A Day in the Life of a U.S. Marine RIAT

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 1^st 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 7^th 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 1^st Battalion, 7^th Marines, yesterday.  Division received a report last night of civilians killed in the crossfire between 1^st 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 7^th 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 7^th 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 1^st 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 3^rd Marine Division at Okinawa.  A graduate of The Ohio State University and Expeditionary Warfare School, he served with 1^st 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