While driving on patrol our HMMWV started
getting sluggish and off balance, pulling to the side like a dazed prize
fighter. We dismounted the vehicle and
realized one of our tires had blown. Although the HMMWVs can drive on flat tires our patrol was just
beginning, so rather then stumble along the roads we decided to change the tire
right then and there. We set up a tight
ring of perimeter security and started changing the tire. The area was relatively empty, save for a
family that was busy making mud bricks on the side of the road.
As we paused to take in the environs a
middle aged woman noticed our arrival and started walking towards us, making a
point of showing her hands were empty. I
flashed a smile to put her at ease and then walked towards her to find out what
it was she needed. As our paths crossed
we exchanged greetings in Arabic and then settled down to the reason she needed
out help. Through the use of some clever
hand gestures the woman let us know that there was an artillery round sitting
in her field, leaving them unable to plant the area. Could we help her she asked?
I collected up my security team, and we
all dutifully followed her to the field to see just what it was she was talking
about. As we climbed over the berm surrounding
the field the smooth, deadly lines of the shell were all too obvious. The round was sitting in a shallow crater, as
if it were some metallic seedpod blown in by some dark wind. Rather then wait around in the projectile’s
kill zone we jumped back over the berm and returned to the vehicles to call up
the EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) team. As soon as we called up the report the EOD team called back requesting coordinating
information. “How big is it?” they
asked. I responded back with a highly
technical infantry term “It’s uh… very big”. Their next question boomed out over the speaker box “Roger, is it fused?”. Since I hadn’t approached the shell I
answered back “I couldn’t tell from our position”, hoping that would be the end
of it. I had no such luck, the next
message that came out of the squawk box was the one message I didn’t want to
hear “Understood, we will standby while you check for its fusing status”.
With that sentence the die was cast, I
would have to check the damn thing out from close range. As we approached the shell I had my security
team get all the curious children off the berm for their safety, and then had
them set up security positions outside the shell’s broad kill zone while I
checked it out. As I stepped onto the
field I could feel the plowed soil settle under my weight, each footstep
settling into rich earth. As I made my
way towards the shell it almost felt like the ground itself was holding onto my
boot soles, warning me not to approach the damnable object. When I was a few meters away I made a mental
snapshot of the round and then started making my way out of that cursed plot of
land. As I stepped back over the berm
one of the platoon sergeants, SSG Rock asked me why I didn’t take our resident
artillery expert out to look at the round? I tried not to laugh at the utter absurdity of the situation, here I was
trudging out to a field to look at something I knew nothing about when I had an
expert less then a hundred meters away. I
asked SSG Rock why he didn’t bring this to my attention a little earlier, and
he flashed a quick smile and said “Because SPC Towers was changing the tire”. I sent SSG Rock to get SPC Towers to perform
another analysis, and when he charged up we made our second trip into the kill
zone. The second trip was easier then
the first, my system was already flooded with adrenaline and I felt a little
more secure having an expert with me. As
we approached the round he confirmed my initial analysis and started making his
way around the shell. As he walked
around it he started smilig and laughing, catching his breath long enough to
shout “It’s empty”. I moved to his
position and peered into the casing. Sure enough, the round was little more then an empty American artillery shell.
We all started laughing at that point, a deep
shuddering kind of laugh that seemed to mock the tension that was clouding the
air. We ensured there were no secondary
devices or wires of any kind and noting their absence we lofted the empty shell
and walked it back to the vehicles. As
we walked back we were shadowed by a long train of Iraqi children dancing and
jumping with glee, the Americans had triumphed over their local boogie man. We put the empty round in the back of the
truck and passed out some candy to the gleeful crowd of children, and then we
mounted up. As we drove away we left the
fear poisoned field renewed; now the local families could finally tend its
fertile soil and provide for themselves. I hope they plant something nourishing.
Posted by: Frank Chen | August 25, 2005 at 12:41
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