Life is returning to normal for Blue Platoon at this point. At least, as normal as can be expected. Now that the information has been declassified, we can tell you that our Battalion Commander was one of the four
He was a good man. A knuckle dragger, as they said at higher headquarters, a bull who lowered in and charged the opposition with steadfast determination. He was, in my mind, invincible. Untouchable. He was the one who inspired and terrified us, who led us and pushed us, who made our battalion the main effort in the main conflict in the final segments of the war. As a mere Platoon Leader, I did not interact with him to the same extent that my commander and the staff officers did. But I still had the opportunity to learn from him. He was the man you did not dare disappoint. I remember the last thing he said to me, two days before his death, as I stood before him. “Get the f--- out of my office,” he said, throwing the Article 15 packet we had created for a SGT Crisis (so named because his life, and especially his finances, are perpetually in crisis). “He almost missed the flight to deploy, yes, but that was because he was arrested. Not a good thing in an NCO, but he’s here, he made it, and his crew can depend on him. He’s a shooter. I’m not going to punish a man who’s out there, every day, fighting the fight, for something like this. Get the f--- out of my office.” That’s the kind of man he was. Blunt, direct, focused on the mission. There is a time for garrison punishments, and then there is a time for fighting. Never the twain shall meet. I respected that about him. He was a bull of a man, and he will be missed.
The memorial ceremony was a phenomenal event, and I am grateful that my commander was able to push my patrol to the right so I could be in attendance. Men who knew the fallen, their best friends, stepped forward to give a short anecdote of a favorite moment or trait or just to give us an idea of who these people were. The translator who was killed was honored right beside all of them; he had just received his Visa, and was to become an American citizen in three months. He had voluntarily postponed his flight to the States so that he could be on hand until the Colonel was able to find a replacement for him. His roommate stepped forward and shared a bit of who he was as well. The roommate of the sergeant whose personal belongings I was ordered to inventory and organize for their flight to his next of kin (a painful process for anyone) said the most memorable thing, in my mind: “These men all came from very different backgrounds and very different places, but they died as they lived. Together. United in purpose, united in spirit. As a crew.”
I lost composure during the final part of the ceremony when the roll was called. All of the soldiers in the company of the fallen stood at attention and proceeded through the morning garrison ritual of taking the roll. The First Sergeant stood before them and began calling off names:
“Private Thompson!”
“Here!” came the reply.
“Corporal Mills!”
“Here!” he replied.
“Sergeant Phelps!”
Silence.
“Sergeant Richard Phelps!”
The room stood deathly still, eyes focused on the picture at the front of Sergeant Phelps, grinning at the camera, looking like he had the whole world ahead of him.
“Sergeant Richard Allen Phelps!”
After a pause, the First Sergeant moved to the next name on the list. And it resumed down the line until the whole company had been called.
“Sergeant Major,” announced the First Sergeant, turning to issue his morning report, “Four men are reported out of ranks.”
Then the headquarters element stood and proceeded with the same ceremony.
“Major Allen!”
“Here, Sergeant Major!”
“Captain Locks!”
“Here, Sergeant Major!”
“Colonel Redding!”
Silence.
“Colonel Thomas Redding!”
Eyes go to the picture up front, the command picture, with him staring down the camera. The American flag hangs in the background. He looks into your eyes from the picture, demanding loyalty and dedication, every ounce the commander.
“Colonel Thomas Richard Redding!”
He had a wife and three children. Words cannot express my sorrow for them.
“Sir,” said the Sergeant Major, turning to the Acting Battalion Commander. “The Commander is out of ranks.”
The event itself released an emotional catharsis in us, I believe. There is something to be said for grabbing five hundred infantrymen and tankers and forcing them to cry. Everything around us seemed as if it were returning to normal afterwards. The gnawing anxiety lifted. Things were going to be all right. We had suffered a tragedy—though I don’t dare compare it to the suffering of their families—but we would carry on. There was work to do.
Our response measures consumed nearly every hour of the week until today. Sleep was held over us as a sweet but unattainable temptation; every time we even considered laying down, the call went up for RedCon1. And back out we went. Day and night into day and night into day and night. It’s all blurred together in my mind. I can’t tell you what we did when. But in the end of the madness we captured some of the parties responsible, formed networks we hadn’t utilized before, fortified our positions and those of our Iraqi partners, and reinforced our presence in the city in a way no one could deny. They will know now what happens when they strike us, and they will learn fear.
While I can’t tell you much at all about what occurred in response, I can tell you one thing: Navy SEALs are like kids in the playground with weapons. Part of me respects what they’ve been through to earn their place. The rest of me thinks that they are cowboys out there that may do us more harm than good. We hit a neighborhood one night in conjunction with them; my platoon hit one part while they hit the other. We breached and cleared many a building (I’ve discovered that “breaching and clearing” is surprisingly like “breaking and entering”) in pursuit of our targets. Every few minutes, though, the district was rocked with an explosion. The first time I rushed over with a dismount squad to support the SEAL Team, which I assumed had hit a house bomb or a grenade. Nope, they said, thanks, but that was us. We’re using explosives to breach the doors. I just looked at the guy in my squad with the bolt cutters, looked back at them, and walked away. Seriously. Why would you blow up the doors when the bolt cutters are faster and quieter? I think they just like blowing stuff up.
My translator that night was Kyle. I have to say, I was impressed with his performance. Not at translating, mind you… we really didn’t talk to anyone. We cut a lock and prepared to enter and clear—only to find that there was an internal lock. SGT Darkness started pulling out his shotgun. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I see a flash of movement and later recognize it as Kyle doing a flying mule-kick at the door. “Oh, hell yes, Kyle! Go, buddy, go!” He hits the door, caves it in slightly, bounces back, and then shoots in for another kick. And another. And on the fourth, the door slams open—and Kyle goes in right with it. He doesn’t even have a weapon. The guy is nuts. I was told later that he is prior Iraqi Army. Go figure. I’ve said it before: whatever we may say about their tactical training, you should never underestimate their courage. They are insane. I wouldn’t have been surprised if one of my men did it, but the translator? That just boggled my mind.
We’ve got more operations in the morning, so I’m going to have to end this entry before I go through everything. It’s already getting pretty late. The internet is down, so I’m going to have to post this whenever I get a chance. I know. We may be back to the old system for a few days. Oh, and Blue 4 (SSG Lark) would like to thank Grandmother for the cookies. I’ve been sharing them around, as instructed. He also stumbled across my collection of Wagner and had some questions. Mostly he just kept repeating: “Seriously? I mean, seriously?” Yes, seriously. I LIKE it, damn it. Besides, I’m in the 1st Cavalry! Haven’t you seen Apocalypse Now? We HAVE to play Ride of the Valkyries at least one patrol. We HAVE to.
So, that’s it for this report. We’ve got some work to do, and that requires that I cram some of that sleep in. I’ll write as soon as I can.
