Exit Wounds: A Novel of the Iraq War

By Dean Bonura

September 11, 2001. America reels from multiple attacks in New York, Washington D.C., and Pennsylvania. It's war. John Bennett entered his senior year at the University of Portland. A bright and promising student, his eyes set on law school, abruptly drops out and joins the Army. Compelled by a sense of duty and unconscious dest

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caisson Books
• Release date: Sep 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737738312

Book preview

PROLOGUE

War sucks. Forget about guts and glory. None of that matters now. Nor is it any kind of noble mission, navigating between clear lines of good and evil. War is a complicated, fucking mess that robs the soul and the air we breathe. The stuff that gives life. It’s a bullet through the heart that leaves nothing but a gaping exit wound.

It had been almost a year since I arrived in Iraq. Exhausted, my unit, an element of the 1st Armored Division, readied to return to Germany, its home base. Everything was packed and wrapped like presents under a Christmas tree.

The 1st Cavalry Division out of Fort Hood, Texas, was scheduled to continue what had been mostly a Stabilization and Support Operation (SASO). The enemy never got the memo, and derailed everything.

An upstart Shi’ite cleric, Muqtada al-Sadr, enjoyed immense support across Iraq. He became the de facto leader of the Mahdi Army. Considered brash and incompetent, he ignited an all-out slug fest for control of more than hearts and minds.

Al-Sadr rose to power after the U.S. and coalition forces kicked former dictator Saddam Hussein off his throne. He also changed the name of Saddam City to Sadr City, the seedbed of his resistance and also a Shi’ite slum, located in the eastern district of Baghdad.

The decision by the Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA) to close down al-Sadr’s newspaper, Al Hawza, set the Sadr uprising in motion. It also had something to do with murder charges involving a rival religious leader.

Our brigade had tracked the Mahdi Army for a while and knew they were hankering for a fight. U.S. forces were in a major transition in the spring of 2004, and al-Sadr wasn’t as dumb or powerless as everybody thought. He was like a no-name contender bent on winning the lightweight title. In those early days, he almost did.

The Sadr Uprising on April 4, 2004 changed the game. It meant war, kinetics; although Operation Iraqi Freedom was a mess from the outset,¹ ill-conceived and poorly executed, at least early on.

I came to war right after 9/11 (2001), following the attacks on U.S. soil. Desperate to join the Army and keen to get into the fight before it was over, I had no idea the war would turn my life upside down or last as long as it did. In the end, I lived in a long, dark tunnel of hopelessness and despair, questioning everything—my faith, my purpose, and the meaning of my life. Nothing made sense anymore.

Here’s the deal: You can go to war and survive physically unscathed. But you’ll return wounded in your heart and soul.

Everyone comes home with exit wounds.

John Bennett, 2021

Tacoma, WA

UPRISING

It’s war, I said, my eyes focused on a computer screen indicating movements and locations of units in our area of operations (AO). My ears strained to hear the radio traffic that buzzed with SITREPs (Situation Reports) and calls for immediate assistance. A unit in the 1st Cavalry Division, newly arrived in country, had been bushwhacked.

What did you say? a voice behind me said.

I swiveled around in my chair and recognized the face. Specialist Joe Collins, my teammate from the Information Operations (IO) Team, stood there, open-mouthed.

Joe. It’s war. The gloves are off. It’s a whole new ballgame. Sounds like a Mahdi militia hit some unit in the 1st CAV over in Sadr City. A bunch of guys are fighting for their lives. They’re surrounded, and every effort to get them out has failed.

Damn, that sucks. He said.

Yep. It sure does. I said. So, what’s up?

Joe scratched the side of his head and mumbled.

What is it? I said, losing patience.

John, Captain Marquette is looking for you, he said. His eyes looked like saucers.

Joe, this is what we signed up for. Don’t you love it? I said, grinning.

Not exactly, John. But you need to see the captain. He asked for you.

Roger. Got it. See you. I said.

I grabbed my green, Army-issued notebook and hustled out of the Tactical Operations Center (TOC), brushing past Collins without saying another word.

In my haste, I tore my uniform trouser on a strand of concertina wire that protected the TOC tent’s perimeter. As I headed to our work area below a protective earthen berm, I heard gunfire in the distance, toward Sadr City, and smelled the distinctive odor of burning rubber which irritated my nostrils. No doubt, fires set by ambushers to channel our vehicles into kill zones.

Sir, I just heard, catching my breath.

You heard what? CPT Marquette replied, eyes focused on a message he held in his hands.

Looks like Sadr City blew up, I said. A unit from the 1st CAV got hit … hard.

"Sounds like it. That’s why I sent for you. Get your gear. Go down to Alpha Company, 2-37 Armor Battalion. They’re rocking and rolling. They need an additional driver and loader. You and Collins are it.

