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10
The Devil of Ramadi
G
OING
I
N
A
few nights later, I climbed into a shallow Marine Corps riverboat
known as a SURC (“small unit riverine craft”), ducking down onto
the deck behind the armored gunwale. The Marines manning 60s
near the bow kept watch as the boat and a second one with the rest
of our group slipped upriver, heading quietly toward our insertion
point.
Insurgent spies hid near the bridges and in various spots in the
city. Had we been on land, they would have tracked our progress.
But on the water, we weren’t an immediate threat, and they didn’t
pay much attention.
We were traveling heavy. Our next stop was near the center of
the city, deep in enemy territory.
Our boats eased into shore, running right up onto the bank of the
canal. I rose and walked across the little bow doors, nearly losing
my balance as I stepped off onto land. I trotted up the dry land,
then stopped and waited for the rest of the platoon to rally around
me. We’d taken eight Iraqis with us in the boats; counting our terps,
we were just over two dozen strong.
The Marines slid back into the water and were gone.
Taking point, I started moving up the street toward our target.
Small houses loomed ahead; there were alleys and wider roads, a
maze of buildings, and the shadows of larger structures.
I hadn’t gotten very far when the laser on my rifle crapped out.
The battery had died. I halted our advance.
“What the hell’s going on?” asked my lieutenant, coming up
quickly.
“I need to change out my battery real quick,” I explained.
Without the laser, I would be aiming blind—little better than not
aiming at all.
“No, get us out of here.”
“All right.”
So I started walking again, taking us up to a nearby intersection.
A figure appeared in the darkness ahead, along the edge of a
shallow drainage canal. I caught the shadow of his weapon, stared
for a moment as I made out the details—AK-47, extra mag taped
to one in the rifle.
Muj.
The enemy. His back was turned and he was watching the street
rather than the water, but he was well-armed and ready for a fight.
Without the laser, I would have been shooting blind. I motioned
to my lieutenant. He came up quick, right behind me, and—
boom
.
He took down the insurgent. He also damn near put a hole in my
eardrum, blasting a few inches from my head.
There was no time to bitch. I ran forward as the Iraqi fell, unsure
whether he was dead or if there were others nearby. The entire
platoon followed, spreading out and “busting” the corners.
The guy was dead. I grabbed his AK. We ran up the street to
the house we were going to take, passing some smaller houses on
the way. We were a few hundred yards from the river, just off two
main roads that would control that corner of the city.
Like many Iraqi houses, our target had a wall around it
approximately six feet tall. The gate was locked, so I slung my M-4
on my shoulder, took out my pistol, and hauled up onto the wall,
climbing up with one hand free.
When I got to the top, I saw there were people sleeping in the
courtyard. I dropped down inside their compound, holding my gun
on them, expecting one of my platoon mates to come over after me
to open the gate.
I waited.
And waited. And waited.
“Come on,” I hissed. “Get over here.”
Nothing.
“Come on!”
Some of the Iraqis started to stir.
I eased toward the gate, knowing I was all alone. Here I was,
holding a pistol on a dozen insurgents for all I knew, and separated
from the rest of my boys by a thick wall and locked gate.
I found the gate and managed to jimmy it open. The platoon and
our Iraqi
jundi
s ran in, surrounding the people who’d been sleeping
in the courtyard. (There’d been a mix-up outside, and for some
reason they hadn’t realized I was in there alone.)
The people sleeping in the courtyard turned out to be just a
regular extended family. Some of my guys got them situated without
firing any shots, rounding them up and moving them to a safe area.
Meanwhile, the rest of us ran in to the buildings, clearing each room
as quickly as we could. There was a main building, and then a
smaller cottage nearby. While my boys checked for weapons and
bombs, anything suspicious, I raced to the rooftop.
One of the reasons we’d selected the building was its height—
the main structure was three stories tall, and so I had a decent view
of the surrounding area.
Nothing stirred. So far, so good.
“Building secure,” the com guy radioed to the Army. “Come on
in.”
We had just taken the house that would become COP Falcon,
and, once more, done so without a fight.
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