Echo in Ramadi

by Scott A. Huesing

  No joy.

  Despite our best efforts, we couldn’t get solid communications with our adjacent units or the helos that hung in the overhead.

  After several fruitless attempts, I made the command decision to abort the mission and head back to CKV to sort out the communication issues. It was demoralizing and frustrating, to say the least. All of the Marines in Echo were ready to take the fight to the enemy that night. But without reliable communication, the risks would have been significant, and I was unwilling to accept them.

  Friction.

  After sorting out all the communication problems when we returned to CKV, we planned to execute the mission two days later.

  We knew it was going to be a long, painstaking process to clear the city. The Marines were confident that we would encounter less resistance in Rutbah than in Ramadi. Nothing could be worse than Ramadi, we told ourselves—turned out we were wrong.

  21 January 2007

  The bone-chilling air cut through us as we stepped out of the trucks into the obscurity of Rutbah just past midnight. Once again, I divided the company into three platoons of dismounted infantry, and Somerville’s 3rd platoon served as our QRF at TCP 2 on the eastern end of the city.

  We formed up and stepped off, sweeping north, knowing there was plenty of work ahead of us that first night.

  Six hours later, I dropped down on the cold marble floor of the building in which we had just gone firm: Building 504, Sector C2, at the southern part of the city. I was exhausted. We had worked our asses off. I stared up at the plastered ceiling, dizzy, yet feeling relieved and excited that we had pushed so far in one night.

  I was still in my gear and lay there stretched out trying to get my second wind. I was pretty sure I could have fallen fast asleep if I wanted to.

  Then, I heard a call across the net that we had a casualty. An adrenaline rush instantly flooded my body, and a gut-dropping feeling—a combination of anxiety and rage—hit me hard.

  The Marines came in and gave me the news—Lance Corporal Sanchez was down, shot by a sniper. For some reason, bad news always seemed to happen in the morning, typically after you woke up—a perfectly shitty way to start a day in a shitty place.

  I jumped up and asked for the details and the location. I ordered the platoon I was with to move to the scene, ready to exact revenge on whoever had the balls to shoot one of my boys.

  In the early morning hours at Building 500—in which two of the platoons had gone firm, after a draining night of clearance operations—they had been taking sporadic enemy small arms fire.

  Corporal Brian McKibben led 1st Platoon’s 3rd Squad. A twenty-five-year-old infantryman from Lakewood, Colorado, his age and experience made him one of the most dependable leaders in the company. He was tall, with a serious look about him. A deep, single frown line cut in between his eyes until someone around him cracked a joke. Then his odd upside-down smile crossed his face, the kind where the corners of his mouth would point down until his teeth crept through his lips.

  McKibben’s maturity and relaxed nature and the unquestioned respect he commanded among the other Marines in the company allowed our senior leaders to trust him completely with any mission.

  I talked with McKibben more than I did with other Marines because he seemed to be in the action where I was. He’d give me that cool nod of approval when he’d see me jocked-up, ready to go out and patrol with the boys. He’d also normally add some unprovoked, sarcastic comment, “Oh, great, the CO is going out with us again boys. Hope you’re all ready to get some—and get shot at.”

  For whatever reason, I seemed to attract fire when I was out on patrol. I think the Marines actually liked it because it gave them a permissible opportunity to bust my balls.

  McKibben was comfortable telling me what he and the other Marines were thinking, whether we were on patrol or while I sat in Building 500, playing a blue Johnson acoustic guitar that I had “acquired” from the 15th MEU’s chaplain. McKibben and I had always seemed to be on the same page.

  In addition to being one of the best small-unit leaders in the company, McKibben was without question also the sweatiest Marine I have ever met. I don’t care how cold the day, how late the hour, how short the duration of a patrol, McKibben would be drenched in sweat. He could sweat through body armor like no one’s business. His filthy cammies became crusted with white salt rings around his shoulders and hips from the sweat always soaking through and then drying repeatedly.

  On this day, McKibben was off post at Building 500 on the first floor of the three-story house when he started hearing shots fired outside around 0700. McKibben immediately pressed to the roof—not knowing one of his Marines lay wounded.

