Echo in Ramadi

by Scott A. Huesing

  A U.S. Army soldier, looking half asleep, opened the hatch and greeted Espo with a nonchalant “What’s up?”

  Espo thought to himself, “How about some fucking security and situational awareness, motherfuckers? That’s what’s up. How about challenging some weirdo walking down Michigan in a blue sweater? Fuckers.”

  Instead, he said nothing, knowing it didn’t make a difference either way. He dismissed the lackadaisical soldiers and made his way inside toward the Echo Company workspace.

  Lance Corporal Andrew Marrari, an infantryman and one of the Echo Company clerks, was on radio watch when Espo stepped into the COC.

  Espo got right to business, “Hey, Marrari, can you get Two Bravo on the net for me?”

  Marrari turned in his chair and looked as if he’d seen a ghost. “Yes, Sergeant.” Then he spun around to the stack of radios and called over to OP Hotel for Staff Sergeant Nugent.

  Marrari keyed the handset, “Two Bravo, Two Bravo, this is Longhorn COC, over.”

  He extended the handset to Espo. When Espo heard Nugent’s voice on the other end, he felt like he’d made it home. He felt safe again. Espo told Nugent he was back and ready to go.

  Espo’s sense of comfort was short-lived by the time Foster made it back into the COC and saw him standing there. Usually not a “yeller,” this time he erupted. “Sergeant Espinoza! What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on your way stateside! Holy shit!”

  He then gave Espo a thorough “welcome home” ass chewing for not staying in the hospital. He then finished by telling Espo that he was “benched.” Until he healed up, he’d be part of Headquarters Platoon.

  Espo stood there and took the whitewashing from Foster. Again, he forced back a cool smile he wanted to display, thinking about the round that went through his chest days before. He thought of the hospital, the pretty nurses, the fucking Iraqi general, and the travels he endured to get back. His collarbone still throbbed as a result of the hairline fracture in it. A new scar on the center of his chest was four inches wide. A couple dozen staples held the wound closed for now.

  But, fuck it, he’d made it back.

  CHAPTER 5

  Sixth

  6 December 2006

  That cold December night in Ramadi was one the Marines of Echo Company would never forget. Sporadic machine gun and AK-47 fire rained on Army and Marine positions in zone—it was the beginning of one of the most complex, coordinated attacks from Anti-Iraqi Forces. Echo Company had been out patrolling the entire day when the fighting began.

  It was impossible for them to know that they were about to be in one of the longest fights of their lives.

  I was in the TOC at Camp Corregidor with the Task Force 1-9 Infantry commander, Lieutenant Colonel Ferry, and the entire battle staff—their eyes all fixed on the feeds coming in from drones flying overhead. The four-million-dollar drones loitered at ten thousand feet and gave us all a bird’s-eye view of every single movement on the battlefield.

  A call came across the radio. One of Echo Company’s positions—ECP 8—was in direct contact with the enemy—and it was taking a beating.

  ECP 8 was a jagged three-story structure and had the familiar exterior of most buildings in Ramadi—embossed with bullet holes on every side. Its height made it ideal for observing the areas Echo Company covered—and also an easily identifiable target for the insurgents. From its roof, it was possible to see Ramadi General Hospital—a massive, white seven-story building about two kilometers to the east. More importantly, ECP 8 covered two main avenues of approach that insurgents used to filter into the city, avenues that we were determined to seal off. There was an adjacent Iraqi Army compound located directly across the street. Both compounds formed a makeshift cul-de-sac partitioned by numerous ten-foot-high concrete barriers laid around them.

  Ferry’s reaction was immediate. “Scott, get down there!”

  I was to take the Quick Reaction Force (QRF)—four Humvees mounted with .50 caliber and 7.62mm machine guns and packed with Marines—to the rescue.

  “I’m gone, sir!”

  I ran down the stairs from the second floor of the TOC and burst through the front door into the spiraling cloud of dust kicked up by the QRF vehicles when they had come to a screeching halt in front of the TOC.

  I was about ten feet from the Humvee when small arms whizzed above and cracked into the stone-faced buildings and the dirt around our feet blistered with every strike. The entire compound at Camp Corregidor seemed to sizzle. The rounds weren’t just from the enemy. Some of them were “spillover” from friendly positions—rounds that missed the enemy targets and landed in our locations.

