Part 8 (2/2)
”Red-One,” Howard called in to Johnson, ”don't go toe to toe with them. Drop mortars.”
Vic Johnson thought about this order. He envisioned having his mugshot broadcast around the world on CNN International, suddenly infamous for calling in bombs that slaughtered a group of innocent schoolboys. Moreover, practically speaking, he didn't know where exactly to drop the mortars, since he had no specific intel on the insurgents' location-if there were were any insurgents, that was. any insurgents, that was.
”Sir, I have civilians in front of me,” Johnson said. ”We're told other kids are there. I don't think we can drop mortars.”
”Fine,” Howard said. ”Be careful.”
At Johnson's direction, one soldier escorted the young Nuristanis down the hill a bit and onto a ledge off to the side, where they would be reasonably safe. Johnson left most of 1st Platoon in place while he and a few others went up the hill to investigate the boys' story. In the brush they found debris and blood, which Johnson a.s.sumed must have come from the donkeys. He was starting to think the kids really were telling the truth.
Private First Cla.s.s Kevin Dwyer piped up: ”I see 'em,” he said. ”They got weapons.”
”Then shoot 'em,” Johnson ordered.
Jeremy Larson and his immediate crew had discovered the enemy presence in a different manner: by being shot at. Insurgents fired their AK a.s.sault rifles25 at them, and Larson, Private First Cla.s.s Levi Barbee, and Specialist Matthew Wilhelm all dropped to a fighting position. Barbee peered up toward the source of the fire through the scope of his M16 rifle. at them, and Larson, Private First Cla.s.s Levi Barbee, and Specialist Matthew Wilhelm all dropped to a fighting position. Barbee peered up toward the source of the fire through the scope of his M16 rifle.
”They're looking down at us,” he said. ”I got one in my sight.”
”Go ahead and take a shot,” Larson said.
Barbee fired, and the insurgents ducked and scattered.
Larson figured the others from 1st Platoon would swing into a flank to help them, so he stayed where he was and told Barbee and Wilhelm to do the same.
About six insurgents had gathered by a tree, offering Larson's squad a rare opportunity to end the conflict almost before it began. Wilhelm had the SAW-the ”squad automatic weapon,” or M249 light machine gun. He took a bead on the pack of insurgents, aimed his SAW, and... nothing happened.
The SAW had jammed.
As the firefight snapped into a greater intensity, Johnson told his interpreter, ”Take the kids, the donkeys, whatever, and get them back to the PRT. Get the h.e.l.l out of here. Tell them you were with Lieutenant Johnson's patrol-they'll know what to do. Make sure everyone gets there. Don't stop for anything.”
Johnson grabbed one of his scouts and returned to where Dwyer was firing at the moving group of insurgents. The lieutenant emptied half a magazine of 5.56-millimeter rounds into one insurgent while Jongeneel and his recon team pushed other enemy fighters back with their fire.
At the back of the patrol, Wilhelm took apart the jammed SAW and put it back together. Enemy fire continued to shower down upon the three Americans. The pack of insurgents near the tree dispersed. Larson and Barbee continued to shoot, but they were running out of ammo.
Where the f.u.c.k is the rest of the platoon? Larson wondered.
”I need a f.u.c.king two-oh-three!” he yelled. ”I need a SAW! Can I get some f.u.c.king backup?”
Some from 1st Platoon had stayed on the trail; others had headed into the brush. Specialist Clinton Howe now ran up with his M203 grenade launcher. ”Hey, man,” he said, diving by Larson's side as he fired from behind a bush. ”I heard you're looking for a two-oh-three.”
They made a plan. The enemy had been trying to work on their right flank, so Howe would launch a grenade from the left side of the bush toward the approaching insurgents, Larson would throw one from the right, and then they would pray to G.o.d that Wilhelm's SAW worked.
As Howe stood up to shoot the M203 grenade launcher, Larson rose to his knees to throw his grenade. He hadn't even had a chance to pull the pin when he saw the white puff of smoke from an RPG launcher, its lethal explosive coming right at them. Howe and Wilhelm scooted away. Barbee rolled. Larson dropped down and put his left arm over his face as the RPG landed barely three feet away from him.
Howe woke up in a pool of his own blood, under a tree. ”Medic!” he yelled, but a voice told him that the medic was down, so he wiggled out from under the tree, only to promptly fall into a ravine. He took a second to try to clear his head, then got up and made his way over to the voices.
When Larson came to, he couldn't see anything. Both the left side of his face and his left arm had been peppered with shrapnel. Blood was spilling into his eye from a cut on his forehead, and there were holes in his hand and shoulder. He could hear a high-pitched ringing as he crawled toward a tree. Reaching it, he paused to lean against the trunk and then staggered back to the bush where he'd originally been. There he found Howe and Barbee, who had also been hit with shrapnel, as well as Wilhelm.
