“The major ordered us out,” Kim said. “Do you need help?”
“I can make it,” Segel said. “You gotta get Lieutenant Manion. . . . I think he’s dead.”
“My vehicle is right over there,” Kim said, pointing toward Elizabeth. “Go!”
Now that reinforcements had arrived, the sniper was gone, and the insurgents were pulling back.
Segel, mustering all his strength, exited the Humvee on the passenger’s side and hurried to Kim’s vehicle, where he collapsed in the backseat. He knew he had been shot in the stomach by this point, and wasn’t sure if he would make it. But even as Segel ran to the intersection, the wounded Marine’s thoughts were focused on the unforgettable scene he had just witnessed.
Segel didn’t see Travis get shot by the sniper. But after dragging himself to the driver’s side of the vehicle, the lance corporal was shocked to see the first lieutenant lying facedown and motionless, his arms stretched toward the curb with his feet facing toward the bullet-riddled vehicle.
When Segel pulled himself toward Travis and asked where he had been hit, he got no response. He realized Travis was seriously wounded and started feeling underneath his fellow Marine’s body armor with his left hand, despite the hole in his own aching wrist. He found a bullet wound on the left side of Travis’s rib cage.
He whispered in Travis’s ear.
“Hey, Travis,” said Segel, who normally would have addressed him as “lieutenant” or “sir.” “I’m here for you.”
Travis didn’t respond.
Even without realizing that the sniper’s bullet had struck the first lieutenant from the right side and exited at the spot he was covering with his left hand, Segel knew the situation was grave when Travis began jerking with convulsions.
“Is he dead?” Kubicki yelled over to Segel while continuing to fire at enemy positions.
“Not yet, but he will be soon if we don’t do something,” the lance corporal said, his voice shaking.
Segel turned to Travis, whose eyes were still wide open.
“I’m here for you,” Segel repeated over and over into his ear.
Those words echoed in Segel’s ears as he later lay in the Humvee, thinking for the first time about a horrific episode that would haunt his dreams for years to come. As the twice-wounded Segel reflected inside the vehicle, Kim motioned to its driver to come help him get Travis into the Humvee he was still lying beside. Alexander, also shaken by the shocking tragedy, was helping move his friend as well. Travis was far too bulky for one man to carry, and with both Kubicki and Marang running out of ammunition as they fired at the dispersing enemy, now was the time to get the wounded back to base.
As soon as Kim and Alexander had carried their unresponsive friend into the vehicle, Kubicki ran over and dove into the smoke-filled Humvee, where he clutched Travis to begin trying to identify his wounds, stop the bleeding, and perform CPR. He ordered Petty to start driving toward Camp Fallujah, while Wilson fired his last rounds from the turret. This was probably Kubicki’s last chance to save his fellow Marine.
As remnants of the patrol headed east to Camp Fallujah, unsure whether they would encounter more insurgents or IEDs, Kim, who was numb after seeing Travis’s blank, lifeless eyes, asked Segel, who was wracked with pain from his wounded gut, what had happened.
“We got ambushed. . . . They had us surrounded,” Segel gasped. “It’s Manion. . . . I think he’s gone.”
As a seriously wounded Doc Albino struggled to breathe in the other Humvee and continued to think about his mother, Kim thought about Travis’s mother, a woman he had never met. On that night when Travis had told him how much this deployment was wearing on his mom, Kim couldn’t imagine what his friend’s death would do to her. As the vehicle roared across an empty Route Elizabeth, Kim put his hands over his face and lowered his head.
As four American vehicles sped toward Camp Fallujah, Father John Gayton, a Marine Corps chaplain from Pennsylvania, sat in his tiny office on the makeshift American base. He was reading e-mails from home while sipping from a large bottle of water to keep hydrated on the steamy Sunday afternoon.
A few minutes later his phone rang.
“We’ve got two WIA [wounded in action] and one possible KIA arriving at the field hospital,” a nurse reported.
