Victory Point - Ed Darack [112]
“I wanna hear those guns talkin’ to each other, got that, Devil Dogs? I wanna hear ’em talking to each other. Talkin’ guns!” Staff Sergeant Crisp boomed over the explosions of Shah’s attack, reminding the grunts behind the SAWs and Epperly and Greenfield on the 240 of the tried-and-true method meant to both accurately and effectively put machine-gun rounds on target while conserving ammunition for the next engagement; one gun would unload for a few seconds, then stop as another started. Crisp relished the loud, clattering symphony.
But Crisp, like Konnie and the other Marines that day, knew that their real return punch would come with the synergy of the classic Marine Corps combined-arms attack—laying everything on Shah at once: M16 rounds, light machine-gun rounds, mortars, and aerial strafing and bombardment. At that point, however, Fox-3 had just their M16s, SAWs, and the 240, while Shah’s mortars, RPGs, and machine-gun fire continued to rain down at an ever-more-feverish pace.
“Get battalion on the line! Now!” Grissom told his radio operator. The skilled RO dialed in the SATCOM frequency. “We’re in heavy fucking contact!” Grissom roared to Captain Perry Waters, the watch officer at the JAF COC. “We’re in the fight of our motherfuckin’ lives!” Grissom then immediately set out to direct serious pain on Ahmad Shah and his crew. “Get me Middendorf. We need an 81s suppression mission. We need it. We need it RIGHT FUCKING NOW!”
“Corpsman UP! Corpsman UP!” a Marine bellowed over the cacophony of battle for any “doc” within earshot to come help a wounded Marine. Lance Corporal Matt Wilson, dumping blood from his left calf and left ass cheek, writhed in pain, having been shot twice by heavy PK rounds. Hospital Corpsman Third Class Travis “Doc” Beeman and Hospitalman Iram Figueroa lunged through the volleys of machine-gun fire to aid Wilson. Kneeling beside him, his hands clumping with grit, dirt, and congealing blood, Figueroa cut off the left side of Wilson’s pants as Doc Beeman readied a tourniquet. The two corpsmen worked furiously to stop the bleeding, ignoring the risk to their own lives, but Wilson continued to lose blood.
“He’s gonna go into hypovolemic shock!” Beeman exclaimed, worried that the blood loss would lead to multiple organ failure.
“Can’t stop the damn bleeding!” Figueroa responded. “The wraps aren’t stopping the bleeding!” Beeman grabbed a flat rock.
“Plug it with this rock!” Beeman ordered.
“Huh?”
“Plug it with the fuckin’ rock! Put the rock under the tourniquet, and that’ll slow the bleeding!”Figueroa followed Beeman’s instructions—and amazingly, Wilson’s blood loss slowed, and eventually would stop.
Meanwhile Konnie, emptying Epperly’s magazines, wondered when the big guns would start unleashing their destructive furor on Shah’s positions. He knew that Fox-3 was out of range of Doghouse’s 105 mm howitzers back at Asadabad, and figured that Middendorf’s 81s would open up in just seconds.
“Sir! Sir! I’ve been shot! I’ve been shot. Oh God! I’ve been shot! I think I’m gonna die!” Konnie looked down to see Corporal Tyler Einarson, clutching his bleeding right wrist. Einarson crawled up to Konnie and leaned on the lieutenant’s right shoulder.
“You’re gonna be okay, Einarson. You’ll be just fine.” Crack! Crack! Crack! Konnie continued to send rounds downrange.
“Sir, do you think I can get the Silver Star for this?” Put-sheeew . . . boom! Another RPG launched; another impact far too close. Put-sheeew . . . boom! Then another.