That is the haunting reality that stays with me.
June 2007
The Marines of Echo Company and the rest of the battalion prepared to greet our Gold Star families that were traveling to southern California for our final memorial service.
Corporal Brian McKibben drove from Camp Pendleton to San Diego International Airport with his platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Jeromie Slaughter. During the forty-five-minute drive, they tried to figure out what the hell to say or talk about with the Matus family when they picked them up.
At the security checkpoint, the TSA agents made them both remove the medals from their uniforms. They were setting off the sensors, they explained. McKibben and Slaughter placed their medals into a crappy little plastic dish commonly reserved for wristwatches, cell phones, pocket change, and jewelry.
Slaughter was infuriated at the lack of respect the inspectors afforded them. And he was right: it was the ultimate insult to men who had just returned from combat, purging the world of so many insurgent scumbags.
McKibben was anxious about meeting Donna and Gary Matus. Would they want to know all of the details about their son’s death? What do I tell them? How am I going to react? He was at a loss to answer any of those questions.
Slaughter’s mind and heart raced at the prospect of talking to the family. He became almost breathless thinking about what he would say. He thought, “What would I want someone to tell my parents if it was me?”
Both men’s worries vanished the moment the Matus family walked out of the gate and into the airport. They instantly took to Slaughter and McKibben and greeted them affectionately as if the two Marines were members of their family.
McKibben and Slaughter were relieved that they talked more about Matus’s childhood—and told many funny stories about him as a kid—than they did about their son’s death.
There was a moment when McKibben described, in part, what took place that day on the roof of Building 500. “Matus took a bullet for me that day,” he said. The family never pressed him for more details.
The battalion held an elaborate party at the beach at Camp Del Mar aboard Camp Pendleton the day before the formal memorial service. It was organized by the City of San Clemente, which had adopted our battalion, and it was magnificent. Food trucks and tents, drinks, giveaways, prizes, kids’ activities, you name it, we got it. The city came out in full support. I was awestruck at the willingness of complete strangers to give so much to help us on that special day.
I saw the Sanchez family immediately. You couldn’t miss them.
Forty-two members of his tribe traveled together from New Mexico to southern California to attend the service. They all wore white T-shirts that had a picture of Emilian on the front. I introduced myself to his mom and dad, David and Jennie Sanchez. It was hard for me when I walked up to them, not knowing exactly what to say. They were being swarmed by the other Marines, and I almost felt as if I was in their way. But we spoke. They smiled and were happy to be surrounded by their son’s friends—the Marines he fought and died for that day in Iraq.
I saw Judd Libby, Corporal Libby’s father, out of the corner of my eye and made my way over to him. He tightened his lips and nodded his head in approval to let me know it was OK as I approached him.
He asked if I minded going on a walk.
We moved slowly away from the crowd, toward the surf. I was certain about what Judd was going to ask. I was ready. Emotionally, I had been through so much that day, but there was no doubt that I had to be there for him, whatever his questions were.
Judd asked me about 6 December. He wanted to know what happened. He was not probing, just curious about the unknown. I told him the important details about that night and was honest about how bravely his son fought.
We headed back toward the crowd. Judd walked casually with his hands in his pockets, looking down at the packed wet sand as the ocean rolled onto the beach. He asked me, “Can you tell me if he suffered?”
I turned to him and said without hesitation, “No, he didn’t suffer.”
That day on the beach was one of many essential steps in the healing process for us. It’s a process that never really stops, however.
15 June 2007
It was a warm, sunny day when the Magnificent Bastards of 2d Battalion, 4th Marines, honored our fallen brothers. We held the last memorial at Camp San Mateo, a smaller camp aboard Camp Pendleton, on the elaborately decorated parade ground behind our battalion command post. It was lined with all fifty state flags that ruffled slightly in the wind as it blew through the base of the mountains surrounding the camp. Aluminum bleachers were set up to accommodate the hundreds of attendees.
We had the customary memorial displays. Eight dressed wooden pedestals with eight upside-down M16-A4 rifles, their bayonets thrust into a sandbag at the bottom, holding them tight. Combat boots sat at the base of each pedestal with a camouflage-covered Kevlar helmet on top of the buttstock of each rifle. Dog tags of each Marine dangled over the rifles’ pistol grips. Every pedestal had a hand-drawn, charcoal portrait of the eight Marines that died on our deployment in 2006 and 2007. Three were from Echo Company.
The tribute we paid to our fellow Marines that day was a fitting ceremony. After the oral homages, music played softly over the speaker system as the crowd filtered slowly out from the bleachers.
Marines were the first to gravitate to the eight battlefield crosses on display. Individually or in groups of three or four, they stood before the memorials and placed their palms on the tops of the helmets that rested on the rifles. Some reached down and gently rubbed the aluminum dog tags between their thumbs and forefingers—pressing the tags into their palms.
Some wept.
Other Marines swarmed around their broken comrades, wrapping their arms around their backs, supporting each other and trying to fight off their own tears. Some of the Marines stood paralyzed by emotion in front of the pedestals, unable to leave.
