Ambush Alley: The Most Extraordinary Battle of the Iraq War (14 page)

“If you think it’s so funny, then you can do some push-ups, too.”

That would set him off even more, and he would laugh as he did the push-ups. He could cope with the mental stuff. He’d been to jail before, so he knew what respect and discipline was. And he was in great shape, so the physical stuff was easy.
I treated the whole of the Boot Camp thing like a
game.

Choosing his MOS—military occupational specialty—wasn’t difficult. A friend of his had signed up as an amtracker and got stationed in Hawaii. He seemed to spend most of his time surfing the beaches.

“Whatever you do, don’t sign up as an infantryman.”

He’d done a lot of snowboarding and body boarding and was good with mechanical stuff, so he signed up to be an amtracker. In the end, he didn’t get to Hawaii. Instead, he was sent to Camp Lejeune. It was okay. He loved the camaraderie and enjoyed messing about with the tracks. The thing he didn’t like was the way the grunts thought of themselves as better than the trackers. They always taunted the trackers, calling them POGUES, people other than grunts, and saying that the infantry was the backbone of the Marine Corps. He always hated that because he saw the same amount of combat that they did.
I have to bring them to the fucking
fight.
Castleberry always had a reply.

“If it wasn’t for us trackers you’d be walking twenty-five miles with a pack on your back, you goddamn Earthpigs.”

He also called them Dirtpeople because they painted on their silly camo faces and ran around in the dirt. But his favorite was Crunchies.
It’s
the sound they make when you run them over.

Castleberry, like most trackers, saw himself as different from the other marines. Trackers even had their own individual call signs to set them apart. First Lieutenant Conor Tracy was Whaler because he wanted to bring the Whalers hockey team back to Hartford, Connecticut. Gunnery Sergeant David Myers was Taz, like the Tasmanian Devil of cartoon fame. Sergeant Matthew Beaver was Rotty because he was six feet seven inches and his life outside the Marine Corps revolved around breeding rottweilers. Corporal Nicholas Elliot was Axel because he did a mean Axel Rose impression. And Sergeant William Schaefer was Eight Ball. No one knew why.

In Kuwait, trackers and grunts didn’t always train together because the trackers had to spend so much time maintaining their vehicles. The heat and sand caused an endless stream of mechanical failures. The tracks were their homes. They rode in them, ate in them, and slept in them. That’s why it would send Castleberry into a rage when the grunts messed up his vehicle.

“Push, push, push.”

It was Captain Wittnam’s voice on the radio, urging Castleberry on to catch up with the rest of the battalion. His eyes were focused on the road ahead of him. Castleberry saw the rise in the span of the Euphrates Bridge. At any moment, he expected to see Alpha Company’s tracks whipping up dust in front of him. But there was nothing. All he heard over the roar of the engine were snatches of confused and urgent radio transmissions and the occasional
ping
against the side of the track.
Is that someone
shooting at us?
From his driver’s seat, he remembered hearing discussions about tanks having to refuel, but he assumed they were now back in action and offering the line companies fire support. He felt safer when the tanks were in front because they were like bullet sponges and attracted fire away from his vulnerable vehicle. Now, as he began to cross the bridge, he realized that there was nothing between him and the city.
Holy shit. There are
no tanks. This is for real.

Three tracks behind, in track 204, Wittnam saw Alpha Company under fire on the far side of the Euphrates Bridge. As his track crossed the span, he got a better view of Alpha’s marines dismounting from their tracks and taking up positions behind walls and dirt mounds. After weeks in the desert and days traveling across an empty landscape, it was a jolt to take in the sight of a swarming city. It looked as though it was teeming with fury. And he was going into the heart of it. As he reached the downside of the bridge span, the convoy stopped. From their respective hatches, both Wittnam and Tracy scanned the east side of the road ahead of them. They knew that the marines of Bravo Company were supposed to be in front of them, heading around to the east of the city. But there was no sign of them. Although the mechanical failure to the track had delayed them, Wittnam was still expecting to catch the tail end of the Bravo convoy. He tried to call Lieutenant Colonel Grabowski at the battalion forward CP. There was so much chatter that he couldn’t break through.

