but Conroy couldnât tell if the man had been hit. A gunner on one of the tanks saw him moving, so he opened up with his coax. The soldier was rocking back and forth now, still reaching for the RPG tube.
âWould you please kill this guy!â Conroy said.
The soldier was still rocking when the Bradley hit him with a blast of Twenty-five Mike Mikeâthe 25mm Bushmaster chain gun. The manâs body blew apart. Nobody worried anymore about the guy playing dead.
On the west side of the highway, Schwartz noticed a series of flower shops and greenhouses. It looked like one of those nurseries commonly seen on highways outside American suburbs. There were drooping awnings, perennials in big plastic pots and trays of annuals, shrubs and hanging baskets, and sheets of plastic blotting out the hot April sun. Behind the plants were rows of heavy clay plots, and behind them were men with automatic rifles and RPGs, crouching and hiding, apparently in the mistaken belief that a half inch of baked clay and a few pounds of dirt would shield them from coax rounds or Twenty-five Mike Mike. They were all reloading, having pelted the front of the column. Now they were setting up to unload on Schwartz and his vehicles. Schwartz was amazed. The gunmen appeared to have no idea how vulnerable they had left themselves.
Schwartz yelled to his gunner, âSpray some ammunition in there.â That would get their attention, Schwartz thought. It would keep their heads down until the Bradley gunners behind Schwartz could get a fix on them. Schwartz radioed the Bradley commanders: âThereâs a florist, a nursery coming up on your left. Destroy that nursery.â
The Bradleys obeyed. Schwartz watched the clay pots explode, right down the row, one by one. Twenty-five Mike Mike is a high-explosive round. It hits and pops. The clay pots disappeared, and so did the men behind them. They evaporated in a spray of dirt and clay, their weapons flying. Four of the Bradleys went at it, killing a few, then passing the targets back to the next Bradley, which killed a few and passed the work back. They were finishing their work. They put perhaps a hundred rounds of Twenty-five Mike Mike into the nursery, and then it was gone, and a couple dozen fighters, more or less, were gone, too.
âOkay, youâre done,â Schwartz said. âShut it off.â The 25mm gun tubes swung back north and the Bradleys plowed forward, the gunners searching through their thermal sights for more targets.
The enemy kept coming. Soldiers and civilian gunmen were arriving now in every available mode of transportationâhatchbacks, orange-and-white taxis, police cars, ambulances, pickups, big Chevys, motorcycles with sidecars. Major Nussio, the battalion executive officer, opened fire on a huge garbage truck with a soldier at the wheel. He was thinking to himself as the soldier keeled over and the truck crash-landed: A garbage truck? These people are so stupidâstupid but determined.
They were not giving up. It seemed suicidalâmen with nothing more than AK-47s or wildly inaccurate RPGs were charging tanks and Bradleys. It was like they wanted to die, or worse, they just didnât care. That disturbed some of the tankers. They werenât trained to fight people who didnât give a damn. Nor were they quite prepared to fight people who didnât have a planâdidnât have a clue. As each RPG team or pack of dismounts attacked with utter disregard for what the other Iraqis or Syrians were doing, the tankers kept thinking: Itâs all a big trap. They really do have a plan. Theyâre just luring us in with these haphazard, disjointed tactics. Sometime soon, theyâre going to get organized and attack with some serious tactics.
At one point, a little white Volkswagen Passat suddenly appeared on the highway. It came off one of the access ramps. Before anyone could react, the Passat turned sharply and smacked into one of
âWould you please kill this guy!â Conroy said.
The soldier was still rocking when the Bradley hit him with a blast of Twenty-five Mike Mikeâthe 25mm Bushmaster chain gun. The manâs body blew apart. Nobody worried anymore about the guy playing dead.
On the west side of the highway, Schwartz noticed a series of flower shops and greenhouses. It looked like one of those nurseries commonly seen on highways outside American suburbs. There were drooping awnings, perennials in big plastic pots and trays of annuals, shrubs and hanging baskets, and sheets of plastic blotting out the hot April sun. Behind the plants were rows of heavy clay plots, and behind them were men with automatic rifles and RPGs, crouching and hiding, apparently in the mistaken belief that a half inch of baked clay and a few pounds of dirt would shield them from coax rounds or Twenty-five Mike Mike. They were all reloading, having pelted the front of the column. Now they were setting up to unload on Schwartz and his vehicles. Schwartz was amazed. The gunmen appeared to have no idea how vulnerable they had left themselves.
Schwartz yelled to his gunner, âSpray some ammunition in there.â That would get their attention, Schwartz thought. It would keep their heads down until the Bradley gunners behind Schwartz could get a fix on them. Schwartz radioed the Bradley commanders: âThereâs a florist, a nursery coming up on your left. Destroy that nursery.â
The Bradleys obeyed. Schwartz watched the clay pots explode, right down the row, one by one. Twenty-five Mike Mike is a high-explosive round. It hits and pops. The clay pots disappeared, and so did the men behind them. They evaporated in a spray of dirt and clay, their weapons flying. Four of the Bradleys went at it, killing a few, then passing the targets back to the next Bradley, which killed a few and passed the work back. They were finishing their work. They put perhaps a hundred rounds of Twenty-five Mike Mike into the nursery, and then it was gone, and a couple dozen fighters, more or less, were gone, too.
âOkay, youâre done,â Schwartz said. âShut it off.â The 25mm gun tubes swung back north and the Bradleys plowed forward, the gunners searching through their thermal sights for more targets.
The enemy kept coming. Soldiers and civilian gunmen were arriving now in every available mode of transportationâhatchbacks, orange-and-white taxis, police cars, ambulances, pickups, big Chevys, motorcycles with sidecars. Major Nussio, the battalion executive officer, opened fire on a huge garbage truck with a soldier at the wheel. He was thinking to himself as the soldier keeled over and the truck crash-landed: A garbage truck? These people are so stupidâstupid but determined.
They were not giving up. It seemed suicidalâmen with nothing more than AK-47s or wildly inaccurate RPGs were charging tanks and Bradleys. It was like they wanted to die, or worse, they just didnât care. That disturbed some of the tankers. They werenât trained to fight people who didnât give a damn. Nor were they quite prepared to fight people who didnât have a planâdidnât have a clue. As each RPG team or pack of dismounts attacked with utter disregard for what the other Iraqis or Syrians were doing, the tankers kept thinking: Itâs all a big trap. They really do have a plan. Theyâre just luring us in with these haphazard, disjointed tactics. Sometime soon, theyâre going to get organized and attack with some serious tactics.
At one point, a little white Volkswagen Passat suddenly appeared on the highway. It came off one of the access ramps. Before anyone could react, the Passat turned sharply and smacked into one of
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