Monday, December 24, 2012
as the sun sets on battle fields
I will not be your stone. You will not sharpen your accord upon my well being. And as I live and breath I have come to know certain truths to be evident. The one that is most salient; nightfall for a warrior is not a time for sleep. As the sun sets on one battlefield darkness does well to illuminate another. For those prepared, tenebrosity reveals the next inevitable conflict. One that I have spent a lifetime preparing for. It comforts me, this storm. I will not simply endure you, I will show you what resilience is. I will show you how a warrior fights a war. I will be your anathema but I will not be your stone.
author of your fate
The glass slips from her hand but before it fragments in a violently beautiful moment of truth, a life's story unravels.
A beginning like any other, filled with content and hope.
At times it's contents are overflowing whilst others it holds little more than suffering.
yet it's shape and integrity have maintained through frequent vicissitude.
Tripping and stumbling has never led to this. What makes this different? There is a lifetime in this breath, a soul.
A grip otherwise tight has not only released itself it has created a trajectory that years of physics lessons have dictated will result in catastrophe.
A prismatic explosion of life and love sends jagged shards that cut deep into the lives of those closest to her.
Those left wiping the blood from their eyes offer the inevitable cliche about catching, about stopping the unstoppable.
Fresh wounds coagulate and turn to scars. A memory of a life and of a death.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
NO SHIT THERE I WAS
This is the introduction.
In late 2007 I attempted to work through issues that I was having related to my assimilation from the military to the college lifestyle by writing a book. This book was never finished due to my hard drive crashing. This time I have decided to compose my thoughts on a blog so that in the event that my archaic computer decides once again to commit cyber suicide, I will not be forced into another three day "coping" binder.
The transition from the military to college was a difficult era. At that particular time in my life I felt a great deal of cognitive dissonance for having left the military to join the very social environment which we spoke of with disdain in our un-air conditioned tents in Iraq. I felt like I had betrayed my brothers, abandon them in their time of need. Telling the true stories of my experiences as a Ranger medic in Iraq and Afghanistan absolutely helped me to process and cope with what had taken place. It was also very emotionally draining. The feeling of writing just a couple of pages was analogous to running a marathon. This was a big reason why I decided to not rewrite that book. It has been over five years and I finally feel emotionally strong enough to rewrite some of those events. However, the purpose of this project is not simply dedicated to the assimilation process from special operations to the civilian world. My hopes here are multifaceted. It is very important that the stories of the brave men with whom I served be told. The greatest disrespect that we can show our nations warriors is to forget their sacrifices. Throughout the course of these factual, (I reserve the right for up to 10% exaggeration during any of the pages that follow) real life stories I hope to shed light on the mistakes that have been made, the lessons learned and the projection of the world through the eyes of a warrior that no longer has a war to fight. There will be foul language and obscure references that almost no one will understand. There will be stories that involve drinking, fighting, nudity, jail time and other felonies that never stuck. Do not expect a linier format. You've been warned.
In late 2007 I attempted to work through issues that I was having related to my assimilation from the military to the college lifestyle by writing a book. This book was never finished due to my hard drive crashing. This time I have decided to compose my thoughts on a blog so that in the event that my archaic computer decides once again to commit cyber suicide, I will not be forced into another three day "coping" binder.
The transition from the military to college was a difficult era. At that particular time in my life I felt a great deal of cognitive dissonance for having left the military to join the very social environment which we spoke of with disdain in our un-air conditioned tents in Iraq. I felt like I had betrayed my brothers, abandon them in their time of need. Telling the true stories of my experiences as a Ranger medic in Iraq and Afghanistan absolutely helped me to process and cope with what had taken place. It was also very emotionally draining. The feeling of writing just a couple of pages was analogous to running a marathon. This was a big reason why I decided to not rewrite that book. It has been over five years and I finally feel emotionally strong enough to rewrite some of those events. However, the purpose of this project is not simply dedicated to the assimilation process from special operations to the civilian world. My hopes here are multifaceted. It is very important that the stories of the brave men with whom I served be told. The greatest disrespect that we can show our nations warriors is to forget their sacrifices. Throughout the course of these factual, (I reserve the right for up to 10% exaggeration during any of the pages that follow) real life stories I hope to shed light on the mistakes that have been made, the lessons learned and the projection of the world through the eyes of a warrior that no longer has a war to fight. There will be foul language and obscure references that almost no one will understand. There will be stories that involve drinking, fighting, nudity, jail time and other felonies that never stuck. Do not expect a linier format. You've been warned.
