The Last Punisher: A SEAL Team THREE Sniper's True Account of the Battle of Ramadi (6 page)

We stumbled to the track and into formation, fighting the urge to laugh or cry or both. I was shitfaced still and about to submit to the first assessment of Sniper School. If I failed, I’d be out. I swallowed liquor-flavored belches while I finished my sit-ups and then busted out my push-ups as quickly as I could. I glanced sideways at Jordo. He looked the same sickly green color that I felt. We got up to run, and I’m sure I ran as fast as I ever have. I did not want to fail and get sent back to Tony’s hard-ass glare. When I crossed the finish line, I slowed to a walk and walked straight into the woods. I leaned over and vomited the entire contents of my stomach, which appeared to be mostly liquor, onto the ground. Then I straightened up, took a breath, and went back to my room to get ready for my first day of Sniper School.

I did a lot of drinking in that seven weeks at Sniper School, but I also learned a lot about shooting. I graduated and was a qualified sniper, ready to deploy with my platoon. Jordo and I had spent the better part of two months practicing long-range target interdiction, and I was ready to put my practice to work.

When I returned from Sniper School, Charlie Platoon was finally all together, ready to train for war as one. Toward the end of the summer of 2005, we began the work-up for our scheduled deployment the following April. While SQT provides the basic skills required for all SEALs, work-up prepares SEALs to operate within a platoon. It’s all about actual team building and endless practice and refinement during a series of training blocks designed to sharpen and test the platoon’s entire skill set.

For newguys like me, work-up was our first rodeo, and we were expected to carry our own weight and be ready to meet any challenge that was thrown at us. For eight months we traveled the country to various bases and installations, training for everything from close-quarters combat to maritime operations and everything in between.

Work-up taught me valuable lessons about leadership. Each time I stepped into a training scenario, I was a functional member of the platoon. I had to be prepared for any outcome at all times. SEALs are thinking shooters and are always prepared to take control of a situation and lead when others don’t. I learned to work in concert with my platoon to realize common goals and to overcome obstacles. No man is an island.

Toward the end of work-up, Charlie Platoon gained another newguy, and our tight-knit “E-Dog” clan grew to five enlisted newguys. On any given evolution, I was packed somewhere among Jonny, Biff, Biggles, or Marc Lee.

Marc had done most of his work-up with another platoon and then rotated over to Charlie around Christmas. Like Biggles, Marc was a machine gunner. At about six one and stout with huge arms, Marc had the Big Tough Frogman physique, but he didn’t project the big ego and bravado. He was a devout Christian who had studied theology at the Master’s College in Southern California, and his faith seemed to underlie his gentle and reserved disposition. As a talented college soccer player, Marc had barely missed a shot as a pro with the Colorado Rapids after a knee injury cut short his run at Major League Soccer. After his knee recovered, Marc joined the Navy with his eye on the Teams. I could see right away that Marc fit the mold of our platoon, and he and I hit it off.

With his deep tan and black hair, Marc looked Iraqi, or at least we liked to tell him as much. He was a stellar operator who could lay down lead in a firefight with the aggression of a honey badger and then just turn it off and have a normal conversation about family or growing up in Oregon. I bonded with Marc and my fellow meats over the many shitty jobs we were tasked with. We loaded countless truckloads of gear, broke down numerous pallets, and did it all over again because we knew if we shut up and bore it, there was a war waiting for us.

In February 2006, Charlie and Delta Platoons of SEAL Team THREE, aka Task Unit Bruiser, completed the culminating event of our work-up cycle. Cert Ex (Certification Exercise) requires an entire task unit, including support personnel, to prove it’s ready to deploy, during an elaborate exercise meant to assess our skills and ability to execute our missions. During Cert Ex, I saw the whole Navy war machine in action and took my place as one of its cogs. I was thoroughly impressed by the sheer power of the American military apparatus, and I felt certain of our ability to wreak havoc on our enemies. We were given an enthusiastic thumbs-up to deploy to Iraq in April, and I thought back to the kid I’d been in the recruiter’s office, four years earlier. I felt different. I felt ready.

