Bad to Worse

(Editor’s Note: The following is the fourth chapter from Jared’s book It’ll Buff Out.)

Chapter 4: Bad to Worse

Ramadi, Iraq

OP Hurria

October 9, 2006

Ramadi was made up of several districts.

What we referred to as The Souk was part of the Qatana District in the heart of the city. This heart had a pulse powered by death. It was no secret: this was the epicenter of the insurgency.

Graffiti scattered throughout detailed how AQI could maneuver without detection from our outposts or aerial assets.

Ratholes in walls that snipers could shoot through undetected stared at us like concrete ghouls.

Humans could pass through tunnels between buildings or by breaking down walls.

Broken glass lined the tops of perimeter walls that bordered many buildings waiting for an unsuspecting Marine’s hand to shred.

Al Qaeda in Iraq even held a parade in The Souk on October 20, 2006, to demonstrate their hold on the area.

Streets were riddled with IEDs and trash and sewage water.

Houses and buildings were stacked on top of each other with narrow booby-trapped alleys, and the streets were lined with trash and bomb craters making it hard to simply drive through let alone spot an IED.

Hell on earth is real.

Post 5 at OP Hurria housed the MK-19 facing an area of the city where we had been attacked nearly every single day. Gay Palace was the tallest building in the city along with the hospital near OP Hawk. The entire area surrounding Gay Palace, being part of The Souk, was torn up from years of combat. It looked like a World War II photo.

Having an automatic grenade launcher was essential to gaining fire superiority in a firefight. Our first major hours-long firefight—the welcoming party—the MK-19 had quickly gained us fire superiority and we quickly lost it when it jammed not once but twice.

After the second time it jammed, I went into berserker mode turning my DM rifle into a thirty-round machine gun because it had full-auto as an option due to a lower receiver from the Vietnam-era M16. When the MK-19 began firing again, it was terrifying and awesome how quickly it subdued the enemy’s gunfire.

Always establish superior firepower as quickly as possible.

Hacksaw was on Post 5 this morning, and I was sitting looking to the north as he watched MSR Michigan to the west. To the north, a firefight raged between AQI and 3rd Platoon who had stepped off on an ill-advised daytime patrol into The Souk earlier that morning.

A convoy from 1st Platoon on QRF (quick reaction force) was en route to dig them out of the hole they had then found themselves in.

“What’d they expect was going to happen during a daytime patrol?” I asked the Fallujah veteran looking through binos next to me.

“They gotta push presence patrols, but it sounds like they weren’t expecting contact, which is fucking stupid,” Hacksaw replied.

“Really stupid,” I agreed and said, “Almost as stupid as Blob.”

“That dumb motherfucker!” Hacksaw said, looking away from his binos to my dumbass grin while I chuckled.

Blob was an armorer who, at the time, had been at Blue Diamond, one of the safest places to be in all of Ramadi. It was an FOB (forward operating base) run by the Army with an amazing chow hall where this Indian dude made the best omelets I’ve ever had. The omelets and the safety weren’t enough for Blob. We had gone back to Blue Diamond after Utley was medevaced, and Hacksaw turned his weapon into the armory to get his 203 fixed because it wasn’t firing. Blob then shot himself in the foot with Hacksaw’s weapon and proceeded to blame Hacksaw saying it wasn’t unloaded properly.

In World War II, a million-dollar wound was a wound that didn’t kill or maim you too bad so that you got sent home.

This was a self-inflicted million-dollar wound.

Cool story, bro.

I have to give him credit for even showing up to Ramadi because nine other Marines from our battalion ditched us on the day we deployed.

Two of the nine came from our platoon, further deflating our already depleted roster. They went from warrior to wimp.

As we sat there watching our sectors, I could hear the engine’s whine from the QRF gun-trucks in between bursts of gunfire from the firefight.

Barely three weeks into the deployment, firefights had become normal to us. It was a daily occurrence and not at all rare to get into multiple firefights in one day.

When we were briefed at Camp Ramadi after we arrived, we were told that OP Hurria, on average, saw over a hundred enemy engagements—get ready for it—every single week.

Insanity.

Ramadi was wild, and it sure as hell would try to drown us in its hatred-filled shit-water.

The government center, which sat on Route Michigan about a quarter of a mile west of OP Hurria was in a similar boat if not a little worse since it harbored the lone figurehead of the provincial governor. Killing the governor would be a major success for AQI, but Bravo Company had been tasked with keeping the man alive and well.

The governor was the lone symbol of democracy to the Iraqi people in al Anbar province. If he died, then so did the American-led democratic movement. Tribal Sheikhs align themselves with who they think will win. Most of them surrounding Ramadi sided with AQI since they viewed the governor as weak. Tribes follow whoever they deem strongest.

