In the Shadow of Greatness

by Joshua Welle

  We arrived on the scene unscathed and immediately saw the Iraqi police buzzing with activity. A crowd of twenty to thirty men had gathered as casual spectators. We had no idea who among them might be friendly and who might be hostile. A handful of the police spread out to stabilize the area. A white police truck was parked in front of what looked like a high-ranking police officer’s office. Next to the building, twenty meters away, was a dilapidated, white sedan. I kept asking myself, “What could kill me right now? How do I take control of this scene?”

  I directed our Army security element to set up a perimeter on opposite sides of the suspect vehicle. As they spread out to arrange for our protection, several of the Iraqi police approached my vehicle, obviously agitated and panicked. One of them explained through my interpreter that he was the chief of police and a newly assigned “bomb expert.” I asked him where the device was located, and he replied that the suspected VBIED was the same white sedan I had observed no more than twenty meters from the group of spectators. We had no way to safely detonate the explosive device without endangering the civilians. “BIPing it,” or “blow-in-place,” was not an option. As the leader on the scene, it was my responsibility to somehow disperse the crowd, set a proper perimeter, and deal with the device.

  Experience had eroded my trust in the generally corrupt Iraqi police. Nevertheless, I had to get people out of the way and somehow go to work on this deadly weapon. Thoughts of what might happen if the bomb detonated near the crowd were too tragic to consider in this moment. I cordoned the thought off in a part of my mind for later consideration. I had a mission to complete. The language barrier exacerbated the stress level exponentially as I attempted to maintain a clear and calm line of communication through the interpreter. As I spoke with the so-called bomb expert representing the Iraqi police, something didn’t feel quite right. Sweat was pouring off his brow in the 115-degree July heat, but it seemed to be the cold sweat of nervousness. He also seemed to have a stutter in his voice. The translator conveyed to me, with a measure of concern all his own, the message, “I took it apart . . . I took it apart.”

  Richie prepared the iRobot PackBot to investigate the sedan, and Adam built up a bootbanger water disruption charge for our option of last resort—a remote disruption attempt and the possible high-order detonation of the device (and vehicle). Part of me wanted to go straight to plan B and blow the car sky high. I didn’t trust the police “chief.’ The tension kept building. An Iraqi army-police recruiting station was an attractive target for the insurgency. How could I know whether this “bomb tech” had put the VBIED there to target potential new recruits and my team?

  Suddenly Adam’s voice piped in on comms, “Lieutenant, I’ve got at least a half-dozen one-five-five projos daisy chained with det cord in the trunk. The det cord doesn’t have an initiator that I can see, but I’ve got separate wires going into the backseat.” In the vernacular, he said that in the back of the car there were at least six 155 mm projectiles, each carrying a heavy metal fragmenting shell with approximately twenty-five pounds of explosives, connected with explosive cord. He was viewing the device via the camera on the PackBot. He maneuvered it to view the backseat but couldn’t trace the wires with 100 percent certainty. Meanwhile, I continued to question the Iraqi police chief, who conceded that the vehicle hadn’t been searched from bumper to bumper, only in the trunk. I sensed his embarrassment of contradicting his earlier statement as I stared him down with disdain and continued to stay vigilant for signs of deception.

  My team and I concluded that the potential for a high-order detonation would not be feasible, and 100 percent clearance could only be achieved by sending an operator downrange. I directed Richie to take charge uprange, and we talked through the emergency procedures. This would be the first time that I would wear the bomb suit on a live IED.

  The forest green EOD VIII Med-Eng bomb suit went on piece by piece. My feet slid into the toe cups, and the flexible front armor wrapped around my legs, as Richie and Adam zipped up the trousers on the backside of my calves. The trouser suspenders slid over my shoulders like a bulky but comfortable pair of overalls. The additional armor groin-pad “diaper” Velcroed into place and the turtle shell-type spine armor completed my lower half of protection. The heavily padded and armored top half was donned from the front, arms in first. With armor, seams create a point of failure, and the EOD bomb suit was designed to absorb a forward facing blast. All the closures attached in the rear. The bulky neck dam flowed around the underside of my chin, designed to deflect a blast wave up and away from my vital grey matter upstairs. Last came the helmet and visor, completing my security cocoon.

