Generation Kill - Evan Wright [83]
“Are they armed?” Colbert asks.
“There’s something,” Trombley says. “A white truck.”
“Everyone’s declared hostile,” Colbert says. “Light them the fuck up.”
Trombley fires two short bursts from the SAW. “Shooting motherfuckers like it’s cool,” he says, amused with himself.
A Marine machine gun behind us kicks in.
I look out Trombley’s window and see a mud hut and a bunch of camels. The camels are running madly in all directions, some just a couple of meters from our Humvee. I can’t figure out what the hell Trombley was shooting at.
Hasser standing in the turret, begins pounding the roof of the Humvee, screaming “Fuck!”
“What is it?” Colbert shouts.
“The Mark-19 is down!” Hasser yells. “Jammed!”
“My Mark-19 is down!” Colbert screams on the radio. Being the lead vehicle of the company, racing onto an airfield to fight tanks and AAA guns without a heavy weapon is a disaster in the making. “I repeat, my Mark- 19 is down!”
It’s the first time Fick has ever heard Iceman lose control on comms. “Calm the fuck down,” Fick orders Colbert. “I’m putting Team Two in front.”
THOUGH MARINES in Bravo Company have fired only three short machine-gun bursts so far, Captain America, rolling directly behind us, gets on the comms, screaming, “They’re shooting everywhere! We are under fire!”
Seemingly caught up in the spirit of the free-fire zone, Captain America sticks his East German AK out the window and begins shooting. Riding in the back of Captain America’s Humvee is twenty-one year-old Lance Corporal Andy Crosby. He sees a hut outside with people and animals. “What the fuck are you doing?” he yells at his commander. But Captain America continues blazing away. At one point, ricochets from his weapon ping off scrap metal by the road and zing back toward his men in the Humvee. “We’re getting ricochets!” Crosby shouts.
THERE’S NO FENCE at the airfield. It’s just long swaths of concrete tarmac concealed behind low berms. We don’t even see the airfield until we’ve nearly driven on top of it. There are weeds growing out of cracks in the tarmac and bomb craters in the middle. There’s nothing on it. The Humvees fan out and race into the bermed fields, searching for enemy positions.
“Oh, my God!” Person laughs. “He’s got his bayonet out.”
Captain America runs across the field ahead of his Humvee, bayonet fixed on his M-16, ready to savage enemy forces. He turns every few paces and dramatically waves his men forward, like an action hero.
“He thinks he’s Rambo,” Person guffaws. “That retard is in charge of people?”
We stop. Marines observe low huts far in the distance that could be either primitive barracks or homes. Captain America runs up to Kocher’s team and shouts, “Engage the buildings!”
Redman, the .50-cal gunner, looks at him, deadpanning to hide his contempt. A veteran of Afghanistan, he’s a big, placid guy and talks like a surfer even though he’s originally from Phoenix, Arizona. “Dude,” Redman says, “that building is four thousand meters away.” He adds a remark that pretty much anyone in boot camp knows. “The range on my .50-cal is two thousand meters.”
“Well, move into position, then. Engage it.” He stalks off.
They roll forward. Kocher observes the building through binoculars. “No, Redman. We’re not engaging. There’s women and children inside.”
We roll back from the field. A-10s cut down low directly overhead. The British never come. The Marines beat them to the field. It’s a beautiful, clear day. In the sunlight—the first we’ve seen in days—dust, impregnated in everyone’s MOPP suits, curls off like cigarette smoke. Everyone looks like they’re smoldering. “Gentlemen, we just seized an airfield,” Colbert says. “That was pretty ninja.”
SIXTEEN
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AN HOUR LATER, the Marines have set up a camp off the edge of the airfield. They are told they will stay here for a day or longer. For the first time in a week, many of the Marines take their boots and socks off. They unfurl cammie nets for shade and lounge beside their Humvees. The dirt here, augmented by a