In about the time it took to get used to the kushy routine in this "combat zone", we got our orders to move out. We had been informed previously that we wouldn't be staying. We (meaning our battalion-the 2-7 Cavalry) were to push out to the outskirts of a city called "Amarra" and set up shop. This place was about 15 miles from the border of Iran. If the thought of a battalion-sized convoy pushing down roads that hadn't been patrolled since the initial invasion wasn't enough to instill a looming sense of dread, the thought of being within a rocket strike of the Iranian Army was. We knew all to well that Iranians were crossing back and forth to execute hit-and-run attacks on the coalition forces. These guys were trained, and had munitions manufactured within the last few years in their own country, as opposed to your average Iraqi insurgent using antiquated Russian equipment in ill-advised and lazily executed ambushes. We would learn about their accurate fires soon enough. That's for another story, though. This one is about the night when there was something there.
After enduring a few terrifying and somewhat accurate rocket attacks, base command decided that a rotating patrol duty would begin running at night through known launch sites to deter enemy activity. They only attacked in darkness, and their methods were effective. They built adjustable stands to place the rockets on, with a crank mechanism for elevation. Once the rockets were set to the right trajectory, they installed timers that had been removed from clothes dryers as the launch catalyst. When the rockets finally launched they had been gone for an hour or more. The patrols were meant more as a deterrence than a means to actually catch anyone in the act. That never happened.
This duty was particularly tedious as an add-on to what we were already doing, and when it came around we just had to "embrace the suck". We patrolled during the days, each with assigned local governmental or law enforcement bodies to interact with and train. This was in addition to an all night patrol when it was your Platoon's turn, so sleep wasn't happening.
We were given free reign as far as what to do when we were patrolling our designated areas. We could stop and search vehicles, personnel, or buildings if we felt it necessary. There was a curfew in effect, and anyone out and about was suspicious, anyway. Usually, we would take up positions in our trucks and "black out", using only night vision or thermal viewers if they were available. Our positions were not static, and we would move around every hour or so to cover more ground.
On one particular night, we had taken up positions in a marshy area surrounded by sparse palm groves. We exited the road and moved about 300 meters back into the darkness to watch. On the other side of the road was a home that sat on top of a hill, with a long, winding driveway leading downward.
"Somebody's digging next to the road."
It was my Platoon Sergeant. He was keeping his radio transmissions short. We all knew what digging next to the road meant. It meant that the hole being dug would be impregnated with something along the lines of a 155mm artillery round, set to blast the next bunch of American devils that roll by in their Humvee's. That was us on this night. I spoke up.
"Where?"
"At the end of that driveway."
I scanned with my night vision and saw the figure. He was stooped over hacking at the ground with some kind of short handled tool. There were some red flags, though. If this guy lived here, and he was planting an IED at the end of his own driveway, he either had a death wish or he was in the running for Iraq's dumbest insurgent. I kept my doubts to myself, and observed for a few more minutes. He dropped the tool and picked up something that was laying on the ground, depositing it into the hole he had just dug. That was all my Platoon Sergeant needed to see.
"Let's go."
Our M-1114 Up-Armored Humvees rumbled to life. The gunners in the turrets were hunched down, peering through the faint green light of their night vision. We assaulted to the digging man in seconds, and were on top of him before he knew what was happening. Looking back, we were pretty surgical about this stuff. Two gunners pointed in at the man and his hole, and two gunners pointed out for security, scanning outside of the half-moon we had formed. He dropped everything he was doing and screamed, putting his hands in the air and falling to his knees. His eyes were wide and he was breathing through his mouth, displaying the fact that he had about four tusk-like teeth left in his head. He had a long, scraggly gray beard, and his face was deeply lined and cracked. This guy was old.
Drivers and gunners stayed in the trucks while everyone else got out and approached the man staring down their sights. Luckily, we had an interpreter with us that shouted commands. The man shouted back as we watched. After a few quick Arabic exchanges, the interpreter turned to us, and in his thick accent explained what was happening.
"He was bury his trash. Look. Look...his trash is there."
One of the Soldiers in my Platoon approached the hole.
"Yup. Its a bag of trash."
We searched it, and it was, in fact, a bag of stinky, rotten vegetables. Not enough to take out an Armor Platoon. My Platoon Sergeant wasn't happy that we had exposed ourselves, and in the interest of operational security, decided to search the man's house. We wanted to be sure that he wasn't calling his Iranian Commando buddies to set up a hit for us as soon as our tail lights were out of sight.
