by Chris Martin
Following a near-instantaneous victory over the Iraqi Army, the coalition attempted to impose order while harried by small but persistent pockets of resistance. Initially thought to be largely composed of guerrilla fighters who either remained loyal to the nation’s former ruler or were disenchanted nationalists struggling to scratch out an existence as the country was reshaped, the makeup of the insurgency shifted to something darker, hidden beneath a veneer of overly optimistic situational reports.
New players emerged. Power in country was no longer exclusive to the likes of CENTCOM Commander General John P. Abizad, Ambassador Paul Bremer, or JSOC Commander Stanley McChrystal. Its splintered shards were also being wielded by the likes of radical cleric Muqtada al-Sadr, who sensed opportunity as he had a ready audience composed of the nation’s Shia majority. They had long suffered under Hussein’s former regime, and now he saw a new enemy in the occupying force to galvanize his forces against.
Another name was increasingly whispered among the militant Sunni opposition—Abu Musab al-Zarqawi—a Jordanian terrorist thug whose shockingly brutal methods saw him rapidly increase his profile while transforming this new Iraq War into the centralized battleground of a truly global conflict.
The nation slowly devolved into a confusing and chaotic mire of unrelenting violence, as each successive vicious strike begat its response, escalating an array of intersecting wars. The nation was spiraling into a near-unstoppable feedback loop of carnage.
In early 2004, the coalition struggled to get a handle on exactly what was occurring. A mass of motivated, militant actors were operating, but they had not yet merged into more identifiable, organized groups. Many had shared motivations but differed in terms of tactics. Others were in direct ideological conflict but willing to stoop to the same inhuman practices as they traded blows. Still others existed only to pull the strings of one side or the other in order to enflame the hell that was formulating.
However, to the American-led coalition, this vast collection of disparate combatants looked practically identical to one another (and even more problematically, identical to the larger, benign populace they were attempting to secure and protect). Whatever their separations, they all posed a lethal threat to Westerners in country, whether they were military, contractors, journalists, or aid workers.
This new, disturbing reality was brought into sharp focus in the spring of 2004.
* * *
Tensions between the coalition and Muqtada al-Sadr’s Shia Mahdi Army erupted in late March, setting off a series of battles between the two forces in Baghdad and southern Iraq.
At the same time, a diverse and nebulous collection of fighters, ranging from emboldened nationalist groups, Sunni insurgents, and a flood of foreign Salafi jihadists headlined by the aforementioned Zarqawi, bunkered down in Fallujah, a city of some 320,000 in Anbar Province, forty-five miles west of Baghdad.
Initially viewed as a relatively minor concern, the city grew increasingly unwelcoming throughout 2003 and into 2004. Protests turned into sporadic hit-and-run attacks, which in turn matured into coordinated assaults.
These guerrilla strikes intensified alongside the city’s widespread anti-American sentiments. This ultimately took the form of a horrific display of protest and violence that changed the face of the war.
* * *
On March 31, four Blackwater USA contractors—Jerry Zovko, Wesley Batalona, Michael Teague, and Scott Helvenston—were ambushed as they attempted a shortcut through the volatile city. They were stopped on Highway 10 and murdered in the streets of Fallujah. Their bodies were desecrated and dismembered. A pair of burnt corpses hung from a bridge that straddled the Euphrates River while the other two remained in the streets, put on display as a gleeful mob mugged for the cameras.
The 1st Marine Expeditionary Force (I MEF) had only recently taken ownership of Anbar Province from the Army’s 82nd Airborne Division. Prior to the attack on the contractors, they merely contained Fallujah rather than engaged it.
Bremer—the man who effectively ran Iraq at the time—promised an unequivocal response, announcing in threatening terms that the deaths “will not go unpunished.”
I MEF was given its orders to conduct an overwhelming offensive on the city dubbed Operation Vigilant Resolve. Fallujah’s inhabitants were given advance warning, as leaflets were dispersed that instructed them to leave, stay inside, or prepare to meet their end.
