The Last Punisher: A SEAL Team THREE Sniper's True Account of the Battle of Ramadi (35 page)

“I’m going to miss you guys, Jobber,” Moose said.

“Yeah, I enjoyed getting my war on with ya, Moose,” I said. “So what’s next?”

“Another group of Teamguys to work with. It never changes,” he replied.

“Maybe they’ll finish this shit show,” I echoed back.

Moose smiled and took a big rip off the pipe. He looked off across the Euphrates and said nothing.

We stayed up all night, fishing until the sunrise painted the dawn in subtle hues of pink and orange, and then, in a liquor haze, we packed up and headed to our tents to sleep.

I woke later in the morning on September 29—just a few days until the bulk of the task unit would leave for home. We’d been running
turnover ops with our replacements from Team Five and hazing the shit out of the newest guys from SQT who had arrived, to keep ourselves entertained. The turnover patrols were mostly uneventful until we took some machine-gun fire on a recce patrol one night. After the otherwise forgettable patrol, Sal, one of the newguys, asked, “Do I get a Combat Action Ribbon now?”

He received a few blank stares.

“Fucking meatball,” Spaz finally replied.

I laughed to myself.
I guess we’re not the newguys anymore.
I looked over at Jonny, who was thinking the same thing. It only took six months of war.

The morning of the twenty-ninth was no different from the rest, except the AC was working. I slipped on my flip-flops and headed for the TOC to start another day of packing gear and prepping to leave. As I approached the plywood building, Doc Crispin ran out and hustled toward me.

“Dauber, what’s your blood type?”

“O-pos. Why?”

“Delta got contacted on an op,” he said, hurrying toward the other guys’ tents. “One of their guys is hit pretty bad.”

“What? Who is it? What happened?” I asked, following him.

“Muj threw a grenade on the rooftop. Mike Monsoor took the worst of it. They initiated CASEVAC, but it doesn’t look good.”

I immediately realized that Delta’s corpsman was with us at Sharkbase, packing up to go home.

“Who the fuck is the corpsman?”

“I don’t know, Dauber. I gotta go.”

He disappeared into a tent, and I stood frozen for a second, trying to process everything. I wondered who was working on Mike, and I imagined them trying desperately to stop the bleeding and keep him alive. I knew that whoever it was, he wasn’t a corpsman and was likely
dealing with a sense of hopelessness comparable to what I’d felt working on Marc, maybe even worse.

News of Mike getting hit spread fast, and everyone waited anxiously for an update on his condition. It took about an hour to find out what happened. All the guys from Mike’s platoon who were packing at Sharkbase joined Cadillac Platoon in our mission planning space for a briefing. Jocko told us about the patrol from Delta that had gone out for one last sniper overwatch in the middle of muj country. He told us how the muj launched an assault on the patrol’s position after Delta’s snipers killed two bad guys. He told us Mike was on the rooftop scanning for targets with his Mk 48 when an insurgent grenade flew over the wall, hit him in the chest, and fell in front of him. He told us how Mike yelled, “Grenade!” before he threw himself on top of it to protect the other Teamguys and Jundis on the roof. He told us Mikey died en route to the aid station. The two Teamguys who had been next to him on the roof survived with superficial wounds.

A couple of days before he was supposed to go home, Mike Monsoor gave his life to save his brothers.

The image was hard to wrap my head around, probably because I just didn’t want it to be real.

A few days away.

Just a couple of days.

I remembered my first convoy op and talking to Mikey about how unfair it would be to be killed by an invisible bomb. That was six months earlier, but it seemed like a million years ago. The contrast of that day and the news of Mike’s sacrifice struck me as ironic; he ended his tour rushing to meet a deadly explosion rather than avoid it. His heroism didn’t surprise me, but it was hard to process.

Just a few more days.

At TQ several hours later, Mike’s body lay in the morgue, where all the Teamguys had gathered to say goodbye. From the doorway, I could see a bunch of guys gathered around Mike. I saw his face and some of his wounds from a distance and I turned away. I didn’t want that memory of him. The images of Marc on August 2 flashed in my mind. I wanted to keep the image of Mikey the ceaseless gladiator, the funny dude on the convoy, the guy bullshitting in the chow hall. I walked away and found a room nearby with a couple of couches and a TV. Jonny and EOD Nick joined me.

