Golf, Drinks and Shit…

There was no sparring on this trip, it was all full contact.

The first full day the group went out and played a round of golf, slipping into their politically incorrect habits of undress, shirts came off despite the wintery air dropping, a couple bottles of schnapps were being passed around, while beers played their usual, more benign role of constant artifacts. Their blood was super-heated for the occasion.

By the 15th hole, no scorecard could be found, the ex-servants of society were pelting each other with beer cans, at least two golf clubs were at the bottom of one lake or another; Lazlo, at the groups’ prodding, would prove he could walk on water with just enough encouragement – and schnapps. He couldn’t. It was the “play of the day” to these unbridled children, as they sounded off the ESPN anthem into that night, “Duh, duh, duh – duh, duh, duh!”

They moved to pools and fat-man sandwiches to bolster their alcohol consumption as much as fill that necessary cavity. They meandered in and out of the casinos and games, Marky hit a couple small jackpots in the dollar slots; he had $1,500 new “house dollars” burning a hole in his pocket. Most lost small, relative fortunes. The only one who didn’t begrudge the casino, because he could altogether afford its complicit thievery, Don Juan was losing and spending and hugging every beautiful woman who would welcome his scent and too-white teeth. Knowing the average veteran doesn’t find himself on Easy Street as Donnie had, he rained down on his mates; especially those who were on the front side of the “making it big” thing, otherwise known as “not quite there”; but they were family, and Donnie couldn’t seem to even count on his fingers when helping a brother out. He just did it! It was paternal, they all thought. But it was far more than that. He knew he owed them, all five in one way or another, including PFC Manaya. Survival matters most of all if you want legacy. These monsters of mayhem gave him that second chance in Fallujah, and he would repay them in every way possible.

********************

Fallujah, November 2004

The war historians called it “The Second Battle of Fallujah”. Nonsense. You don’t count these things, especially in a fluid world of danger and poor guesswork as was Iraq in the mission to dethrone Saddam and defeat the insurgents. It started by the United States leadership deciding, against all intelligence recommendations by the strategic advisors, to fire the entire Iraqi military… and they forgot to secure the keys to the armories before the pink slips were handed out. P.S. – there were no pink slips, but every Iraqi soldier took care of a family on that salary. And now after a crippling bombardment, 100’s of thousands dead by European media count – the U.S. shared a more gentle and benign count, of course – and virtually every member of the Iraqi military power machine was kicked to the sandy curb, the war effort for the insurgency was significantly supplied and manned by those decisions, and nearly every weapon once held in those U.S. armories.

Bad guesswork indeed. They could’ve just followed the advice of the special advisors. But that would have given the fanbase at home the impression the U.S. was going easy on the monsters that took down the World Trade Towers. Which Saddam had nothing to do with. Such infancy of thought led the military into many hellholes, and the only one where blood was worth letting was where Osama bin Laden harbored like a bee in a honeycomb of caves in the Tora Bora region of Afghanistan.

But here they were. Red, white and blue blood, being spilled in Fallujah and Baghdad, you name the town, all because of a really, really bad guess. Or were they ulterior motives for one of the largest reserves of oil in the world?

All that shit wasn’t for the grunts or the brass to determine, they just went where they were told and entered the door to hell because it was mission.

But through some diplomatic decisions aimed at pseudo-generosity, the U.S. installed interim government had decided to withdraw U.S. advisors, troops, occupiers, call them what you want. Iraqi’s called them unwelcome interlopers. And in the aftermath of the annihilation of much of their functioning nation: airports; water facilities; power plants; it turned into calling them enemies, infidels. In one sense, there was no getting away from that, ideology is ideology, so when you have the high ground, you keep the high ground. But in the tragic events of “The First Battle of Fallujah,” where Iraqi citizens were protesting the military occupation of a school, shots were fired, and many thousand were fired in return, thus beginning and ending the first war in effect with 17 dead protesters. No U.S. casualties to speak of, so a penitent détente was reached, and the agreement was established: U.S. troops would pull out, and the Fallujah leadership promised they would keep the growing insurgency from finding home or sympathy in their city. Fat fucking chance.

