Meanwhile, one of the major’s SOCCE staff members, a SOCCE staff sergeant, who was also an 18D (medical sergeant), began to put together his gear. Outside soldiers from the 1/10th Mountain could be heard gathering.
Over the next hour, the reports became less fragmentary. This, it turns out, is what had happened:
Some days earlier, a portion of the CA001 security detachment had been pulled back in order to get ready for another mission later in the rotation. This left just four CA troops from the 478th and a four-man security team of SF soldiers. They had been generating an extremely valuable flow of intelligence information on the civil situation in the village of Carnis for several days ... so valuable that JSOTF (Cortina) had planned to leave them there until the 1/10th Mountain’s arrived late the next day.81 Now the team had been wiped out, and a seemingly successful CA mission had turned very bad indeed.
Almost instantly, Major David’s team put together a rescue force. A platoon of troops from the 1/10th Mountain assembled with their weapons and supplies outside the SOCCE, where they were briefed by the warrant officer who would act as the medic for the force. A few hundred yards away, a pair of UH-60L Blackhawks and another pair of OH-58D Kiowa Warrior scout/attack helicopters were made ready for launch. The first Blackhawk would carry the troops and evacuate the wounded; the other would act as a command-and-control platform, while the Kiowa Warriors would act as escort/cover.
While all this was going on, Major David was making a quick risk assessment. He didn’t like the “feel” of the situation he was sending his rescue force into. What if the enemy had larger ambush plans? What if he was sending more guys into a bigger trap? Carnis Village was scarcely more than a few buildings at a fork in the road at the northern end of the Fort Polk “box.” The one clearing large enough to act as an LZ (landing zone) for the UH-60s was several hundred yards/meters from the village. It wouldn’t take much effort for the CLF to set up an ambush with a couple of mortars, man-portable SAMs, or rocket-propelled grenade teams there.82 ... A messy situation.
And things could get worse.
For starters, countering it would require dispatching an even larger relief force to rescue the first team of rescuers ... Opening up even worse possibilities of worse ambushes ... It was beginning to sound like a recipe for chaos that might endanger the entire entry plan of 1/10th Mountain into JRTC 99-1. The major was beginning to wonder if he should risk sending the rescue force to Carnis.
This is why command ain’t easy.
On the other hand, there are occasions when time makes command less hard.
That’s what happened this day. After an hour of working the problem, it resolved itself. At 1530 Hours, word arrived that a doctor from World Relief had picked up the wounded CA/SF soldiers and driven them to a local clinic, and they were expected to survive. That meant the rescue mission could be terminated, and everyone at the SOCCE could stand down.
This was my cue to leave.
As Major McCollum and I drove back to Fort Polk, we couldn’t help wondering if CA001 should have even been out there in the first place. According to the original plan, CA001 would work in Carnis for just a couple of days, and they’d have a security detail to watch out for bad guys. In the event, they’d spent the better part of a week there, and most of the security detail had pulled back to FOB 72. That this had been done at the orders of JSOTF (Cortina) made little difference. Seven SF and CA soldiers had been taken out of play, and the CA casualties represented two-thirds of the tiny CA detachment of the 478th. The two surviving representatives would have a very hard time managing until replacements arrived.
Did commanders make the wrong decisions? It’s hard to say. Certainly Major McCollum and I had no good answers to that question. But, as might be imagined, the “Carnis Massacre” was discussed for days around FOB 72.
Meanwhile, I had to get ready for my ride with ODA 745 later that evening.
Wednesday, October 7th—Fort Polk
At 2130 hours, Major McCollum and I were at the FOB 72 compound waiting for the two 160th SOAR MH-60Ls. I was dressed in a fire-resistant NOMEX flight suit and carried a helmet, gloves, flight jacket, some food and water, a notebook, and a green nylon bag.
According to my agreement with SFC and the 160th SOAR, there would be no photos that night, nor would I make note of the names of the crews and their call signs. In exchange for these (sensible) restrictions, I was about to get a taste of something that few civilians have experienced: a ride with the 160th SOAR (the Nightstalkers) on one of their Special Operations helicopters.