  I had a clear understanding of the objective and even had a sense of peace as I donned each article of the bomb suit. Richie and Adam double-checked me. The scene was certainly similar to several in the movie The Hurt Locker, yet it was also unique. I wasn’t about to rush recklessly downrange to cut the blue wire, like some character in a movie. Everything had a process, and the process would work, as my training had led me to believe. My heart raced, but I refused to think of anything but complete success. Adam attached my facemask, and the world went quiet. I could hear myself breathing and that was all.

  A pull line trailed me as I approached the vehicle on foot. My teammates would use the pull line to yank me back if an explosion occurred. The line unwound from a wheel, slowly spinning as I closed in on the car. I saw the robot camera turn to look at me. I knew that my boys were behind its eyes, keeping watch on every move I made. If I made a mistake, they would quickly take my place to complete the mission. “Initial Success or Total Failure,” the EOD motto, was branded in my mind, and I trusted my team to complete what we’d started, no matter the cost.

  Twenty feet out. Ten feet away. On target. Doing my best to search the interior of the vehicle, I felt a bit like a little kid dressed by mom in a bulky snowsuit . . . in the middle of a 115-degree desert. The trunk was filled with ordnance, just as Adam had indicated. I determined that it was safe to continue and did a systematic assessment of the threat while trying to assume the perspective of the bomb maker. I found the wires Adam had mentioned and traced them under the backseats to more projectiles. With every moment I spent there and with every action I took, I felt like the IED got a little more pissed off. In our line of work, an EOD tech tends to personify the IED as he faces it one on one. The more one has to manipulate the device, the more one thinks it will defy one. After a quick snip and the tie of a “bowline” knot, however, I was ready to return to the boys uprange. I backed away carefully and felt as though I were dropping a two-ton elephant off my back. I had deactivated the bomb, and the stress was streaming out of my pores.

  Adam and Richie welcomed me back to the world and greeted me with a bottle of water. My chest was pounding as they helped strip off the bomb suit, piece by piece. We shared a quick laugh as we moved to the final steps of rendering the device safe and tying up the operation. It was another one of the many events that cemented my love for those guys.

  We were able to extract more than two hundred pounds of explosives from the sedan along with a lot of forensic evidence. From the rearview mirror, we were able to recover latent fingerprints that later led to an important intelligence development, a targeting package, and the capture of an insurgent bomb-making cell in the area. We found additional electrical components that helped us identify new bomb-making trends in the region. The icing on the cake was taking the ordnance to a remote location to make it disappear in the loudest and most violent way possible.

  Our unit, EOD Mobile Unit 6, Detachment 12, accomplished 426 missions supporting the U.S. and Iraqi armies in and around Baghdad from January through July 2007, during the height of the troop surge. Our tasks were to identify, neutralize, and render safe any explosive hazards and make the battle-field accessible to our troops while also protecting the local populace. When I returned home, some of this mission further crystallized as the locked corners of my mind opened and began examining
it. There were feelings there that I’d locked away, such as fearful “what-ifs,” and bottled-up tensions. In truth, adjusting to normal life was difficult after living and conducting operations in a culture of war. I worked at accepting that life goes on and summoned the courage to continue serving in my old environment with a forever-changed perspective.

  I have learned so much from the men on my team, from the Iraqi people, from every breath counted in the brief silence of a moment downrange. I have learned that my alma mater’s ideals—duty, honor, and loyalty—are more than worth fighting for. For this knowledge, those values, and the wonderful gift of freedom, I feel truly blessed by the grace of God.

  Eric Jewell, front row, far left, with his EOD team in Baghdad. (Courtesy Eric Jewell)

  Evacuating the Injured

  Rocky Checca

  After graduation from the Naval Academy and commissioning as a Marine Corps pilot, I went to flight school and selected the CH-46E Sea Knight out of Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton, California. The CH-46 is the Marine Corps’ medium-lift assault support platform. I was detailed to join Marine Medium Helicopter Squadron 364 (HMM-364), the “Purple Foxes,” deploying to Iraq. Combat operations had supposedly concluded in May 2003 while I was still in flight school, well before I arrived on station. After I arrived, however, the insurgency began, and the situation in Iraq rapidly deteriorated. From early 2004 to February 2010, HMM-364, HMM-268, and HMM-161 operated on a continuous eighteen-month rotation at al-Taqaddum Air Base in Iraq.