  Concerned there might be a sniper about, he did a turkey-peek around the corner of the doorway that led out onto the roof. He saw Marines racing around yelling, “Corpsman! Doc! Doc! Get the fuck over here, Doc!”

  The top of Building 500 was a large, flat concrete slab with a massive gray cinder-block ledge around it that stood nearly six feet high. It provided excellent protection and concealment, for the most part, for the Marines on post. He raced over to the back wall where four or five Marines and Docs Lee and Lleva were already performing first aid on Lance Corporal Sanchez.

  McKibben stepped in and helped take off Sanchez’s gear. As he did, he spoke to Sanchez.

  “Sanchez, hang on, man. We’re here. We’ve got you. Just blink or squeeze my hand if you understand!”

  Nothing from Sanchez.

  McKibben heard the other Marines on the roof shouting. “What the fuck! Where is the shooter?” No one had located the sniper.

  It was not the first time McKibben had been in a firefight or seen his brothers get shot, but he still felt scared and helpless at the moment—the sight of it all took his breath away. The Marines moved Sanchez off the roof to a convoy that would carry him to TCP 3 where he’d be transferred to a helicopter that would fly him to a medical station. As he watched the vehicles leave, he felt a sense of responsibility, and his heart felt broken. Not knowing if Sanchez was alive or dead weighed heavily on him that morning.

  Foster rode in the convoy with Sanchez as they rushed to TCP 3. The Marines gently moved him from the Humvee to the landing zone as the radio operator made contact with the inbound CH-53 helicopter that was providing the CASEVAC.

  TCP 3 was a barren piece of property the 15th MEU had staked out at the southern part of the city. It was fortified with a wall of huge, sand-filled HESCO barriers—and defended by the artillery Marines from Sierra Battery, 3d Battalion, 11th Marines.

  Foster sat beside Sanchez and could see clearly the hole from the bullet that pierced the right front side of his Kevlar helmet. Sanchez was silent, but Foster could see the agony on his face. As Foster listened to the radio transmissions, he knew it was only minutes until the CASEVAC would arrive. The Corpsmen and other Marines from the MSPF platoon tried to stabilize Sanchez—his breathing was labored. As they inserted an intubation tube to free his airway, Foster held his hand.

  Sanchez gripped Foster’s hand and rubbed it feverishly as he fought through the pain of his wound. His hand was warm and dry. Foster rubbed it gently, trying to smooth off the caked dirt, but as he looked down, Sanchez’s hand lay soft in his own, covered in dried blood.

  The smacking of the helicopter’s rotors was loud as it approached the LZ. The CASEVAC team moved Sanchez so they wouldn’t get pelted with loose gravel kicked up by the helicopter’s downwash. Foster instinctively knew Sanchez would not let go of his hand when they moved him to the helicopter. Foster held on and moved with him.

  The hulking CH-53 Super Stallion was on final approach to the LZ. Thirty seconds out. Sanchez stopped rubbing Foster’s hand. Foster felt it go still. It slipped out of his grasp as the aircraft landed.

  As we geared-up for another fight, a second, gut-wrenching call came across the net. Another Marine was shot and was being CASEVAC’d to TCP 3 to the south.

  Again, my heart sank. I could not
believe that in less than twenty-four hours in zone, we’d suffered two casualties.

  After McKibben had watched Sanchez carried out of Building 500, he went to his squad on the first floor. “Hey, I need someone to volunteer to get up on the roof now and take over Sanchez’s post.”

  Without delay, Lance Corporal Andrew Matus chimed up. “I got it, Corporal.”

  Who does that? What kind of person unhesitatingly jumps to the task and challenge of assuming a post where another Marine has been shot? What kind of character do young men have that drives them to go in harm’s way without a second thought?

  Matus rustled around in the pile of blankets and sleeping bags strewn out on the floor in the modest room that was packed tight with twelve other Marines. He threw on his boots and grabbed his gear and followed McKibben back up the stairway to the top of Building 500.

