This is a story written by
Marines about Marines doing their job in Iraq. It is not a story that the antidefense and
antiwar crowd will appreciate for it does not view Marines as brutal and
barbaric. J.F. Kelly, Jr., a retired,
former captain in a surface warfare unit, had this to say in response to
critics’ claim that a soldier’s job is to capture the enemy. “As offensive as it may seem to those
pundits, professors and protestors with such tender sensibilities and
compassion for the enemy, soldiers, to be effective in war, must be socialized
to be warriors, not merely sentries and jailors. That means teaching them to kill the enemy
before he can kill them.”
During the first Iraq war, the
military provided daily briefings to the media.
This was not enough, cried the media.
All we are getting is canned stories of what happened in the field. During the second Iraq war, the military acceded to
the demands of the media and created the implanted reporter who was assigned to
a specific military unit and joined them in their activities whether at a base
or in the field. This arrangement,
though criticized, was accepted by most.
There were, however, those reporters who, for reasons best known to
themselves, still attempted to get a better story by going it alone against the
recommendations and cautions of the military.
No one was going to tell them what to do or what they could or couldn’t
do.
The RIAT (Reportable Incident
Assessment Team) was created by the commanding general of the 1st
Marine Division to investigate enemy or friendly reported violations of the law
of war or other significant incident.
This story is about a Marine RIAT unit sent to investigate a report of a
mutilated body found by the 7th Marines near a central oil pumping
station called “Crown Jewel.”
A Journalist named Terry Lloyd
was killed while seeking a story during a firefight. It was suspected that the body was that of
Terry Lloyd.
“What was he thinking as the
battle raged? Why was he willing to
crawl so deep into the Devil’s jaws for a story? I suppose, in the end, the commitment he felt
to his profession and our commitment to our mission to find him were the same
Siren’s song. Journalist Terry Lloyd got
his story, and took it with him to his grave.
My five comrades and I went looking for the answers, and it nearly cost
us our lives.” Thus, spoke Captain Joe
Plenzler, U.S. Marine Corps. The story
continues.
“The sun rose on the horizon
in southern Iraq
on the morning of Sunday, 23
March 2003. The forecast
said it was going to get hot. We did not
realize just how hot.
“I rolled out from the
camouflaged netting concealing our Mk-145HMMWV, which Staff Sergeant John
Jamison. my public affairs chief, had christened ‘El Bandito.’ He greeted me with his usual, ‘Got some
coffee brewing, Sir,’ as he stooped to awaken the green pile of camouflage that
was Sergeant James Goff, our driver.
“Passing on the coffee, I
walked to the combat operations center (COC) to find Lieutenant Colonel John Ewers,
the staff judge advocate, who said, ‘Round up the team. We’re heading out to conduct another RIAT
mission.’
“I returned to give the
warning order and begin packing. Ewers
approached and told us, ‘We’re heading back to the ‘Crown Jewel’ where we were
investigating the report of the mutilated body found by 1st
Battalion, 7th Marines, yesterday.
Division received a report last night of civilians killed in the
crossfire between 1st Tanks and the Saddam Fedayeen near the Shat Al
Basra. When the shooting stopped, they
saw a destroyed SUV with ‘TV’ duct taped on the doors. We’re going there to figure it out.’
“Lieutenant Colonel Pete
Zarcone, civil affairs officer, and Lance Corporal Henry Lopez, a combat
cameraman, joined the team, so Goff requisitioned another HMMWV, marked ‘Chow
Hall.’
”We departed the command
post, 60 miles southeast of An Nasariyah, with the intent of linking up with
the 7th U.K. Armored Brigade, the famous Desert Rats, to gain access
to the incident site, which now fell in their area of operations. Jamison drove El Bandito with Ewers in the
front passenger seat and Zarcone and Lopez in the rear. Goff and I followed.
“Our 80-mile journey on
Highway 8 led across a flat, sun-tortured plain punctuated by fortified gray
concrete highway overpasses and crude mud-brick hovels. Hundreds of displaced civilians and
sullen-faced former soldiers lined the roads.
The pained looks on their faces reflected the full tragedy of Saddam’s
brutalization. I saw embarrassment and
defeat in its lowest form. They were
nomads in a wasteland.
“At the border town of Safwan, we began a
fruitless search for the 7th U.K. Headquarters, which had displaced
during the night. Ewers decided to head
to the Crown Jewel, since it was a likely alternate site. There we found a small British security unit. Ewers and Zarcone approached the soldiers,
who told them there were two U.K.
checkpoints along the road to Az Zubayr where we could coordinate safe passage
to the incident site.
“We departed and a few minutes
later came to the first U.K.
checkpoint. In the distance, a
Challenger tank squatted on the cracked asphalt road that stretched to the
dirty city on the horizon. A large
cluster of shoddy, concrete brick houses appeared on our right, ten meters from
the road, where groups of Iraqis gave a hearty thumb’s up.