30 years of life lessons
A dark shadow casts itself over my shoulder. Hunger pains are no match for my lack of appetite. My desire for anything resembling progression is halted. It is important to remove this knife from my back before laying down. The previous posterior wounds are still coagulating and now I must make mend on this new gaping hole.
I'm not sure if it is rage that consumes me. I don't believe that it is. It feels much more like betrayal. Et tu Brute? There is no concept of loyalty in the world I have found myself in. Litigious words replace personal integrity and certainly any form of what I would constitute as dignity, silent or otherwise. What a sad, pathetic person that has no concept of honor, of loyalty of commitment. An individual that will so quickly dispense of those who have fought their fight when they would not, and done so with verve and allegiance, is an individual no doubt destined for a life of solitude. I believe that this is why I do not feel rage. I feel a degree of pity on such a person. The saddest state is passing these character traits off as brilliance. There is nothing brilliant about a person whose actions are driven entirely from emotion.
I have, for years, been looked upon as dull because of my outward appearance and the path in which I have traveled. I decided to forgo college in my late teens to serve my community. I later served my nation in it's time of need. The assumption here is that such a person is not capable of challenging a "learned" individual in a battle of wit. This is a fact that for some time I have used to my advantage. It has caused people to expect little from me in an intellectual capacity. While I do not necessarily consider myself brilliant, I have learned a few very valuable lessons during my time on this earth.
Lesson 1- Control your emotions, do not allow them to control you.
Have you ever had a person throw a coffee mug at your mug? Now I am not one to say that violence doesn't solve anything, quite the antithesis really. However, in order to be effective violence must be calculated just as any other action must be. When our emotions dictate our actions there is little hope that the product will be favorable.
Lesson 2- be kind but have a plan to kill everyone in the room
This follows the old quote, "Speak softly and carry a big stick"
Lesson 3- Choose your battles.
To state that this fight is not worth fighting is not the statement of a coward, rather that of the most
courageous of soldiers. Stand up and fight when it is time, fight with the whole of your convictions. Yet all too
often we are drawn into fighting battles that will in no way lead to a better version of ourselves, a better
outcome for the ones we cherish, the ones that need protecting. This is the result of pride. Pride is a powerful
companion and an even more destructive foe.
Lesson 4- take the high road
This is more than just a nugget passed down from my father, this is a fucking gem of nearly unparalleled value. When I was going through my divorce (please note that I have never actually been married, but thanks to the common law in Colorado she was entitled to take what she wanted.) I really wanted to fight back. I wanted to attack that person because of the way in which they attacked me. When I spoke to my father and he told me this lesson I didn't fully understand it. It took seeing the reaction of people over several months to grasp what he was saying. For the most part people understand what is going on, there is no need to go around spreading venomous rumors or slander about a person. Their own bitter words will come back on them. People are smart enough to see these patterns and avoid these people. Time and logic can truly be your friends! Be steadfast in the face of vicissitude.
Lesson 5- No matter how big and bad you think you are, there is someone bigger and badder!
This rule in it's simplest form comes down to humility. Just because you are great at making spreadsheets does not mean that you are superior in a comprehensive sense. Just because I can pick up 3 times my body weight doesn't mean that I am a better person. I am a better person, but my dead lift has nothing to do with it really.
I'm not sure if it is rage that consumes me. I don't believe that it is. It feels much more like betrayal. Et tu Brute? There is no concept of loyalty in the world I have found myself in. Litigious words replace personal integrity and certainly any form of what I would constitute as dignity, silent or otherwise. What a sad, pathetic person that has no concept of honor, of loyalty of commitment. An individual that will so quickly dispense of those who have fought their fight when they would not, and done so with verve and allegiance, is an individual no doubt destined for a life of solitude. I believe that this is why I do not feel rage. I feel a degree of pity on such a person. The saddest state is passing these character traits off as brilliance. There is nothing brilliant about a person whose actions are driven entirely from emotion.
