“EDUCATION IS A WEAPON WHOSE EFFECTS DEPEND ON WHO HOLDS IT IN HIS HANDS AND AT WHOM IT IS AIMED.”
CHAPTER 14: AL ANBAR UNIVERSITY
AT 1030 HOURS ON 2 AUGUST, UNDER THE WATCHFUL EYES OF SEAL Team 3 snipers and the camera lens of a circling Predator drone, the soldiers of Task Force Conqueror embarked on Operation Toga. Rolling past the checkpoints ringing the outskirts of Tam’eem, the assault column turned into the campus of Al Anbar University. This was our largest operation to date, with five U.S. Army mechanized company/teams mounted in M1A1 tanks, Bradleys, and Humvees, the engineers of Charlie Rock, Lieutenant Colonel Mustafa’s Iraqi battalion, a platoon of T-72 tanks, a platoon of Iraqi EOD specialists, and a female search team dubbed the Lionesses. We came in big, with the convoy of massive armor vehicles rolling under the ornate arch adorning the front entrance of the otherwise non-descript walled compound. There was no reason for stealth; we were not looking to catch the triggermen from previous IED strikes, we were there to deny the enemy a base of operations. I did not want a firefight on a college campus to be breaking news in Baghdad or the States. If a terrorist saw us coming and slipped away, that was fine. Additionally, I believed the locals at the university simply assumed they were experiencing a Coalition raid and never considered that this time we were coming to stay.
We purposely waited until mid-morning to attack, giving time for all the Iraqis to get to work. We planned to conduct a census of who was on campus so we could enroll them into the biometric database. Each company/team had an objective within the university campus with an animal name like APE, BEAR, CAT or DOG. The plan called for locking down the perimeter of the campus, then searching every building inside. Civilians found during the search would have a three-inch-by-five-inch card on a string placed around their necks, listing the time and location of their detention before escorting them to the university gymnasium. Once in the gym, we would separate them by gender, then photograph, fingerprint, and question them individually, hoping that someone would be brave enough to talk, or just crack and confess—at least we could hope. While the armor and infantry companies were searching the campus, Captain John Hiltz and the men of Charlie Rock would begin constructing a combat outpost at the main entrance to the university grounds. This would serve as a checkpoint for anyone entering or leaving the university.
Figure 20. Rolling into Al Anbar University during Operation Toga. 2 August 2006. Courtesy Jeremy Brown. Click on the photo for bonus features.
We planned for the clearing operation to take six hours, and expected that the combat outpost would be capable of securing itself within twenty-four hours. Long before they realized we were there to stay, our presence infuriated the university leadership. They demanded a meeting with me in the president’s conference room so that they could air their grievances. Dragon and I arrived to find the air conditioner in the conference room turned off, and fans strategically placed to cool only the academics. Dragon and I sat in sweltering heat. The university president and his lackeys berated us for entering the campus and dragged the meeting on as long as they could to make us physically uncomfortable. They threatened me with political fallout from Prime Minister Maliki and assured me that searching the university was a disgrace to their culture. In looking back, I realize I should have brought Lieutenant Colonel Mustafa with me, but I never thought of it. Instead, I had to listen to Dragon’s translation of their rants by myself.
When the university leadership felt they had made their point, they rose to walk out. I stopped them, and stated I had a couple of things for them; after all, two can play at this game. First, I broke the news we were staying, then I kept them at the table for another twenty minutes. It was a miserable experience for all involved, but I was unwilling to cave into their pressure. To this day, I regret not arresting the university president, since my gut told me he was an Al Qaeda sympathizer, if not an outright member. Still, I never had the evidence to charge him, and I did not know if he was a true believer or just someone who wanted to avoid the fatal outcome met by each of the previous three university presidents. I consoled myself with the thought that if we left him in place, the Al Qaeda leadership would wonder why we had not arrested him. Let them do some infighting and try to figure out whom they could trust.
Figure 21. Meeting with leaders of Al Anbar University during Operation Toga. Seated at the head of the table is the University President. Notice the fans pointed on the academics and their voicing displeasure by not offering me any water. 2 August 2006. Click on the photo for bonus features.
