However, we had taken a tremendous beating in the process. The battalion had suffered thirty-four killed and over ten times that number wounded in seven and a half months. Across 2/4, those numbers worked out to be a little less than one out of every three men. In Golf Company, the ratio was even higher: Roughly one out of every two of us had been wounded. However, our sister company, Echo, had suffered the worst: They had suffered twenty-two killed, about one out of every eight men. They had quite literally been decimated. Later, we were told that when we returned to the States, we had taken more casualties than any battalion—Marine or Army—since Vietnam.
These thoughts flitted briefly through my mind as the company stopped its march directly in front of the gathered crowd. As one man, the battalion turned left and faced our shouting loved ones, and, staring at them as I saluted our CO and our flag, I was reminded of the tremendous price we had paid to march back with our heads held high. There in front of me, waving his right arm only, was Carson. His left was bound up in a sling. Leza and Niles stood next to him, both on crutches, and Boren was there with his wife and his cane. When the CO dismissed us, and the Marines of Joker One flooded out of the ranks to run into the arms of their crying wives, to hug their mothers and fathers, to have their little ones jump into their arms, I couldn't help but think that our joy was incomplete. One of our families was missing. One of us hadn't made it back, and his wife and parents had no reason to come to California to greet us. Even as I kissed Christy, and even as I watched my men tearfully reunite with those who loved them, I thought about the one family to whom I hadn't been able to keep my promise.
Four days later, the entire battalion went on a month of leave. It was wonderful to be back in America—and what better place to be than Southern California—but everywhere I went, I felt a little naked. I was used to being armed to the teeth, used to having an entire squad around me everywhere I traveled. Without the knowledge that twelve men were watching over one another and me, I felt nervous around crowds, and I avoided them. Loud noises scared me, and I jumped every time a door slammed or a car backfired. I still had trouble sleeping.
Still, each day was a little bit better than its predecessor, and, slowly, I eased my way back into America. By the time sleeping in my own bed felt more or less normal, everyone had returned from their leave and their respective homes. It was wonderful to be around the men again. One month later, though, I found out that I was being replaced as Joker One's platoon commander. It wasn't a surprise—with only five months of active duty left for me, I had to turn my men over to a new leader sometime. However, it was one of the hardest things I have ever done, giving the men who had been the center of my world over to someone else who didn't know them as I did. I let them go all the same. Keeping the Marines any longer would have been selfish—they needed time and training with their new leader, and the longer I kept them, the less well they would all work together.
Shortly before I left, Joker One threw a platoon beach party, and at it the men gave me a surprise. Just as we were preparing to leave, Noriel gathered the men and walked them and me over to a pickup truck that had been backed up to the beach. I hadn't noticed it before. As we assembled around the tailgate, Noriel announced to me that the platoon had gotten together to give their departing leader a little something. Then he dropped the tailgate and revealed my present.
Stood on its side so I could look clearly into its glass front was a custom-made hardwood case lined with red velvet. Inside it were mounted an officer's sword and sheath. To my surprise, the sword fit me exactly. I looked up at Noriel on discovering this, and he was grinning from ear to ear.
“Now you know why I asked your inseams, sir.” He paused and looked at me expectantly. Still dumbfounded, I looked back. Noriel spoke up again. “Damn, sir, you're dry-eyed still. I was hoping you'd cry when you saw this.” Then he walked over and handed me something small and jangling. I looked down. It was a whole host of dog tags, all strung together one after the other along the standard beaded metal chain. They were bent and dented. Some were still covered in sand.
Noriel spoke again, serious now. “Sir, those are all of us, sir. So you can remember us when you're gone.” He paused, then. “Sir, we even got Bolding's dog tag for you.”
Hearing that, I nearly did cry.
I left the platoon the next week, and I thought that it would be the last time I would see them together, but I was wrong. Three weeks later, we held a memorial service for the battalion's dead, and the CO called me to make sure that I would come. Up until the day of the service, I couldn't decide whether I wanted to be there—Bolding's family was coming, the CO had told me, and I didn't know how I could face them. But when the afternoon finally arrived, I pushed my fear aside and walked down to the event. Standing at the back, in the very last row of a crowd of Marines, I had a difficult time maintaining my composure as the chaplain honored our dead for the last time. At the front of the crowd, I could see Joker One, assembled together with their new leader at their head. Some time passed, more words were spoken by the company commanders, and eventually the service ended. My Marines broke up and formed a long line—they were paying their respects to Bolding's mother and sisters.
Supremely nervous, I walked over to the line and waited my turn. I don't know how long the waiting lasted—it seemed forever but too short—and the entire time I practiced the words that I wanted to say to Bolding's mother about her son. Her son was a hero, I wanted to tell her, and he died defending others, children who couldn't defend themselves. He was one of the best of all of us, and he never quit on his team. He lifted us all with his smile and his cheerful nature. We missed him.
