Donovan Campbell

by Leadership;Brotherhood Joker One: A Marine Platoon's Story of Courage

  To take the initiative away from our enemies and preempt yet another round of casualties and citywide battles, 2/4’s commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Kennedy, decided to launch a massive battalion-wide surge through the Farouq area on April 8. Titled “Operation County Fair” after a similar mission in Vietnam, the operation called for all three of the battalion’s infantry companies to search house to house in predesignated sectors of Farouq while Weapons Company, along with bits and pieces of an Army brigade, provided a mobile cordon to prevent fleeing insurgents from escaping the hunt. The battalion expected the fighting to last for twenty-four to thirty-six hours, so everyone was told to take extra food and water.

  Joker One and I had spent most of April 7 guarding the Combat Outpost and skirmishing in its immediate environs, so we were the best-rested and least casualty-debilitated unit in Golf Company. After all, we hadn’t had any wounded, and we had slept for three or four hours on the evening of April 6. Therefore, Captain Bronzi tasked us to infiltrate the city a few hours before the rest of the company left the Outpost. Under cover of darkness, we were to move quietly through the alleyways and backstreets until we reached a series of tall houses on the western edge of Farouq. There we would set up rooftop positions, acting as a backstop for the rest of our company as it swept through the area from the east to the west. With any luck, we would be able to spot enemy ambushers as they set up their attack positions and put them between a rock and a hard place as they fled the platoons sweeping in our direction.

  Thus, 4 AM on April 8, 2004, found Joker One praying, accompanied by a few attachments: a sniper team called Headhunter Two, which had been sent to us to assist in our efforts to shoot our enemies from a distance. I was happy to have them. The sniper platoon worked for 2/4, and my friend Nate Scott commanded it, so I knew all of the Marines, and I knew that they were extremely tough, competent, and professional. Additionally, Headhunter Two came complete with one long-range M-40A3 sniper rifle and, equally important, one long-range, PRC 119 radio. Once our prayer was over, I reminded my Marines and the newcomers to push water and to eat something every now and again to keep their electrolytes up for the lengthy fighting ahead of us. Final advice dispensed, the three squads dispersed and headed out of the firmbase on foot, moving as silently as possible through the sleeping city, each squad taking a different, predetermined route to its final objective. I walked with Leza and second.

  The patrol into the city for once went smoothly. All squads made it to their objectives within a half hour and announced that they were proceeding to occupy their respective fighting positions. Bowen and his third squad were the farthest north, on a seven-or eight-story building just across Michigan from the cemetery that marked the center of Ramadi, the same one where Hes and part of third platoon had holed up two days earlier. The snipers moved with Bowen—since third squad would be on top of the tallest building with the best view of our zone, I wanted them to have the high-powered rifle and the high-powered optics of the Headhunters. A few blocks south of them were Leza and me with second, in the middle of the platoon sector, and two blocks south of us were Noriel and first.

  We wanted to maintain the element of surprise for as long as possible, so, rather than move into a house, wake up the family, and use up a whole fire team guarding them, we had decided to try to climb the outside of the buildings. Squinting up at the second story of our tan, nondescript housing compound and its long, flat roof some twenty feet above us, Sergeant Leza sighed and turned to me.

  “We gotta play Spider-Man again, huh, sir?” he whispered.

  “Looks like it.”

  Leza nodded and spat on the ground, then ordered Raymond to scale the housing compound’s outer wall while Leza, I, and another Marine braced the corporal from below. In anticipation of the all-day battle, everyone had loaded themselves up with excess ammo and water, so hoisting the muscular Raymond and his sixty extra pounds even a few feet off the ground was a task, to say the least. I have no idea how he managed to pull his way up to the top of the roof after we let go of him—all the weight lifting he did finally came in handy, I suppose—but somehow he did, and he hopped from that wall onto the flat roof of an offshoot of the house itself. The next thing I knew, Raymond was hauling me bodily up the compound’s outer wall. Together we made our way across the narrow roof of the house outcropping, scaled another small wall, clambered across the red-tiled roof of a pigeon coop, and dropped onto the roof proper.

