Echo in Ramadi

by Scott A. Huesing

  There are plenty of Marines who will say how stupid I was for doing that. I was. There are plenty of Marines who will say they never drink and drive. Some don’t. I never really did, not like that night. But most do and just haven’t been caught. I was lucky. Nothing more.

  After that, I didn’t touch a drop of alcohol. I was physically averse to it after the accident that nearly killed me, or worse, that could have killed someone else. Aside from having a sore abdomen and shoulder from where the seatbelt caught me, the biggest pain was the shame. It washed over me. It still does. I have never been more ashamed of anything I have ever done more than what I did that night.

  It had caught up to me.

  I don’t have nightmares. I don’t lament over the dead bodies or graphic scenes of war. The killing.

  It’s not the gunfire, or firefights, or any of that stuff for me.

  It’s the friction.

  It has been a part of my entire adult life. But the friction is relatively absent now in the physical sense that it had been in combat. I function well. At least I think I do. I don’t sleep much. I don’t drink. I exercise fanatically and follow a strict diet to maintain my fitness level. I’m probably just more centered now with everything else orbiting me.

  But it’s there, and I don’t even know it. Most of the time.

  CHAPTER 30

  Unseen

  Many events—not necessarily limited to combat or war—cause PTS. Some veterans who have experienced the most terrifying and gruesome facets of combat are often the most affected. They fall into a higher percentage of those dealing with PTS through their experiences.

  Especially grunts.

  There are plenty of guys on active duty with PTS right now. I was one. They can be compared to high-functioning alcoholics. They have a problem but get through the day without being found out. They’re still great Marines. They still do their jobs. They’re successful.

  They push it to the side.

  There are others who discount it or, worse, ignore it. Some believe it’s only a problem that “the weak of mind” experience or concoct as excuses to justify their quick tempers or explain their lack of concentration. Some posture as if they’re impervious to it. They can dismiss it all they want. But it’s there. And it catches up to you one way or another.

  Combat is strange, chaotic, and sometimes an exhilarating experience—all wrapped up in one, at times. I would go into situations that were so volatile and dynamic on the battlefield that I rarely thought about the worst outcome—but they happened. I pressed forward vigilantly in my mission to help others, or destroy those that opposed it. I did this with the safety of my fellow Marines surrounding me, like a giant, yet lethal, protective bubble, guarding me. Every Marine took care of one another as their main concern.

  For some, it is often a challenge to deal with the fact that when they return home that “protective bubble” is no longer around them physically. It creates a sense of vulnerability, abandonment, loneliness, and anxiety for some. Marines miss the brotherhood, too.

  It manifests itself in many ways. Some drink and do drugs. Some overeat. Some seclude themselves. Others check the locks on their doors at night three or four times before going to bed. They sleep with loaded weapons. The list is endless. Whatever form it takes, they are looking for a way to insulate themselves in the absence of that bubble.

  Marines will always have a calling. They’ll away have a sense of duty and courage to run toward danger when others run from it. It’s cliché, but true.

  Marines, especially, still find themselves on edge in the absence of danger. They’re programmed for life in some cases to protect, fight, and remain alert, even when there is a limited threat. Their minds are still telling them they are living on the edge.

  For some, it is too much to cope with.

  2 November 2015

  Shortly after midnight, local police were called to the scene of what appeared to be a single-vehicle collision on a cold night in Minnesota. A car had veered off the road and slammed into a tree. When they arrived, what the police discovered was not what they had expected. There was much more to the story. Simon Litke sat in the driver’s seat. He had shot himself in the head.

  The paramedics rushed him to the local hospital. It was too late.

  Litke had gone out earlier in the night. He had some drinks with friends—and then a few more. He’d even texted some of the Echo Company Marines minutes before. There were no indicators to his family or friends as he drove down that dark road. No one imagined it would unfold the way it did.

  Tragically, less than seven years after leaving the Marines at the age of thirty, Litke took his own life after battling with the effects of posttraumatic stress (PTS). He was trying to cope like so many do with drugs and alcohol, trying to fight off the demons that haunted him and all that his mind could never “un-see.”