These particular birds were MH-60Ls, early model Special Operations helicopters now being superceded by the newer MH-60K version. Based upon the Sikorsky Blackhawk airframe, the “L” model MH-60 was an interim version procured while the regiment waited for the more capable “K” model (equipped with in-flight refueling probes and terrain following radars). Two “K” models had been scheduled to fly ODA 745 the previous evening, but they weren’t available tonight. Thus, a pair of MH- 60Ls were on their way down from their FOB at Barksdale AFB near Shreveport to carry the team to Camp Shelby.
Though they lacked the in-flight refueling and TFR capability, the “Ls” were equipped with AAQ-16 forward-looking infrared (FLIR) thermal imagers and night vision goggles (NVGs), and each had a complete SATCOM communication suite, a pair of 7.62mm six-barreled miniguns, an onboard ARN-148 navigation system with a global positioning satellite receiver tied to the avionics, and extra fuel tanks on the external stores systems racks outboard. Each MH-60 carries a crew of four—a pilot, copilot, and two gunners (one is also the crew chief). When fully loaded with fuel, personnel (up to six loaded passengers), and gear, these birds are truly jammed.
It would be a busy night of flying for the teams of 2/7th SFG. The 160th SOAR had flown additional aircraft into JRTC 99-1, including several of the larger MH-47K Chinook twin-rotor transport helicopters, which would be used later in the rotation. In addition to the delivery of ODA 745 into Camp Shelby, SR001 and SR002 would be parachuted into the “box” by the USAF MC-130. As its initial task, SR002 would link up with the survivors of CA001 and debrief them.
Just outside the north perimeter fence of FOB 72 a pair of landing pads had been laid out. Here I met with the SOAR coordination officer, who gave me a quick safety briefing and instructions on using NVGs (PVS-7Bs, which gave excellent resolution when properly adjusted).
Promptly at 2100 hours, the two MH-60s swept in from the north and landed on the twin pads of the LZ. After shutting them down, the crews exited the helicopters, while a ground crew refueled them from a fuel truck. While this was going on, Captain Greg and his team marched down from their team room, accompanied by Lieutenant Colonel Smith and a couple of staff officers. Pulling everyone into a circle, the crews of the two SOAR helicopters gave everyone their preflight briefing and explained the load plan:
Five of the ODA 745 soldiers (A-Team) would fly in the lead aircraft (where I would be), while the other four (B-Team) would go in the second. Each man would carry a roughly 90 lb./41 kg. rucksack, along with their load-bearing gear and weapons. It was going to be tight, and legroom would be scarce.83 I was shoehorned in a tiny jumpseat behind the cockpit for almost four hours, the duration of the flight to Camp Shelby and then back to their refueling field. It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t boring either.
By 2200 hours, the birds were fully fueled, everyone and their gear had been packed aboard, and the engines were turning. After a short wait for clearance from the Fort Polk Army Airfield, the two heavily laden helicopters lifted off and headed east into the night sky.
Major McCollum, meanwhile, drove the rental car north to Barksdale AFB to meet me at the completion of the mission.
Aboard the lead MH-60, the first few minutes were spent setting up the instruments, radios, displays, and other avionics so the flight crew would be comfortable. The five soldiers of the A-Team were behind me, trying to get some sleep.
It was a marvelous eve
ning for flying—cool, crisp, and bright. A big harvest moon was rising in the windshield ahead, and stars and ground lights were everywhere. The flight crews had settled onto their base course to the east at around 1,500 ft./457 m. aboveground and a speed of 120 knots.
The Nightstalkers have a truly impressive ability to fly low-level penetrations at night and in bad weather; their cockpit and crew management procedures for night flying work incredibly well. Though the flying conditions this evening were in fact splendid, everyone aboard acted as if they were flying through a pea-soup fog ... keeping sharp.
Up front, the two flight crewmen took turns actually flying the aircraft. One would handle the controls for fifteen to twenty minutes, then hand the flying off to the other. The nonflying aviator managed the flight systems, checked the navigational systems, and monitored the formation spacing between the two helicopters. This routine was designed to prevent fatigue and vertigo, which can hit without warning if not looked out for.