  I heaved a sigh of relief, and just as I did so, I heard a crashing sound and a loud thump. I whirled around. One of our SAW gunners had been crawling across the pigeon coop when the tiles beneath him collapsed under the weight of a combat-loaded Marine and his machine gun. Pigeons flew everywhere, and an embarrassed, cursing lance corporal fought his way out of the cage’s wire mesh. I flinched at the noise, but I couldn’t help suppressing a small smile. Whoever the owner of the house was, he was certainly going to get a surprise later on that day when he came to the roof and found that his pigeons had been replaced by twelve heavily armed Marines.

  After about fifteen minutes of graceless, sweaty climbing, the whole twelve-man squad finally made the building’s top. I radioed Noriel. He and Bowen were both set up on the roofs of their respective buildings. Hearing that, I knelt down behind the waist-high parapet that ran along the edge of our roof and waited for the sun to rise and the day’s action to begin. About an hour and a half later, the standard early morning calls to prayer rang through the city, and the Farouq search kicked off in earnest as the last chants faded away. We waited, keyed up for the first sounds of gunfire that would indicate the fight was beginning, but nothing happened. An hour later, the city was still deadly silent, and I started to wonder where the insurgents had gone and if we would see any action at all that day. Suddenly, Bowen called me over the 119.

  “One-Actual, we’ve got a man out here with an AK. It looks like he’s trying to hide it under his jacket. Over.”

  “Roger, One-Three. Where is he?”

  “He’s on Michigan, on the southern side, on the sidewalk. He’s just standing there. Over.”

  “Is he wearing all black, or does he look like he’s communicating with someone? Does it look like he’s getting ready to attack? Over.”

  “Negative on the all black. Can’t tell whether he’s communicating. Other than that he’s just standing there. Break. The Headhunters tell me they can take him out. What do you want us to do, One-Actual? Over.”

  I pondered the question for a bit. We had just come through two days of fierce fighting during which we had been attacked from all sides by enemies disguised as civilians and civilians volunteering as enemies. Nothing had happened just yet, but that didn’t necessarily mean that nothing was planned or that attacks wouldn’t break out soon enough. It was early, maybe the enemy was still staging; after all, the fighting of the previous two days had not begun until well after 9 AM on each, and the time was just now approaching 8. Maybe this man was a scout, or some sort of first mover. Maybe he was simply waiting, unaware of us watching him, for Marines to come around the corner so that he could unleash on them with his AK before hopping into a car and speeding away. If I hesitated to take action until the man opened fire and perhaps killed or wounded some of our comrades, then their blood would be squarely on my head.

  But maybe the man was simply a local government official’s bodyguard who was illegally carrying his AK-47 openly, or an off-duty police officer carrying his weapon out of uniform, something they had all been told repeatedly not to do but something that they routinely did anyway. Maybe he was just an unthinking civilian. There was some sort of punishment in place for carrying an AK-47 when one shouldn’t, but, as far as I knew, that punishment wasn’t death. This train of thought, or some jumbled, blurred version of it anyway, ran through my head for about thirty seconds. Then I made my decision.

  “Kill him,” I said into the radio handset.

  No reply came, but less than a minute later I heard the long, low
boom of

  the sniper rifle followed by three high, quick pops from an M-16. Then the report came back.

  “One-Actual, this is One-Three. Be advised, Headhunters say that target is dead. I say again, target is dead. Break. He was hit low, through the liver, so we had to finish him with the 16. Break. Some civilians are loading the body into a car now. Over.”

  “Roger, One-Three. Tell the Headhunters good work. Out.”

  “Roger. Out.”

  Nothing else happened that day. The predicted attacks never materialized, and the battalion found a few minor weapons caches but nothing other than that—no insurgents, no terror cells, and no key civilian organizers. The only violence on April 8 was that which we had inflicted on the anonymous AK-wielding Iraqi, and I spent much of the rest of the day’s downtime on the roof wondering if I had ordered the death of a potential attacker or an off-duty police officer.

