The End

NOVEMBER 16, 2004

Fallujah, Iraq

“Target acquired!” yelled Sgt. Gordon Van Zandt, his face planted firmly on the day sight of the TOW anti-tank missile system.

Gordon could hear gunfire cracking around him. He focused on the target he had acquired, a small window. Inside, an Iraqi sniper was pinning down a squad of Marines further up the road. The glint of the sniper’s scope and an occasional flash from the muzzle gave away the sniper’s position.

After the pinned-down squad was notified that no air support was available, Gordon’s TOW squad was called up to take out the sniper’s nest. TOW’s had been initially designed to destroy armored vehicles; the previous Gulf War had proven their farther-ranging battlefield application, bunker busting.

Gordon steadied his breathing and kept the cross hairs on the target while his driver, Lance Corporal Bivens, crouched outside the vehicle, alongside the rear driver’s side with his SAW machine gun against his shoulder.

Bivens yelled, “Back blast area all secure!” Bivens was not your poster model of a Marine physique. He was small in stature, lean and only stood around 5 feet 6 inches. But his nickname, “Pit Bull,” said more about him than anything else could, he was a staunch fighter and had proven himself a worthy opponent in hand-to-hand combat.

Immediately, Gordon reached up with his right hand, lifted the arming lever, and shouted back, “Gun up!”

He placed his hands gently back on the traversing unit’s control knobs and with his right thumb flipped up the trigger guard.

Just then, he saw the sniper’s rifle barrel emerge from the shadows of the small room he occupied. Not willing to waste another second, Gordon yelled out, “Fire in the hole!”

He pressed down on the trigger.

A loud pop and whiz came from the TOW. Within a couple of seconds the loud blast of the missile leaving the tube on its way to the target rattled Gordon’s ears. He tracked the missile through his sight as it flew to its target. After only a few moments, he saw a flash of light. The missile had struck its target. All Gordon could see now was dark smoke billowing out of the room.

“Impact, target destroyed!” he yelled out. He reached up, released the bridge clamp unlocking the missile, and tossed the empty tube onto the ground.

Bivens slung his SAW and quickly opened the Hummer’s rear hatch. He grabbed a new missile and handed it to Gordon who loaded it into the launch tube with precision speed and closed the bridge clamp down. He jumped behind the scope, assessed the damage, and looked for more targets.

After feeling secure, he looked up from the gun and shouted out to Bivens, “We got that fucking Muj, jump back in, and let’s drive up to assist the grunts.”

Bivens jumped back into the driver’s seat and proceeded toward the Marine squad.

“Bivens, radio the Battalion Forward HQ and order a medi-vac.”

“Roger that,” Bivens replied, grabbing the radio.

Bivens and Gordon pulled up to the Marines.

Grabbing his M-4 rifle, Gordon jumped off the top of the Hummer. He looked back to Bivens, “Stand watch while I attend to these guys.”

“Roger that,” Bivens replied as he crawled up into the hatch.

Gordon saw before him chunks of building, combat gear and discarded weapons. Amongst the debris he also found 11 Marines, some battered and bloody. Some were sitting up against the wall of a building in an alleyway, but others just lay on the ground motionless. He couldn’t tell if they were dead or not. Gordon could remember the first time he took fire; the sights of destruction and death were surreal then. Now, they had become commonplace.

Gordon approached the first Marine, knelt down, and asked, “What’s your condition?”

“Shot in the gut. This really fucking sucks,” the wounded Marine lance corporal muttered.

“Listen. We’ll get you out of here soon.” Gordon assured as he lifted up the bandage on the first Marine’s stomach.

“Corpsman? How’s it looking here?” Gordon shouted over to the Navy Corpsman attending to another wounded Marine.

“Much easier without that fucking Hajji shooting at us,” the Corpsman responded while bandaging another Marine.

“Thanks for blasting that Muj. You were a godsend,” a second Marine told Gordon as he walked over.

Gordon looked up at the second Marine and noticed blood running down his leg and all over his left arm.

“How you holding up?” Gordon asked.

“Shit, Sergeant, I’ve seen better days, but I’ll live.”

“Good, man. Who’s in charge here?”

“Well, it was Corporal Davies, but the sniper took him down first. A shot through the head,” the second Marine explained, gesturing toward his squad leader’s lifeless body lying in the alleyway.

“What’s your unit?” Gordon asked.

“1^st Squad, 3rd platoon, India Company, 3/1, Sergeant, and I’m Lance Corporal Smith. Just call me Smitty”

“I’m Sergeant Van Zandt, Weapons, 3/1, nice to meet you, Devil Dog,” Gordon said, patting Smitty on his good shoulder.

Gordon proceeded to check on each wounded Marine. The Marines of 3^rd Battalion, 1^st Marines had been fighting their way toward their objective for almost ten days now. The fight was tough, but these men were Marines. Even though they had suffered casualties they were determined. The Thundering Third would reach their objective or die trying. However, dying wasn’t an option for any of these Marines; it was their job to ensure it was the enemy who died for his cause.

