Echo in Ramadi

by Scott A. Huesing

  Only about a year apart in age, the Downing boys acted practically like twins growing up. Their mother had to have two of everything to keep them happy. They dressed alike. They played with the same kinds of toys—plastic guns, Tonka trucks. They built forts, and like many boys growing up, they loved to play soldier. If asked what they wanted to be when they grew up, they’d both say, “Army guys.”

  Kimberly thought they would eventually grow out of that phase, but they never did. In their high school years, they were introduced to the exciting new world of paintball guns, a step up from the toy cap guns that didn’t have the same effect that being stung and splattered with paintballs provided. It was a new thrill.

  Both boys came home from school and told their mom that a Marine Corps recruiter was going to be coming by the house that night—and both had decided to enlist. They wanted to join the infantry. Ryan had just turned eighteen. Justen was seventeen.

  The recruiter came and talked with Mr. and Mrs. Downing and went over the details of the boys’ enlistment contracts. Ryan sat in front of both of his parents and signed the enlistment papers without hesitation. He had joined on the Delayed Entry Program, which meant he’d still have a few months until he shipped off to boot camp.

  Because Justen was still a minor at seventeen, he needed a parent’s signature on the enlistment papers. Kimberly refused to sign. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. But her husband Jeff, an infantry sergeant in the U.S. Marine Corps Reserve who had made two combat deployments, was not as reluctant and signed on Justen’s behalf.

  It wasn’t that Kimberly was not proud of her sons’ decision to join up. She was. But she was nervous about her boys being right on the front lines.

  She thought, “What kind of career can you get from being trained killers? Why can’t they be mechanics or something less dangerous?”

  In most families, children leave home one at a time—usually off to some relaxed college, to fraternize and party and maybe get some education squeezed in at some point. Kimberly’s boys were leaving at the same time, and heading, not to college, but off to the Marines and then to war—the toughest education in the world.

  After the boys left, Kimberly packed up her kids’ things and placed them into plastic storage totes. She was in tears as she put away the small mementos and items that defined their now-concluded childhood—wrestling equipment, baseball gloves, action figures, trophies, awards, and artwork.

  Jeff came into the room and saw Kimberly sobbing and told her to leave the bedroom. “You go relax. I’ll finish this up, honey.”

  Kimberly felt a pressure overcome her as she sat in the other room and knew that this was the hardest time in her life, knowing her boys were leaving—knowing they might never come home.

  7 July 2003

  The boys left for Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego, California on the “Buddy System.” Their plans to stay together in the Marines didn’t work out. Justen went to 2d Battalion, 7th Marines, in Twentynine Palms, California. Ryan had orders to Echo Company, 2d Battalion, 4th Marines, which was scheduled to deploy to Ramadi in 2004.

  6 April 2004

  Ramadi, Iraq. Ryan fought in one of the deadliest battles in the history of 2d Battalion, 4th Marines—earning his first Purple Heart Medal at the age of eighteen. Ryan took shrapnel to his face, neck, arms, and legs from an enemy rocket-propelled grenade that exploded with devastating effects—his unit ambushed during a grueling firefight. In the aftermath, Ryan lost seven out of fourteen members of his squad. Despite his injuries and tremendous personal loss, he returned to his platoon and continued fighting.

  7 April 2004

  Kimberly and her husband were doing yard work when her phone rang on a warm spring day. She went into the house for the cordless phone and extended the antenna to answer.

  It was the American Red Cross calling. The man on the other end seemed almost inaudible.

  Kimberly thought, “What is this guy trying to tell me?”

  She was in a daze as she tried to make sense of the voice on the other end of the line.

  The stranger’s voice asked, “Is this Ryan Downing’s parent?”

  She replied, “Yes.” Her heart sank as the man continued.

  He rattled on in a dry, scripted delivery, “Sir or Ma’am, I regret to tell you that your son, Ryan, has been shot during an ambush.”