Make sure you get back to me as soon as you return. Accountability. Got it? CPT Marquette locked his eyes on mine, then turned away.

Roger, sir.

I grabbed my load-bearing equipment (LBE) and helmet and raced down to Alpha Company, located near our work area.

As I got closer, I saw SPC Collins piling into a tank. My eyes watered from the black smoke of the turbine engines revving the M1A1 Abrams tanks, sucking JP-8 fuel just idling. Fanciful names, etched like war paint, decorated the 120mm cannon tank tubes—Avenger, Assassin, Cowboy, and Nirvana. First Platoon, Alpha Company, 2-37, loaded gear and prepared to roll into war. My heart pounded like a war drum and felt like it would explode any minute.

This is it!

****

For months our unit had provided humanitarian and stabilization support for Iraq—carrots and sticks—the kinds of things you do when you remove a criminal government and embark on building a new one based on democratic principles. We had been like kids building sandcastles on the seashore at low tide.

On that day, Palm Sunday, while chaplains across the brigade conducted worship services in honor of a spiritual triumph, the tide came in causing a tragedy that washed our castles away and spurred us into action.

Sergeant First Class Jay Clancy, a tall, broad-shouldered non-commissioned officer, handed me an M4 carbine and two magazines of 5.56mm rounds. I climbed into his tank’s driver’s hatch, located up front under the cannon tube, and situated myself. Best seat in the house.

I watched Sergeant Clancy scamper over to the tank in front of us and say something to the tank commander. The tank commander nodded. SFC Clancy rushed back and climbed on board. Serving as our tank commander, he’d guide us into our objective and supervise every action of his four-man crew.

Specialist Bennett, SFC Clancy’s voice came over the intercom. Are you set?

Roger, Sergeant.

Loader, ready?

All set, SPC Collins replied, sitting in the loader’s hatch, manning the M240B light machine gun.

Gunner. Are you set?

Roger, Sarge. Good to go, Private First Class Mickelson said.

Our pre-combat checks completed. We were ready to roll. Then we waited.

Sergeant Clancy, I said, keying the intercom mic. What’s the holdup?

We’re waiting on the lead tank. Hold your horses, he said. His voice raised a notch.

Roger, I said, and switched mental gears. What’s the deal with the 1st CAV guys in Sadr City? All I know is a Mahdi militia hit a unit of the 1st CAV. Sounds pretty bad.

Correct. They ambushed a platoon from the 1st CAV while they pulled sanitation detail, the sergeant said.

"Why are we pulling shit details for the Iraqis?" I said.

Don’t ask. I suppose it’s part of reaching hearts and minds, SFC Clancy said. "One thing is for sure, that shit just hit the fan.

"Anyhow, we’ve got nineteen guys holed up in some alley in Sadr City, fending off a tidal wave of insurgents—hajjis, and we’re the cavalry that’s gonna get them out!

All right, let’s roll! SFC Clancy shouted. Move out!

I twisted hard on the throttle and felt the tank lurch forward. It felt great to be back in a tank. I hadn’t been in one since I left Stewart more than a year before.

I said to SPC Collins, Too bad they didn’t have any Bradleys with their M242 Bushmaster 25mm electric chain guns. They would have stopped those insurgents dead in their tracks.

Roger that, his voice crackled over the radio set. You know it’s supposed to be a total SASO thing by now.

Yeah, dolling out money, backslapping, and working deals, I said.

Hasn’t worked yet, Collins said.

Yep. Now we’re in it up to our ears. The real deal, I said.

John, it’s a fucking fiasco, he said. By the way, who’s this guy al-Sadr?

Heck, I don’t know, I said.

Some renegade, SFC Clancy interjected. Somehow he put together a large resistance and decided to take us on during the change-over. It’s a good thing we’re still here. The CAV is in a real hurt. They didn’t bring enough tanks to the party.

Any Bradleys? I asked.

Apparently not. Or not enough, SFC Clancy said.

Where we headed? I said.

Just follow the tank in front of you, SFC Clancy said.

Specialist Collins, he called, Keep an eye out. It’s gonna get busy in a minute.

Roger, Sarge.

****

Rounds pinged off our tank. I jumped in my seat. Shit. It sounded like hornets gone crazy.

Sergeant Clancy, I’ve got women and children standing in front of me. What do I do? I said, peering through my periscope. The kids are armed. They’re carrying AK-47s and RPGs (Rocket-propelled grenades).

Move forward slowly. We’ll fire over their heads. If they point their weapons at us, we’ll shoot the fuckers, SFC Clancy said like he was reading from a prepared script.

Sergeant Clancy, I said. We’ve got to back up. I’ve lost sight of the tank that was in front of us. There are all kinds of obstacles in front of me.