  After a quick communications check, our convoy pulled out of Camp Corregidor, veered left onto MSR Michigan, and headed west toward ECP 8. The distance from Camp Corregidor to ECP 8 was no more than a couple of kilometers.

  The fighting had become even more intense. At 7-Bravo, Marines in a Humvee were taking fire from the “Mushroom House,” so named because of its odd mushroom-shaped roof, and were giving it as good as they got, furiously returning fire with their vehicle’s .50 cal. As we drove past, we could see the tracer rounds from the machine gun ripping into the target.

  As we moved toward ECP-8, the southern skyline lit up with red and green tracer rounds from all the firefights. I realized that these attacks weren’t spontaneous—they were all part of a well-coordinated enemy attack. The sound of explosions, machine gun fire, and the crackling of AK-47s surrounded us.

  Some insurgents had taken cover in the Al Haq Mosque, one of the main mosques on MSR Michigan. They fired furiously from the compound and the minaret into the sky like a phalanx—a shielded wall of protection, but now enemy rounds jutted out instead of those like ancient spearheads. It wasn’t the first or last suspicion we had that the insurgents were using mosques as safe havens, exploiting the fact that they were off limits to the MNF due to political and cultural sensitivity issues.

  As we continued our race to ECP 8, tracers streamed in front of and over us, and I heard the snapping and zinging of rounds hitting and ricocheting off the heavily armored Humvees as we moved closer to our destination. Two rocket-propelled grenades hit near us, adding to the chaos.

  Our turret gunners crouched in their semi-exposed positions and returned blazing fire—short, three- to six-round bursts cut into enemy positions. They were vulnerable in doing so because, under the circumstances, it was difficult for them to get positive identification (PID) of the enemy—adding to the uncertainty, they were constantly afraid of hitting friendly positions.

  The radio blasted that ECP 8 and all of the other positions were completely engaged. We were in the middle of the most dangerous and complex firefight we’d ever faced. The QRF, comprised of Echo’s 3rd Platoon led by First Lieutenant “Sneaky” Pete Somerville, had its work cut out for it.

  A mild-mannered twenty-six-year-old from Edina, Minnesota, a suburb of Minneapolis, Somerville stood out from other officers in that he was a Yale graduate, and had a philosophy degree no less. To his credit, he never flaunted his Ivy League education or came across as an intellectual elitist, although he may have been mistaken for one on occasion by those who didn’t know him. On the contrary, he seemed to relish any opportunity to listen to and learn from those around him. He’d ultimately learn as much in the Marines as he ever did in college.

  Somerville struggled with “the mask” he wanted to wear in front of his Marines and peers. He wanted to appear professional and acute at all times, and so he didn’t engage in the normal sophomoric antics others did—I respected that about him, and I knew that it was tough for a young lieutenant under those circumstances. He took more than his share of ribbing from his peers and the senior NCOs who cracked “New Lieutenant” jokes at his expense. He always rose above the jabs or ignored them entirely.

  Some might have taken his quiet nature as shyness or a lack of assertiveness—but I didn’t see that in any of his actions. Somerville was sturdy, dependable
, and trustworthy. His calm nature made him the diplomat of any squabbling that went on between the other young lieutenants in the company. His easygoing style never stopped him from leading his Marines with aggressiveness, tempered by his keen intellectual abilities—with his nose frequently buried in Thucydides or the kind.

  His nickname came from his knack for silently walking up on the fringes of a conversation already in progress. First Lieutenant Bobby Lee, my executive officer, the self-appointed ringleader of wisecrackers, said, “We’d all stop mid-sentence blathering, turn our heads, and find Somerville standing there, taking it all in, and I’d think, ‘Sneaky.’”

