Friendly Fire 
By Pete Behr

The death of Corporal Pat Tillman by "friendly fire" in Afghanistan, only belatedly disclosed by the Army, ignited a blizzard of comments in the media and even triggered Congressional inquiries. It is amazing how a commonplace incident can cause such a national commotion.

"Friendly fire" has been a hazard to military combatants since the invention of gunpowder. In the heat of battle, there are bound to be mistakes made, as bullets and shells are flying around. "Rules of engagement" and other precautions are meant to limit misdirected firing, whether at civilians or at friendly troops, but the fact is that it happens fairly often. 

In my own experience, the first time I came under artillery bombardment was at the hands of the U. S. Navy. On the morning of October 20, 1944, we had landed on Leyte Island in the Philippines, under cover of what was then the greatest naval force in the Pacific. As our landing craft skimmed across the water toward the beach, battleships and cruisers fired over our heads to the beach, as well as destroyers and rocket launchers closer in. We landed without opposition and by afternoon we had reached higher ground, several hundred feet above the waters of Leyte Gulf. 

Suddenly, shells began to explode all around us. We were exposed, and could only flatten ourselves on the ground. Overhead, a Navy spotter plane circled, and someone had the presence of mind to realize that it was our own Navy firing at us. We had identification panels to show aircraft who we were, and they were spread out on the ground. I saw the observer in the spotter plane clench his hands above his head, indicating he saw the panel, and the firing stopped. Nobody was hurt in my Company, but there were casualties in other units. 

Later that day, when we were out in front of the rest of our Battalion, our own troops mistakenly fired on us, wounding our CO. So on the first day of the campaign, we had been shot at by our Navy, then our own outfit. Chalk it up to inexperience. For the rest of the campaign we shot at the enemy.

Six months later, we invaded Okinawa, with an even bigger armada. The Japanese had fortified the island with lines of underground bunkers across the island at various strategic points. We encountered the first line about a week after the landing, and were initially driven back, suffering many casualties. In the front line, we were dug in at the base of hills, and our artillery fired over our heads, trying to damage the enemy emplacements. From offshore, the Navy fired thousands of shells, and also fired flares at night, lighting up the battlefield so that we could see if a counterattack was being mounted, or in some cases, permitting us to mount rescue parties for our wounded, who had been left behind when we withdrew. 

Sometimes, errant rounds from all this firing would fall on our positions. Since the Japanese were also firing at us with artillery and giant mortars, we were not always sure which forces were responsible when someone was killed or wounded. But when the families were notified, it was always made clear that the soldier was killed in action, in the line of duty. What difference did it make whether he was killed by mistake by a bullet or shell from our own forces? He was still dead, killed in the service of his country. To me, that was what was important, and what should have provided some solace to his loved ones. 

Nowadays, it seems to me that "friendly fire" is even more of a hazard to our troops, especially in Afghanistan and Iraq, where terrorist forces are difficult to distinguish from the civilian population. Another factor is the immense firepower our troops have, which gives them an advantage over adversaries, but makes any mistake even more lethal. 

At the end of the day, our troops are serving on our behalf. They take risks and undergo danger on a daily basis. If they get killed by enemy fire, or accidentally, they are still serving all of us. That is why I find it disgusting to hear politicians exploiting incidents like the death of Pat Tillman. They could care less about his loss, but they sure enjoy the television coverage, as they probe the "cover-up." The Army exercised poor judgment by failing to disclose quickly that he was a victim of "friendly fire." But is he any less a hero for having fallen that way? Of course not. He died in the line of duty. That’s it. It bolsters my argument for universal military service. If everyone had to serve, especially our politicians, much of the loathsome posturing would disappear. 
 

Pete Behr writes a regular column for the Vermont Standard