This is the first installment of a three part series outlining one of the biggest firefights in Northern Iraq during Operation Iraqi Freedom. This particular firefight occurred in Mosul, Iraq on October 12, 2006, when somewhere between 200 - 300 insurgent fighters attacked coalition bases across the city. My platoon was the only American platoon outside the wire for the first hour of the attack. By the time the firefight ended, fifteen of my men had earned valorous awards for their bravery under fire. There were only twenty-four of us on patrol that day, in a city of 2.2 million Iraqis, and we had to rely solely on our training and our trust in each other for the majority of the firefight. I am writing this account based on notes from my journal, for if I do not record it now, then I might lose the story, and the accomplishments of my men, to time.
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I was ribbing my driver about his weight over the vehicle intercom when the first mortar shells landed. Four of them impacted near simultaneously in the first barrage; the explosions rocking the earth. They were big, fat shells, 82mm or 120mm in diameter by the size of the explosion, I couldn’t tell exactly right away, but the burst radius, military parlance for the distance within which a shell is likely to kill a person standing above the ground, of the shells was either 38 or 60 meters respectively. When they landed, my platoon happened to be driving right past the target of the barrage: an American Combat Support Hospital in Mosul, Iraq. I had met many of the nurses who worked there during drills and emergency visits, and I knew right away that they were in serious trouble because the hospital didn’t have readily accessible bunkers inside the facility.
The shock of the attack was more palpable for the weeks of calm that had preceded it. My unit had gone nearly two weeks without encountering any significant enemy activity out in the city and our life had taken on an almost mundane routine. Wake Up. Eat. Patrol. Eat. Patrol. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. In fact, just before we left the base for our second patrol of the day, another platoon was taking advantage of the cool breeze blowing off the Tigris to have a barbeque. I was more than a little jealous watching some of the guys in that platoon toss a baseball back and forth while the sun began to set on the horizon as we left the base.
But the violence of the sudden attack reminded us all that we were still in a war zone. We were so close to the bursting shells that the overpressure from the rounds knocked me against the sides of the hatch of my Stryker Reconnaissance Variant, a massive twenty ton fighting vehicle with a .50 caliber machine gun and eight wheels. I glanced over at one of my scout team leaders in the hatch across from me, Sergeant William Burkman, the youngest team leader in my platoon, who was staring intensely at the area where the rounds where landing. (Below, a Lightning Platoon Stryker moves alongside dismounted troops to provide cover)

I flipped a toggle switch clipped to my body armor and my headset crackled as I gave a terse report to our battalion headquarters:
“Patriot X-Ray, Lightning 6, Lightning is monitoring incoming mortar fire on LSA (Logistics Support Area) Diamondback. Do you have anything on the Q36 over?”
My call sign, Lightning 6, identified me as the leader of the battalion reconnaissance platoon to our battalion headquarters while the Q36 was a radar that had the ability to determine the location of the enemy mortar tubes by calculating the path of the incoming rounds. The problem was that the report from the radar typically took three to five minutes to generate and the personnel at the hospital would need help immediately if the shells continued to land.
“Lightning, Patriot X-Ray, negative, we do not have any reports of incoming mortar fire on Diamondback, over.” The sergeant speaking sounded bored.
Most of the time, Iraqi insurgents who wanted to use mortars to attack an American base would drive around Mosul in pickup trucks with a mortar tube or two stashed in the bed of the truck. Teams of two to three men would haul out the tube, set it up in the street, fire a round or two, and then drive away. The whole process from start to finish took all of two minutes, a time-frame that effectively prohibited an American platoon to react unless the insurgents were stupid enough to fire while a platoon was patrolling in the immediate vicinity. Typically, the fire was fairly inaccurate, but one lucky shot still had the potential to cause significant casualties.
In fact, after the first shells landed I had to check with Sergeant Burkman to make sure I had heard four separate rounds detonate. Four shells impacting at the same place at the same time with coordination and precision was both remarkable and unusual. So I waited with bated breath to see if more shells would impact or if the insurgents were just trying to harass us as they had always done before that day.
Time seemed to slow down as adrenaline pumped through my veins. Everything snapped sharply into focus as my heart began to pound in my chest. And, even though I was expecting them, I was still surprised when the second barrage of shells hit, for mortars do not make the same whine that artillery shells do because mortars come almost straight down when they land following an arc like that of a rainbow whereas artillery shells fly in low and hard with a famous whine. The explosions sent me flying against the side of my hatch again where the body armor on my torso met the armor of the vehicle and pushed back into my chest. In the distance, I could make out streams of red tracers as they arced into the sky at various points across the city and that’s when I knew that this day would be unlike any other I had spent as a combat leader in Iraq.

The decision I made next would not make sense without context. I grew up the son of a career artilleryman on Fort Sill, Oklahoma, home of the Army’s Field Artillery. My dad loved the Army and his craft, and he would frequently share tidbits of information that allowed me to understand more about the opaque world of military science. One day, as my dad and I were driving in his pickup truck on the long road that bordered the firing range on Fort Sill, a loud WHOOOOMP interrupted our conversation as a a series of explosions reverberated across the range.