  She shouted, “Where is Ryan? Is he alive? Where is he?”

  He wasn’t able to provide her any other information to abate her uncontrolled frustration.

  She hung up the phone and frantically ran through the freshly mown grass, looking for her husband, Jeff, screaming for him.

  When she reached him, all she could do was cry, “Ryan’s been shot! He’s been shot!”

  Kimberly was there for Ryan’s first homecoming at Camp Pendleton when the battalion came back from Ramadi in 2004. She was excited to see her son again, the young boy who had gone off to war.

  The battalion marched in formation as proud warriors returning from battle. The families at the ceremony greeted the returning Marines with cheers. The ones whose sons had made it back shed tears of joy as they waited to wrap their arms around their sons—the ones who had made it home.

  Thirty-five other families—those of the sailors and Marines who had died—were among the crowd as well.

  The unit commanders dismissed their Marines. Friends and family members flooded onto the parade ground.

  When Kimberly approached Ryan, he said solemnly, “Hold on, mom. I’ll be right back.”

  Ryan then made his way over to a woman, who, she realized, was the mother of one of Ryan’s fallen comrades. She observed reverently and with sadness, fully understanding what Ryan was doing.

  Kimberly was proud of her son and stood in quiet veneration for showing such compassion to the family of his fellow Marine. But she also was concerned. “How is Ryan ever going to be the same after this?” she thought. “How does such a young man deal with something like this?”

  The woman Ryan spoke to was Dianne Layfield from Fremont, California, a small town one hour outside of San Francisco. Her son, Lance Corporal Travis Layfield, was killed in action during the deadly ambush in which Ryan was wounded. Dianne and the other parents who mourned the loss of their sons now bore the title Gold Star Parents, which made them eternally connected to the extraordinary Marine Corps family.

  Despite her unfathomable pain, she managed to share the happiness and pride for the others and show the immense love she had for all of the Marines.

  Still, Dianne and her family struggled to suppress their emotions, trying to remain strong for the other families. The elation and excitement from the other families filled the air. There was laughter and joyous shouts. It was tough for Dianne, but she maintained a brave front as she courageously made her way to join the others—refusing to project any of her suffering onto those now in celebration.

  After their reunion, many of the Marines and their friends gravitated toward the people who had lost a Marine, including Dianne. She was finally able to put faces to the names she had heard about for so long:

  Sergeant Nate Apple, who honorably carried Travis’s remains in a black body bag off of the battlefield.

  David Swanson, the thirty-nine-year-old combat photographer from the Philadelphia Inquirer embedded with Echo Company, who had captured that act in a photo that horrific day.

  Kimberly Downing, the mother of Lance Corporal Ryan Downing.

  Ryan Downing, Travis’s battle buddy and friend.

  Dianne had been anxious to meet Ryan because Travis had told her that if anything should ever happen to him, he and Ryan had exchanged letters and would give them to their respective parents.

  Ryan walked up to Dianne and her daughter, Tiffany. He hugged them both, and they cried as Ryan spoke to them. It’s unimaginable that a nineteen-year-old boy stood there trying to be a pillar of strength for his friend’s family. But he took on the job, took on that pain.

  His childhood was
a distant memory.

  Ryan’s presence soothed Dianne, and they made plans to meet the next day at a Mexican restaurant in San Clemente, California. She was certain Ryan was going to give her the letter Travis had written, and she wanted to have it because it was just about all she would have left of her son.

  Dianne stood up as Ryan entered the restaurant and hugged him tightly. Releasing him reluctantly, smiling modestly, she slowly brought her arm from around Ryan’s back and handed him a letter. It was Ryan’s letter which had come home with Travis’s personal effects.

  Dianne had kept it in a black Sentry strongbox tucked safely in the closet of her bedroom so she could return it to Ryan when he came home. She never opened it.

  Ryan reached out to take the letter back, and Dianne began to cry. She drew in short breaths and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Do you have Travis’s letter for me?” she asked.