The city was encircled by a force of more than two thousand Marines and masses of concertina wire. Meanwhile, the insurgents actively prepared their defenses, making an already determined enemy that much more difficult to root out.
It’s estimated that a flock of residents totaling more than 100,000 fled the city as a bloody showdown loomed. A series of air strikes and devastatingly precise fire from Scout Snipers allowed the Marines to tighten their grip during the battle’s opening week in early April.
Following concerns of mass civilian casualties, a tenuous (and largely one-sided) cease-fire was called on April 9, which only allowed both sides to further entrench their positions in anticipation of an inevitable resumption.
The northern half of the city had been assigned to 2nd Battalion, 1st Marines. During its short time in the province, one of its subcomponents—Echo Company—earned itself an enviable reputation as an unusually fierce fighting force—even among Marine infantrymen. It was also one seemingly destined for what laid ahead, its men having crossed paths with the four Blackwater contractors while out on patrol only days prior to their grisly slaughter.
Echo 2/1 was an extension of its charismatic yet uncompromising leader, Captain Douglass Zembiec. Zembiec’s skills were unquestioned—he had been a two-time New Mexico state champion wrestler and then a two-time All-American at the Naval Academy. And he was among the first into Kosovo in the late ’90s during Operation Joint Guardian while serving as an officer with the fabled 2nd Force Reconnaissance Company.
His bravery seemingly knew no bounds; Zembiec was never so comfortable or in his element as when he was leading his men into battle under withering gunfire. He enthusiastically executed his duties when tasked with killing the enemy. And when the enemy killed his Marines—as they inevitably would during the campaign—he wouldn’t allow their brethren to wallow in sorrow. And ultimately, more than fifty of the Marines from Echo 2/1 were wounded during Operation Vigilant Resolve.
His fiery motivational speeches came directly from his soul as evidenced by his actions—words that may have seemed rehearsed or artificial coming from a lesser warrior. Under Zembiec’s watch, Echo Company took to battle—to use his preferred terminology—like a pride of lions.
This became evident even prior to the wider offensive. One of Captain Zembiec’s Scout Sniper team leaders with 2/1’s H&S Company, Corporal Ethan Place, demonstrated his measured skill on multiple occasions. In two separate incidents in late March, Place stitched a pair of insurgents with effective fire, the first action neutralizing an attempted ambush of a convoy and the second while out on patrol.
As the battle set into motion, Place again cut down the enemy, delivering lethally accurate rounds downrange during a pitched April 7 firefight that involved two Marine companies and hundreds of insurgents, just two days ahead of the cease-fire.
* * *
Of course, the Marines weren’t in this fight alone and neither was Echo Company. While I MEF spearheaded the assault and gave it a face, it was supported by a variety of close air support platforms (including an Air Force AC-130 Spectre Gunship, call sign “Slayer,” F-15Es, F-16s, and Navy F/A-18s).
Additionally, it was backed by some of the more shrouded concerns of America’s presence in Iraq—including the CIA, NSA, 5th Special Forces Group, and SOCOM’s Psychological Operations Group.
Most valuable of these as far as E/2/1 was concerned was the inclusion of a small Task Force 6-26 sniper element from a Delta Force Sabre Squadron’s recce troop. The team that arrived was just seven men deep, but collectively they brought around a centu
ry of tactical experience to go with their exceptionally rare capabilities.
The recce operators had already shown their ability to penetrate Fallujah. In the weeks prior, they had operated deep inside the city limits to conduct extreme-risk clandestine vehicle recons.
However, rather than turn up in the modest Iraqi sedans that served as their cover on those ops, they now arrived with the newest and shiniest toys in the arsenal. The Delta snipers came bearing a most precious gift—thermobaric munitions—ranging from SMAW-NEs to modified AT4s and grenades. These are weapons that ignite the air’s oxygen, creating intensely high-temperature explosions marked by an immense blast overpressure. Utilized in confined spaces, such as building interiors, the effects are magnified and can result in the incineration of any occupants—if not the outright destruction of the targeted structure.
