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Order this writing in the collection book the Book of Scars for only $1695 |
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Order this writing in the collection book Unlocking the Mysteries available for only $1795 |
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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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Sergeant Robertson’s Race
Dr. Hugh Hammond
John Robertson made private first class right out of boot camp, returned home to Henderson, North Carolina for two weeks liberty, then back to Camp Pendleton. He went through advanced infantry training and scout sniper training before being sent to Iraq. His unit was assigned the difficult task of retaking Fallujah, which had been a hotbed of insurgent activity.
The operation started an hour before dawn; John’s unit quietly approached a dingy two story block home which had been watched by informants during the last two weeks. Despite a strong wind and blowing dust, the temperature was over one hundred degrees.
The driver stopped the Humvee about sixty yards from the compound. Lt. Simms motioned to Mahmood Ali, the Arabic speaking civil affairs specialist, to approach the house. Ali had a Jordanian mother and had lived in the US before enlisting. “Sa lam ah la kum,” he shouted out pounding on the door. He quickly stepped aside. PFC John Robertson and two other Marines crouched low on either side of the door, nervously wiping sweat from their eyes in the blowtorch like sun. Hungry flies feeding on the garbage in the alley swarmed around them.
After a long delay from inside, “Aiwa, Aiwa,” (yes). Slowly a scraggly bearded face craned out the door; he saw the Humvee with a Marine on the turret mounted 50 caliber machine gun; he saw two more crouched alongside the vehicle with M-16s pointed at the house. Robertson saw him jerk his head back inside; he quickly jammed the muzzle of his M-16 inside the door preventing it from closing.
He led four Marines inside low crawling on the gritty tile floor. For a moment it appeared the suspects somehow fled. Ka thunk, “Grenade,” Mahmoud screamed as it hit the wall, skittering off the wall and slick floor. Fa whump, the grenade detonated spitting out lethal tiny wire fragments; they ricocheted off the walls; they blew plaster and glass; they killed one Marine outright and injured two others.
John had fragments in his left arm and shoulder; he dragged the civil affairs specialist out, still conscious but with severe neck and leg wounds. Ali looked straight into his eyes, “How bad am I hit?” he said, beginning to pray.
John left a trail of blood in the sand as he crouched low, staggering back toward the house after the other wounded Marine. Suddenly sand kicked up next to him. He screamed after rounds struck the sand all around him; he went down on all fours; blood pooled up on the sand from his shoulder wound. His vision blurred from the loss of blood; he kept losing his balance and fell down.The firing came from the second floor of a house across the alley. He struggled to get to his feet, fell down again got up again struggled back inside and dragged PFC Williams back to the Humvee, who was unconscious. Bu, bu, bu, bu, the 50 caliber turret gun erupted with an unmistakable sound chewing the concrete blocks of the adjoining home to powder. Two insurgents inside the home were dead; a third came out hands in the air.
The lieutenant sent three more members of the squad into the home. The insurgents had escaped through a tunnel which led to the home across the alley. After a thorough search they discovered the body of one of the insurgents in the tunnel, and a large arms cache in a room within the tunnel. There were shoulder fired weapons, AKs, Chinese made grenades and IED materials (improvised explosive device) complete with a shoe box of twenty garage door openers used as detonators. All were neatly stacked in a four by eight foot area of the tunnel.
Lt. Simms hugged PFC Robertson while the corpsman first treated the two more seriously injured. Later in the week all three were on a flight out of Baghdad to the large military hospital in Wiesbaden, Germany. After surgery, PFC Robertson was awarded the Bronze Star for bravery. When he reenlisted he was promoted to sergeant. His parents, brothers and sisters, grandparents, aunts, and uncles all came to watch the award ceremony. Robertson’s father and one brother were career Marine Corps. Just about everyone in Henderson or Vance County who wanted to know something about the Marine Corps called the Robertsons. When a new recruiter was assigned to Henderson he or she always called the senior Robertson, who would often visit with the potential new recruit and show him pictures of his prior service. Recruiters in Henderson always filled their enlistment quota in the first six months of the year and many times were the top recruiters in the four county area. At the high school there was a computer terminal in the library with scanned photos of graduates who had served in the military. There was an entire section on the Robertson family. The senior Robertson retired as a sergeant major and John’s older brother was a staff sergeant in the Marines, a drill instructor at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego.