  Dianne’s heart sank deep into the pit of her stomach as he apologized to her that he didn’t have it. She was devastated. Ryan explained that he was wounded, too, and that when all of his gear was shuffled around the battlefield, much of his stuff was lost. Ryan vowed that when he got his gear back he would deliver the letter to her in person.

  Weeks turned into months with no news of the letter. Dianne tried a few times to contact Ryan but never heard back from him. Ryan was dealing with his own pain too—coping with his mental torment and the loss of his friend and the others that died in the deadly ambush.

  In the fall, Lance Corporal Josh Laine, Travis’s best friend when they joined the Marine Corps, lived in the Bay area. He called Dianne. Josh asked Dianne if she would take him to Travis’s grave at the Golden Gate National Cemetery to visit his friend one last time.

  Three days later, Josh, wearing his full blue dress uniform, young and handsome, arrived at Dianne’s front door. Tears filled her eyes as she looked at Josh. Another living reminder of the son she had lost.

  During the drive to and from the cemetery, Dianne told Josh how sad she was that she never received Travis’s letter.

  “I’ll get the letter from Ryan. It may take some time, but I promise I’ll get it for you,” Josh said firmly.

  Josh returned to Camp Pendleton and made his way to the command post of 2d Battalion, 4th Marines, to find Ryan. He searched the company area and found Ryan at the barracks and confronted him about Travis’s letter. It was a tense conversation.

  Ryan admitted that he had the letter. The unopened letter sat tucked inside a pocket of his cammies—the same ones that had been torn to shreds from the shrapnel that ripped through him on 6 April 2004. They rested at the bottom of his green nylon sea bag stowed in his wall locker in the barracks.

  He’d buried the letter to hold on to the last physical piece of his best friend who died in front of him just months before, and to protect Dianne and her family from feeling the heartbreak of losing Travis all over again.

  As time passed, he felt an ever-increasing guilt for neglecting to deliver the letter to the person to whom it rightfully belonged.

  Now confronted by a fellow Marine, he did what he always knew he would have to do one day. He dug the letter out of his sea bag and handed it to Josh.

  Not long after, Josh made the nine-hour drive from Camp Pendleton to Dianne’s house. He exited his car dressed in civilian clothes holding the white envelope in his left hand.

  When Dianne saw it, she raced to him, crying and shouting, “Is that it? Is that Travis’s letter?”

  She had been waiting nine months and two days to receive it.

  Later that night, Dianne, her daughter Tiffany, and Tyler, Travis’s younger brother, drove to El Burro restaurant.

  They pulled into the parking lot. The glow from the amber streetlights peeked through the windows of her car as she pulled the envelope out and clicked on the dome light. She didn’t want to read it alone.

  The letter was hand-addressed to: “John, Dianne & Tyler Layfield.” When she turned it over to open it, she saw the letters “DL” in Travis’s handwriting on the back flap—she instinctively knew what the letters meant. Death Letter.

  She pulled it out, unfolded the two pieces of paper, and began to read her son’s words aloud.

  25 August 2004

  Kimberly’s phone rang. It was the American Red Cross calling again. She braced herself for the worst impact of the message on the other end of the line. Terror consumed her, having gone through this once before.

  Again, the dry, canned delivery: Justen, her youngest son, had been wounded when a roadside bomb detonated near the Humvee in which he was riding. He was injured but would be alright. Justen received a Purple Heart Medal for wounds he received in the attack.

  6 September 2004

  Kimberly sat alone at the Kansas City International Airport at 0400 waiting for her flight. She had just sent her husband, Sergeant Jeff Downing, off on his third deployment with 2d Battalion, 24th Marines—a U.S. Marine Reserve unit.

  Her cell phone rang. It was Ryan. Although elated to hear from her son, she could not stop sniffling back tears. A few minutes into the conversation, she blurted out, “Ryan, I love you!”