  A few months later, the battalion intelligence officer, Captain Towle, stopped by our base for a meeting with the CO. Afterward, he spotted me and came over to chat, and we talked for a bit, one intel officer to another, about recent events in Ramadi and elsewhere. The conversation was winding down when, out of nowhere, Towle said, “Oh, by the way, you remember that guy you had the snipers take out?”

  “Yes,” I replied hesitantly. It wasn’t something that I thought about all that often, probably because I didn’t particularly like to think about it.

  “Well, we later figured out who he was. Turns out, he was the bodyguard of a notorious thug sheik with suspected ties to organized crime and terrorism. After you guys killed the bodyguard, the sheik got scared and left Ramadi. We haven’t heard from him since.” He nodded his approval as the words trailed off.

  I nodded back but didn’t bother to reply. It’s one thing to shoot an insurgent who’s trying to annihilate your men with a machine gun or a rocket, but it’s something else altogether to order an unsuspecting man’s death from two hundred yards away and then to follow the results dealt out in real time. Right then I didn’t know how to tell the captain that the decision to kill that Iraqi didn’t feel either right or wrong when I made it. It just felt hard either way, and the understanding now that the man was a known bad character still didn’t really change my choice, its weight, or my feelings about it. It seemed a waste of time to try to explain that sometimes, on the front lines, there are no great options, just bad ones and worse ones, so you do what you can in the knowledge that you’re dealing life and death no matter which way the decision swings. Then you live with the results and shut up about the whole thing.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “What do you think happens when I die, sir? I think now that I might.” The question came from Lance Corporal Williams, one of my youngest Marines. Joker One was now a million years away from early March of 2004, when we used to debate whether we’d ever be awarded the coveted Combat Action Ribbon. As we lived through our bloody April, Joker One and I had no idea of the larger picture in Iraq. We didn’t know that a combined Marine/Army force was slugging it out with Shiite militias among the tombstones of the Imam Ali shrine in Najaf, or that our fellow Marines just down the road were bitterly disappointed after having their rolling invasion of Fallujah halted in midstride by civilian politicians. We didn’t know that 134 coalition soldiers would be killed that month in Iraq. And we didn’t know that many people were beginning to realize that the insurgency might be more than just a few isolated hotspots of violence. All we knew was that one morning we had woken up to find that our city had exploded around us, and that when the dust finally settled a few days later, many of our friends had simply ceased to be. Their deaths hadn’t been easy; we knew because we’d recovered some of the bodies ourselves—Langhorst had been shot through the head, and Hallal, the Marine whose body had been found by Corporal Brown, had had his throat slit and his gear stripped. For the first time we understood that Golf Company wouldn’t be returning home whole.

  Friendly deaths weren’t the only ones that affected us deeply, though. From the boy I had seen kicking in the courtyard to the woman carrying groceries that Hes had seen wither under machine gun fire, the citizens of Ramadi also paid a steep price in blood each time violence broke out. Civilians always suffer—it’s an inescapable fact of war, it always has been—and you may very well have an intellectual understanding that these things happen. But until you see a boy with a red third eye, it’s hard to fully understand what “collateral damage” really means. Now we knew. For us, then, April proved a turning point of a different type, a psychological one, and it profoundly changed the way we thought of ourselves, our situation, and the Iraqi citizens surrounding us.

  For many members of Joker One, death took on a very real persona on April 6, and thereafter many of my Marines’ questions mirrored Williams’s: “Sir, what do you think happens when I die?”

  There’s an old saying that in war there are no atheists in the foxholes. It’s not true. There are indeed atheists on the front lines—there were a few in my platoon—and even after the events of April some of them clung to their faith as steadfastly as did those of us who believed in God. A more accurate saying, then, would be something along the lines of “In war, no front-line soldier can ignore the inevitability of his own death.” Most nineteen-year-olds have the luxury of avoiding such thoughts altogether, or at least of distracting themselves if the idea does arise, but, having watched some of their closest friends killed and maimed traumatically, my Marines no longer did. They couldn’t reflect on tragedy for a time and then push it aside as a life of relative comfort in America slowly anesthetized them; there was no comfort, no America, no familiarity to take the edge off life. We still had six more months to go in our deployment, and now we feared that whenever we ventured outside the base, death would stalk us relentlessly.