  Lance Corporal Jonathan Neris, a fire team leader in 4th Platoon’s 1st squad, raced to the rooftop of ECP 8. He could see the muzzle flashes of the insurgents’ weapons coming out of windows as close as fifty meters away. Neris and the other Marines drew down on the insurgents, aiming their sights on the enemy fighters running back and forth between buildings. As Marines spotted them, they opened up with their weapons. The firing was intense. Deafening bursts rang out from the M-249 Squad Automatic Weapons (SAWs), and the M-240B 7.62mm medium machine guns—making it almost impossible to communicate to each other as they fought. Neris could see the bodies of the insurgents drop to the ground as the Marines tore them apart.

  Neris was twenty-one years old and good-natured. He was a big kid at six-feet even and 190 pounds. He had a dense brush of thick black hair on top of his head. It was long, unlike most Marines who kept their hair buzzed short. He had wide black eyebrows, cheerful brown eyes, and a big, bright, toothy smile. You could see his smile in his eyes.

  His father had left his family’s Chicago home when he was two years old. His mother taught him everything she could, but learning to be a man was something he’d had to do on his own. Neris wanted a challenge—the chance to push past his limits—to his breaking point. The Marine Corps gave him that—and he was grateful for it.

  Neris caught sight of Libby out of the corner of his eye and then heard him say, “I’m reloading my M-203.” Libby then took a knee to slide open the breach of the grenade launcher mounted under his rifle.

  Moments later, Neris looked for Libby to come back up. When he didn’t, Neris looked down and saw that Libby had fallen.

  He immediately dropped down to his squad leader’s side and saw a bulge in his neck. Libby’s eyes stared directly back at him. Neris’ heart dropped. The other Marines quickly gathered around illuminating Libby with their flashlights to assess the damage.

  Neris couldn’t believe it was happening. He stood frozen in shock. It didn’t seem real. All he could say to Libby was, “I’m sorry.”

  Still not realizing the full gravity of the situation, Neris instinctually tuned back into the fight and resupplied his Marines with ammunition. He had to think about the men who were still alive. They were now his responsibility.

  Hospitalman Nate “Doc” Dicks and Staff Sergeant Miller crouched low as they moved over to where Libby had fallen and lifted him carefully. Precariously they moved him down a rickety ladder to the safety of the COC.

  My convoy rolled up to the position. Enemy rounds were cracking all around us.

  Fourth Platoon, which held ECP 8, was commanded by Second Lieutenant Seth Nicholson and his platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Brent Miller.

  Nicholson was a twenty-three-year-old from Charlotte, North Carolina. Earning an English Literature degree from Appalachian State University had sharpened his wit and provided him with plenty of snappy comebacks when needed. He was confident and stood over six feet tall at 195 pounds and often flashed a clever, bright smile. His brown hair was cropped short and came to a sharp widow’s peak in the center of his forehead.

  Miller was a twenty-nine-year-old infantryman from Houston, Texas. He was quiet, never excitable, and he always took care of business.

  When I walked into ECP 8, I immediately witnessed Doc Dicks and Lance Corporal Christopher Muscle performing first aid on Libby, who lay on a green military cot that had soft digital poncho liners strewn on top of it—padding the bed their brother now rested on.

  Nicholson told me that Libby had suffered a gunshot wound to the back of the neck—the bullet struck him just above his protective ballistic plate.

  We didn’t have time to wait.

  I asked Nicholson, “Is Libby the only casualty that needs to be CASEVAC’d?”

  He answered, “Yes!”

  I went back outside and told Somerville, “Get the trucks turned around. We don’t have time to wait for a CASEVAC. We are the CASEVAC.”

  I ordered the Marines to get Libby into my Humvee. Four Marines carried him to the back of my vehicle. As they did, they yelled at each other.

  “Be careful with him! Be careful! Easy! Easy with him!”

  The convoy roared back home with Somerville’s vehicle in the lead. We pressed past the enemy positions and rushed past OP South House, which was occupied by 1st Platoon.

  Firefights engulfed the city, and our vehicles got caught in the crossfire.

  Lance Corporal John Fillbach drove my Humvee. I rode shotgun. Lance Corporal Jared Flanagan was in back, holding Libby tightly while Corporal Jeremy Vandegriffe manned the turret-mounted machine gun. At fifty miles per hour, we barreled down Sufia Road, past the Al Haq Mosque, and left onto MSR Michigan, heading to the COP.