I have, for years, been looked upon as dull because of my outward appearance and the path in which I have traveled. I decided to forgo college in my late teens to serve my community. I later served my nation in it's time of need. The assumption here is that such a person is not capable of challenging a "learned" individual in a battle of wit. This is a fact that for some time I have used to my advantage. It has caused people to expect little from me in an intellectual capacity. While I do not necessarily consider myself brilliant, I have learned a few very valuable lessons during my time on this earth.
Lesson 1- Control your emotions, do not allow them to control you.
Have you ever had a person throw a coffee mug at your mug? Now I am not one to say that violence doesn't solve anything, quite the antithesis really. However, in order to be effective violence must be calculated just as any other action must be. When our emotions dictate our actions there is little hope that the product will be favorable.
Lesson 2- be kind but have a plan to kill everyone in the room
This follows the old quote, "Speak softly and carry a big stick"
Lesson 3- Choose your battles.
To state that this fight is not worth fighting is not the statement of a coward, rather that of the most
courageous of soldiers. Stand up and fight when it is time, fight with the whole of your convictions. Yet all too
often we are drawn into fighting battles that will in no way lead to a better version of ourselves, a better
outcome for the ones we cherish, the ones that need protecting. This is the result of pride. Pride is a powerful
companion and an even more destructive foe.
Lesson 4- take the high road
This is more than just a nugget passed down from my father, this is a fucking gem of nearly unparalleled value. When I was going through my divorce (please note that I have never actually been married, but thanks to the common law in Colorado she was entitled to take what she wanted.) I really wanted to fight back. I wanted to attack that person because of the way in which they attacked me. When I spoke to my father and he told me this lesson I didn't fully understand it. It took seeing the reaction of people over several months to grasp what he was saying. For the most part people understand what is going on, there is no need to go around spreading venomous rumors or slander about a person. Their own bitter words will come back on them. People are smart enough to see these patterns and avoid these people. Time and logic can truly be your friends! Be steadfast in the face of vicissitude.
Lesson 5- No matter how big and bad you think you are, there is someone bigger and badder!
This rule in it's simplest form comes down to humility. Just because you are great at making spreadsheets does not mean that you are superior in a comprehensive sense. Just because I can pick up 3 times my body weight doesn't mean that I am a better person. I am a better person, but my dead lift has nothing to do with it really.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Ranger Medic memoir for sofrep
Hey Doc, wake up!
I wasn't...
I didn't even finish saying, I wasn't sleeping. The door slammed shut and Josh had moved on to wake up the next chu, A chu was an 8x8 cell like, connex box that we lived in while working in Takrit Iraq. NCO's and officers got there own, privates typically had to double up. Even with two overgrown Ranger privates in an 8x8 room it was still hands down the best living conditions that I had experienced on any of my deployments. These kids today just don't know how good they have it.
This must be important, Josh usually talks shit for at least a couple of minutes. I glance over at the clock, it's 16:00 so most of our guys were just waking up. I poked my head out of the door to see a handful of guys headed to the makeshift plywood JOC.
What's up??
Come on Doc, let's go. Mission brief in 5.
As usual I had no clue of what was going on. Somehow the medic always seems to evade the chain of information passed through the platoon. I decide that shower shoes aren't the best footwear choice for this occasion and quickly get dressed. I walk in just in time to not get more than a dirty look from my platoon sergeant. I half heartily listen while a certain officer that most everyone in our company had a great disdain for babbled on about two guys in a safe house that we would be our primary kill/capture objectives. We would fast rope in utilizing UH60 "black hawk" helicopters. He said some other things but honestly I was hungry and this was about as routine a wake up call as most college kids alarm clock. We had only been on this deployment for a month and had already executed dozens of successful direct action missions.
Wheels up at 19:00. So by the time that medal hungry Major finished his bloviating, we would have a little under two hours to eat and get our mission essentials together. For me that meant making sure that I had plenty of snacks in what I referred to as my "moral pouch" I'm telling you right now a watermelon jolly rancher is better than Christmas morning to a six year old when you've been on an objective for two days! I will also tell you that half of being a good medic is about keeping up the moral of your guys. When we were on the QRF for operation Red Wing I handed out a lot more candy than trauma medicine!
