legend, it was home port to Sinbad the Sailor. It is even mentioned in
Here and there, a few Iraqis emerged from low-walled mud huts in isolated hamlets of three or four buildings and waved, just as their Mesopotamian ancestors had greeted other invaders over the centuries. The Persians had come through in 539 B.C., and Alexander the Great and his Greeks in 331 B.C., then Muslim Arabs in A.D. 636, the Mongols out of Central Asia in 1258, the Ottoman Turks about three hundred years after that, the British four hundred years later, and the U.S.-led coalition back in 1991. Throw in the Sumerians, Akkadians, Assyrians, and Hittites, and the invasion routes into Iraq are littered with the graves of armies.
Modern-day Basra’s claim to fame was the nearby Rumaylah oil fields, where a thousand wells sprouted like grim desert flowers, plus refineries that had the potential of producing about 140,000 barrels a day. Postwar planning envisioned using the revenue from that oil to pay for rebuilding Iraq.
The city, with a population of almost 1.4 million, was Iraq’s major port; it had an international airport, and rail lines reached out from it to other cities in the region. As an oil and petrochemicals center, a transportation hub, and the second-largest city in Iraq, Basra was the biggest target outside of Baghdad itself.
Our job was to blunt any attempt to reinforce the defense of the oil fields. While we slammed the 51st, and possibly the Medina, other U.S. and British Marines were assigned to take the vast tract of oil wells. We sailed on, through lowlands that steadily became more populated; dirt roads careered every which way, and long pipelines reached across the sand. The place looked like a Texas oil patch.
“All Darkside units, this is Darkside Six! Gas-Gas-Gas!”
McCoy’s chemical detection alarm had been triggered, and his radio call again had us grabbing our masks. Although we had neither heard nor seen anything unusual, we were on the turf of the infamous Ali Hassan al-Majid, the merciless butcher known to the outside world as “Chemical Ali.” Square-faced, with a Brillo-pad mustache, Ali was the first cousin of Saddam Hussein and the maniac responsible for killing tens of thousands of Iraqis, having murdered Kurds in the north and Shi’ites in the south with equal enthusiasm. He coldly laid waste to 280 villages with deadly gas, with the intention of killing every man, woman, child, plant, and animal in them. Ali was now the governor of southern Iraq, and we knew that if anyone would launch the most poisonous substances known to man against us, Chemical Ali was the guy.
The warning turned out to be another false alarm, but it was a sobering reminder that this was no joyride.
We had encountered only some occasional mischief from the Iraqis so far, and by the time the distant skyline of Basra rose out of the flat landscape, the intelligence guys had determined that the fearsome Medina Division was nowhere about. Then things began to get serious.
Rocket-propelled grenades swooshed past the lead tanks, and minor fighting sprang up with some enemy soldiers who were trying to blow up an oil well. They did not last long under withering fire from the armored column.
We soon what we found what we had come for, the 51st Mech, and we set about destroying it. Our Abrams tanks opened up with their 120 mm main guns on enemy tanks, which returned fire, and the Amtracs and artillery were engaging whatever they could find. The deep-throated anvil chorus of explosions was joined by the stutter of heavy machine guns and the thump of grenades. Cobra helicopters viciously roared in with rockets and guns to attack targets we could not see.
The sky was black with smoke as we moved our Humvees among burning hulks of freshly destroyed enemy tanks and armored vehicles. Our tanks were bellowing thunder only about a hundred meters to the west, TOW wire-guided missiles pounded a target fifty meters to the east, and the nearby explosions convulsed the air, shook the ground, and made concrete buildings vibrate like tuning forks.
Casey and I temporarily parked the main battalion headquarters’ trucks about six hundred yards to the rear of the major fighting and then drove forward in our Humvees to find a more permanent site. Before leaving, we gave Officer Bob firm instructions to hold there until we came back to get them. But as the battle moved forward, and Normy was away for a moment to check on a problem, Bob decided to push the Main up another two hundred meters, and suddenly the thin-skinned trucks, containing the incredibly valuable men who ran the brain of the battalion, and their important communications equipment, came under fire.
