Attempting calm under fire

November 21, 2004

My nose hurts.

It has a big scuff on the bridge, the result of a heart-pounding lesson in the art of maintaining grace under fire.

Nope, I don’t have grace when I’m under gunfire.

Soldiers seem to have it. They fire weapons, tossing a string of bullets marked by the glow of red tracer rounds into the air while moving with seeming ease.

I just run — if I’m lucky.

There was an unfortunate incident tonight that proves grace under fire is not for everyone.

Actually, it was tragic for more than one reason.

Charlie Company, 3rd Battalion of Arkansas’ 39th Infantry Brigade, has had a doozy of a week. They raided a mosque that sparked the worst battle they’ve ever seen.

Today, the day after the fight, was relatively calm — except for soldiers’ nerves.

Warnings about car bombs dominated the day. As a result, soldiers were quick on the trigger to fire warning shots toward any car that appeared to get too close.

As the day drew to a close with little more than a few distant gunshots to raise concerns, the soldiers with 3rd Platoon stormed a building in Adhamiya reported to house a sniper.

I was with them, as usual.

Everything went as planned. The door was busted open, soldiers piled in and began searching. I followed them in at first and then went back outside with the three-man fire team that was going to guard the entrance, including Cpls. Kenny Witt of Benton and Christian Newton of Tennessee.

We knelt against the wall down the street and began to chat.

Next thing we knew, gunfire erupted.

Bullets chewed at the stucco wall a few feet above our heads and ricocheted onto the ground at our feet.

Witt had a hard time seeing through the cloud of dirt tossed into his face from incoming rounds landing around him.

Fight or flight took over. The soldiers began to fight, blazing the sky with a hellfire of bullets.

I immediately bolted for cover.

We were in full view on the street with nowhere to hide. I ran down the sidewalk to the building the rest of the platoon was searching. There was a stairway just inside that I figured I’d hug.

As I got up to run, the toe of my right boot got hung up on a cable running across the sidewalk.

I went down fast.

First my hands hit, then my nose, my knees and finally I heard my Kevlar helmet clunk on the concrete. The only thing I felt hit was my nose.

I thought: “This is it. I’m a goner.”

I looked over my shoulder and saw Newton arc a string of bullets dotted with red tracer rounds onto the roof where the shooter was believed to be.

I heard my little voice yell at me. “Run run run!”

I got up and ran, yelling back at Witt that I was fine.

It all took about a second, but felt like forever.

The fire fight was over in a few minutes. I lay on the stairs and waited for the quiet.

I emerged from the building with a scraped nose, knees, hands and a bruised ego.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Witt said. “I thought you were shot when you went down.”

“I thought you were dead,” Newton added.

Nope, just clumsy.

But apparently I’m not as clumsy as the Iraqi National Guard. They’re the ones who were shooting at us.

Yeah, you’re right. They’re supposed to be allies.

Maybe they were confused. Maybe they couldn’t see the soldiers’ tell-tale Kevlar helmets.

Or maybe they were mad.

A bullet or two from one of the warning shots Charlie Company took at a vehicle sailed over the wall and into their compound earlier in the evening.

Whatever the reason, it proved once again the impossibility of having grace under fire.

There’s panic, there’s adrenaline, there’s a million thoughts and fears. As we drove back to camp, soldiers tried to calm their fears and quell shaking hands. And my hands shook right there with them.

Posted by Amy at November 21, 2004 02:06 PM