As the chaplain ran over to the wooden complex, he saw a group of Marines—Kim, Alexander, Kubicki, Marang, Petty, Marquette, Wilson, and Bryner—huddled like a team on a football field. As he jogged by, one of them turned around and looked at him. Father John saw the redness in the eyes of this Marine, who had obviously been crying. It was clear that something terrible had happened.
“Any Marines with Type O positive blood: report immediately to field hospital room 4,” a voice said over the base loudspeaker.
Could Travis survive? The announcement gave the Marines a brief moment of hope.
Albino was badly injured but would ultimately make it, and Segel, who was doubled over in pain, would also return home, with physical and emotional scars. As the corpsman and lance corporal received emergency care, Travis was in a different wood-paneled room, surrounded by doctors and nurses working frantically to save his life.
As they tore off his bloody fatigues before finding the wounds on each side of his rib cage and trying to resuscitate him, crowds began to form in the hallway outside the operating room. Word was quickly spreading that First Lieutenant Travis Manion, the heart and soul of the MiTT team, was badly wounded.
Father John anointed Travis’s feet and said a prayer as the medical staff tried feverishly to revive him. If only the Marine could show the doctors some sign—any sign—of life.
About ninety seconds later, the physician in charge announced a time of death. For the next minute, the only sounds heard in the operating room came from the hallway outside.
As doctors and nurses watched in silence, Father John, standing above the fallen US Marine, broke the silence.
“God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of your son, you have reconciled the world to yourself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins,” he said, looking down at Travis. “Through the ministry of the Church, may God grant you pardon and peace. And I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
The war in Iraq was in one of its bloodiest chapters in the spring of 2007. Heavy casualties were the norm. But that didn’t stop several nurses from crying.
“Amen,” the priest whispered, gently placing his hand on Travis’s head.
From the Marines gathered in the hallway to the MiTT Marines huddled outside the building, word spread that Travis was dead. After a few minutes, a Marine asked Kubicki if the MiTT team wanted to come inside the operating room to pay final respects to their fallen team member.
The major, still in disbelief about Travis and concerned about Albino and Segel, simply nodded.
The packed hallway grew silent as the MiTT team Marines, all covered in sweat and dirt and some in blood, entered the operating room to see Travis. A sheet covered the fallen Marine’s entire body, except for his thick, shaved head.
One by one the Marines filed past their fallen brother. Kubicki, the senior officer who had desperately administered CPR in the Humvee, was the first to walk by. Marang was next, then Wilson, Marquette, and Bryner.
When Petty looked at the fallen first lieutenant’s face, he saw an officer who had given everything to the Marine Corps. From the 2005 referendum to ratify Iraq’s constitution to the hellish events of April 29, 2007, Travis had been his leader during two deployments. Petty would never forget him.
When Alexander approached the operating table with tears streaming down his face, he put his hand on his friend’s head. He didn’t know how the mission could carry on without him.
Kim approached the table with weak knees and a broken heart. He paused to take one last look at his friend, who had saved his life by volunteering to go on a patrol he knew would be far
more dangerous than a school supply drop.
Kim steeled himself, looked directly at Travis’s now-closed eyes, and said good-bye. “This should have been me,” he whispered before walking outside in tears.
As news of the sniper attack began to filter through Camp Fallujah, many Marines from the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion, Travis’s permanent unit, began filing into the hospital. As Marines tried to find out what had happened to their friend, Kim went behind the building and found a good spot to cry.
After about twenty minutes of weeping beside a trailer, he looked up to find the third “amigo,” Alexander, doing the exact same thing about thirty feet away.
Kim approached his friend, gave him a hug, and told him what he was feeling.
“Travis took my place,” Kim said. “This is all my fault.”
“No, it’s the sniper’s fault,” Alexander said. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
Pausing for a moment, Kim pondered the story that was already spreading throughout the hospital complex. Without thinking twice, Travis had leapt squarely into enemy crosshairs to direct gunfire away from his patrol.