“Looks pretty quiet – like Safwan.
“As our convoy passed the housing complex, I saw two
men in brown robes running from the nearest building. I aimed in on them, clicked my weapon off
safe, and placed the butt stock in my left shoulder. I tracked them for about fifteen feet when
they suddenly disappeared – jumping into a fighting position. I knew
then something was foul.
“Two heartbeats passed and
the Iraqis popped up from the hole and volley fired two RPG-7 rocket-propelled
grenades. The football-sized projectiles
streaked across the front of our HMMWV’s, leaving their telltale contrails, and
exploded on the wall to the north side of the road, shooting chunks of concrete
in all directions.
“At such close range, they should have hit us. They’re lousy shots to have led us by so
much.
“Time and space dilated as my
training smashed to the forefront of my consciousness.
“It’s go time.
“I squeezed the trigger and
pumped another round into the chamber, firing round after round of 00-buckshot
at our assailants.
“If we can just keep them suppressed long enough to
get out of the kill zone . . . .
“To my left, I saw El Bandito
surge forward. ‘Goff, stay with
him!’ I hollered as I fired.
“Why do you want to kill me? We’re just looking for a few dead men. Well if that’s the way you feel about it . . . .
“The instant Jamison
registered the attack; he pulled his foot off the gas and fought the instinct
to turn around. Ewers hollered, ‘Go!’
and Jamison immediately floored the accelerator, sending El Bandito across a
set of railroad tracks. We followed –
speeding into Az Zubayr. On our left, a
portrait of Saddam grinned, waving us into the staccato chatter of gunfire.
“Iraqis scurried, desperate
to get out of the way. Jamison looked
for escape routes only to find that concrete rubble, fence posts, tires and
other debris blocked each side street.
We were being canalized into a series of kill zones. The entire city was attempting to swallow our
small convoy.
“Ewers, with a map in one
hand and pistol in the other, shouted directions to Jamison while shooting at
the enemy.
“Time lost all meaning as the
moment stretched into one long, eerily detached second. Iraqi fighters appeared and shot from
doorways and alleys. I felt the recoil
of my shotgun as it pounded my shoulder and spat its lethal cargo. The sharp rap-rap-rap of Goff’s M-16A2 told
me he was alive.
“My God, you guys are close. Must be 20 feet or less. Left to right . . . here is another one. Shoot.
Recoil. Reload. Another.
Zip, zip. That was close. Crack-pump-crack. Come on, Goff! Keep moving forward!
“Zarcone shouted for Jamison
to pass back his M-16A2. First refusing,
Jamison realized he couldn’t shoot effectively and drive at the same time, so
he gave his weapon to Zarcone, grabbed the colonel’s M-9 pistol, hunkered down,
and sped on. He found an unblocked
boulevard heading south and took a wide turn, spinning around the corner at
full speed into oncoming traffic.
“Zarcone saw an Iraqi to his
right, running to a sandbagged machine gun emplacement. The Iraqi dove for cover to avoid the fire
from our convoy. He didn’t make it.
“To the left, Iraqi men armed
with AK-47’s, RPGs, and RPK machine guns ran through an open field, jumped into
fighting positions, and began firing.
Rounding the corner, we took fire from our left flank and rear. More Fedayeen appeared in doorways, second story
windows, and sandbagged rooftop positions.
Ahead, an Iraqi with an RPG prepared to fire. ‘Eleven
o’clock!’ Jamison hollered to Zarcone, who at first could not see
the gunner. Jamison wheeled the vehicle
to the right, over the median, as the Iraqi fired. The screeching projectile missed, and Zarcone
now had a clear view of the gunner.
“‘What the hell is he doing?’
I hollered to Goff.
“‘RPG! RPG!’ he shouted.
“I couldn’t see anything.
“Zarcone spotted the gunner
and pulled the trigger several times.
The gunner’s chest convulsed as he crumbled over.
“The mirror on the right side
of El Bandito exploded as a bullet smashed through Ewer’s left forearm. Miraculously, he retained his pistol, swapped
it to his good hand, reloaded, and leaned back out to shoot more Fedayeen. A thunderous cacophony shook the streets as
RPGs flew past and detonated. A second
burst of fire tore through Ewer’s right forearm. Incredibly, he retained his pistol. A third bullet found its mark in his left
heel.
“Two rounds smashed through
the canvas behind the rear passenger seat, burst through a case of water and a
two-by-four before zipping into Lopez’s back, stopping a half-inch from his
spine.
“Zarcone emptied another
magazine into the Iraqi fighters on the left.
As he stopped to reload, he looked at Lopez and shouted, ‘Hey! You’ve got to shoot!’ Lopez was unresponsive and slumped in the
corner of the seat.