Shots rang out overhead. They whizzed, rather than cracked. The closer the round was, the louder the crack as it whipped past. Wittnam was grateful that the Iraqis seemed to be such poor marksmen. But he couldn’t stay where he was parked up there by the bridge. His 176 marines were sitting ducks. Wittnam had seconds to make up his mind. He couldn’t see any sign of Bravo. Alpha had penetrated farther into the city than the original plan called for.
Maybe Alpha is having an easy time of it and the defense of the
town is crumbling? Maybe Bravo has not gone around to the east? Maybe
Tim Newland has rushed his company straight up the MSR to the northern
bridge?
He knew that the main supply route that led straight to the northern bridge had been christened Ambush Alley by some of the marines on the ship on the way over. He couldn’t remember who had coined it first, but he knew he had kind of laughed about it in Kuwait. It had been portrayed as an urban canyon where defending forces could set up positions and blast away at any attacking forces. He knew that no infantrymen would want to go down it.

But he also recalled the doctrine of Commander’s Intent.
Know what
the commander wants to achieve and, in a confused situation, do what you
can to make it happen.
The battalion commander’s aim was to seize the northern bridge. The regiment’s motto was “Keep Moving.” The shortest route through the city to the northern bridge was along that 4.6-kilometer stretch of Ambush Alley. Maybe it won’t be as bad as they had all imagined. He got on the radio again to try and find out which route Bravo Company had taken. There was no reply. Time was running out. He had to make a decision. He was acutely aware that his next move would have a crucial impact on the course of the battle for the bridges.
What should I do?
He reached for the radio and called all of his units.

“All Palehorse units. Keep moving along the MSR to the northern bridge.”

Lieutenant Reid, behind Wittnam in track 208, surveyed the scene from the span of the bridge.
What’s going on?
He recalled the briefing he had been given by those higher up and which he in turn had communicated to his Weapons Platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Philip Jordan. They would establish a defensive position south of the city with a be prepared to mission to seize the southern and northern bridges. He remembered that the tanks would establish a support-by-fire position south of the Euphrates while Alpha took the bridge. Then Bravo and its tanks would cross the bridge, move around to the east, and establish a support-by-fire position at the northern canal bridge while Charlie seized that bridge. Now nothing seemed to be happening as they’d planned.

He couldn’t see any trace of Bravo Company, the CAAT, or the forward CP. He saw that Alpha was in some sort of firefight at the foot of the Euphrates Bridge. He knew that they couldn’t stay exposed on the bridge for long.

“We’re going to move along the MSR.”

It was Captain Wittnam on the radio. He sounded quite calm. He was telling them that they were going to go for the northern bridge through the heart of the city. Reid had never called it Ambush Alley, but he certainly remembered it as the road that they had talked about avoiding at all costs while on ship.

He didn’t see it as a warning signal. He wasn’t afraid. He had a lot of confidence in Wittnam. They were Americans. They had a load of firepower. They had Cobras flying overhead.
The hajjis might blow off a few
rounds to save their manhood but that will pretty much be the extent of it.
They’re not going to want to mess with us. They know we can kick their ass.

At the front of Charlie Company, the driver of track 201, Lance Corporal Castleberry, waited for an order. Stretching ahead of him was the four-lane highway of Ambush Alley that led to the northern bridge. There were people and trucks moving about in the middle of the road up ahead. To his left and right, he saw Iraqis climbing over roofs and balconies, appearing at windows and then vanishing again. He saw white flags being waved from rooftops. He saw ghostly black-clad figures running through the alleyways.

To his right, manning the track’s up-gun system, was the AAV vehicle commander, Sergeant William Schaefer. He, too, knew that they were supposed to head to the east to link up with Bravo Company. He looked up at the road ahead of him.
My God, there are hundreds of hajjis running
around out there.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a round whizzed over his head. He felt the air snap in front of him. It was close.
My God, they’re
shooting at me.

Then, over the radio, he heard the transmission from Captain Wittnam ordering them to push forward.

“This place is hot. We’ve got to keep moving.”

Schaefer thought he’d heard wrong. Track 201 was at the head of the convoy. There were no tanks and no tracks from Bravo in front of him. That wasn’t in the original plan. The tanks were supposed to be there to protect the vulnerable tracks. He wanted to make sure that he didn’t do anything stupid. He got on the radio.

