Metallic Pea

‘But when Reuben heard it, he rescued him out of their hands, saying, “Let us not take his life.”‘  ~ Genesis 37:21

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(Continued from the previous post):

Iraqi T-72’s burn on the battlefield in this photograph I took through one of my pariscopes during the battle.  

The moment cannot be described in any other manner than surreal. Nearly every one of my senses was being inundated to the point of overload. The visual assault was almost too much to process. Tanks and armoured personnel carriers burst into flames without warning, sending turrets sailing ten feet into the air above the tank hulls as large, molten chunks of metal lanced through the sky in every direction seeking another life to devour. The sandstorm continued to limit visibility to around 100 yards or so–probably a blessing sent to disguise the death and destruction that chewed up thousands of lives just beyond its veil.

My skin was at once cold and taught from the stress of the battle while the desert heat teamed with the Bradley engine (which was literally two inches from my right side) and the charcoal-lined chemical suit I had donned the day before to push gallons of sweat through every pore of my body which poured down my brow, stinging my eyes and obscuring my vision.

My ears were filled with the incessant and frantic screaming of commands and battlefield information coming through the intercom (some of which originated with me). I remain amazed at how quickly grown men, hardened by years of military training who exude courage and bravado, could so quickly be reduced to screaming like children trying to be heard above the din of the schoolyard. The concussions of the explosions–too numerous to count–seemed continual. It was impossible to determine the directions from which they came but the realisation that it was not us served to bolster my nerves. Also continual was the report from our 25mm cannon which threw large brass casings violently against my driver’s hatch door; still, it quickly became so commonplace as to go unnoticed by me for the rest of the battle.

Iraqi POW’s taken in the day after the Battle of 73 Easting.  

The distinctive and, oddly enough, pleasant smell of cordite from the thousands of rounds we fired filled my nose and mouth. Yet, that was not the only odor I detected; something foreign and strange filled my driver’s hatch, something somewhat familiar, yet different from anything I had smelt before. As I passed one of the scores of Iraqi tanks which had been destroyed, the realisation of what I was smelling became clear. Burning hair. And flesh. The smoldering body of an Iraqi tanker who had failed to escape the burning hulk that served as his coffin lay draped across the turret, hanging from his hatch as a testament to the speed at which destruction had visited him. My eyes remained fixated on him as I continued past him at a distance of ten feet or so; it could not have been for more than 20 seconds but it seemed more like 20 years.

I fixed my glance back ahead of me and continued to scan the battlefield for mines or enemy tanks which may have trained their guns on us. From seemingly out of nowhere came an Iraqi infantryman directly into the path of my 26-tonne machine of death. He was pitiful. He was half running and half walking, not unlike a toddler first learning to pick up speed. His arms were raised at his sides, his hands bouncing limply at he negotiated the sand. I almost wanted to chuckle–almost–at the manner in which his helmet, which was recognisably too large for him, made him look like a child playing soldier. It was clear that he was horrified; the look on his face–a look I’ll never forget–betrayed any semblance of coherence and clearly revealed his utter disorientation and disassociation with the events surrounding him. He was moving–just moving. He seemed to have no particular goal in mind other than to just stumble across the battlefield–which brought him directly into my path.

Many times we had to load several POW’s onto the front of our Bradleys and drive them to the rear of the formation or directly to the POW camps.  I took this photo from my driver’s hatch.  

 During our preparations for battle in the months leading up to our assault, we had studied Iraqi tactics from their eight-year war with neighbouring Iran and their participation in the Yom Kippur War with Israel in 1973. In the latter, we were told, the Israeli tankers had been puzzled by the large numbers of Iraqi infantrymen who merely ran past them without any resistance or threatening behaviour whatsoever. The ’suitcases’ they carryied provided a moment of pause but, because they seemed to pose no threat, the Israeli tanks allowed them to pass, opting to focus on the tanks in front of them. As a result, many Israeli tanks were lost. The ’suitcases’ were, in fact, AT-3 Sagger missiles. Once they had run past the Israeli tanks, the Iraqi infantrymen would stop, set up their Saggers, and fire them into the rear of the tanks (the most vulnerable area), destroying them.

I had determined not to let this happen to me.

With this in mind, I prepared to meet the Iraqi soldier slowly bouncing in front of me and drive him into the sand under the tracks of my Bradley. (It would be very difficult for him to do us harm if he were oozing between our treads.) I looked him over once again, trying to ignore the child-like fright written across his face. His hands were empty, he had nothing strapped across his back. Still, can I take that chance? There are four men seated behind me that I am responsible for–can I take that risk?

Our paths drew closer.

It is amazing how much the human mind can process in a fraction of time. I remember thinking how strange it was that the two of us had met there. He and I were from opposite sides of the earth with different lives, different families, different gods. Still, there we were. Was he somebody’s brother, husband … or father? Wouldn’t they miss him? But I am somebody’s son and brother, too! I could not let him take me from them; my mama simply couldn’t recover from it. But he didn’t appear armed. He only looked scared. Scared to the very core of his being. (’Does he even realise he is about to die? I hold his life in my hands and he doesn’t even know it. I hold his life in my hands.’)

I had what amounted to about fifteen seconds or less to make a life-or-death decision. Literally life-or-death. Imagine the most important decisions you have made–or will make–in your life: Will you marry me? Should we buy this house? Where should I attend college? Should I accept this job? Do we move the family across the country? Now, imagine making these decisions–all of them at once–in fifteen seconds.

And the decision is irreversible.

I made that decision at approximately ten feet from my counterpart and veered away from him, sparing his life, apparently unnoticed. If he is alive to-day, he still has no idea how close he came to dying at my hand. Obviously, by the fact that I am writing this account, he did not fire a Sagger at us from behind and we survived.

I have thanked God numerous times that I made the decision that I did that day. As I stated above, killing a man is not as easy as you may imagine. My Lindbergh Moment had passed with acceptable results.

Yet, it was not the last Lindbergh Moment I would face that day.

(To be continued …)