The plan should have worked like clockwork, except it was payday for all the college employees. Instead of the fifty or so people we anticipated, there were at least four hundred on campus. Like the Iraqi army, these government employees received their monthly paycheck in cash as well, and everyone on the university payroll was on campus this morning. The processing of personnel took much longer than planned due to the sheer numbers. Compounding the problem, the generators supplying electricity for the air conditioning in the campus gymnasium stopped working, and the biometrics computers overheated. One Iraqi man faked a medical condition, insisting that we release him immediately so he could go to the Iraqi hospital, but when we offered to fly him out on a Medevac for U.S. medical help, he quickly became better. What we had envisioned as a six-hour operation dragged on all day.
Luckily, the Navy Special Warfare Intel team and a couple of SEAL shooters were along for the ride to help interrogate the locals. They had an uncanny knack for picking terrorists out of the crowd by body language and demeanor.
“That one there. Six rows up, five over from the right in the blue shirt. See him rocking back and forth; he wants to kill all of us. Haul his ass in. And the dude with the beard three rows behind him in the red shirt, grab his ass too. He’s acting too cool.”
Figure 22. Colonel Sean MacFarland (Ready 6) and Lieutenant Colonel Tony Deane (Conqueror 6) on the campus of Al Anbar University during Operations Toga. 2 August 2006. Click on the photo for bonus features.
It took us nearly until sundown to complete the interrogations, and by then the locals were complaining that the women had to be back home by dark, or they would become the victims of honor killings perpetrated by their husbands. I had my doubts, but we had been on the objective for too long already, and it was time to go. In the end, we took eleven Iraqi men back to the Task Force Conqueror detention center, with nine of them going on to an extended stay in prison at Camp Bucca. The Iraqi EOD company found four RPG launchers, a couple of PKM machine guns, two Dragunov sniper rifles, and a handful of grenades and IED-making material. While this was not a huge haul of weapons and terrorists, eventually those arms would have found their way into enemy hands in Tam’eem, and been used against Team Dealer. While Operation Toga has its glitches, in the end, I would call our first combined task force level U.S./Iraqi operation, establishing a permanent Iraqi-led combat outpost, and denying Al Anbar University use as a terrorist safe haven, without firing a shot, a success.
As soon as I got back to Camp Ramadi, I checked the Reuters news website, which was the source I used whenever I wanted to see what Al Qaeda had to say about a topic—in this case, Operation Toga. The terrorists’ press release was already in circulation with the usual list of atrocities committed by Coalition forces. We attacked the university in a hail of gunfire, killing many professors and students—blatantly not true. We had beaten professors and students alike—blatantly not true. We systematically raped the women on campus—blatantly not true. We had humiliated the professors by making them walk around with signs around their necks calling them dogs—which caused us to re-evaluate our operational naming conventions.
Figure 23. An Iraqi EOD soldier pointing with pride at part of the haul of weapons found on the campus of Al Anbar University. 2 August 2006. Click on the photo for bonus features.
While our mission when well, it was a terrible day across the Ready First, with Corporal Joseph Tomci276 of 3/8 Marines dying from wounds received during operations in Central Ramadi. Later that evening, SEAL team 3 was conducting operations near COP Falcon in Central Ramadi when an enemy sniper wounded SEAL Operator Second Class Ryan Job, triggering a running gun-battle that lasted over an hour and spread throughout the streets of Ramadi. When it was over, Aviation Ordnanceman Second Class Marc Lee277 was killed, becoming the first SEAL to die in Iraq. Ryan Job would eventually succumb to his wounds nearly three years later.278
The next day General George Casey, the commander of Multi-national Forces - Iraq, came to assess the overall situation and to inspect the aftermath of the Al Anbar University operation. After a Humvee tour of Ramadi, Colonel MacFarland was bringing him to the university’s front gate where Charlie Rock was completing construction of the combat outpost. I would meet General Casey and give him a quick overview of yesterday’s events and the current tactical situation, and then take him on a windshield tour of the university campus. I would get a little face time with the big boss, and more importantly, do my best to make sure that we were not going to get any help from the higher headquarters.
As the security detachment and I waited for General Casey’s arrival, I wanted to spend some time with the soldiers of Charlie Rock. I had not seen much of them since the Ready First pushed into southern Ramadi due to their services building combat outposts being in constant demand. While we talked, 60 mm mortar rounds began impacting no more than three hundred yards from where we were standing. Again, not wanting to be the first person to dive for cover, I turned to Captain John Hiltz and First Sergeant Jerry Bailey.
