Tired of the same damn rock sticking up my backside, I stood up, removed my helmet and body armor, and went looking for Senior Chief Healy. Walking through a cut in the rocky ridge that resembled a bowling alley, then passing through a wooded area, then through another bowling alley, I found him holed up in brush and trees on the side of a cliff. I told him about the houses and the men I’d seen. Normally when we were set up on a recon mission there was no small talk and little or no movement. Any comms were done over the radio. It was good to make some conversation in the vast, lonely silence.
Senior chiefs, however, will only carry it on for so long before it’s time to get back to work. “Okay, Luttrell,” Healy told me. “Back to your rock.”
“Check,” I said.
Walking back to my position, where I planned to wedge my butt back onto that rock (I can still feel it after all these years), I was passing through the second bowling alley when the ground began ticking up violently at me. A spray of rocks scattered in all directions—pfft pfft pfft. I crouched down. Scanning the mountainscape, I saw three guys on the other side of a pile of small boulders, looking directly at me. They were barely fifty meters away. One of them had his AK-47 leveled right at me. As I ran toward them, seeking cover along the way, the other two opened fire, stitching the ground right across my path. I took another shower of shattered shale. But thanks to their lousy marksmanship, my shorts were still clean. I went prone and pulled my rifle to my eye. I saw an insurgent swing over on me with an RPG. The fight was on.
I pulled the trigger a few times, then got up and moved. I sprinted as fast as I could, covering maybe thirty yards, then stopped to make myself small, hiding behind a wall of rocks. I rose to a knee and fired again. I don’t know how I wasn’t hit, given how exposed I was. Somehow the guy with the RPG circled around below me and unloaded on Senior Chief Healy’s hooch. The detonation turned that big tough bastard loose in a hurry, and he came out of the brush, angry and focused, looking for targets. Meanwhile, on the back side of the hill, Shane Patton had his radio out, calling, “Troops in contact.”
“Where the hell you at, Luttrell?” Healy shouted.
“I’m trying to find the sons of bitches who’re shooting at us,” I said.
Unholy ghosts, those bare-handed butt wipers. After that first dustup, they were swallowed up by the rocks. We never saw them again. The contact lasted no more than five or seven minutes.
Shane Patton’s radio call brought reinforcements, fast. At first an AH-64 came on station—an Apache attack helicopter. Then a Chinook arrived with a dozen more SEALs. Weary from four days of cloud-top air, constant vigilance, and little to eat, we were glad to let them take up the hunt. We climbed on board the helo and choppered back to base. Our relief would spend two more days looking for those insurgents, long enough for a huge thunderstorm to roll in and make their lives miserable for a while. No matter what you see on TV, frogs don’t like to be cold or wet, and our reinforcements got a double dose of it because of the storm.
As I sat in the huge C-17 on my way to Iraq, a lot of things were on my mind, memories both priceless and painful, pushing each other around in my head. As I looked around the plane and watched my teammates, my greatest hope was that every one of them would come home from Iraq, just the way they were now, nothing missing, nothing scarred. But in a place like Ramadi, what were the odds of that happening? The chances of losing someone were high, in spite of everything we did to minimize the risks. The workup. The constant advice and input from experienced senior operators. The pass-downs and intel from the team that preceded us. You put it all together and you tilt the odds in your favor. But bad things are likely to happen. It’s simply a fact; that is war.
After landing in Germany, we laid over for five hours, went wheels-up again, and touched down in Iraq’s desert city of Habbaniyah around 2:30 a.m. local time. We spent the night offloading and staging our gear for the drive west to Ramadi. In Habby, I got to see some old friends from SEAL Team 4, but as usual the time together was short. We hit the rack at about 5:30 a.m. The following afternoon, we loaded up, piled into our Humvees, and began the drive to Ramadi.
A hot and desolate place, hard terrain settled by even harder men. A land of myth and legend, with a long tradition of war, pillage, and slaughter. A people tested by war and famine, baked hard by the sun. It was a land where the warrior’s code binds all men into a ferocious brotherhood, where ancient traditions of honor attempt to govern the indifferent forces of life and death.
I’m talking, of course, about Montgomery County, Texas. But even the place I come from met its match in Iraq. It was a territory with complex tribal politics, ancient legends and even more ancient grudges, and a fickle corruptness that always seemed to push back and challenge unwanted outsiders. Here we were, driving into this wild terrain.
The road west from Baghdad traces the Euphrates River to Habbaniyah and then Ramadi, leading all the way to the border with Syria to the west. This dry, winding path was the cradle of Western civilization. At least four ancient civilizations had their roots in this earth: Babylon, Assyria, Akkad, and Sumer. It was the birthplace of the great biblical figures Abraham, Elisha, David, Jonah, and Noah. In our time, that road carried on its legacy of striving, struggle, and slaughter. Used for illegal trade since time immemorial, in 2006 it was still a principal smuggling route for the insurgency. The road was dotted with safe houses for criminals to hide in, under protection of tribal sheikhs who were always ready for a bribe and even more ready to murder, yet who were motivated all along by the old Arab tradition of giving hospitality to travelers. Since 2003, the road had been heavily traveled by U.S. military convoys. You never knew what fate held for you here.
Basically, it sucked.