  Lance Corporal Andrew Matus knew at age thirteen that he wanted to be a U.S. Marine. He was muscular, 190 pounds and five-eight. He came from Chetek, Wisconsin. His family had a strong military background. His great-grandfather served in the Army in World War II. His father, grandfather, grandmother, uncle, aunt, great-uncle, and cousin also had served their nation. Military service was in his blood.

  When it was his time to serve, Matus read books about the Corps. He worked out in preparation for boot camp because he was determined to be in the best shape of his life when he arrived. When he was seventeen years old, his parents signed a waiver so he could enlist before his eighteenth birthday.

  Tough and solid, Matus excelled as an infantryman. He also had an aptitude for mechanical and engineering tasks that made him an invaluable asset to Echo Company.

  While on the Boxer, he was assigned to the Combat Cargo Detachment. Matus, along with a select group of other Marines, helped the sailors maintain all of the equipment and gear that we had stowed inside the massive amphibious assault ship.

  When we headed into Iraq, Matus returned to 1st Platoon to join the fight. His parents thought he was still on the Boxer. Matus wasn’t much of a letter writer, and he never called to tell his folks he was even in Iraq.

  McKibben walked with Matus over to the wall on the back side of Building 500, almost exactly where Sanchez had been shot. Matus was armed with his M16-A4 with M203 40mm grenade launcher fixed to the bottom. The wall was too high for Matus to see over. He found an ammo can and slid it close to the wall to use for a step so he could view his sector of fire that McKibben laid out for him. He placed a hand on the edge of the cinder-block wall and pulled himself up for a peek.

  McKibben said to Matus, “Keep your eyes open. There’s a lot of windows and doors out there, brother.”

  McKibben took five or six steps away when he heard a strange noise, like the sound of a hammer cracking the bottom of a frying pan. McKibben turned back toward Matus, and, as he did, he saw Matus standing facing the wall, almost floating. He fell backward, slowly, as if someone was behind him waiting to catch him in a game of Trust.

  “Doc! Doc! Get over here!” McKibben shouted in panic.

  Matus lay on the roof motionless. His eyes were bloodshot, and he wasn’t breathing. His face began to swell, and he was limp as the other Marines quickly moved him onto a blanket to get him off the roof as fast as they could.

  The Marines on the first floor had already jumped into action and were dumping dozens of confiscated weapons and gear out of a highback Humvee. Corporal Thao, a veteran of Ramadi in 2004, met McKibben when he came downstairs. Always a quiet, steady presence, Thao reassured McKibben that Matus was being taken care of and was on his way to TCP 3.

  The rest of that day McKibben was stunned. He constantly stopped to catch his breath. McKibben again felt lost and helpless. Survivor’s guilt had already begun to feed his thoughts.

  Along with Nicholson and 4th Platoon, I pushed north to Building 500 to link up with McLaughlin and 1st Platoon. I wasn’t happy to find out the tenants of the house were still there when I showed up, but I quickly kicked them out—the building was going to be my new command post for an indefinite period. They were pissed off, but I honestly didn’t give a shit about their problems at the time.

  Echo Company was under sniper fire daily in Ramadi, but we did not expect the same relentless attacks when we moved into Rutbah. It was evident to us now that the local insurgents knew we were in town. It was equally evident that they were testing us, challenging our resolve, and gauging our reactions to the demoralizing effects of sniper fire.

  Tensions were high throughout the company. We had stirred the enemy—a faceless enemy we could not locate.

  I went to the roof of Building 500 with McLaughlin. I immediately saw the dark, stained concrete that had soaked up the pools of blood from my fallen Marines.

  I went around to all of the posts and talked to the boys. They were fractious and kept a low profile. They knew a sniper was taking precise aim on their positions. I tried to reassure everyone and keep calm. I sensed the anxiety in everyone.

  Corporal Simon Litke was on the back side of Building 500. He had taken a helmet from one of the boys off post and balanced it on a short pole. He slowly raised it above the roofline, hoping to bait the sniper into taking another shot. It reminded me of something out of World War I trench warfare. Another Marine sat next to him with his back to the cinder-block wall. He held a mirror in one hand and positioned it out of a mouse hole—a makeshift shooting position made from punching a hole in the wall—to view the direction of fire where Sanchez and Matus had been shot.