Other areas to the south were god-awful too. OP Sword and OP Falcon were two outposts manned by the legendary 101st Airborne, and they had and would see more action than most soldiers do in a twenty-year career.

Not all areas were bad though. The closer you got to Camp Ramadi and Blue Diamond, the calmer the city became.

A high-pitched whine grew closer, but it was too close to us, which was odd because the fight wasn’t near our outpost.

“What the . . .” I said but trailed off as the whine began to draw further away.

Seconds later, an explosion rocked the entire Souk.

It was massive. I could feel the concussion rattle my kidneys like maracas.

The entire outpost shook, and before I could say, “What in the hell was that?” thick, black smoke rose in a column into the hot Iraqi air.

“SOG, this is Post 5,” Hacksaw said into the radio without missing a beat.

“Post 5, send it,” came the response from Grandpa.

“Roger, large blast on Racetrack 300 meters north, northeast, over.”

“Roger, keep eyes on.”

“Roger that, out.”

Hacksaw put the radio down, and his body language belied how I felt: slightly defeated but optimistic. Gut feelings are often correct, and my gut said something terrible had happened. I tried to remain positive, but it waned with every second.

“See anything, Prewitt?” Hacksaw asked.

“Nothing but smoke. That was a giant IED,” I said, stating the obvious.

IEDs were our bane. They were everywhere, cheap to make, cheaper to emplace, and they had already made their hallmark on this war like bouncing betties had in Vietnam. Every night, EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal or bomb techs) went on a convoy to search and destroy as many IEDs as they could find. Not a night went by where they didn’t find at least one—if not ten.

A jet screamed overhead dropping flares, and I hit the deck like a sack of walrus dicks.

Hacksaw laughed at my expense as I stammered, “The fuck was that?”

“We call that a ‘show of force.’ It’s supposed to deter the enemy.”

When the IED had gone off, the firefight took a timeout. The show of force caused a brief timeout as well, but the tactic was practically useless besides it looking and sounding like the heavens were being torn in half.

The firefight picked back up.

By this time, the insurgents knew a flyby was America flexing but little else.

“Shit, there they are,” Hacksaw said, and before he finished the sentence, I heard that familiar high-pitched whine of American-made machinery.

Every convoy left friendly lines with no less than three vehicles, yet only two vehicles turned onto Michigan off Racetrack near Gay Palace.

“SOG, this is Post 5, be advised two gun-trucks just turned off Racetrack onto Michigan and they’re heading toward our POS, over,” Hacksaw advised, skipping the initial formalities to cut to the point.

“Roger that, Post 5, break,” Grandpa said. He let his thumb off the transmitter for a second before pressing it again and saying, “Post 1, get ready to open the gate, over.”

“Post 1. Roger that, SOG,” said Fray, our squad’s country bumpkin.

The gun-trucks pulled up, and Fray ran out to move the APC that acted as our gate.

“This is bad. Really fucking bad,” Hacksaw murmured.

I really didn’t know what to say besides, “Yeah, man.”

The American mentality doesn’t allow for easy acceptance when we have catastrophic failure. Every ounce of me wanted to deny what my gut was saying.

The gun-trucks pulled into OP Hurria’s tiny-ass, mud-filled parking lot leaving the IED-laden and sewage-filled MSR Michigan. Marines inside of the vehicles got out with downcast eyes and an air of dejection about them.

I recognized one of the Marines from my short stint in Security Forces in Bangor, Washington. His name was Brunell and he had an oddly pointy nose.

As the Marines from 1st Platoon made their way inside, they were met by LT and our platoon sergeant.

Nothing was said for minutes between Hacksaw and me.

We sat on post listening to the firefight that 3rd Platoon was still in as thick, black smoke rose from the middle of The Souk.

Hacksaw’s radio on post chirped denoting the battery is low.

“I’m going to get a new battery and try to figure out what happened,” I said to Hacksaw.

He just sat there staring out into the city.

I looked from the smoke, back to Hacksaw, and then west toward the government center and Gay Palace.

All I saw was death and future death.

Whispering a prayer, I took another look at the smoke, squeezed Hacksaw’s shoulder, and left the post.

Shyst on Post 6 whispered as I passed by his post, “Hey, dog, what happened?”

“I’m going to try to figure that out. Keep eyes on the area around the smoke.

Our boys could still be out there.”

“They left them out there? What the fuck?” responded Shyst.

“There are only two vehicles down there. I’ll be back,” I said, alluding to the fact that an entire vehicle was missing, and left him to watch the smoke.

Post 2 sat on the northeast corner of OP Hurria, and that was home to McCaughn when our squad was on post. All three squads did six hours of post with twelve hours off. The first six of the twelve hours off was designated for QRF so that if something happened, those Marines would be first to go and help.

I ducked into Post 2, and McCaughn locked eyes with me immediately.

