As we sat in the tree stand waiting for a deer to cross the trail a hundred yards ahead, my father questioned whether or not I was ready, and, ultimately, if I was ready, would I be able to make a shot at such a distance?
I later learned after they were shot, most deer ran through the woods for a hundred yards or more before finally bleeding so much that they expired from blood loss. A perfectly placed shot – straight up from the back side of the front leg, half way between the bottom of the chest and the back – was the only thing that would drop a deer in its tracks.
Filled with confidence, and hoping to make my father proud, I waited for a deer to cross the path in front of us. As the morning sun began to rise above the base of the trees, a buck stepped into the clearing, raised his head, and sniffed the air as if something was wrong.
As his shoulder twitched from either fear or an inner knowledge of impending threat, I squeezed the trigger.
The deer fell where it stood.
Two days later, as we sat and ate a meal of venison steaks, potatoes, and an apple pie my mother had prepared, I began to understand the permanency of death. My father, while describing the impossible shot I had made to my mother, was filled with pride.
As I listened to him speak, I didn’t necessarily feel proud, but I was far from ashamed. I felt powerful, large, and almost invincible. The taking of a life wasn’t something every man was able to do, but I understood death as the completion of the cycle of life, and something completely necessary for all living things to endure at some point.
Making the choice to end the cycle of life wasn’t something I took lightly as a child, or as an adult. As I grew older, I eventually stopped hunting. My belief at the time was that it wasn’t necessary. For me at least, hunting was a sport; and killing – for sport – was something I decided was wrong.
“We need to get off this roof before he shoots all of us,” the young Marine complained.
In searching the building for insurgents, we had encountered a Marine Scout Sniper and his spotter. The sniper had been shot, was close to death, and the spotter appeared to be in slight shock. There was no doubt he had received considerable training to be a spotter for a Scout Sniper and to be a combat ready Marine, but nothing could ever replace the experience from actually being in combat, which was something he obviously hadn’t had the luxury of experiencing.
“First tour?” I asked as I crawled toward the abandoned sniper rifle.
“Yes, Sir. We got here two days ago for this operation,” he responded nervously. “We really need to get down from here. We’re sitting ducks.”
“Well, that’s not going to fucking happen. Your sniper has a hole in his shoulder the size of a baseball, and I intend to kill the motherfucker who shot him before he shoots someone else. Now, take a breath, remember your training, and give me an accurate fucking distance to my target,” I barked as I leaned my M4 against the parapet of the roof.
I flattened myself into a prone position and placed my cheek against the buttstock of the sniper’s rifle. After pulling off my helmet, wiping the sweat from my brow, and closing my left eye, I peered through the scope toward the target. The man on the rooftop who had been taking pot shots at an approaching convoy was taking a new position at the corner of the roof and lowering his rifle to what appeared to be a sandbag rest.
I’m guessing eight hundred plus.
The mid-day sun provided aggravating temperatures, but also made finding my target rather easy. With half of a mile between us, the bullet from the .308 caliber rifle would reach him in roughly one second. In that same second, he could take a shot, change his position, or take cover behind the upper roof line.
If his intention was to shoot Marines, I knew I didn’t have a second to waste.
I compared the four story building across the street to the building half a mile away and decided the distance based on the reduced appearance in size. After I studied the blowing dust for a moment, I reached up, and began to adjust the scope for an 800 yard shot. The wind was from my right to my left at what I guessed to be 6 miles an hour, which would carry the bullet from the right to the left slightly in the 2,600 feet it had to travel to get to the target.
As Cunningham and Grayson sat in wait and Whitmire tended to the wounded sniper, the spotter peered nervously through his spotting scope toward the target. I inhaled a deep breath and paused.
“Eight hundred and twenty meters. Wind from your immediate right to your left. Push right point two,” the spotter said.
Point two is too much, kid. We’ll do this my way.
I exhaled all of the breath from my lungs.
Sorry, motherfucker. I’ve got to make it home to see my wife, and to do so, I need to make sure you don’t make it home to yours.
I gave no acknowledgement of the stats provided by the spotter. After squeezing the trigger, I waited for him to acknowledge the kill.
“Holy fucking shit. Target down. Enemy KIA,” he said excitedly.
I inhaled a shallow breath, turned toward the spotter, and nodded my head. The sound of small arms fire continued from every direction as the report of mortars thumped in the distance every few seconds. All but immune to the sounds and sight of death, I turned toward the three Marines I was in charge of.
“Whitmire, we need to get him to our fucking Corpsman. Hell, I don’t give a fuck if you’ve got to find one of the 82nd’s medics, we need to get him off this fucking roof,” I said.
As I raised myself to a crouched position, hiding behind the cover of the parapet, the spotter moved his scope to the side and shifted his eyes toward me. “Nice shot,” he said as he scanned my blouse for my name. “Sergeant Jacob. Nice fucking shot, Jacob.”
“We can swap spit later. I need to get your sniper to a medic,” I said.
“Roger that,” he said as he stood from his bench.
What the fuck are you doing?
