I watched through night vision goggles as Marines scrambled over the wall surrounding the cemetery. Our company commander, Capt. Doug Zembiec, had wanted us in position before the 0530 call to Muslim prayer. We were almost there, almost ready just as the prayer began to be broadcast from a loudspeaker atop a minaret. My radio hissed, and Captain Zembiec’s voice bellowed over the transceiver. We weren’t in position in time, and he was pissed.
What had I done wrong in preparing our assault? The infantry lieutenant’s greatest fear is missing the time appointed to cross the line of departure. “Never miss the LOD!” had been drilled into me during my training, yet here I was just a month into my first combat experience, and I was falling behind. I was trained for this mission, but for some reason this assault was different. I was different. I was no longer a junior enlisted Marine Corps grunt. Now I was the officer in charge—a position I had always dreamed of assuming—with all the trepidations and rewards of command.
We were part of a thirty-day marathon battle dubbed Fallujah One. The insurgents’ numbers were strong, with probably more than a thousand men spread out over several key posts across the city. The U.S. Marine battalions gathered, accompanied by Army and Navy air support, to seek out and defeat the enemy. I was a platoon commander, and it was my job to lead twenty-seven strong and disciplined Marines through this field of battle. Everyone had a role, but there were three men I relied on most. The first was SSgt. Willie Gresham, who was meticulous about everything and had had enough wartime experience to warrant the respect of the others. Next, Sgt. Terry Fullerton, who was capable and dependable and never let his guard down as first squad leader, which made him the perfect candidate to lead tailored missions. After them, I counted on my company commander, Captain Zembiec, for his strength and steadfast courage, although he didn’t know it. He had been an all-star wrestler at the Naval Academy and had mentored me during my sophomore year. I remember that during my first firefight, I had looked across the line of fire, and Captain Zembiec stared back at me and smiled—a reminder that everything was going to be okay. We were all scared in combat. Anyone who says that fear is not part of combat is lying. Captain Zembiec had a confidence that calmed the storms.
My platoon and company had a simple but important role in Captain Zembiec’s opinion: “Go pick a fight.” On March 28, 2004, just a week after arriving in Iraq and relieving an Army battalion, we set out on our first patrol of Fallujah and took our first casualties. Eric Elrod and Juan Fernandez were wounded in an ambush crossing a large courtyard. We’d been too hesitant with our actions and uncertain about how aggressive to be. The rules of engagement are well defined back at headquarters, but protocol sometimes gets blurred in the field. We hesitated to fire at buildings or bring full combat power to bear because we had been following the counterinsurgency doctrine—”do no harm” to the population. Our mindset was to preserve the infrastructure and to limit the impact we had on the people of Iraq. We went days without sleep, but the men showed greater confidence with each contact.
On April 12, our platoon experienced its first Marine KIA, killed in action. That evening was one of the longest of my life. In a firefight that had begun at dusk, Robert Zurheide and Brad Shuder were mortally wounded. We had evacuated them without knowing if they would live or die. After the assault, I walked the lines checking on the remaining Marines. It wasn’t too long before the report came from headquarters that the two men had died. My platoon sergeant took the message. He knew I was exhausted and wasn’t sure how I would tell the others. As their leader, I felt this huge weight on my shoulders. I reminded myself that I wasn’t the first platoon commander faced with telling his troops that some of their brothers had died.
I pulled my platoon into a huddle and told them that Rob and Brad had been killed. The men mourned, walked away, and continued the mission. As their leader, I couldn’t shake the question, Were their deaths my fault? Communicating such a tragedy is not something one learns at the Academy, and it wasn’t something I had practiced as a junior officer. I remained stoic in front of the platoon, but I was quickly learning that although leadership is an honor, it is also a great burden, and there’s always room to become better at it.
My path to becoming a Marine officer was not a straight one. As high school was ending, I didn’t feel ready to enter college life. I was used to my Southern California lifestyle of ska music and tattoos. Another four years of school didn’t interest me. I wanted freedom, opportunity, and the ability to go places and do things. I was an athlete, but not good enough to be recruited, and I had little interest in school, books, and homework.
College didn’t seem “big enough” for me at the time. I didn’t want to wait four years to do something tangible with my life, so I decided to join the Marine Corps. My parents were wonderfully supportive, and although they would have preferred that I enter university right away, they encouraged me to succeed in whatever I chose to do. I was seventeen. My mother agreed to sign my enlistment papers for the Marine Corps Reserve, as long as it wasn’t for the infantry, so I could attend college courses full time. After my eighteenth birthday, shortly before graduation, I changed my contract to active duty and requested an assignment in infantry. This change in direction was not a sign of rebelliousness; it was simply what I felt called to do.