I watched from afar at first. Then, I felt compelled to rush to the men and hug them myself. Heat and emotion welled up inside me, and I blinked hard to fight back the tears. I sniffed sharply and swallowed against the tightening muscles in my throat. I was heartbroken, too.
Watching my Marines in pain was hard.
I had always tried to safeguard them from the danger and pain during our time in Iraq, but there was nothing I could do now to protect them from this.
The Marines lingered at the memorials for a while and were given respect from the families and friends that watched this immense display of affection and loyalty.
As they had while we were in Iraq, the families supported us that day, even though our job was to be there for them. I am sure seeing us so vulnerable hit them hard in contrast to the hard-charging warriors they watched go off to war. They descended upon us with hugs and support as we stood there weakened by our grief.
They put their arms around us, still saying, “It’s all right.”
The kindness of the families overwhelmed me. Some touched me gently on my back as they brushed past compassionately. Comforting me. I felt comfort. I felt as if I were immersed in a large pool, floating in warm, gentle water as the Marines and families moved around me. It was their love and support that surrounded me.
I still keep in touch with all of the families of the men I lost. I ordinarily call around Memorial Day. Some of the other Echo Marines call on Mother’s Day or at Christmas time. We know they are still hurting, and we want to let them know we are still thinking about them and their Marines.
Sometimes, before calling, the boys have dulled their own pain with too much liquor, but the families always answer and listen. They know how inextricably linked the Marines are to their sons and always will be.
The families like staying connected to the Marines, too. It gives them comfort knowing that the Marines are still thinking about them.
We will forever be a part of an irreplaceable family.
CHAPTER 29
Risk
Af
ter all of the bloodshed and pain everyone endured over a decade in Iraq, I hoped that the closing chapters of this story would provide a happy ending of sorts. I envisioned writing the final parts after a ten-year reunion trip I planned to take in 2016 with my interpreter, Big Sam, and a few other Marines. We’d walk the ground we fought on a decade before, reminisce about the firefights we had endured, and take a moment to honor the Marines we lost.
I imagined writing success stories about how the cities had improved and how democracy was flourishing. I would provide “then and now” photos of streets once cluttered with piles of trash and rubble and charred vehicles that were now clean and clear and full of traffic, proof that life had come back to the cities and the people were thriving.
All of this—the democracy, the prosperity, the thoughts of a new Ramadi and a restored Iraq—was only a pipedream.
Instead, darker echoes resonated through Ramadi and Al Anbar Province. In May 2015, the city fell to the Islamic State in Syria (ISIS) and other radicals who imposed a reign of terror on the city.
I don’t think that too many of us were heartbroken about the unfolding events in Ramadi and Iraq as a whole; many of those who fought there weren’t really surprised. I think we almost anticipated it in fact because the United States was unwilling to establish a permanent presence in Iraq.
Often, I get asked what I think about the situation in Iraq in general, and the rise of ISIS specifically. I dismiss out of hand any rhetoric about “hitting the reset button” on the Middle East and how the solution to ISIS is to bomb Iraq into a “glass factory.”
There are so many decent and kind Iraqis who want to lead a normal life that it’s not fair to punish them because ISIS or any radical Islamist faction seems to represent the country as a whole. They don’t.
I usually tell people that what has happened in Ramadi and Al Anbar Province over the past few years is a stark reminder of why we should have stayed in Iraq. I also say that what those of us who served struggled with then and now was the fact that we never really understood the political strategy that the United States was pursuing and the political endgame it was trying to achieve. It would have been nice to have something simple laid out, so we could have told ourselves and our families, “Yeah, this is what we are fighting for, this is what we’re out here to do…” and either we succeeded at it or we failed.
But to date, I have never really had a metric for success of our purpose in Iraq. I suppose the only metric I have for myself is that I brought as many Marines back home safely with me as I possibly could.
Sadly, the dark echoes of our time in Iraq still resonate with many of Echo Company, who battle with the effects of post-traumatic stress (PTS). Including me.
I never refer to it as a disorder.
A good friend of mine, Charles Adam Walker, taught me that. He wrote an article called “Postcombat Residue” in the December 2013 issue of the Marine Corps Gazette. It shaped the way I look at PTS today. Adam uses a prophetic analogy, likening the effects and residue of combat to those on a stained, well-used coffee mug. Indelibly tainted, yet still capable of performing its intended use day in and day out—but the residue will always remain.
I thrived on a lifestyle of high-risk behavior since I was a kid. I loved to live on the edge most times.
I never hesitated to take a dare or perform a ridiculous stunt. I was jumping off the high dive at age four. I played BB gun wars with my neighbors. My first car in high school was a Yamaha sport motorcycle. I used to race it fast, going over 145 miles per hour on occasions on abandoned sections of freeway in Illinois. I fought. I ran from the cops. I drank at parties. I skipped school. I fought some more.
Being in the Marines seemed to be a natural fit. They were the biggest group of risk-takers I’d ever met.
I always sought out the risk and adventure even when I wasn’t in combat. When I was a lance corporal, I jumped eighty-five feet off a ship into the Red Sea just for fun. I climbed rocks. I fought. I still rode a motorcycle. We’d go out into the desert and shoot guns. I drank with the other Marines and officers. Sometimes we’d drink and shoot guns. It was a totally acceptable lifestyle. Mine was pale in comparison to some.