  Litke was six-one and 165 pounds of lean muscle and a squad leader in 1st Platoon. He was a handsome kid with brown hair and striking blue eyes. Litke had a malicious squint most of the time—not for acuity of vision, but as part of his demeanor, the kind of way he let everyone know that he was the real deal. And he was. He was a legitimate badass who never took shit from anyone.

  McLaughlin and I made our way over to the position and quickly shot a heading on a lensatic compass to try to refine the direction of the shots that had just killed two of our Marines.

  Everyone wanted to exact swift vengeance on the shooter that had taken two of our brothers from us that day, including me. It’s a natural reaction under those circumstances.

  I made my way back down to the second floor and gathered McLaughlin and his team around the map. We had a good idea of the buildings from where the shots had originated. I generated a plan to mount a hasty raid on them. I never liked using the word “hasty” to do anything, although that was the accepted vernacular in the Marines. For me, the word meant “half-assed” and improperly planned, and I hated anything like that.

  I walked out of the room where we’d been planning the raid and stood at the banister on the second floor for a moment. I looked down trying to gather my thoughts. A couple of squads stood on the large red Persian rug in the living room. They were ready to go. I knew they were waiting for me to cut them off the leash.

  I went back to the command post and got on the radio to the 15th MEU operations officer and briefed him on the situation. I decided that the timing wasn’t right. My men were just too keyed up, and that could lead to unnecessary bloodshed. It wasn’t as if we were going out to fight a “like-force.” Who we were looking for was more elusive, and they had now blended in with the local Iraqis, most of whom were innocent bystanders.

  I decided on a more deliberate course of action to take advantage of the limited amount of time we had to catch the shooter. I task-organized the patrol to move out to the targeted raid sites and form an outer cordon to observe any possible “squirters”—enemy fighters fleeing on foot.

  Within minutes, we sealed the area, cleared the target sites, and began raids on all of the suspected houses. The shooter was nowhere to be found, and the locals gave us shit as far as information was concerned.

  I had reneged on my guarantee to Major Nugent. It took us seventy-two hours to clear Rutbah, because of our casualties. But Rutbah was clear.

  CHAPTER 21.1

  Pu
eblo

  In late January of 2007, Lance Corporal Emilian Sanchez returned home. A fellow Marine from his tribe, the Keres people of the Tamayame, or Santa Ana Pueblo, New Mexico, as it is more commonly known, escorted him from Dover, Delaware, to his family. Local police shut down a five-mile section of Interstate 25—a courtesy normally reserved for the president of the United States. Thousands of locals lined the streets. Huge U.S. flags draped the overpasses as his procession moved down the highway.

  To say that I knew Emilian, or “Sancho,” as the Marines of Echo Company called him would be a bit of a stretch. I was his commanding officer and spoke with him only on occasion. Sanchez acted reserved around me. But his peers considered him a jokester—constantly smiling and clowning around with them. It wasn’t until I made my journey to his home that I would come to know who he was, how he had lived, and how much he meant to his family.

  It had been almost nine years since I’d last seen the Sanchez family. I’d always promised to visit, and they always invited me each time I’d call, but I never went. But it was time. Something I felt compelled to do.

  I arrived early in the morning to witness the festival to pay tribute to Saint Anne, the patron saint of the Keres tribe and partake in the feast they had invited me to. I stopped along the way on a bridge as the sun came up above the Rio Grande. It was a perfect time to take a photo as the sun crested the river, so I did.

  The Keres tribe, like many in the area, are Catholic, and their formal religious beliefs are tied to their long spiritual heritage. They believed in two worlds: a physical one in which they balanced between their historical, cultural beliefs and those of Western society, and a spiritual one, the world of one true God that encompassed their Catholic and cultural beliefs and practices.

  When I arrived, the residents of the Pueblo were milling around—others moved from house to house with a definite purpose preparing for the annual festival. Some carried vibrantly patterned umbrellas to defend against the intense New Mexico sun. As they walked, their steps kicked up the fine powdery sand, forming little dust clouds around their feet. The unnamed dirt streets were lined with small tents from which local merchants were selling everything from food to traditional handmade jewelry, especially turquoise and sterling silver ornaments.