Lest We Forget

by leo jenkins

  Just as I was finishing up I was told that there was three more squirters in the orchard that we needed to secure. We formed a small element to track them down. With the air assets that we had circling overhead we figured that it would be a quick game of hide and seek but in reality it took most of the night. We trudged through uneven muddy fields for hours taking direction from the guys overhead until we were exhausted. One by one we found all three men and they were not happy when we did, mainly because we weren’t happy that we had gone on a three hour death march to locate them.

  I’m not going to sugar coat it, I punched one of them in the dick. Hard. Then placed my thumb in the wound that was created by one of our service dogs and used it like a joystick while we looked for his other two buddies. This isn’t something that I’m proud of but it isn’t something that I’m ashamed of either. It is simply the way that war is, it’s how it makes you and if you haven’t been there then you can keep your humanitarian opinion to your damn self. By the time we got back to the cluster of target houses we realized that we weren't the only one's putting in a nights work.

  Apparently a pretty significant firefight went down in one of the houses. One of the snipers engaged an enemy target through the window of the house. It was an absolutely amazing shot. He was on the rooftop across the street and saw the figure running toward the front door that one of our fire teams was about to make entry on holding a rifle. One shot, straight through the neck. When I examined the person I could tell pretty quickly that, one, it was a woman and two, she was pregnant. When I informed the sniper that made the kill shot of this detail it didn’t seem to affect him in the slightest. In fact, he grinned the same grin that he did in that hangar in Balad when I handed him that atropine injector.

  We piled up all of the bomb making materials and weapons and disposed of them with an incendiary grenade outside in the courtyard. We had a haul of prisoners and information that would likely lead us to the next mission, the next target house filled with people that want us to die. Nearly every night for over three straight months we punched the time card and went to work.

  After the mandatory After Action Review (AAR) we headed back to our tents. It was 10am by this point and the desert sun was just starting to seep through the transparent tent ceiling. There isn't even a point to lying down. I escape to the gym in an attempt to burn through this adrenaline. My tiny silk shorts and plain brown t-shirt would make me stick out like a sore thumb in the regular Army gym filled with squads of vibrant, well rested military personnel in their grey Army PT uniforms, complete with reflective belt and bad haircut. I get even more dirty looks as I am the sole gym occupant doing Olympic lifts and muscle ups in the corner in an attempt to cope with all that had transpired. It would be another full week and a half dozen more missions before I slept.

  One of the final missions that I went on as a Ranger was in June of 2006. Like so many of the nights before we were tasked with finding, and if need be, eliminating a high value target. We landed in a small valley about a kilometer from the target house. It would be a straight sprint up. About half way up I felt an aggressive pop in my abdomen. My right leg felt very heavy all of a sudden. I would find out later that my abdominal wall had ruptured. Slowing down wasn’t an option. We made it to the front door of the target house and cleared it with the precision of an experienced surgeon. We didn’t even have to talk to each other by this point in the deployment as we moved seamlessly through this dark house. We clear every single room and find ourselves on the rooftop where about a dozen women and children had been sleeping. This was somewhat common in Iraq in the summer months as it was typically cooler on the roof than inside the house.

  The ground floor had been secured and it appeared as we had just hit another dry hole. As was the common practice after the all clear had been given, we began conducting a search for sensitive materials and weapons. I was in a room by myself looking through a series of dresser drawers. I found a significant amount of material on bomb making as well as documents that would connect the homeowner with Saddam Hussein. When all of the drawers had been tossed, I focused my attention on a basket of clothes near the window. I knelt down to sift through the soiled white tunics. Just as I did my left ear picked up an odd sound, it was a type of buzzing that I was familiar with but had not heard in awhile. I looked left but it was too late, the buzzing was gone. So naturally I went back to sifting. No more than ten seconds later I heard the noise again. This time, I immediately look left and see a glow just above my head. FUCK! That's a cell phone! That is a cell phone in a terrorist’s pocket! That is a cell phone in a terrorist’s pocket in a hidden location less than a foot away from me! I am on my feet in a fraction of a second, weapon orientated on target, safety off, finger on the trigger! But I don't squeeze.

  Now the story originally went, he lunged at me and I fired. Not so much.

  I actually called for the guy in the other room, we will call him Steve for the sake of the story. Steve was in the room in an instant. I very briefly told him what happened and both of our M4 carbine assault rifles were fixated on the corner. We couldn't see the man because he was hidden very well behind a closet door. That's when it happened. Steve said, "Doc, we should shoot this guy." As soon as he uttered those six words the door moved violently, startling me. I let a volley of eight shots loose on his position.

  Immediately after that man's body hit my feet, a call came over the radio to determine where the shots came from. I lost my composure a little. My superior officer asked who fired the shots and all I could say was, "Umm, It was me."

  Now that seems like a reasonable answer except that there were about 40 of us all connected on that channel. If you knew this guy, you would know that his response was something close to, ‘yeah, and who are you asshole?’