Gordon came upon a Marine who was severely wounded; he dropped to one knee and examined the man’s wounds. Gordon could tell from the markings on his bloody uniform that the man was a private first class; he couldn’t be any older than 20. Gordon couldn’t help but make the grim prediction that this young Marine probably wouldn’t see his 21st birthday. Gordon grabbed the Marine’s hand and asked, “How you doing, Marine?”

Without opening his eyes, the young PFC whispered “I’m cold…very cold.”

Gordon could see the large pool of blood collecting under the wounded Marine. He bent down to his ear and whispered, “We got the fucker that did this and we’ll get you out of here soon, I promise.”

A Hummer rumbled to a stop in front of the squad. Two Marines sprung from the rear doors, stretcher in hand and ran to the wounded Marines. One by one, they loaded the most critical into the vehicle.

Just as they began backing away from the scene, a black streak from the south soared toward the Hummer and struck its cab. The explosion knocked Gordon to the ground.

Gordon opened his eyes. He wasn’t sure how long he had been unconscious. The yelling, screaming, and gunfire seemed strangely faint and distant. His eyes burned; all he could see was deep black smoke billowing over him. He tried to get up, but intense pain shot up his back.

“God damn it!” he screamed. He took a deep breath and forced himself to sit up. His movements were slow, but he knew he needed to get up and start doing something. He looked around and found Bivens behind the TOW, scanning the area. The burning chassis and four smoldering tires of the ambulance were still there, but not much else. All onboard were definitely dead; he could make out two burning corpses in the front seats. The charred bodies were slumped over, flames dancing out of their open mouths.

He saw the squad’s remaining Marines taking cover and engaging something down the street. Gordon rose to his feet, balanced himself, and headed toward his Hummer.

“Bivens, if you got a shot, take it!” he commanded.

“Nothing, Sergeant. My visibility is not that great with all the smoke. Wait a minute…I see the fucker. Target acquired!”

Gordon looked to the rear of the TOW. He didn’t see anyone and yelled back, “Back blast area all secure!”

“Gun up,” Bivens hollered, and not a second later he bellowed, “Fire in the hole!”

After its familiar pop and whiz, the missile propelled out of the tube. Almost instantly, it reached its target, a minaret of a mosque. The missile struck the minaret squarely, and it crumbled and fell to the ground.

The Marines cheered, but the engagement wasn’t over. They had taken out the insurgent in the minaret, but were still taking small arms fire from the mosque.

Gordon and Bivens worked to get the TOW back up while the remnants of 1^st Squad were engaging, slowly eliminating the Iraqi hostiles holed up inside the mosque.

As Gordon and Bivens readied the TOW for more action, the second vehicle in his team pulled up. Gordon looked up to Corporal Nellis, who was manning the “Ma Deuce” .50 caliber machine gun affixed atop the Hummer.

“We have some Muj in the mosque that is located on the left about a block and a half down. Provide support with the 50 to the grunt squad,” he instructed Nellis before running back to his vehicle to grab a radio.

He contacted Battalion Forward Headquarters to request additional support and another medical evacuation team.

Gordon was really starting to feel the toll from the blast. After radioing the headquarters, he noticed blood on the handset. He checked his hands, discovering that they, too, were covered in blood. He glanced down, wiped them off on his trousers, and saw more blood drip from his chin onto his boot. He wiped his face with his hand and looked at it. A thick layer of blood again coated his palm. He examined himself in the side mirror of his Hummer, discovering bloody pock marks all over his face. He had taken shrapnel from the blast. He used his sleeve to wipe off more blood. Knowing there was no more time to waste on his face, he headed back into action.

The .50 caliber, with the help of a few M203 grenades, did its work on the mosque. The area fell silent, save for some gunfire in the distance.

“What do you see, Bivens?” Gordon asked.

“No movement, but you know those motherfuckers.”

The mosque stood eerily quiet, no movement or gunfire came from it. Looking up the street, Gordon could see what was once a thriving marketplace on the right and a soccer field on the left. Now, debris littered the street, all the buildings were shot up, and a few small fires burned on the vacant sidewalk. Gordon wanted to ensure the mosque was secure, but the only way to do that was to take it.

“Stay in the gun and provide support if we need it. I’m going to take these Marines up the street and take the mosque,” Gordon said to Bivens. He reached into his Hummer and grabbed a few more magazines and as many high-explosive grenades he could carry.

“Roger that,” Bivens confirmed.

“Actually, change that. Turn the gun around and watch our six,” Gordon commanded Bivens. He then turned to Nellis and ordered, “Nellis, provide over watch as we move up the street.”

“Roger that,” Nellis responded.

Gordon ran up to Smitty, “You and these Marines okay enough to go take that Hajji temple down?”

“Yes, we are!” he said with a smile.

Gordon led the Marines through the commercial buildings on the right side of the street, clearing each one. He navigated up-down, down-up, crossing over from one building to the next from the rooftops. The front glass of the last building had been blown out and the entire structure was riddled with holes. He grabbed one of his high-explosive grenades and tossed it through the open window. The explosion was followed by a scream from inside. While the Marines were stacked up along the side of the building, waiting to go, Gordon stood back, kicked the door, and ran inside. The Marines followed, each peeling off into a separate room.

