|
 Bobby
Brinson (third from the left in the picture), son of Shirley and the
late Clyde Brinson, thought he had completed his active duty military
service, but his National Guard unit in Brownwood was activated in
August 2004 and sent to duty in Iraq. Here is one of his stories.
That morning was beautiful. It had been a
cold, rainy night traveling but that had all cleared and the morning
sun breaking the horizon promised a good day. We were tired after
traveling all night. Riding in those hummers was exhausting, to say
the least. We were hanging in there; we were almost to our
destination.
BOOM! That’s all it was, was BOOM! I
could hear the explosion, but couldn’t see anything. Then, there was a
silence that irritates you. What the heck was that? Where did it come
from?
Well, in a split second that felt like an
eternity, I got my answer. CONTACT....CONTACT....LEFT SIDE..........IED!
As this was transmitted over our radio
net, I could see the plume of dark, black smoke rising in the air. For
some reason at that very moment, I looked out the window. There were
empty faces staring at us from the sides of the roads. There were
people everywhere and they seem oblivious to what was happening. They
didn’t seem like they cared, not at all. They were just standing there
like we were on parade.
Then the radio started up again. …WE HAVE
A CASUALTY!
Not what I wanted to hear. I know these
guys; these are MY guys.
***
We had left Tallil Air Base late the
night before and were to escort 20 vehicles carrying mission essential
supplies to Camp Anaconda, which is north of Baghdad. We had only been
in the country for a month and no one in our unit had been that far
north, until now.
We had heard the stories from other units
and we remembered the news stories about that area prior to our
leaving the US. Now it was our turn to venture into dangerous
territory; to travel right into the heart of the Sunni triangle.
There are many ways to go, but not all
routes are open all of the time. Which route you take all depends on
enemy activity, among other things. We could have gone direct and been
there in a few hours, but as our luck would hold, we had to take the
western route.
This route isn’t traveled very often.
It’s a dangerous route and the roads are in poor condition. The route
runs from Tallil to the northwest toward the infamous Ramadi and
Fallujia, then would cut to the northeast toward Balad and turn south
into Camp (LSA) Anaconda. The total time on the road would be nearly
12 hours, depending on any situations that may arise.
Well, anyone in the military will know
that situations do arise, and they always do when you don’t want them
to.
We had to stop just south of Fallujia to
refuel our trucks. It was in the middle of the night and we needed to
refuel before getting any closer to that town. God forbid one of our
trucks run out of fuel while passing through that town.
Fallujia is controlled by the Marines.
You have to call in advance to transition through that area. They have
such a high incidence of attacks that they want to know if any
coalition forces are in the area, just so they won’t shoot at you by
mistake.
We were all nervous going into this area,
as we should have been. Dangerous, very, very dangerous area to be in.
We followed all procedures to the “T” and had all of our vehicles
topped off with fuel. We continued our movement.
We passed through the area without any
issues. Man what a deal! We were all excited that we didn’t get hit by
small arms fire or any roadside bombs. See, that is why we left in the
middle of the night. We hoped that traveling through these areas under
the cover of darkness would help us; and it seemed to work!
***
WE HAVE A CASUALTY!... Those words stuck
in my head like a bad song. I was the medic and I know ALL of these
guys…personally. We had gone through some tough training over the past
four months. Our platoon was a specially trained unit, trained in
personal protection and dignitary security. Essentially, we were body
guards. Our platoon was different than most, for we had a special
mission here. Everyone in this platoon was a crack shot, very good at
navigation and first aid and in handling crisis situations.
This CANNOT be happening. I knew the call
sign of the truck calling in the casualty. It was our platoon
sergeant. He was a combat veteran from the initial invasion on Iraq
back in 2003. He knows what he is doing. The next thing that came over
the net that haunted me was…”It’s my gunner.”
Justin was a 21 year old “kid” from
Killeen. He was funny and smart, just an All-American kid. Everyone
liked him. I liked him.
NO…NOT HIM, PLEASE. When I arrived at the
truck I first noticed the destruction. There were holes torn through
the back of the truck. The bulletproof glass was shattered and there
were dents in the ballistic doors. Thank God for the vehicle armor.
The door was already open and my platoon
sergeant was already treating Justin. The first thing I could see was
Justin’s legs shaking uncontrollably. I thought to myself, “This is
it. He’s in shock and he’s dying.”
I came into the truck to hear a wonderful sound. It was Justin’s
voice. It was weak, but present. He had blood all over his face and
hands. He was somewhat disoriented, but I expected that. He was able
to talk to me and make sense.
“Do we need a dustoff (an Army air
ambulance),” asked my command sergeant major.
The CSM was a tough man, with over 20
years in the Army. He was a Ranger; an elite soldier with specialized
training. He has jumped out of as many planes as Delta Airlines has in
their fleet. He has seen action and his job was to take care of the
soldier. He thinks clearly and concisely. He told me that we were only
10 miles from an Army trauma center, which happened to be on the base
that was our destination.