  Then I broke another cardinal rule by saying my name rather than my call sign. (For those who don't know, a call sign is simply a number or nickname assigned to help soldiers maintain anonymity.) I gave my location and within seconds a good friend of mine entered the room and gave the lifeless man two more shots to the head for the sake of being fastidious.

  One of my superiors gave me a high five, and like that it was over. I told my story, or at least the slightly modified version of it that I believed wouldn't get me brought up on charges to my bosses boss and then his boss. They were all giddy. I didn't understand. Later I found out that the man that I shot was one of the primary high value targets in all of Iraq. He was a "bad guy,” a really bad guy, by our definition. So why should I feel bad, I eliminated a total villain.

  Here is the crux. I received a medal announcing to the world that I am a hero for eliminating a threat to our nation. In reality, I become a murderer while giving this man martyrdom. Or did I have it right the first time? I guess if you ask my family they would say that I am the hero, if you ask his family they would say that he is. But then again my family has never heard the real story, but his probably hasn't either. They likely didn't know that he was responsible for the death of hundreds of people. That he had used that very cell phone to detonate roadside bombs. Does it matter? I don't have the answer to that. All I know is that as I sit here typing, that God forsaken award hangs from the wall over my right shoulder. And if I did not covet honor so much I would burn it like the piece of hypocritical trash that it is.

  Returning from another all night mission.

  Flying over the Euphrates. Summer of 2006.

  Nothing feels like this. My good friend Josh and my feet dangling from the door of a Black Hawk helicopter a hundred feet off the ground.

  Josh and Christian on the front stoop at the beginning of the “Great flood of ’06

  .……

  Chapter 13 - The Broken

  A couple of days later I was sent back to the states to have the tear in my abdomen surgically repaired. My platoon would stay in harms way for three more weeks. They have even more stories about the hit on Abu Musab al-Zarqawi and a little bird crash that I missed out on. Missing ou
t on that action really sucked but not being there for my guys was terrible. I barely slept for the next three weeks waiting for them to return. I drank literally everyday and not in a celebratory fashion.

  Knowing that my brothers were still in harms way was unlike anything that I had ever experienced. I was glad to be home but hated myself for telling anyone about my injury.

  When my platoon returned we celebrated in true Ranger fashion. One of my mentors was getting out of the army right after they got home. I've never been very good with goodbyes but by this point in my military career I had become no stranger to them. Dave was a little different though. We had worked together as platoon medics for a few years now. Dave taught me a lot of the little things that make a great medic. He had been a role model for me when I first got to battalion and his leaving was like having a big brother move away from home. I believed that this separation would be easier if everyone was already a little drunk by the time that I arrived so I hung out at home until I had received at least a dozen, “where the fuck are you, doc?” voice mails.

  A "little drunk" doesn't even begin to describe the condition that Dave was in by the time that I arrived.

  There are a handful of guys from our company that I recognize as I enter the bar. Dave is slouched over at his bar stool with his forehead resting on his left forearm.

  "What's up buddy!?"

  Dave pulls his head up and attempts to focus on me. It is apparent that lifting his head at this moment caused him more trouble than the last time I watched him start an IV on himself in the dark. His head bobbles around for a bit before falling back on his forearm, which was lying on the bar. I look back at my good friend Nathan, "He's not looking so good."

  "Oh Dave's fucked up!" Nathan says with a laugh.

  Nathan was the Charlie Company Commo Chief by this point, which meant that he was in charge of all radio communications for the company. Nathan is a burly Viking of a man. He has hands like hammers and stands over 6 feet tall.

  I start to ask Nathan how long they've been here when I hear the violent splatter of Dave throwing up all over the floor.

  "Ahhh shit, Dave just puked. We're totally getting kicked out of here." Nathan says while laughing. Dave wipes the vomit from his mouth with his sleeve while picking his head up to see if anyone noticed. He plays it off with a move that I certainly did not expect. He gets the attention of the bartender and orders another shot! The stones on this kid! There is no way in hell that that bartender is going to ... and he is pouring Dave another shot!! What the fuck!? He shoots that Jager like it's a 5-meter target. Just as I start to say, what a champ, Dave puts his head in his other arm and throws up down his other pant leg.

  "Maybe we should go," Nathan says

  "Yeah, that's probably not a bad idea," I respond.

  We paid Dave's bar tab and help him out the door. Most of the other guys had relocated to a bar across the street so it was just Nathan, Dave, Flippy and myself. Flippy was our company's training room NCO. He was a good guy, not very imposing but well liked among the guys. Needless to say, Dave isn't walking very straight. There was a lot of construction going on in downtown Columbus at the time so there was an 8' tall chain link fence that ran the length of the curb creating a sort of corridor. The sidewalk was about 10 feet wide and we had a row of bars and shops with to our left and that chain link fence to our right. Nathan and I were walking behind Dave, laughing as he repeatedly stumbles into the huge windows of the store fronts.