“TOT. Time on Target,” my dad said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s artillery talk for coordinating the impact of shells from multiple tubes so that you inflict the maximum damage possible.” He responded. “You want to catch as many people in the open as possible before they have time to take cover, so we practice coordinating the guns so that all of the shells land within five seconds of one another.”
“Oh,” I said. “How hard is that?”
“Well, you have to account for the spacing of the guns, adjust the charge on the shell and then make sure the angle of the individuals tubes are adjusted properly so that the shells all land at the same place at the same time. Our training standard is five seconds from the impact of the first shell to the last one that hits.”
The deliberate, technical planning that went into maximizing the death of a group of people shocked me so much that I remembered that conversation many years later. There was something particularly unsettling about killing many people at once who were unaware they were being targeted. So, as soon as I realized that fellow Americans, primarily medical personnel, were suffering the brunt of the enemy Time on Target, I knew that my platoon had to stop those tubes from firing.
Fast forward twelve years to January, 2005 and I was Ranger Candidate Number 155 in the first phase, Benning Phase, of Ranger training. I had just successfully completed a land navigation course after finding five of five assigned navigation points and I was feeling pretty good about myself. But, as I leaned back to rest against my rucksack with a few other Rangers who had also finished the course early, a weathered looking Ranger Instructor called me out,
“Ranger, 155!”
“Yes, Sergeant?” I replied, scrambling to my feet.
“What is the effective burst radius of a 155mm artillery shell?”
“50 meters, Sergeant?” I replied, with obvious uncertainty.
“Why don’t you go look that up Ranger and then give me 50 pushups for not knowing the effective blast radius of your roster number. You’re going to hear that question again,” the sergeant informed me.
I looked up the statistic, the answer was in fact 50 meters, but I was still wrong — you don’t base combat decisions on uncertain knowledge. Fearing another spontaneous quiz upon my return, I took great pains to memorize every number on the page. And, right next to that figure in my Ranger Handbook, were the figures detailing the effective blast radius and the maximum range of a120mm mortar system: 60 meters and 7,200 meters respectively. Those numbers, seared into my memory through the fear of incurring a Ranger Instructor’s wrath, came back to me the day the mortar shells landed on the hospital in Iraq.
The final piece of information that guided me the day the mortar shells hit the hospital, I had picked up by listening to the combat veterans in my platoon. After joining my battalion at Fort Lewis, 2nd Battalion, Third Infantry Regiment, I led a Stryker Rifle platoon for five months before the battalion commander selected me to lead the battalion reconnaissance platoon, the eyes and ears of the commander on the battlefield. There, I had the privilege of leading the most experienced men in the battalion, including the best non-commissioned officers, who were hand-selected from the battalion’s ranks to serve as scout team leaders. The platoon also included the battalion sniper section, who were also hand picked and among the most experienced men in the unit.
My men were fountains of knowledge and I took great pains to soak up as much as I could before our deployment. On mortar fire, they taught me two things. First, the insurgents liked to fire their mortars at maximum range because it put the greatest possible distance between themselves and American ground forces on the base. Firing max range also had the added benefit of simplifying how many charges they had to put on the shell — all of them. Second, the insurgents liked to fire their mortars from a location where they had a clear line of sight to the base.
For example, a base in eastern Mosul that the Army eventually abandoned happened to have a water tower located on it that served as a perfect aiming point for the insurgents. If they found an open field with line of sight to the water tower about six or seven kilometers away, then all they had to do was drop a mortar tube out of a pickup truck, align it with the water tower, drop a shell or two, then drive away. That particular base was located on a hill, which afforded multiple firing points for insurgents and they used all of them quite often.
LSA Diamondback, where the combat support hospital was located, was not on a hill; it stretched across low-lying ground directly adjacent to the western bank of the Tigris River. And, the base was located on the southwestern edge of the city, which effectively eliminated all possible mortar firing points to the south and west because the insurgents would be caught by American helicopters on open terrain with nowhere to hide if they were so dumb as to choose that location instead of firing from somewhere in the city where they could use the highways and neighborhoods to blend back into traffic.
The terrain directly north of the base contained the old city, where buildings crowded one another and market stalls filled narrow alleys. While it was possible for the insurgents to fire one or two mortars from this part of the city, I found it very doubtful that four tubes would be able to fire from the same location. And, finally, the terrain to the northeast didn’t really have line of sight to the base because the base was too low and there were two or three bridges that blocked line of sight to the base. Farther north, there was also a small American base on the eastern edge of the Tigris which made that location an even more doubtful firing point.
I knew this because getting mortared once or twice a week made me very angry, so I had studied the terrain around the base to understand how I would attack the base were I an insurgent commander. Combining the information I had picked up from my men along with the natural tendencies of the insurgents to pattern themselves allowed me to narrow down possible mortar firing points around the base to a handful of locations. I might have been able to figure all of this out on the fly during the attack, but the preparation I put into terrain analysis before the attack saved me precious time in the few seconds I had to decide how to respond to the incoming rounds.