“Y’all planning on taking cover?” I asked casually.
“Naw, it’s way over there,” Hiltz said with a shrug, while First Sergeant Bailey nodded in agreement.
“Really, way over there?” I asked, as I watched the explosions kicking up dirt. I was starting to realize that John, First Sergeant Bailey and the rest of Charlie Rock had probably seen a little too much action.
As I looked around, I saw an Iraqi soldier standing on the hood of his Humvee at the base of the bridge a hundred yards away, oblivious to the danger he was in by standing in the open.
“John, you gotta get that guy inside the vehicle so he doesn’t get shot,” I said, thinking Hiltz would send one of his NCOs.
Instead, Hiltz recognized his opportunity to get away from me and bolted towards the Iraqi. He made it halfway before a mortar round exploded twenty yards in front of the vehicle, causing the soldier to scurry inside the vehicle. Hiltz wheeled and scampered back as a second burst showered shrapnel upon the hood of the Humvee where the Iraqi was standing moments prior.
“Sorry, John. I really wasn’t trying to send you to death,” I apologized rather sheepishly.
“No problem, sir. Conquer or Die,” he replied.
I walked back to my vehicle and radioed the Ready First TOC, informing them that the VIP link up point was under mortar fire and recommending waiving off General Casey’s visit.
“Negative,” the reply came back. “Ready 6 and VIP inbound in fifteen mikes.” (For some reason soldiers use elaborate codes, even on secure radios, like ‘mike’ for minute and ‘big boy’ for Abrams tanks.)
“Shit.”
As I stood outside my Humvee waiting for the radio call informing me that General Casey was close, I could only see the flat rooftops of Tam’eem since the railroad berm blocked my view of the approaching convoy. I remember thinking that Ramadi was a shithole of a town. What could anyone like about this place? Yet, these terrorists were willing to die to get us out of Ramadi, so the city must have some kind of hidden charm that I did not see.
After a couple of minutes, the Task Force Conqueror command net crackled to life.
“VIP convoy passing OP Jones, time now.”
A minute later came the update, “OP Jones-Carter, time now.”
Well prior to our arrival, a previous unit christened all of the routes in AO Conqueror after famous and notably attractive female performers: Route Jones honored Catherine Zeta Jones, Route Carter referenced Lynda Carter, and Route Spears was a tribute to Britney Spears.
I could picture the convoy’s exact location. The vehicles had passed the front gate of Camp Ramadi and were now turning south on the western edge of Tam’eem. Soon they would pass White Apartments, then the fire station, and then make the right hand turn to cross the bridge spanning the railroad berm. They were five minutes out. All good so far.
Then an enormous explosion shattered the silence. It was a big one, even by Ramadi standards. I thought it sounded more like a suicide truck bomb than an IED, but it was impossible to tell for sure. I did the time/distance analysis of the convoy route in my head while I watched the mushroom cloud rise near the White Apartments. I realized that it was close to where the convoy bringing General Casey should have been.
Shit, again. There was nothing I could do now.
“Ya’ know, Rumpl,” I said, sticking my head into the door-well of the Humvee. “If I get a four-star killed in my AO, there’s no living that one down.” Rumpl looked at me and laughed nervously.
“Conqueror Main, Conqueror 6, SITREP,” I called into the radio’s hand mike while I rubbed my eyes. I knew the TOC would not have an answer on what just occurred, but I felt I had to do something.
“Standby” was all I got back as I watched the mushroom cloud grow larger.
I had a great crew in the TOC led by Sergeant First Class David Ward. That team had my absolute faith and confidence, so if they told me to standby, that meant that they were doing what they needed to do and would get back to me at when they had an accurate report. Still, it made for a nervous few moments.
From the TOC, we routinely monitored Team Dealer’s internal radio net, much to the dismay of the first sergeant and company commander. They thought we were spying on them, and I saw their point. I certainly did not want the Ready First listening to my radio net. We retained that technique from the 1-172nd AR, not to spy, but to cut response time in relaying information during their daily Troops in Contact or Medevac requests. It also allowed the company to keep fighting without having to update the TOC every couple of minutes.
A moment later, the radio came alive again. I recognized Ward’s voice. “Conqueror 6, Conqueror Main. IED attack against a Dealer Bradley providing flank security moving parallel to the VIP convoy. The IED missed the Bradley; everyone is OK.”