“Goff continued down the
street in the oncoming lane. At the next
intersection, both Jamison and Goff turned hard to the right. We were met immediately by a hailstorm of
fire. Bullets snapped by and clanged
against the vehicle. Fire rained down
from all directions, rounds tearing through metal and canvas. One snapped terribly close to Goff’s right
ear and smashed through the windshield.
Another cracked close behind me and again punctured the windshield. Goff saw the glass shatter out of the corner
of his eye.
“Holy shit! The
captain is dead.
“A slew of continuous
obscenities and the report of my weapon reassured him I was alive.
“Son of a bitch!
I’m going to die in this shit-hole of a country. I’ve got to stay behind Jamison. What the hell!
“Goff started cursing the
canteen that fell from the overhead and dangled in front of his face. Straining to see Jamison through the smoke,
he tightened his grip and punched the accelerator while shooting out of the
left side of the vehicle.
“We’re done for.
Damn it!
“Goff felt his weapon
violently slapped from his shoulder into the steering wheel. A bullet hit his M-16 near the buttplate, ran
down the stock, and stopped just before exiting near the charging handle.
“Realizing I had expended all
my 12 gauge ammunition, I drew my 9-mm pistol and leaned out the window to
shoot more Fedayeen. Bullets whizzed by
while explosions shook us to the core.
Twenty meters ahead, I saw the lead vehicle taking fire from the ground
floor fro a building on the north side of the road. As we approached, I saw a group of Fedayeen
in a wide courtyard doorway. They were
laughing. Infuriated, I aimed in my
pistol and began firing rapidly into the crowd.
“You bastards!
This should wipe those smirks off,
“I will never forget the
shock on their faces as their demeanor snapped from laughter to panic and they
dove for cover and scattered like cockroaches.
In a blink, we were gone.
“After running and weaving
for about two kilometers, we came to a Y in the road. Jamison banked right and headed
west-northwest to find the road ending at a T.
He slid around the corner and headed north. The train tracks we crossed earlier now
paralleled our course on our left.
“Goff cut the corner very
close to the curb. A door opened quickly
to the right. I aimed on the man in the
doorway and just as he fully appeared, saw he was holding a child. I could almost have reached out and touched
him. Reflexively, I released the
pressure from my trigger and pulled my pistol toward the sky. For a split second, our eyes met. A decision made in a nanosecond was the
difference between life and death.
“Rubbernecking during a firefight? You are one lucky SOB . . . me, too.
“Jamison turned west on the
same road on which we entered the city.
He could see the Iraqi’s had placed tires and other debris on the road,
but we weaved skillfully through the obstructions. El Bandito was bogging down (its front left
tire was shot out). Ewers was bleeding
heavily.
“Goff pulled into the
oncoming traffic lane and accelerated. The
housing compound where we took the initial RPG shots appeared on the left.
“This isn’t going to be good. If I could only get a bead on them. . .no,
I’ll hit Goff. They can’t possibly miss
now.
“Goff started to pull abreast
of El Bandito. ‘Slow down and get behind
Jamison!’ I shouted, so that we would not place ourselves between the lead
vehicle and the housing complex.
“Pop-pop. Whoosh!
Bang-bang. The Fedayeen fired two
more RPGs. The deadly projectiles raced
by us and exploded harmlessly on the prison wall to our right.
“These guys really suck. Thank God.
Thank God. There’s the British
tank. What a beautiful sight! If we can only get past it. Thank you, Jesus!
“Jamison passed the tanks and
pulled over at the check point. Goff
stopped and I started to get out. Just
as my foot hit the deck, Jamison waved for us to follow him and pulled
away. He continued for another 100
meters and took shelter behind two Warrior armored personnel carriers at the
roundabout. Jamison and Zarcone exited
the HMMWV and ran to the passenger side.
“Jamison shouted to Lopez,
‘Put the chock block under the wheel.’
No response.
“‘He’s hit,’ Zarcone said.
“Jamison yelled, ‘We need a
medic.’
“Jamison, Zarcone, and
several British soldiers gingerly pulled Ewers and Lopez from the vehicle and
laid them on the asphalt.
“‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
“‘They’re both hit,’ Zarcone
said, as he and Jamison started bandaging the two men.
“‘Goff, take cover behind
that berm and cover our rear,’ I said.
“With a British medic
assisting Lopez, Jamison ran back to El Bandito and tried unsuccessfully to
raise the division COC on the radio. He
found Lopez’s rifle in the back seat – jammed.
“I returned to the high-back
and brushed spent brass and plastic shell casings off the old demo kit I used
to carry my global positioning system and Iridium satellite phone, I turned
both on, determined our location, and called the COC.
“‘Blue Diamond. Major Weede,’ the receiver crackled.
