Large families were the norm. The Sanchez family had six children, but others had more than that. The sizes of the extended families were filled with ranks that blurred beyond my comprehension. Aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, and grandparents—the children knew them all by name and addressed them all with the proper honorifics.
The children had been taught the language and customs of their unique culture at early ages, and they all practiced it. The tribal elders made sure of it. Everyone had a role within the tribe of more than eight hundred members. Some might think that it is a little too insular. To me, it seemed to be a community of equality and mutual respect.
The Keresans have lived in the Pueblo for more than five hundred years. The Pueblo sat at the basin of desert mountains in a vast expanse of scenery. It sat on eighty acres surrounded by high mesas. Streaks of reddish sand streamed down the northerly face of the hills as if they had been weeping for centuries. The ground was freckled with creosote bushes. Rains, when they came, cut distinct lines from top to bottom. In the sky, bright blue that day, thick white and gray clouds loomed in the distance and crossed the sky slowly. Lightning zigzagged brightly and struck on occasion.
When I entered the modest family home in the Pueblo, I was introduced immediately to all who gathered inside. Mrs. Jennie Sanchez, Emilian’s mother, announced, “This is Emilian’s Major. They were in the Marines together.” The fact that I was a captain in Iraq didn’t matter. She always referred to me as “Emilian’s Major.”
The air inside the house was rich with the smell of breakfast cooking and coffee brewing. With no power lines running into the Pueblo, anything electrical ran off of a generator. There was no running water. Water was brought in by the bucketload from a spigot outside and dumped into a large, gray plastic bin.
Everyone trekked to the family outhouse to take care of bathroom business. A key fastened to a blue piece of wood belonged to a small lock that secured the outhouse. It hung in the kitchen like one found at an old service station. I was gently scolded later that morning when I walked back in the kitchen after using the outhouse—I had drunk more than my share of coffee.
Mrs. Sanchez saw the keychain jutting out of my pocket. “Oh, you have it. It goes back right there.” She pointed to a small wooden key rack no bigger than the size of a six-inch ruler with five tiny cup hooks screwed into it.
Joey Sanchez, Emilian’s elder brother by eighteen years, sat down at the long wooden table with me. The table could accommodate eight comfortably with two long wooden benches on both sides and an armchair at each end. There was never an empty chair as they fed more than one hundred family and friends who circulated the house throughout the entire day and well into the night.
Joey invited me to sit and talk. He was the third child of David and Jennie Sanchez. Aubrey was the eldest brother, Bernadine or “Berna” the only sister, then Joey and Adrian. Emilian had been the baby, but the pride of them all.
When Joey spoke, his voice swelled with emotion. He had been more than a brother to Emilian because of the age difference, more like a father. In fact, he was often mistaken for Emilian’s father when the boy was young. Emilian would take exception to the mistake saying, “Nah, man, he’s not my dad. That’s my brother.” Joey didn’t mind as much.
When Joey continued to speak of his brother, he told me that Emilian was the only Keresan to die in combat while in the U.S. military. He also whispered to me, “The spirits called Emil to the other world for a more important reason.”
I loved hearing that. It made me feel as if Sanchez was still with us, just on a new mission.
Those words gave me comfort as I got up from the table and walked to the adjacent room where there was a shrine to Emilian. His certificates and pictures hung on the wall. His medals and an encased American flag sat as the centerpiece. Two small bowls were on the table, one filled with a bit of fine, yellow cornmeal, the other an empty bowl. The traditional way to pay tribute to the fallen was to take a pinch of the cornmeal and sprinkle it into the other bowl. The rest of the living room was decorated with traditional colorful blankets that hung from the walls. A bison and two large deer heads with massive racks also hung prominently on display, trophies from family hunting expeditions.
Time passed leisurely, and I occupied myself mostly by sitting on a small wooden bench on the front of the concrete porch to take shade from the sun. I imagined Emilian sitting there as a young boy.
When I knew him, Emilian was five-ten with the average build of a U.S. Marine—160 pounds. Lean. His hair was cropped short and black. He had clever brown eyes that were squinted most of the time in an inquisitive fashion.
His family had filled in some of the blanks for me. When he was young, all he ever wanted was to claim the title of U.S. Marine. He, like many, had a long family history of Marines who had served their country. His grandfather was a Marine in World War II who fought on the iconic island of Iwo Jima in the South Pacific. An uncle was in Vietnam, and his cousin served in Desert Storm. So eager was Emilian to join the Marines that he tried to drop out of high school and enlist. The recruiters from Rio Rancho, New Mexico, told him to get his diploma first and then come back.
The Keres prayed for rain that day. The tribal members danced in two groups—the colors pumpkin and turquoise—each consisting of more than a hundred dancers. All wore traditional attire for the elaborate and well-performed ritual. Shirtless men danced, covered in light blue body paint on their torsos with armbands, animal pelts tucked into the back of their waistbands, and a small evergreen branch wedged into the belt that wrapped their waists. The women wore black dresses and had two red circles painted neatly high on their cheekbones. They carried an evergreen branch in one hand.