  We’d lost Lance Corporal Andrew Marrari the same way in 2009. He was only twenty-four at the time.

  On the plane to Minneapolis, Minnesota, to attend Litke’s memorial service, I held back my personal emotions and unsubstantiated contempt as I sat there. I thought about all the passengers—lemmings packed on that plane around me—random, unknown people—concerned about getting their complimentary snacks and what the inflight movie was going to be. They had no idea how good they had it. They would never begin to understand the sacrifices of men like Litke and everything he had gone through, both in and out of the Marines.

  It was groundless disdain, but it welled up inside of me.

  13 November 2015

  It was a clear Friday afternoon when friends, family, and more than eighty Marines from Echo Company gathered and stood in the crisp, thirty-five-degree Fahrenheit weather outside the American Legion Post for Litke’s memorial service. In total, there were more than four hundred people there that day to honor Litke and his warrior spirit.

  I was planning to speak at the service but hadn’t prepared any words.

  I wasn’t sure what I would say. The pain and emptiness of it all left me at a loss.

  I struggled.

  Instead, I pulled a piece of paper from my coat and unfolded it as I stood on the stage in front of the crowd of fellow Marines, strangers, and his grieving parents. It was an essay Corporal Litke had written on his way back from Iraq. I made all the Marines write one. Originally, I only planned on giving a copy of it to his mom and dad.

  I decided to read what Litke had written:

  Combat Essay by Corporal Simon Litke, 2007

  It wouldn’t do my squad justice to say that one story, good or bad, is all that I could come up with for this story. First, I’d have to say that it gave me great satisfaction to watch my squad excel during our time in Iraq. To see the Marines come together as a team as well as on their own is all I could have ever asked for as a leader; all that any leader can.

  I mulled it over in my mind for hours before I decided what to write about. This is one of the proudest moments as a squad leader that I can remember. In the early morning hours of January 21, 2007, and our first day in Building 500 in Ar Rutbah, Iraq.

  I was awoken [sic] after only an hour or so of sleep to a scream that will haunt my dreams forever. “Corpsman Up!” Hearing the scream Corporal Scott and I threw our gear on feverishly and as we did, tripped on each other in the commotion as we desperately tried to make our way to the site of the casualty that was on the rooftop of the building at the time.

  By the time we reached the landing of the staircase, every possible scenario had run through my mind as to what could have happened. Nothing that I thought of could have held a candle to what I saw at the top of those stairs. I saw what every leader dreads; one of my Marines was down. I could take this story down that road and the grim details of that event—but I won’t. Instead, I want to tell the good thing that I saw that day related to this horrific and tragic event.

  HN “Doc” Lleva, our squad Corpsman surpassed every expectation I ever had set for him. When he first came t
o the unit, I thought that our squad had gotten the proverbial short end of the stick in getting one of the most junior, inexperienced, Corpsmen in the unit. Frankly, that was one of my main concerns. I really wasn’t terribly worried that my Marines would falter because I had the best team leaders in the company. I was, however, scared shitless that my Corpsman would freeze when we needed him the most.

  On that day, as much as I felt God damned me, I saw a blessing in Doc Lleva. His performance under those unfortunate conditions may have been my proudest moments as a squad leader. I want to add that I think this deployment was challenging and I believe that it was a fitting culmination to my Marine Corps career.

  Everyone in the American Legion hall stood quietly as I folded up the letter and slipped it into the inside pocket of my suit coat. The quiet pause didn’t last long. The Marines who had been toasting Litke all day let loose with applause and several loud, “Ooh-Rahs” to lighten the mood. Litke’s mother, sitting in the front row, looked up at me and mouthed, “Thank you,” as she wiped tears out of her eyes.

  Even in the aftermath of Litke’s loss, he continued to take care of those around him—just as he had always done for his fellow Marines.

  Litke was an organ donor.

