Joker One (25 page)

F
or Joker One, though, the events of April 6 began well before we launched into the city to relieve third platoon. In fact, for us April 6 began precisely at 12
AM,
as we were once again wide awake on the roof of the Government
Center when midnight rolled around. We had arrived there seven hours earlier, in the late afternoon of April 5. I had taken first and third squads out on foot to guard the complex while my second squad rested back at the Outpost. While at the Center, I planned for us to run a few squad-sized security patrols during the early evening; then, after nightfall, I wanted to alternate first and third squads between resting and standing security up on the roof. On our return to the firmbase, early on the morning of April 6, we would sweep Michigan for IEDs so that Joker Three, the day’s operation platoon, didn’t have to. When the sweep passed the northern soccer stadium, my plan called for second squad to meet us there and beef up our security as we patrolled through them during the last stage of the sweep.

Like most of my plans, this one didn’t survive very long. First off, while on patrol with Noriel during the late afternoon of April 5, I received radio reports that a substantial crowd was gathering south of the Government Center and that a violent protest would likely soon be headed our way. I was pleased—a mass of people willing to stay in one place and assault us meant that we finally stood some decent chance of fighting back. We hustled back to the Center, and I put both second and third squads on security, splitting them between the roof and the two entrances to the compound. For several hours we waited on 100 percent alert, but the predicted protest never materialized. When the streets finally cleared, well after sundown, I stood third squad down so that they could get some rest. However, no sooner had I done this than another “intelligence” report came down from battalion: Insurgents had packed a vehicle full of explosives, and the suicide bomber driving it was definitely headed our way with the intent to trade his life for several of ours. Third squad stood right back up again, and Bowen and I frantically positioned commandeered vehicles in front of the two gates to the Government Center to prevent a high-speed car impact from penetrating our quarters.

We waited for another two or three hours, nervously scanning every vehicle that passed for signs of erratic driving, but, once again, nothing happened. Disgusted with our intel, I finally sent third squad inside to rest and then bedded myself down on the Government Center roof. Not more than an hour later, battalion called again with yet another report, one that claimed an IED had been placed in a local middle school five blocks to our south. We were the nearest forces; go check it out, came the order. I felt like
a jack-in-the-box—up, down, up, down, up, down. Wearily, I sent first squad with Noriel down to the school while third took over security duties. Soon enough, first reported back that, finally, battalion had gotten it right. There was indeed an IED at the school, and the squad cordoned it off and waited for EOD, the explosive disposal experts, to clear it.

Three hours later, they were still waiting, and I was getting very nervous. Finally, at 2
AM,
first squad returned, and Corporal Teague gave me some bad news. EOD’s little robot was dead—that was why the bomb disposal had taken so long—and the explosives experts had no idea when the robot would be fixed again. Hearing that, I hoped desperately that we wouldn’t find any IEDs during the morning’s route sweep, because I had no desire to sit in a cordon in downtown Ramadi for an untold number of hours, waiting for a robot that might or might not be fixed sometime in our near future.

So, of course, we found an IED almost immediately. The reduced Joker One had assembled blearily at about 4:15
AM
—no one had really slept—and headed down Michigan ten minutes later. First was on the northern side, third was to our south, and the engineer, Corporal Aiken, and I were walking squarely down the middle of the highway. After about five minutes of patrolling, Aiken turned to me.

“Sir, I just kicked a really heavy piece of trash. Trash isn’t normally this heavy, sir. I think it might be an IED. What do you want to do, sir?”

I looked around rapidly. The streets were completely deserted.

“Well, Aiken, if they wanted us dead, we’d be dead by now. No sense in cordoning off something that we don’t know is an IED, especially if the stupid robot is down. Let’s cut open this trash bag. If you’ve got a knife handy, I’ll hold a flashlight up so that you can see.” It was still fairly dark out.

“Roger that, sir.”

So, somehow I found myself bending over a suspected IED, a red-lens LED flashlight in my mouth, holding steady what appeared to be a full black plastic trash bag so that the engineer could cut it open with his bayonet (if we moved it too much, an antihandling device might set the bomb off). Aiken proceeded slowly and cautiously and he unveiled a huge block of explosive with wires, circuitry, and other nasty bits wrapped all around it. As soon as we grasped what we were looking at, Aiken and I bolted away in an absolutely reflexive, completely thought-free reaction. Once we were a moderately safe distance out, I radioed Bowen and Noriel,
told them about the IED, and instructed them to hold in place for a bit.

Two quick assents came back, and staring at the little bomb in the median, I briefly had no idea how to proceed. Standard doctrine called for us to cordon off the bomb and wait for EOD, but standard doctrine didn’t take into account the fact that EOD wasn’t working that day. We could be in a cordon for hours, perfect static targets, and if the enemy didn’t get us, the heat very well might. However, I couldn’t just leave the bomb where it lay and hope that some other unit would cover for my lack of responsibility and my fear, and after my earlier nervous experience carrying around a much smaller quantity of explosives, I had no desire to pick up this IED, put it in my butt pack, and take it home with us like some twisted version of an adopted pet.

I hesitated to call the COC for guidance, though, because the Ox was on watch. I knew that in lieu of a careful evaluation of the various available courses of action, he would simply instruct me to do what he perceived as the toughest thing possible: Cordon off the IED and wait. As I pondered the situation, Corporal Aiken, a little shaken but still thinking, sidled up to me and suggested that we blow the bomb in place with the sticks of C-4 he was carrying.

