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

B
ACK IN THE
 M
IX
W
e worked back into things slowly, starting with brief
overwatches with the Army. Our missions would last for an
overnight or two in Injun country. A tank got hit by an IED, and we
went out and pulled security on it until it could be recovered. The
work was a little lighter, easier than it had been. We didn’t go as far
from the COPs, which meant that we didn’t draw as much fire.
With our heads back in the game, we started to extend. We
went deeper into Ramadi. We never actually went to the house
where Marc had been shot, but we were back in that area.
Our attitude was, we’re going out there and we’re getting the
guys who did this back. We’re going to make them pay for what
they did to us.
W
e were at a house one day, and after taking down some
insurgents who’d been trying to plant IEDs, we came under fire
ourselves. Whoever was shooting at us had something heavier than
an AK—maybe a Dragunov (the Russian-made sniper rifle),
because the bullets flew through the walls of the house.
I was up on the roof, trying to figure out where the gunfire was
coming from. Suddenly, I heard the heavy whoop of Apache
helicopters approaching. I watched as they circled placidly for a
second, then tipped and fell into a coordinated attack dive.
In our direction.

---

“VS panels!” someone shouted.
That might have been me. All I know is, we hustled out every
VS or recognition panel we had, trying to show the pilots we were
friendly. (VS panels are bright orange pieces of cloth, hung or laid
out by friendly forces.) Fortunately, they figured it out and broke off
at the last moment.
Our com guy had been talking to the Army helos just before the
attack and gave them our location. But, apparently, their maps were
labeled differently than ours, and when they saw men on the roof
with guns, they drew the wrong conclusions.
We worked with Apaches quite a bit in Ramadi. The aircraft
were valuable, not just for their guns and rockets but also for their
ability to scout around the area. It’s not always clear in a city where
gunfire is coming from; having a set of eyes above you, and being
able to talk to the people who own those eyes, can help you figure
things out.
(The Apaches had different ROEs than we did. These especially
came into play when firing Hellfire missiles, which could only be
used against crew-served weapons at the time. This was part of the
strategy for limiting the amount of collateral damage in the city.)
A
ir Force AC-130s also helped out with aerial observation from
time to time. The big gunships had awesome firepower, though, as it
happened, we never called on them to use their howitzers or
cannons during this deployment. (Again, they had restrictive ROEs.)

---

Instead, we relied on their night sensors, which gave them a good
picture of the battlefield even in the pitch black.
One night we hit a house on a DA while a gunship circled above
protectively. While we were going in, they called down and told us
that we had a couple of “squirters”—guys running out the back.
I peeled off with a few of my boys and started following in the
direction the gunship gave us. It appeared that the insurgents had
ducked into a nearby house. I went in, and was met inside by a
young man in his early twenties.
“Get down,” I yelled at him, motioning with my gun.
He looked at me blankly. I gestured again, this time pretty
emphatically.
“Down! Down!”
He looked at me dumbfounded. I couldn’t tell whether he was
planning to attack me or not, and I sure couldn’t figure out why he
wasn’t complying. Better safe than sorry—I punched him and
slapped him down to the ground.
His mother jumped out from the back, yelling something. By
now there were a couple of guys inside with me, including my terp.
The interpreter finally got things calmed down and started asking
questions. The mother eventually explained that the boy was
mentally handicapped, and didn’t understand what I’d been doing.
We let him up.
Meanwhile, standing quietly to one side, was a man we thought
was the father. But once we settled her concerns about her son, the

---

mother made it clear she didn’t know who the asshole was. It
turned out that he had just run in, only pretending to live there. So
we had one of our squirters, courtesy of the Air Force.
I
suppose I shouldn’t tell that story without giving myself up.
The house where the men ran from was actually the third house
we hit that night. I’d led the boys to the first. We were all lined up
outside, getting ready to breach in, when our OIC raised his voice.
“Something doesn’t look right,” he said. “I’m not feeling this.”
I craned my head back and glanced around.
“Shit,” I admitted. “I took you all to the wrong house.”
We backed out and went to the right one.
Did I ever hear the end of that?
Rhetorical question.