Suddenly, I heard the pilots talking animatedly. “Cobra One, I've got smoke on that roof we're hitting. Abort, Cobra One! Abort! There are friend-lies down there!” The fire broke off immediately, and the helos banked steeply off to our east again. Back in my house, I had no idea why or how the miraculous smoke had suddenly appeared, but I was thrilled. I called Bowen.
A weak voice came back. “Sir. We're all good. We're gonna move to your pos now. Be there shortly.”
I almost collapsed with the news, and, encouraging Yebra to keep working on the radio, I headed up to the roof of my house to get a better idea of the situation surrounding us. Upstairs, Noriel quickly filled me in on the battle situation as he saw it and showed me how he had arrayed his men. I took it in and surveyed the surrounding houses—no immediate signs of any enemies. Then I headed back downstairs. I needed to get on the radio to coordinate our next move with the rest of the company.
When I got to the first-floor living room, I nearly fell over. There, on a pile of Iraqi rugs, lay Yebra, naked and spread-eagled. Doc Camacho crouched over him, working furiously to insert an IV as Yebra's body twitched spasmodically. Several other Marines frantically ransacked the rest of the house, obviously looking for something. I ran over to figure out just how my Marine had gone from alert and clothed to unconscious and naked.
Without looking up from his work, Doc tersely informed me that Yebra's disease-induced dehydration had done him in. Our RO's core body temperature had shot up to 106 degrees Fahrenheit, and his brain was beginning to be affected—hence the seizures. Unless he received medical care at the Outpost within the next half hour, Yebra would die of heatstroke. The Marines were searching the house for ice in which to pack him, but we needed an immediate evacuation if we wanted to keep Yebra alive. Hearing the news, my shock quickly turned to terror—we had no vehicles, and without them, I had no way of getting Yebra back to the Outpost in time to save his life. Making matters worse, more and more of my exhausted first and third squads were beginning to show serious signs of heat exhaustion. If we couldn't get them out of the fight, they too might end up like Yebra, naked and twitching on a bare concrete floor.
I turned away from Yebra and considered the options. We could try and call in for a medevac, but with the radio still not working and no guarantee that we'd be able to fix it, we'd probably only waste precious time on a useless course of action. Or we could try a mad dash back to the northern soccer stadium. Echo Company had staged there with four or five vehicles. Maybe we could borrow one or two to use for medevacs. Of course, to do this, someone would have to run back across the machine-gun-raked soccer field. Neither option seemed all that great, but only the latter offered any real hope of saving Yebra in time. I decided to make the run.
Without any more thought, I placed Bowen in charge of first and third squads until I returned, grabbed my two nearest Marines—PFCs Phelps and Meyers—and dashed out of the compound gate with them in tow. As we neared the Racetrack, I absently noticed that the machine gun to our north had kicked up again. As the bullets cracked around us, we made it across the street and sped up—there was still a long way to go. There was nothing tactical about our movement—no bounds, no cover, nothing. It was just a straight-out footrace between us and the machine gunner to our north; us to see if we could reach cover, he to see if he could figure out the appropriate lead before we did so. Halfway through the field, I glanced to my right. Huddled against the same wall we had used for cover not twenty minutes earlier, a long line of Echo Marines watched our progress across the field incredulously—they weren't covering us because they couldn't. It's funny, the things you notice while running for your life.
What I didn't notice, though, were the rounds impacting all around us as we ran. Others did, and they later told me that watching that run across the open dirt field was like watching a scene from a movie. Marines ran, and behind them a long line of exploding dirt snaked up out of the ground as the gunner swiveled to catch up. He never did, and the three of us made it safely to the shelter of the stadium. There I managed to grab two Humvees from an Echo staff sergeant. Phelps and Meyers leaped into the rear one while I threw myself into the lead one and prepared to zoom off.