  Al-Taqaddum Air Base was located in the heart of the insurgency, halfway between the cities of Fallujah and Ramadi, in the infamous Sunni Triangle in al-Anbar province, in western Iraq. The primary role and mission of our squadron was casualty evacuations, CASEVAC. We also flew hard-hit raids, insertions, extractions, snap vehicle checkpoints, and night external resupply missions. The commanding general considered CASEVAC the “no-fail” mission in Iraq, making it clear to us that there would be no dropped CASEVAC missions for any reason. Although CASEVAC were flown on a daily basis, multiple times a day, there was absolutely nothing routine about any of them. Each one presented unique challenges and problems. The pilots, aircrew, maintainers, and corpsmen prepared for the known task, but with ample contingencies for the “fog of war.” We had to be prepared to fly through any and all weather conditions, at any time, and into all kinds of enemy situations to save the lives of the people we were called on to evacuate.

  The CASEVAC process was important to everyone in theater. If an individual can be provided medical treatment within one hour of an incident, the chances of survival increase exponentially. This is known as the “golden hour,” and that is why the entire CASEVAC process, from start to finish, is standardized, efficient, and quick.

  Being on standby for CASEVAC was physically and mentally exhausting. It created feelings of anxiety 24/7; you couldn’t relax. Being a CASEVAC pilot was like being a fireman. We couldn’t leave the squadron area; food was brought to us; and if we had to use the bathroom, we hoped that the bell wouldn’t ring while we were sitting on the can. When the bell rang, we sprinted to the helicopters and would have a primary, a secondary, and a backup aircraft up and spinning four minutes after the CASEVAC bell rang. Many times we would be in the aircraft ready to taxi for takeoff having no idea where we were flying to or exactly what situation we would find once we got there. On many days the bell seemed to ring constantly, and we would fly CASEVAC after CASEVAC. Even on slow days, including days when no CASEVACs were flown, we would still be exhausted by the end of the shift because of the constant state of anticipation.

  We flew CASEVACs for all coalition personnel, Iraqi civilians, and even insurgents. The lives of our forces took priority over the insurgents’, but if an insurgent’s life could be saved, he potentially could provide valuable intelligence that might save American lives. There were times when we would pick up insurgents and Marines who had just been fighting each other and would load them together into the back of the helicopter. Sounds crazy, but it’s true.

  I experienced several close calls while flying. During my first deployment, on one of my first flights at night in Iraq, we received multiple RPG (rocket-propelled grenade) shots and small-arms fire while flying on final approach and on departure for a mass casualty call at Combat Outpost in Ramadi. The first RPG was shot from directly in front of us on final approach and passed ten or fifteen feet above our rotors. Another was fired from behind us on departure and passed the left side of the aircraft. RPGs and small arms were shot at our aircraft numerous times, and on several occasions aircraft took battle damage or were shot down. HMM-268 even had an incident where an RPG entered the bottom of the aircraft while it was flying, hit the crew chief in his back on his SAPI protective plate and helmet—knocking him out—and then exited through the top of the aircraft, miraculously missing all the vital flight components and never detonating.

  I distinctly remember evacuating a Navy SEAL on my second deployment in 2006 from the very same zone. He was the first SEAL killed in action in Iraq. One of his fellow SEALs came with him on the flight when we picked him up. He had a severe gunshot wound to the head and face but was alive during the transit. He succumbed to his injuries after we dropped him off. It became clear early on that no one was invincible here, not even a SEAL.

  Mass casualties were the worst because improvised explosive devices and car bombs were usually the culprits. The odor of burned flesh is something I hope to never again smell. Lots of times, people with missing limbs were bleeding to death in the back of the aircraft. If it weren’t for the Navy corpsmen, who worked tirelessly to keep the wounded alive while in transit, many more would have died. They did the dirty work to keep everyone breathing or from losing that extra pint of blood that might cost the individual his or her life. They stopped bleeding from massive wounds or held someone’s guts in during the flight to keep them alive.

