Shooter_ The Autobiography of the Top-Ranked Marine Sniper - Jack Coughlin [38]
Suddenly there was a loud POP in the nearby sky, followed by numerous smaller pop-pop-pop-pop explosions. Oh, shit. That was the signature firecracker sequence of one of the most lethal artillery rounds in the U.S. arsenal, and if you’re close enough to hear it, you’re already in trouble. The first noise from the incoming 155 mm rounds comes when the warhead opens about fifty meters above the ground and showers out dozens of antipersonnel bomblets, and the following little pops are the cluster bombs detonating upon impact. They can cause incredible damage.
There is no time to hit the dirt once the firecrackers start, so I closed my eyes and leaned hard against an armored vehicle, trying to meld my skin with its metal armor. Another loud POP followed the first by microseconds, and then another string of fireworks rattled off about 150 yards from where Normy Arias and I were working.
Our guys were on their radios even before the popping stopped to tell the cannon-cockers not to do that anymore, and we didn’t take any casualties, but a certain junior staff officer was spooked. He thought the Iraqis had our number.
“They’re bracketing us!” he shouted, running up as Normy and I brushed ourselves off. With the sort of sixth sense about such things that combat veterans have in their bones, both of us had realized instantly that the errant rounds were Dual-Purpose Improved Conventional Munitions (DPICM), which meant they were from American guns that were not really trying to kill us. The danger was already past, and since no one had been hurt, there was really nothing to talk about.
“No, sir,” Norm replied, going back to work. “They’re not bracketing us.”
“Yes, they are, First Sergeant.” Officer Bob was adamant that we were all in grave danger.
“No, sir, they’re not,” Norm repeated, very slowly this time, in his most polite tone. “Those are DPICM rounds. The enemy doesn’t even have DPICM.”
“How can you be sure that was DPICM?”
Norm stopped what he was doing. “Sir, I was in artillery for eighteen years. Only one thing makes that sound. Take it from me, those were our own DPICM.”
Bob stood there for a minute, then hurried away.
McCoy’s personal promise to his battalion came true. Not only did we utterly destroy the Iraqi 51st Mechanized Division, but we also bagged its commanding general.
Night means nothing to American combat forces, because our high-tech and thermal-detection gear lets us see through the darkness. Throughout the early witching hours of Saturday morning, the battalion maneuvered closer to the airport and hit it just before first light, killing eight Iraqi tanks and some suicidal infantrymen fighting from bunkers.
Since I wasn’t involved, I had pulled a cot out of one of the ambulances and tried to get some rest, but my mind could not shut down. I got up when the attack started and walked around, listening to the gunfire and watching the flashes. I felt left out.
This was a built-up section of the city, and during the four hours it took to plan the attack, I could have easily infiltrated in the darkness, found a snug hide, done some real-time observation, and been in position to support the attack with some good old-fashioned sniping. Enemy soldiers were dying out there, but I hadn’t killed anybody since yesterday. Seemed a waste.
One of my boys at the airport took out a target with a nice long shot, and if he got one, I could have gotten ten, not because of a vast difference in our shooting skills, but because I had more experience in finding targets. There would have been plenty of work for me, but I missed the boat on this one. I was still the unofficial commander of the sniper platoon and needed to be working with my rifle, not tied down with the Main. An uncomfortable thought nibbled at me: Is this the way it’s going to be?
Dawn broke with us owning the key bridge across the Shatt al-Basra Canal. We resorted to brute force