Problem solved. If anyone was watching that bomb, it would have gone off by now, so there wasn’t a lot more risk to be had by sending someone out to it again (or so I judged at the time). I radioed the squad leaders with our plan, and, once they had gotten everyone behind some solid cover, I gave Aiken the go-ahead to move out with the mission. Immediately he trotted out, disappearing into the blackness between two nearby buildings. Meanwhile, I watched the IED site intently, and, about a minute later, Aiken suddenly darted out of the shadows to my front. He ran up to the IED, put something onto it, fiddled for about ten seconds, and then took off again in one of the fastest runs I have ever seen. Maybe a minute later, a huge explosion rocked the street, and great gouts of concrete flew up into the air. The patrol picked up again, and I got on the radio to let a no-doubt nervous COC know what we had just done. “Joker COC, this is Joker One-Actual. Be advised, that explosion you just heard was us blowing an IED in place about three hundred meters east of the Government Center. Break. We are continuing the route sweep mission now. Over.”

Better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

Immediately a furious Ox started shouting at me out of the handset. “Joker One, be advised, what the fuck did you just do?”

“Five, I say again, we blew an IED in place. Break. The engineers detonated it with some C-4, and we are now continuing the route sweep mission. Over.”

“One, did you not listen to the fucking presentation that we were given by that fucking guy back in the States? A lot of fucking engineers have been killed doing that. You should’ve waited for EOD. Over.”

“Five, I will repeat what I told you earlier today. EOD’s robot is down indefinitely. Over.”

“Whatever. You could’ve cordoned off the area like you were fucking supposed to. Over.”

I pulled the radio handset back from my head and glared at it for a second. Then, in my most detached, professional voice: “Five, be advised we are proceeding with the route sweep mission at this time. Out.”

“Yeah, well, we can talk about this when you get back. Over.”

Fortunately, first and third squads made it to the northern soccer stadium without any further incidents. There we linked up with Leza and second squad at 6
AM,
passed them as they provided overwatch for us, and continued into the Outpost. Fifteen minutes later, I was waiting for second squad to report back into the base when Leza called me over the PRR. He sounded uncharacteristically nervous, and after a brief bit of fumbling with his words, he spit it out: Raymond’s team was nowhere to be found—not in the base, not in the soccer stadium. They couldn’t be raised on the PRRs, and they had no other radios with them. For all intents and purposes, they were lost and completely cut off from friendly forces.

My heart fell through my chest. Terrified, I ran back to the platoon’s house and reassembled all the men on the slim chance that somehow the team had simply been missed by everyone, but it didn’t pan out—our lost Marines were still nowhere to be found. Next, Leza and I climbed the walls of the Outpost, calling over our PRRs time and time again for Raymond and his team to report, but all we got in return was dead silence over our earpieces. Fearing the worst, I ran to the COC to report that I was missing four of my men and to check and see whether any other friendly units out in the city might have found them.

They hadn’t, and I was getting more anxious by the minute. In the COC, the Ox was incredulous, and he peppered me with question after inane question about how a group of Marines could possibly have been so dumb as to have gotten lost well within sight of our base. Eventually I snapped and told him to shut the hell up. I had the same questions, the same disappointment in my men, but the Ox’s rambling, cursing commentary wasn’t doing anything other than distracting everyone around from the useful pursuit of my lost team. After I determined that there was nothing left to learn from our battalion, I left the Ox and his useless ranting and ran back to the platoon’s house to get my men ready for a sweep through the northern part of Ramadi. We were halfway through assembling to leave again when a headquarters Marine came running into the house with the news that Raymond’s team had been found: They were at Hurricane Point, the Marine base all the way on the other side of the city. A weight fell off me, and suddenly I felt very, very tired—it had been over twenty-four hours now since any of us had slept. The platoon stood down, and slowly and wearily the Marines started peeling off their heavy gear load. Meanwhile, I trudged back to the COC to get the full story.

Half an hour later I learned that Raymond’s four-man team had simply gotten themselves turned around in the predawn darkness and walked in the exact opposite direction from the Combat Outpost, somehow traversing the entire length of Ramadi unscathed. When they finally caught sight of the base at Hurricane Point, they realized their mistake and continued onward inside friendly walls, even if those walls weren’t exactly where they were supposed to be. I was too relieved and exhausted even to begin feeling angry, so I arranged for the team’s return on the morning’s logistics convoy and then headed off to the platoon commander room to try to rest.

An hour and a half later, someone shook me awake, shouting breathlessly that third platoon was pinned down and taking casualties and that I had to go and rescue them quick, quick, quick, sir. As I stumbled groggily downstairs, tripping on damn uneven steps again, it slowly dawned on me that I could hear sporadic fire well out in the distance. My body started up the familiar adrenaline drip, quickly eating away the sleep. By the time I had strapped on my gear and headed out to the vehicles, I was more or less fully awake, and most of my Marines were mounted in two Humvees and two seven-ton trucks (we still didn’t have enough Humvees in the company to
mount a single platoon). The CO was near the front vehicle, and, catching sight of me, he immediately ran over.

“One, you know what’s happening?”

“Yeah, I was told briefly that third’s pinned down and taking casualties. We’ve got to go relieve them and get the wounded out of there, right, sir?”

“Right. Now, get in the lead vehicle. We need to leave immediately.”

“Sir, I can’t lead us out. I have no idea where third is right now. I can’t take us where we need to go because I don’t know where we’re going.”

The CO stared at me for a second, then said, a bit sharply, “Fine then. I’ll take us there. Just get in the second vehicle. We’re getting out of here to go get third.”

Five minutes later, the convoy roared out of the gates en route to the southern part of the Farouq district. The CO, Teague, Doc Camacho, and Mahardy, who was carrying the only long-range radio in the platoon, were in the first vehicle, and everyone else followed behind them. As fast as we could, we drove straight toward the sound of the guns.