Places and Names

by Elliot Ackerman

  I tell him that I was in Fallujah in 2004.

  “I was with one-five. You know one-five?”

  “Yes, I know one-five.” A few friends come to mind. “I was with one-eight.”

  He puts his arm around me and laughs. “What are you doing here?” he asks. “Did you get lost?” I don’t say anything, and he doesn’t push it. He just smiles, jabs his finger in my face, and repeats, “My sister, she is very happy in Texas.” As he finishes his cigarette, he’s looking to the west, toward Mosul.

  “What do you think’s going to happen?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head. “This? The future of all this, it cannot be predicted.”

  A SUMMARY OF ACTION

  FALLUJAH

  Two years after the Battle of Fallujah, on a clear January day in Camp Lejeune, I was awarded a medal. My entire family came for the occasion. It was my last day in the battalion, which was standing in formation on the parade ground while the adjutant for the Second Marine Division read a citation. Most of the Marines I’d fought alongside weren’t there—two years is a long time in the Corps, so they’d moved on, to civilian life, to other postings—but a few stood in formation. I searched for their faces, but I’d lost them in the ranks. After the award was presented, I was handed the citation and the more detailed “summary of action.” Mine was written by my company commander. It is the story of what happened. Rereading it now, all these years later, I want to add some things—the kinds of things that don’t make it into formal government documents, the personal reflections that fill the lines between them.

  * * *

  During this period of time, SNO (. . . Said Named Officer . . .) received imminent danger pay. (. . . when we came back most of us didn’t know what to do with all the imminent danger pay we’d saved up. We spent it on cars, on motorcycles, or partying. I spent some of mine on a weeklong trip running with the bulls in Pamplona . . .)

  * * *

  • • •

  Lieutenant Ackerman is enthusiastically recommended for the Silver Star for his heroic actions during OPERATION PHANTOM FURY in Fallujah, Iraq, between 10 November and 10 December 2004. (. . . we wrote awards during the last days of the battle, when each officer—three of the remaining five lieutenants in my company—took turns working on a laptop fueled by a handheld diesel generator, while the next morning we’d once again be fighting . . .) Lieutenant Ackerman’s heroic actions during this period reflect a level of bravery, composure under fire, and combat leadership that is beyond expectations.

  * * *

  • • •

  Lieutenant Ackerman served as a rifle platoon commander during OPERATION PHANTOM FURY. His platoon fought in more engagements than any other rifle platoon in the company. (. . . two weeks into the battle, my company commander told me that I was both the luckiest and unluckiest lieutenant he’d ever met. The luckiest because right out the gate, I experienced the largest battle the Marine Corps had fought in decades. I was the unluckiest because everything I ever did after that would seem inconsequential . . .) On numerous occasions he was tasked as the company’s main effort during the company’s attack south. During the course of the fighting in Fallujah, his platoon took casualties without the slightest degradation of motivation, professionalism, or effectiveness. (. . . “I can’t take it anymore,” one of the Marines tells me. We’re four days into the battle. His squad leader said he needed to talk to me. “I keep thinking about my daughter. Every time I go into a house I think about her.” He is crying and the other Marines are watching and I know that fear is contagious. “Do you want me to get you out of here?” I ask. He keeps muttering that he can’t take it. Twenty minutes later I’m loading him into an amtrack that will drive him out of Fallujah alongside wounded Marines. He and Pratt are married to a set of sisters. Pratt says he’ll never speak to him again . . .) Lieutenant Ackerman led his platoon with a level of disciplined violence that crushed the enemy and was critical to the company’s success. (. . . on the back of an M1 Abrams tank there is a little telephone in a box, tapped into the crew’s intercom; it’s called a “grunt phone.” I’ve never been as scared as I was the times I had to run to that grunt phone, bullet impacts dancing on the tank’s armor, their ricochets flashing like fistfuls of thrown pennies. I needed to get on the grunt phone to tell the tanks where to shoot. The tank crew would listen to music on their intercom, so if no one was talking you’d hear pop songs when you held the handset to your ear. The tankers I worked with liked Britney Spears. The squat crew chief, who looked like he was born to fit inside of a tank, told me that he played the music because it helped everyone in the tank stay “frosty” . . .)