I see it. Stop. Standby. Back up, back up! Sergeant said.

Avenger 6, Avenger 6, SFC Clancy radioed the tank commander in front of him. This is Cowboy 6, he said. Over.

Cowboy 6, send it. Over.

Avenger 6. Which way did you go? We’ve lost visual.

Cowboy 6, this is Avenger 6. Continue straight ahead. Just run through that crap. You’ll see our path when you get closer. Over.

Roger, Avenger 6. Good copy. Cowboy 6 out.

Bennett. Move ahead. Speed up, SFC Clancy said.

The civilians?

They ain’t civilians. They’re armed, he said. Push through, now. Dammit!

Roger.

I sped up. The tank’s gas turbines whined. Billows of dust engulfed us. We pushed through old refrigerators, discarded furniture, and burned-out vehicles like they were tinfoil.

All right. I see the lead tank ahead, I said.

Keep going, SFC Clancy said.

The guys ahead are taking fire. Looks like small arms and RPGs coming from somewhere on the right, Collins said. I can see hajjis. They’re everywhere!

Specialist Collins, engage targets at will! SFC Clancy bellowed.

Roger. They’re on us!

Keep shooting, Collins. Don’t let up. Engage those targets on the rooftop at two o’clock. One of them has an RPG. Take him out! SFC Clancy shouted over the fire.

The sounds of rounds hitting our tank, coupled with the measured bursts of the .50-cal, manned by SFC Clancy, and the M240B light machine gun, manned by Collins, deafened my ears.

Stay focused.

Keep firing! Keep firing! SFC Clancy hollered.

I’m out, Collins said. I’m out of ammo. I need to reload.

Step on it, Bennett. Clancy said.

WILCO, Sergeant.

Collins. Measured bursts, now.

Roger, Sergeant Clancy.

"I pissed my pants. Sergeant Clancy spoke in calm and measured tones. Collins fired away like a wild man.

I think Avenger is in trouble, SFC Clancy said. Catch up to them.

Roger, I said. My chest thumped and sweat streamed from every pore of my body.

Avenger 6, Avenger 6, this is Cowboy 6. Over.

Roger, Cowboy 6. This is Avenger 6. Over.

Need any assistance? Over.

Negative, Cowboy 6. We’re at the objective. What’s your situation? Over.

Avenger 6, this is Cowboy 6. We’re pulling up behind you.

"Roger. We see you now.

Cowboy 6, provide cover fire for the vehicles behind you while they move up to extract. We’ll establish a security perimeter until we get everybody loaded and evacuated. You’ll bring up the rear when we move out. Also, we have one casualty. We’ll put him in the medevac vehicles along with any casualties from the 2-5 Platoon. Over.

Roger, Avenger 6. Good copy. Cowboy 6 out.

****

We returned to base without incident, adrenaline running wild, but grateful we survived. The sight of armored vehicles rumbling through the city, billowing smoke and flames, produced a sobering effect.

I climbed out of the driver’s hatch, my uniform soaked with perspiration and piss, wondering about Avenger’s casualty.

Who was it? I asked.

PFC Ricky Townsend, Specialist Locke, Avenger’s driver said. We slowed down when the women and children showed up. You guys were behind us, stuck at the obstacle. Then some guys in Iraqi police uniforms flagged us down. They wore, you know, the newly issued ones—light-blue shirts with blue brassards, and dark blue ball caps that said, POLICE. Only they weren’t real cops. Yeah. PFC Townsend stood up to see what they wanted. They shot him.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault, I said.

Tears and sweat streamed SPC Locke’s face. He turned and walked away, shoulders slumped and head bowed.

I helped SPC Collins off the tank. Sweat and dirt covered his face.

I’m wiped, he said. I’ll head back to our AO and check in with Captain Marquette.

Roger. Great work, Joe, I said, patting his shoulder.

****

Down where I was located in Alpha Company, our wounded and KIA (Killed in Action) were evacuated to the aid station over at Charlie Med in the brigade support area (BSA). I volunteered to help at the aid station since I was a trained combat lifesaver. My heart still raced in my throat when I grabbed my lifesaver bag and hitched a ride with some medics who transported wounded soldiers and KIA in their M113 armored ambulance.

I arrived at the aid station, a single-story concrete, windowless structure with one room for triage and another one for treatment. Both rooms overflowed with wounded. Medics triaged the wounded outside on the recently compacted hardstand underneath camouflage netting illuminated by the headlights of Humvees. Soldiers lay haphazardly, some bleeding and some screaming. I jumped in to help with triage. As a combat lifesaver I assisted with bandaging, IVs, and treating for shock.

Sergeant Jones! someone yelled over the nightmare. We need more bandages. Now!

A medic hollered, Over here!