I waved my hand from side to side and pointed toward his feet. “Stay down, god damn it! You don’t know if…”
The thwack of the bullet hitting his chest was sickening. His eyes widened with concern as he stumbled back, eventually falling onto the roof between where I was crouched and where Cunningham was positioned.
“God fucking damn it,” I shouted as I gazed down at his body.
I shook my head and stared off in the distance, wondering how much longer the sniper would be able to last with the fist-sized cavity in his shoulder.
After securing my weapon, I bent down to pick up the fallen spotter. As I peered into his eyes, I realized I didn’t need to check for vitals, he wasn’t WIA, he was KIA.
Son-of-a-fucking-bitch.
I reached between his legs with one arm and grabbed his wrist with the other, raising him over my shoulder. I clenched my jaw at the thought of one more dead Marine and one soon to be dead Marine, and thanked God the three men under my command were still alive.
“Cunningham, lead the way. Take the rear staircase. Whitmire, behind me. Grayson, secure the M40, the spotter scope, and the rest of their gear, and take the rear,” I said as I tossed my head toward the staircase at the rear corner of the roof.
Upon reaching the street, we were met by a First Lieutenant, obviously new to combat, half-lost, and out of his element.
As the driver sat nervously and waited, the Lieutenant stepped from the Humvee and waved his arm toward the adjacent buildings.
“We’ve got a sniper on the roof six hundred meters east, and…”
“Sir, the enemy sniper has been eliminated. I’ve got one Marine KIA and one Marine WIA, soon to be KIA. We either need a Corpsman or to get this man to a hospital,” I said as I lowered the dead spotter from my shoulder.
“That sniper KIA, is it confirmed?” he asked.
It was as confirmed as I needed it to be.
“Yes, Sir,” I responded.
He nodded his head eagerly. “Who are you with?”
“We’re with the two-seven,” I responded. “I’m the Fire Team leader, and
we were separated from our squad. We’re searching…”
“Sergeant Jacob, two-seven. Got it. Load those men in the back,” he said as he waved his hand toward the rear of the Humvee.
Apparently he didn’t give a shit who we were with or what our objectives were. I motioned toward the rear of the Humvee, helped load the two Marines, and turned away. As I watched them speed away, I realized for us, nothing had changed. We had been separated from our squad, and the entire city was a chaotic mess of gunfire, RPG’s, and mortar fire.
We’d be lucky if we lived through the night.
The Marines, no different than any other branch of the military, had a command structure. The structure was in place for a reason, and was necessary in the eyes of every Marine. It never ceased to amaze me, however, that while in combat and taking heavy fire, things seemed to go to hell in a handbasket at every level of the command.
I shifted my eyes back and forth between each of the men, “We’ve got no radio, no support from our squad, and no NCO other than me.”
I flinched as a mortar impacted the building directly beside us. I gazed up and down the street for any signs of the enemy, relieved to see nothing or no one. Buildings were smoldering, half of the structures were collapsed from bombs we had dropped, and what remained was being searched by the Army’s special forces and Marines, none of which I immediately recognized. The enemy, as always, was hiding in wait.
Our trip onto the roof had eliminated a sniper and potentially saved the lives of many, but left us with very little support or immediate hope of finding the remainder of our squad.
“We’re going to try to make it back to our squad, and if you listen to me and follow my command, I can’t make any promises, but I haven’t lost a man on my team yet,” I paused and surveyed the area for anyone I recognized.
To describe the scene as lawless would be to grossly understate the truth. In every direction, men were firing weapons. Marines and the Army’s 82nd Airborne fired M16’s, M4’s, M203 grenade launchers, and SAW’s at buildings, noises, who they perceived as a threat, and down the alleys between buildings. Fire was returned sporadically, but not from an identifiable location.
As I mentally found a path for my fire team to take to safety, I felt tremendous pressure in my thigh, and then my upper chest.
“Fuck,” I said as I glanced down at my thigh. “We need to double time it toward that mosque.”
“Jacob, you’re hit,” Cunningham said.
“I’ll be fine,” I assured him with a nod of my head. “Head for the mosque.”
I wiped my left hand along my upper chest and returned a hand full of blood. I did my best to take a step to lead my men to safety, and everything around me slowly became small.
As the silence encompassed me, I wondered if upon arriving at the gates of heaven if it was truly guarded by US Marines.
I had no idea if the stories of Marines guarding the gates of heaven were true, but as I felt like I was slowly being lowered into a pit with no bottom that was filled with the essence of Suzanne’s perfume, I was sure I was going to find out.
Everything around me faded from a blur into complete darkness and my body went numb.
But her scent remained.
Chapter Two Hundred Forty-Two
Fall 2004, Wichita, Kansas, USA
I gripped the sides of the weight bench and pressed the extensions to their limit. After holding my legs straight until my muscles began to fatigue, I bent my knees and lowered the weight to the machine’s stops.
I sat up, wiped the sweat from my face, and stood from the bench. My leg was in as good of shape as it was before I was shot, and there was no doubt in my mind I had recovered 100 percent. Shot twice and determined to be still fit for duty, I felt fortunate to be able to return to a war I was convinced couldn’t be won by either side. As I felt Suzanne’s presence in the room, I turned toward the doorway.
