Praise for
Echo in Ramadi
“This is a masterfully told story of brave warriors and heroic deeds in battle, but it also defines the unbreakable bonds of men who would rather die than let down their fellow Marines. Scott shares in vivid detail the challenges of leadership, his love for his men, and the pain endured from those killed or wounded in battle. Precisely details the day-to-day pressure in combat, the individual bravery, and his humility as a proven combat leader.
“During a military career, ‘one must prepare himself for a moment that may never come: to thrust himself into the unchartered arena of battle.’ For Huesing, that moment occurred more than once—each time he successfully rose to the occasion with courage and success.”
—Brigadier General William “Wild Bill” Weise, USMC (Ret), commanding officer, 2d Battalion, 4th Marines, 1967–1968, Dai Do, Vietnam, recipient of the Navy Cross for Valor, Silver Star, and three Purple Heart Medals
“Absolutely perfect . . . Unique and captivating . . . Of all the books I’ve read on the War on Terror, Echo in Ramadi puts the reader on both sides of the wire with the men—seeing it through their eyes on the battlefield and back home with the families that share their pain and perception of waiting for news of their Marines. Major Huesing has delivered a timeless account of war for all to read.”
—Gunnery Sergeant Jack Coughlin, USMC (Ret), New York Times bestselling author of Shooter and thirteen other bestselling books
“Huesing drops you into the middle of the action and shows you what fighting was like in the toughest areas of Iraq against a determined enemy at the height of the insurgency. You will feel as if you are standing side by side with these heroic Marines as they move from one firefight to the next, courageously overcoming uncertainty and dealing with the attacks, fear, and excitement. More apparent, he shows how they overcame the friction they faced on many fronts of the war.”
—Patrick Van Horne, author of Left of Bang, U.S. Marine captain, and founder of the CP Journal
“Expertly told as you turn the pages. You feel the pain, cold, and heat these Magnificent Bastards endured, cheering through their experiences, only to be pulled back into the grim reality of combat. Echo in Ramadi is destined to be a classic narrative of men in war—not due to the great heroics often highlighted in most military works but to the lack of such grandiosity by a loyal commanding officer who provides honest and unvarnished reflections of those in his charge. It will be hard not to admire these Marines, and even harder to forget them.”
—Colin Heaton, co-author of Noble Warrior, U.S. Marine, and owner of Heaton-Lewis Books
Copyright © 2018 by Scott A. Huesing
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, website, or broadcast.
Regnery History™ is a trademark of Salem Communications Holding Corporation; Regnery® is a registered trademark of Salem Communications Holding Corporation
Cataloging-in-Publication data on file with the Library of Congress
e-book ISBN 978-1-62157-763-8
Published in the United States by
Regnery History, an imprint of
Regnery Publishing
A Division of Salem Media Group
300 New Jersey Ave NW
Washington, DC 20001
www.RegneryHistory.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Books are available in quantity for promotional or premium use. For information on discounts and terms, please visit our website: www.Regnery.com.
To all of the brave Echo Company “Longhorns” who fought and died defending the freedoms of our nation, both on and off the battlefield, to all of the “The Magnificent Bastards” of 2d Battalion, 4th Marines—who battled alongside—and to the families who gave their unyielding support to us all.
Corporal Dustin J. Libby USMC
Born: 4 January 1984
Killed in Action: 6 December 2006
Lance Corporal Emilian D. Sanchez USMC
Born: 29 May 1986
Killed in Action: 21 January 2007
Lance Corporal Andrew G. Matus USMC
Born: 14 September 1987
Killed in Action: 21 January 2007
Lance Corporal Anthony C. Melia USMC
Born: 29 August 1986
Killed in Action: 27 January 2007
Corporal Richard O. Quill III USMC
Born: 27 November 1984
Killed in Action: 1 February 2007
Sergeant Major Joseph J. Ellis USMC
Born: 8 September 1966
Killed in Action: 7 February 2007
Sergeant Clinton W. Ahlquist USMC
Born: 1 December 1983
Killed in Action: 20 February 2007
Lance Corporal Steven M. Chavez USMC
Born: 21 November 1986
Killed in Action: 14 March 2007
Corporal Andrew W. Marrari USMC
Born: 26 August 1985
Died: 3 December 2009
Corporal Simon R. Litke USMC
Born: 27 December 1984
Died: 2 November 2015
CONTENTS
Foreword
Prologue
CHAPTER 1
Phone Call
CHAPTER 2
Lieutenants
CHAPTER 3
Movement
CHAPTER 4
Pressure
CHAPTER 4.1
Phrogs
CHAPTER 5
Sixth
CHAPTER 6
Terps
CHAPTER 7
Seventh
CHAPTER 8
Angels
CHAPTER 9
Livestock
CHAPTER 10
Sacrifice
CHAPTER 11
Fallbrook
CHAPTER 11.1
Rollup
CHAPTER 12
Captive
CHAPTER 13
Tigers
CHAPTER 14
Jump
CHAPTER 15
Mopeds
CHAPTER 16
Rafts
CHAPTER 17
Millions
CHAPTER 18
Damage
CHAPTER 19
Ta’meem
CHAPTER 20
West
CHAPTER 21
Gateway
CHAPTER 21.1
Pueblo
CHAPTER 22
Anthem
CHAPTER 23
Mosques
CHAPTER 24
Crush
CHAPTER 25
Governance
CHAPTER 26
Wreckage
CHAPTER 27
Liberty
CHAPTER 28
Tribute
CHAPTER 29
Risk
CHAPTER 30
Unseen
Gratitude
Foreword
Major General James E. Livingston, USMC (Retired), Medal of Honor Recipient
Major Scott Huesing has written a book not just about Marines in combat, but also about life as a Marine in my old command: Echo Company, Second Battalion, Fourth Marine Regiment. The narrative comes through clear and concise, and exposes the reader to the collective boredom of warfare, punctuated by moments of sheer terror that these young Marines, soldiers, and sailors endured during the second battle of Ramadi.