Then four Blackwater hired “consultants”, sub-contractor mercenaries were hit with a rocket launcher and assailed with grenades and a fusillade of shells from any number of AK-47s. To assert their foolish and temporary dominance in the region, the insurgents burned the bodies and hung them from a bridge.

The old adage about letting sleeping giants alone was poorly exampled here.

November 7th, 2004, the second battle began… first in subterfuge and misdirection, then in bombardment, and finally door to door incursions to wipe out every lethal insurgent that was standing.

Young and frightened, but geared up and frothing, kicking in doors, is what the Marines were doing. The Regimental Combat Team 1 comprised 3rd Battalion/1st Marines; they were given the weighty work of clearing homes and businesses, any building still standing after the pulverizing from the air and canon attack that marked the assault.

The leadership were satisfied almost all of the citizens had abandoned the city, and the work before them was vanquishing or imprisoning an estimated 3,000 enemies from the varied and well-armed insurgent groups: al-Qaeda in Iraq, Islamic Army of Iraq, Ansar al-Sunna, Army of Mohammed, the Army of the Mujahedeen and the Secret Islamic Army of Iraq. They were fighting for Allah, and the U.S. Coalition was fighting for an awkward peace – a really tough argument when you just finished dropping thousands of bombs on the host nation. It was the impossible end. One side had to capitulate, and the Coalition forces would… not… be… that… group.

Sergeant Cliff Polite was lead in a squad of eight to ten marines. Their objective was to go door to door and arrest or kill any warring Haji. Haji was the derogatory term referring to any of the Muslim nation, but in the urban street-fighting of Fallujah, the heaviest since the Battle for Hue City in Viet Nam in 1968, it took on a contemptuous nature, if not hatred. Because you never knew who the enemy was… all the robes and pretense of piety. It was war in a bottle, and there was only one way out – the way you came in.

Among the squad was Lance Corporal Don Yankovich; Privates First Class Arthur Manaya, Lazlo Pentavo and Mark Denton. This was the core group that had melded into a go-to “get ‘er done” sort. They walked over or through their confrontations, and with minimal casualties of their fuller squad. Until November 10th.

The breech unit was Larry Hageman and Carl Froin, both coincidentally out of Minnesota, so leadership assumed they’d be good together. Paste that cohesion into Sergeant Polite’s group and they had themselves a tried-and-true veteran assault group. Carl ran the battering ram, Donnie and Cliff would be first weapons in the door. But due to some enmity about a high school hockey tournament where Warroad upset the big-city machine of Edina, the two Minnesotans were pissing on each other’s legs all morning. Something so benign would go unnoticed until its damage.

The squad had cleared five houses without incident, except for some squatters claiming they owned one house, but the squad translator told the marines, he knew the owners, and these people were not them… After a sound and physical interrogation, it was determined that they were indeed just squatters occupying a home in a city with fewer options. Cliff decided adding to the enemy list was foolish. He left them behind.

It was that sixth house where all hell broke loose.

Hageman and Froin had been bitching about that hockey game in hushed but obviously heated tone, and Sergeant Polite shut that down. But in the next moment, as Carl was swinging the battering ram, as a wisecracking move, Larry had grabbed the back of the ram, so he would not have the impact required to blast the door open. In that, the door became half-unhinged, and the forward assault could not swing easily through the door.

Immediately three or four Hajis were scattering like sand pebbles in a windstorm, Cliff couldn’t draw down on the enemy, and Carl had to strike the door again. Then the group entered with M-16’s trained, scanning for targets, looking for blinds for their own cover and safety. All eyes were trained on the hall that the Hajis escaped to.