Bennett! Specialist Howard called out. Help me with this IV drip, he calmly asked like he was back in garrison treating a blister.

I ran back and forth, collecting bandages and IV bags, and handed them off to whomever needed them.

Some of the guys bled badly. Despite our efforts, the blood-soaked hardstand became slick and sticky. The metallic, sweet smell of blood hung heavy in the air and overcame my senses. Beads of sweat poured down my face. My hands trembled.

Specialist Howard, here are more IV bags and bandages, I stuttered, losing my grip on the bandages.

What was that? SPC Howard said as he leaned forward on his knees and inserted an IV drip.

Oh, nothing.

Thanks for the IV bags and bandages, he said.

No problem, I said.

Lindsey, not anyone I knew, looked like he wasn’t going to make it. His cold and clammy skin felt like death. With a pasty face and a weak pulse, he gasped for air. I treated him for shock while doc looked for wounds.

Bennett, turn him on his side. We noted several shrapnel wounds to his torso and neck. We set him carefully on his back to treat a sucking chest wound. Bright-red blood frothed from a hole in his chest. We were out of bandages with plastic backing, so I grabbed an MRE (Meals, Ready-to-Eat), and ripped it open, emptied it, and used its plastic wrapping as a bandage to seal off the eerily sucking sound that came from the wound. I knew if I didn’t seal the hole in his chest, his lung would collapse and his heart wouldn’t be able to pump enough oxygenated blood. Then he’d go into shock and die. I only had minutes to complete the procedure and stabilize him.

More docs arrived, flown in on UH-60s out of Baghdad International Airport (BIAP). We cleared the motorpool maintenance tent to accommodate the wounded who poured in. I helped with moving them off the back end of an LMTV (Light Medium Tactical Vehicle) and continued assisting and administering first-aid. A few of the dead were placed to the side, out of the way. Some were not yet in body bags.

Specialist Bennett, a first sergeant called out. Help me with the dead. We need to move them away from the wounded.

Yes, First Sergeant, I replied like a worn out robot.

We gently moved their broken bodies, lying cold and still on the hardstand, out of the way. Some of them had already stiffened like wooden planks, their young, unshaven and ashen faces staring guilelessly at nothing or some looking at us accusingly: You failed me. Why did you let me die? I looked away and wondered.

A chaplain, I guess from the FSB (Forward Support Battalion), moved among the wounded and dying. I heard him calmly offering words of assurance, clutching the hands of the wounded and saying prayers for the dying as he knelt by their battered and bloodied bodies, Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me …, his voice trailed off. A strange stillness rushed over me as my body shivered in the balmy night.

While I didn’t know any of the wounded or dead, I sustained a loss nonetheless. We are a band of brothers and sisters, a family. A loss of any soldier is a loss to all of us. Death diminishes all of us because we are involved together. Whenever the bell tolls it tolls for all.²

By early morning, as the first rays of light betrayed the sun’s presence in the eastern sky, the aid station settled down. We had worked through the night. The urgent and priority wounded were evacuated to the Green Zone, just across the river. But for the dead it was their first stop in a long journey home.

Later that day I talked to CPT Marquette. Sir, last night was brutal. I’m beat. I know lives are lost in war. People die. However, it has to mean something. It seems so senseless.

It’s never easy, he said. You and Collins did great. Thanks for helping at the aid station. They really needed your help.

Yes sir.

One week later SPC Collins and I attended the memorial ceremony for Ricky Townsend. Ceremonies are supposed to bring closure. They never do. And for all the ceremonies I attended, with each volley of fire and the sound of taps, the dead returned, renewing another cycle of grief and filling my mind with guilt—they’re dead but I’m alive. Why?

DECISION

SEPTEMBER 12, 2001

The attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon on 9/11 changed everything. I quit school the next day, just three weeks after I had entered my senior year at the University of Portland (UP). The nation reeled over the tragic loss of life. Inspired by the heroism of first responders, civilians, and military members, I felt compelled to serve. So I joined the Army and set school aside.

"What do you mean you quit school? my father yelled. You’ve invested way too much to leave now. This is not happening."

Dad, it happened, I said, trying not to sound sarcastic.

You can’t do that! he protested, pointing his finger skyward as if God Almighty told him.

Usually laid back, his face turned apple red and not the Delicious variety.

My father expected me to go to law school and follow in his footsteps. Sails were set. Full speed ahead.

The sails were set. But the boat wasn’t headed for law school.

I completed my enlistment paperwork at a local recruiting station the next day. The following week I took my oath of enlistment at the Military Entrance Processing Station in downtown Portland with a reporting date of September 30.

It thrilled me to contemplate the prospect of serving as a tanker in the U.S. Army. I couldn’t wait to leave. But my parents took an entirely different view. They opposed my decision like a brick wall.