Tom Sileo (20 page)

US Marine Sergeant Justin Bales, a reservist and New York City firefighter, discusses a 2007 mission with US Marine First Lieutenant Travis Manion in Fallujah, who he often joined on combat patrols. During Travis's second Iraq deployment, he and a fellow Marine helped Bales and two others escape an enemy ambush.

After exchanging gunfire with enemy forces, Travis—an officer for 3rd Battalion, 2nd Brigade, 1st Iraqi Army Division Military Transition Team (3-2-1 MiTT)— leads the response to a March 18, 2007, terrorist attack in Fallujah. The heroic actions of Travis and his teammates resulted in the recovery of Iraqis killed in the blast, as well as the rescue of two injured Iraqis from the rubble.

“I know what I'm doing, mom,” Travis had replied. “I have an obligation to help these Marines and Iraqi soldiers.”

Janet was enormously proud of her son, but that didn't make knowing he was in danger any easier. Similarly, Travis knew his mom fully supported him, yet it was still extremely difficult to hear her anguish from thousands of miles away.

As the MiTT Marines got into two Humvees and began their journey to a another FOB in the western part of the city, where they would pick up supplies and meet up with the Iraqi soldiers before heading into the heart of the Pizza Slice, Travis put on his headphones to help drown out the haunting memory of his mom's aching voice.

Fallujah in 2007, and particularly the Pizza Slice, was similar to the streets of Mogadishu, Somalia, portrayed in Ridley Scott's film
Black Hawk Down
and the book by Mark Bowden that it was based on. Everything was narrow, crowded, run down, and inherently suspect. For American troops, picking out an Iraqi insurgent in Fallujah was akin to police searching Yankee Stadium for a suspect wearing a dark blue hat with an interlocking “NY.”

As the two Humvees headed west toward the FOB, with horns blaring and lights flashing, Iraqi civilians parted like the Red Sea and reluctantly let the Americans through. Anyone in the crowd could have had a gun or bomb strapped to his chest, but this was standard operating procedure for Travis and his fellow Marines in Fallujah. The only difference was that some of Travis's teammates had never been inside the Pizza Slice during the day.

As Staff Sergeant Petty drove the Humvee, with Major Kubicki in the passenger seat, Staff Sergeant Wilson up in the turret, and both Travis and “Doc” Albino in the back, Kubicki was conversing by radio with battalion leadership at Camp Fallujah. Though two helicopters would be provided for their mission to find the sniper, they only had another ninety minutes before the choppers would have to refuel and leave for a previously scheduled operation in a different part of the city.

“We better hurry,” Kubicki said to Petty as the Humvee hit one of many huge potholes. “We lose air cover at 1500 [3:00 p.m.].”

It was already 1:15 p.m., and the two American Humvees were just arriving at the second FOB. Fortunately the two Iraqi Army vehicles were already there, and the Americans rushed inside to grab some gear before heading into the Pizza Slice. They had also planned to take some extra water, until Marang realized that there wasn't nearly as much water at the FOB as the Marines needed. Segel had asked him for another bottle, but there simply wasn't enough to go around.

The four-vehicle combat patrol started out with the two Iraqi vehicles in the front and back, the American Humvees sandwiched in between. Travis and Kubicki's Humvee followed Marang and Segel's. Every American on the patrol knew this was the most dangerous part of their day, and they sat quietly in the vehicle, scanning the huge crowds surrounding their vehicles on Route Elizabeth, the marketplace-filled artery that feeds off the infamous Blackwater Bridge.

It was getting hotter and hotter, and knowing the enemy was almost certainly lurking amid the unfriendly Fallujah civilian population caused extra sweat to form on several foreheads. Yet the Humvees continued to make their way through the crowds, with some Iraqis pounding on the sides of the vehicles as the Americans passed. The Marines and their Iraqi counterparts pressed westward, determined to pinpoint the sniper and complete their mission.

The Marines were headed to a building where they believed the sniper could be hiding. Travis was familiar with the suspected safe house, but from experience he was also concerned about false intelligence.

In the backseat of the other Humvee, Segel looked out the window at a large cemetery as the patrol took a circular route to the target building. Taking the shortest way would have been too predictable, in case an enemy ambush was being planned. Segel hated coming to this area just as much as he had last year, and
having to look at a huge cemetery didn't make things any easier while struggling with the emotions of war.

“Let's go get this fucking guy, sir,” Segel said to Marang, who was riding up front.

“Roger that, Lance Corporal,” Marang responded.

As both Humvees pulled up at the intersection of two narrow side streets, the Marines and their Iraqi counterparts jumped out to set up a perimeter and quickly perform a search of the building in question. There were a few civilians in the area, but it seemed less crowded than normal.

Travis dismounted and took charge on the ground, with Kubicki, who was standing with the interpreter, chiming in when he felt it was necessary. Petty and Marquette stayed in their respective vehicles along with the turret gunners, while Segel and Albino kept watch over the area and the officers, including Marang, established a perimeter. As Travis led a few Iraqi soldiers into the building, it became clear to everyone that something was off.

Right then Travis got a call over the radio. It was from one of the helicopters watching over them.

“You've got large groups of civilians moving away from your AO [area of operations],” the pilot shouted, with the thundering sound of the rotating helicopter blade nearly drowning out his voice.

“Roger,” Travis replied.