The boys from the 160th special operations aviation regiment (SOAR) pick us up right on time, which as usual was just past sun down. Those guys are about as nocturnal as they come and more than once I was grateful for their outstanding ability to operate under the dark of night. The feeling of letting your feet dangle out of the door of a black hawk helicopter a couple of hundred feet off the deck is unmatched. On this day, however, I was pushed to the back jump seat which meant that I would be one of the last guys on the ground. Josh takes his fire team to the front door as the black hawk pulled away showering us all with BB sized pebbles and debris from the open field that we had recently landed in.
We are less than 100 meters to the target house as we begin to advance. Second squad was approaching from the side of the building. Weapons squad was set in a blocking position behind the target house in the event that anyone attempted to run. As we moved closer to the tiny house in the middle of that field it happened.....
I feel the heat from the blast from 40 meters away, everything is white, sound is reduced to a high pitch buzzing and then, silence. There is nothing. Time stops. I wait to hear someone scream out for the medic. I wait for something, anything. Every ounce of air has been drawn from me as I wait, a lifetime in that single breath, I wait. As my eyes regained focus I realize that the blast came from the exact position that second squad was just in.The predator drown feed would later show the blast's heat pattern completely white out the screen and erase the six Rangers that stood within a couple of meters of the suicide bomber's position. Air rapidly enters my lungs the way it does after you've been held under water a little too long. I look immediately to my platoon Sergeant and we run. Not to cover, not to safety but directly at that shack of a house, in the middle of that field, in the middle of no where. Josh's fire team reaches the front door just in time to receive a volly of 7.62 slung at them from a PRK set up on the other side of the shacks mud wall. They do not hesitate. They act. They run into the throat of that monster, directly through the door that has the business end of a very large automatic weapon pointed at it, at the helm of that weapon is a man hell bent on their demise. The do not hesitate. They act. At this moment I notice someone running from the objective directly toward weapon squads position. The only thought in my mind was watching second squad disappear at the hand of a suicide bomber just seconds earlier. I raise my rifle. It's dark and he's 75 meters away but the green beam illuminating from my PEC2, only visible by night vision goggles, locks on his chest. Squeeze. Squeeze. I didn't even realize it but I instinctively come to a complete stop to take those two shots. As the figure dropped I continue to run. I'm not entirely sure why but I change directions. Instead of running toward the front door, I begin to run to the motionless body that just a breath ago was standing. I'm within 15 meters. BOOM!!! I feel it. A second blast. This one was much closer. My exposed face is peppered by what feels like tiny ball bearings. I stay on my feet, my eyes never loose focus of the white tunic laying 45 feet in front of me. I will later learn that this blast came from a frag grenade thrown by my good friend Allen in an effort to clear the back room of the shack. The sound of controlled pairs being squeezed off hasn't stopped by the time I reach him. For the second time in the longest minute of my life my breath is stolen from me. He's a boy.... and he's still breathing.