“How the fuck did this happen?” I said to the boys.

Jonny and EOD Nick just shook their heads and said nothing for a minute.

It was bad business not having a corpsman on that op,
I thought.

“I can’t believe this,” I said. “Two days before he’s supposed to go home. Why?”

The next day, we convoyed from Sharkbase to Camp Corregidor for Mikey’s memorial service. I stood in the lead vehicle’s turret and looked back at the rest of the convoy. We had a much smaller force than when we began earlier in the deployment. A lot of the SEAL reservists had to fill in as turret gunners, drivers, bodies. I put in my headphones and hit play on my iPod. I thought about nothing. The road kept rolling on.

At Corregidor, the Army’s 502nd helped put together a big memorial service for Mike. At least two hundred soldiers joined all the Teamguys and support personnel to honor our brother’s sacrifice. In the front of the plywood chapel, a large framed photo of Mike in BTF mode stood behind his Mk 48, inverted over a set of Frogman fins. His helmet capped the gun’s buttstock, completing the Frogman version of the soldier’s cross. A step below the cross was Mike’s body armor kit.

Speaker after speaker memorialized Mike, and all of them highlighted his status as a true warrior to the core—the epitome of a Big Tough Frogman. As they remembered Mike as the great SEAL he was, I looked around and noticed most of his buddies crying.

“Before Mike left, he gave me two gifts,” said our team’s commanding officer. He identified the two SEALs whose lives Mike saved. “He gave them back to me.”

When the remembrances were over, we approached Mike’s shrine, two at a time, saluted him, and knelt for one last prayer. For his actions on that rooftop in Ramadi, Mike Monsoor became the first SEAL to be awarded the Medal of Honor in Iraq. He was also awarded a Silver Star for fighting his way to a wounded SEAL and then dragging him to safety while taking intense enemy fire on May 9, 2006.

“Mike Monsoor!” yelled the master chief toward the end of the service.

“Hooyah, Mike Monsoor!” we all replied.

“I live, I burn with life, I love, I slay, and am content.”

—Conan the Barbarian

I
’VE ALWAYS LOVED
war movies. I grew up watching the Duke in my grandfather’s basement, and
The Sands of Iwo Jima
had me hooked. Since then, I’ve added many films to my collection of must-sees, some of which I watched dozens of times over my deployments to Iraq.

The older I get, however, the more I realize I’ve never seen a complete war film. Movies have a way of wrapping up a story in two hours and when the credits roll, it’s over. In real life, even when your war is over your story isn’t. You have to fill in the vacant spaces left by the brothers you’ve lost. You have to start back at the beginning or move forward toward an end. You will carry pieces of your war with you forever, because it makes you who you are.

A true war story never ends.

A few days after Mike’s memorial, I was on a Black Hawk to TQ. I watched the ancient sands of Mesopotamia stretch out for miles in every direction and recalled the helo ride that delivered me across the same expanse six months earlier. A lot had changed, and then again, not much had changed at all.

The same violence of action that propelled me to join the Navy was delivered on the battlefield. I felt nothing for the enemy departed. The old Charlie Platoon motto was “Dead men tell no tales.” The enemy dead that littered our six-month push would speak no more. However, I left Ramadi full of the memories of Marc Lee, Biggles, Mike Monsoor, the Marines, soldiers, airmen, and the Frogmen who helped secure that city. I glimpsed out over the night sky as the bird lifted slowly off the soil. I left with memories.

At TQ, we had two days to burn before our flight out. I packed away my M4 and night vision in a conex box and stuffed a fresh dip of Copenhagen. Six months of combat hardening still didn’t relieve me of my newguy duties, and I spent some time rigging and loading pallets full of gear before being released to suck up the Air Force life for a while. Ramadi already felt like a long way off. As if I’d been riding on the ocean all day, the sensation of slight
mal de débarquement
surfaced as I adjusted to the formalities of rear-echelon life.

TQ was an ever-changing machine. The constant influx and exodus of operators, Marines, and soldiers presented a sharp contrast to life in Ramadi. The air terminal and chow hall were hubs of activity where the numerous personnel met. I headed to the brightly lit mess facility to refuel the machine. With my tray piled high with meat loaf, macaroni, and desserts, I looked for a quiet table away from the madness. As I sat in the back of the crowded room and shoveled my mountain
of food into my mouth, a welcome sight caught my eye. The boys from SEAL Team FOUR made their way into the chow line, with their too-long hair, tattoos, and all fashions that threatened military bearing. Teamguys. I spotted my BUD/S swim buddy, Gilby.