Following a stint as a recruiter Robertson volunteered for a second tour of duty in Iraq.
The escort patrol was scheduled to depart an hour after sunrise. Robertson started sweating as soon as he stepped out of the air conditioned barracks. His convoy was escorting two trucks carrying civilian contractors, who were rebuilding electrical power stations.
PFC Johnson from Oklahoma was driving; Sergeant Robertson was in the passenger seat in front. Four nervous Marines were in the rear Humvee at the back of the convoy; they were fresh out of boot camp and advanced infantry training. Prior to departing the camp Robertson held a short preconvoy briefing mainly for the benefit of the nine contractors. Their two guards were Americans with prior military service, but the others were a motley bunch: a Lebanese civil engineer, two Canadian electrical engineers and six Indian laborers. The Lebanese engineer did speak English, but it was tough to understand him. They checked all weapons before they left the camp for the four hour drive.
Just half an hour out the rear Humvee started dropping behind. “OK taillights close it up,” Robertson belched in to the radio. “Cummin up,” came the reply with a thick Brooklyn accent from driver of the rear Humvee. He was one of the few from New York and was going to be a good Marine.
Trash littered the road along with car parts or anything else people didn’t want. It was just pitched out the window. Up ahead they slowed slightly; there was a broken down car with the hood up. Two Iraqi policemen held up their arms for them to stop. Robertson quickly got on the radio trying to determine if the policemen were legit. A dead sheep just off the road erupted. The Humvee became airborne flipped upside down and landed on the roof. It was an incredibly powerful IED. The driver was killed outright; Robertson had a serious ankle injury. The only thing he remembered was using the radio. He finally came to on the medivac chopper which took him to the large hospital in Baghdad.
After they stabilized him he had surgery then three days later was flown to Bethesda Naval Hospital. He had physical therapy for four months and with great difficulty and several false starts was able to slowly return to his favorite sport — distance running. He started out with a 5 K, 3.1 mile race. He had been painfully practicing for months trying to regain his pre-injury form but knew it would take much more time and may never come.
Saturday was sunny; it was humid but a gentle breeze picked up from the west. The gun went off. He struggled to get into a rhythm, couldn’t do it and was just barely ahead of the walkers. In fact several times walkers passed him up as he see sawed back and forth for position.
In mile two the pain started grabbing his upper thigh on his bad leg. He thought he’d run through it but couldn’t; the pain grabbed him like a bull dog bite.
It wasn’t a big race or a famous race but there were several hundred runners. Finally he saw the finish line ahead by now limping very badly. Then he saw them; he couldn’t believe it. How many were there? Twenty, maybe thirty people. Four patients he recognized were lined up after the finish line, some wearing their prosthetic devices, others were not. Some were single amputees, others were multiple amputees. They all gave him makeshift salutes touching their prosthetic devices to their foreheads as he slowly ambled in. About half of them had not yet had a prosthetic device fitted; they simply raised their stumps in the air. Those in wheelchairs raised their front wheels in a salute like a wheelie while raising their stumps off their seats and waiving them in a circular motion. He recognized one loquacious patient from down the hall; he yelled, “In your face, you candyass; you slow son of a gun” while he waived both his stumps in a show of support. The orderly then waggishly zig zagged his wheelchair back and fourth and yelled, “Yes, yes.”
The winner of the race had waited patiently for Sergeant Robinson to finish; he came by and shook his hand. The race director shoved a remote mike under his chin, “Thank you. Thank everyone for all your encouragement.” Then he sat on the curb fending off questions: How was it? Feel OK? Do it again? His physical therapist handed it to him, “Did it fit correctly? Do you have swelling?” He detached the ice skate blade shaped device specifically made for running then attached the traditional shoe shaped prosthetic used for walking.
His fiancé from Roanoke Rapids showed up for a surprise visit. She picked up the running foot, flipped it in the air and nonchalantly caught it with her left hand. Then she bent over and kissed Robertson on his sweaty forehead.