I am going to be completely honest. I don't remember the next few minutes. The world kept moving and I am assuming that I did too because the next thing I know I kneeling over one of the members of second squad talking with my senior medic, John. He was okay. This guy just had a suicide vest detonate within spitting distance, how the hell is he alive? As I look up I see Thomas, second squad leader. He is directing the rest of his guys. They are alive. They are all alive! How? I am at a total loss for words in this moment. I am not a pious man but in this moment I would bet you a hand full of Chili's coupons that those men had were recipients of a little divine intervention. I begin to tend to some of their minor woulds as I realize that first squad took heavy fire upon entering the building. I hand over care to John and quickly make my way to the front door. The mangled flatbed truck where the suicide bomber sat up and proclaimed "allahu akbar" is etched in my mind. I see what looks like his legs and most of his body. His head is completely gone. My best guess is the vest was poorly constructed and the brunt of the blast traveled up rather than out. His head is found, in tact, 30 meters away; popped off like a cork on a cheep bottle of champaign. He should have paid more attention in shit head school. I reach the front door. The small room had already been cleared and the guys from first squad are in search mode. I ask if everyone is okay. All I get is a couple of uneasy laughs. Apparently one of the 7.62 rounds grazed one of the younger guy's helmet's. The room is small and filled with smoke from the gun fight. There is a hole just big enough for a man to crawl through in the back corner of the room. Apparently several men crawled through the hole to another room as first squad made entry to the first room. After eliminating the threat on the PRK, Allen tossed that frag grenade into the back room rather than chase the men on his hands and knees. I joke with him that nearly blowing me up in the process will cost him a beer when we get state side, he just shrugs his shoulders. There are a couple of lifeless bodies on the floor in the front room. One was slumped over the machine gun, the other must have drawn the short straw. He got to be the last guy to get to crawl through the room's only means of egress. Just as my desire to poke them with a stick draws me one step into the room I hear my call signal called on the radio. It's my platoon sergeant. Second squad is chasing someone that our eye in the sky spotted fleeing the target house. I immediately run to their location. By the time I get their the company commander is giving an order to good friend of mine named Nick. Nick and I had recently been promoted to Sargent at the same time. Now Nick has always been a very good Ranger. He promoted quickly because he is smart, well spoken and well liked among the guys. He is also very good at taking orders, normally. They had one of the men pinned down in a sort of a reservoir. The Company commander wanted Nick to send one of the guys on his team down into the reservoir to grab the guy and try to pull him up the side of the reservoir that was about eight feet high. In the kind of tone you would expect a Ranger Sgt. to address a superior officer, Nick asked, "Sir, you want me to send one of my guys that just got blown up by a suicide bomber into that hole and grab another potential suicide bomber, throw him on his shoulder and carry him up that eight foot mud wall?"
"Roger," Replied the Captain. That's not exactly what happened.
Nick responds in a way that I will never forget and in a way that I will not repeat here.
Just about the time that incident is resolved another call comes over the radio requesting my presence on the north side of the target house. As I approach I see Eric, Nathan and our interpreter standing over the boy who I shot earlier. He is still breathing, in fact he is talking. As I kneel down to assess his wounds I ask the interpreter what he is saying. I notice that he has more than just two holes in him. He was hit from multiple shooters. For some reason I now feel less responsible for his situation. The interpreter says that the kid is 14 and came to Iraq from Saudi Arabia. I asked him what he is doing in Iraq. As long as I live I will never forget his response.
"I have come here to kill Americans!"
"Then why did you run?"
"There are too many."
"How did you get here?"
"They paid me to come."
"What would your parents think if they knew that you were here?"
"They would be proud."
Without hesitation I turn and walk away. I have the power to help and do nothing. To this day I have yet to fully process this decision. Guilt, shame, ambivalence? I don't know to feel about it. I am not sure what emotion to affix to such an event. I know that he lived because of the efforts of one of our other medics but I did nothing. A fact that keeps me up some nights still.
As I walk back to the target house I see the severed head of the suicide bomber, fully in tact. It doesn't even phase me, I just walk by it. Once back in the house I link up with my friends from first squad. They have just finished searching the house for any possible links to other cells in the area. The place is an absolute mess. I notice something that I can't help but laugh about. At the feet of one of the dead terrorist lay a couple of bottles of a 7UP knock off drink called CHEER UP. I pick it up and Matt takes a quick picture. Someone cracks a joke, "Feeling down about getting blown the F*** up?? have a refreshing glass of CHEER UP!"
Josh takes a bottle back to the states and uses it's contents to make mix drinks in his barrack room.
Just as we are calling for ex-fill a call comes over the radio. We are getting an add-on mission. Abu Musab al-Zarqawi has just been seen entering a chemical wherehouse less than a hundred miles away. We make our way back to the ex-fill point and wait for the Black Hawks to return. As we wait, a _______ bomb is dropped on the house which on that night served as a crucible for 1st platoon; erasing it from existence but never from our memory.
*** The story can end there or go on ***
The story continues with us going to Balad to grab more ammo. We walk into the hanger to meet with elements of HHC that watched the entire mission live on the predator feed. None of them could believe that we all survived. I have to give a quick refresher on the use of a atropine to our guys because they fear that Zarqawi will use NBC against us. Someone asks, "So Doc, our faces might get melted off tonight?" I say, It's a possibility. He just says, "cool"
I wasn't...