Insurgent marksmen had perched on the roofs and in the minarets that dotted the angular pale brown and gray cityscape leading into the heart of the contested city. It was hoped these munitions would provide a novel solution for countering the demoralizing fire of these enemy snipers.
Every last particle of that extraordinary talent, savvy, and firepower would prove critical on April 26, 2004.
It was actually a little more than a week earlier that the Unit team had first delivered the weapons and brought the Echo Company up to speed in their application. Satisfied that the infantrymen now had the means to “eliminate the [enemy] snipers, or at least let them know that, ‘Wow, you are going to get thumped if you shoot,’” the Delta team disappeared, off to execute whatever high-speed, high-risk mission required their attention next.
However, the Marines requested a follow-up round of assistance as they struggled to get a handle on the new weapons. The call was answered and the experienced soldiers returned to establish positions alongside the men of Echo 2/1 at the FLOT—the forward line of troops—directed toward Fallujah from its northwest corner.
The Delta snipers immediately went to work, rotating in and out of guns to capitalize on the insurgent activity in the area, which presented the proficient marksmen with an abundance of “targets of opportunity” down several lanes.
However, over time the enemy fighters learned from the deadly mistakes of their comrades and figured out where they could and could not maneuver. All the while, they continued to harry the front line with sporadic small arms, RPG, and mortar attacks.
Hoping to catch their quarry by surprise in the dead of night and claim new sniper lanes, a combined ground element consisting of thirty-nine Marines (Echo 2/1’s 2nd Platoon and a Fire Support Team) commanded by Captain Zembiec, and augmented by seven masterfully skilled SOF soldiers, went on the hunt in the early hours.
The makeshift strike force, which was later described as “an unusual arrangement for sure,” paired up the company’s infantrymen with some of the nation’s most experienced warfighters. The Delta men were not only twice as old as a number of the younger Marines, but had actually served in the military longer than some of their impressionable compatriots had existed on this Earth.
Despite the stark disparity of time and training, respect freely flowed both ways as the special mission unit soldiers appreciated the eager nature of the young Marines and took them under their wing.
The force streamed out into the blackness of 3:30 a.m. and proceeded down through a cemetery, heading southeast into Fallujah. The details of their surroundings were still masked in utter darkness; however, the first hints of the arriving daylight could just be perceived above. Heavily armed shadows of friendly forces were visible in all directions in silhouette against the night sky.
During the movement, the early-hour silence was pierced by the prayers of a nearby mosque.
One of the Delta snipers, Master Sergeant Don Hollenbaugh, turned to Staff Sergeant Dan Briggs—a highly trained Special Forces medic—and spoke in a hushed voice.
“That is eerie. It’s not going to be a good day.”
“Yeah, I’m afraid you might be right.”
* * *
The E/2/1 Marines and Delta recce team emerged from the cemetery. They then cleared and seized a pair of buildings in a tightly packed neighborhood in the Jolan District—the alleged Iraqi headquarters of al-Zarqawi. The two structures faced one another on opposite sides of the street—one to the north and the other to the south of an east-west road that led directly into the center of Fallujah.
The buildings were large homes of similar design and layout. Surrounded by six-foot-high walls ringing their courtyards, both pale houses had two interior floors with an accessible, flat roof surrounded by three-foot-high walls, effectively rendering them three-story fighting positions.
The stairs that led to the roof were exposed to the elements, leading up from a walled outdoor terrace on the second floor to the middle of the roof, where it was lined on three sides by another three-foot-high wall to prevent clumsy guests from toppling down by accident.
The Marines split up and filtered into both buildings. The north house was under the watch of Lieutenant Dan Wagner while Zembiec held down a position in the south house. The Unit element joined the captain in the southern structure, assembling on the roof to secure sniper lanes.
Back at the FLOT, observers noticed that armed fighters were egressing the same mosque from which the earlier prayers had resonated. Captain Zembiec led a small team to investigate but found nothing other than a handful of shell casings in the minaret’s windowsill.
Meanwhile, back at the houses, the contrasting levels of training and divergent tactics of the Marines and the Unit snipers became evident. The grunts improvised to create covered firing positions but also loudly signaled their location to any nearby insurgents.
