move to a new spot. The process would start all over again.
It was on one of these ops that Ryan got shot.
11. MAN DOWN
“What the Hell?”
One very hot summer day we took a small apartment building with a good view of one of the major east-west roads through the center of Ramadi. It was four stories high, the staircase lined with windows, the roof open and with a good view of the area. It was a clear day.
Ryan was joking with me as we went in. He was cracking me up—he always made me laugh, made me relax. Smiling, I posted him to watch the road. Our troops were working on a side street on the other side of the roof, and I figured that if the insurgents were going to launch an ambush or try and attack us, they would come down that road. Meanwhile, I watched the team on the ground. The assault began smoothly, with the soldiers taking first one house and then another. They moved quickly, without a snag.
Suddenly, shots flew through our position. I ducked down as a round hit the cement nearby, splattering chips everywhere. This was an everyday occurrence in Ramadi, something that happened not once a day but several times.
I waited a second to make sure the insurgents were done firing, then got back up.
“You guys all right?” I yelled, looking down the street toward the soldiers on the ground, making sure they were okay.
“Yeah,” grunted the other sniper.
Ryan didn’t answer. I glanced back and saw him, still down.
“Hey, get up,” I told him. “They stopped firing. Come on.”
He didn’t move. I went over.
“What the hell?” I yelled at him. “Get up. Get up.”
Then I saw the blood.
I knelt down and looked at him. There was blood all over. The side of his face had been smashed in. He’d taken a bullet.
We had pounded into him the fact that you have to always have your weapon up and ready; he’d had it up and scanning when the bullet hit. It apparently got the rifle first, then ricocheted into his face.
I grabbed the radio. “Man down!” I yelled. “Man down!”
I dropped back and examined his wounds. I didn’t know what to do, where to start. Ryan looked as if he’d been hit so bad that he was going to die.
His body shook. I thought it was a death spasm.
Two of our platoon guys, Dauber and Tommy, ran up. They were both corpsmen. They slipped down between us and started treating him.
Marc Lee came up behind them. He took the 60 and began laying down fire in the direction the shots had come from, chasing the insurgents back so we could carry Ryan down the stairs.
I picked him up and held him up over my shoulder, then started to run. I reached the stairs and started going down quickly.
About halfway, he started groaning loudly. The way I was holding him, the blood had rushed into his throat and head; he was having trouble breathing.
I set him down, even more worried, knowing in my heart he was going to die, hoping that somehow, some way, I might do something to keep him going, even though it was hopeless.
Ryan began spitting blood. He caught his breath—he was breathing, a miracle in itself.
I reached out to grab him and pick him up again.
“No,” he said. “No, no I’m good. I got this. I’m walking.”
He put an arm around me and walked himself down the rest of the way.
Meanwhile, the Army rolled a tracked vehicle, a personnel carrier, up to the front door. Tommy went in with Ryan and they pulled away.
I ran back upstairs, feeling as if I’d been shot and wishing that it had been me, not him, who was hit. I was sure he was going to die. I was sure I’d just lost a brother. A big, goofy, lovable, great brother.
Nothing I’d experienced in Iraq had ever affected me like this.
Payback
We collapsed back to Shark Base.
As soon as we got there, I shed my gear and put my back against the wall, then slowly lowered myself to the ground.
Tears started flowing from my eyes.
I thought Ryan was dead. Actually, he was still alive, if just barely. The docs worked like hell to save him. Ryan would eventually be medevac’d out of Iraq. His wounds were severe—he’d never see again, not only out of the eye that had been hit but the other as well. It was a miracle that he lived.
But at that moment at base, I was sure he was dead. I knew it in my stomach, in my heart, in every part of me. I’d put him in the spot where he got hit. It was my fault he’d been shot.
A hundred kills? Two hundred? More? What did they mean if my brother was dead?
Why hadn’t I put myself there? Why hadn’t I been standing there? I could have gotten the bastard—I could have saved my boy.
I was in a dark hole. Deep down.
How long I stayed there, head buried, tears flowing, I have no idea.
“Hey,” said a voice above me, finally.
I looked up. It was Tony, my chief.
“You wanna go get some payback?” he asked.
“Fuck yeah I do!” I jumped to my feet.
A few guys weren’t sure whether we should go or not. We talked about it, and planned out the mission.
I didn’t hardly have time for it, though. I just wanted blood for my guy.
Marc
The intel put the bad guys in a house not too far from where Ryan had been hit. A couple of Bradleys drove us over to a field near the house. I was in a second vehicle; some of the other guys had already gone into the house by the time we arrived.
As soon as the ramp dropped on our Bradley, bullets started flying. I ran to join the others; and found them stacking to go up the stairs to the second floor. We were huddled together, facing downward, waiting to move up.
Marc Lee was at the lead, above us on the steps. He turned, glancing out a window on the staircase. As he