As I stared at the unfamiliar dials above the driver's wheel, however, I soon realized that I had no idea how to operate a Humvee, for, as an officer, I had never driven one of them before. Behind me, Meyers knew exactly what he was doing—he was one of our trained drivers—but without a PRR I had no way to talk to him. Momentarily nonplussed, I studied the instrument panel for a few seconds, then looked down at where the stick shift on a normal car would be. There was only a lever there. I hesitated, then pulled it up one notch and stamped on the accelerator. Nothing happened. I swore, then reached back down and pulled the lever up another notch. I punched the gas and the vehicle lurched forward. Yes! Whipping the wheel around, I pointed the Humvee's front at the dirt field to our north and sped up. The vehicle rocketed out of the stadium and hit the sloping concrete curb that separated the stadium from the surrounding dirt. I hadn't realized it was there, and the Humvee launched off it. All four wheels left the ground.
A few feet later, the vehicle crashed back down. The impact threw me chest-first into the steering wheel, and my Kevlar helmet smashed into the windshield (we never wore seat belts—it took too much time to unbuckle them when we needed to exit the vehicles quickly during an ambush). The Humvee nearly ground to a halt as my foot left the accelerator, but I recovered quickly enough and started moving again. Perhaps this time we were fired at as well, but, as before, I didn't notice, and within twenty seconds Meyers and I had made it into the shelter of the alleyway just outside first and third squads’ house.
I jumped out of the Humvee and headed inside to give more orders, but Bowen already had the men moving. Four of them were carrying the naked Yebra as Doc Camacho trotted alongside, holding up a bag full of IV fluid. Tenderly, they placed the unconscious Yebra in the vehicle. As the loading finished up, a long line of Marines staggered out of the house, some carrying others with their arms flung around their shoulders. There were at least twelve suffering from varying degrees of heatstroke—a full squad. I had no idea the temperature had taken such a toll, but it made sense given the length of time that first and third had been out earlier in the morning. Staggering drunkenly past me, Mahardy again apologized furiously to me for his weakness. Again I reassured him.
Five minutes later, the convoy full of heat casualties roared out of our house, and I headed back up to the roof to get a better sense of the shape of the fight. On my way up, Bowen bumped into me—he had fixed the radio by replacing its antenna. I thanked him, slung the heavy pack across my shoulders, and headed up to the roof. Around us, sporadic rifle and rocket fire could be heard as second and third platoons continued to press the enemy, but the CO ordered us through the now-working radio to stay put. The fighting was dying down.
While most of the Marines waited on the roof, Teague's reduced team secured the compound's entrance and the house's first floor. As he moved around, checking his men, Teague noticed a small, huddled form lying on the sidewalk next to the Racetrack. He looked closer. It was an Iraqi child, maybe ten years old, and he appeared badly wounded. Teague pulled Doc Camacho aside and told him to be prepared—Teague was going to run out and retrieve the wounded boy.
Hearing the plan, Camacho shook his head. “Corporal, you're gonna get shot doing that. Let me help.” Then, without warning, Doc sprinted out of the compound, into the middle of the Racetrack. Dancing back and forth, waving his arms, Doc Camacho started screaming along the lines of the following:
“Look at me! Look at me! Start shooting, you assholes! Look at me! I'm right here! Shoot at me!”
The machine gunner to our north obliged, and, nearly immediately, rounds started snapping all around our little corpsman, kicking sparks off the pavement where they impacted. Taking advantage of Doc's distraction, Teague ran out to the sidewalk where the little kid lay. As quickly
as he could, Teague scooped up the child in his arms and staggered back to the house. Once they had both made it inside, Doc broke off his dance and ran headlong for the compound's entrance. The bullets chased him as far as the alleyway.
Safely inside the compound walls, Doc and Teague rolled the little boy onto his back. He was unconscious and breathing shallowly, suffering from a sucking chest wound. A bullet, likely from the trigger-happy machine gunner to our north, had torn open the bottom left side of the child's ribcage. Quickly, Doc applied a plastic bandage to the hole to seal the wound. Then he rolled the boy onto his left side so that the fluid draining out of his damaged lung wouldn't impair the functioning right one.
With the boy stabilized, Teague called me on the PRR and told me what had happened. Without a medevac soon, he said, the boy would almost certainly die. Two minutes later, I was down from the roof and bending over the child. It was clear that his condition was worsening by the minute. He was turning pale, and his breathing had faded to the point of near-nonexistence.