As a young Marine stationed in Camp Pendleton, California, in the mid-1990s, life was good. I earned $350 per paycheck twice a month. I had a place to sleep, food to eat, and best of all, our barracks were literally five minutes from the beach. I met great guys during that phase of my life. We worked hard, played hard, and took being grunts seriously. We were proud of our heritage and jealous of those who had fought in Vietnam, Desert Storm, and Somalia. Our squad leaders told us stories about the 1991 Persian Gulf War, after Iraq invaded Kuwait.
After a couple of years, I realized that I wanted more than an enlisted man’s life. I had respect for those I worked with, but I was more intrigued by our platoon commanders. The way they interacted with one another and with the upper chain of command was different; they exhibited a level of knowledge and responsibility that I craved. I wanted the camaraderie and bonds of the officer corps. The seeds of leadership had been planted. In particular, I noticed the lieutenant in charge of my platoon. He seemed to have it together, and I wanted to know if I could handle that level of responsibility, too.
I had applied to the Naval Academy as a senior in high school but was rejected. Over the years, I had thought about applying again, but I had no idea how to do so as an enlisted Marine. When I got a new platoon commander who was a USNA grad, I saw an opportunity to get the advice I was looking for. My second lieutenant found out that I’d once applied and encouraged me to try again. I did and was accepted; fifteen months later, after a year at the Naval Academy Preparatory School, I was inducted into the Class of 2002. The Academy had afforded 150 billets in each class to prior-enlisted men and women. The reason for admitting students with Fleet experience was to add diversity to the learning environment. Regardless of the reason, I was in. I finished my tour in California, was given ten months of preparatory education in Newport, Rhode Island, and arrived in Annapolis on July 1, 1998. I had gone from a corporal in the Marine Corps to a Naval Academy plebe, probably one of the biggest demotions in the history of the military.
As a prior-enlisted man, I had more ribbons and real-world experiences than many of those senior to me walking around Bancroft Hall, the USNA dormitory. I was twenty-two years old when I entered USNA, and I immediately earned the respect of my peers and seniors. That respect was also mine to lose. I felt a responsibility to lead by example because I knew what enlisted personnel expected from officers. For four years, my shoes were the shiniest, my haircut was tight, and I had a pressed uniform when others let the standards drop. My personal daily routine was a source of pride.
Mentors at USNA come in all forms. I met Doug Zembiec during my youngster year. Little did I know that four years later, he would be my company commander and one of my most important mentors. He was a Force Recon Marine and all-star wrestler from the Class of 1995. Capt. Richard Gannon was another one of my closest advisors, as we both participated in the extracurricular Semper Fi Society. Both Zembiec and Gannon would be killed in combat in Iraq. They were giants to me, true heroes.
I quickly transformed from a Marine infantryman with a narrow focus into a quirky history student influenced by some of the most adroit leaders in naval service. Professors Mary Decredico and Ernie Tucker, who taught my military history courses, were mentors in their own way, showing me the gateway into the minds of the American military’s finest leaders. Even Woody in the barbershop made an impact on me; he was one of the most dedicated people I met in my four years at the Academy. A loving father and a humble veteran, he instilled wisdom in us midshipmen and made those twelve-minute haircuts count for something.
My senior year, I was selected to be Brigade commander, the highest-ranking midshipman, and gained access to some of the military’s finest leaders. General Peter Pace and Colonel John Allen were my early mentors. They taught me about the personal side of leadership in combat and about the importance of leading with honor. As Brigade commander, I was the conduit for the administration and was charged with leading my peers and the Brigade in the aftermath of 9/11. This experience helped me understand the pressures on general officers, something that would help years later on the front lines.
No amount of schooling could have prepared me for the emotions I experienced when Rob and Brad were killed under my command. During my second combat tour in Iraq, I was again faced with casualties. Although I was just one year removed from the Marines I had lost in Fallujah, this time I felt like a different person. I remember talking on the radio to my company commander while watching my corpsman try to resuscitate a mortally injured Marine. Although I still felt compassion for the tragedy before my eyes, I was callous to the magnitude of it all; this was war after all.
