Rage Company

by Daly, Thomas P.

  The neighborhood surrounding COP Grant was mostly residential, single-family homes. Three and a half years earlier, before the invasion, a hundred thousand people had lived in this southern part of Ramadi.

  Area of Operations Bandit: 1-37 Armor’s area of operations in southern Ramadi.

  The Baptism: The location of events surrounding Combat Outpost Grant on November 27, 2006.

  Now it appeared to be uninhabited. Most of the streets were covered in so much sand and dust that one might mistakenly assume they weren’t paved.

  The reinforced squad of Marines was already in formation, clearly visible to any observer. The nervousness of the first patrol was obvious. The purpose of the patrol was routine, nothing more than an orientation for the recently arrived Marine unit. If faces could tell a story, however, not many of the Marines were excited. Even the handful of soldiers who accompanied the Marines looked uncomfortable—and they had been here for months.

  “Departing friendly lines,” said Corporal Jesus Davila’s voice in Lieutenant Thomas’s left ear. The corporal was talking over the personal role radio (PRR), an unsecured intrasquad push-to-talk radio.

  Lieutenant Thomas looked at his watch: 1547. It was the height of the day, and there hadn’t been a gunfight yet. He stepped down into the dusty street, a one-foot drop. A Bradley fighting vehicle and an M1 Abrams tank were still in the COP’s parking lot, both engines running. The vehicles were COP Grant’s quick reaction force, on standby in case of an emergency. There was another Abrams tank 300 meters east down Farouk Way, the east-to-west-running street where COP Grant was located.

  The squad’s lead element, Lance Corporal Jason Heidbreder and an army sergeant, turned north and started to walk up Daytona Street. The men were 200 meters away from Lieutenant Thomas. Thomas stopped to adjust his gear and allow the formation to spread out. The red-and-white bandana under his Kevlar helmet was already soaking wet, and the thought of how nervous he appeared to his Marines must have crossed his racing mind. It was their first combat patrol. The dispersion was good, and the final element began to move. The dust in the street was probably a solid two inches deep on Farouk Way, but as the Marines turned onto Daytona, the asphalt was visible to the naked eye.

  Lieutenant Thomas saw something out of the corner of his left eye. A dark black sedan, probably a BMW, was paralleling the formation on Colt, the adjacent street to the west. Although the lieutenant had seen vehicles being driven around the COP all day, this was different. The platoon commander for Rage Company, 2nd Platoon (Rage 2), maneuvered around the concrete barrier that prevented vehicular traffic from entering Farouk Way. His attention was precisely focused. The situation was heavily to the enemy’s advantage.

  The entire squad was on the same street, which limited its firepower to the front. On the flanks were two- and three-story homes, all surrounded by an exterior wall. Each had a two- to four-foot retaining wall on the roof, making every structure a small fortress to fight from. Every fifty yards there was also a narrow single lane, a path between houses, too small for a sedan to fit down, but a perfect spot for someone to shoot from and then quickly disappear out of view. The difficulty of winning in the urban landscape of Iraq was immediately clear to the religion major from the University of Rochester.

  The formation now stretched about 250 meters along Daytona Street. The point element was coming up on the first four-way intersection they were supposed to cross. Heidbreder and the sergeant stopped to allow the rest of the first four-man fire team to catch up. They would provide security as the point element crossed. Lieutenant Thomas’s eyes were fixated on the sergeant; something did not look right. The sergeant turned around to yell at the rest of the team to move faster. The concern on his face would soon become warranted. As the sergeant turned back to the front, a black sedan appeared at the far intersection. The sedan was less than 100 meters north of the point element. It looked like the same BMW the lieutenant had seen earlier.

  “Rage 2 Actual, this is Dirty Beans, we got a . . .” Corporal Davila was on the PRR again.

  Lance Corporal Heidbreder’s weapon went to the ready. The black sedan slowly moved through the intersection. As soon as it left sight, it immediately went into reverse and reappeared. Lieutenant Thomas was already running, as Heidbreder began sighting in on the vehicle through his scope. The distinct sound of high-velocity 5.56mm projectiles filled the air. It was quickly followed by the chattering of dozens of rounds of 7.62mm.