“Roger that. Conqueror 6 out,” I replied. That was all I needed to hear. If it didn’t hit you, keep moving. We found out later that terrorists had planted twenty artillery shells in a three-foot hole in an attempt to destroy the Bradley.
Moments later, when General Casey arrived he was congenial and upbeat. We huddled around the hood of my Humvee where we took our helmets off and chatted. I showed him a couple of printed PowerPoint slides laying out the operation, as well as a couple of pictures of the weapons we found on campus. He had two civilian advisors with him. One was a British professor with an expertise in the Middle East who looked like he was on an expedition in the 1900s, complete with the pocketed tan vest, and a camera and tape recorder around his neck. All that was missing was a pith helmet. At one point, the professor commented about the indigenous bird species around the university. General Casey asked a few questions about the operation, and we spoke for about ten minutes. Finally, he asked me what I wanted to do next.
“Frankly, Sir, what I really want is for you to put on your helmet and get the hell out of here before the mortars start landing again,” I told him.
“Fair enough, Colonel, fair enough,” he replied with a smile.
So much for my face time with the big dogs.
Without ever leaving our vehicles, I proceeded to give him the “Lion Country Safari” tour of the University, pointing out via FM radio the area where the attacks on Route Gremlin originated and the location of the weapons cache. Returning to the front gate, General Casey and Colonel MacFarland peeled off satisfied and made it back to Camp Ramadi without incident. It turned out to be a good day all around.
............
By 4 August, COP Crab was complete, and we were settling back into our routine. All I had on my schedule was attending a memorial service in the morning, then meeting with the lawyers in my office in order to make a final determination on a platoon leader and a platoon sergeant whom I had suspended from duty because I believed they had shot up the fire station in Tam’eem. Then I was flying out on R&R.
I did not have the time to go to all of the memorial services across the Ready First. There were ninety-three in all, seemingly one every couple of days. Today’s ceremony at Blue Diamond was for Specialist Hai Ming Hsia, who died in an IED attack 1 August. Assigned to Alpha Company 2-6 IN, he was a member of Task Force Conqueror through the train-up in Germany and Kuwait. I had met Specialist Hsia a couple of times, and he was a smart, dependable team leader, an immigrant from Chinatown in New York City trying to live the American Dream. He was older than most of his peers, but a hard worker and well liked with a bright future in the Army.279
Halfway through the ceremony, Sergeant First Class Roberts tapped me on the shoulder with a grave look on his face. He whispered in my ear. “Sir, an F Troop Humvee hit a land mine, and it’s really bad.”
We left immediately. The blast site was adjacent to an abandoned railroad station approximately five hundred meters northeast of OP 293. I arrived at a gut-wrenching scene. The blast had instantly killed Staff Sergeant Clinton Storey,280 Sergeant Bradley Beste,281 and an Iraqi translator. A fire engulfed the vehicle before we could evacuate the bodies. I waited there with the cavalrymen until the recovery effort was complete and the remains of these brave men evacuated.
What had started as a slow day had devolved into one of my worst in Iraq. Despite our best efforts, casualties kept mounting. We were making progress, but it was not occurring fast enough. We continued to lose soldiers, especially sergeants and staff sergeants, the glue that holds units together. I wondered how long we could maintain the offensive.
I walked into the operations center and matter-of-factly said to Sergeant First Class Ward, “Today I saw the most horrific thing I have ever seen in my life.”
“Sir, that’s the third time you’ve told me that in the last two weeks,” Ward replied.
Major Chuck Bergman met me in the operations center. By now, it was close to 1700. I had been at the attack site for so long that I missed my meeting with the lawyers.
“Sir, we got you on the manifest to fly out of here tonight. You need to pack your shit,” Chuck said.
“Dude, I’m calling my wife.” I shook my head. “There’s no way I can leave now. Maybe in a couple of weeks.”
“You need to see your wife and kids. Plus I can’t go till you get back,” Chuck replied.
“You’re right,” I agreed. “But get the lawyers up here first, or I’m not leaving.”
I needed to get the situation with the platoon leader and platoon sergeant resolved. I had full confidence in Chuck’s ability to handle the decision, but a commander must be the one administering justice to his soldiers, not just the one handing out medals. I waited for the lawyers in the TOC, discussing the day’s events with Major Dave Raugh, not knowing that Bergman and Chief Grover were at that moment sneaking into my office and throwing whatever clean uniforms and underwear they could find into my flight bag.