“‘Sir, Juliet 2,’ I
said. ‘Two casualties. Request immediate medevac. Quebec
Uniform 5499 6290. Ewers, Juliet
Romeo. Shot in both forearms and left
foot. Priority. Lopez, Hotel Sierra. Shot in right upper back. Urgent.’
“Weede replied, ‘Juliet 2,
medevac inbound. ETA 25 minutes.’
“‘Roger, Juliet 2 out.’
“Lopez’s rifle lay against El
Bandito’s right front tire. I picked it
up, pulled the charging handle to the rear, keeping it hooked back with my
thumb, and smacked the butt stock on the asphalt several times until the jammed
brass clinked out on the ground. I
reinserted a magazine and chambered a round.
I grabbed the rest of Lopez’s magazines and headed over to the
casualties as a British medic administered a shot of morphine to Ewers. As he turned to Lopez, Jamison reached down
to check his pulse.
“‘You’re not going to give
him any of that,’ Jamison told the medic.
‘It could kill him.’
“‘ We need to medevac this
one now,’ the medic said, ‘pointing to Lopez.
‘There’s supposed to be an aid station about 15 kilometers away. He’s not looking good at all.’
“Jamison cradled Lopez’s head
in his arms and said, ‘You’re going to be fine, Marine. The bird is on the way.’
“‘ Hey, Joe,’ Ewers said, ‘Go
into my gas mask carrier and get me a dip (of Skoal).’
“Damn. That’s
pretty funny, and hard core. He’s laying
there in what must be excruciating pain, with both of his forearms blown open
and a hole in his boot, and all he wants is a lip of snuff
“I dug into his carrier,
found the tin, and clumsily grabbed a pinch.
I tried to place the snuff on his lip but ended up dropping it all over
his chin.
“‘Hey, Joe, just toss the
pinch in my mouth and I’ll get it where it needs to go.
“I did it again, successfully
this time, I took one for myself and felt my mental facilities refreshed with a
warm, dizzying rush.
“The soft thwack-thwack of
helicopter rotors began in the distance and a Brit pulled out a smoke grenade
and ran to mark a landing zone north of the roundabout. Wide-open fields with small buildings dotted
the area. Small bands of Iraqi men were
moving around us a few hundred meters away.
“I shouted to Goff, ‘cover
those guys and stay sharp.’
“Confident he had our rear
covered, I asked a British soldier to help me cover the litter team when the
bid landed. The thwack-thwack grew
louder as a U.S. Army Blackhawk appeared, circled the orange smoke, and landed
on the road. Zarcone and a few British
medics grabbed the stretchers and headed off into the whirlwind of dust.
“Come on. Faster. Get them on board and get them the hell
out. Who are those guys 300 meter out?
A soldier to my right peered
through his scope at the Iraqis. ‘I
don’t see any weapons,’ he said. The few
minutes it took to load the casualties seemed like an eternity. The Blackhawk eased away in a cloud of dust.
“‘Thank God, and thank God for Brits. We should be dead. What would have happened if Jamison had been
hit instead of Lopez? We’d all be lying
in that filthy street. We’d be lucky if
they’d have buried us. Jamison and Goff
really kept their heads. We should have
been dead. Grace under fire, luck, and
some good shooting pulled us out of the Devil’s jaws. We’re lucky to be alive. Damn, I’m proud of Jamison and Goff. Especially Goff. He was a nervous kid. You’d never be able to tell that now. He’ll be talking smack for the rest of his
life. Good. He earned it.
It is good to be alive. I want to
live for a long time and die old and worn out.
From here out, every day is a good day.
Any day you wake up breathing is a good day.
“I learned months later that
the reporter we set out to find was Terry Lloyd of Independent Television
News. Apparently, he and his comrades
got mixed up in a convoy of Fedayeen that approached and attacked 1st
Tanks’ position. Lloyd got his
story. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the one
he or any of us wanted. We never did
find out what happened at Shat al Basra.
We failed in our mission. I often
think about Terry Lloyd and wonder what really happened. I hope he knows we tried to find him.”
Captain Joe Plenzler is
public affairs officer for 3rd Marine Division at Okinawa. A graduate of The Ohio State University and Expeditionary Warfare School,
he served with 1st Marine Division in Iraqi Freedom from January to
June 2003. He wrote this account with
the help of Gunnery Sergeant John Jamison, Sergeant James Goff, and Lieutenant
Colonels Peter Zarcone and John Ewers, U.S. Marine corps.
This article appeared in Proceedings, April 2005 issue. The U.S. Naval Institute is a private, self-supporting,
not-for-profit professional society, which publishes Proceedings as part of the open forum it maintains for the sea services. The Naval Institute is not an agency of the U.S.
government.
April 2005
LFC
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