The Last Punisher: A SEAL Team THREE Sniper's True Account of the Battle of Ramadi (18 page)

“Roger that, Chief.” Outwardly, I was calm. Inwardly, I was mildly panicked. Tony had just made me point for the entire platoon on our land navigation exercise, and I was a newguy. I was Charlie 13, as in “only take over if Charlies one through twelve are down.”

We train for war. War is unpredictable. There was no reason why I might not step up and lead on the battlefield. I squared away my gear and led the platoon through the entire exercise.

“Stay sharp, Dauba’,” Tony said. “You gotta always stay sharp.”

A year and a half before I landed in country, coalition forces launched the largest battle of the Iraq War in November 2004.
During Operation Phantom Fury, more than thirteen thousand troops from the United States, the United Kingdom, and Iraq isolated and surrounded the city of Fallujah. It had become a hotbed for the Sunni insurgency in Iraq’s western province of Anbar, where Al Qaeda in Iraq set roots. The bloody offensive to wrest the enemy stronghold from the insurgents was fought house-to-house and block by block. It lasted more than six weeks, and when it was over the city was devastated.

The widespread destruction wrought during Phantom Fury led to a great deal of political backlash against the government of Iraq from the Iraqi people. After the insurgency fled Fallujah and dug its claws into Ramadi, the Iraqi government lacked the political will to launch a large-scale offensive to clear out the larger and more densely populated city. For that reason, General Richard Zilmer, who commanded the roughly thirty thousand American troops and coalition forces in Anbar Province, relied on a network of mutually supporting bases and combat outposts from which coalition forces could launch security and presence patrols. The long-game strategy was to clear and hold ground with the outposts spread throughout the city and eventually connect all the strategic dots.

After our adventures with the Marines north of Route Michigan, the Army requested us as forward support in a larger operation to extend the coalition footprint in southern Ramadi. The mission was to establish a command observation post, or COP (one of the strategic dots), at Ramadi’s southern edge, about a kilometer east of the Habbaniyah Canal. With the newly established COP Iron as a foothold in the south, soldiers could establish a permanent security presence in the area and tighten the squeeze around the enemy.

Our head shed was always eager to extend our help into these areas for a multitude of reasons. They had a platoon of pipe hitters who were eager and capable of taking the fight to the enemy. Without Charlie Platoon’s seasoned and levelheaded enlisted leadership to direct
the course of operations on the ground, the head shed’s demands would have been much more difficult to meet.

Our platoon chief, Tony, was on his ninth deployment. The Legend was on his third, as were Bob and Jeremy—these men were all enlisted. Luke, the ranking officer in the platoon, had done a three-month stint in Iraq before Ramadi, while Ralphie, Ned, and Guy were newguy officers—as new as me. It was really just a matter of simple math to show that experience levels favored the enlisted side of the house. Because of that, our enlisted leaders served as the vanguard in determining our success. Tony, Chris, and V were critical in the decision-making process when it came to choosing which missions were necessary and which were less so. On the officer side, Guy served as a levelheaded mediator and often had a better perspective from his angle at the TOC. In this particular case, the push to Springfield had larger, long-term implications. The call to move in came from the top.

Ramadi’s southern edge was a very hostile environment. Other Special Operations assets had continually been shot off target there in the past. Our role in the operation was multifaceted. First, we conducted the main recon patrol to identify the best compound to strongpoint and use to establish a foothold. With an AC-130 gunship providing support from above, we patrolled on foot from a small outpost called ECP 3 about four kilometers from our target area. The recce (reconnaissance) patrol was pretty uneventful, just a sweaty walk through enemy territory to locate a compound to take over and build into a stronghold. We crossed the train bridge over the Habbaniyah Canal and skirted the railroad tracks along Ramadi’s southern edge until we reached our target area. Tony and Chris had decided the most strategically advantageous compound was a building with a row of giant date palms surrounding the interior of its perimeter wall. Since the Springfield area was mostly residential buildings, the palm tree palace was the highest two-story building around. With our target building identified, we headed home to Sharkbase.

