“Earn this” was written on the index card in Travis’s handwriting. “Earn it.”
In the years to come, Travis, Brendan, and thousands of fellow US military academy graduates would lead courageous troops into battle. As officers, these brave young Americans weren’t being given the responsibility of making crucial life and death decisions by accident. After years of hard work, sacrifice, and adversity, they had earned it.
3
TAKING A STAND
Now that he was a young second lieutenant training at The Basic School (TBS) in Quantico, Virginia, it was difficult for Travis to imagine that the months after graduation could be even more challenging. But in the fall of 2004, the harsh reality of war became more personal for Travis, Brendan, and their fellow Naval Academy graduates.
On September 2, 2004, Marine First Lieutenant Lt. Ronald Winchester, a driven, popular former Navy football player, became the first combat death in the Naval Academy’s 2001 class when he was killed in a roadside bomb attack in Iraq’s Al Anbar province. Less than forty-eight hours later, Travis and his fellow Navy wrestling alums were hit by another freight train upon learning that Marine Second Lieutenant Brett Harman, a friend and teammate who had graduated in 2003, was murdered during a melee at a North Carolina State University football tailgate.
Joel Sharratt, the Navy assistant wrestling coach who once consoled Travis after the worst loss of his career, was sitting behind the anguished young Marine on the flight to Chicago for Harman’s funeral. Sitting next to Travis was Marine Second Lieutenant Brian Stann, a 2003 graduate who had played football at Navy and had become friends with Travis after watching the Tom Cruise movie Vanilla Sky in Travis and Brendan’s room one night with a large group of fellow midshipmen. The film’s dream sequences were offbeat and strange, but Stann and Travis both liked the movie’s theme of confronting one’s worst fears. Their friendship grew stronger while Stann was stationed at Quantico, especially after Travis moved there to start TBS training. Stann also knew Brett Harman and was on the football team along with another young player, J. P. Blecksmith, when Ronnie Winchester was a senior offensive tackle.
Sharratt, who had stayed in touch with both Stann and Travis after they graduated a year apart, was also mourning the death of Harman, whom he had mentored and coached. So when Sharratt put his head around the edge of Travis’s seat and started to speak, both Marines listened.
“Let’s do an exercise. . . . I’d like you both to close your eyes and picture that you’re leaving a building,” Sharratt said. “A friend picks you up and takes you to a place where people are somber, crying, and there seems to be an audience. Then you realize that you’re at your own funeral. Write down a few words about what you’d want a family member or person of faith to say when reflecting on the lives of Travis Manion or Brian Stann.”
Stann nodded, and after a few minutes of pondering what to write, started jotting down a sentence about one day being remembered as a good husband, a loving father, and a US Marine.
Travis went through several pieces of paper before settling on one sentence: “Travis Manion was a man unafraid to stand for what was right.”
By November 2004, the Second Battle of Fallujah was exploding in the heart of Iraq’s Al Anbar province. Seven months after a clash ignited by insurgents who had strung the bodies of four American civilian contractors from a bridge, the First Battle of Fallujah, which had produced some of the most jarring images of the Iraq war, had ended after a cease-fire was imposed. Soon after the United States announced its withdrawal from Fallujah, al Qaeda terrorists like Abu Musab al-Zarqawi declared victory against the “infidels.”
Even after the bloody battle’s frustrating conclusion, the heroism of US forces in the First Battle of Fallujah was lauded throughout the military community. Captain Doug Zembiec, the former Navy All-American who had once told Travis to “be a battle-ax” on the wrestling mat, became known as “the Lion of Fallujah” after courageously leading his Marines into numerous firefights.
Like the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion that Travis would join after completing officer training at TBS, Zembiec’s Echo Company was part of the 1st Marine Division, which had helped define modern military courage in legendary battles like Belleau Wood, Guadalcanal, Okinawa, and Chosin Reservoir. Even before the US military won the historic second battle, “Fallujah” was already part of the Marine Corps’ proud lexicon. The brave Marines who tore through enemy fighters on the Sunni stronghold’s narrow streets were real-life American heroes who were featured in news coverage across the nation.
