Echo in Ramadi

by Scott A. Huesing

  Those Marines and what they might be going through were never far from her mind. The television was constantly tuned to CNN or Fox News. She relentlessly surfed the Internet looking for stories and ways to stay in touch with other families from her men’s unit. Unlike active-duty families who live on or near a base, Kimberly had no groups from whom she could draw support, no other wives she could lean on. She had only her parents and the boys’ girlfriends.

  She coped by staying busy.

  She would get Megan ready and off to school every day. She worked. She’d mindlessly toil at mundane but much-needed yard work. She’d go to the gym to relieve stress. She took Megan to dinner, to the zoo, and to the park.

  Nights and mornings were the most difficult parts of the day. There wasn’t a night she didn’t go to sleep crying. The mornings brought more tears, more thoughts about what her men were enduring, the dangers they faced. One day, as she sat on the porch of her house waiting for her daughter’s school bus, she saw an ordinary-looking sedan drive slowly past her house.

  Terror seized her as she saw two Marines in full blue dress uniforms in it—the same formal uniforms Marines on CACO duty wear.

  She began to cry uncontrollably, dreading that the car might stop at her house.

  It didn’t.

  She thought, “Thank God!”

  She immediately felt a stab of guilt. She knew full well that those Marines could be delivering the worst possible news to another family.

  She prayed she’d never see that car again.

  4 December 2006

  Ryan manned a medium machine gun on a Humvee that was protecting a convoy of Army water trucks that would pump water onto the streets in hopes of exposing any bombs or IEDs. The convoy received immediate contact from a small team of insurgents.

  In the firefight, a bullet ricocheted off the vehicle’s armor and cracked into his helmet. The bullet didn’t penetrate the Kevlar, but it struck with such force that it gave him a concussion.

  6 December 2006

  During one of Echo Company’s toughest battles at ECP 8, Ryan suffered his second concussion.

  Kimberly should have received this information from the American Red Cross concerning Ryan’s latest injury. Social media beat them to the punch.

  She read a comment on Facebook from another family saying in part, “…[W]e’re thinking of you Kimberly, and we’re sorry to hear that Ryan was injured again…”

  As she read the post, she nearly fell to the floor. The Red Cross then called with the news that Ryan was injured but OK. Ryan called her from an intermediate medical unit at Balad Air Base in Iraq days later.

  She asked Ryan, “Are you OK? Are you in Germany? Can I come see you?”

  In a steady voice, Ryan told his mom, “No, Mom, I’m OK, just got shaken up a bit. We got blasted by some friendly fire.”

  The irony wasn’t lost on Kimberly.

  She sharply replied, “What the hell is friendly fire?”

  10 December 2006

  I was in our Company Operations Center at Camp Corregidor planning our next mission when Foster told me he’d gotten an email regarding how screwed up the notification process had been for Kimberly.

  I knew if I were in her place that I wouldn’t have been too happy with it either. Reading about news on Facebook was another obstacle we faced. Often, we were out-cycled by social media or the news networks.

  I told Foster I would take care of it and decided to call Kimberly myself on the sat phone. Outside, I scaled a ladder to the top of a singlestory building so I could have the best possible reception.

  When someone answered, I asked politely, “May I please speak to Mrs. Kimberly Downing?”

  “This is Kimberly Downing.” Steady and calm.

  I introduced myself. “This is Captain Scott Huesing. I’m Ryan’s company commander, and first of all, Ryan is OK.” I then apologized for the way she had found out about Ryan’s injury.

  Kimberly said she understood. She knew how hard it was for us. I breathed a sigh of relief. I could tell that Ryan’s mom was like so many of the other parents I had talked to in good times and bad. They had an immense amount of understanding of what we were going through and tremendous compassion for all of us.

  Kimberly explained to me briefly that her youngest son and husband also were Marines serving in Iraq in the infantry, and how concerned she was for Ryan now that he had been injured so many times. I reassured her, as best as I could, that I was taking care of him.