  Instinctively, Lieutenant Thomas focused in on the source of the noise, the BMW. The twenty-six-year-old New Yorker was sprinting now, his body propelled by adrenaline. He looked back at his Marine. Heidbreder was down. The lieutenant’s ears were bombarded with sounds of pandemonium: on the left blared continual verbal traffic via the intrasquad radio, and on the right, the shouting of the combatants and the deafening din of gunfire going downrange. The black BMW sped off as the sergeant on point unloaded his entire magazine, almost thirty rounds, into the back windshield.

  “Far right! CCP far right!” the young platoon commander shouted as he ran. His Marines knew that he was directing them to establish the casualty collection point in the far right building of the intersection. Heidbreder was struggling to get up. He couldn’t. The sergeant on point dragged him to cover against a courtyard wall. Within seconds, Corporal Davila had dynamically breached the locked gate to the structure’s courtyard, by using a small charge of plastic explosive. Inaccurate insurgent rifle fire filled the street. Lieutenant Thomas made it to his wounded Marine, kneeled next to him, and tried to analyze the wound’s severity. Blood sprayed the lieutenant in the face. Heidbreder had been shot in the right side of the throat, and the semiconscious Marine was aware enough to recognize his platoon commander. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m sorry,” said Heidbreder. The apologizing Marine was foremost in James Thomas’s mind. He asked himself a single question: can I get Heidbreder out of here fast enough?

  Hearing the gunfire, I walked from my half of the platoon’s staging area in COP Grant and crossed over into the command building. I had to sidestep a soldier in full combat gear wearing workout shorts and a pair of sandals. Ten minutes earlier, Lieutenant Thomas had been briefing me on his squad-size patrol. We discussed the areas my patrol would hit following his. Rage 2 was graciously allowing me—the company Fire Support Team and Intelligence Cell leader—to command his Marines in combat. It was a subtle display of trust that weighed on my mind as I listened to our first firefight. Just then, Corporal Brian Holloway’s hand slammed hard into the cinder-block wall next to the door. We were face-to-face, our noses only inches apart, but the sound of gunfire forced the twenty-one-year-old squad leader to shout, “Lieutenant Daly, they won’t let us leave the building! The lieutenant is asking for the rest of the platoon to maneuver out down Farouk Way to the intersection of—”

  Corporal Holloway continued speaking, but my train of thought was interrupted by one of the army captains who was in command at the COP.

  He screamed into my ear, “You’re not fuckin’ going! I have one casevac vehicle, and when it leaves, it leaves with the best medical care we have, our docs. This is my COP and I am telling you, you aren’t going anywhere unless I say you can.”

  The professionalism of our earlier conversations was gone, the second casualty of this brief firefight. I turned to Corporal Holloway and said, “Get every Marine in your squad in this room!” I pointed to the foyer directly behind him. With its spiral staircase and ornate tiles on the walls, it was the most decadent staging room I had ever seen.

  I looked back at the captain. I am sure he wanted to choke the life out of me. He knew there was only one reason to stage the unit, so I could brief them on the situation and leave to assist Lieutenant Thomas. Before he could act on his thoughts of strangulation, the combat operations center (COC) went deadly quiet as Lieutenant Thomas’s voice came on the radio.

  “Cobra Main, this is Rage 2 Actual. We have gone firm in building 146, patrol sector Juliet 8. We have one ur
gent surgical Medevac, gunshot wound to the throat. Requesting Medevac at our position.”

  The captain responded without hesitation. “Bullshit. We are not sending any of our vehicles down Daytona; those roads are not cleared and blocked by concrete barriers. Tell him he will have to ‘man pack’ the casualty back down to Farouk Way, where the casevac will link up with him.” The radio operator relayed his intent to Rage 2 Actual, Lieutenant Thomas. The captain and I stared at each other. We both knew that an Abrams tank could roll right over a concrete barrier without a problem. And Lieutenant Thomas had just walked down Daytona—so what was too dangerous for the captain’s tanks was safe enough for the dismounted Marines of Rage 2. I put on my Kevlar helmet and walked out of the COC, wondering whether he would have made the same call if one of his soldiers had been shot. The Marines were assembled. As the senior Marine, I had a decision to make.