I was at a loss—with fighting still fierce in pockets throughout the city, there was no way we could arrange a U.S. medevac, but Teague had an idea.
“Sir, there are still cars driving on the Racetrack right now. I think we could maybe stop one and load the kid in there.”
It was as good a plan as any, and we moved to execute it. Teague bent down and picked up the child again. Once he was ready, Doc, Teague, and I moved to and through the compound's entrance, back out onto the street. The enemy guns stayed silent, but I was in a hurry to get the child loaded and my men back to safety. One car whizzed by as I ran toward it waving my arms, so, as soon as I made it onto the Racetrack, I stepped directly into the path of the next oncoming car and raised my rifle to my shoulder, pointing the muzzle at the driver. The car screeched to a halt, and Teague and Doc loaded the child into the backseat, repeating, “Hospital, hospital” until the driver got the picture. Teague slammed the door, and the car sped off. Our mission of mercy complete, we moved out of the street, back to the house.
For the next half hour, we held our positions, waiting for orders to move out. Finally, the CO called me. The fight was more or less over, he said. Bowen and Noriel headed back to the Outpost with the remnants of their men, and Ott and I ran back to the Ag Center to rejoin second squad. When I got there, I sat down heavily on the floor, my back up against the wall, completely exhausted and unable to think. Ott sat down as well, then collapsed onto his side. Carson and Doc Smith quickly started him on an IV, and, slowly, Ott revived.
Ten minutes later, the walls of the Ag Center started spinning around me. Something about my hands seemed strange, so I looked down at them. They were shaking uncontrollably, and I realized that I had forgotten to eat anything since my sprint across Michigan several hours ago. I needed electrolytes, quickly—the water I drank had kept me hydrated, but I needed to replace the huge amount of body salts I had lost over the past few hours. I lurched to my feet and staggered over to the trash can that had been set up on the first floor. Marines sometimes threw away the parts of the MREs that they didn't want, and I had, unfortunately, eaten all of my own food before my run out of the OP.
I pawed through the disgusting mess inside the trash can, throwing out spit cups, used toilet paper, and half-eaten, slippery bits of food until I found a few unwrapped MRE items. Grateful, I sat down next to the trash can and tore into my treasures. Soon enough, the spinning stopped and my hands quieted. After ten minutes more rest, I finally felt well enough to rise, and, once I confirmed that I could walk in a more or less straight line, I headed up to the third floor to confer with Leza.
The fight had broken off completely, and he had moved his Marines off the roof, out of the direct sun and into the standard third-floor fighting positions. Two hours later, the CO sent a squad from second platoon to relieve us. By that time, we had been out at the Ag Center for well over ten hours.
When I got back inside the wire, Noriel and Bowen explained to me how, behind my back, Staff Sergeant had countermanded my orders that every Marine have at least half of an MRE (and preferably a full one) on them at all times. I was furious, yet again amazed by my platoon sergeant's lack of common sense and his unhesitating willingness to sacrifice the welfare of his men to his own fear of the Gunny. I headed back to the COC, intent on confronting him, but before I got there, the CO intercepted me.
“Hey, One,” he said. “Did you realize you had sixteen fucking heat casualties? Sixteen? You know that I consider every heat casualty a leadership failure!”
I deflated. I felt exhausted and beaten, and I barely had the energy to reply. So I began a halting explanation of why my men had gone down—ten hours out in the sun, not enough time to fill up their water, and so on—but the CO wasn't interested. He cut me off less than halfway through, repeating again that my platoon's heat casualties were directly attributable to my leadership failure. I shut up for the rest of the tirade. It was clearly a waste of time to try to explain the difficulties of occupying an OP for eight hours in 130-degree heat to a man who had been to one of them only once, and then for less than three hours.