The pain of losing men in combat weighs heavily on a leader’s heart. It’s more than a lump in the throat or a pang of hurt; it’s like a car parked on one’s chest. I thought back to the lessons I’d learned from my mentors while at the Naval Academy. I remembered General Pace, then chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, speaking to a group of midshipmen about his experiences during the Tet Offensive regarding the moral imperative of the officer. I thought back to the lessons delivered by Colonel Allen, our Commandant of Midshipmen, about the importance of character and the influence of the officer on his or her Marines and sailors. I thought about the way Captain Gannon, 13th Company officer, trained me to influence the lives and character of my Marines. Dealing with death as a military officer is the product of leadership lessons I learned from mentors, books, and personal involvement.
Much of my experience at the Naval Academy, and in some ways my philosophy of life, had been shaped by Sen. Jim Webb’s A Sense of Honor. As a plebe, I empathized with the Midshipman Dean’s frustration over foolish Bancroft Hall traditions and the brainwashing that plebes received. As a firstie, I understood Midshipman Bill Fogerty’s desire to serve and live out his destiny as a combat leader. As a combat veteran, I empathized with Captain Ted Lenahan’s pain. Captain Lenahan, a company commander in Vietnam, had lost many good men. Each of these men reflected a stage of development that mirrored my own journey.
In Fallujah, Ubaydi, and Hit, in Iraq, and Helmand, in Afghanistan, I suffered losses under my command. I knew what Captain Lenahan felt when he visited wounded Marines in Bethesda. I understood the depth of his pain and his commitment to “doing it right.” All of this became clear when I cried with Brad Shuders’s parents at their home. It was understandable when I visited my Marines in the hospital and saw their broken bodies, but I didn’t really understand it until I’d cried with widows and parents and hugged Marines who were missing limbs, possibly unable to ever run or walk again. There is no desire on my part to seek pity for myself or those wounded. It’s simply a fact that only those who have devoted their lives to guarding their country in a time of war can truly grasp the depth of these lessons.
A lot changed after my platoon commander days in Iraq. During my shore billet, between tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, I’d spent three years as an instructor at the Basic School and the Infantry Officer Basic Course in Quantico, Virginia. My experiences at Basic School were profound. Along with twenty other combat veterans, I trained the Marine Corps’ up-and-coming generation of infantry officers. I demanded that the rising infantry officers be ready to lead in combat. In doing so, I refined my own skills and technically sharpened my understanding of wartime doctrine. Would I be ready to lead like Doug Zembiec had?
The next time I was in harm’s way was as a company commander in Helmand province, Afghanistan, in 2010. The number of men under my charge was triple what it had been during my first fight. My company had been assigned to secure the Now Zad district in Helmand, an area where some of the fiercest Taliban took refuge. Our mission was to prevent the insurgents from moving from the central mountainous areas into the southern districts to sell weapons, opium, and other contraband.
On October 17, 2010, my company was engaged in a firefight. We moved south by vehicle and helicopter to trap the insurgents in an area the enemy knew. As we searched buildings and talked to local farmers, I got a call that one of my blocking forces was engaged with enemy fire three kilometers away. We loaded up and moved to their position. In transit, I heard a report of a casualty. An unforgiving lump began to develop in my throat, and I expected to hear the worst.
My initial reaction had always been to ask who had been wounded. I had to be especially cautious now because any emotion I showed over the radio would affect the men around me. The report came that one of our corpsmen, Doc Speed, had been shot. As we arrived on the scene, I sent two vehicles to cordon off a nearby farmhouse. I couldn’t think about Doc. I was amped for a fight and eager to kill those who put my men in danger. Despite the fear, heat, and pain felt by me and my men, everything felt right. We were in the crucible of war, but I felt strangely in control, after my days as a corporal in Pendleton, hours of midshipman training, and intense battlefield scares in Iraq. Thankfully, Doc survived, and we pressed on.
My tour in Afghanistan was one of the true honors and highlights of my many years of service. I can honestly say that the Marines in Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment, served with honor, dignity, and grace. They ruthlessly hunted a determined enemy, and when necessary they killed with skill and precision. We guarded and secured the people of Now Zad, and we made the district a safer and more successful community than it had been when we first encountered it. It was an honor to lead this group of Marines as their company commander. My greatest hope as I continue in the Marine Corps is that I am able to pass along the many leadership lessons from my mentors to men who, just like myself, are learning to live the highs and lows of combat leadership.