No one ever thinks it will catch up to you.
July 2011
I was at my computer in my house in San Marcos, California, when suddenly my skin buzzed, and my entire body became hot and flushed. I began to tremble. My vision narrowed and the room began to close in around me. I stood up from my chair and nearly fell over. My left arm began to hurt.
I said to my seven-year-old daughter in the other room, “If Daddy falls down, I want you to call 911, OK?” She was terrified but stood alert. I knew she would do it.
I stumbled into the living room and called my wife at work. I told her to call 911. I thought I was having a stroke or a heart attack. I had no idea what was going on.
Within minutes, the paramedics arrived. The team began to take my vitals and hooked me up to a mobile EKG machine. The warm pressure that had overtaken me subsided a bit. My vitals were strong.
The left side of my face drooped. I couldn’t make a smile or raise my left eyebrow. I was sure I’d had a stroke. I was forty. The medics calmly informed that what I was going through was a panic attack.
When my wife came home, the paramedics were packing their gear up. They told her to drive me to the emergency room.
We drove south on Interstate 5 to the Balboa Naval Medical Center in San Diego. The rush came over me again in the car. My breathing was short. I felt pressure all around me. I leaned forward and placed my face close to the air conditioning vent on the dashboard, sucking in the cool air. My wife called the emergency room at Balboa and told them we were ten minutes away.
The team at the ER ran brain scans, heart scans, EKGs, EEGs and everything else they could. The attending doctors told me I had suffered an anxiety attack, and Bell’s Palsy had caused my face to droop. They said it would get better. Within three or four days, it did. They gave me some sedatives to calm me down. They helped.
Two days later, I pulled my Jeep over to the side of the freeway while driving to work. It was happening again. A ringing sensation started all around me, accompanied by an overwhelming sense of pressure. I didn’t want to black out on the highway, so I pulled over to the shoulder of the road and took a couple of the pills the ER doctors had prescribed for me. I waited it out for twenty minutes, enough time for the pills to kick in.
I’d have several more episodes like that over a few months and then nothing. I was back to normal. The doctors said it was stress related. They said it was my body trying to tell me to slow down from the lifestyle of fast-paced, risky behavior I relished. I didn’t listen.
I still took pills to calm my nerves, mostly when I knew I’d be in a big crowd or an unfamiliar place. I was already taking pills for the pain in my neck. I had to have emergency spinal surgery in 2008 to repair two damaged cervical discs that had ruptured and impinged on my spinal cord as a result of my fall on 6 December 2006 at ECP 8. Two more spinal surgeries followed, in addition to the litany of steroid injections I got from the Navy doctors who used me like a human voodoo-doll.
Sometimes I’d kick-start the pills with a glass of vodka or Scotch. I’d ignored the pain for years before the surgery, numbing it with the meds and booze. Why stop now? I kept taking risks I didn’t need to. I raced my motorcycle at high speeds often under the effects of the pills and somehow made it back home in one piece. I took different pills to put me to sleep once I got there.
Everything I took was prescribed from the U.S. Navy and my doctors. Most of the time, I was away from my wife. I was on deployment or stationed away from home, and only came home on the weekends. She never really saw the pattern.
It caught up with me.
I came to. Dazed. All of the airbags in my brand-new Jeep had deployed. There was a strange chemical smell around me. Yellowish dust covered the inside of the car. I tried to exit; I couldn’t move out of the seat.
The Jeep sat buried, nose-first, in a rocky drainage ditch on the opposite side of the road. I had crossed over the double-yellow lines on a sharp curve at 0200 hours. My Jeep was totaled. I was lucky to be alive and uninjured.
In my drunken, drug-induced state, I apparently had the muscle memory to put on my seatbelt. It had saved my life.
It was the day after Christmas. I had poured glasses of single malt Scotch down my throat all day. I kept drinking when I went to a party alone later that night. Had more pills. There was a rowdy group there—hardcore bikers and fighters. They were all a good ten or fifteen years younger than me. I wrestled with one in the front yard. It wasn’t much of a match, but I loved the feeling. The challenge. The risk.
None of them stopped me from getting behind the wheel. None of them were Marines. I lived less than two miles away. I could make it. No problem.
I managed to dial the phone. My wife arrived within minutes and pulled me out of the car and took me home before the cops showed up. A passerby had called the cops anyway when they saw the Jeep smashed in the ditch. My buddies tried to tow it out before they showed up.
I sat at home—a complete mess—while my wife went back to the scene of the accident. The rest of my family was fast asleep—they never even knew the cops had shown up and brought my wife home. She’d talked them out of giving me a ticket that night—giving them a pitch about me being a disabled veteran and combat Marine. A miracle. I vaguely remember talking to them and thanking them in my driveway, spilling a cup of hot coffee as I slurred my gratitude to the officers.
My wife dragged me into the house to my bedroom. I was so fucking hammered. I rambled on incoherently until I passed out. I think it was the only time she ever saw me come to tears. I don’t even want to know what I said to her that night. I’m thankful she never told me.
Echo in Ramadi Page 27