“Hotel Seven! Hotel Seven! They’re firing at me! I need you back here!” My radio call sign was no longer “Gabriel” but “Hotel Seven,” and the panicky words of Officer Bob cut through the crashing of battle. People, tanks, and armored vehicles were getting smoke-checked all around us, and now the Main was under attack! The Panda Bear, driving my Humvee, stomped the accelerator, and we roared away to find Bob, with me yelling for Casey on the radio, although I knew that the surrounding noise might prevent him from hearing me. I stripped the sniper rifle out of the drag bag and checked the loads.
As the old, familiar sniper rhythms kicked in, the Panda skidded to a stop and we piled out of the Humvee. The Main was strung out like a disjointed worm over about two hundred yards near a cluster of refinery buildings, and Marine infantrymen were already out of the vehicles but could not see who was shooting at them. They could have countered by spraying the entire area with heavy machine gun fire, but that would have risked unacceptable civilian casualties, and nobody wanted to start the war off by whacking a bunch of civilians.
Bob saw us and pointed to one of the multistory buildings. I braced against the front hood of the big vehicle, leaned into the stock of my rifle, brought the scope to my right eye, and dialed the focus ring until the blocky oil refinery building stood out in sharp relief. Somewhere over there were the guys who were spraying the Main, and I could change this ambush in a hurry by taking out whoever was behind their machine gun. It would only take one shot, but first I had to find him.
Panda made a laser check for the range from our position to the building: “Nine hundred and eleven yards, boss.” That distance was almost perfect, because my M40A1 bolt-action rifle was zeroed at a thousand yards-the length often football fields. I adjusted the elevation fine-tune ring on the scope to nine plus one, which would make the bullet strike exactly 915 yards away, almost exactly the distance to the refinery. A thread of dark smoke drifted by, telling me that the wind was no more than three miles an hour, and therefore not a factor. There is an intricate formula to accurately determining windage and elevation, but any good sniper can solve the equations in his head.
I did a hasty search because time was being measured in the rattle of machine gun fire; bullets pinged off of rocks and the road and kicked up gouts of sand. Sooner or later, this guy was going to get lucky and hit somebody. I started at the bottom left-hand corner of the building and went straight up to the roofline, so crisp in the bright sunlight that it seemed almost painted against the smoky morning sky. Then I scanned back down to ground level, where some thick bushes were clumped in a tangled mass, and that’s where I found possibly the stupidest man in the Iraqi army. He was hiding behind a thick bush and firing with an RPK light machine gun.
He thought he was safe. At that distance, he was invisible to the naked eye, and the bushes and light obscured any muzzle flash. But through my scope, he appeared in full color, as if on my private television set, although this TV had crosshairs with tiny mil dots along the axes for adjustments. He wore a green field uniform that blended well in his shadowy hideaway. He had a thick mustache. The huge battle raging around us no longer mattered to me, for he and I were now in a special zone, all by ourselves.
The soldier had made an elemental mistake by confusing concealment with cover, assuming that being hidden in the shadows protected him from a bullet. Leaves and twigs cannot do that. Two seconds after I locked the crosshairs on him, I took a breath, partially exhaled, and gently squeezed the trigger. Almost instantly, my 173- grain round of Lake City Match ammunition exploded in his chest, and he spun around and was thrown backward as if slammed by an invisible baseball bat. He was dead, my first kill of Operation Iraqi Freedom.
A sudden movement caught my attention three stories above him, and the Panda Bear saw it, too. Someone had ducked back behind a wall. “That one’s gone,” said the Panda, examining the position with powerful binos.
“Nah. He’ll be back.” Part of my job is to study human nature. It’s like playing poker; if I know what the other guy is likely to do, such as blinking when he is dealt a pair of aces, I own him. Everyone has the flaw of curiosity. “He’ll want to see what his buddy downstairs is doing.” Without removing my eye from the scope, I focused to the edge of the wall where the mystery soldier had last been seen and remained locked in a solid shooting position. I used the thumb and two fingers of my right hand to work the bolt, eject the spent cartridge, and reload a fresh round.