As our eyes met, she spoke. “You’re really going back?”
I stood and buried my face in the towel I held. I couldn’t expect her to believe she was as important to me as she was and also understand my overwhelming need to return, at least not without some kind of an explanation. I pulled the towel away from my face and did my best to reassure her I was doing what was best for everyone, her included.
“Babe, I’m sorry. But until this damned thing is over, I’ll go back. I’ve got to. I don’t have a choice,” I said.
“You do have a choice,” she murmured.
I shook my head. “I don’t. My men need me. I can’t let them down. I took an oath and gave my word, you can’t expect me to go back on that, you just can’t. The man who never gives up, is always there for those in need, and provides what others can only dream of is the man you fell in love with. For you to ask me to stay here would be to ask me to change who I am. To change who you fell in love with.”
“I can’t change that maple tree out in the yard into an apple tree, and I sure can’t turn myself into a man unwilling to fight and willing to break his word.” I flipped the towel over my shoulder and pointed both of my index fingers toward my chest.
“You fell in love with this man. The man that’s going back to fight against the very terrorists who attacked our country and killed innocent civilians. And I’m going back to do my part in making sure they don’t do it again to our children,” I said.
“Our children?” she asked, her voice faltering as she spoke. “God, I love you, Alec.”
I nodded my head. “Yes. Our children.”
She smiled and wiped her eyes. “I can’t argue with you. You’re right. I fell in love with the man who never gives up. The man who wouldn’t take no for an answer when he asked me out on that first date.”
She paused and dropped her eyes to the floor.
“But I’m scared to death they’re going to kill you,” she said as she shifted her eyes to meet mine.
“My promotion to Sergeant was already in for this spring, so it was a given. After killing that sniper and being shot, I received a meritorious combat promotion, Suzanne. They kicked me up to a Staff Sergeant. I’ll be in charge of over forty men. I won’t really even be fighting any more, just commanding infantry troops. And there’s never going to be anything worse than that fucking mess in Fallujah, so there’s nothing to worry about,” I said, doing my best to not only convince her, but to assure myself there would be far less risk of me being killed in my new position.
“Not even fighting, huh? Nothing to worry about, alright. I’ll keep telling myself that. So, when do you think the war is going to end?” she asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe one more tour?”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Really?”
I nodded my head, hoping to convince myself the war was nearly over.
Her mouth curled into a smile. She fought against it for a moment, and eventually shifted her eyes down at the floor. After a few seconds, she lowered her head slightly. Her blonde hair fell beside her face, hanging from her head like strands of straw-colored silk. She raised her hand and flipped her hair over her shoulder, lifting her head – and her gaze – until it met mine.
“You think this will be your last?” she asked as our eyes locked.
“I hope so,” I said.
It wasn’t much of a reassurance, but I really hoped it would end soon. I didn’t see that there could ever be a clear winner in the war we were fighting, but if nothing else we were making a statement. The people we were fighting weren’t the people who mattered, and the people who mattered weren’t anywhere to be found. Continuing at the pace we were would prove nothing and gain very little.
“I just…I can’t imagine…I can’t imagine losing you,” she said.
I shook my head. “Don’t. Don’t imagine it. Imagine me coming home one day for good, and you and I having a family. Imagine that.”
She grinned and nodded her head. “I will.”
The thought of losing Suzanne wasn’t something I was prepared to digest. My o
nly desire, short of making it out of the war alive and in one piece, was to have a family with her and live a new life to the limit of my mental, physical, and spiritual abilities.
I stood and gazed at her, and as I did, realized my desire to have a family with her was deeply etched into my being.
As she began to walk in my direction, no doubt to hold me in her arms, it saddened me slightly to know that my commitment to protect my fellow Marines was etched just a little deeper.
Chapter Two Hundred Forty-Three
Early Winter 2004, Fallujah, Iraq
The Second Battle of Fallujah
I stood and listened to my orders, not wanting to believe we were going back into the very depths of hell that I had barely made it out of alive. Fallujah was not only occupied by insurgents, but had been taken over completely. Operation Phantom Fury was being spearheaded by the United States Marine Corps, with the assistance of a handful of Navy SEALS, and a light offering from the United States Army.
“Sixty-five hundred Marines?” I asked, attempting to understand the complexity of the operation.
“That is correct, Staff Sergeant,” he responded.
“And fifteen hundred from the Army?” I asked.
He nodded his head and continued in a stern tone. “Affirmative. Three six-man SEAL teams, a thousand Iraqi troops, and roughly five thousand British troops. You have reservations about going back into that shit storm, I need to know it now.”
I straightened my stance and barked out my response like the devil dog I was. “No, Sir, I’m ready, willing, and capable.”
“Well, Staff Sergeant Jacob, be advised,” he paused and lifted his chin slightly.
“You are one tough son-of-a-bitch, that’s a given. You command your troops well, and make split-second decisions like no other Marine under my command. But. And this is a big but, son. This battle? I can’t guarantee you much, but I can god damned guarantee you this. This son-of-a-bitch will go down in history as one of the, if not the, worst battle of urban combat in the history of my beloved Marine Corps,” he said.
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