  Ryan tried to cheer her up, gently ribbing her for getting so emotional and making such a fuss. Suddenly, Kimberly heard the sound of gunfire and then a massive explosion. The line went dead.

  Panic-stricken, she thought, “Oh my god, Ryan’s dead! He just got killed!”

  Minutes later, however, Ryan called back, and a wave of relief rolled over Kimberly.

  That relief would be temporary. With only Megan, her seven-year-old daughter, for companionship and with all three of her men at war and in danger, Kimberly would never have a moment free of anxiety, fear, or frustration.

  14 September 2004

  Jeff and Justen crossed paths in Kuwait at the MNF’s vast, intermediate staging base where coalition troops and equipment flowed in and out of the theater of operations. Jeff bounced from tent to tent, asking strange Marines where Fox Company, 2d Battalion, 7th Marines, was, trying to track down his son.

  Jeff and Justen finally reunited, and they visited for a few hours as they ate pizza at the dining facility.

  Against the natural order of things, the son now gave the father advice, raiding a can of his dad’s Copenhagen snuff as he did. The other Marines from Jeff’s squad sat at the table and listened intently to the conversation. Jeff paid close attention to his son’s advice—rank and experience played little part in a wartime education in Iraq, since dynamics on the battlefield changed so quickly.

  As Justen and Jeff parted, the son said to his father, “Keep your head down, Dad. It’s a fucking shithole over there.”

  When Justen returned home a few months later, he told his mom how scared he was for his dad’s safety. Justen knew firsthand how brutal things had become in Iraq. The situation was worsening, and every Marine was either fighting or preparing to fight. He said he was afraid that the all-too-quick meeting they shared was the last time he’d see his father alive.

  March 2006

  I graduated early from the Expeditionary Warfare School in Quantico, Virginia, an advanced school for Marine captains who were ready to assume command. Because of the deployment cycle, my unit wanted to ensure its rifle company commanders were in place. The battalion requested that I check in as soon as possible.

  I was excited to get the news, but it left me short on time to get my personal matters in order. I knew my wife would be supportive—but was sure she’d also remind me of my most recent deployment in 2004. That year, I kissed her goodbye in the driveway of our rural Virginia home, as she stood there seven months pregnant, with tears in her eyes as I took off for Baghdad, Iraq, for close to nine months.

  Within a week, I packed my Jeep and a trailer, and I left my family again, heading west. I drove straight through, stopping on the side of the road occasionally whenever I needed to rest.

  April 2006

  My first encounter with Ryan Downing occurred shortly after taking comman
d of Echo Company. I led the company on a five-mile run. When we returned, First Sergeant Foster told me that two Marines had slipped out of formation just as the run started and didn’t return.

  I reflected on my days as a young enlisted Marine, and thought, “Man, that’s a bold move. Stupid, but bold.” Foster wanted me to punish the Marines for their disobedience. I agreed, but I decided I’d talk to both of them first. One of them was Ryan Downing.

  When he came into my office, Ryan posted himself at the position of attention and centered in front of the desk I sat behind.

  Ryan was thin and scrappy-looking and had a surly air about him. I could tell by looking at him that this probably wasn’t his first run-in with his command, as he stood there confident and unwavering. Our discussion was brief.

  I told him to stand at ease and look me in the eye. I then said that he wasn’t being punished so much for what he had done, but in fairness to the other Marines who had done the right thing.

  He understood. He almost seemed grateful for the opportunity to get a fresh start after his lapse in judgment.

  Notwithstanding this act of blatant disregard for authority, Ryan was a battle-tested warrior who had already seen more action than most Marines ever would in combat. It was safe to say that I liked him. I always liked the challenging ones. Ryan reminded me of a Jack Russell Terrier, imbued with a ferocity and tenacity, and self-assured despite his small size, full of mischief, in need of a steady hand, but sturdy and loyal to a fault.

  A friend gave Kimberly a service flag that she hung in the front window of her home with pride. On it were three blue stars, each representing one of her three brave Marines.