We took the man in the back of one of our trucks and headed to the top of the hill, where his house sat. Upon arriving at the crest, my stomach started to turn. This wasn't a house, it was a compound. The small house that was visible from the road was just the front of it. Behind the house were several large garages with high ceilings, and a few other run down metal buildings. The whole area was strewn with remnants of cars and other machinery. This guy was obviously some kind of junk broker. My stomach turned because of the possibilities. That area was a death trap, and I knew some of us would be searching it. As we fanned out and my Platoon Sergeant was dealing with the man, I decided to split the Platoon up. Three would search the house with the Platoon Sergeant and the interpreter, while three would come with me to look around the back. The others were either drivers or gunners, and had to stay with the trucks. I told them to go "white light", meaning use your flashlights. I wasn't taking my chances with the sometimes distorted green view of out PVS-14 monoculars. Plus, if there was anything back there, they already knew we were here.
We skirted a makeshift fence to our right, heading towards the first large garage structure. It was more the size of a small warehouse, with a huge opening in the front. There was no door, and it was pretty dilapidated. It was nothing too crazy, and definitely nothing I had not seen before. My throat started to tighten. As we approached this building, my heart began to steadily pick up pace. There were no indications of danger, and I wasn't sure why this was happening. I was almost frustrated with it.
I have a recurring dream. It's actually a recurring nightmare, and I call it recurring because its a dream that doesn't begin the same way, but always ends the same way. I could be dreaming anything.
No matter where I am, or what I am doing, though, I begin to know that it's coming. What "it" is I have yet to figure out, because I have never seen it. It could be the feeling it generates alone...a steadily growing sense of horror and darkness, engulfing my dream in blackness. I can never run from it; as if I become frozen. I can only stand and attempt to howl in fear as it surrounds me. It seems to come from the ground up, swirling around me in terror, awakening me to a pounding heart and usually the wide eyed gaze of my wife.
I was feeling this terror. Almost to the point of questioning whether I had dozed off while scanning in my truck. This was too visceral...too real to be a dream. I could feel the salty crust of dried sweat around the neckpiece of my body armor. I could smell the livestock bedded down in the back of the compound. The Soldiers with me were moving independently, and obviously not sharing the terror that was welling inside me. My breathing began to speed up. I could feel me heart pounding in my ears. I was a leader, and my men could not see this happening to me. I tried my best to contain any signs.
As we reached the building we "stacked up" on the near side of the opening in front. I knew that if I spoke my voice would sound shaky. I pointed to the first man up and directed him to move out with hand signals. Both of them shot me a perplexed look over their shoulder, wondering why I didn't vocalize orders, and it served to change the seriousness of the movement. As soon as the first man moved we were all moving on each other's heels. We rounded the corner and what I saw served to kick up the sense of dread I had already been grappling with.
The building was empty, save some old run down tractors parked in the back. The part that made me flinch was the fact that there was a series of walkways along the inside of the roof. There was a stair leading up to them on our right. In the darkness there would have been no way to tell if there was a sniper's barrel trained on us, a series of barrels, a trigger man, or worse.
There was thick dust hanging in the air. It was accentuated by a shaft of moonlight shining through a hole in the roof. My heart was pounding so hard that I could literally see my body jumping with each beat. There was something there. My conscious was screaming at me. There's something here. Get them out. Get them out!
I vocalized quickly.
"Move out. Let's go! Get out of here!"
One of the Soldiers with me was half-way up the stairs to the cat walk. He looked back confused, but quickly moved back down and out. If I said it, I must have seen something.
The guys with me never spoke about it. They never asked what I saw. Not one word. As we were walking back to the gate I looked back at the structure. It seemed to be breathing...yawning...brought almost to life in fury; angered that whatever warning system touched my soul had stolen us away from it.
After searching the man's house the other guys found nothing of interest. As far as I know, nothing ever happened in that spot while we were on our tour there.
About two years after I had returned home, in another pitched night of attempted sleep, that place appeared in my dreams. I was there, in the hanging dust, standing alone in the middle of the structure. I looked down at my rifle, and immediately noticed that the barrel was bent. It most certainly would not fire. I dropped my hand to my leg, only to finger the empty hole in my drop-holster where my pistol would be. There was movement on the catwalk above me. It was coming. The terrifying darkness that always chased and froze me was blowing in like a cold breeze. I struggled to howl...to yell for help...but my mouth wouldn't open. As the shroud came over me, releasing me to run down the tunnel, I saw a glowing set of green eyes staring down from the catwalk. I was supposed to have belonged to it, whatever it was.
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