“Can you see it from here?” I asked. “If I crank my head far enough around at the right angle I can,” McCaughn said, demonstrating as he told me.

He looked back at me, and I just shook my head.

“Yeah, man. Did I hear Shyst say they left them?” McCaughn asked me.

“Not sure if they did or not. I’m going to talk to them.

I knew one of them back in security forces.”

“Let me know what’s up.”

“I will.”

With that, I began my descent into the belly of our outpost.

Before I reached the bottom, I could hear Grandpa’s voice filled with anger. Most of the voices were laced with anger. All except one whose voice quivered and shook.

“What do you mean you fucking left them?” Grandpa’s voice demanded.

“Grandpa, stay here. Brunell, you can go,” LT said in a calming demeanor.

Brunell stepped out into what once was a lobby of some sort from the COC (Combat Operations Center) where the voices grew quieter but no less angry. He looked up and saw me, and then with his head down and shoulders slumped forward, Brunell made his way toward me.

“Come on,” I said, beckoning him to the stairs.

I pulled out two cigarettes and lit them, handing one of them to Brunell.

“What happened?” I asked him bluntly.

His lips quivered and tears welled up in his eyes immediately. This certainly wasn’t the Brunell I remembered who was often very lively and drunk.

“The roads were blocked. So, Sergeant Arechega took a turn onto Racetrack. We had no other option,” Brunell said.

Their squad had been QRF at OP Hawk having just gotten off post mere hours prior when 3rd Platoon had gotten themselves into a pickle. Without being prepared to withstand a sustained firefight, 3rd Platoon took contact, and one of their Marines had taken a round through his arm.

Sergeant Arechega’s squad on QRF had been sent to get Sanborn, the shot Marine, and help 3rd Platoon withdraw.

“I was staring right at them when the IED went off.

They disappeared,” he choked out.

“They . . . vanished.” Brunell’s eyes welled up with tears.

I put a hand on his shoulder while I tried to process what he said.

His eyes were reliving the event.

“Who was in the vehicle?” I asked.

“Arechega, Bowman, and Feniello.”

Sergeant Arechega was a Marine everyone looked up to in our company; he was an idol of mine. Even though I only talked to him a handful of times, we joked about lifting weights where he’d call me a dumb meathead and I made fun of his small biceps.

The other two were well-known, good dudes who I was thankful to slug back a few beers with. It would take a while for me and the rest of Cold Steel to accept this tragic loss of life of three stellar human beings and Marines.

“They were gone, I didn’t know what to do.” He took a drag off his cigarette and blew it out. “I panicked and left.”

He put his head in his hands and cried, sliding his back down the wall and coming to a rest on the stairs.

Everyone will judge this Marine, and everyone has the right to do so, but fuck your opinions. This Marine—man, someone’s son—just had to make an impossible call. Get the rest of your Marines out alive or risk every last one of them to pull out the dead?

The Marines tell us to get our dead even if it kills us.

He went against that.

Is that a case of treason or a case of a human having witnessed a catastrophic IED kill on a vehicle and panicking? We’re all fallible, even the most highly trained operator.

What would you have done?

Your squad leader who’s been with the battalion since the infamous “Death Walker” campaign in Afghanistan in 2004 and two senior Marines who both served in Fallujah vanished in an instant. You’re on the deadliest street in the deadliest city on the planet. You’re also a boot on your first deployment and only have five weeks combat experience and zero experience with leading in combat. What the fuck would you have done?

I don’t know what I would have done. I thanked God for having not been in that situation, and I prayed that I’d never find myself in the position.

What I do know is that, in that stairwell, I was staring at a broken man.

_________________________

Jared Prewitt is a husband, father, marine, author, carpenter/teacher/coach, and lover of great stories. 

Jared was a Sergeant in the Marine Corps with 1st Battalion, 6th Marines based out of Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. He participated in the Battle of Ramadi (Iraq) as a Designated Marksman from 2006-2007 and as a Squad Leader in the Battle of Garmsir (Afghanistan) in 2008. 

After being honorably discharged in 2009 having served five years, Jared moved to Colorado and married in 2011. He has a Bachelor’s in Business and a Masters in Writing. You can find him bowling, golfing, camping, hunting, or fishing when he’s not around his family. 

Check out his other work on Instagram @cold_steel_collective or at www.jareprewittwritesstuff.com. 

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.

Book synopsis for It’ll Buff Out:

Jared Prewitt grew up a sheltered MidWest kid. 

Seeking adventure and a taste of what his grandfather endured as a soldier in General Patton’s Third Army during World War II, he joined the Marines in 2004 as Iraq ignited into all-out war.

The Battle of Ramadi would forever change Jared’s life and set him down a path of strife and survival. 

From explosions and gun fights to blood clots and panic attacks, nothing is hopeless. 

It’ll Buff Out is a story about the revival of a war-torn city and the human spirit.