Figure 24. Majors Chuck Bergman and Dave Raugh in front of the Conqueror TOC. August 2006. Click on the photo for bonus features.
The basic facts in the case were clear: Coalition forces had shot up the fire station in Tam’eem. There was no doubt about that. Thankfully, there were no injuries in the incident, but some bonehead put an M4 round through the engine of the Tam’eem fire truck. I believed in my heart that the soldiers of Task Force Conqueror would never have done this. Why in the hell would anyone shoot a fire truck? I knew my guys were sharper than that. I had called the commanders of the units that routinely transited AO Conqueror and accused each of their units in turn of being behind the attack. The commander of SEAL Team 3, Task Force West (Rangers) and Task Force Bandit all checked into it and swore it was not them. Still, I felt one of them was not telling me the whole truth.
Simultaneously, a soldier recently assigned to Team Dealer went out on patrol a couple of times and then refused to go out anymore. I suspected he was a coward and was preparing to court martial him. While awaiting his punishment, aside from not going out on patrol, he did everything the first sergeant asked him to do. After sitting down and talking with him, First Sergeant Shaw realized the problem was with the platoon and not the new soldier. Although the soldier never implicated the platoon, Shaw was perceptive enough to figure out his men were the ones responsible for attacking the fire station, and he had the moral courage to call them out on it. The first sergeant knew that a platoon meting out street justice was a cancer to the unit, requiring immediate removal.
First Sergeant David Shaw was from St. Pauls, North Carolina. After graduating from St. Pauls High School, he joined the Army to be an infantryman. His dad was a vet, and Shaw wanted to serve as well. He had already done a tour in Iraq,282 but not like in Ramadi. While First Sergeant Shaw and I did not see eye to eye on everything, he was an outstanding leader, and his integrity was incomparable. It takes a lot of moral courage to lead soldiers in combat, especially in a counterinsurgency when the lines are not neatly drawn in black and white. David Shaw epitomized what a combat leader should be.
I ordered a formal investigation into the incident and reported it to Colonel MacFarland. As the investigating officer began questioning members of the suspected platoon, the platoon leader and platoon sergeant invoked their Fifth Amendment rights, preventing any further questioning of them. All I wanted was to find out the truth of what happened, but I could not tolerate a platoon leader who will not report his actions. No matter how badly he screwed up—short of murder, anyway—I could deal with it if they simply told the truth.
The platoon leader and platoon sergeant officially reported that they had not entered the fire station. After the questioning of the platoon members, it became clear the two men had lied. Army investigations have a way of getting to the truth, because no matter how many blood oaths or sacred pacts are made promising to take a secret to the grave, once the investigating officer starts reading Miranda rights, the truth spills out in a matter of minutes. I never did find out what caused the two soldiers to shoot-up the fire station, but I suspect that the platoon sergeant had lost his moral compass because of all the fighting, and the new platoon leader was not man enough to stop him. Between the two of them, they had decided to teach the Iraqis a lesson, an action that was clearly unacceptable and always ineffective in combat.
The problem arises when a lieutenant, or platoon sergeant, or squad leader that a soldier is taking over from looks the new man in the eye and says, “Forget what the guys in the head-shed told you—this is what kept me alive for the past year.” It is hard to discount that kind of advice, even if it is wrong. I suspected that such bad advice, combined with the casualties suffered early in the deployment, caused these two men to break.
I have always felt that platoon leaders have the hardest job in the army. They are full of book knowledge and good intentions but have little practical experience. In comparison, I felt that battalion command was an easier job than platoon leader. I had spent all of my adult life getting ready to command a battalion, holding almost every staff position at some point previously in my career, and surrounded by smart and very experienced majors, captains and senior NCOs who were also very willing do anything you ask of them. Even as a company commander, I had a first sergeant on whom I could count for expert advice, a first lieutenant executive officer who was experienced, and three platoon leaders who wanted to do a good job but did not know enough to ask hard questions. Platoon leaders are at the bottom of the leadership ladder and actually have to live with the men who are doing the tough missions, looking them in the eye, telling them to move out. Anytime I said something as a task force commander, the answer was “Yes sir!” Soldiers do not always reply to lieutenants the same way. Sometimes the response is more along the lines of, “The entire plan is just fucking stupid.”