A couple of weeks before we deployed, retired Lieutenant Colonel Dave Grossman gave me much to reflect on when he addressed SEAL Team THREE at Naval Amphibious Base Coronado. Grossman, an Army Ranger and the psychologist who founded a field of study known as “killology,” believes that 2 percent of the population is capable of killing without suffering psychological trauma. They simply flip a switch when necessary in order to commit an action. The 2 percent is heavily drawn to Special Operations, as these warriors forget the direction of their forebrain in combat and operate with the more instinctual, primitive midbrain. These killers are unaffected when killing is justified, and Grossman is careful to distinguish between these warriors and sociopaths in his book
On Killing: The Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society
. He merely proposes that 2 percent of the male population is capable of levelheaded participation in combat without psychological ramifications.

When Grossman wrapped up his speech, I looked around me at my brothers in arms, trying to do the math.
Are we all 2 percenters?
I didn’t know. Who could predict another man’s emotions? I just knew that as operators, we were trained and ready. Grossman’s 2 percent explanation made sense to me. I felt ready and willing to kill my enemy. It was simple enough to conceptualize, but applying theory to action was something I wouldn’t be able to do until stepping onto the battlefield. In the meantime, I concentrated on why I was there, and what I wanted to do.

Robert Heinlein once wrote, “Fulfillment in life involves loving a good woman and killing a bad man.” My early years of Team life had been anything but stable in the relationship category, but my vigilance toward my platoon and mission remained constant. I could have the rest of my life to find a good woman to love, but I might have only seven months to kill that bad man.

“A true initiation never ends.”

—Robert Anton Wilson

T
HE WHINE OF
the ramp door’s hydraulics shook me out of a momentary doze. I opened my eyes long enough to watch the slice of sunlight visible from the rear of the C-17 shrink and eventually disappear. I knew it was my last glimpse of San Diego for a while. I hadn’t lingered long on the tarmac because I had no reason. I was a twenty-four-year-old single Frogman with no family in California, nobody to kiss. Standing around and watching the other guys kiss their babies was depressing, so I boarded our bird as quickly as I could. I settled into my jump seat and watched the ramp close with one eye open, still shaking off the effects of the previous night’s drinking. Around me, the other thirty guys were trying to get comfortable among the pallets of gear. Airmen weaved in and out of the crowded space, locking down pallets, securing the aircraft, checking the manifest.
This is life for the next six months,
I thought. Head counts, gear checks, and hurry up and wait.

The truth was, I didn’t really know what to expect. I was Charlie 13, number 13 of 16 men in my platoon. In other words, there were twelve other dudes in front of me with either more rank or more experience. I was a newguy, and I had never deployed before. All I knew was I had a job to do, and I had to do it well. We’d spent months training for combat; I hoped to see some while in Iraq. I knew I didn’t want to spend my deployment guarding a forward operating base (FOB) or running personal security for some diplomat. I signed up to shoot terrorists.

The whine of the jet engines grew louder as we prepared for takeoff. It was a long way from Coronado to Iraq. We had flights to Bangor, Maine; Spangdahlem, Germany; and Al Taqaddum, Iraq. I planned on making most of the trip in an Ambien haze, and since I was a medic, I had the ability to make that happen. Newguys generally rank at the bottom of the totem pole in every manner, but it’s funny how popular a newguy medic with a bottle full of sleeping pills can be on a long flight.

Once we hit cruising altitude I picked my way through the rucksacks littering the floor on my way to the pisser in the back of the plane. Midstream, I thought I heard my name over the engine noise. I shook it off and kept moving.

“Dauber!”

I heard it loud and clear this time and turned around to see Marc Lee hanging over the side of a pallet he’d claimed as his bed for the flight. Cupping his hands around his mouth he yelled, “Hurry up! I need my night-night pills!”

“Keep your pants on!” I yelled back.

As I made my way back, I fished the bottle out of my pocket and tossed it up to Marc. He shook one of the pills into his palm, slapped it back, replaced the cap, and threw the bottle back to me. Then he rolled
over to go to sleep. I found my own space on another pallet, doling out the much-sought-after pills along the way like some humanitarian sleep-aid worker before settling in for the first long leg of our journey. I couldn’t stop thinking about Grossman’s talk and the Heinlein quote on fulfillment, love, and killing. Sometimes odd things give you comfort: the roar of a C-17’s engines before takeoff, the stink of your brothers around you, your favorite quote about killing.

I looked around from my perch. The entire center of the plane was strapped down with aircraft pallets. Their tops were covered in Teamguys sprawled out sleeping, reading, or watching movies. The port and starboard side aisles were littered with Teamguys doing the same. I smiled as I thought of our chariot, a C-17, taking us into the fight. If you’re headed to a fight, bring your buddies. If you’re going to war, bring your brothers and plenty of awesome weaponry. I imagine it might feel a little overwhelming to someone with any amount of anxiety about heading into combat. Looking around me, there was no place I wanted to be but there among my brothers, riding to war.