  Lieutenant Thomas threw the handset at his radio operator in disgust. Blood was beginning to pool on the courtyard floor, and he could hear one of the Marines screaming at the Iraqi family huddled inside to “shut the hell up.” The family’s loud sobs were intermingled with the distinct sound of oxygen and blood mixing in Heidbreder’s throat as he lay unconscious. Doc Rodriguez looked up at the platoon commander, maintaining pressure on the torn arterial tissue.

  “Less than an hour, sir.” The navy corpsman was calm and somber.

  Lieutenant Thomas jumped on the PRR. “Davila, we are man packing the casualty back the way we came to the intersection of Daytona and Farouk Way. We need to move ASAP. Use a fire team to carry Heidbreder with a hasty litter, send two flankers with the litter team, lead and follow the litter with a team.” Lieutenant Thomas released the push-to-talk button on his chest and looked down at Doc Rodriguez. Sweat was pouring out of the lieutenant. “Get him ready to move,” he ordered.

  On the roof, Corporal Davila was concerned. He had been to Ramadi before as a private first class back in 2004, and there was only one reason why the enemy was currently not engaging the patrol with small arms: they were moving closer. From his position he had limited observation to the west, and he knew the enemy was most likely going to exploit this by engaging the Marines as they left the relative safety of the home they occupied. The squad leader spotted a pile of two -by-fours in a corner and called up one of his fire team leaders. The team leader, Corporal William Bradford, took a knee next to him.

  “Use these two-by-fours to get across to the roof of the house next door,” said Corporal Davila. “I need you to cover the approach to the west so we don’t get cornered in this house. The far side of that roof over there is slightly elevated above all the others around here so use that to your advantage. Take your sweet-ass time, too, and I will leave you.” The team leader was moving before he finished. The thought of insurgents using the two-by-fours for the same purpose flashed in the squad leader’s mind—why else would they be up here?

  Davila got on the PRR. “Rage 2 Actual, this is Dirty Beans. I am putting a fire team on the roof of the home to our north to get a better field of fire to cover our movement out of here.”

  The lieutenant responded instantly. “Roger. I’ll let you know when we are ready to move down here. We will start moving as soon as you displace from the roof.”

  Lieutenant Thomas began to account for each fire team in his mind. His attachments were already staging in the courtyard, and the first fire team was lifting Heidbreder as Thomas released the PRR.

  A rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) streaked over the roof, and the sounds of gunfire again pierced the afternoon sky.

  Corporal Bradford was on the PRR: “Muj three hundred fifty meters to the west on a rooftop. They just shot an RPG without—” The sound of his fire team’s M249 SAW (squad automatic weapon) firing at the cyclic rate cut off the end of his transmission. A second RPG flew over the building. The urgent need to be decisive must have flashed in Lieutenant Thomas’s mind. They may have been there for only about five minutes, stabilizing the casualty, but the enemy was quickly maneuvering on the Marines’ fixed position. The longer the patrol was stationary, the more precarious the situation would become.

  “Davila, are you ready to displace?” asked Lieutenant Thomas.

  “I am, sir,” replied Davila.

  Corporal Bradford launched two grenades from his M203 before he crawled back over the two-by-fours and onto Davila’s roof. The team skipped down the stairs and through the Iraqi home, passing Lieutenant Thomas as they reached the courtyard. The first fire team was already out the gate. The squad anxiously moved out onto Daytona Street, with Corporal Davila and Lieutenant Thomas being the last two out. It was the same problem for the platoon commander, his entire unit spread down a single street.

  Two Marines carried Heidbreder’s unconscious body in a standard-issue poncho. The waterproof, camouflage material was the quickest improvised stretcher Doc Rodriguez could put together. As Lieutenant Thomas made it out into the intersection, a world of mayhem erupted. Numerous RPK and PKM machine gun positions opened up on the squad from multiple directions. Every man ran down the street toward Farouk Way.

  The fire came perpendicular to the direction of their movement, and the Marines instinctively used the courtyard walls as cover. Lieutenant Thomas paused at the first alleyway he came upon. He watched as his men sprinted down the street, rounds skipping in the dust and debris. Then a burst of machine gun fire exploded over his head, slicing through shards of glass at the top of the wall. In slow motion, the green glass seemed to float past the lieutenant’s face, glaring in the sunlight as it fell.