  Lance Corporal Trenton Drew “Tex” Sturrock was in the turret of Somerville’s lead vehicle, manning the .50 caliber machine gun. Tex was a machine gunner by trade—the .50 cal was his favorite gun, and he knew it inside and out. He was from Woodlands, Texas. There was nothing original about his nickname other than the fact he acquired it after getting the state flag of Texas tattooed on his left shoulder. He was nineteen when he enlisted in the Marines and would celebrate his twentieth birthday in Iraq that year on his first deployment.

  Tex spoke with a smooth, southern drawl, exuded confidence, and had a gregarious personality that allowed him to bond with the men in Echo Company. He was undeniably one of Echo’s many “large personalities.”

  Tonight, Tex struggled to return effective fire at the enemy—but not from a lack of desire. His night vision goggles (NVGs) dangled clumsily around his face, obscuring his sight.

  An older model of the Harris AN/PVS-7 NVGs, they had come loose from brackets that were supposed to hold them in place. He still could see, however, tracer rounds whizzing close past his face, their glow accentuated by the NVGs.

  Tex held his breath and tensed his body and thought, “This is where I get hit.”

  He didn’t flinch, though. It was not in his nature. Enemy gunfire just seemed to piss him off, and never scared him. No names, no faces, just the enemy.

  He pressed his thumbs down hard on the butterfly-shaped trigger of the Browning machine gun, blazing ten- to fifteen-round bursts into the enemy positions as we raced to the COP.

  I heard Flanagan in the back of the truck yelling, “Hang on, man! Hang on! Come on, Libby, hang in there!”

  Flanagan leaned over the front seat and yelled at me. “Sir, I can’t get a fucking pulse! There’s no pulse. There’s blood everywhere!”

  “Keep talking to him!” I said.

  We had already radioed ahead to let the COP and BAS know we were headed in with a casualty. The Combat Outpost’s gates were wide open, and the way to the aid station’s front door was marked with glowing light sticks, looking all the world like an airport’s runway lights.

  The U.S. Army medical staff who ran the BAS had already seen so many casualties they had their procedures down to the last detail. Marking the entrance to the trauma room with chemlights was an indication of their professionalism.

  The Marines got Libby out as carefully as possible. There was no time to put him on a stretcher. Doc had put a cervical collar on him and inserted an emergency tracheotomy tube in his mouth to clear the airway.

  I stared down at Libby. I thought to myself, “God, he looks so young. He’s so fucking young. Please! Please hang in
there, brother.”

  I couldn’t believe this was the first casualty the battalion was suffering and it was happening to us, Echo Company.

  I tried to press inside the BAS. First Sergeant Foster, who met me as I exited the vehicle, grabbed my shoulder. “Sir, I’ve got him. We’ve got it from here. We’ll take care of him.”

  Deep down, I wanted to stop everything I was doing and stay with Libby. But the BAS had a top-notch crew of medics, and Foster had things under control. He was right. There was nothing more I could do.

  I had to focus on the other two hundred Marines that were still out there in direct contact.

  The chaos and bloodshed were not over—we had a long night ahead of us. It was just the beginning of the longest night of fighting we would encounter.

  CHAPTER 6

  Terps

  A few days after I arrived at Camp Corregidor, I heard about an incident involving an Iraqi named Mohammed who worked for contractors collecting garbage from the Multi-National Force (MNF). He decided to work for the MNF to earn money for his family as well as support the cause of a free Iraq. His choice branded him as a traitor to the insurgents.

  One day, soldiers spotted a trash truck parked on the side of a road east of Camp Corregidor on MSR Michigan. They cautiously inspected the truck for vehicle-borne improvised explosive devices (VBIEDs). The VBIED was a common tactic employed by insurgents. They’d pack a car or truck full of explosives, park it on a street, and, when a patrol walked or drove by, they’d detonate the device. It was a cheap but effective tactic that yielded tremendous shock effect if done right.

  Instead of a bomb, the task force soldiers were shocked to find a dismembered body stuffed in the cab of the truck. For his dissidence, after a hard day of work, he had been murdered by the insurgents. My thoughts were consumed of how this unassuming man who was willing to pick up our trash could suffer such a horrible death.