Rocket attack at GO

We had been out of Sparrowhawk about a week. Although we were next to an Iraqi Army base, we were still out in the open. We were about as exposed as a battalion-sized Unit could get. It was basically a tent city that was in the process of becoming a Forward Operating Base. It was to be named “FOB Garry Owen”, after the moniker of our Battalion, the 7^th Cavalry. At this point, though, there were none of the towering cement “T-walls” in place to cordon off the base, nor were there any bunkers or guard towers. Our protection from a country of people that wanted to kill us was a triple-strand of concertina wire, with a makeshift gate that could be dragged open and closed. Suffice to say, concertina wire is pretty effective at stopping personnel and vehicles, but not mortars, rockets, and bullets. I say vehicles because I have actually seen the stuff disable a tank when it gets wound up in the drive sprocket, so I’m sure a car or truck wouldn’t have much better luck.

We slept in tents called “GP-Mediums” that were designed to house about 20 Soldiers with gear and cots. Losing any sense of dignity is something that happens early on in the life of a Soldier. Terms like “nuts to butts” and sharing porno magazines for “me time” becomes a normal thing. Spooning up on the back deck of a tank with the rest of the crew during a particularly cold night is quite acceptable. This is sometimes a paradox because of the rampant homophobia in combat arms, but men do what they have to when it comes to the basics of staying alive. Here we lived our lives, packed in this tent-our only shelter from the blazing sun. We slept here, bathed here, ate here, beat off here…all within an arm’s reach of the next guy.

The first few weeks out here had been uneventful as far as enemy contact went. Uneventful doesn’t even describe it, really. It was outright boring, other than the events of reverse-evolution that had taken place at Sparrowhawk. We hadn’t been issued Company-level OPORDS (Operations Orders) yet, so there wasn’t much in the way of combat operations going on. Having nothing to do in the Army is just below outright combat in the level of hazard. Here you have a situation where there are men in their 20’s and 30’s, packed together in a place where the barrier between life and death appears paper thin. There are no women in sight, and they have been training for the last year in techniques on how to kill and survive. This is when we see such feats as Soldiers trying to create flying squirrel suits out of 550 cord and ponchos, and jumping off of fuel platforms during a sandstorm. This works just well enough for the Soldier in question to float past his intended landing area and slam his face into an aluminum landing pad, costing him three teeth and an Article 15. It seems that in this mindset, if we can’t cheat the death the enemy attempts to bring us, we will create our own situations in which to do so.

The monotony also serves to intensify the homesickness. A laptop that’s almost dead and some DVD’s only goes so far before we retreat into the recesses of our mind. Even the old crusty First Sergeant visits home in the quiet moments. I had to find a way to break this up. My marriage was shaky when I left, and I had only spent about 8 months of my daughter’s 2 year life with her. I couldn’t dwell in my mind for too long. I always worked out, but at the time there was no facility in place, so I just started running. I would run around the perimeter of the base. I started doing just one lap, which was about a mile and a half. By the end of the tour I could run almost endlessly, and I had shed about 30 pounds. That’s quite a bit of distress dropped in the sound of my feet crunching through the gravel. At this time I was still just starting.

Eventually, the enemy made himself known. We hadn’t ventured out of the base yet for patrols, but they knew we were there. A battalion-sized convoy rolling in to town isn’t exactly inconspicuous, plus I surmised that about 90% of the Iraqi Army would take off those chocolate chip uniforms at night and jihad against the American infidel. We would confirm that soon enough.

It was about 5am in the morning. The tent was still a dark chorus of harsh snores, backed by soft wheezing. I was drifting between waking and sleep, living in some lucid representation of home. I heard a series of thumps in the distance that shook the tent walls. Seconds later I heard the signature growing shriek of rockets. I shot up, grabbing the sides of my sweat drenched cot. It might be a dream.

Thump-Thump-thumpthumpthumpthump.

wheeeeeEEEEEEEEEE

“INCOMING!!”