“I don’t think I could have done what Travis did,” he said, wiping away tears. “If it had been me, maybe more guys would have gotten hit.”
As two of the three amigos walked back to the front of the hospital, the Iraqi interpreter who had joined them on the hellish mission stood by himself near the Humvee Travis once rode in, which was covered with dirt, sand, and bullet holes. Petty, an angry, determined look on his battle-hardened face, was washing blood out of the backseat.
If the first lieutenant had been able to give one last order to the Marines of 3-2-1 MiTT, it might have resembled the final decree issued by King Leonidas in 300. Instead of letting the day’s events break their will, Travis would have wanted his death to strengthen their resolve.
“Remember us,” the king told his messenger. “Remember why we died.”
As First Lieutenant Chris Kim and Second Lieutenant Scott Alexander stood next to the interpreter, the Iraqi native uttered the only Arabic word he could think of to describe a valiant Marine who had genuinely cared for the Iraqi people.
“Asad,” he said.
On April 29, 2007, a lion of the Iraq war was struck down by a single bullet. It cut through Travis’s aorta, causing massive internal bleeding that couldn’t be controlled.
Though the fallen Marine’s loved ones would undoubtedly suffer, everyone else on the Pizza Slice patrol was still alive. Indeed, by fearlessly protecting his Marines and the Iraqis serving beside them, First Lieutenant Travis Manion had done his part.
7
THE WAR COMES HOME
Brigadier General Dave Papak had been a close friend of Tom Manion for nearly two decades. Ever since they first served together in the Marine Corps Reserve, they had kept in close touch, no matter where they were stationed. The general’s wife, Kate, was also close to Tom’s wife, Janet.
On April 29, 2007, in New Orleans, where General Papak was commanding the 4th Marine Aircraft Wing, the Papaks had already attended a morning church service when the general sat down at his computer to check e-mail over a cup of coffee. His wife was out running a few errands, and before another busy work week began, Papak was looking forward to a relaxing day. Though life in the Big Easy still hadn’t returned to normal less than two years after Hurricane Katrina, it was certainly a beautiful Sunday morning.
After scanning some AOL News headlines, the general logged into his e-mail and did a double-take. A forwarded message was waiting from his boss, three-star Lieutenant General Jack Bergman, which contained the latest list of Marines killed in action in Iraq.
“Is this Tom’s son?” General Bergman, who knew the Papaks and Manions were close, inquired in the e-mail.
A tough military man who had endured his share of difficult moments over the course of a long, distinguished career, Papak, nearly spilling coffee all over his desk, felt genuine fear as his eyes moved down the casualty list.
“MANION, T.,” he read moments later.
After briefly trying to convince himself there could be another “Manion, T.” deployed to Iraq’s Al Anbar province, he accepted that Travis, the young man he had watched mature into a Marine officer, was dead.
Without thinking, Papak picked up the phone next to his computer and began dialing Tom and Janet Manion’s number. Yet just after entering the 215 area code, the general hung up.
After briefly pausing to collect himself, Papak behaved the same way he had as a young helicopter pilot suddenly faced with an emergency. The disciplined Marine let his training override the instincts of human emotion.
Instead of dialing the Manion house, Papak called retired Lieutenant Colonel Corky Gardner, one of his best Marine Corps buddies, who was also very close to Tom. They had been the “three amigos” long before the affectionate nickname was bestowed on Travis, First Lieutenant Chris Kim, and Second Lieutenant Scott Alexander in Iraq.
Lieutenant Colonel Gardner had known Tom’s son since Travis was in the seventh grade. He had watched Travis wrestle in high school, and by sheer coincidence wound up becoming his battalion commander at the Naval Academy.
Gardner often thought about the day that he had initially refused to accept Travis’s resignation as a midshipman, and how happy he was when Travis later decided to reapply. One of his proudest moments, in fact, was attending Travis’s 2004 Naval Academy graduation and watching him become a respected Marine officer.