The next day we sat inside Spangdahlem Air Base terminal in Germany, weary with Ambien, bored and anxious to get to Iraq. A CNN reporter’s voice hummed in the background like the buzz of a fly, annoying and constant. No one paid attention until the word
Ramadi
caught somebody’s ear. That word interested us because Ramadi was our destination. We perked up and listened to the report. Casualties were high, fighting intense, and the enemy well supplied. I looked at Nick, our Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) guy, and raised my eyebrows. According to CNN, we were headed into one of the most dangerous cities in the world. On one hand, I was acutely aware of my desire to return to the United States in one piece. On the other hand, I thought about why I had joined the Teams. I wanted to bring the fight to the enemy. I felt my palms sweating a little. Heading into Ramadi,
there was a good chance we were going to see a lot of action, and I would have the opportunity to do exactly what I had joined for.

I think a man is the sum of his experiences and that we are constantly changed by what we see and do. Sitting in Spangdahlem, I knew I had already been changed by my SEAL training. I was not the same kid who joined the Navy in 2002. The Teams were chiseling me into something much better than before, bringing out the best in me. Still, I knew combat would require more than holding up a boat for several hours or staying awake for a week. I wondered how Ramadi would change me.

I wondered what else war would chisel away.

When we landed at Al Taqaddum Air Base (TQ), I was surprised to see rain. The next day, all the newguys made the thirty-mile helo ride to Ramadi to do the undesirable tasks of picking up gear, checking stuff in, and generally preparing camp for the task unit’s arrival. Bitch work. About a dozen of us loaded up on the Black Hawk bound for Camp Junction City, aka Camp Ramadi. We were battle ready with our web gear, body armor, helmets, night-vision goggles, and plenty of ammo for our M4s.

Every time I get on a helicopter, I remember the full potential of an RPG that finds its airborne target. In 2005, eight SEALs and eight Army Night Stalkers were killed when their bird was shot down in Afghanistan during Operation Red Wings, the mission made famous in Marcus Luttrell’s memoir,
Lone Survivor
. One of the pilots was from Washington Depot, Connecticut. I didn’t mind riding in helicopters, but I always thought about the possibility of crashing or getting shot down. I understood the necessity of flying by night, and I was glad to be taking the safest course. But I reminded myself again that where we were going, there were insurgents who wanted to kill us. Flying out of TQ, I looked down at the base lit up like a small metropolis. Once out over the desert, there was nothing but blackness. A vast and empty
canvas stretched before us. In my estimation, we had six months to fill it up with dead insurgents.

In 2006, the last place in Iraq you wanted to be was in an American convoy on a main supply route. I didn’t know a lot about the place I’d flown into two nights before, but I knew that. Sitting in the passenger seat of a huge flatbed truck, I tried not to think too much about the unenviable mission I’d drawn as a newguy SEAL on his first deployment. Newguys always get the crap jobs, and I had drawn the short straw in my leadership’s random selection for a convoy op back to TQ to pick up our gear. I would spend the next two days in a miserably hot and dangerous convoy trying to avoid being blown up by an improvised explosive device (IED).

Route Michigan was the main artery of transportation along the western front and a magnet for IEDs. Navigating the serpentine barrier of Camp Ramadi’s front gate on our way toward Michigan, our sprawling train of vehicles looked like something out of
Mad Max.
Tactical vehicles the color of Iraq’s sepia landscape churned up the desert dust that infiltrated every facet of our existence. We called it moondust. There were armored HMMWVs (Humvees), hulking seven-ton trucks, 10x10 tractors called wreckers that stretched the length of a big rig, and the newest addition to the American military’s efforts in western Iraq—the MRAP, or Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle. The 6x6 MRAPs were called Cougars, but they were anything but catlike. The front end protruded like a hound dog’s snout from the armored passenger compartment with its V-shaped underbelly, designed to more efficiently deflect IED blasts. There were boxy and bulbous protrusions all over the outside and conspicuous piping running the length of the passenger compartment on each side. There were civilian contractors driving big rigs—pretty much the same type you’d see on any highway in the States, but with tons of added armor
and protection from rocket-propelled grenades. The amount of metal and armor was incredible. I was glad to have it, but its necessity stoked my acute awareness of the IED threat.