One of the Marines who distinguished himself during the Second Battle of Fallujah was Second Lieutenant J. P. Blecksmith, the former Navy football team member who had played with Brendan, Winchester, and Stann.
Stann, an aspiring mixed martial arts (MMA) fighter, often asked Travis to be in his corner for big fights. In addition to his passion for the sport, Travis had collegiate wrestling experience, which helped Stann tremendously as he transitioned from the football field to the MMA cages and rings.
As Stann sat in his Virginia Beach hotel room listening to Travis give an impassioned prefight speech on November 12, 2004, they were suddenly interrupted. Stann later recounted the moment in his book Heart for the Fight:
Travis’ cell phone rang. He stepped out of the room and into the hallway. As the door closed behind him, I heard the tone of his voice go flat but couldn’t catch his words. When he returned a few minutes later, his pre-fight energy had evaporated. I looked up to see him staring morosely out the window, his face betraying a mix of shock and rage.
“What’s up, Trav?”
“Nothing.”
I stood up and walked over to him. “What was that phone call, Travis?”
He looked at me with pain-filled eyes. A flutter of dread coursed through me.
“Nothing,” he repeated, his voice devoid of strength.
“Don’t bullshit me, Trav. What the fuck is going on?” I said, trying to control the panic I felt.
“I’ll tell you later,” he evaded.
“You’ll tell me now,” I demanded.
He looked away. “After the fight.”
“No, give it to me straight,” I demanded. “What is going on?”
“J. P. Blecksmith was killed in Fallujah last night.”
The mention of his name brought back memories of the tall, blue-eyed athlete whose competitive fires evoked so much admiration in me.
Then it dawned on me what Travis had just said.
“What?” I asked weakly.
Three of us in one fall?
“He was shot on a rooftop. That’s all I know,” Travis said. (Travis) looked absolutely miserable.
It was another dreadful moment for Stann, Travis, Brendan, and everyone associated with the Naval Academy. On November 11, 2004, twenty-four-year-old Blecksmith, of San Marino, California, was killed by enemy small arms fire alongside twenty-year-old Marine Lance Corporal Kyle Burns, of Laramie, Wyoming. Blecksmith was the first US military officer killed during the Second Battle of Fallujah.
After Stann subsequently lost his fight in the aftermath of the shocking news, Travis called Brendan, who was coaching NAPS lacrosse in Rhode Island before moving to Virginia Beach, where he would be stationed as a Navy intelligence officer. Brendan, who had stood beside Blecksmith on the sidelines during the unforgettable 2001 Army-Navy game, was also devastated.
“I don’t even know what to say,” Brendan said.
“I know,” Travis said. “I don’t think I should have told Brian before the fight, but he kind of forced it out of me.”
“What were you supposed to do?” Brendan interrupted. “He would have been upset either way.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Travis replied. “These past few months have just been brutal, man.”
“I know, but we have to keep pushing forward,” Brendan said. “I think that’s what all these guys would have wanted.”
In August 2005, less than a year after graduating f
rom TBS, all of Travis’s hard work culminated in one key moment. Finally, after more than four years at the Naval Academy and six months at TBS, Second Lieutenant Travis Manion was dodging improvised explosive devices (IEDs) in searing desert heat.
Surrounded by tall mountains and hot sand, Travis was coordinating the movement of a helicopter providing air support to the dozens of Marines and vehicles in his unit. It was the middle of the afternoon, and Travis had been outside since about 5:30 a.m. in heat that now measured well over 100 degrees. Despite his neck being so sunburned that it felt like a boiling teapot, Travis was keeping hydrated and focused on his job. After all, fellow Marines were depending on him.
Travis knew there were IEDs around the patch of desert the Marines were slated to patrol, so he was navigating them in a safer direction while checking with the helicopter to make sure there were no signs of enemy fighters preparing to ambush the platoons. The helicopter would also check adjacent mountains for snipers using large rocks and the midafternoon sunlight’s glare as cover.
