Ghost Riders of Baghdad by Daniel A. Sjursen

Author:Daniel A. Sjursen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University Press of New England

A BAD DAY IN BAGHDAD 20 JANUARY 2007

In east Baghdad the insurgents were less willing to stand and fight the U.S. troops—that much was immediately apparent. Shia militiamen of the Mahdi Army were more interested in murdering Sunni civilians and extorting money at local gas stations than shooting it out with American patrols. That said, the militias were no less deadly—just different. IEDs were a huge problem in Baghdad, especially along the main thoroughfares. These key routes served as logistics arteries for U.S. Army, Iraqi police, and contracted supply convoys. Unsurprisingly, insurgents littered them with bombs. Route Pluto was the main freeway in east Baghdad. Running generally south to north, it cut the east side in half and was the fastest way to get anywhere, but also one of the most dangerous. IEDs became such a problem that some combat platoons avoided Pluto completely, preferring instead to snake slowly through the winding alleys of Baghdad’s neighborhoods. That could take a while, and besides, the larger logistics trucks often didn’t have that option, because of a combination of tight turns and low-hanging electrical wires. Route Pluto needed to stay open. Once again, 3-61 CAV received a terrain denial mission. Here we go again—I thought—babysitting a roadway, this time to deter IED (instead of mortar) emplacers. Only Route Pluto was more dangerous.

On 20 January our platoon drew a daylight IED denial mission on Route Pluto. We knew the threat of attack was fairly high, so I’d instructed the guys to stay in the vehicles for most of the day. Just before noon, Faulkner jumped out of his truck to take a piss on the side of the road. He had been out for less than a minute when he opened his door to re-enter the back seat. Lifting his arm above his head to steady himself before jumping in the truck, he felt the sting of the bullet before even hearing the sound. Raising that arm and ducking his head likely saved his life. A sniper had been sitting patiently in one of the adjacent apartment buildings, waiting for one of us to get out of the vehicle. Ed Faulkner just happened to be the guy with the smallest bladder that day. He shrieked in pain, then screamed out to SGT Pushard—his truck commander—that he’d been hit. It was 11:58 a.m. The start of a bad day. Our gunners scanned for a target but couldn’t find anything. With dozens of tall apartment buildings and hundreds of low-rise row houses within range, it was a sniper’s paradise. There was no way we’d identify the shooter.

Ford went to work bandaging Faulkner’s bloody forearm and we quickly made our way back to the FOB. Lucky for Faulkner, we were close by and got him to the aid station within twelve minutes. The FOB’s physician assistant put on a fresh bandage and a quick X-ray determined that the bullet had shattered Faulkner’s forearm. He’d have to be evacuated for surgery, but his condition was quite stable. I really liked Ed.

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