  Down the street, Corporal Davila threw an M67 fragmentation grenade into a second-floor window. It was a hell of a throw. Then the stretcher team sprinted out into the open, exposing themselves to the alley directly in front of Lieutenant Thomas. Another burst of machine gun fire shot down the alley toward the Marines. They made it through, but Lieutenant Thomas noticed blood pouring out of Heidbreder, and the poncho that carried him was tearing apart under his weight.

  The platoon commander unloaded his magazine as he went past the alley, trading inaccurate fire with the enemy machine gun position. Arriving at the improvised stretcher, he helped Doc Rodriguez apply pressure to the wound. The Marines resumed the mad dash toward Farouk Way, taking fire as they passed each alley. Two Marines carried Heidbreder, alternating between the different two-man buddy carries taught at boot camp. Doc Rodriguez continued to work on the wound as they moved between courtyard walls. Still 100 meters from the casevac site, Lieutenant Thomas watched as the M113 ambulance pulled out into the intersection, waiting for Heidbreder. Corporal Davila was already there; he popped green smoke to obscure the vehicle and make it more difficult for the enemy to target. As Rage 2 sprinted, the air filled Lieutenant Thomas’s lungs with gunfire smoke; yelling and screaming bombarded his ears. The platoon commander was oblivious to these distractions as he closed in on the vehicle. He allowed only one thought into his mind: get Heidbreder out of here.

  One of the flankers went down just off to Lieutenant Thomas’s right. The platoon commander could see the elation on the Marine’s face as he got back up and realized he had only tripped and not been shot. Nearing the vehicle, Lieutenant Thomas saw the army first sergeant responsible for Medevacs coming out of COP Grant. The experienced soldier casually walked toward him on his left, indifferent to the bullets and ricochets dancing around his feet. The ramp to the vehicle was open, and the first sergeant helped Doc Rodriguez and Lieutenant Thomas place Heidbreder inside. Then he grabbed Lieutenant Thomas by his flak jacket. “Is any of this yours?” the first sergeant screamed over the .50 caliber machine guns blaring away around him. Lieutenant Thomas looked down and noticed that his entire torso was covered in Heidbreder’s blood.

  “No. Now get him out of here!” said the lieutenant. He took a knee behind a concrete barrier next to Corporal Davila. The two Marines began to engage multiple muzzle flashes as they waited for the convoy to move out. “Sir, we need to move!” Davi
la shouted at Lieutenant Thomas. The platoon commander ignored Davila, intent on engaging the enemy that had harassed him all the way to the Medevac site. Davila shouted again. Lieutenant Thomas turned to see his squad leader moving back to COP Grant. He also noticed that a humvee had pulled up right behind him, only a few feet away. The barrel of the vehicle’s .50 caliber machine gun was directly above his head. Lieutenant Thomas immediately regretted ignoring his squad leader. The concussion of the machine gun opening fire knocked him flat on his back. He watched from the ground as the large-caliber bullets punished the origin of the muzzle flashes he had been engaging. Lieutenant Thomas got to his feet and quickly moved past the convoy, entering the confines of COP Grant. The inaugural running of what would be known as the “Daytona 500” was over.

  I was still standing in the staging room of the command building. The rest of the platoon had formed in a small circle with all eyes fixed on me. Each pair was pleading with me to lead them out into the fire. The Marines knew one of us was down, and they wanted to get even.

  Standing on my left was Lance Corporal Benjamin Eakin. Shaking and muttering that he was ready, he gazed toward the ceiling. Dust fell from every crack in the building as the MK-19 grenade launchers and other crew-served positions on the roof covered Rage 2’s movement back into the COP. I had already decided not to move out of the COP, and the decision was killing me. It was my first day in Ramadi, on unfamiliar terrain, and I was in no position to coordinate a response to the insurgents’ challenge. I had no support from the army leadership who owned the battle space. I barely knew the call signs of friendly units and would have spent half the time outside the wire staring at my map trying to figure out what building I was looking at. I knew that any initiative on my part would most likely end up costing us more casualties with little to show for it. I came to accept that on this particular mission we had been beaten by the jihadists. As the Marines accompanying Lieutenant Thomas began to filter back into the COP, I wondered how such a routine patrol had come to this.