I didn't even finish saying, I wasn't sleeping. The door slammed shut and Josh had moved on to wake up the next chu, A chu was an 8x8 cell like, connex box that we lived in while working in Takrit Iraq. NCO's and officers got there own, privates typically had to double up. Even with two overgrown Ranger privates in an 8x8 room it was still hands down the best living conditions that I had experienced on any of my deployments. These kids today just don't know how good they have it.
This must be important, Josh usually talks shit for at least a couple of minutes. I glance over at the clock, it's 16:00 so most of our guys were just waking up. I poked my head out of the door to see a handful of guys headed to the makeshift plywood JOC.
What's up??
Come on Doc, let's go. Mission brief in 5.
As usual I had no clue of what was going on. Somehow the medic always seems to evade the chain of information passed through the platoon. I decide that shower shoes aren't the best footwear choice for this occasion and quickly get dressed. I walk in just in time to not get more than a dirty look from my platoon sergeant. I half heartily listen while a certain officer that most everyone in our company had a great disdain for babbled on about two guys in a safe house that we would be our primary kill/capture objectives. We would fast rope in utilizing UH60 "black hawk" helicopters. He said some other things but honestly I was hungry and this was about as routine a wake up call as most college kids alarm clock. We had only been on this deployment for a month and had already executed dozens of successful direct action missions.
Wheels up at 19:00. So by the time that medal hungry Major finished his bloviating, we would have a little under two hours to eat and get our mission essentials together. For me that meant making sure that I had plenty of snacks in what I referred to as my "moral pouch" I'm telling you right now a watermelon jolly rancher is better than Christmas morning to a six year old when you've been on an objective for two days! I will also tell you that half of being a good medic is about keeping up the moral of your guys. When we were on the QRF for operation Red Wing I handed out a lot more candy than trauma medicine!
The boys from the 160th special operations aviation regiment (SOAR) pick us up right on time, which as usual was just past sun down. Those guys are about as nocturnal as they come and more than once I was grateful for their outstanding ability to operate under the dark of night. The feeling of letting your feet dangle out of the door of a black hawk helicopter a couple of hundred feet off the deck is unmatched. On this day, however, I was pushed to the back jump seat which meant that I would be one of the last guys on the ground. Josh takes his fire team to the front door as the black hawk pulled away showering us all with BB sized pebbles and debris from the open field that we had recently landed in.
We are less than 100 meters to the target house as we begin to advance. Second squad was approaching from the side of the building. Weapons squad was set in a blocking position behind the target house in the event that anyone attempted to run. As we moved closer to the tiny house in the middle of that field it happened.....
I feel the heat from the blast from 40 meters away, everything is white, sound is reduced to a high pitch buzzing and then, silence. There is nothing. Time stops. I wait to hear someone scream out for the medic. I wait for something, anything. Every ounce of air has been drawn from me as I wait, a lifetime in that single breath, I wait. As my eyes regained focus I realize that the blast came from the exact position that second squad was just in.