While Gardner was a recipient of the mass e-mails Travis often sent from Iraq to dozens of relatives and friends, they also e-mailed back and forth personally. He had last written Travis in early February and remained concerned about how the Marine was faring in what he knew was a particularly violent, unstable area of Iraq.
“Take care, Travis,” the retired Marine had written in the last paragraph. “We’re keeping you in our prayers. Please keep up the great work you’re doing for us!”
Travis had responded on the morning of Saturday, February 17, ten weeks before his final battle in the Pizza Slice:
Sir,
It’s good to hear from you again. Sounds like things are going well in PA. I didn’t get to see the Super Bowl, but my parents said they had a good time.
We’re still pretty busy here as the team tries to figure out its role. I feel pretty confident in what I’m trying to accomplish and how I want to operate with the Iraqis, however, some of the guys on their first deployment are still trying to figure it out. As a small team out here it takes a lot of initiative to make this work, so I hope our team comes around soon.
We’ve done some pretty good things so far, but there have definitely been some intense days so far. I’m really relying on my past experience with Recon (Battalion), and those guys’ examples have really helped. We’re almost two months down and the time is going pretty fast.
I’ll be sure to send another update soon. Please tell the family I said hello, and I appreciate all your support and guidance.
Semper Fi,
Travis
Not a day went by that Gardner didn’t think about his dear friend’s son and the sacrifices he was making on the streets of Fallujah. This Sunday morning was no different.
Gardner was about to leave his Ardmore, Pennsylvania, church when he felt his cell phone vibrating in his right pocket. Since the service was over, he flipped open his phone to see who was calling. “Dave Papak,” the screen said.
Gardner and Papak were close friends, but a Sunday morning call was out of the ordinary. The retired lieutenant colonel realized that if Travis were killed in action, the general would probably be among the first to know.
Listening to the voice mail on the walk out to his car, he sensed the discomfort in his friend’s voice.
“Yeah Corky, it’s Dave,” the General said. “I need you to call me back as soon as you get this.”
After Gardner got into the car with his wife, Renee, he looked her in the eye and told her about the v
oice mail.
“Dave Papak just called,” he said. “And I think I know what it’s about.”
“Oh, no,” said Renee, thinking of her dear friends Tom and Janet. “Please God, no.”
After the short drive home on a beautiful Pennsylvania Sunday morning, Gardner solemnly sat down to return his friend’s call.
“Hello, Corky,” Papak said. “I don’t know how to say this, but Travis is down.”
“I had a terrible feeling this is why you called,” Gardner said. “Does Tom know yet?”
“That’s actually what I wanted to ask you about, old friend,” the general said. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to assist the young Marine who’s going to notify Tom and Janet.”
“Of course,” Gardner said. “Absolutely.”
Though the retired lieutenant colonel was swamped by a flood of emotions as he remembered Travis and his dad, both in uniform, smiling and laughing on Travis’s graduation day, it was time to buckle down and be a Marine. Gardner would perform a difficult job with dignity and respect, because the Manion family deserved nothing less.
About thirty miles away in Doylestown, the sunny afternoon was shaping up to be even more beautiful than a morning that had seemed perfect. Other than the stress and worry of Travis being in Iraq, it had been a refreshing Sunday for Janet, who was spending time with her only granddaughter, Maggie. Janet’s daughter, Ryan, who lived about an hour away, was back in town looking at some space for a store she was planning to open when she and her husband, Dave, moved back to the area.
Janet’s sister, Annette Arcuri, had also come over with their mother, Rose Lemma. Janet’s brother, Frank Lemma, and his wife, Maria, arrived shortly afterward. Tom’s brother, Chris, and his wife, Susan, were also spending the afternoon at the Manion house.
Sunday afternoon family get-togethers were not uncommon, but this was a particularly large gathering. With her son deployed to Iraq, “the more the merrier” was not a cliché for Janet, who was always trying to distract herself with the company of people she loved.
Tom Sileo Page 14