  "Hey! Asshole knock it off!" Shouts some random guy standing outside of Scruffy Murphy’s. So of course Dave now intentionally slams himself into the next large window. Well this pissed that guy off. He started speed walking toward Dave. I know that in his condition there is no way that Dave will be able to defend himself. As the guy gets within a few feet of my Ranger buddy I hockey check him into the wall. I think this caught him off guard, he may not have realized that we were friends with the guy he was trying to pick a fight with. In true douche bag fashion he puts his hands up completely exposing himself and exclaims, "Bitch, you don't know me!"

  I respond, "Well, you don't know me," as I punched him right square in the mouth. Now I have competed in combat sports for years. I have a winning MMA record and I have attended several special operations tactical fighting schools. I've received and delivered more punches that I can possibly count but I am telling you right now that I have never, never hit someone so square with such force. That guy’s knees buckled and he went down like a limp sack of shit!

  As he hit the ground I hear a ringing similar to what I experienced when Allen’s grenade detonated a little too close to me in Iraq as I get punched right in the ear. What the fuck! Where did that come from? As I turn and face whoever it was that struck me someone else pulls my shirt up over my head hockey style. Where the fuck did that come from? Now I'm getting punched from two different people and I can't even see who they are. I am swinging wildly to try to create some distance. I manage to get my shirt off completely. A quick assessment of the situation reveals that Flippy is flat on his back getting his face stomped by a couple of guys. It looks like we kicked a hornet's nest. There are eight of them. Where the fuck did they all come from? I look to my left just in time to see Nathan one punch some guy in the face. As the guy is falling down Nathan turns and services another target, and another. I am in absolute awe. He just knocked out three guys in a matter of seconds. I look to my right and what do I see? Yep, Dave has a hold of that chain link fence. He is kneeing the shit out of it Muay Thai style screaming, "Fuck you bitch!" Dave just started this whole thing and his drunken ass is fighting the chain link fence. Classic.

  I knock one of the guys stomping on Flippy's face to the ground. This gives Flip enough space to get up. I start backing up preparing for one of these idiots to pull out a weapon. As I am backing up I bump into someone. I turn to face him, fists up, ready to strike. To my surprise the guy is in uniform. He has on a beautiful tan beret. "You Rangers?" he asks.

  "Roger" I reply.

  "I'm staff duty, come on let's get the fuck out of here."

  Nathan and Flip grab Dave and we back away. The three guys left on their feet are trying to help their five buddies up and don't attempt to chase us. The staff duty truck was across the street. Just as we were getting in we see those damn red and blue lights. SHIT! As the cop steps out of his squad car I see two girls walking down the street. I change direction and begin walking with them acting like I don't know those other guys. It almost worked too. Almost. The officer hollers at me and I respond that I don't know those guys. Like most things I attempt to turn it into a big joke. He collects all of our IDs. Well Shit! Looks like we're going to jail. Just as he has all of our licenses, some absolutely random guy in a muscle car pulls up and yells, "FUCK YOU" to the cop and peels out. The officer hands our IDs the staff duty NCO and tells us to wait here as he gets into his car to chase that beautiful drunk asshole that just burnt rubber.

  "So you guys want to wait around for that cop to come back and arrest us?"

  "Fuck that!"

  "Yeah, good call Nathan!"

  The staff duty NCO takes us all home, one by one.

  The next morning when we arrive at Battalion, Flip has a boot print tattooed on his face. Dave and Nathan are hung-over beyond belief. I still can't believe Dave took that shot of Jager after throwing up. After our morning formation, Nathan decides that he is going to go home. This wasn't the first time that he decided to cut out of work 11 hours early. We created an award called "Soft Skill of the Month" that Nathan had won for the last five months; this would ensure that his streak would not go unbroken. A "soft skill" is a term used to describe anyone who has a job other than infantry. Having a job like medic, comms, training room, or cook would qualify you for our made up award. Nathan had won in previous months for taking a long nap in the cab of a truck during squad evals while everyone else was training in the rain. He said that he was monitoring the radio and there was no point in him getting wet if he didn't
have to. Another month he had me remove a tumor from his left arm to get out of doing a jump. The standing rule is that you are not allowed to jump if you have stitches.

  So Nathan wasn't around when we got called into the First Sergeant's office. 1SG Sealy was nicknamed "The Rhino" and for good reason. The man's legs were thicker than my waste. He was built like an NFL linebacker with close to twenty years as a Ranger. He was the only First Sergeants I had ever known to have a beer with the privates in his company. He knew that the strength of the Regiment was the men and he was always willing to listen to their opinions about things. On this day, however, he arrived to work and received a phone call from staff duty informing him that some of the guys in his company were in a drunken brawl the night before. That put him in a bad mood.

  I was running sick call in my aid station when Flip came in and told us that the 1SG was pissed and we had thirty seconds to get into his office. The ass chewing that followed could be heard by the guys in the chow hall. He. Was. Pissed. I remember him saying, "When staff duty told me that some of my Rangers got in a fight downtown while we were on IRC, I thought I was going to have to kick four privates out of Ranger Battalion. Then I find out it is my senior company medic, training room NCO and commo chief. Wait, where the fuck is Nathan? You assholes know that if you had been arrested you would have fucked the entire company? What the fuck were you thinking you dumb ...."

  I interrupt him, "1SG..."