US
Marines Turn Fire on Civilians
at the Bridge of Death
By Mark Franchetti /The
Sunday Times (March, 30)
Nasiriya - THE LIGHT WAS
A strange yellowy grey and the wind was coming up, the beginnings of
a sandstorm. The silence felt almost eerie after a night of shooting
so intense it hurt the eardrums and shattered the nerves. My footsteps
felt heavy on the hot, dusty asphalt as I walked slowly towards
the bridge at Nasiriya. A horrific scene lay ahead.
Some 15 vehicles, including
a minivan and a couple of trucks, blocked the road. They were riddled
with bullet holes. Some had caught fire and turned into piles of black
twisted metal. Others were still burning.
Amid the wreckage I counted
12 dead civilians, lying in the road or in nearby ditches. All had been
trying to leave this southern town overnight, probably for fear of being
killed by U.S. helicopter attacks and heavy artillery.
Their mistake had been to
flee over a bridge that is crucial to the coalition's supply lines and
to run into a group of shell-shocked young American marines with orders
to shoot anything that moved.
A little girl, no older than
five and dressed in a pretty orange and gold dress, lay dead in a ditch
next to the body of a man who may have been her father.
Nearby, in a battered old
Volga, peppered with ammunition holes, an Iraqi woman - perhaps the
girl's mother - was dead, slumped in the back seat.
This was not the only family
who had taken what they thought was a last chance for safety. A father,
baby girl and boy lay in a shallow grave.
As I walked away, Lieut.
Matt Martin, whose third child, Isabella, was born while he was on board
ship en route to the Gulf, appeared beside me.
"Did you see all that?"
he asked, his eyes filled with tears. "Did you see that little
baby girl? I carried her body and buried it as best I could but I had
no time. It really gets to me to see children being killed like this,
but we had no choice."
Martin's distress was in
contrast to the bitter satisfaction of some of his fellow marines as
they surveyed the scene.
"The Iraqis are sick
people and we are the chemotherapy," said Cpl. Ryan Dupre. "I
am starting to hate this country."
Only a few days earlier these
had still been the bright-eyed small-town boys with whom I crossed the
border at the start of the operation. They had rolled towards Nasiriya,
a strategic city beside the Euphrates, on a mission to secure a safe
supply route for troops on the way to Baghdad.
They had expected a welcome,
or at least a swift surrender. Instead they had found themselves lured
into a bloody battle, culminating in the worst coalition losses of the
war so far - 16 dead, 12 wounded and two missing marines as well as
five dead and 12 missing servicemen from an army convoy -
and the humiliation of having prisoners paraded on Iraqi television.
There are three key bridges
at Nasiriya. The feat of Martin, Dupre and their fellow marines in securing
them under heavy fire was compared by armchair strategists last week
to the seizure of the Remagen bridge over the Rhine, which significantly
advanced victory over Germany in the second world war.
But it was also the turning
point when the jovial band of brothers from America lost all their assumptions
about the war and became jittery aggressors who talked of wanting to
"nuke" the place.
None of this was foreseen
at Camp Shoup, one of the marines' tent encampments in northern Kuwait,
where officers from the 1st and 2nd battalion of Task Force Tarawa,
the 7,000-strong U.S. Marines brigade, spent long evenings poring over
maps and satellite imagery before the invasion.
The plan seemed straightforward.
The marines would speed unhindered over the 210 kilometres of desert
up from the Kuwaiti border and approach Nasiriya from the southeast
to secure a bridge over the Euphrates. They would then drive north through
the outskirts of Nasiriya to a second bridge, over the Inahr al-Furbati
canal. Finally, they would turn west and secure the third bridge, also
over the canal. The marines would not enter the city proper, let alone
attempt to take it.
The coalition could then
start moving thousands of troops and logistical support units up Highway
7, leading to Baghdad, 360 kilometres miles to the north.
There was only one concern:
"ambush alley," the road connecting the first two bridges.
But intelligence suggested there would be little or no fighting as this
eastern side of the city was mostly "pro-American."
I was with Alpha company.
We reached the outskirts of Nasiriya at about breakfast time last Sunday.
Some marines were disappointed to be carrying out a mission that seemed
a sideshow to the main effort. But in an ominous sign of things to come,
our battalion stopped in its tracks, five kilometres
outside the city.
Bad news filtered back. Earlier
that morning a U.S. army convoy had been greeted by a group of Iraqis
dressed in civilian clothes, apparently wanting to surrender. When the
American soldiers stopped, the Iraqis pulled out AK-47s and sprayed
the U.S. trucks with gunfire.
Five wounded soldiers were
rescued by our convoy. The attackers were believed to be members of
the Fedayeen Saddam, a group of 15,000 fighters under the command of
Saddam's psychopathic son Uday.