Gilby started in Class 245 with me and was eventually rolled back to 246 with a knee injury around the same time I injured my back. I watched his face light up when he caught my stare. He grabbed some snacks and beelined it to my table with another former classmate, Clark Schwedler, trailing closely. They were on their way into the fight and would soon be deep in the triangle in Habbaniyah and Fallujah.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Gilby said, setting his tray down. “How’s it going, Mongo?” He called me by my old BUD/S nickname. “Getting your war on?”

“Hey, brother!” I said, standing for a hearty bro hug.

Clark followed: “How the hell are you, brother? It’s good to see you. We’ve been hearing all about the work you guys have been doing. You guys are crushing it.” I gave Clark an equal hug.

“Yeah, we got after it, man,” I said. “We put a hurtin’ on the muj for sure.”

“Well, shit, I hope you saved some for us,” Clark said.

“You don’t have to worry about that. Plenty of getting left to do,” I replied.

“Hopefully, the muj didn’t make you do any four-mile timed runs!” Gilby joked, recalling my lack of speed.

“Nah, brother. I learned how to shoot a rifle. Moves faster than you and is a lot more capable than your pillow hands!”

Gilby and Clark busted up while the cracks escalated and the food diminished. We caught up for a while and traded some stories. It felt good to see the guys. I hadn’t seen them since the days after we got our tridents and they moved to the East Coast. I answered all their questions and passed on as much tactical wisdom as I could muster, and then parted ways.

It was the last time I ever saw Clark. He was killed six months later in a direct-action raid.

The hissing whine of the C-130’s hydraulics rustled me awake. The short stop in Germany broke up the monotony only enough for me to take a few more Ambien. As on a long journey, the trip back usually seems shorter. I ached to get back and didn’t need my mind ruminating about the long trip. Finally, the bird touched safely down on North Island Air Station in Coronado.

The rumble of the ramp got me moving and the crack of sunlight washed the remaining sleep from my eyes. A lot had changed, and then again, not much had. My family was flying in a week later, so I had no one at the airport to greet me. I was still a newguy and had weapons and pallets to offload when we got back to the Team. I stepped off the bird and soaked in the sunlight. In many ways, the welcome-home scene echoed our send-off, except we were missing Marc, Mike, and Biggles. I looked over at the Jersey barrier off the runway. I thought back to the last pic I took with Marc stateside. I stared at the barrier for a moment. Then I took a deep breath and headed to the buses.

There was work to be done.

I’d been back a couple of days. The musty smells of wetsuits drying and San Diego Bay water permeated my locker. I straightened my ribbons and readjusted my trident. I paused for a moment, thinking back to the day I earned my bird, when Ty Woods had stamped it into my bare chest. I still had that original trident at home in a little box, complete with a smear of dried blood on the back. I thought about the little scar over my heart.

Today, I was headed to another funeral. The buzzing of my cell phone distracted me for a moment.

MEET ME AT BRO’S OFFICE,
the text read.

I stared at the screen for a second, then closed the flip phone. I grabbed my Dixie Cup hat and walked down to the quarterdeck. I jumped over the giant “SEAL TEAM THREE” emblem out of superstition and opened the door. I banked a hard left and hustled up the stairs.

“About fucking time,” the Legend greeted me as I walked into the office.

“Faster than your old knees go,” I replied.

Chris disregarded the comment and passed me his small flask of Tennessee whiskey and can of Copenhagen snuff. I took a long pull and put in a crisp snuff.

“Much appreciated.”

“Anytime, Dauber.”

“So, what’s going on?” I asked.

“This shit.” He pointed to the manning chart of Team THREE on the magnetic board. “You’re supposed to go to PACOM. Do you really want to deploy to the Philippines?”

After August 2, Master Chief Bro, the incoming master chief for Team THREE, had asked me in Iraq what I wanted to do for my next deployment. I told him I didn’t care and gave the choice no other thought. As he stared at me, it became clear that Chris did care and had given it a lot of thought.