Shooter_ The Autobiography of the Top-Ranked Marine Sniper - Jack Coughlin [86]
I found Lieutenant Colonel McCoy standing beside his Humvee, where he had been having a frontline conference with the regimental boss, Colonel Steve Hummer, and Major General James N. Mattis, the commander of the 1st Marine Division. A single lucky Iraqi artillery shell could have decapitated our leadership, but the day’s mission was of such importance that the big boys had come down to eyeball it.
When Mattis and Hummer went off to talk to some of the troops who would make the river crossing, McCoy gave me a quick information dump and said there would be no repeat of what happened the previous day, when at Officer Bob’s direction I had missed the opening of the fight. No lollygagging behind the line today. He told me to take my snipers across with the assault troops and set up shop on the far side of the river. He looked at his watch and said we would begin in twenty minutes. That gave me just enough time to get out of the MOPP suit and back to the shack.
As we spoke, Casey had driven up with our trucks, which contained our clothes, and parked only about fifty yards away. Panda and I were soon peeling away the squishy MOPP suits that clung to us like a crude fungus. The simple act of putting on clean desert cammies gave us the feeling of being reborn, and I felt as though I were donning an Armani suit.
We joked with Casey and some of the other guys as we changed, and they assembled packs with enough ammunition and supplies to keep us going for another full day. Meanwhile, the tempo of Marine artillery and mortars firing in support of the coming mission increased, switching from sporadic harassment fire to a thorough preparation barrage of the area that we were about to attack. Huge shells tore through the sky with the sound of ripping linen and exploded among the buildings and the palm grove beyond the bridge.
The volleys of artillery suddenly drew return fire from some hidden Iraqi guns, a salvo that reportedly was triggered by an order from an Iraqi general using a cell phone. Everything changed in an instant. The Iraqi artillery, which had been quiet all night, was shooting back. That made me finish changing my clothes boot-camp fast. I was snapping on my flak jacket when three shells came down toward us and someone yelled, “Incoming!”
There was no time to react, other than to realize that this was going to be close. To this day, no one has been able to explain whether the devastating artillery rounds came from enemy or friendly guns.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!!! In quick succession, three big shells exploded around us. One hit on the riverbank about fifty yards away with a horrendous roar and blew a great gout of dirt and debris into the air. The second hit to the left of the nearby Kilo command Amtrac, and the third slammed directly onto the vehicle.
A thunderous explosion created a powerful rush of air that darkened the area, shrapnel slashed and rang about, and the concussion hammered the surrounding buildings. Marines were knocked down like rows of dominoes as a column of fire flew out of the rear of the Amtrac, along with the ripped bodies of the two guys who had been inside, smashed radios, maps, packs, and debris colored by a spray of burning oil and hot blood. All of us who had felt safe within the high walls of the compound now felt like mice trapped in a box, with nowhere to hide.
A thick overhead power line snapped with whiplash force and cracked Casey on the arm and sent him sprawling, stunned, into the dirt. He shook it off, caught his breath in the swirling dark smoke, and, unsure of what had knocked him to the ground, slapped his hands across his