After a few minutes, the chopper pilot indicated everything was clear. Travis would radio his command, which would then give the final go-ahead for the patrol. It’s this kind of vigilance that often saved American lives on the battlefield.
As Travis pressed the button on his radio to relay the final order, a loud, familiar voice suddenly overtook the frequency.
“Uh, Lieutenant, this is Coyote 6,” the voice said. “I’m not really sure what you’re trying to do out here, but you’re not following proper radio procedure.”
“Sir?” Travis asked, puzzled.
“You need to figure out what you’re trying to do, because I sure as hell can’t tell by listening to your orders over this radio,” the rising voice said. “Do things right or do us all a favor and just go home.”
Travis wasn’t in a battle in Iraq or Afghanistan. He was in the miserable frying pan of Southern California’s Mojave Desert. The Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center at Twentynine Palms—the world’s largest Marine base—is where thousands train every year for twenty-first-century desert warfare. In August 2005, Operation Mojave Viper involved several mock Iraqi and Afghan villages and enough sand to fill most of Rhode Island. Upon his arrival at a base that housed well over ten thousand Marines, Travis had been astonished by its size and scope.
The Marine yelling at Travis over the radio was a “coyote,” tasked with making sure units headed for Iraq and Afghanistan were learning the proper techniques, tactics, and procedures developed during nearly four years of war. Though they could be a thorn in a Marine’s side during long, grueling training exercises, their close attention to detail helped make the Marine Corps a well-oiled battlefield machine. Still, Coyote 6 was particularly antagonistic and had just embarrassed Travis in front of dozens of Marines listening on the radio.
Clicking his handheld radio, Travis said the two safest words in the Marine Corps: “Yes, sir.”
Everyone hurried back to work after the coyote-induced stoppage, continuing the desert patrol while following what they thought was proper communication procedure. The sooner they got it right, the sooner every Marine could take a cold shower.
Travis was once again talking to the helicopter, making sure that no enemy fighters, who were usually played by contractors or fellow Marines, were lurking on the faux battlefield. Though their guns shot blanks and IED explosions were simulated using Hollywood-style special effects, even a fake battle could be loud and jarring.
After about five minutes of going back and forth with the helicopter pilot, the Marines were surprised when Coyote 6 retook the airwaves. Aside from a misplaced word here and there while relaying orders, Travis was doing nothing wrong, and it was clear by this point that the coyote was singling out “the new guy.”
“Lieutenant Manion, this is Coyote 6,” he said as dozens of eyes rolled. “I have to ask you a question, son. Do you have any idea what the hell you’re doing?”
The radio was dead silent for almost thirty uncomfortable seconds as everyone, from coyotes to Marines out in the desert, waited for the young second lieutenant’s response.
“No, sir,” Travis said. “But I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night.”
A crescendo of hooting, hollering, and laughter ensued as Marines, young and old, exorcised a long day of stress in the desert. While Marines closest to Coyote 6 did their best to contain their amusement, others, including the helicopter pilot, laughed the hardest they had in days. The audacity displayed by this young Marine officer was downright astonishing. What would the overbearing instructor do to him in response?
Silence filled the airwaves as the combat simulation continued. Coyote 6 never responded, because after all, what could he say? Without defying authority, Travis had disarmed the coyote with his dry sense of humor. Confronting Travis would have been an unpopular move, and the instructor knew it.
When Travis returned to battalion headquarters, fellow Marine officers patted him on the back as they replayed what had already become a classic moment.
Less than a month later Travis was once again “the new guy,” but this time in Iraq’s Al Anbar province, where so much American and Iraqi blood had already been spilled. As the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion’s maintenance management officer at Camp Fallujah, his responsibilities, which were focused on making sure vehicles were correctly allocated, fueled, and repaired, were undoubtedly important. But sitting on the sidelines while others went “outside the wire” to fight was definitely not what the Marine had envisioned at Twentynine Palms.