Hollenbaugh explained, “When we got up on the roof … I had never seen this technique before (well, yeah I have), but the Marines started to … it was unnerving. The Marines were basically knocking holes in walls, so there was no more quiet anymore. We took sledgehammers and beat holes into the walls. Well, that woke everybody up.”
Near first light a handful of shots rang out, along with a couple of RPGs. While less than a full-blown assault, the probing attacks indicated a waking city—one now home to thousands of bloodthirsty adversaries … and not much else. And it was well aware of the Americans’ presence beyond the front line.
Hollenbaugh and Sergeant Major Larry Boivin—a Delta Force Master Breacher—were on the glass, aiming down the sights of their weapons and covering the south sections of the position.
Another RPG streaked in, this time impacting the south side of the southern house, directly beneath Hollenbaugh. The heat of the blast radiated all around as his face was speckled with dust and debris left from the crude construction that provided his “hole in the wall” sniper position.
The Unit sniper immediately sprinted down through the building and climbed the courtyard wall. The idea was to not merely assess the damage, but also study the blast pattern and resultant shrapnel splash in order to approximate the most likely hiding spot of the insurgent who had fired the rocket-propelled grenade.
Hollenbaugh instinctively calculated the direction and maximum effective range of the weapon and scanned for any likely positions hidden in the distance. He hustled back upstairs, informed the Forward Observer of the attached Marine Fire Support Team where to place a TRP (target reference point), and hit it hard with indirect fire—the 81mm mortars that were covering the team’s movement—should the enemy activity pick up.
In addition to the mortars, Captain Zembiec’s plan called for a pair of M1A1 Abrams Main Battle Tanks from the 1st Tank Division to await further orders back at the FLOT, enabling the combined force to dole out a substantial amount of hurt should things get desperate.
Hollenbaugh retook his position to the south and dumped a few 5.56mm rounds from his tricked-out M4 into the dark area he had just located and reported. “It was just my way of telling ’em, ‘Hey, I know where you are.’”
At that point, it w
ent quiet again. The earlier attack wasn’t overly concerning—this was par for the course back at the FLOT, where the occasional, marginally aimed round or two would harass American troops with regularity but never amount to much more than that.
The Delta operators used the break to reconsider their disposition. Around ten a.m., “JN,” the recce team leader, broke things down:
“Hey, the snipers have gotten off a couple shots, but not many. The lanes are choked down too tight here to use our long guns properly. Realistically, we can accomplish the exact same thing with assault rifles.… The snipers aren’t being utilized to the best of our capability. I want to grab a few guys and go back to the FLOT where we can cover you from the rear.”
JN gathered up the element’s sniper pairs and left. As they melded back into the cemetery and traveled a few hundred meters to the northwest to reclaim their old perches, the Marine platoon now only counted three of the original Delta element among their ranks—Hollenbaugh, Boivin, and Briggs.
And technically, the exit of the two sniper teams left Hollenbaugh the sole remaining Delta Force operator (a term reserved exclusively for the Unit’s assaulters and snipers) and in charge of the team on the roof. Although a Unit sniper himself, he was also trained as a breacher, and for this operation he had been paired with Boivin.
Boivin’s presence was critical for the larger mission: he was a specialty breacher with advanced knowledge of thermobarics and shoulder-fired weapons. And Briggs’s exhaustive medical training was of immense value as well, as would become all too evident in the hours ahead.
At forty years of age and with two decades of Army experience under his belt, Hollenbaugh lent a measured, calming presence to the mixed crew and aptly filled whatever leadership vacuum was created by the other snipers’ hasty departure.
Known as “Kingpin” to his teammates, Hollenbaugh hails from small-town Prescott, Washington, where he graduated with just seventeen other kids in his class.
Humble and downright folksy, people might never know they were dealing with one of the planet’s foremost warriors if they were to randomly happen across Donald Hollenbaugh on the streets of Boise, Idaho. However, to encounter him in the streets of al-Fallujah would have been a different matter entirely, where his poise, skill, and confidence were most befitting of his Unit code name.