THIRTY-TWO
On Wednesday, July 28, the insurgents would stage yet another large-scale attack, once again exactly seven days after their previous one. This time, however, they didn't target U.S. forces; instead, they kidnapped the provincial governor's children. Hes and third platoon responded to the attack, but they were too late. By the time the Marines arrived, the terrorists had snatched the children and set the governor's house on fire. A few minutes before the attack, every single member of the Iraqi police force tasked to guard the governor's family walked away from their posts. Shortly after the attack, the governor appeared on national television, sobbing and apologizing for his role in assisting the infidel occupiers. At least now we knew, without any doubt, that the governor had previously been on our side. Shortly thereafter, multiple intelligence sources confirmed what the battalion now suspected—that Anbar province's police chief was not only corrupt (he had hundreds of nonexistent employees on the payroll) but also was actively assisting the insurgents. In a strange irony, Weapons Company arrested the man in his own police station and shipped him off to prison. As we waited for a replacement, we decided that we would abandon our OP at the Ag Center and move to another, less optimal building across the street. As it turned out, that building was the same abandoned hotel that Niles had poured several thousand rounds into not twenty days previously. Walking up the stairs for the first time, our eyes traced the path of our own bullets back and forth across the abandoned hotel's walls. The signs of our attack were everywhere: huge chunks ripped out of every window frame, irregular blocks of mortar scattered throughout the hallways, shattered glass littering the floors of every room. It felt strange to make a home out of the same place we had earlier attacked so viciously.
The reason for our change seemed relatively straightforward to the battalion. Local sheiks had told our intelligence shop that the Ag Center was so often attacked because the Western presence in it desecrated a holy Islamic library, inflaming religious passion and provoking everyone from extremists to moderate fence-sitters to attack the unbelieving defilers. The CO argued against moving, stating that the original OP was the best building for the mission we had been assigned and that the main reason for the attacks was simply that we were there. Nevertheless, Colonel Kennedy, our battalion's commander, overruled him. With all the political turmoil in the city, most of which its inhabitants blamed on us, a gesture of goodwill seemed in order. We moved across the street and began the hard work of fortifying all over again.
Unsurprisingly, just a few days after the move, three antitank rockets ripped their way into the Hotel OP, as it became known, filling the place with dust, partially deafening those of us inside, and signaling that no matter where we went, the enemy would follow. At least one thing in Ramadi was predictable. As the disappointing, grueling month of July came to an end, we braced ourselves for a disa
ppointing, grueling August. It wasn't long in coming. In response to the citywide battles of July, in August the battalion initiated a series of vast cordon-and-search operations throughout Ramadi. To preempt and disrupt the enemy's bold, if predictable, Wednesday offensives, 2/4 decided to launch its own pushes on Mondays and Tuesdays. Each week began with a 2 AM wakeup followed by a 4 AM mission kickoff and ten to fourteen hours of hot, exhausting house searching.
Thus, August 11 found us walking across the peninsula south of the Hurricane Point base, an area just to the northwest of Ramadi's marketplace. By noon, we had been walking for ten hours, and I was looking forward to the mission's end. At one o'clock, it finally came, and Joker One and I stopped our searching and headed back on foot to the marketplace's outskirts to meet vehicles that would take us back to the Outpost. Ten minutes later, we found them, and, walking between the long lines of Humvees with their mounted machine guns, I started to relax.
I should have known better. Not more than ten seconds after our last man made it to the vehicles, the double boom of an RPG split the air, and, somewhere behind me, the heavy .50-cal opened up with its methodical thumping. Leza's voice came screaming in my ear. Carson and Williams had both been hit, and they were seriously wounded. On autopilot yet again, I turned in place and ran down a long line of crouching Marines, toward the gunfire and the horrible cries of “Doc up.” When I got to the scene of the explosion, I saw something amazing. Lance Corporal Carson had one of his sleeves cut off, one of his arms bandaged, and two Marines wrapped around his torso, trying to drag him to cover. They weren't getting anywhere. Carson was resisting with all of his might, kicking his legs and thrashing himself forward against the restraining arms like a man possessed, which, in some sense, he was. His injured arm dangled limply at his side, but with his good one he held his M-16 with its attached grenade launcher straight out, pointed at a clump of houses two hundred meters away, across an open field. Carson was alternately shouting at his enemies to come get him and firing his weapon in the general direction of the attack. Carson, apparently, didn't do combat shock.
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