  * * *

  • • •

  At 0400 on 10 November, the company crossed the line of departure on the north side of Fallujah and attacked to seize the government complex in the heart of the city. Lieutenant Ackerman was tasked with seizing the western side of the complex. (. . . it was the Corps’ birthday. As we loaded the tracks, the Marines swapped little pieces of MRE cake and placed them gently in their mouths, like priests placing Communion wafers . . .) As the company made the initial breach into the compound, Lieutenant Ackerman quickly established a foothold and seized the police station and high-rise building with little resistance. (. . . Staff Sergeant Ricardo Sebastian, who we called Seabass, thought the insurgents might not fight, that they might withdraw. He was Dan’s platoon sergeant. After my platoon sergeant was shot in the head, he became mine, but for less than two days, as he’d soon be shot through the arm and the leg. When we entered the mayor’s complex and nobody was there, I thought maybe Seabass had been right . . .) Using a combination of precise rocket shots and explosive breaches, he was able to quickly advance and clear his first two buildings prior to sunrise. (. . . in the week before the battle, we’d rehearsed this dozens of times. We rehearsed and rehearsed and rehearsed as if rehearsing it enough meant we might never have to do it . . .) As the sun came over the horizon, a heavy volume of enemy direct and indirect fire shattered the early-morning calm. It quickly became apparent that while there were no enemy personnel inside the compound, the buildings to the south, east, and west were teeming with insurgents. (. . . Dan’s up on the rooftop of the high-rise . . .)

  * * *

  • • •

  Lieutenant Ackerman quickly grasped the situation, and as the company began to respond to the enemy fire from all directions, he attacked and seized the southern-most buildings in the government complex. (. . . we run as fast as we can to Mary-Kate and Ashley, kicking open locked doors, breaking windows; it is exciting, no one’s been hurt, we are euphoric . . .) From this position, he was able to provide timely and accurate reporting to the company commander on the enemy disposition that helped shape the company battle for the rest of the afternoon. From his position as the battalion’s lead southern trace, Lieutenant Ackerman orchestrated both direct and indirect fires for six hours. (. . . I am on my stomach, and each time I peek my head above the wall, I am convinced it’s going to get shot off. Second Platoon is in the building next to ours. A friendly air strike accidently hits them. We hear them screaming on the radio as they call in their wounded, and it mixes with the sounds of our jets overhead . . .) During this time he acted as a forward observer for numerous mortar and artillery missions and is credited with destroying 20 enemy personnel. (. . . the most difficult thing in a firefight is to find the people you are shooting at. Someone will manage a glimpse of a muzzle flash, or a silhouette in a window, and we will all shoot in that direction. Then another glimpse, and again we all shoot. I call in artillery, mortars. A sniper sets up in a minaret, his single shots inching closer to us. We are cleared to call in an air strike. The tip of the minaret explodes. The Marines film it, cheering. Later, one of them downloads the video clip to my computer. I still have it. I know I should delete it, but I don’t . . .)