The music from the drums and the synchronized chanting in their native tongue of Keresan lulled me. The bells that the men wore fastened above their calves rattled as they walked and danced. They had tan gourds filled with dried beans and tiny handles bound to them and shook them in rhythm with the deep booming of the animal-skinned drums.
They danced for hours on end in the hot sand of the Pueblo square. They marked time. Moving slowly, they performed for the residents and visitors that were welcomed to observe. No photos were allowed. No sketches. No videos either. It was a part of their culture that was to be respected. Some thought it just a suggestion and had their phones and cameras confiscated on site by the Tribal Police who were out in force.
I was peaceful taking it all in.
A hot breeze blew periodically throughout the day giving mild respite from the blazing temperature. I was happy to sit. I thought about the new experience, and it made me content. My enjoyment was bolstered by the laughter of the children around me eating colorful shaved ice served in paper cones—oblivious to the heat of the noon sky as they devoured the ice-cold treats.
Periodically, my eagerness took over and I would roam about, trying to chat with some of the tribe, asking questions. They never had much to say. My natural inquisitive nature was something they didn’t share. Things were the way they were, and that’s just how it was. They were taught not to ask why—if I were ever a member of the tribe they would have shunned me. I never possessed the ability not to ask questions. I’m sure I was labeled a chatterbox.
I left the Pueblo late in the evening. I thanked my hosts, hugged Mrs. Sanchez and kissed her gently on her salt and pepper hair.
Joey walked me to his dad’s truck and reminded me of the road to follow out of the reservation. I thanked him again. He extended his arms, and we shook hands while patting each other on the back. He called me brother. I instantly felt the heat rush to my eyes as they teared up slightly. I was humbled and honored that he said that, and grateful to the darkness of the night that masked my emotions clearly visible in my eyes.
I drove off the Pueblo. The pickup truck that Emilian’s dad graciously let me borrow carried me back to my hotel. I thought about Emilian. We were brothers as fellow Marines, but I knew the bonds he shared with his fami
ly reached far beyond to a different dimension that I was now fortunate to be a part of.
CHAPTER 22
Anthem
After the shocking loss of Sanchez and Matus to sniper fire on 21 January 2007, my boys weren’t too keen on the new Rules of Engagement. It frustrated them when I had to tell them to use more restraint.
As an infantry commander, it is not a significant challenge to train a nineteen-year-old how to fire a machine gun, give him a box of ammo and a target, and get him to go from zero to sixty, employing his weapon and killing the enemy, in about three seconds. It’s a whole different story after weeks and months of intense daily fighting to get him to go from sixty to zero in an instant and think before he shoots.
Building 500 was different than any other house we had occupied in Iraq. It was an elaborate structure decorated gaudily with mismatched furniture in every room. Tacky gold plastic chandeliers hung in most of the rooms but didn’t work. Massive Persian rugs decorated the floors, and the windows had big thick draperies. But we didn’t choose it for its interior décor. We did so because it was tall—three stories high—and so offered panoramic views of the entire city and provided interlocking fields of fire with Marines from two other Echo Company platoons who used what we called “The Bank” as their firm base.
Throughout our stay at Building 500, we occasionally allowed the original homeowner, Ali, to pay quick visits during which he’d gather up some of his personal belongings and other minutiae. At first, I felt a bit guilty about what we had done to his house. The two platoons of Marines were jam-packed into that place. To accommodate the tight living conditions, they had stuffed all of the owner’s clothes and personal effects into one of the smaller rooms. Whenever the owner showed up, I thought, “Man, that sucks for him, having all of his family’s shit tossed into a tiny storage room.” I never let it bother me for long. Again, we had bigger problems at hand.
Days after we’d raided the houses from the sniper that had shot Sanchez and Matus, we’d received intelligence reports that the shooter and some of his accomplices might have been holed up somewhere on the south side of town, west of Building 500. The 15th MEU command element readily supported my desire to seek out these High-Value Individuals (HVIs), and I coordinated a daytime raid to exploit the information.
The target was a small row of houses that sat on the west side of MSR Mercury, the main street on which Building 500 was located.
We launched the raid in the early morning hours supported by armed Humvees and a few additional fire teams in overwatch from Bravo Company, 3rd Recon Battalion, the unit responsible for that part of the battlespace.
We split up into squads, and as dawn broke, we moved quickly to the target site and cordoned off the house. As soon as the Marines from the other squads were in a position to cover us, we kicked the door in. Two teams entered the front door and another through the back. Whenever we made entry, one team immediately began to clear up the staircase to secure the second floor.
“Clear! All Clear!” We could hear yelling from the second level.
We cleared each room quickly hoping to find our target. Nothing. Either we’d hit the wrong house, or the insurgents had abandoned their safe haven. It was times like these when our faith in the intelligence section wavered.
I stayed inside the vacant house and sent a fire team of Marines a couple more houses down to advance the movement and keep up the momentum of the raid. We wanted to press through quickly to keep the element of surprise on our side.
Litke, along with one of his fire team leaders, Corporal Matt Scott, moved out along the narrow walkway in order to secure a house a few doors down.