Gordon had gone in and immediately went left into the remnants of a café. Tables and chairs were scattered, along with empty brass casings.

“Sergeant Van Zandt, Sergeant Van Zandt!” Smitty hollered from a room further inside the building.

Gordon could hear Marines shouting and someone yelling in Arabic. Upon entering the room he met Smitty, another Marine, and two Iraqi insurgents. One was alive, wearing a white, but deeply blood-stained, thobe. The second insurgent lay motionless on the floor. The room had pock marks from shrapnel and bullets, there was debris and trash all over the floor and three AK-47’s leaning up against a wall. Smitty and the other Marine shouted to the wounded insurgent, demanding he keep still with his hands in the air.

The insurgent shrieked back in Arabic. Gordon couldn’t know for sure, but after already spending a tour in Iraq, he had picked up some of the language and he thought it sounded like “Don’t shoot.”

All the yelling was becoming distracting; Gordon knew he needed to take charge and process the prisoner ASAP.

“Everyone shut up! Smitty, process the guy and check him out for any intel. The rest of us will head upstairs.” The Iraqi kept screaming. Gordon turned and yelled, “Shut the fuck up! That’s enough! No one is going to shoot you!”

The Iraqi fell silent, as if he understood Gordon’s words perfectly. He quietly sobbed as he rocked back and forth, shaking in fear.

Gordon left the room and started slowly upstairs. His progress was interrupted by Smitty’s panicked voice, “The other fucker—”

A loud explosion shook the room.

Gordon whipped back around. Chaos had erupted downstairs; the two Marines who had been following Gordon were now yelling, though he couldn’t make out their words.

Gordon headed back downstairs, into what was left of the room. The wounded Iraqi was now blown apart. A Marine had also been torn up by the explosion, but he couldn’t tell who it was.

Gordon heard a voice from the hallway, “Sergeant!”

Gordon turned and saw Smitty lying on the ground, covered in the blood of four people including his own.

“What happened?” Gordon asked, kneeling next to him.

“The motherfucker on the ground wasn’t dead. He turned over and had a grenade. He blew up Grebbs.”

“Dirty motherfuckers!” Gordon cursed.

Just then, another squad of Marines emerged from the entrance of the building. They were followed by an imbedded reporter and his camera crew.

A corpsman followed behind and immediately started to look over Smitty.

“Suicide bomber killed a Marine in that room,” Gordon informed the new squad of Marines, pointing to the room, “Upstairs is not clear yet. Let’s go.”

Gordon and the new squad proceeded upstairs and cleared the area. On the roof, they could see the mosque. There was still no apparent movement.

“Let’s go take it,” Gordon said to the Marines. They rushed back downstairs and out across the street. The reporter and his camera crew followed closely.

Smoke flowed from a few windows on the south side of the mosque. The entire south and east sides were riddled with bullet holes. Gordon and the squad approached the front door, and stacked up along the east side. Gordon kicked the door, but it did not break down. He kicked it twice more. Nothing.

“Sergeant, I have a shotgun,” a Marine in the squad offered.

“Okay, get up here.”

The Marine shot the door handle twice with his 12-gauge shotgun and backed away. Gordon took a step back and kicked the door; this time it flew open. He tossed a high-explosive grenade through the open door and stepped back, leaning against the wall. The grenade tumbled and rolled down the narrow hall and into the large great room of the mosque. The explosion shook the ground. As was standard operating procedure, he and the Marines proceeded into the mosque after the grenade detonated. The reporter and camera crew followed right behind the last Marine.

The first room on the right side was full of munitions and small arms. The room on the left was vacant except for soiled mattresses. The men proceeded down to the great room, where they found a few Iraqis leaning up against a wall. The Marines loudly demanded they stay still. They all appeared alive, but wounded.

“Do not fucking move, fucking stay put!” Gordon yelled at them. He quickly assessed the situation in the room.

In the background, Gordon could hear the reporter talking to a rolling camera.

“I’m here inside a mosque in Fallujah with the Marines. The battle has been fierce and the Iraqis have put up a tough resistance. In the end, though, they are no match for the superior firepower of the United States Marines. These wounded Iraqis here have managed to survive the heavy onslaught and are requesting aid—”

“Requesting aid? They haven’t said a fucking thing!” a Marine from the squad snapped at the reporter.

Gordon, with his rifle firmly planted in his shoulder, kept scanning over the half-dozen Iraqis. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Iraqi at the end of the line move his arm toward something on the ground.

Without hesitation, Gordon turned and fired off a single shot, hitting the Iraqi in the head. The sound from Gordon’s gunshot echoed through the great hall.

“Did you get that? Did you get that?” the reporter asked his cameraman.

“Yes I did,” the cameraman responded, turning the camera on Gordon.

“That Marine there just shot an unarmed and wounded Iraqi,” the reporter said to the camera, pointing directly at Gordon.