  * * *

  • • •

  Under the cover of darkness in the e
arly-morning hours of 11 November, Lieutenant Ackerman’s platoon was tasked to attack to gain a foothold on the south side of MSR Michigan in order to open the MSR as an east-west line of communication. (. . . no one has slept, and we won’t really sleep for another two days. We are also running low on food and water. I catch the Marines stealing glances at me as I talk on the radio. They will do this constantly in the days and weeks to follow. They know that what is said over the radio—an order, a mission—can get them killed, but they have little control over these decisions. When we come home, one of the Marines in our platoon has to see the base psych, or “wizard,” for PTSD symptoms. When I tell him I understand what he went through, he tells me that I don’t. He says, “If you had to drive at a hundred fifty miles per hour down the freeway, what’s scarier—driving the car or riding shotgun?” . . .) He quickly seized a building with minimal resistance and once again became the forward southern trace for the battalion. (. . . we shot a few rounds from a gunship—a cargo plane with a 120 mm cannon—into the first building we had wanted to fight from. It collapsed. So we had to go even deeper into the city, probably too deep. I’ve always wondered if we should have turned back . . .) As the sun came up on 11 November, his platoon was in a position to engage multiple formations of enemy personnel moving into positions to attack the government complex. (. . . we occupied a candy store. We ate Pringles and chugged soda. We reinforced our windows with bags of salt, using them like sandbags. When we saw the first insurgents we couldn’t believe how casually they were walking around. They didn’t expect us that far into the city. When we killed them it felt like murder . . .) The enemy quickly realized that Lieutenant Ackerman’s position had to be destroyed in order for them to maneuver on the government complex. (. . . the Marines are running room to room, shooting into the street. Above the window where one of our machine guns is peeking outside, there is a poster of a lake encircled by snowcapped mountains. I am looking at the poster when three men in black tracksuits bolt into the open. I don’t see them until they are dead in front of us. One of them is lying on his side, with his head resting on the curb like it’s a pillow. The machine gunner, a kid named Benji, looks back at me smiling . . .) During the course of this firefight, his platoon took two casualties, to include his platoon sergeant, who was shot in the head but survived. (. . . back in Lejeune, when he leaves our platoon, we give him his helmet as a gift. The other Marine, a nineteen-year-old named Brown, is shot through the femoral artery. We slip and fall on his blood. So we cut open a few bags of the salt and throw it on the ground. It takes a long time for the medevac to come. We’re crawling across the room, trying to find the sniper who shot Brown, the salt and the blood crunching beneath our hands and knees . . .) On two occasions, he exposed himself to enemy direct fire in order to pull the wounded Marines to safety. The first AAV that was sent for medical evacuation was hit with an RPG and engulfed in flames. (. . . when I hear this on the radio, I don’t tell anyone. Brown’s pulse is fading . . .) The second AAV had trouble finding the platoon casualty collection point due to the heavy enemy fire, smoke, and confusion. Lieutenant Ackerman, sensing the situation and recognizing the need to expedite the linkup, rushed into the street to flag down the AAV. (. . . Banotai and I are out in the street. We’re tossing smoke grenades everywhere, green smoke, purple smoke, yellow smoke, which marks our position, but we’re also hidden in it. You can hear the bullet snaps from inside this cloud as they shoot at us, hoping for a lucky hit. I’ve often imagined what it looked like to them—just a huge burst of color that they’re shooting at, hoping to kill whatever’s inside. Then the Humvees show up. On the field hospital’s operating table, Brown is given his last rites by the chaplain . . .) He ran through a gauntlet of enemy fire to ensure his wounded Marines were evacuated. As soon as the linkup was complete, Lieutenant Ackerman bounded back to his building to resume the fight. (. . . Brown survives. By this point, we’re surrounded . . .)

  * * *

  • • •

  As the battle raged around him, the company commander pushed him a section of tanks to help break the enemy attack. (. . . we chase two tanks down the road. Some telephone wires tangle on the back tank’s turret. The tank yanks the telephone poles from the ground and drags them along the street behind it like so many tin cans tied to a newlywed’s car. The tank’s main cannon takes off the sides of buildings . . .) Due to the volume of enemy fire, he ordered his Marines to pull off the exposed roof and find firing positions from inside the building. (. . . an RPG slams into the roof, peppering us with shrapnel. It makes no sense for everyone to be up here . . .) He quickly recognized that he could not mark targets for the tanks from inside the building. As the Marines pulled off the roof, Lieutenant Ackerman ordered the machine gunners off the roof, grabbed their M240G, and began systematically marking targets for the tanks to engage with their main gun rounds. (. . . “Benji,” I say, “give me that.” I snatch the machine gun from him and fire a burst for the tanks to see. The arc of my tracers goes clumsily high. “Jesus, give it back, sir,” says Benji. His rounds are on target. The two of us stay up there and do it together . . .) He remained in this exposed position for over one hour and destroyed upward of 30 enemy. While marking targets for the tanks he simultaneously called for and adjusted indirect fires to within 90 meters of his position, with devastating effect on the enemy. (. . . while I’m on the roof, our company executive officer finds our platoon. He rushes inside and asks, “Who’s in charge!” Wounded Marines are scattered all over the ground floor. Someone weakly says, “Doc is,” pointing to our nineteen-year-old corpsman. When I’m on the roof, I don’t want to come downstairs and see this. You are responsible for everything your platoon does or fails to do. Responsible for everything . . .)