As we set off towards the
eastern city gate there was no sense of the mayhem awaiting us only
a couple of miles down the road. A few locals dressed in rags watched
the awesome spectacle of America's war machine on the move. Nobody waved.
Slowly we approached the
first bridge. Fires were raging on either side of the road; Cobras had
destroyed an Iraqi military truck and a T55 tank positioned inside a
dugout. An Iraqi defence post lay abandoned. Cobras flew over an oasis
of palm trees and deserted brick and mud-caked houses that looked deserted.
We charged onto the bridge, and as we crossed the Euphrates, a large
mural of Saddam came into view.
Suddenly, as we approached
ambush alley on the far side of the bridge, the crackle of AK-47s broke
out. Our AAVs began to zigzag to avoid being hit by a rocket-propelled
grenade (RPG).
The road widened out to a
square. The vehicles wheeled round, took up a defensive position, back
to back, and began taking fire. Pinned down, the marines fired back
with 40mm automatic grenade launchers.
The exchange of fire was
relentless. We were pinned down for more than three hours as Iraqis
hiding inside houses and a hospital and behind street corners fired
a barrage of ammunition at the Americans.
Despite the marines' overwhelming
firepower, hitting the Iraqis was not easy. The gunmen were not wearing
uniforms and had planned their ambush well - stockpiling weapons in
dozens of houses, between which they moved freely pretending to be civilians.
"It's a bad situation,"
said First Sergeant James Thompson, a Gulf war veteran who was running
around with a 9mm pistol in his hand. "We don't know who is shooting
at us. They are even using women as scouts. The women come out waving
at us, or with their hands raised. We freeze, but the next minute we
can see how she is looking at our positions and giving them away to
the
fighters hiding behind a street corner. It's very difficult to distinguish
between the fighters and civilians."
Across the square, genuine
civilians were running for their lives. Many, including some children,
were gunned down in the crossfire. In a surreal scene, a father and
mother briefly stood out on a balcony with their children in their arms
to give them a better view of the battle raging below. A few minutes
later several U.S. mortar shells landed in front of their house. In
all probability, the family is dead.
A few hundred yards down
ambush alley there was carnage. An AAV from Charlie company was racing
back towards the bridge to evacuate some wounded marines when it was
hit by two RPGs. The heavy vehicle shook but withstood the explosions.
Then the Iraqis fired again.
This time the rocket plunged into the vehicle through the open rooftop.
The explosion was deadly, made 10 times more powerful by the cases of
ammunition stored in the back.
There was panic and confusion
as a group of young marines, shouting and cursing orders at one another,
pulled out a maimed body.
"We shouldn't be here,"
said Lieut. Campbell Kane, 25, who was born in Northern Ireland. "We
can't hold this. . . . We need more tanks, more helicopters."
If at first the marines felt
constrained by orders to protect civilians, by now the battle had become
so intense that there was little time for niceties. Cobra helicopters
were ordered to fire at a row of houses closest to our positions. There
were massive explosions but the return fire barely died down.
Behind us, as many as four
AAVs that had driven down along the banks of the Euphrates were stuck
in deep mud and coming under fire.
About 1p.m., after three
hours of intense fighting, the order was given to regroup and try to
head out of the city in convoy. Several marines who had lost their vehicles
piled into the back of ours.
There was relief when we
finally crossed the second bridge to the northeast of the city in mid-afternoon.
But there was more horror to come. Beside the smouldering and blackened
wreckage of another AAV were the bodies of another four marines, laid
out in the mud and covered with camouflage ponchos.
One of the dead was 2nd.
Lieut. Fred Pokorney, 31, a marine artillery officer from Washington
state. He was a big guy, whose ill-fitting uniform was the butt of many
jokes. It was supposed to be have been a special day for Pokorney. After
13 years of service, he was to be promoted to first lieutenant. The
men of Charlie company had agreed that they would all shake hands with
him to celebrate as soon as they crossed the second bridge, their mission
accomplished.
It didn't happen. Pokorney
made it over the second bridge and a few hundred yards down a highway
through dusty flatlands before his vehicle was ambushed. Pokorney and
his men had no chance. Fully loaded with ammunition, their truck exploded
in the middle of the road, its black smouldering remains burning for
hours.
Another man who died was
Fitzgerald Jordan, a staff sergeant from Texas. I felt numb when I heard
this. I had met Jordan 10 days before we moved into Nasiriya. He was
a character, always chewing tobacco and coming up to pat you on the
back. He got me to fetch newspapers for him from Kuwait City. Later,
we shared a bumpy ride across the desert in the back of a Hummer.
Now Pokorney, Jordan and
their comrades lay among unspeakable carnage.