When he was on the controls, the flying crewman wore a pair of special NVGs, which are matched to the specially illuminated cockpit displays. These provide surprising resolution, even under poor illumination conditions. But ambient light outside was so bright that evening, it was washing out the NVGs, and the two pilots had to raise them up frequently to check visual cues on the ground.
Meanwhile, everyone aboard (not only the pilots) was tasked with watching for phone and power lines, perhaps the most hazardous obstacles to low-level night helicopter flying. Though these are marked on the flying charts, we all had the responsibility to call “Wire!” if we saw them.
After an hour, I could see the bright lights of Baton Rouge just to the south, and off the right side were some of the many chemical plants and oil refineries that line the Mississippi River. Thirty minutes later, we passed over the Louisiana-Mississippi border and into “denied territory.” From an exercise standpoint, the U.S. had just violated Atlantican airspace. Meaning: The war had just begun.
The crews now doused their lights and reduced their altitude to 500 ft./167 m. aboveground. They were now flying under real-world conditions, exactly simulating a combat infiltration into a “hot” LZ. Occasionally, we climbed to clear a power or phone line, but then down we went again. We flew that way for another thirty minutes, at which point we entered JSOA “Snake” (Camp Shelby) and dropped even lower.
Now the flight crews were using hills and other terrain to mask them from detection and possible enemy action. That lasted another fifteen minutes.
At 0013 hours on October 8th, the infiltration LZ came into sight—a half mile/ km. in length, and a hundred yds./m. wide. Moments later, the side doors were open, and the soldiers ready to go. The gunners manned their miniguns, ready to spray (simulated) 7.62mm ammunition at anyone unfortunate enough to detect us. The crew chief called “Thirty seconds” to the A-Team, and then the Blackhawk flared and rapidly slowed.
The LZ (named “Angus”) was filled with tall grass, and was soggy from the recent rains. Wisely, the pilots of the two Blackhawks decided to avoid a touch down (lest they get caught in the mud). They hovered for less than twenty seconds while the soldiers tossed out their bundles of gear and then jumped. I heard splashes as the rucksacks hit, followed by the curses of Captain Greg and his men as they dropped into the ankle-deep water. And then we were off, headed west toward Louisiana.
Because the side doors had been left open, the crew compartment got downright cold, and there wasn’t room enough for me to put on my leather flight jacket. For the next forty-five minutes, while the helicopters got out of Mississippi and located their refueling site, I shivered. The refueling site was a small civil airfield near Hammond, Louisiana, and we landed at around 0100 hours. Three hours of continuous flight meant a stampede to the restrooms and coffee machines. By 0200 hours, both birds were fueled, and everyone was back aboard for the two-hour flight back to Barksdale AFB.
The huge bomber base (home to the 8th Air Force and the 2nd Bombardment Wing, which flies the B-52H Stratofortress) came into view at 0400 hours. The 160th’s spot on the ramp was between two squadrons of B-52s. One of these was working late this evening. Tensions with Iraq had risen again, and six of the huge bombers armed with air-launched cruise missiles were scheduled to leave shortly for Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. (These bombers and crews took part in Operation Desert Fox against Iraq less than three months later.)
For now, it was time to rest. As the rotors spun down, I collected my helmet and bag, and spotted Major McCollum waiting at the edge of the ramp.
The major had found rooms at the Barksdale AFB motor lodge. We slept until noon, and then drove back to Fort Polk that afternoon.
By then, ODA 745 had made contact with the FOB, confirmed that they had found a suitable MSS location, and had made their first water resupply. DA001 was off to a good start.
The hit was now scheduled for the evening of the next day, October 9th.