“Say again.”

It was his platoon commander, Lieutenant Tracy, who answered.

“We’ve got to keep moving and pushing.”

“Roger. We’re going to push.”

He checked to make sure that his platoon sergeant, Gunnery Sergeant Myers, bringing up the rear of the column, was up and ready. He didn’t want to go tearing off alone. Then he got back on the radio and, using his call sign, made sure that everyone knew that track 201 was on the move.

“Eight Ball, Oscar Mike.”

With that order, Schaefer’s driver, Lance Corporal Castleberry, revved up the AAV’s 525-horsepower engine and gunned the track into the city.
I’m just going to haul ass.
Ahead of him, Schaefer saw Iraqis running across the streets and trucks maneuvering back and forth. It was like going into a beehive. And then it started. At first it was just a few
dinks
on the side of the track. Then they just got louder and more insistent. Schaefer, manning the .50 cal, sent bursts of automatic fire into the buildings ahead. Scott Swantner, the infantry platoon commander who was fairly new to the Marine Corps, was sitting right next to him, his rifle by his side. He heard Schaefer yell at him over the sound of the AAV’s engine and the incoming rounds.

“Hey, sir, don’t you think it would be a good idea if you started shooting?”

Robinson, posting air security in track 201, was still real hazy about the plan. Somewhere in his head, he knew that they were supposed to be following Bravo, but he couldn’t see them. He also remembered that in Kuwait, their platoon commander, Lieutenant Swantner, had mentioned something about avoiding a route called Ambush Alley. They had all looked at each other in bemusement, but they wrote it down in their notebooks. And now they were taking off at speed, and from what he could make out, they were heading right down the road they were supposed to avoid.

Groups of Iraqis were running across the road ahead of them. He wanted to look behind him to make sure the other tracks were following, but knew that he mustn’t. He had to keep his eyes on his area of responsibility—the left side of the road.

“Where did these friggin’ hajjis come from?”

Suddenly, the world around Casey Robinson exploded. Shots came in from every angle, bullets whooshed overhead. It was like hitting a firestorm.

Robinson went into shock. He shut down. It was as though he wasn’t there. It was in slow motion. Then suddenly, something clicked. He felt a round whiz past, and he just started firing.

“Fuck, they’re firing at us.”

“Well, shoot back, you asshole.”

There were two-story houses on either side of them. To his right side, the houses were set back only a few meters. On the left, the houses were set back fifty to one hundred meters with a scrubby and dusty wasteland in between the houses and the road. He now saw that there were Iraqis stretched out all along the highway, some standing in doorways by houses or crouched behind sandbagged positions against walls, while others were lying in ditches in the wasteland area or running across the road in front of him. He had never shot live ammo at human beings before, and he had never imagined that this was how he would have to do it. He could see the people he was shooting at. Some of them were only meters away from him. There were no soldiers or military vehicles to shoot at. Some were women and children.

He let out a burst from his M249 at a group of people firing at him from an alleyway. He saw some of them drop. He picked targets in front of him, but by the time he had let off a few rounds his track had sped past and he missed them. He moved on to the next target. Training just took over. He didn’t think.
Look for targets and fire. Look for targets and fire.

“Wentzel, to your right, to your right. One hundred meters to your right.”

Yelling, he pointed to a crowd of people in a square on the west side of the road. Most of them were scattering, but as they split they revealed an Iraqi dressed in black, firing from the hip with an AK-47. He saw Wentzel fire the M203 grenade launcher, which arced in the air and landed in the middle of the fleeing crowd. Pieces of rocks, debris, and people flew into the air.

There were white flags fluttering from a window. As he passed, the white flags were whipped away and he saw muzzle flashes from the same place.
What the fuck is going on?
He saw more white flags ahead. This time he fired right into the windows. He tried to take aim at the groups of people huddled in doorways, but it was hard to tell who was the enemy. Some were women and children who just seemed to stare in amazement at the convoy as it hurtled past, rounds whistling up and down the street. Robinson looked again. He couldn’t believe it. He swore that was a kid firing an AK-47 at him. Just as he got ready to fire back, the kid ducked into a doorway.
Fuck, I’ve got to fire at anything that might be a threat.