Frantic medics did what they
could to relieve horrific injuries, until four helicopters landed in
the middle of the highway to take them to a military hospital.
One young marine was assigned
the job of keeping the flies at bay. Some of his comrades, exhausted,
covered in blood, dirt and sweat walked around dazed. There were loud
cheers as the sound of the heaviest artillery yet to pound Nasiriya
shook the ground.
Before last week the overwhelming
majority of these young men had never been in combat. Few had even seen
a dead body. Now, their faces had changed. Anger and fear were fuelled
by rumours that the bodies of American soldiers had been dragged through
Nasiriya's streets. Some marines cried in the arms of friends, others
sought comfort by reading from the Bible.
Next morning, the men of
Alpha company talked about the fighting. They were jittery now and reacted
nervously to any movement around their dugouts. They suspected that
civilian cars, including the white and orange taxis, had helped resupply
the enemy inside the city. When cars were spotted speeding along two
roads, frantic calls were made over the radio to get permission to "kill
the vehicles." Twenty-four hours earlier it would almost certainly
have been denied: now it was granted.
Immediately, the level of
force levelled at civilian vehicles was overwhelming. Tanks were placed
on the road and AAVs lined along one side. Several taxis were destroyed
by helicopter gunships as they drove down the road.
A truck filled with sacks
of wheat made the fatal mistake of driving through U.S. lines. The order
was given to fire. Several AAVs pounded it with a barrage of machinegun
fire, riddling the windscreen with at least 20 holes. The driver was
killed instantly.
This was the start of a day
that claimed many civilian casualties. Another truck came down the road.
Again the marines fired. Inside, four men were killed. They had been
travelling with some 10 other civilians, mainly women and children who
were evacuated, crying, their clothes splattered in blood.
Hours later a dog belonging to the dead driver was still by his side.
The marines moved west to
take a military barracks and secure their third objective, the third
bridge, which carried a road out of the city.
At the barracks, the marines
hung a U.S. flag from a statue of Saddam, but Lieutenant-Colonel Rick
Grabowski, the battalion commander, ordered it down.. He toured barracks.
There were stacks of Russian-made ammunition and hundreds of Iraqi army
uniforms, some new, others left behind by fleeing Iraqi soldiers.
One room had a map of Nasiriya,
showing its defences and two large cardboard arrows indicating the U.S.
plan of attack to take the two main bridges. Above the map were several
murals praising Saddam. One, which sickened the Americans, showed two
large civilian planes crashing into tall buildings.
As night fell again there
was great tension, the marines fearing an ambush. Two tanks and three
AAVs were placed at the north end of the third bridge, their guns pointing
down towards Nasiriya, and given orders to shoot at any vehicle which
drove towards American positions.
Though civilians on foot
passed by safely, the policy was to shoot anything that moved on wheels.
Inevitably, terrified civilians drove at speed to escape: marines took
that speed to be a threat and hit out. During the night, our teeth on
edge, we listened a dozen times as the AVVs' machine-guns opened fire,
cutting through cars and trucks like paper.
Next morning I saw the result
of this order - the dead civilians, the little girl in the orange and
gold dress.
Suddenly, some of the young
men who had crossed into Iraq with me reminded me now of their fathers'
generation, the trigger-happy grunts of Vietnam. Covered in the mud
from the violent storms, they were drained and dangerously aggressive.
In the days afterwards, the
marines consolidated their position and put a barrier of trucks across
the bridge to stop anyone from driving across, so there were no more
civilian deaths. They also ruminated on what they had done. Some rationalized
it.
"I was shooting down
a street when suddenly a woman came out and casually began to cross
the street with a child no older than 10," said Gunnery Sergeant
John Merriman, another Gulf war veteran. "At first I froze on seeing
the civilian woman. She then crossed back again with the child and went
behind a wall. Within less than a minute a guy with an RPG came out
and fired at us from behind the same wall. This happened a second time
so I thought, 'Okay, I get it. Let her come out again.' She did and
this time I took her out with my M-16."
Others were less sanguine.
Mike Brooks was one of the
commanders who had given the order to shoot at civilian vehicles. It
weighed on his mind, even though he felt he had no choice but to do
everything to protect his marines from another ambush.
On Friday, making coffee
in the dust, he told me he had been writing a diary, partly for his
wife Kelly, a nurse at home in Jacksonville near the marines' base with
their sons Colin, 6, and four-year-old twins Brian and Evan.
When he came to jotting down
the incident about the two babies getting killed by his men he couldn't
do it. But he said he would tell her when he got home. I offered to
let him call his wife on my satellite phone to tell her he was okay.
He turned down the offer and had me write and send her an e-mail instead.
He was too emotional.
If she heard his voice, he
said, she would know that something was wrong.