I am going to be completely honest. I don't remember the next few minutes. The world kept moving and I am assuming that I did too because the next thing I know I kneeling over one of the members of second squad talking with my senior medic, John. He was okay. This guy just had a suicide vest detonate within spitting distance, how the hell is he alive? As I look up I see Thomas, second squad leader. He is directing the rest of his guys. They are alive. They are all alive! How? I am at a total loss for words in this moment. I am not a pious man but in this moment I would bet you a hand full of Chili's coupons that those men had were recipients of a little divine intervention. I begin to tend to some of their minor woulds as I realize that first squad took heavy fire upon entering the building. I hand over care to John and quickly make my way to the front door. The mangled flatbed truck where the suicide bomber sat up and proclaimed "allahu akbar" is etched in my mind. I see what looks like his legs and most of his body. His head is completely gone. My best guess is the vest was poorly constructed and the brunt of the blast traveled up rather than out. His head is found, in tact, 30 meters away; popped off like a cork on a cheep bottle of champaign. He should have paid more attention in shit head school. I reach the front door. The small room had already been cleared and the guys from first squad are in search mode. I ask if everyone is okay. All I get is a couple of uneasy laughs. Apparently one of the 7.62 rounds grazed one of the younger guy's helmet's. The room is small and filled with smoke from the gun fight. There is a hole just big enough for a man to crawl through in the back corner of the room. Apparently several men crawled through the hole to another room as first squad made entry to the first room. After eliminating the threat on the PRK, Allen tossed that frag grenade into the back room rather than chase the men on his hands and knees. I joke with him that nearly blowing me up in the process will cost him a beer when we get state side, he just shrugs his shoulders. There are a couple of lifeless bodies on the floor in the front room. One was slumped over the machine gun, the other must have drawn the short straw. He got to be the last guy to get to crawl through the room's only means of egress. Just as my desire to poke them with a stick draws me one step into the room I hear my call signal called on the radio. It's my platoon sergeant. Second squad is chasing someone that our eye in the sky spotted fleeing the target house. I immediately run to their location. By the time I get their the company commander is giving an order to good friend of mine named Nick. Nick and I had recently been promoted to Sargent at the same time. Now Nick has always been a very good Ranger. He promoted quickly because he is smart, well spoken and well liked among the guys. He is also very good at taking orders, normally. They had one of the men pinned down in a sort of a reservoir. The Company commander wanted Nick to send one of the guys on his team down into the reservoir to grab the guy and try to pull him up the side of the reservoir that was about eight feet high. In the kind of tone you would expect a Ranger Sgt. to address a superior officer, Nick asked, "Sir, you want me to send one of my guys that just got blown up by a suicide bomber into that hole and grab another potential suicide bomber, throw him on his shoulder and carry him up that eight foot mud wall?"
"Roger," Replied the Captain. That's not exactly what happened.
Nick responds in a way that I will never forget and in a way that I will not repeat here.
Just about the time that incident is resolved another call comes over the radio requesting my presence on the north side of the target house. As I approach I see Eric, Nathan and our interpreter standing over the boy who I shot earlier. He is still breathing, in fact he is talking. As I kneel down to assess his wounds I ask the interpreter what he is saying. I notice that he has more than just two holes in him. He was hit from multiple shooters. For some reason I now feel less responsible for his situation. The interpreter says that the kid is 14 and came to Iraq from Saudi Arabia. I asked him what he is doing in Iraq. As long as I live I will never forget his response.
"I have come here to kill Americans!"
"Then why did you run?"
"There are too many."
"How did you get here?"
"They paid me to come."
"What would your parents think if they knew that you were here?"
"They would be proud."
Without hesitation I turn and walk away. I have the power to help and do nothing. To this day I have yet to fully process this decision. Guilt, shame, ambivalence? I don't know to feel about it. I am not sure what emotion to affix to such an event. I know that he lived because of the efforts of one of our other medics but I did nothing. A fact that keeps me up some nights still.
As I walk back to the target house I see the severed head of the suicide bomber, fully in tact. It doesn't even phase me, I just walk by it. Once back in the house I link up with my friends from first squad. They have just finished searching the house for any possible links to other cells in the area. The place is an absolute mess. I notice something that I can't help but laugh about. At the feet of one of the dead terrorist lay a couple of bottles of a 7UP knock off drink called CHEER UP. I pick it up and Matt takes a quick picture. Someone cracks a joke, "Feeling down about getting blown the F*** up?? have a refreshing glass of CHEER UP!"
Josh takes a bottle back to the states and uses it's contents to make mix drinks in his barrack room.
Just as we are calling for ex-fill a call comes over the radio. We are getting an add-on mission. Abu Musab al-Zarqawi has just been seen entering a chemical wherehouse less than a hundred miles away. We make our way back to the ex-fill point and wait for the Black Hawks to return. As we wait, a _______ bomb is dropped on the house which on that night served as a crucible for 1st platoon; erasing it from existence but never from our memory.
*** The story can end there or go on ***
The story continues with us going to Balad to grab more ammo. We walk into the hanger to meet with elements of HHC that watched the entire mission live on the predator feed. None of them could believe that we all survived. I have to give a quick refresher on the use of a atropine to our guys because they fear that Zarqawi will use NBC against us. Someone asks, "So Doc, our faces might get melted off tonight?" I say, It's a possibility. He just says, "cool"
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