Two days later, the ECP parking lot buzzed with operators, Humvees, Bradleys, Strykers, and Iraqi tanks—all poised to pounce on the new COP we were going to secure. EOD Justin, our other bomb tech, the Legend, Guy, and I stared at a Jundi tanker struggling to control his vehicle. For a second, he looked almost cool, like some vato popping his hydraulics while cruising Hollywood. But the movement wasn’t intentional. It was a result of the tanker’s inability to drive his own tank, which is definitely not cool.

“No wonder they lost the fucking war,” Justin said, rolling his eyes.

Without missing a beat, Guy chimed in, “Well, it doesn’t bode well for the long-term future, either.”

I nodded in agreement and spat out a Copenhagen dip. It was going to be a long, hot night. We were waiting to retrace our steps from the recce patrol two nights earlier. Our job was to secure the date-palm compound and set up a sniper overwatch and strongpoint position while the Army rolled in force with a bunch of tanks and armored vehicles. We patrolled in on foot across the train bridge, and then past the train station and on to our compound.

We brought our crypto-tech, Lurch, on this patrol. Lurch was able to provide situational awareness while we were on target. Lurch was about six-six and had played basketball at Maryland. He loved hip-hop and always had on a big pair of noise-canceling headphones. He is the only Navy crypto-tech I ever saw get a confirmed kill in Ramadi, when he took a shift on the gun during an overwatch mission and spotted a guy walking across the street with an AK slung on his shoulder.

“Should I shoot this guy?” Lurch had asked, hesitant. “He’s got an AK on his shoulder, but I’m not sure if I should shoot him.”

“He’s got an AK, right?” Chucky said nonchalantly.

I was on my back, staring at the sky, sipping some water a few feet away.

“Yeah, but I’m not sure if—” The last bit of trigger slack that Lurch
had been squeezing suddenly closed the distance, and a bullet cracked out of the gun, dumping the guy with the AK.

“Oh shit!” Lurch said.

I rolled over and looked through my binos. I saw the rifle next to a freshly dead guy.

“Dude, you shouldn’t have shot him,” Chucky said, fucking with Lurch’s head. “It looks like he was just going for some groceries.”

You could hear Lurch’s ass snap shut. Then Chucky burst out laughing. Teamguy humor. Dark as always. First crypto-tech with a confirmed kill.

Lurch was all right.

The platoon began the slow trek to the target compound at 2200 that night. The night was ink black, minus the IR beam from the AC-130 gunship that glazed the landscape around us.

“Hey, Lurch,” I said. “Know why I like patrolling next to you?”

“Because you love me?”

“Kind of. I love that you’re a bigger target for the enemy to aim at.”

“You’re a dick,” he replied. No sarcasm whatsoever.

“Leave him alone, Dauber,” Guy piped in. “He’s still struggling with the fact he smoked that guy getting groceries a few days ago.”

Marc laughed as we stepped past the last Bradley and began the patrol to our date farm. We crossed the hundred-meter train bridge, circled under it, and headed east. Chris kept the patrol close to the berm to minimize our silhouette against the horizon. As we approached our target building, it became very apparent that I had neglected to adequately prepare for this op. It started as a slight headache and the realization I hadn’t hydrated. The Copenhagen in my lip felt heavy and uncomfortably thick as my body looked for all the water it could get to cool down. By the time we reached our building, my head was pounding and I felt like a hot bag of shit that was ready to pop.

We sent the Jundis over the wall to let us in. Their training was beginning to pay off; we were in the compound within twenty seconds. Bob gave the main door a swift donkey kick, and we entered and cleared through quickly. The family consisted of an old couple in their seventies, two younger women, and their kids. The husbands—the military-age males—were missing. This arrangement was always suspect, and Moose started questioning the women.

“Where’s your husband? Where did he go?” Moose asked in Arabic. He was always good at getting information from people quickly. He was even better than our intel assets when it came to questioning people and getting information. He was a truly top-notch terp and a solid operator.

The older woman was an invalid. She wore a black dress and was covered head to toe, save her face. While Moose questioned the younger women, the old woman went in the bathroom, where she lost control of her bowels. As she emerged, she began to crawl and writhe around on the floor downstairs like a half-crushed snail. She was like a human mop dipped in shit, painting the floor like a madman’s canvas.

