. At best I’m losing toes or a foot. At worst, we’re dead.
“What’s the worst case here, Doc?”
“Worst case is we’re dead,” he laughs. Why’d I ask. It’s war. That is in fact the worst case.
Then Iraqis came. Droves of them. They’d flooded out. This place probably hadn’t seen rain like this in a generation. Some were carrying children. They begged us to take their kids.
“We’re stuck too, we’re no help to your kids!” The doc bellowed.
If you can believe it, the rain got worse. The sun was ebbing. I started to wonder if this was it for us. Dying in the dusk, in freezing muddy water, surrounded by panicking Iraqis and their dying children.
The thing I took with me most that day was just how paralyzed and resigned we’d all become at that point. Virtually no Marine had it in him to do anything about the current situation. Everyone was too soaking wet, too cold, too tired.
Except one corporal, I’ll never forget. He’d finally had enough. He stripped down to his skivvies, grabbed an e-tool, and submerged himself beneath the humvee.
“Just watch my back,” he’d said as he went under the first time.
He went on like this for a while. Coming up, taking in air, going back under to dig. Every now and again he’d rev the humvee and direct the one in front of us to pull. Nothing. Back under.
The Iraqis gave up on us eventually, realizing we were more dead than they were, they sought higher ground.
The corporal kept on. The rest of us stood around in the water watching, paralyzed. It was a sight. One gunny remarked it’d be good to get photos, but I couldn’t even move my hands. Photos of dead guys maybe. Then it was just this one guy’s determination to get us all out.
It was him that day in the rain. Not a shot fired and he saved all of us.
Wouldn’t be here today without him, no doubt about that. Not sure if he was ever awarded for it, but he should have been.
I wish I could say it was the coldest I’d ever been, but worse would come later up near Mosul.
—
I could tell they’d been shot at as I got on the helicopter. Or at least, they’d seen something. The internal movements were all way too frosty to have experienced a normal incoming.
If I was right, I was the only one who noticed, because everyone else got on the bird as if it were routine. Two lines, backs against the hull, facing inward. The Iraqis and I shuffle in on the port side.
To my left is a crew chief manning a machine gun out the window. Directly in front of me, starboard side, are the burly, high-speed, super-cool Black Water dudes. To my right the Iraqis, then a few more people down and the Air Force guy and his junior airman girl.
Everybody strapped in and off we shot, just as low and just as fast as they came in.
Military transport helicopters fly in tight pairs. They bank and move together. You can see the city and lights streaking below us depending on how the birds bank. Left, sky. Right, city lights, buildings. Left, sky.
An RPG flies up between both birds. I see it clear as day. I hadn’t seen one since training. They’re faster than what the movies portray. Almost instant, leaving behind this trail. It’s just pow and a trail of smoke between the helicopters and then both are banking in opposite directions and there’s the bright flare of chaff from one or both, hard to tell.
I’m not even sure it’s what I actually saw until the chiefs on both sides open fire. There’s tracers flying through the air. Gunfire from the ground. Another rocket. Another. Someone was waiting for us.
Everything happens so fast, I’m sure. I’m positive all of this took place in less than a minute. Probably even just seconds.
The Black Water dudes, these guys look like NYC bouncers. Like UFC heavyweights. They’re screaming. I can’t hear it, but I can see it. They’re screaming like banshees. Like women.
Flashes and more gunfire. Chiefs really lighting it up.
I look at the Iraqis. It’s almost funny. People had told me Iraqis don’t recognize PTSD as an illness because they all have PTSD. These guys both look like they’re taking a ride on a commuter train. There’s zero indication they’re even slightly perturbed by our current situation.
Chiefs lighting it up. Black Water dudes are still wetting themselves. I notice the talkative Air Force tech sergeant is screaming full blast.
Back in the old days, when we’d throw keg parties in high school, every now and then the PA staties would show up and bust the party, sending everyone scurrying. For whatever reason, as I’m running through the woods full speed, branches ripping into my face, I’d be overcome with the urge to cackle. I can’t tell you why, maybe nerves.
I’ve finally had enough. Between the Iraqi guys looking ready to fall asleep and the Black Water guys needing to change their underwear, I’m ready to let loose.
I open my mouth to laugh and the wind from the rotor wash hits just right. A blast of air pulls through my nostril and out my mouth. I can feel it empty the entirety of my sinuses.
As this happens I try to catch it, but I’m too late. I turn right as this epic, skull-clearing loogie pulls free from what feels like the back of my eyeballs and shoots down the line …
Have you guys ever seen Star Wars? You know when Luke destroys the Death Star? How those torpedoes just flew right into that hole?
The loogie flies by the impassive Iraqis and right into the Tech Sergeant’s screaming mouth.
His scream instantly turns into a cough, then a dry heave. He was previously just terrified, but now he’s terrified and disgusted. I can see it on his face, through the mesh of tears. What the hell was that that flew into my mouth?
He chews a bit, swallows, regains his senses, starts screaming again.
I’m inconsolable.
The whole cabin is screaming. I’m laughing. Gasping for breath. Laughing even more. We’re screaming through the night. Several underwears need changing. I’m laughing like a full-blown madman, tears in my eyes.
I really needed that.
He did too.
WHAT I’M READING
On brand for TDS.
—
Absolutely bonkers story.
—
Here we goooooo.
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