Several other Marines also heard the transmission, which sounded strange, but at the same time, the heavily Sunni population in Fallujah was known to avoid Americans, especially after the bloody battles three years earlier. And since most soldiers in the Iraqi Army division being trained by the MiTT team were Shiite, the animosity was even more palpable.

Although it was possible this was nothing to worry about, Segel was particularly concerned.

“How much do you want to bet something happens in the next twenty minutes?” Segel asked the Navy corpsman. “This smells bad.”

“Everything smells bad here,” Albino quipped, with mustard still stuck in his mustache.

Segel forced a laugh while reaching for his canteen for a drink of water to wet his mouth, which was parched by thirst and nervousness. After taking a few sips, the lance corporal realized he had just drunk the last of his limited supply.

As Travis and the Iraqis came out of the building empty-handed, Segel approached the officers to make sure they knew about the crowds moving away. It seemed a little weird, they all agreed, but the patrol was leaving this intersection now and heading to another house a few blocks to the northeast. They had additional intelligence indicating that the sniper might be hiding in a safe house near the location of a previous shooting. Despite coming up empty on the mission so far and the potential signs of danger, the Marines weren't about to stop hunting the sniper.

Instead of going the most obvious way, the joint patrol circled back up north to Route Elizabeth. They would avoid predictability while also getting a better handle on what the dispersing crowds might be up to.

When the four Humvees reached Elizabeth, just two blocks east of the Blackwater Bridge, things seemed to be mostly in order. The marketplace was still jammed with people, some of whom glared and once again pounded on the passing Humvees. The Marines' watches all read 1450 (2:50 p.m.), and their patrol was about ten minutes from losing air cover.

As the vehicles slowly turned down the narrowest of alleys, far thinner than any road they had encountered so far during the patrol, Kubicki ordered everyone to stop about a quarter mile from what they thought was the safe house zone. While the American vehicles were facing south, in between the two Iraqi vehicles and pointed away from Route Elizabeth, the Iraqi vehicle closest to the marketplace artery was pointing west, and the southernmost Iraqi vehicle, which was parked near a tight intersection, was pointing west as well.

Not far behind the southernmost Iraqi vehicle, which was leading the patrol, Segel, Marang, and Mohammed dismounted, walking a few steps north to meet Travis, Kubicki, and Albino. The two drivers and turret gunners stayed inside their Humvees, which were packed like sardines in the minuscule alleyway.

“If anything happens, they'll tear us up,” Staff Sergeant Petty, the hard-nosed Texan driving Travis's Humvee, said to Staff Sergeant Wilson, the turret gunner. “There's no fucking way I can turn around and get us back to Elizabeth.”

Just after Petty's remark, the patrol lost its eye in the sky.

“I see more people moving away from you, so be careful down there,” the pilot said. “Over and out.”

“Well that's just fucking great,” Petty said to Wilson.

In part to make up for the lost air cover, Travis ordered Segel and Albino up to a rooftop to keep an eye out while he and fellow officers questioned neighborhood residents about encountering the sniper or any other insurgents. Travis, Kubicki, and Marang, along with the interpreter, were speaking with a heavyset Sunni local when one of the more competent Iraqi soldiers, Lieutenant Jalal, motioned for his American counterparts to come over. He was standing with a young boy who couldn't have been more than eight years old.

“I think he knows something,” Jalal said in broken English.

Through the interpreter, Travis asked the child if he had seen a bad man shooting at people in this neighborhood. The boy, looking up at the tall, imposing Marine, stepped backward without answering.

While another Marine standing in a dangerous intersection in searing heat may have grown frustrated, Travis, who had just recently become an uncle, knelt down and smiled before running his gloved hand through the boy's hair. He had the interpreter ask the question again.

“There,” the boy said in Arabic, pointing at a yellow, two-story house just south of the rooftop Segel and Albino were guarding. “That one.”

“Thank you,” Travis called as the boy ran away.

Getting on his walkie-talkie, Travis informed the team that he, Marang, and some Iraqi troops were going to check out the building, which was almost directly to the right of where Travis's Humvee— the northernmost of the two American Humvees—was still facing south. Clutching their weapons in heat that was well over 100 degrees, the three officers headed toward the building's entrance.

Watching from the roof, Segel saw no obvious threats but continued to see people vanishing from the area, including Route Elizabeth just to the north.

“I still think something weird is going on,” Segel said to Albino.

The officers and their Iraqi counterparts searched the bottom floor of the building, which was almost completely empty except for an old, burned-out couch. They then headed for a stairway, only to find it blocked off by a large stack of cinderblocks. This was a common enemy tactic to prevent combat teams from entering buildings, but it was another in a series of strange signs.

“I haven't seen that in this sector,” Marang said about the cinderblock pile.

Travis would normally have wanted to kick the cinderblocks down and head up the stairs, but the desolate building's dark silence left almost no doubt that it was empty. Any further searches would in all likelihood be a waste of time. But it could still be some kind of setup, as al Qaeda and Iraqi insurgents had been known to intimidate innocent children into fooling Americans in the past.

“I don't know about that kid anymore, Jon,” Travis said to Marang.

“Let's get out of here,” Marang said.

As the officers suddenly appeared from the building, Lieutenant Jalal, his finger circling in the air, signaled that an ambush could be brewing. In an alley that felt like a trash compactor, staying any longer could make the patrol sitting ducks.

“Ambush,” Jalal shouted in Arabic to the rooftop, motioning to Segel and Albino to come down.