  Today Litke’s heart beats in the chest of a sixty-three-year-old man, his lungs breathe for a forty-seven-year-old woman, his kidney functions in the body of an eight-year-old girl, and his liver thrives in the body of a thirty-eight-year-old man. Even though our hearts were breaking, we all knew that Litke lived on.

  Those dark echoes resonate with all of us who served. Some still don’t hear them. They are only a fraction that represent over twenty veterans that take their own lives every day.

  Echo Company stays closely bonded. It’s our chemistry that flows through us perhaps, interconnecting us, as only Marines will know.

  Marines who served under some of the worst conditions at a time when there was great uncertainty, and most certain danger.

  We’ll never lose the permanence of what we saw—never be able to “un-see” some of the worst actions of humanity, never ignore the echoes of what was heard. But Echo Company will always have a sense of pride that we helped so many who could not help themselves—the true spirit of what Marines do.

  Gratitude

  I cannot begin to fully express my thanks and acknowledgements to the following friends who contributed to this book. It is, in essence, their story. They sacrificed with me in combat and supported me at home, both while I fought and while I wrote. They all shared their stories, hearts, and expertise with me to tell this story.

  To my wife, Kimberly—You fell asleep alone so many nights while I fought and while I wrote this book. I know it was never easy, but you you were there for me through it all and raised our beautiful daughter, Bailey, in my absence.

  Ed Vasgerdsian—You guided me, mentored me, and provided hundreds of hours of your time to help me with this project. I will forever be in your debt.

  Sylvia Mendoza—My friend and first editor who transformed this story to truly make it shine.

  John McLaughlin—You provided countless stories and contributions to this book. Your words and conversations did much to help me tell this story.

  The Libby, Sanchez, Matus, and Litke families—The memories and stories you shared with me were instrumental in honoring your Marines. I’m humbled that you trusted me with them.

  Kimberly Downing—Your story reflects what thousands have gone through during the Long War and continue to do today. I am so honored that you shared it with me.

  Richard “Bam-Bam” Rasmussen—My thanks to you for being a sounding board, amazing friend, better warrior, and for filling in the gaps in time.

  Jared Norrell and Miciotto Johnson—I offer you my humble appreciation for supporting me then and now. Your words and contributions helped pave the way for this book.

  The Red Origami Dragon—An inspiration in more ways than I can count. A muse and motivation, tucked inside my desk, that kept me writing and telling this story when I waned.

  Joe Vallely—My agent, who always provided sage guidance, unvarnished advice, and vast experience to make this happen—I am extremely grateful for the “supporting arms.”

  Scott Belliveau—My project editor who worked tirelessly with me for weeks on end to take this story to an exceptional level.

  Finally, to Marji Ross and Alex Novak, who believed in this amazing story from the beginning and supported me throughout the process with your patience and enthusiasm. Thank you for welcoming me into the Regnery family.

  Special Thanks

  To all of the contributors of this book, I respectfully offer my personal “Thank You” for all that you provided. You shared your pain, your tears, and your time with me to tell this story. I will never forget your amazing stories, unshakeable commitment, and words of encouragement along the way.

  Big Sam

  Raymond Bowen

  Jack Coughlin

  Jeff Downing

  Kimberly Downing

  Ryan Downing

  Dale Dye

  Jonathan Espinoza

  Ford

  Jared Flannagan

  Thom Foster

  Scott Gehris

  AJ Goldberg

  Jay Grillo

  Colin Heaton

  Dianne Layfield

  Bobby Lee

  Robert Litke

  Chris Libby

  Geni Libby

  James Livingston

  James Mackenzie

  Donna Matus

  John McLaughlin

  Christopher Muscle

  Brian McKibben

  Jonathan Neris

  Seth Nicholson

  Jared Norrell

  Paul Nugent

  Mike Perkins

  Joseph Raney

  Charles Sasser

  Matt Scott

  Peter Somerville

  Calvin Spencer

  Drew Sturrock

  Patrick Van Horne

  Nick Velez

  Giles Walger

  Charles Walker

  Bing West

  Now

  I would love to know where every one of my Marines are today, what they are doing, and how they’ve grown. I’d like to reach out and remember all the fantastic soldiers, sailors, civilians, and Iraqis who supported us during our time as we fought. I’d like them to know I still think about them all, even the ones whose names I don’t know, because they impacted my life so deeply.