“Frags ready, Art and Mark.” The immediate response rang out, “Frags ready!” Sergeant Polite followed that order, “Weapons hot everybody. We got enemy. At least four.” Then trained on the hallway, he shouted out, “Come out! U.S. Military, come out or you will die.” And in his relax, waiting a response or a bullet, he noticed large fuel drums set in the corners of the entry room… and wires.

“It’s boobytrapped. Everyone out!”

A couple of them were able to jump back out, but five of them were too deep into the home, and the hall or a stairway up to the rooftop were the only options… and the hall was full of gunmen, they knew. Cliff and Mark made the stairway before the loud flash and concussion of the oil drums’ explosion. Donnie was blown into the stairwell, singed but hearty, he looked up and grunted “Oo-fuckin’-rah” and gasped. Art followed, alight like a Roman Candle. The room was a conflagration below them, but Cliff jumped down the few steps, unable to go upward because the Hajis had created a dead end by bricking up the stairwell to the roof.

He kicked in the first door he found and saw a blanket on a sleeping mat, grabbed it and bolted back to Art’s aid, immediately smothering the burning PFC, swamping the fire.

“Fuck! Artie, you okay?” Art’s eyes were twizzling, from concussion damage probably… blackened skin and blood from the burning fuel on his neck and face, but Cliff knew they had bigger problems right then.

Other than the crackle of the oil fire consuming everything, and the coughs for the smoke, not a shot had been fired. Until Mark Denton walked down the last couple steps just to get a peek. A couple shells ricocheted off of the concrete steps and he jumped back up to cover.

“They’re secured in the hall, sir. They got some stuff as protection. Didn’t get a real good look.” Mark was panicked, reasonably so. They were cornered in that bottle you never wanted to know about.

Cliff felt the bricks while he shouted out, “Donnie you in shape?”

“Yessir, Sergeant! A-1!”

“Mark, Donnie frags ready!” He was shaking his head at the very order as what other choice did they have? And at the certainty that their vulnerability was settling in to the insurgents. He expected grenades to come flying any second.

“Frags out!” Both soldiers pulled the pins and gave underhand tosses towards the hallway, and they all took steps up to the highest relief. The explosions brought noise and shrapnel debris, only one cry of pain. But it backed Haji off.

Cliff then looked to Art, “You okay PFC?” Art’s eyes gave away his shock, a pupil blackened almost the entire iris, a ferocious shake in his body… the man was hurt. But Art Manaya responded, “Give me your sidearm, sir. I’ve lost my weapons.” There was some weird shame in his voice… a marine who dropped his weapons in an explosion. Cliff pulled out his sidearm and handed to Art. “Oorah, fucker!”

A fusillade of bullets careened into the bottom stairs with flying concrete shrapnel the only real threat. But he knew it wouldn’t be long before they realized their condition. So they had to give the impression there was still an offense that could be mounted… until he thought of the real answer out.

“Frags ready!”

“Frags ready!” in response.

They could hear the scurrying below, it meant that the Hajis, who had been closing in for the kill were in retreat for what they knew as “frags”. Both grenades went out, and again a WHUMPF! and bits and pieces of wood and scrap came flying back. There was no getting out going that way, as Denton’s summary told Cliff that the fortification would be at least as well thought out as was the bricked up stairwell and the oil drum bombs. The black putrid smoke was choking the men out, and Cliff realized… when he put his hands to the brick wall, the seams were cold… the seams only… that had to mean it was green concrete, not fully cured. He immediately began barking orders.

“Mark, lift Art and hug him tight, put Art’s flak to the wall, cover your face… take as many steps down as you can without getting your ass shot! Fuck, this is stupid!”

What might have been madness, these soldiers knew Cliff Polite too well; we wasn’t a madman. And being their superior, it rang as confidence to hear such orders in such a hell as they were in. Mark lifted Art, PFC Manaya clinging to PFC Denton like a baby to a mother’s tit. Donnie just watching Cliff look back and forth and hearing the orders was putting it together.