“No,” I told him, “we can ground him
there, he’s stable enough.”
I have been a paramedic for a long time
and I have seen many trauma patients. I will say that it is totally
different in a combat zone.
It all kicked in for me. I jumped in with
him, started an IV, and treated his wounds, which were all on his face
and hands. I had to use a clotting agent on a small arterial bleed
that he had on that hand. I gave him something for pain then just
talked to him, telling him everything was going to be okay.
I tried to make the kid laugh. You know
they say laughter is the best medicine? Well, it didn’t work worth a
darn for us that morning. I was trying to convince both of us that
everything was okay.
We arrived at the combat support hospital
(CSH) at Balad air base. Justin was taken in and treated with the best
trauma care I’ve seen, aggressive, thorough, and timely.
He was lucky. He had a laceration on his
face that had stopped bleeding while we were enroute and his hand
would be ok with some time and maybe some physical therapy. Thank God.
As we were sitting there, two soldiers
came in that weren’t so lucky. A dustoff had just arrived with two
casualties. Both were in a vehicle that had been hit by an IED. The
driver was a male, he was really torn up. He had one leg that appeared
to be nearly blown off. The second was a female. She was the passenger
in the vehicle. The bomb had gone off right by her door. Both of her
legs were gone. Just gone. They were doing CPR on her as they wheeled
her into the trauma room.
My sergeant major and I walked down the
hallway. There was a trail of blood a foot wide. We didn’t know what
to say. We just looked at each other. We grabbed some towels and tried
to clean it up, but it just smeared everywhere.
Luckily, Justin was back in the X-ray
area and didn’t see that. I felt sick, just nauseated at what I had
just seen. Someone in the US was going to get “the letter”; the letter
that gives the condolences of a grateful Nation.
We found out a little later that they
were hit just down the road from where we were hit. The IED that hit
them was a series of four 155mm artillery shells. That could have been
us. The hell with that.
We got Justin back later that day. He
looked like someone had beaten him with a bat. One eye was swollen
shut. He couldn’t open his mouth very wide due to all of the swelling
in his face. His hand was swollen and it looked horrible. He still
didn’t have feeling in three fingers. He could move them some, but he
couldn’t feel them. But most importantly, he was alive.
He was still drugged on morphine so he
didn’t make any sense. He did comment, as all 21 year old guys will,
on just how good looking his nurse was. He said the only thing that
was wrong with her was she wasn’t from Texas; but he said he could
overlook that.
Later that night we assessed Justin’s
body armor. We found numerous hits. There were many places on his
armor that had large pieces of shrapnel in it. If it wasn’t for that
armor, he would have died. The goggles that he had had on had shrapnel
marks all over them too. He would have lost an eye without them.
We were convinced that it was God’s Hand
that had kept him alive. We knew there was something more than luck, I
guess. I know there were a few guys that were asking God if He was
really there that morning; was He really with us? Or was it too
dangerous? One thing was for sure, Christian or atheist, after that
morning you believed in something.
We spent two days at Camp Anaconda,
mostly getting our vehicles fixed. The one that took the IED blast was
all messed up.
We needed some time to lick our wounds as
well. We had been in country a month and they had already got us. We
had all talked by now. We had come to the conclusion that this
wouldn’t happen to us again. We vowed to get revenge on the
insurgents. I really feel sorry for the first insurgent we find. He
will pay for our pain. He will pay dearly.
The PSD platoon from the 3-112AR, 36th
Infantry would spend 11 more months in combat operations. We logged
hundreds of thousands of miles, encountered numerous more IED’s,
engaged the enemy on many occasions and took part in numerous raids,
searches, and special missions. We escorted many high ranking officers
and non-commissioned officers and even a few government dignitaries to
some of the most dangerous cities, traveling some of the most
dangerous roads in the world. This is just but one story. There are
many to tell in time.
All of the soldiers from 3-112AR did a
wonderful job doing what we were sent there to do. They are all heroes
and they all represented our great State well. You would have been
proud.
Take a moment to think; think about the
sacrifices made every day by our soldiers. Some are seasoned; some are
college kids thrown into a war that some may not really understand.
There were many before us that sacrificed as well. I will never forget
them.
How could I forget? I live the same hell
that those old war dogs from the past live. I know what they feel and
I will always respect them for what they did, no matter if I believe
in the cause or not.
There is one thing that is for sure, and
everyone that has been there can vouch for it. War is Hell. You will
always have the fear, you will always hear the sounds, and you will
never, ever forget the smell. War is Hell.
Corporal Brinson is still serving in
the National Guard in Brownwood. He was awarded the Combat Medic Badge
for treating combat casualties while under fire, the War on Terrorism
Medal, the Freedom Service Medal and the Army Service Accomodation
Medal for personal actions while in the combat environment. |