Six of the lieutenants in the task force came straight into combat without the benefit of the train-up. Typical was Second Lieutenant Steve Griffin, a tank platoon leader we received early in the deployment. Steve’s dad and brother had served in the military, and he saw the army as a way to pay for his education at Auburn while he served his country.283 Despite having been to the Armor Basic Course, the Cavalry Leaders Course, and Ranger School, Steve was still a new lieutenant thrust straight into the most dangerous city in the world. On his first time out of the gate, Steve’s patrol hit an IED and came under a complex attack by a dozen well-armed terrorists. No amount of training could prepare him for that. Nevertheless, Steve, like five of the six platoon leaders in the task force, admirably stepped up and led from the front.
The defense lawyer, an army captain I had never seen before, showed up in my office, but the prosecutor was unable to get back for the late meeting. A lesson that is beaten into a commander’s heads is always have your own lawyer present when dealing with legal matters. There is even an acronym for it—CYA: call your attorney. I knew better than to meet with the defense lawyer without the prosecutor present, but I did it anyway. The defense lawyer was pasty and portly, and had the look of someone who had not left Camp Ramadi under any circumstances, and apparently had not missed a meal in his time there either. In short, he was a FOB-it, which rhymes with hobbit, and refers to someone who never leaves the forward operating base.
I told the defense lawyer directly. “Either the kid tells me what happened, or I’m going to relieve him. I can’t have lieutenants who won’t tell the truth.”
At that point, captain jumped up from his chair and pointed at me. “How dare you deny an American soldier his constitutional rights?”
“What?” I replied, somewhat taken aback.
“You should be ashamed of yourself for denying a soldier the very constitutional rights he is fighting to protect!” the defense attorney accused.
That did it. I understand that everyone in the Army has a job to do in order for the organization to operate, and his job was to give his clients a vigorous defense, but I was not about to be lectured by a sanctimonious lawyer who was not very good at his job. I lost my temper—the day’s emotion and the stress of the past few months poured out.
“Listen here, you fat bag of shit, relief is an administrative action, not a legal action! I can’t have officers who don’t report their actions while leading platoons. You’re going to get this lieutenant court-martialed based on your shitty legal advice. You’re just trying to make a name for yourself by getting to go to Baghdad and being part of a court martial. Quit worrying about your own career. You’re the one who should be ashamed of himself! He’s relieved, and it’s straight on you. Now get the fuck out of my office!”
This was not the outcome I had been hoping for, but it was a solution to the problem all the same: platoon sergeant and platoon leader relieved. Now it was time to move them to the judicial system for final determination. Since Team Dealer was attached, and not assigned, to the task force, the platoon leader and platoon sergeant were sent to Baghdad to their parent battalion, 2-6 Infantry. Once the lawyer left, Chuck Bergman busted into the office, “I packed your stuff,” he told me. “It’s time to go. Give me your keys to the pickup—I’m taking you there myself to make sure you get on the bird.”
I meekly thanked him, grabbed my bag, and got in the passenger side of my FOB cruiser. We made the short ride to the helipad, where I hopped on the first helicopter to TQ airfield. The twin-engine CH 46 helicopter had been a reliable workhorse during the Vietnam War, but this was Iraq in 2006, and I was sure it was going to fall from the sky. Miraculously, we landed in TQ and an NCO from the Ready First was there to meet me. Lieutenant Colonel Walrath was waiting there as well. There was a flight to Kuwait in an hour and the NCO ensured that we both had seats.
As soon as we landed in Kuwait, another NCO told Dan and me to get our civilian clothes on for a flight that night to Germany. By mid-morning the next day, the plane was touching down in Frankfurt. I kept thinking to myself that 36 hours prior I had been in combat watching a horrific scene, and now in just in a couple of minutes I was going to see my wife and kids. I was both ecstatic, and a little confused. It was good to get to the front of the line at the airport, but I could have used a day in Kuwait to de-compress. I was a 43-year-old battalion commander with a wife and kids and I was feeling the strain. No wonder a 20-year-old specialist has problems when he goes home on R&R.
I was on R&R, and somewhat surprised that I had not been blown-up or shot by this point. I never went looking for enemy contact, but in Ramadi, the enemy had a way of finding you. All that was behind me, at least for now.
I was happy to be home.