  In this psychologically wearing climate our pre-mission prayers took on an even more serious tenor, and became, I think, increasingly important to the men. I believe that, in some small way, the prayer helped my Marines focus their attention on the job at hand and on protecting one another, rather than on worries for their own death. The brief moment of togetherness gave all of us purpose in the face of chaos and random violence. To those who sought it, the prayer also provided some comfort that God was in control, that their lives had worth and meaning stemming from an absolute source.

  And we needed meaning, because after April 6 we lost all faith in our tactics as emissaries of kindness and in the willingness of the people of Ramadi to help us. It would have been one thing, we thought, if, during the fighting, the citizens had simply cowered fearfully in their homes. Having been brutalized by Saddam Hussein for the past three decades, most had learned that survival meant never seeing evil, never volunteering for anything, keeping your mouth shut and your head down when neighbors mysteriously disappeared. So we would have understood if they had decided to stay at home and sit this one out, but they didn’t.

  Instead, despite our daily kindness, despite the relief projects, the money, the aid that we had already poured into the hospitals, despite the fact that we routinely altered our missions to make ourselves less safe in order to avoid offending them, the citizens of Ramadi had come out of their houses and actively tried to kill us. Multiple intelligence sources later told us that hundreds, if not thousands, of males ranging from teenagers to fifty-year-olds had grabbed their family’s assault rifles, and, using the chaos caused by the hard-core insurgents as cover, they had taken potshots at U.S. forces as we passed by. Maybe it was one of these bullets that tumbled through Gentile’s face and neck or through the back of Langhorst’s head, we thought. And when these local Minutemen returned home, we were told, many of them had bragged of their exploits to their friends. For the younger ones, shooting at the Americans had apparently become a sort of coming-of-age ritual; for the older ones, it was probably a way to express anger and frustration with the misery of life in Iraq, a misery that, for better or worse, U.S. forces kicked off with the 2003 invasion. It
also occurred to us that some, if not most, of them may have also felt humiliated by an occupying Western power carrying guns with impunity on their streets, or that others may have thought we were there as neoimperialists, come to steal their oil. Occasionally, I wondered what I would have done if the situation were reversed, and the Iraqi army had invaded Texas. I probably wouldn’t have sat idly on the sidelines.

  Making matters worse, the institutions that had formally agreed to assist us in our efforts, such as the local police or Ramadi’s national guard battalion, not only abandoned their posts but also refused even to pass along the message that an attack was pending. It didn’t take a trained official to figure out the signs of the assault; anyone could have done it—after all, on April 5, the insurgents had posted flyers in the marketplace and elsewhere, flyers that warned businesses not to open and residents to stay at home on the following day as attacks on U.S. forces were planned. It would have taken only two or three people out of 350,000 to warn us, but no one, to my knowledge, did. Again, there were some reasons for this—the insurgents would kill them if they found out, and we wouldn’t—but we didn’t know in early 2004 that for most Iraqis the decision to help coalition forces often meant death. All we knew was that no one seemed to be on our side.

  So on April 6, 2004, the 2nd Battalion, 4th Marine Regiment flipped the switch of its default settings and settled firmly on kill. The insurgents, along with large swaths of the civilian population, had wanted a jihad, and a jihad we had given them. We had poured the full weight of our battalion’s combat power into the city, and if the enemy decided to stand and fight again, then we would do the exact same thing, only more quickly. And if the citizens who refused to help us, or even to warn us, suffered during the fighting that ensued, then so be it. We never believed that we could win without their support, but if they wanted to help the enemy put bullets through our stomachs, then they had to be prepared to live with the consequences. Maybe they needed to fear us a little bit before they’d help us. Maybe kindness wasn’t enough.