We found the battalion’s sergeant major aggressively watching our approach, hands on his hips.
“Morning, Sergeant Major. Where’s Sergeant Patrick?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Well, he was evacuated back here a few hours ago after he got hit. What happened to him?” It was clear from the sergeant major’s confusion that he didn’t know of Patrick’s wound. He hadn’t been on the mission the previous evening and was so far out of the loop that he still didn’t know what was going on. We bypassed him and kept looking.
On a gentle hillside, we saw a supine form under a poncho liner. Patrick’s foot was bandaged, and an IV hung from his arm. “How you doing, Shawn?” I asked.
“Good, sir. What’s up, Gunny? How’s the platoon?”
“Fine. Stafford took some frag in the leg, but he’s OK. Glad to see you talking.”
“They couldn’t get a bird in last night, so I’m just waiting here. A truck’s supposed to take me to the field hospital.”
I told Sergeant Patrick about the wounded Syrian. “He’ll probably be riding out with you. You good with that?”
“Long as he don’t try nuthin’.”
“I don’t think he’s in any shape to try anything.”
Sergeant Patrick’s assistant team leader walked up. Rudy had evacuated Patrick the night before and then returned to lead his team during our second attempt to cross the bridge. “Damn, brother, you’re looking rough,” Rudy said with a grin. “The battalion commander always said you looked like a bum, and this morning I’d say he’s right.”
The four of us were laughing and joking, relieved to be alive and grateful to see Patrick, when the sergeant major ambled over.
“Hey, jokers, get the hell outta here and give Sergeant Patrick his space.”
I thought he was kidding and looked over at him. He was serious. “Get lost, Sergeant Major. You didn’t even know he was here,” I said.
“Now, Lieutenant, that ain’t right…” His voice trailed off. Walking away, he looked crestfallen — left out of the mission and then not even able to assert some authority in its wake.
We gathered Patrick’s gear and put together a small bag of things he might need in the hospital. The platoon rotated over in shifts to wish him well and joke about free rides home, million-dollar wounds, and the rest. Despite their humor, I knew that they were rattled. It was hard to see a man so respected get hit, and even harder to say goodbye. The bluster and jokes were a front for Sergeant Patrick’s benefit, but inside we hurt. Gingerly, we lifted his stretcher aboard an open truck and settled him comfortably, one last act of faith for a friend. We loaded the Syrian next and climbed down. Wynn and I waved as the truck pulled away, then we walked back down to the platoon.
The Marines were on autopilot, minds elsewhere as bodies busily cleaned weapons, changed tires, and reloaded ammunition. Gunny Wynn and I took stock of our vehicle. A bullet had torn a ragged gash in the door frame just below his seat, and another had punched a hole behind my headrest that was large enough to fit my fist through. Holes peppered our canvas tarp, one of them surely left by the shrapnel now deep in Stafford’s leg. I followed the paths of the other bullets to make sure they hadn’t done any hidden damage to our equipment that would become apparent at some inopportune time. One round had passed through the tarp, then clear through a box of MREs, before piercing the plastic of a sniper rifle case and lodging against the buttstock of the rifle. I picked up the misshapen lump of lead and dropped it into my breast pocket. Maybe after a few more towns I’d have enough to make my own horseshoe.
I walked among the platoon, from vehicle to vehicle, visiting each team to listen to stories, take requests, and answer questions. Work continued while we talked, and everyone seemed to take renewed interest in the simple pleasures of eating a bag of pretzels or slipping out of his MOPP jacket to feel the warmth of the sun on his shoulders. Evan Wright was sprawled in the grass next to Colbert’s Humvee, laughing with the Marines who stood around him scrubbing their M4s.
“I’m surprised you’re still with us,” I said.
“Because I should have left or could have been shot?”
I laughed. “Both.”
Beneath the banter, the mood was morose. After earlier firefights, I had seen a quiet confidence in the younger Marines, the realization that they had faced the beast and won. That was gone now. The beast had fought back, and although no one was dead, we had paid a blood price. The more experienced Marines were vocal.
“Sir, what the fuck were the commanders thinking, sending us in there with no armor to clear a fucking town? We could have all been killed, and for what? We’re sitting in the same goddamn field we were in last night, as if nothing had happened, except we got the shit shot out of us and lost a great team leader.”
I walked a fine line. As an officer, I couldn’t badmouth decisions the way a lance corporal could. Even as a lowly first lieutenant, I simply had too much rank, too much authority and influence. It would be disloyal and insubordinate, a transgression both moral and legal. At the same time, though, to smile in the face of stupidity and say something about liberating the Iraqi people or living up to the example of Iwo Jima and Hue City would neuter me in the eyes of my men. Men shrink in combat to little circles of trust: us versus them. A platoon that puts its commander in the “them” category is a dangerous place to be. Every young officer quickly learns the difference between legal authority and moral authority. Legal authority is worn on the collar — the gold and silver rank insignia that garner salutes and the title “sir.” It doesn’t win firefights. Moral authority is the legitimacy granted to a leader who knows his job and cares about his men. In combat, I learned to rely on moral authority much more than on legal authority.
So I conceded part of the Marine’s statement. “That was bullshit, bad tactics. After all the artillery prep and with the air escort, no one expected that ambush to happen. We were all wrong. I can’t speak for the battalion, but I can tell you that will never happen again in this platoon.” I paused and locked eyes with the Marine to be sure he knew I wasn’t just talking. “I’m sorry about Pappy. I don’t know if we’ll be fighting for another three days, three weeks, or three months, but I can tell you one thing. We have to learn from what we do right and what we do wrong, then move on. There were twenty-three of us, back to back. Now there are twenty-two. We have to get each other home in one piece.”
The Marine nodded, accepting this line of reasoning. Strong combat leadership is never by committee. Platoon commanders must command, and command in battle isn’t based on consensus. It’s based on consent. Any leader wields only as much authority and influence as is conferred by the consent of those he leads. The Marines allowed me to be their commander, and they could revoke their permission at any time.
I stopped at Sergeant Reyes’s vehicle, where half the team was replacing a tire shredded by machine gun fire while the other half brewed coffee and relived the night’s adventure. Behind them, their Humvee’s windshield displayed a hole exactly 7.62 millimeters wide where an AK-47 round had passed within inches of Sergeant Reyes’s head. Now Rudy himself was serving as barista, carefully bringing water to a boil through coffee grounds, then pouring it with a delicate flourish that topped each cup with white crema. He spoke as he worked.
“So I’m driving along when Shawn says, ‘Hey, Rudy, turn around.’” He imitated Sergeant Patrick’s North Carolina drawl. “I start turning to the left, and ack ack ack ack, shooting everywhere. Humvee’s rocking. Tracers over, under, past my head. Madness, brother, just madness. Then I see Shawn jump in his seat and yell. Well, I’m busy turning around in this firefight, trying not to run into anything or get us stuck, and I hear him say, real calm, ‘I’m hit in the foot — I’m OK, though.’ Then that crazy mother ties a tourniquet around his leg, real cool, picks up his M4, and starts shooting again!” Rudy folded at the waist, slapping his knee, struggling to breathe. “Brother, that guy is awesome. Awesome.”
I was nursing the coffee Rudy had poured for me when Christeson’s voice crackled through the radio. “Sir, the CO needs you at his truck.” Looking toward company headquarters, I could see people packing up, getting ready to move.
“Roger, I’m on my way.”
I thanked the guys for the coffee, shouldered my rifle, and walked away.
