ANDY BRASOSKY

Andy Brasosky grew up in Flint, Michigan. His father served four years as a Navy corpsman during Vietnam. After attending Western Michigan University on a football scholarship, Andy enlisted in the Marine Corps. He served from June of 1997 to May of 2008.

A lot of people hear Iraq and they think mountains and caves and villages. But there are a lot of built-up areas that, while not Manhattan, have a large civilian population. You go into a place like that, you’re dealing with a three-dimensional battlefield—which is exactly what we’re facing right now, out on the wire, doing a routine patrol on foot in this shithole. An army battalion came through here not that long ago and laid waste to the area, but it’s still dangerous.

There are two fights going on in Iraq. First, you have Al-Qaeda being Al-Qaeda, blowing shit up, disrupting everything. Then you’ve got sectarian violence—Sunni fighting Shia—which is pretty brutal. Al-Qaeda, the insurgents—they’re always watching us, tracking where we go and what we do. We can’t move undetected.

It’s February of 2005 here in Iraq, the middle of the day, sunny, hot as balls. I’m sweating like a pig and carrying more ammunition, more batteries—more shit than we could even possibly imagine using. Little kids follow along, begging us for the pencils and chocolates we carry in our pockets.

All of a sudden there’s no one around.

I know what’s coming. We all do. We don’t know where or what.

Then I’ve got all these faces—these kid soldiers—looking to me for direction. I’m their captain. I lead the way, knowing I’m never going to make it home, back to my wife, my family.

And I’m completely fine with it. I’ve made peace with God. I don’t care about me, only my Marines.

  

Our patrol ends once we reach the remains of an abandoned ice factory. I’m literally walking inside when I hear it—an RPG shot. I drop to the ground, but I know the RPG’s gonna hit me and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

But it doesn’t hit me. Instead, the RPG hits a nearby building. I’m lying on my side, shivering, my mind telling me not to move for cover, just stay down.

My squad is scrambling. We’ve got sandbags on the top of the ice factory; our scout snipers are up there, other Marines. We also have another threat: the nearby mosque we bombed. Al-Qaeda sets up in there so they can fire down at us.

I get to my feet, weapon in hand. Somewhere nearby, another explosion. It rumbles under my feet, dirt, dust, and soot raining down on me from what’s left of the ceiling.

IED? Mortar attack?

People are firing at us. Some of my guys are returning fire. Some are good-naturedly bitching and moaning, and there are a couple of others, like this eighteen-year-old kid, John Smith, who is trying not to lose his shit. I’m often a complete prick to this private first class, but he needs toughening up—needs to face the grim reality of what life is like here in Iraq, what the enemy is capable of.

I can’t be a prick to him now. I move to him and lean in close so he can hear me over the gunfire. “John, look at me.”

He does, his face pale and eyes wide with fear, looking at me the way a kid looks at an adult: Make this shit stop. Make it go away. Please.

I cup my hand around his neck. “I know you’re scared as shit right now. I get it. But you’re not alone in this, okay? I’ve got you—we’ve got you. Now: you want to make it out of here in one piece?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. So do I. Now focus. Focus on doing your job. Do that and we’ll get through this together. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

When the fighting dies down, I get word over the radio that a mobile car bomb—what we call a vehicle-borne IED, or VBIED—hit an adjacent platoon. We’re ordered to provide support and help secure the area.

The area is in chaos—debris everywhere. Thick black smoke twists from the blackened remains of a car. The area is quiet, but not for long. I see a car on the horizon, and it’s heading straight for us.

Won’t slow or stop.

Could be another VBIED, I think, and give the order to the sniper. He shoots one of the tires.

The car doesn’t slow, continues straight at us. We shoot at the engine block and the car is still coming and we hammer the front windshield with rounds and the car finally stops.

An Iraqi gets out, screaming at us, no visible weapon. We’re all over him. We drag him away and then wait for the explosive ordnance disposal technicians to take a closer look at the vehicle.

EOD tells me it’s safe to approach. I see the blood first and then, when I get closer, I see a woman in the passenger’s seat and, in the back, a kid.

They’re both dead.

The driver is still screaming his head off. I look to our interpreter.

“He wants to know who’s going to replace his vehicle,” he tells me.

It takes every bit of leadership ability and restraint not to shove my pistol in the driver’s mouth and pull the trigger.

  

The next day, I get a visit from a JAG officer.

“The judge advocate general has opened an investigation into the shooting,” he tells me. He’s a Marine, a lawyer, and a major, which means he’s probably been in the Corps all of eighteen months. “I want you to take me back to the area where it happened.”

Is he for real?

He can’t be for real.

The JAG officer looks at me, wondering why I’m not up and moving. I take a deep breath.

“Sir, with all due respect, going back there is a phenomenally bad idea—a tragically bad idea.”

I patiently list off all the reasons why it’s dangerous, but he’s adamant. We’re going back out.

We drive to the location in a caravan of trucks—a total of seven. I’m in the far back, driving with the JAG officer, and we can hear it in the distance—boom. We keep driving. Boom. Boom. BOOM. Louder, closer, too goddamn close. I’ve been counting them—boom; number seven this time—and I see the front truck in our caravan roll onto its side.

Road bomb. Truck could have run over a trip wire and triggered it, or there could be a triggerman lurking somewhere nearby, watching and waiting for the right moment to light us up.

We come to a jarring stop.

Debris rains down on us.

The truck is engulfed in flames and I am fucking pissed. This didn’t have to happen. The JAG officer’s face is pale, he’s horrified—and he’s completely worthless.

We get out and get down. The enemy is trying to engage us with small arms fire. As we deal with the situation, I receive word on our casualties: one dead Marine, twelve wounded. I call in medevac and then ask for the name of the Marine KIA.

I hear the name and it’s chilling.

I know this kid.

By the time the medevac helicopter arrives, the enemy has retreated. I watch as they load the kid’s body onto the stretcher.

Back home, people ask what death is like. You can’t explain it. It’s not dramatic, there’s no music, it’s sudden, it’s violent, it’s reality.