As I steadied myself against the hatch of my Stryker, I pulled out a red marker and studied a laminated map I kept taped to the top of my vehicle next to my hatch. I made a big red dot directly on the combat support hospital then I drew an arc on my map that cut through locations to the east and west of the hospital that were seven kilometers away — the same distance as the maximum effective range of a 120mm mortar system. The arc sliced through two fields, one to the north of our position and the other to the east, on the opposite side of the Tigris. Only the field on the eastern bank of the Tigris had direct line of sight to Diamondback so I circled it. That red circle represented my best guess as to the location of the enemy mortar tubes given every relevant data point I had to draw from in the first minute following the initial impact of the rounds.
“I think I know where they’re at.” I said to Sergeant Burkman.
He looked at me and his eyebrows raised a bit. “OK, sir.”
Despite my preparation and analysis, I felt a huge amount of self-doubt. There had been hundreds of mortar attacks over the last three years in Mosul and the insurgents were rarely caught in the act, even with all of our sophisticated technology. History was not on my side, but I felt that something was different about this attack. I didn’t think the insurgents were going to stop firing as quickly as they usually did.
After I marked my map, I ordered the four Strykers in my platoon to pick up speed and to head for Bridge 1, the southernmost bridge that connected west Mosul with east Mosul. We were going to race to the eastern bank of the Tigris River as fast as we could. Once we were moving towards the suspected mortar location, I radioed battalion again.
“Patriot X-Ray, Lightning is monitoring sustained battery fire on LSA Diamondback. Recommend you stand up the QRF (Quick Reaction Force). Do you have anything from Arrowhead (Brigade Headquarters) over?”
“Negative, Lightning. Standby.” The sergeant on the other end seemed more alert now. Seconds later, he was replaced by Staff Sergeant Freddy Rocha, an experienced non-commissioned officer who was also a good friend of mine.
“Lightning, Patriot Three November (Sergeant Rocha’s call sign), we are monitoring reports of urgent casualties on LSA Diamondback from indirect fire, over.”
An urgent casualty is the most serious type of classification for a combat wound — tantamount to serious or critical status at a domestic hospital. Now I knew without a doubt that the hospital staff and personnel in the surrounding buildings had already suffered serious injuries from the attack.
“Roger Patriot, Lightning is moving to a suspected mortar firing point on the eastern bank of the Tigris, break.” I let the net clear for a moment, “Let me know when you have a grid from the Q36.”
I wanted the map coordinates from our radar to either confirm or deny my guess as to the location of the mortar cell. If I was wrong, then I would need to adjust our direction of movement quickly. The medical staff at the hospital were enduring the devastation of sustained, accurate mortar fires. The only thing running through my mind was the thought of all the people depending on my platoon to do our jobs, to stop the attack, and to keep them safe. Even though my reconnaissance platoon was not designed for a large-scale firefight — our job was to see but not be seen — we were more than enough to force a large group of insurgents to re-direct all of their attention to us and away from the base. I started to pray that God would give me the wisdom to find those enemy mortar tubes.
As my platoon turned onto an east-west running highway that led to Bridge 1 and the eastern bank of the Tigris, we heard a loud explosion just behind us. After a short lull, the unmistakable chatter and stutter of American machine guns trading fire with AK-47s filled the air. Spaced several hundred meters apart, the walls around the base had individuals towers manned by two or three soldiers with a crew-served machine gun. That those machine guns were firing meant that the base itself was under direct attack, an action I did not think the insurgents would ever take against a base as big as LSA Diamondback.
I looked at Sergeant Burkman, “Do you think the towers are in trouble?”
“It sure sounds like it, sir.” He answered dryly, his mouth set in a flat line underneath his Oakley sunglasses. Good non-commissioned officers have a rare skill for making you feel small when you ask stupid questions and Sergeant Burkman was no exception. (Below Sergeant Burkman, right, and I pose for a picture in the hatch of our Stryker)

Later, we found out that the loud explosion we heard was a car bomb parked on the same road we drove on to reach the highway across the Tigris. After the car bomb detonated, about 100 insurgents stormed the alley and attempted to breach the fence around the base. If the insurgents had attacked just a minute earlier or detonated the vehicle bomb next to one of my Strykers then we would have been unable to get onto the highway and to target their mortars. But, they didn’t, and we slipped past the attacking force and into the city. For the next hour, the twenty-four men in my platoon would be the only American force in action outside of the base gates in Mosul, a city with a population of 2.2 million Iraqis.
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Blake Hall is the CEO and Co-Founder of TroopSwap.com, the first ecommerce platform that provides military discounts exclusively to veterans, service members and their families. A combat veteran, Blake led a battalion reconnaissance platoon in Iraq for fifteen months during 2006-07. The Tacoma News Tribune featured his platoon for two weeks after the Army decorated nearly every member of his platoon for valor for heroic actions during a firefight in Mosul, Iraq. His educational degrees include a Bachelor of Science magna cum laude from Vanderbilt University and a Masters of Business Administration from Harvard Business School.