Friday, October 9th—Fort Polk
The day again dawned bright and clear, perfect for the three-hundred-mile drive that Major McCollum and I would make to Camp Shelby. Before we left, we stopped at the FOB operations center to check on DA001 and the other active missions. After the massacre of CA001, the group had grown more intense than ever; the lesson of two days earlier was still fresh in all their minds. On the way to see Lieutenant Colonel Smith, we stopped at the Civil Affairs desk to talk to the sole survivor of the “carnage” at Carnis, a female CA soldier. She confirmed what I had suspected: Getting stranded out in the “box” for so long had left the team pretty jittery ... yet there had been no signs of CLF or PRA activity until the first rounds of automatic weapons fire. Meanwhile, she said, the 1/10th Mountain reconnaissance elements had entered the “box” and things seemed to be under control. However, the survivors from the CA detachment were staying close to the FOB, having essentially shut down operations until the JRTC casualty/evacuation system returned their “dead” and “wounded” comrades to action.
Looking at DA001: ODA 745 had moved in position to make the “hit” that evening, and were scouting for good firing positions. That meant it was time for Major McCollum and me to head out to watch. After changing into BDUs and gathering our field gear, we hopped into the car and settled in for the six-hour trip.
By midafternoon we had crossed the Mississippi River at Natchez, and were headed toward Hattiesburg (where there’s the campus of the University of Southern Mississippi). It is also the “outside the gate” town for Camp Shelby.
This post was one of many “realigned” in the early 1990s as a result of the Base Reduction and Closing Commission (BRAC) program. Under BRAC, Camp Shelby had become a base to Mississippi National Guard and Army Reserve units, and was also used for other training tasks. One of these was to act as a satellite training facility for JRTC, which makes use of its large ranges and varying terrain for many types of missions.
We arrived at around 1800 hours and made our way to the Range Control Group headquarters on the south side of the post. From here we were directed to a small Quonset hut nearby, where a team of SOTD and JRTC range group personnel were preparing to move out to the live-fire range to finish setting up the target arrays for the night’s activity. Leading the group was Major Tim Fitzgerald, known as “Fitz” to his friends.
For the planned “hit” by ODA 745, the ammunition would be real, with all the hazards that involves. Putting actual “steel on target” is the best measure of a sniper mission; it cannot be disputed later. Besides, blanks never feel the same as real rounds to the men who would sight the rifles and pull the triggers.
Major Fitzgerald ran us out to the target area in a HMMWV. Here his range operations troops had taken an old shack and turned it into a highly sophisticated target array. Inside, a mannequin had been rigged to act as the target—Major Raul Benitiz. The Benitiz dummy was mounted on a device that would sense the impact of a bullet, and then swing it backwards and to the ground if rounds impacted (the way a real body woul
d behave). To provide the sniper teams with a reasonable target, a 60-watt lightbulb was hung in the ceiling. It would appear that Benitiz was sitting and reading.
Meanwhile, another mannequin had been hung on a trolley system, which ran to a “mortar pit” a few yards away. There were simulated machine gun nests as well, to represent Benitiz’s bodyguards.
All of these simulators had been rigged with remote-controlled pyrotechnic de-vices (fireworks). When the snipers took their shots, they would get a rousing response.
A rigger from JRTC sets up the target mannequin for ODA 745 at Camp Shelby, Mississippi, designed to simulate an enemy chemical weapons specialist named Major Benitiz.
JOHN D. GRESHAM
As darkness fell, we rode the HMMWV a few hundred yards to the northeast, parked behind an abandoned ammunitions bunker, and then climbed the grass-covered sides and sat next to the operator of the remote-controlled pyrotechnics. A two-hour wait followed.
As we munched MREs, Fitz and his crew of O/Cs and range workers showed us a map of the area and pointed out the MSSs and infiltration routes to the target area. The team that would carry out the hit had been in the area for several hours, invisible to us in their hide sites. In fact, while we had been poking around the target shack, Captain Greg and his soldiers had probably been watching us—one reason why each of us flagged as O/Cs wore soft field caps and face camouflage paint. That way those “in play” could differentiate us from OpFor soldiers that were patrolling the area.
It was dark by 2030 hours.
As he passed over to us PVS-7B NVGs, Major Fitzgerald asked for quiet during the rest of the operation; he would notify us when something was about to happen.
The first sign that ODA 745 was closing in for the kill came when Captain Greg and Sergeant Louis (his M249 SAW gunner) silently moved past us on the bunker and set up the blocking position, about 75 yds./m. in front of us. Moments later, the sniper teams moved out of the treeline to our northwest and into position.