Then, suddenly, I was there, in front of her, and I couldn't say anything at all. For a time, I looked at her, and she at me, and then I broke down sobbing. It was the first time I had cried about Bolding since we lost him, since the Gunny had held me in that miserable bathroom in Iraq. I couldn't speak coherently, and the only thing I said, over and over again through my sobs, was this:
“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”
Then, though I couldn't see, so I can't describe exactly what happened, Bolding's mom was hugging me. Just like the Gunny had, she pulled me down into her chest, and I wrapped my arms around her and cried and cried until I couldn't cry anymore.
I don't remember if she said anything to me, but when the moment passed, I felt some measure of absolution. Life continued, and so would I. Some things I will never understand, but I accept that now, and I no longer demand full comprehension as the price of the pursuit of excellence. So I'll keep putting one foot in front of the other as best as I possibly can until my mission on earth ends and God takes me home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, I would like to thank my wife, undoubtedly my better half (as everyone who has ever met both of us says), for her courage, strength, and unfailing support throughout three combat deployments, one involuntary recall, and six years of marriage. I could never have written a short story, let alone this book, without her. Throughout the entire process, she served as my editor, cheerleader, confidante, and counselor. I am a blessed man.
I must also thank Professor Nitin Nohria and Scott Snook of Harvard Business School for 1) their friendship, 2) their insight, and 3) making my dream a reality. They took the time out of their busy schedules to sponsor a veteran's writing project as a full-credit business school class. This book is the result of them pushing me to turn my chapters in on time. I also owe a great deal of thanks to my Harvard classmates, all of whom gave very generously of their time and advice in order to help a rough-around-the-edges infantryman adapt to the business world. I could not have asked for better friends and better people to help ease the reintegration into civilian life.
My agent, first editor, and dear friend Eve Bridburg also deserves more than I can give her. She took a bet on a complete unknown and then worked amazingly hard to turn a loose collection of war stories into a coherent narrative fit to give to publishing-house editor
s. Though she's been wonderful as an agent, it's her friendship that I value most of all. And speaking of friends, Craig Perry, one of my closest friends on this earth, took his very limited time to read all of my earliest work and give invaluable insight and advice.
Nate Fick—writer, friend, and Marine officer extraordinaire—helped make this book possible. Not only did he give excellent advice along the way, but he also read the entire finished product and gave indispensable critical insight. After I was recalled (and before this book caught the attention of any editors), Phil Kapusta, my boss at Special Operations Command, Central, did the same thing Nate did, only Phil did it from an active-duty SEAL's perspective. He didn't have the time, but somehow he made it because he is a terrific leader.
Of course, my editor at Random House, Tim Bartlett, warrants great thanks for all the hard work he put into making this book as good as it could possibly be. Any shortcomings in the work have everything to do with me and nothing to do with him. Lindsey Schwoeri, Tim's assistant, has been wonderful as well.
PepsiCo as an organization also gets special mention. Without its unflinching support for my family and me, my third combat deployment would have been much more difficult than it was. I am very lucky to work for such a terrific company staffed by such terrific people.
My amazing parents, Polly and Donovan Jr., are responsible for all of my success and none of my shortcomings. They have sacrificed quite a bit and done a wonderful job raising my four brothers and me. My greatest hope is that I can make them proud all of the days of their lives.
Others who deserve special mention are Brendan O’Donohoe, David Perpich, Arthur Golden, Ayan Mandal, Michael Stern, and Luke Eddinger, for all their help, wisdom, and friendship.
I thank all the men of Joker One. You taught me more than I can put into words. Hopefully, by the time you get to this part of the book, you know how much you mean to me.
Finally, I thank God, from whom all blessings flow.
GLOSSARY OF MILITARY TERMS
AK-47 — A gas-operated assault rifle used in many Eastern Bloc and Arab countries. Cheap and easy to maintain, this rifle was used by Iraqi security forces, private contractors, and insurgents alike.
Battalion — A Marine infantry unit composed of three rifle companies, one weapons company, one headquarters company, and a small company staff. Usually around 1,200 men in total.
Call sign — The name a person uses when talking over the radio. For security reasons, the call sign is never the same as the person's real name.
Cammies — Marine slang for camouflage utility uniforms.
CO — Commanding officer.
Company — A Marine infantry unit composed of three rifle platoons and one light weapons platoon. Usually around 170 men.
Company gunnery sergeant — The enlisted Marine responsible for all of the company's training and logistical support. Called “company gunny” for short, this person is usually one of the two most senior enlisted Marines in the company.
Corporal — The lowest-ranking Marine noncommissioned officer. Usually has between three and five years of enlistment in the Marine Corps.
Enlisted — Any Marine who has not received a formal commission into the officer ranks. Usually, but not always, these Marines do not have a college degree.