  Although I couldn’t make any promises that he would be sent back home from his injuries, I did promise that I would pull Ryan from the rifle platoon, off the front lines, and assign him to the company headquarters platoon. There, at least he would be spared the daily fray.

  I told her, “I know this isn’t much of a comfort to you, ma’am, but he’ll be a lot safer there than out on patrol. It’s the best I can do for now. But don’t worry about Ryan, he’s a real fighter and has done more than his share over here.”

  Kimberly exhaled heavily and said, “Thank you.”

  She continued to talk—telling me about all of the deployments her boys and husband had completed, of the fighting and injuries they had endured, and how hard it had been for her.

  She said, “Scott, you know something? You are the only one that has ever called me over all of the years my Marines deployed in combat. So, thank you. It means a lot to me.”

  I was a little choked up by her gratitude for my simple gesture of making a phone call, and somewhat astounded that no one had ever before taken the time to call her. I reassured her again and then hung up the phone.

  Ryan was a little bent out of shape when he found out I called his mom. No badass Marine wants his CO to call his mommy. Deep down, though, I think he appreciated it.

  He took the news about his reassignment to headquarters platoon a lot harder. He pleaded with me to stay with his platoon and keep fighting. I didn’t budge and had made my decision. Just as I expected, Ryan proved himself as capable and dedicated in his new billet as he had been in his old one.

  Kimberly’s struggle didn’t end as the war in Iraq came to a close.

  Post-traumatic stress (PTS) had taken hold of her boys. Justen and Ryan would burst into fits of rage at the slightest annoyance. They were like walking time bombs ready to explode, and she was always scared and on edge around them.

  Kimberly initially waited, hoping the psychological effects now etched into her boys’ memories would fade. After three years, Kimberly could not see any signs that Ryan was coming back. The survivor’s guilt lingered from the war. He couldn’t hold down a job. He wanted to leave his pregnant girlfriend. He’d lock himself up in his apartment where he’d drink excessively and play video games.

  As a nurse, she knew he was slipping into a deep depression, perhaps irretrievably—and was at high risk for suicide like so many other returning warriors. She knew the statistics.

  She went to Ryan’s apartment and confronted him.

  “Ryan,” she said sternly. “You need to get your act together and go to the VA Hospital for help because if you don’t, I’m going to sign you up myself for the lockdown ward. Is that understood?”

  Words only a mother can say to a U.S. Marine without repercussion.

  Ryan heeded her advice.

  Kimberly humbly professes that she is only a mom, and just happy to have all of her Marines back home. Ryan, Justen, and Jeff will always be her heroes, and she is proud that they protected her.

  They are equally fortunate that she was their protector as well.

  CHAPTER 11

  Fallbrook

  Operation Sackets Harbor was our last big push while working with Task Force 1-9 Infantry. We’d be operating in the Sufia District, a section of the city on its northeast side, south of the Euphrates. We called it Area of Operation (AO) Fallbrook, after the small town in Southern California just east of Camp Pendleton. Echo Company took the northern half, and Fox Company had the southern one. The dividing
line between us was a dangerous road called Route Apple.

  We planned to sweep from west to east through the area, clearing buildings and looking for weapons, contraband, and high-value individuals (HVIs). My executive officer, First Lieutenant Bobby Lee, traveled in a convoy that included our mobile command post which we called “The Jump.” The convoy carried combat engineers who would blast open the gates and doors of any sealed compounds we needed to search. We would work during the day and go firm when night fell.

  The first day of the operation was my birthday. Not the best way to celebrate, but it wasn’t the first time I had missed out on special events while in the Marines—like the birth of my daughter while deployed to Baghdad in 2004.