“We gonna shoot through it?” It was madness after all… but maybe not… and certainly the only out as the AK’s were coming and the black smoke was going to kill them if the 7.62x39mm rounds didn’t… then there were the possibilities the grenades fly back at them.

Cliff just nodded, “Cover your eyes!”

Sergeant Polite had decided the most vulnerable spot in a single-layered wall had to be its center, providing it was a single course of brick. He went with his gut, and took two steps back and centered his aim and pulled off three round bursts, stinging ears and any exposed skin as shrapnel from brick and bullets were flying in a matchbox. POW-POW-POW!, and an immediate, POW-POW-POW! He stopped and gave it a kick dead center and his foot went through the stacked clay and mortar. Donnie joined in, and both soldiers had kicked out a reasonable hole to pass Art through. Cliff led through with his weapon trained only to find a safe and unmanned rooftop – their freedom.

He hurried back down the steps, “Get Art through to me, quick!” Mark responded, and as Cliff was pulling PFC Manaya to the roof, Mark crawling through to the other side, he heard Lance Corporal Yankovich scream out, “Hajis incoming!” Bullets immediate ringing out.

“Get through the fucking hole, Donnie!”

That is exactly what was attempting, and the snap of more shells against brick and cement, and the “Thump! Thump!” of two hitting a soldier, and Donnie screamed and fell with only an arm through the portal to the roof.

Cliff sidled up to the hole and stuck his M-16 through, just above his fallen comrade and let a blaze of bursts, hearing screams from below… the gratifying knowledge that in this chaos, even if they all ended up dead, hanging from a bridge, they asserted some fucking damage! The adrenaline further fueled him, and he looked through the hole, seeing only a moment and he reached all the way through and grabbed Donnie’s equipment belt and the bottom of his flak jacket and hoisted him fully through the hole. Mark was grabbing an arm and they yanked the wounded fighter to the roof.

Now they had the high ground, and any number of ways out from that murderous bottle. Cliff watched from the rooftop door, and waited until he saw feet or eyeballs peering up through the hole, and as soon as he saw it, he threw a phosphorus grenade.

“Fire OUT!”

An explosion and immediate screams of pain followed as the incendiary grenade was burning the enemy’s skin and eyes, leaving its victims helpless. There were more than three or four as he had first assumed, how many more, he could only guess. He then grabbed a fragment grenade, after killing or incapacitating some of the enemy, this might clean house without another shot being fired.

“Frag out! Fire in the hole!”

All of them were on the roof, Mark with his M-16 trained on the back exit of the home, suspecting runners. Art pulled himself into action and took Donnie’s M-16, so both soldiers were ready.

The explosion of the grenade was simultaneous to the door springing open just below both PFC’s, and they immediately unloaded, blowing wads of brain and turbans in all directions. Robes were instantly smattering with copious blood, five insurgents went down, only one still moving. Mark granted the kill to Art Manaya who was bleeding from the neck and side of his face from the fuel bomb. Art put two into the head of the last breathing fighter, ending the boobytrap siege, and as it turned out, 11 insurgents.

Carl Froin died from the initial explosion. He made the mistake of hiding behind a barrel. Larry Hageman had been blown out the door as the stragglers ran back out the door at Sergeant Polite’s shouted warning. Larry would not last a third day. Neither won their argument about the Warroad/Edina high school tournament game. There would be two flags and coffins going home instead.

They regrouped with Lazlo, grateful, friend to friend, warrior to warrior, that their corps all were still breathing. What followed were two immediate honorable discharges for Lance Corporal Yankovich, and PFC Arthur Manaya after their hospital stay. Neither would accept their discharge, and both went back to the squad after their rehabilitation, and a Purple Heart ceremony.

Don “Juan” always told the boys, “I went back to save your asses.”

It was understood, he went back because he was a warrior, as were the lot of the crazy bastards.