As a combat Marine officer and leader of warriors, I endorse this book for many rea
sons, not the least of which is the honest, paternalistic approach taken by the author as he details the heroism, suffering, and collective brotherhood of those Marines and sailors under his leadership.
This is a solid work written by a warrior who was there in command, which is always the best approach to writing such literary works. What I found most impressive was his clearly demonstrated admiration for his subordinates, those who carried the burden of fighting, some wounded, and others killed in action, while neglecting to mention his own valor.
Prologue
War was not an oriflamme adventure filled with noble deeds and tilts with destiny, as believed, but a vast, uncaring universe of butchery and attrition, in which the imaginative, the sensitive were crippled and corrupted, the vulgar and tough-fibered augmented—and the lucky were lucky and survived, and they alone.
—Anton Myrer, Once an Eagle
I used to think about the medals and ribbons and parades when I was a young Marine and how they were a measure of one’s success. Ten deployments and multiple combat tours later, I no longer did.
In Ramadi, none of that meant shit to me.
The United States Marine Corps had seemed romantic—blue dress uniforms, shiny medals, the bumper stickers, and the Hollywood movies that glamorized war. I joined in 1989, enlisting on the advice of a high school friend who did it on a whim. I had just turned nineteen. Not having college prospects on the horizon, it seemed the right thing to do at the time. I didn’t really know anything about the Marine Corps or what I was getting myself into.
It wasn’t like Hollywood depictions. Within a year of enlisting, Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm were under way. I was scheduled to deploy to the Middle East with my unit in January 1991.
After we received orders to fight in Operation Desert Storm, everybody took a week or two to spend with their families. I went home to Illinois. My mother drove me to the airport and walked me all the way to the gate ready to send her youngest son to war. Back then, there were no security checkpoints and no such thing as the Transportation Security Agency.
My mom was worried just like any other mother. She cried, but then again, she was a crier. She was always emotional, but now with the thought of her son going off to war, it hit her very hard. I remained tough and hugged her tightly as she sent me to the gate, knowing how hard it was for her, but deep inside I was excited to go because I was finally getting what every U.S. Marine is trained for—war.
My unit flew from North Carolina to Saudi Arabia on a big white commercial jet. We weren’t in first-class seating, but the flight attendants treated us as if we were.
The flight took almost twenty hours. When the plane landed, we grabbed our gear and rifles and walked down the set of stairs that had been pushed up to the plane.
We stood on the tarmac in a large military formation in our “chocolate-chip” desert uniforms. A gunnery sergeant walked through it, handing each of us five little brown cardboard boxes, each containing twenty rounds of live 5.56mm ammunition to put in the 30-round magazines for our M16-A2 rifles. Very administrative and procedural—and very different from what I imagined landing in a war zone would be.
For the next several months, we set up camp, did our jobs, stood post, burned barrels of human shit with a blend of gasoline and diesel fuel, filled sandbags, cleaned weapons, and all the other monotonous tasks needed to maintain our position.
We were preparing for war, too.
We thought it would be a magnificent battle—and we were all very excited to fight. In the meantime, we waited.
We played endless games of Spades to fill our time in between the mundane day-to-day tasks. The arrival of care packages was another relief from the monotony.
I remember each one of those small, white cardboard boxes addressed to “Any Service Member.” I can still smell the Corn Nuts snacks that filled them and the scent of crayons on the letters written from grade school kids packed inside.
Occasionally there were some enemy rocket attacks—SCUD missiles that hit close to our camp a couple of times. One night the shrapnel from the impact of a missile shredded the tent where we ate chow. Luckily, no one was in it at the time.
It was, however, the first time I experienced enemy fire.