”Medic!” Larson yelled. He knew that Johnny Araujo, the medic, had been down the mountain, prepared to help if needed, but now he heard Araujo in the distance, yelling that he himself was down. Larson quickly descended the hill and found the medic lying on the ground, covered with blood. Another RPG had gone off near him, sending a big piece of shrapnel into the right side of his neck; he was now plugging the hole with the fingers of his right hand. Two of the fingers on his left hand had been nearly taken off.
”Dude, are you okay?” Larson asked.
”No, dude,” Araujo answered, looking up at Larson. ”Are you you okay?” okay?”
Araujo said he was going to pull his fingers out of the hole in his neck for a minute, and then he wanted Larson to describe the blood that started flowing: What color was it? Was it bubbling? Larson agreed to tell him and watched closely as blood started spurting from the hole. It was the same bright crimson that was on Larson's own chest, from where his wounds had bled onto his s.h.i.+rt. Araujo knew that color meant the injury was to an artery, not a vein, indicating that this was a more serious wound. He struggled to wrap bandages around his neck, but he wasn't able to seal the hole. He wasn't sure how badly he was hurt or even how long they had been out there. ”Hey, man,” Araujo said. ”I need to get down the mountain.”
Johnson, Jongeneel, and the others at the front of the platoon had been granted the rare advantage of getting in the first shot. With the fight now seemingly almost over, Johnson grudgingly walked toward the spot where someone had been calling his name. Raynor's voice came over the radio: ”We need a medevac,” he said. With his men spread out all over the mountain, Johnson hadn't known until that moment that the platoon had suffered casualties.
As he hurried down the mountain, he thought about the lessons he'd learned in Ranger School, weighing what he ought to do now. Johnson knew that at all costs, his scouts had to maintain an offensive posture. If they cowered and retreated, the insurgents might further exploit their terrain advantage-they had the high ground-and kill them all.
Larson suddenly appeared in front of him. To Johnson, he seemed a bit disoriented-that was the polite term for it, anyway. ”What the f.u.c.k are you doing?” Larson asked him. ”Where's the medevac? We need to get a medevac, Johnny's bleeding out his neck!”
In fact, Raynor had called for a medevac, but the leaders.h.i.+p of 3-71 Cav had nixed it. The hill was too steep and sloping to allow a safe landing, the commanders felt, so the pilots would have had to use a Jungle Penetrator to extract any wounded men. The recent disasters involving tricky helicopter extractions and Jungle Penetrators added an extra layer of hesitation to any decisions to order more such rescue missions.
”Dude, you need to get the f.u.c.king mortars launched!” Larson continued. ”Don't let them get away!”
Johnson didn't feel the need to explain himself to Larson, who was known to have a certain att.i.tude, a problem with authority. He'd already made the call not to have mortars fired onto the mountain, given the civilian presence. Moreover, at this point, any mortar fired might hit one of the scattered U.S. troops.
”Just give him the f.u.c.king grid and get a G.o.dd.a.m.n medevac!” Larson yelled. He knew he was approaching insubordination, but he didn't care. He was covered in blood and had been hit by flying shards of metal. Johnson understood that between the adrenaline and his injury, Larson was not in his normal state of mind, so he let it slide.
”I think I'm going to lose my eye. How bad am I hit?” Larson now asked.
Johnson looked at him. ”It's not that bad. You're cut above your eye. The blood is streaming in. We're going to have to walk back to the base.”
”Let's get out of here,” Larson said. ”We need to leave now, L.T.”
”Jongeneel's team is still out there,” Johnson explained. ”We don't leave soldiers behind.”
A voice came back over Johnson's radio: ”Red-One, t.i.tan X-ray, CAS”-close air support-”is coming on station. ETA is five minutes. There are two A-tens coming onto station.”
After the A-10 Warthogs flew over their heads, launching flares as a show of force, the troops found one another and consolidated. The fight's over, Johnson thought to himself. By now the insurgents had probably already ditched their weapons and disappeared back into the local populace.
Larson walked back down and organized a 360-degree guard station around Araujo as the men of 1st Platoon continued to gather in their last known location. Squadron headquarters ordered the platoon to walk the casualties back to the PRT. Raynor began setting up teams with stretchers to carry the casualties off the mountain, but he was told it would take at least forty-five minutes for help to arrive. He was furious, but all he could do was try to figure out how to move the wounded as far down the hill as possible, as quickly as possible, without a.s.sistance.
One of the boys' donkeys had survived but managed to tangle its lead rope around a nearby tree. Johnson had an idea: why not put Araujo on the donkey and usher the beast down the hill? Every time they tried to get Araujo on its back, however, the animal bucked him off onto the ground. The medic was in no shape to hold on to the donkey himself, so after a few attempts, they all decided just to head down on foot. The men took turns carrying Araujo.
This image of Araujo (in the background), Howe, and Larson after the ambush became a Time Time magazine Photo of the Year. magazine Photo of the Year. (Photo 2006 Robert Nickelsberg of Getty Images) (Photo 2006 Robert Nickelsberg of Getty Images)
As he arrived back at the Kamdesh PRT, Johnson saw the rest of the surviving donkeys at the gate. He smiled, rea.s.sured that the interpreter had made it back safely with the children.
<script>