I wailed it out as loud as I could. In a second the tent was alive with bodies rolling to the floor and clamoring for gear. The first impacts were close enough for the shockwaves to ruffle out tent walls. They were most definitely landing inside the base.

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump

Over and over again the cycle continued. We assessed around 40 rockets were launched at us. They were Chinese 107mm warheads, of which about a quarter ended up being “duds”, allowing us to easily identify what was being fired at us. We were getting pelted. This was a highly orchestrated indirect fire attack that probably began as soon as the locals found out we were coming.

A series of them were being “walked in” to our location.

boom boom Boom BOOM!

The last impact was close enough to hear a spattering of gravel hit the roof of our tent. The next set of thumps were nothing less than terrifying. A 107mm rocket would tear through these tents like tissue paper, and a direct hit would generate a horrific mass casualty. I had spread my body armor over my body and had already put my helmet on. I got as small as I could. The next set hit on the other side of the base. We may have been passed in the impact pattern, which allowed me to unclench my mind momentarily and look around. In the distance I heard men yelling over a loud groan.  My heart was pounding so hard I could actually feel the blood whooshing in and out of it. Somewhere in the darkness of the tent I heard staggered breathing. It was the only sound I could hear. The thumps began again.

When the attack was over there was mild chaos. Medics, dressed in nothing but shorts and flip-flops with helmet and body armor, rushed around poking their heads in tents. They were searching for casualties and asking if anyone in needed aid. We still didn’t know the extent of the damage, or if there had been any casualties. It took me a minute or so to swim to the surface of reality. It was like diving into deep water from a high place, and them swimming frantically towards the surface. Once I gained my conscience I jumped to my feet and donned my armor. I reached over and put on my running shoes as quickly as I could. Headlamps were systematically popping on as other Soldiers rambled through their things. Being a Staff Sergeant, I was one of the highest ranking Soldiers in the tent. There were others that outranked me, but I felt responsible for our first actions. Immediately, my training kicked in. I flicked on my headlight and searched each cot.

“Is there anyone that is not accounted for?”

I saw no empty spaces, which gave me slight relief. I had to report our accountability to Command. After any significant act, we were trained to always assess our personnel and equipment accountability. If there was someone missing, we had to find them. I grabbed my rifle, loaded a magazine, and headed towards the Company TOC (Tactical Operations Center). I wasn’t taking any chances that this attack evolve into a complex attempt to overrun us. The sheer volume of indirect fire was more than anything I had ever seen before, so nothing was out of the realm of belief right now. When I arrived to the TOC, which was next door to us, the attack was over. Our First Sergeant, who was a looming, explosive figure, was already red-faced with fury. I reported accountability for our tent, to which he didn’t reply. He shouted over me.

“If you aren’t a Platoon Leader or Platoon Sergeant get the fuck out of this tent!!”

That meant me. Protocol dictated that the Platoon Leaders head to the TOC for tactical instructions from the Commander, while Platoon Sergeants inventory their personnel and report up to the First Sergeant. We had attempted to keep Platoon integrity when placing people in tents, but there wasn’t enough space to do so. In a task organization misstep, we were basically spread out everywhere. I was in a tent with our mechanic Platoon. As far as organization went, we were kind of caught with our pants down. Had this been anything more complex, it would have been complete chaos.

Eventually, FOB Garry Owen became something to be proud of. As a Unit, we assembled a base in the middle of nowhere that withstood a pretty constant stream of attacks. Within months there were bunkers and t-walls that drained a little fear out of the rocket attacks. I learned something on the day of that attack, though. In my first tour we took at least three times the casualties we did on this one. There was a huge difference, though. We spent very little time “inside the wire”. We were out in our tanks, seeking the enemy and engaging any threat we came upon. We knew what our equipment could do and what it could withstand. We “took the fight to the enemy”, in Commander speak. I was afraid then, and I knew that it was just a matter of chance that it might be my day to run over the 500 pounds of munitions. But we were chasing them. Sitting in a tent city while the enemy plays lob the rocket at you is a different kind of fear. There is no fighting back, and the rockets themselves are the only sign of an invisible enemy. I was more afraid than I had ever been.