  Lee was twenty-five years old. Born and raised in Corpus Christi, Texas, his dad worked construction, and his mother was a nurse at the local high school. By pooling their money with what Lee earned from odd jobs, the family sent him to study at Hastings College in Nebraska where he played football until he blew out his knee his final year. At six-two, 225 pounds, and heavily muscled with broad shoulders, Lee was physically imposing. But the effect was softened by the friendly, mischievous grin he usually had on his face.

  Although only a thousand meters from the heart of Ramadi, the Sufia District seemed a world away. Palm groves stood along the banks of the Euphrates River, providing shade and lush scenery amongst the homes that were more spread out. Families walked the streets and traffic moved regularly.

  The operation painted us a different picture of insurgent tactics in stark contrast to events of the previous weeks. Snipers, or those who thought they were, would take arbitrary shots and attack Marines from hiding spots. They never hit with much accuracy. When the firing was over, the Marines would push hard into the homes looking for the shooters.

  We always outnumbered them. When smaller groups attacked us, they didn’t last long. They’d scatter like cockroaches when we came at them in force. They figured out that the best course of action was to go to ground and wait us out.

  I began to think that the Sufia District was where many of the hardcore fighters who fought in the Industrial District lived. They’d commute to their jobs in the Industrial District, clock in, fight, and then clock out and head home—a kind of insurgent ‘nine to five.’ When they returned home, they didn’t want to make trouble in the neighborhoods in which they lived, and so they kept off the streets.

  Air strikes were out of the question. Too many civilians lived in the area. We relied heavily on the aerial observation from the U.S. Army—lethal Boeing AH-64 Apache Gunships provided most of the coverage while we moved during the day. They flew low and aggressively, different from the U.S. Marine pilots. They were powerful, armored flying machines—cannons and rockets jutting off any available space on the airframe, and the pilots loved to support the Marines on the ground.

  The people were as different as the landscape. Many volunteered to discreetly provide us with information about the insurgents who hid in their neighborhoods. They did so because they wanted peace and stability and were willing to do whatever it took to get it. They offered us orange slices and scalding hot chai in tiny cups with as much sugar as there was tea. It was sickeningly sweet, but we never refused it when locals poured us a cup.

  Some of the locals were scared but would ask the Marines to come back after dark, and we did.

  Our new network of informants paid off by the third day of the operation. We’d gotten a tip about a compound, about an acre in size, in which there was a stockpile of weapons. The information the locals provided was detailed. We had the address and targeted the building by the number on our map. We zeroed in on it. I set plans to raid it that very night at midnight.

  Even though my Marines were exhausted, the knowledge that we had hard information on a specific target seemed to revive them. I could sense their anticipation building. They were hungry.

  Lee and his team pushed north with an Army armored personnel carrier (APC) in their convoy for support.

  They crept up warily to a position close to the raid site. The roads were all dirt, unimproved, and were not designed or constructed for the size of our Humvees or APCs.

  His driver gunned the gas pedal of the vehicle. The terrain was steep. They backed up and tried to gain some momentum to climb the steep embankment. Collectively they prayed to muster every ounce of horsepower out of the truck as it began to bog down again. Tires slipped and sprayed dirt from the road. They made it.

  Lee called back to the others to let them know it was a treacherous climb and to be careful. The APC followed.

  Lee sat on the other side of a steep dike by the Euphrates. He envisioned the APC flying over the road embankment like an episode of The Dukes of Hazzard, the massive armored vehicle sailing through the air, soldiers yelling in excitement. For Lee and his convoy, it was much like stunt driving on those roads—except the explosions were real.

  Around midnight, we were in position. However, Lee and his convoy—along with the APC—had not arrived. He had not sent word as to why he wasn’t there. Nothing. No communication.

  Friction.

  I couldn’t wait for the Jump any longer. It was midnight. I gave the order. We raided the compound.

  I heard the loud cracks of semi-automatic shotguns as Marines blasted the locks on the gates. As men rushed into the complex, others hopped over the large broken cinder-block wall that surrounded the compound.