Throughout the predeployment exercises, Travis thought he was about to spend the next eight months fighting for his country on the streets of Al Anbar province. Soon after arriving at Camp Fallujah, however, Travis worried that he was going to spend the next nine months stacking supplies and pushing pencils.
His yearning to leave the base and confront the enemy was visible, and the older, more seasoned officers serving with Travis thought the new guy from the Naval Academy needed to chill out. Being the unit’s only second lieutenant—the most junior of officer ranks—made life even more difficult for Travis, as second lieutenants were almost always subject to an “initiation” phase in which they would be put in their place by the officers in charge. It was all harmless, but for someone with ambitions as high as Travis had, it wasn’t always easy.
Travis didn’t want to leave Iraq feeling that he had not had a chance to use the skills he spent so many years developing. He discussed his concerns with First Lieutenants Carlo Pecori and Croft Young, two Marines he had met in training who were also part of the 1st Marine Reconnaissance Battalion. The two Marines, who had already seen action in Fallujah, urged Travis to keep his chin up and look for opportunities to make a difference. He appreciated their advice, but remained frustrated.
Then Travis got an e-mail from one of his mentors, Coach Joel Sharratt.
“Do not let your guard down or become complacent with your job,” his former wrestling coach wrote. Sharratt, who had consoled Travis after his worst wrestling defeat and on the flight to Brett Harman’s funeral, told Travis to focus on the honor and privilege of having the chance to have an impact where he could.
“Learn everything you can every second you can,” he wrote. “Study the tactics, study the people, study the culture [and] know them. More importantly, know yourself and be vigilant not to let up on yourself preparing for the unexpected.”
The first major bright spot for Travis was playing a big role in preparations for Iraq’s historic constitutional referendum on October 15, 2005. In order for millions of Iraqis to exercise their newfound right to vote, security had to be heavy, especially in violent Sunni strongholds like Al Anbar province. With al Qaeda vowing to attack polling stations and a deep Sunni-Shiite divide over whether the draft constitution should be adopted, the potential for mass casualties was high.
Before the vote, Travis wrote an e-mail to Navy Captain John McGurty. Travis had dated McGurty’s daughter, J
ess, and John was a close family friend who happened to be serving in Iraq as well.
Sir,
Thanks for writing, it’s good to hear from you. I’m sorry that we couldn’t hook up before you left. We’ve been pretty busy getting ready for these elections. It’s definitely been an eye opener for me so far but I’m excited to play a role in the event. Hopefully it goes well for these people’s sake.
Semper Fi,
Travis
As October 15 dawned in war-torn Iraq, Travis and thousands of fellow Marines were protecting polling stations, which al Qaeda leader Abu Musab al-Zarqawi and other terrorists had vowed to attack. In Atlanta, where Travis’s father was stationed during the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina while awaiting his Reserve unit’s move back to New Orleans, Tom and Janet were nervous. Tom was using every Marine Corps resource at his disposal to check for updates on referendum-related violence, while Janet was holding her rosary beads and asking the Lord to protect her son.
“Hope all goes well and your operation is a success,” Tom wrote to his son in an e-mail sent just a few days before the referendum. “Love, Dad.”
Indeed, Travis was risking his life as he and other members of his unit, like Marine Staff Sergeant Paul Petty of Texas, set up sandbags, wiring, and concrete barriers. They were working hard to make sure citizens of Al Farris, a western Iraqi municipality nicknamed “Tower Town” because it was in the shadow of a huge, futuristic-looking water tower, could have their say in Iraq’s new constitution.
Like most of the areas Travis passed through during convoys, Al Farris was made up of narrow streets sandwiched between multistory apartments, although it was more modern and less violent than cities like Fallujah, which was quieter than in 2004 but still a very dangerous place. Though Al Farris wasn’t exactly Center City Philadelphia, Travis enjoyed seeing different parts of the unfamiliar land and knew the nationwide referendum was a crucial moment for the country’s future.
Tom Sileo Page 6