Scott was twenty-one and on his second deployment to Iraq. He was thin and lanky, from Darrington, Washington. He had a boyish look about him and was unmistakably recognizable from behind on any given patrol as his protruding ears tended to jut out from the sides of his Kevlar helmet. It wasn’t uncommon to find him and Litke as ringleaders engaging in random acts of horseplay in order to lighten the spirits of their men.
I stayed with Lance Corporal Dereck Carpenter, or “Carp,” as most called him, with one of the fire teams in the house we had initially cleared. I got on the radio and tried to contact the 15th MEU command element to update our position and status.
Carp was a dynamo, at five-eight and 140 pounds with brown hair and large, round brown eyes. He was unassuming and normally had a closed-mouth smile that ran across his face with deep lines that cut into his cheeks.
He was from a two-horse town in Libby, Montana, population 2,648, which was tucked into the northwest corner of the state due east of Idaho and south of the Canadian border. Carp was a jock in high school, like many Marines. But like many in high school, myself included, he’d strayed and begun hanging out with the wrong crowd. He knew he was going off course and needed direction.
His family had all served in the military, but Carp was attracted to the Marines. Just before graduating, he drove almost a hundred miles to the nearest U.S. Marine recruiter’s office in Kalispell.
The recruiter looked at Carp with seriousness. “Nowhere else will you be challenged as much as you will be in the Marines—and you will get paid to run around in the woods and shoot guns.”
Sold.
He volunteered for the infantry, too. Wise choice. He turned out to be a shit-hot rifleman, a term of affection and notability not thrown around lightly in our community.
I grabbed my Thales Multi-Band Inter-Team Radio (MBITR), and all I heard was a constant beeping. No comm again. We moved around the house trying to troubleshoot the radio problem, but it was no good. The radio was dead.
“Fucking typical!”
I had been cursed with comm problems my entire life it seemed. There were times when I would tell my radio operator to get someone on the hook for me, and they’d call him up, have great comms, and, the minute they passed me the handset, it would go to shit.
Friction.
I didn’t want to waste any time. Litke and Scott had a radio a few houses down.
I told Carp, “Stay here. Don’t move. I’m going to run next door and try to link up with Litke and Scott to get comms.”
“Roger that, sir. We’re not gonna move.”
I made my way to the front door and cracked it open. We’d heard a few shots fired at that point but thought the area was contained.
I identified the house in which Litke and Scott sought cover. I checked my left and right and bolted out the door onto the narrow sidewalk and ran down the path. Almost immediately, I began to get shot at. A couple of solid streams of small arms fire smacked into the sides of the houses as I ran. I tripped along the way. My knee went down, and I almost face-planted but quickly recovered in one not-so-smooth motion.
They were shooting at me from the far end of the street from behind a parked car. After I got back to my feet, I raised my M4 and shot back at the car to suppress the enemy as I continued to run.
Most of the children and locals dashed into their homes to avoid the crossfire. Others just stood there taking in the show.
I never understood how oblivious Iraqis could be to what was going on around them. It took being literally caught in a crossfire for them to get the picture and get the fuck out of the way. Sometimes they didn’t even do that. They’d just stand around like a bunch of spectators, like it was some sort of sporting event. Maybe they had become totally desensitized. After all, they’d been living in the midst of a war zone for years.
I tried to push through the door of the house that Litke and Scott were in and couldn’t get the handle open.
“Fuck.”
I finally busted in. Muzzles glared at me in the face. Litke and Scott both had their rifles trained on me. They dropped their weapons from their shoulders and pointed them downward.
“Goddamn, sir! We almost shot you!” Litke exclaimed.
“Yeah, thanks. That would have sucked. You guys up on comms?” I was still sucking air into my lungs after my brush
with death in the street.
Litke replied, “Yeah, sir. We’re solid.”
I got on the MBITR and radioed back to the 15th MEU command element Humvee that was sitting in overwatch a few hundred meters away. I told them we were taking fire from the north and to press up in their vehicles, identify the shooters, and cover us while we continued the raid.
Carp was still holding fast in the first house. I was in the courtyard with Litke and Scott and could hear yelling. It was Carp shouting at the 15th MEU Humvee gun truck to open fire on the targets to the north. The Humvee wouldn’t return fire.
Aggravated and cut off from the rest of the squad, Carp and his team decided to push up to Litke’s position and run into the house. Four Marines entered, all of them winded from making the short dash to safety and security with the other team.
Carp entered first and blurted, “Fuck sir, we thought for sure you got shot. Once you took off, we saw you hit the ground, and we ducked back inside. We couldn’t shoot back, so we decided to push up to make sure you were OK.”
I passed the radio handset back to Litke and glared back at them. I wished they had stayed put as ordered, but I was heartened to know that they were willing to take care of their CO in the midst of the chaos.
The skirmish ended, and we continued to clear the row of houses. Not a single shot was fired after that. Aside from gathering up a few dozen weapons that had been stashed throughout the homes, we never found the HVIs we were hunting. But that is how it went most of the time, especially during daytime raids. We always seemed to have more luck nabbing bad guys while they slept.
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