Historian and former U.S. Marine Aaron Michael Grant graduated from the Masters in Military History program at the College of Graduate and Continuing Studies in 2014. His most recent book is Taking Baghdad: Victory in Iraq With the U.S. Marines (Köehlerbooks, 2019). Part memoir, part history, his account recalls his experience as a Marine corporal and tank mechanic with Bravo Company, 2nd Tank Battalion, 2nd Marine Division during the 2003 invasion of Iraq. Grant served on the crew of “Hells Wrecker,” a lightly armored, 70-ton M-88-A2 Hercules tank recovery vehicle. When not fighting or rescuing and repairing the broken-down tanks of his fellow Marines, Grant kept a detailed journal. His new book draws upon those sand-covered pages to portray one man’s experience of the war and the moral questions it raised. The following excerpt has been edited for length.
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n March 23, Third Battalion, 5th Marines ran into trouble close to Ad Diwaniyah on Highway 1, pinned down by a surprisingly coordinated ambush. In a hail of automatic machine gun fire, 1st Lt. Brian R. Chontosh commanded his vehicle to drive off the road, straight toward Iraqi trenches. RPGs and mortars sliced the air as he rolled up to the enemy, where he dismounted and emptied his ammunition, killing, with the help of another Marine, over 20 Iraqi fighters. “It’s nothing like TV,” Chontosh told a reporter at Newsweek. “It’s ugly. It’s contorted. People fall how they fall. It’s not like the bullet hits and they’re blown back or anything like that.” The fight was so intense Chontosh and his fellow Marine were obliged to pick up Iraqi weapons, silencing a greater part of the battlefield and making safe the rest of the convoy. The stiff firefight was within earshot as the convoy moved slowly north, and the lieutenant later received the Navy Cross and two Bronze Stars for his heroism in the face of heavy fire that day. Back at my position, the sky changed from bright blue to a dusty, thick orange. Outside the M-88, sand brushed gently against my face. Since making our way west from Rumaila and north past An Nasiriyah and Ur to our current position east of Ad Diwaniyah, we had traveled primarily under the cover of darkness. Conserving energy during the day, running the columns ever northward at night had taken its toll. Days and nights blended together as one memory, one giant day full of events that one could scarcely track. The
heat of day did not lend itself to sleep, nor did the Marines favor living in a nocturnal state. The orange sky signaled the precursor to a sandstorm. In the lull before it arrived, I took time to pen a thought in my journal: It seemed like a dream; one of those that you could not discern from fantasy or reality. Like a fairy tale, how they depict the surroundings totally foreign and unique from ours. I have never before seen skies like this. Hopping up on Hells Wrecker, I assumed the machine gun position on the sweltering commander’s hatch. The storm came slowly, the M-88 sealed to prevent the dust from raiding the inside. I sat on top alone, standing watch behind my .50 caliber. Fastening helmet and fixing my goggles for the onslaught, I waited. “This damn M2!” I swore aloud. “If they only could fire from the inside!” These thoughts did not save me. A tidal wave of sand clawed its way toward me, engulfing all in its path, so fierce it appeared to have purpose. Papers and debris accompanying the storm could well have traveled hundreds of miles to where I sat now. It surrounded me. I pursed my lips and suddenly realized it would be impossible to make a shot in any direction to defend myself. I had underestimated this storm; I attempted to see the hand in front of my face. Quickly tying a bandanna around my sand-salted mouth, I realized that every crevice of my person would be invaded with sand. I accepted my fate, sitting immobile on the gigantic, 70-ton mechanical log that was Hells Wrecker. My mind wanNORWICH RECORD | SUMMER 2020
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