“This is fucking weird,” Marc said to me.

“I’ve seen it all,” Biggles commented as he pushed past to the roof.

The image heightened the feeling of nausea in my gut as my heart pounded heavy in my throbbing head. The world around me felt fuzzy, like I was moving in slow motion. I swallowed the residual Copenhagen and tried to keep my guts from ending up topside.

“Weird as fuck, and disgusting,” I said, walking toward the stairs.

When I made it to the rooftop, I grabbed Jonny and made sure he saw my face, which was pale and sweaty.

“Jonny, you gotta do me a favor,” I said. “I need an IV. I haven’t pissed in hours. I have a crushing headache, and I feel like I’m gonna puke.”

Jonny took one look at me and knew I was in a bad way. “Roger that, man.”

The other Teamguys started blowing loophole charges and setting up their hides while Jonny hooked me up with an IV. With the catheter in my arm and the saline bag crudely hooked up above me, I took a knee next to the wall on the rooftop while Jonny went back to setting up his hide. I closed my eyes and continued to breathe deeply. In the quiet of the night, I cursed myself. I’d let myself become vulnerable.
Never again,
I thought.
Take a knee, drink a canteen of water, and stop being a pussy.

It took about three minutes for the IV’s saline solution to push through my veins, and when I stood up, I felt substantially better. I drank some water, popped four Motrin, threw in a dip, and got back to work.

Jonny looked over and laughed. “Fucking Polack meathead.”

“If you’re not smart, you might as well be tough.”

“I see that works for you.”

I had nothing. In this instance, he was right.

I looked through Jonny’s loophole and saw the row of giant date palms obstructing the hell out of our view. This would not stand. Soon the Army was going to come rolling in with their tanks and armored vehicles, and we were supposed to cover their arrival. The area was rife with insurgents, and we couldn’t provide effective overwatch without a clear view beyond the date palms. They were a perfect line of cover and concealment for any would-be muj assault force. The palms were going to have to go.

“Dauber, you done feeling sorry for yourself?” Tony asked.

I didn’t think he had seen the IV.

“I’m good, Chief,” I said.

“Good. Grab a gun and go with Chucky. You’re gonna pull security for him while he cuts down those fahkin’ trees.”

It was standard operating procedure to carry a chainsaw and quickie saw on all our ops. Tony tasked Chucky to cut down all ten of the giants. At the time, none of us really thought about the fact
that these date palms were probably at least one hundred years old, that they were probably somebody’s source of food and/or livelihood, that they probably meant a lot to the people who lived there.

But this was muj country. The trees were coming down.

I grabbed an Mk 48 and headed downstairs to meet up with Chucky. As I approached, he jumped up and grabbed the chainsaw attached to the Alice pack frame, slinging it up on his shoulder.

“You ready to murder some trees, Dauber?”

“Let’s do this,” I said.

We headed outside, and I set up next to one of the trees to scan the area for any sign of bad guys. Chucky ripped the cord on the chainsaw and it buzzed to life, obliterating the quiet of the early morning and loudly announcing our presence to everyone in the area. As he tore into the first tree, sawdust spat toward me. Chucky, being a cheesehead from Wisconsin, was right at home on the saw. He really put his back into it as he pushed the chainsaw through the fat trunk of the mighty palm over the course of about a minute or two until the tree finally made a cracking sound and fell hard to the ground, landing in a loud crash.

“Man, this is kind of like being back on the farm back home,” Chucky whispered to me after his first kill. “Home, home on the range, Dauber.”

“Try not to have too much fun,” I said. “Every muj within a thousand meters knows we’re out here now. Just hurry up.”

We walked from date palm to date palm in the middle of night, and Chucky excitedly brutalized each one of the trees as if they were his mortal enemy. He wore just a T-shirt with his body armor and helmet, and his shoddily drawn tattoo of a skull with scorpion legs almost looked like an octopus. The image of Chucky looking all wild-eyed and drunk on chainsaw lust in his T-shirt and body armor reminded me of Animal Mother from
Full Metal Jacket.

“So, Dauber, how does the platoon corpsman forget to hydrate?”
Chucky asked after the third tree. “Isn’t that, like, a pretty big no-shitter?”