  One of the worst things to hear a corpsmen say to a pilot is “Fly faster,” because that means the patient is slipping away. During CASEVAC, the pilots already fly as fast as the aircraft can go, so to get such a request from a corps-man leaves one with a helpless feeling. There were times when patients would expire in the aircraft en route. Those are some of the longest and quietest flights a pilot experiences. No matter what the situation is regarding the enemy or what is occurring in the back of the aircraft, you must force yourself to compartmentalize what you are seeing and hearing, separating it from the task at hand, which is to get everyone out of there as quickly as possible.

  It was about two months into my second deployment in 2006 when I was assigned to fly a mission to al-Qa’im, near the Syrian border. I had been so glad when I learned I was flying to this desolate outpost, because I had heard a rumor that I could hardly believe. I had endured numerous months of compartmentalizing what I saw and only focusing on the task at hand. When we arrived and shut down the aircraft, I headed straight to the chow hall. As I approached the door to the small, rickety wooden structure, I saw the words ‘Winchester Hall” above the entrance. It made me smile ear to ear. I was nervous though, wondering about the rumor. I walked in the front door and looked around. There, just inside and to the upper left of the main entrance, was a glass case. Inside it, there it was—a big, bright-blue football jersey with white block letters on the chest: NAVY 73.

  It was the Navy football jersey of Ron Winchester (USNA 2001). He had been a teammate, killed in action in Iraq in September 2004, a few months prior to my first deployment. Navy football is a brotherhood, built through strong bonds among teammates. Ron was the first person I knew who had given his life during the conflict. His death was shocking; I had a hard time absorbing that he was actually gone. It was one of those things that people never think will happen to someone they know. Two months later, J. P. Blecksmith (USNA 2003), another teammate, was killed in action. Other teammates, Bryce McDonald (USNA 2003) and Scott Swantner (USNA 2001), suffered injuries. I received telephone calls about all of them. My reacti
on to seeing Ron’s jersey was immediate and uncontrollable. I turned away and walked outside so the other pilots and crew chiefs wouldn’t see me.

  Here, in this God-forsaken shithole of a place that looks like the surface of the moon, was the most beautiful thing I had seen in a long time. I pulled myself together by focusing my eyes on the metallic band around my left wrist that bears Ron’s name. I wore the band during all three of my deployments to Iraq. Every time it was hot, things were shitty, or I didn’t think I could do another day of the grind, I’d look at my wrist and be reminded of the numerous people, like Ronnie and J.P., who had counted on us on a daily basis.

  Once I had pulled myself together, I walked back in, had a little something to eat, and then walked over to the glass case. I left Ronnie a note on the glass thanking him for his sacrifice and letting him know it had not been in vain. I also left him one of the squadron patches that we wear on our flight suits. At some point, he had been in the back of a CH-46 being CASEVAC’d while mortally wounded or his remains were transported via an “angel” transport to al-Taqaddum, where Mortuary Affairs was located.

  Angel transport was a routine part of my squadron’s mission, so I knew that there was absolutely no delay in getting the remains of coalition personnel killed in action to al-Taqaddum. On the day they perished, the deceased were transported there and prepped for the return home. These missions were flown nightly, and like CASEVACs, I had to learn to compartmentalize and focus on the task at hand. One mission in particular, though, momentarily broke through the compartment.

  I had been assigned to transport five Marines out of Ramadi who died in an IED blast. As we flew in, the entire Marine battalion that operated out of Ramadi was off to the right of the landing zone, standing in formation, at attention. After they brought four of the remains to the aircraft on stretchers, someone hand-carried the remains of the fifth Marine in two body bags to the helicopter. When we had landed, the battalion’s commanding officer had come on board the aircraft to tell us that one of his Marines was going to accompany the remains back to al-Taqaddum. Passengers and “angels” were never on the same aircraft together, but in this case an exception was made. The Marine accompanying one of the bodies back was the deceased Marine’s twin brother.