The whining of the SCUD alarm sounded. It was an old firehouse siren with a crank handle on it, but it was loud enough for everyone to hear. Most took shelter, or were directed to, in one of the bunkers that were nothing more than massive holes covered on top by metal engineer stakes, plywood, and sandbags stacked two or three high. I thought they would be death traps if a missile hit one, so I took my chances in one of the fighting positions that our heavy machine guns occupied.
Although it wasn’t close combat with the Iraqi Army—no blazing gunfire, it was still very new and thrilling to me. But not everyone was like me.
Some Marines were terrified. Some actually cried. Most just waited it out with little show of emotion.
When the air campaign commenced, and Desert Storm officially began, I was on post, manning a Browning M2 .50 caliber machine gun. I watched in awe as more than one hundred coalition aircraft took off from Shaikh Isa Air Base out of Bahrain.
It was a magnificent sight watching and listening to the planes scream over my position, knowing that they were about to deliver their deadly ordnance against Saddam’s Iraqi Army.
Romantic.
At least it was to a young lance corporal.
My unit fought during that war and did its part, but it was over very quickly—just over four months. Honestly, it was a very forgettable experience for me in comparison with my future combat deployments. Nonetheless, I was proud of what we accomplished, and I still keep in touch with some of the Marines with whom I served.
Fifteen years later, I was in command of Echo Company, 2d Battalion, 4th Marines, deployed to Ramadi, Iraq. It was the third year of Operation Iraqi Freedom, and my command was assigned to the U.S. Army’s 1st Brigade Combat Team (1-BCT) “The Ready First” which consisted of the largest armor and infantry alignment in modern warfare. I worked directly for Task Force 1-9 Infantry Battalion (TF 1-9 IN) “Manchu” under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Chuck Ferry, U.S. Army.
During this nearly nine-month deployment (our mission: kill or capture Anti-Iraqi Forces [AIF]), Echo Company stood in the line of fire daily in Ramadi—the most dangerous and most densely populated area of insurgent activity in 2006. It would test us and would take the best of us.
I do not want to boast Echo Company was the most badass company of Marines ever to walk a battlefield, or that we endured the most pain. Many other units were plenty tough and endured an equal level of pain and loss, if not more than we did.
What Echo Company and our U.S. Army brothers accomplished in such a short amount of time made a difference in the most dangerous area in Iraq, and it certainly made a difference to the Marines who fought.
Echo in Ramadi is not a story about my time as a Marine or an infantry company commander, or the job I did when I was privileged to lead some of the best men I have ever known. I think I will admit more than most that I am quite sure I had more than my share of fuck-ups and tough decisions to make.
This story is about—and for—the warriors of Echo Company, 2d Battalion, 4th Marines, and their families. It is their voices that tell of the battles we fought, the relationships we shared, and the pain we still bear today. It is a tribute to them—to those that are gone, those who served, and those who continue the fight today.
During our time in Iraq, we didn’t think about war movies, parades, and shiny medals.
All I thought about was bringing my Marines home alive.
CHAPTER 1
Phone Call
When I lost my first Marine in Echo Company, I was thirty-six years old.
We’d been battling in Ramadi, Iraq, in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom in 2006. Echo Company was made up of 248 men. But they were my men. Each of them was my watch, my responsibility. I trained them hard hoping
that it would protect each and every one of them from the dangers of combat. I knew it was impossible in reality. I knew in my head that Ramadi was a dangerous place. I had prepared myself for the inevitability of losing Marines—or at least I thought I had. Now one had died, and it felt like a part of me had gone missing.
Corporal Dustin Libby—twenty-two years old from Maine—had taken a fatal bullet during a grueling four-hour firefight in Ramadi. He had died fighting to protect his platoon. Our Company. My Company.
Libby’s death hit me hard. It was almost incomprehensible to me to think about it. There was so much chaos that night. His death stunned us all, and when we heard the official report—the blur of fighting throughout the dark hours had distracted us from expressing any real emotions. But as the morning came, so did the reality that Libby was gone.
I was stationed at Camp Pendleton in Oceanside, California, when I met Libby before shoving off to Iraq. I was living in my office at the battalion command post and Libby, like the rest of the single Marines, was at the Bachelor Enlisted Quarters.
They tell us from day one as an officer that we should never have favorites, or at least not show that we have preferences in our unit. But I would be lying if I said Corporal Libby wasn’t one of my favorites. He was one of many, I suppose.
He had a cool, nonchalant attitude about him, yet he exuded confidence well above his years. Libby was as even-tempered as they came. He wasn’t timid in any endeavor—this included engaging his superiors in conversation.
I showed up at the barracks late one evening. Libby stood on the catwalk leaning against the metal railing. He was a good-looking kid with blonde hair—wiry 160 pounds at five-ten. He was shirtless. I read the Old English style letters “USMC” tattooed across his stomach, about four inches and centered above his belly button. Tattoos were badges of pride that many Marines wore.
I had none.
I’d come close on a couple of occasions as a lance corporal—drunk and waving a fistful of cash at a local tattoo artist in Oceanside and both times denied service.
Echo in Ramadi Page 1