  * * *

  • • •

  At 1430 on 11 November the company was given the task to continue the attack to a phase line approximately 300 meters to the south of MSR Michigan. As he prepared his platoon for the push south, he was essentially isolated by fire inside the house he occupied. (. . . I stick my head out of the door and a machine gun’s burst nearly takes it off . . .) An enemy RPK gunner had a primary direction of fire across the only exit point of his house. (. . . on the alley’s far side there is a wall, which a pair of pigeons are trying to land on. Every few seconds there is another burst from the machine gun. The pigeons can’t land and we can’t get out this way . . .) Lieutenant Ackerman made the decision to create a breach in the very house he occupied. (. . . coming back into the house, I see Banotai, and I say, “We’re trapped. It’s suicide if we go that way.” Later, Banotai tells me that when I said that, it was the most scared he’d even been . . .) As the engineers conducted a breach to exit the house, he had the machine gunners suppress while the platoon exited the building and conducted a foot-mobile linkup with the company and began the attack south. (. . . there was so much dust, I thought the house might collapse before we could get out of it . . .)

  * * *

  • • •

  The company attacked south along two parallel alleys. (. . . we were stuck on the street, banging our rifle butts against the padlocked doors, trying to get inside . . .) Lieutenant Ackerman was tasked to attack down the eastern alley. He had two tanks in support of his platoon. After traveling only 30 meters down the alley, his platoon came under withering small-arms, machine-gun, and RPG fire from all sides. (. . . they shot down at us from the rooftops. I am crouching in a doorway, and Ames is next to me with his radio and its damn ten-foot antenna. It’s so loud, the air itself is ringing, and I am soundlessly shouting into the radio, as if the incredible noise has devoured my voice. Little tufts of earth erupt near my feet as bullets impact all around . . .) Lieutenant Ackerman attacked with ferocity for three hours and essentially broke the back of what turned out to be the heart of the enemy defense in the battalion’s sector. (. . . two Marines drag Banotai toward an amtrack. He’s been knocked unconscious . . .) His aggressive use of tanks in the narrow alley c
ombined with his penchant for leading from the front turned a potentially disastrous situation into a crushing blow against the enemy. (. . . an RPG explodes next to another Marine, shredding his pants. His legs are covered in blood, and from the waist down he’s naked . . .) Lieutenant Ackerman never wavered during the fight, even after taking thirteen casualties. (. . . our platoon sergeant, two out of our three squad leaders, four out of our six team leaders—they are all evacuated. My socks are wet. I’ve once again sweat through my clothes . . .) He simultaneously directed tank fires, conducted critical coordination with his adjacent platoon, coordinated four separate medical evacuations, and continued to attack directly into the heart of the enemy with bulldog tenacity. He selflessly exposed himself to enemy fire to mark targets, direct tank fires, and adjust indirect fires on numerous occasions. His ability to project confidence and maintain a cool head under withering enemy fire was critical as his platoon took numerous casualties and faced a determined enemy. (. . . I finally get a head count. About half of the platoon is gone . . .) As darkness fell, the company went firm in a row of houses at their assigned phase line and began preparing for the expected order to continue attacking south. (. . . someone offers me a cigarette. It’s the first one I’ve smoked since I was seventeen . . .)