  I want them all to know that I am still here for them.

  For those Marines who have left the battlefield you need to know one thing: that protective bubble will always be there. It may now be a phone call, a drive, or a long flight away, but make no mistake about it, we will always be here to protect you.

  Longhorns

  Samawi “Big Sam” Al Helli—Big Sam received his undergraduate degree from the University of Baghdad. He moved to Chicago after being sponsored to the United States by “Bam-Bam.” He went on to get two master’s degrees. He is awaiting approval for his U.S. citizenship.

  Raymond Bowen—Bowen deployed again with 2d Battalion, 4th Marines. Later, he turned down a $40,000 re-enlistment bonus and left active duty. He served as a Marine Reservist until 2013. He now works as a journeyman boilermaker and lives in Joliet, Illinois, with his wife and young daughter.

  Derek Carpenter—After leaving Echo Company, Carp deployed to Afghanistan and spent five more years in the infantry. In 2013, he earned a coveted slot with Marine Corps Special Operations Command (MARSOC) and is a critical skills operator, still fighting the War on Terror. He lives in southern California with his girlfriend and two beautiful children.

  Jonathan Espinoza—Espo is a gunnery sergeant serving on active duty. Since 2007, he has deployed twice to Afghanistan and has had a successful tour on recruiting duty in El Paso, Texas. He is working on attaining his bachelor’s degree. He is currently stationed in Miami, Florida, where he lives with his wife and two children.


  Kimberly Downing—Since 2007, Kimberly has worked as a nurse for the VA in Des Moines, Iowa, feeling constantly honored to take care of veterans. She struggled for years taking care of her Marines when they couldn’t settle down and were in and out of trouble. Kimberly is now a travelling nurse with five beautiful grandchildren. She still feels blessed that her boys all came home and is continually honored to be their mother and wife. She always thanks me for that phone call each time we speak. I remain humbled.

  Jeff Downing—Jeff is a Des Moines, Iowa, firefighter. He’s with his family again boating and camping and enjoying family cookouts. Getting together and talking about their past experiences helps them grow as a family.

  Ryan Downing—Ryan left the Marines in 2007. He has been happily married for eight years now and has three children and is a full-time law enforcement officer in Iowa. It took him years to process all of the things he witnessed and endured as an eighteen-year-old and to adjust back to civilian life. He is eternally grateful to his mom and wife for guiding him back to where he needed to be.

  Ford—In 2008, Ford immigrated to the United States. He went on to finish his college degree in Information Technology. He moved to Chicago with Big Sam in 2013 and received his U.S. citizenship. As the threat of ISIS rose in 2015, Ford went back to Iraq as a high-level interpreter-translator for the U.S. Department of Defense. He currently lives in Florida.

  Thom Foster—Foster made another deployment with 2d Battalion, 4th Marines, to Okinawa, Japan, and then went on to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in Parris Island, South Carolina. He was promoted to sergeant major and is currently the command sergeant major at Marine Aviation Weapons and Tactics Squadron One (MAWTS-1) in Yuma, Arizona.

  Jonathan “Jay” Grillo—Grillo left active duty in 2008 and is now a U.S. marshal living in Plattsburg, New York, with his wife and baby girl.

  Dianne Layfield—For more than fourteen years, Dianne has been surrounded by support and comforted by her son’s memory. She has supported organizations such as the Fallen Heroes Funerals, Gold Star Families, Operation Moms, and Veterans Hospitals, and organized massive contributions to help veterans. She was instrumental in the passage of federal legislation meant to keep protestors one thousand feet away from fallen heroes’ memorial services and legislation in California that authorized Gold Star license plates.