American Sniper: The Autobiography of the Most Lethal Sniper in U. S. Military History

11
Man Down
“W
HAT THE
 H
ELL
?”
O
ne very hot summer day we took a small apartment building with
a good view of one of the major east-west roads through the center
of Ramadi. It was four stories high, the staircase lined with
windows, the roof open and with a good view of the area. It was a
clear day.
Ryan was joking with me as we went in. He was cracking me up
—he always made me laugh, made me relax. Smiling, I posted him
to watch the road. Our troops were working on a side street on the

---

other side of the roof, and I figured that if the insurgents were going
to launch an ambush or try and attack us, they would come down
that road. Meanwhile, I watched the team on the ground. The
assault began smoothly, with the soldiers taking first one house and
then another. They moved quickly, without a snag.
Suddenly, shots flew through our position. I ducked down as a
round hit the cement nearby, splattering chips everywhere. This was
an everyday occurrence in Ramadi, something that happened not
once a day but several times.
I waited a second to make sure the insurgents were done firing,
then got back up.
“You guys all right?” I yelled, looking down the street toward the
soldiers on the ground, making sure they were okay.
“Yeah,” grunted the other sniper.
Ryan didn’t answer. I glanced back and saw him, still down.
“Hey, get up,” I told him. “They stopped firing. Come on.”
He didn’t move. I went over.
“What the hell?” I yelled at him. “Get up. Get up.”
Then I saw the blood.
I knelt down and looked at him. There was blood all over. The
side of his face had been smashed in. He’d taken a bullet.
We had pounded into him the fact that you have to always have
your weapon up and ready; he’d had it up and scanning when the
bullet hit. It apparently got the rifle first, then ricocheted into his
face.

---

I grabbed the radio. “Man down!” I yelled. “Man down!”
I dropped back and examined his wounds. I didn’t know what
to do, where to start. Ryan looked as if he’d been hit so bad that he
was going to die.
His body shook. I thought it was a death spasm.
Two of our platoon guys, Dauber and Tommy, ran up. They
were both corpsmen. They slipped down between us and started
treating him.
Marc Lee came up behind them. He took the 60 and began
laying down fire in the direction the shots had come from, chasing
the insurgents back so we could carry Ryan down the stairs.
I picked him up and held him up over my shoulder, then started
to run. I reached the stairs and started going down quickly.
About halfway, he started groaning loudly. The way I was
holding him, the blood had rushed into his throat and head; he was
having trouble breathing.
I set him down, even more worried, knowing in my heart he was
going to die, hoping that somehow, some way, I might do something
to keep him going, even though it was hopeless.
Ryan began spitting blood. He caught his breath—he was
breathing, a miracle in itself.
I reached out to grab him and pick him up again.
“No,” he said. “No, no I’m good. I got this. I’m walking.”
He put an arm around me and walked himself down the rest of
the way.

---

Meanwhile, the Army rolled a tracked vehicle, a personnel
carrier, up to the front door. Tommy went in with Ryan and they
pulled away.
I ran back upstairs, feeling as if I’d been shot and wishing that it
had been me, not him, who was hit. I was sure he was going to die.
I was sure I’d just lost a brother. A big, goofy, lovable, great
brother.
Biggles.
Nothing I’d experienced in Iraq had ever affected me like this.