EOD — Explosive Ordnance Disposal. Experts in the defusing and disposing of bombs, these men are called in every time a unit discovers an explosive device.
Fire team — A four-man unit consisting of a team leader, a SAW gunner, an assistant SAW gunner, and a grenadier armed with an M-203 attached below his M-16. Three fire teams make up a squad.
Flak — The Marine term for Kevlar vests that we wear in combat. With a pair of ceramic small-arms protective insert (SAPI) plates inside, the vest is capable of stopping AK-47 bullets. Without the plates, the vest will stop only shrapnel. Together, the plates and vest weigh almost seventeen pounds.
HQ — Headquarters.
IED — Improvised explosive device. The signature weapon of the Iraq war, the IED is a homemade bomb consisting of an explosive component—usually an old artillery shell or mortar round—and a remote detonating device, which can be anything from a length of communication wire to a cellphone receiver.
Kevlar — The Marine term for the Kevlar helmets that we wear in combat.
M-16 — Short for M-16A4. The brand-new version of the assault rifle used by U.S. Marines in Iraq. Unlike the previous version, the M-16A2, the M-16A4 features a rail system that runs the length of the rifle's handgrips and upper receiver.
M-203 — A tubular attachment to the M-16A4 that enables the weapon to launch 40mm grenades, which closely resemble large, fat, stubby bullets. It can be found just underneath the M-16's barrel.
M-249 SAW — Squad automatic weapon. A light machine gun carried by three Marines in every infantry squad.
NCO — Noncommissioned officer. The enlisted Marine leaders, the NCO corps is often referred to as “the backbone of the Marine Corps.”
OCS — Officer Candidate School. A ten-week program that screens college students for commissioning as Marine officers.
Officer — A Marine formally commissioned into the officer ranks. All officers must pass a screening board and must have a college degree.
Platoon — A forty-three-man Marine infantry unit composed of three infantry squads, a platoon sergeant (usually a staff sergeant), and a platoon commander (usually a lieutenant).
Platoon commander — A Marine platoon's only officer and the man responsible for everything his men do or fail to do. He is the platoon's formal leader.
Platoon sergeant — A Marine platoon's senior enlisted leader and the platoon commander's right-hand man. He is usually responsible for the platoon's logistic and administrative issues, and he often advises the platoon commander before, during, and after operations.
PT — Physical training. The civilian version of the term is “workout.”
ROTC — Reserve Officers’ Training Corps. A program that offers college scholarships in return for military training during college and a military commitment thereafter.
RPG — Rocket-propelled grenade. The most common system is the RPG-7, a man-portable, shoulder-fired, muzzle-loaded antitank grenade launcher. A favorite of the insurgents, the RPG-7 consists of two pieces: the rocket warhead and a reusable launch tube. The warhead looks much like a half-sized American football with a finned cylinder protruding about a foot and a half out of one end.
SAPI — Small-arms protective insert. Ceramic plates inserted into specially designed pouches on the front and back of our Kevlar vests. Roughly as big as a man's chest and stomach, these plates are capable of stopping most rifle bullets.
SMAW — Shoulder-launched multipurpose assault weapon. The U.S. version of the RPG-7, this system consists of a man-portable, reloadable firing tube and the rockets themselves. Much more cumbersome to carry than the RPG-7.
Squad — A thirteen-man infantry unit. Consisting of three four-man fire teams and one leader, the squad is usually the smallest unit that is deployed independently in the USMC infantry in Iraq.
2/4 — 2d Battalion, 4th Marine Regiment.
USMC — United States Marine Corps.
XO — Executive officer. Usually the right-hand man of a unit's commanding officer and the person responsible for the training and logistical resupply of the company.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DONOVAN CAMPBELL graduated with honors from Princeton University and Harvard Business School, finished first in his class at the Marines’ Basic Officer Course, and served three combat deployments—two in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. He was awarded the Combat Action Ribbon and a Bronze Star with Valor for his time in Iraq. He presently lives in Dallas, Texas, with his wife and daughter.
This is a work of nonfiction. In an effort to disguise the identities of some of the individuals depicted, certain names and personal characteristics have been changed. Any resulting resemblance to any individuals either living or
dead is purely coincidental and unintentional.
Copyright © 2009 by Donovan Campbell
Map copyright © 2009 by Anita Karl and Jim Kemp
All rights reserved.
RANDOM HOUSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Campbell, Donovan.
Joker one: a Marine platoon's story of courage, leadership, and brotherhood / Donovan Campbell.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-1-58836-778-5
1. Iraq War, 2003—Campaigns—Iraq—Ramadi. 2. Iraq War, 2003—
Personal narratives, American. 3. Campbell, Donovan. I. Title.
DS79.76.C355 2009 956.7044’345—dc22 008023896
Joker One Page 34