  We quickly made entry into the house and secured all the occupants. It didn’t take long until they began to talk. Our tip paid off.

  The Marines outside began unearthing large blue plastic thirty-gallon water drums. Each drum contained its share of AK-47s, ammunition, IED-making materials, and body armor. Insurgents often put their contraband inside the drums to keep it watertight and dirt free. They sat buried a few inches below ground covered with a light layer of dirt on the lids. Essentially, each drum was a ready-to-go weapons locker. They were clever. But we’d nailed them again, denying them from the much-needed supplies that fueled the insurgency.

  I was pleased by the raid’s results.

  Still, I was concerned that I had no communication with Lee and his men.

  Lee’s convoy had missed a turn and tried to find another way to link up with us. As they moved down a dark road, Lee’s Humvee hit the edge of a giant sinkhole that forced their vehicle into a slow rollover.

  In a Humvee, the seatbelts didn’t fit around the Marines and all of their bulky gear. The turret gunner sat precariously on a sling-type seat made of nylon, similar to that of a kid’s swing found on a playground. They sat and swung in it behind the machine gun.

  The five-thousand-pound vehicle had begun to roll. Lee turned around to try and grab ahold of the gunner’s leg, but it slipped out of his hand. It was over in an instant. The vehicle was upside down.

  Lee turned around instinctively to help his gunner from the sling. He wasn’t within Lee’s reach. He began to panic. Lee’s first thought was that he’d been tossed out and the vehicle had rolled over and crushed him to death.

  Through sheer instinct, the gunner had curled up into the fetal position, tucked neatly as the vehicle flipped, and popped through the turret back inside the vehicle as if he were a human donut hole being dropped gently back into the truck. He was thrown right behind Lee.

  The Humvee lay there upside down like a turtle stuck in the mud—the tires like stubby little legs and the unarmored undercarriage of the truck exposed like the smooth belly. None of the Marines were hurt. The barrel of the heavy .50 caliber machine gun sat thrust deep into the ground like a giant lawn dart.

  Despite failing to link up and all of the friction, thirty hours later, Lee managed to get the vehicle pulled out. It started right up. His vehicle that served as his protector had proved worthy that night.

  At the end of Operation Sackets Harbor, we were exhausted. We were also elated. Our tactic of applying relentless pressure on the enemy and forcing them to react to us provided measur
able results.

  We had detained dozens more suspected insurgents and confiscated more weapons and contraband than we could count. Matched with the combined results from Fox Company, the task force commander was more than pleased with how his Marines performed.

  CHAPTER 11.1

  Rollup

  Echo Company had made a definite impression on the insurgents after only a short time in Ramadi. We had been in direct contact with the enemy two to three times a day ever since we arrived. We could almost set our watches by when we’d get attacked—after morning and evening prayers. The mosques’ call to prayer broadcast from loudspeakers on the minarets and served as our alert system to stand ready to fight.

  Throughout the action, the Marines had expended over fifty thousand rounds of 5.56mm, 7.62mm, and .50 caliber ammunition combined. We’d devastated the enemy with countless 120mm main tank rounds and shoulder-fired rockets and lobbed dozens of M-67 highexplosive hand grenades into enemy positions in addition to the multiple GMLRS rocket strikes we’d called in on enemy positions.

  The task force had already credited the Marines of Echo Company with over fifty enemy AIF killed and dozens more enemy wounded. The numbers were impressive. We detained countless more that were on the task force’s most wanted list of HVIs.

  Echo Company had lost one Marine, and we were fortunate that we’d suffered just over a handful wounded in action. As satisfied as we were with our performance, we knew that more hard fighting was ahead of us, and the Marines were ready.

  CHAPTER 12

  Captive

  It was not a matter of if a unit would get investigated, but when a unit would get investigated for alleged detainee abuse in Iraq. After the massive scandal in Baghdad with the Abu Ghraib Prison in 2003, handling detainees during combat operations became a sensitive subject.