It should have taken us thirty minutes to cover those fifteen miles in our two-and-a-half-ton cargo truck. But knowing about all the IEDs that had been detonated along the main road, we decided to take detours. Using back roads, the trip took hours. I enjoyed the drive, though. A buddy of mine from BUD/S, the officer in charge of Alfa Platoon, Lieutenant Clint, rode shotgun with me, and we used the downtime to talk shop and reminisce. By the time we reached our destination five hours later, we hardly noticed how all the pothole dancing left us numb in the ass.
Ramadi loomed over us like a shadow. The city gave off weird energy. Maybe it was our imagination. Or maybe not. We knew the violent state of things there. Al Qaeda had promised to restore Ramadi to its medieval state. As home to their caliphate, it would be run by strict Islamic law. They enforced their vision with a brutal willingness to slaughter innocents by the houseful. Hundreds of American troops had been killed in its streets in the past two years. About five thousand troops were now at work trying to return the city to a rudimentary level of livability. SEAL Team 3 was on the sharp edge of the sword with the Army and Marine Corps in the fight to retake it. They had helped start the fight, plunging into a bold new strategy to root out the enemy. Our job would be to help finish it and move the strategy toward a counterinsurgency.
Those of us who had seen Ramadi before—and Master Chief had spent much of 2005 there—were surprised by the shocking destruction that had been visited on the city. The place was a ruin. Buildings were reduced to crumbled facades. Weeds grew up through streets. Infrastructure was destroyed. Dust and rubble were everywhere. Already ravaged by Saddam’s excesses and UN sanctions, Ramadi now groaned under the weight of an insurgency and a U.S. military presence that was often, of necessity, quite heavy-handed. The runoff from broken sewer pipes turned street dust into a foul sludge. On a good day, the air came at us as though through an unventilated restroom. Businesses were closed because they lacked electricity, water, or basic security. The schools were all closed. There was no effective police force. Though a lot of people lived there, Ramadi had the feel of a ghost town. I know that makes no sense, but in Iraq, few things do.
And yet, while everything was coming apart, the city hollow and desolate, thousands of citizens had
stayed, braving all this, because that’s what Iraqis always did, making a tradition out of surviving whatever cruelties the world threw at them. It was heartbreaking to watch, and motivating at the same time. The people were working up the courage to fight for their homeland.
As the U.S. counterinsurgency strategy was implemented, our forces moved into the city to stay. The neighborhoods had to be patrolled regularly and made safe, no matter how much fire our forces took. To make life tolerably secure at our combat outposts, sometimes buildings had to be razed to give our guys clear lines of fire. Once in a while, our snipers and assaulters had to roll out and give the enemy a hard kick in the sack.
The headquarters of SEAL Task Unit Ramadi, the home of Alfa Platoon, adjoined the main U.S. military base in the city, Camp Ramadi, situated on the western edge of town. Camp Ramadi was home to an Army brigade headquarters that included elements of the First Armored Division as well as other Army and Marine Corps units. Shortly after we picked out our tents, Lieutenant Commander Thomas called me into his office and gave me some news. He told me that I was going to take over as acting chief of Alfa Platoon. Our current chief was needed elsewhere. So he recommended to Skipper and Master Chief that I take over the job. Though I was scared shitless of the promotion, all I could say was “Roger that, sir.” It was in my blood to respect the chain of command.
The reason why I was scared was pretty simple. When I was a shooter, a member of the “E-5 mafia,” all I had to do was show up, find my place in the stack, hit the target, and be ready to shoot again. The promotion to chief (E-7 pay grade), confronted me with so much more: planning missions, dealing with people, mediating disagreements, and determining accountability. Leadership responsibility was going to force me not only to stand on my own two feet but to climb to a higher level, where my every move would reset my reputation, the personal currency of the SEAL teams.
Though any commissioned officer is superior to him in rank, the chief petty officer is the one who makes Navy life go round. That’s the way it is on a ship, on a submarine, or in a SEAL platoon. A dozen times during my career I had benefited from the sure, steady hand of a senior petty officer who steered me in a useful direction. One of the most important influences on any new SEAL is his “sea daddy,” the chief of his first platoon, who serves as a mentor and shows him how to be a SEAL. Mine was a chief petty officer named Chris Gothro. When I was a twenty-three-year-old E-3, full of piss and vinegar, he took care of me—showed me the ropes and knots, so to speak. He kept me on the glide path, sent me to the right schools to get advanced qualifications as a medic, a sniper, and a comms guy. He taught me to volunteer for everything. There were rewards for discipline and loyalty—and, always, penalties for failure. Once, in Australia, when my redneck ways took me on an all-night bender and got my ass in a sling so tight I thought for sure my career was over, Chief Gothro was there to help me pay the piper. I begged him just to beat the crap out of me and be done with it. But he handled it as you would expect a good chief to. He knew how to keep my little character flaw from coming back in an even bigger way and really hurting my career. Long story short, punishments were administered and my life really sucked for about three months. (You can use your imagination, but you still won’t be close.) My sea daddy knew what I needed, and you can’t ask more of a leader than that.
Now I was standing in the chief’s shoes. I wasn’t sure I was ready for it, but, as with everything, I decided to give it my best shot.
The leadership position was nerve-racking in the beginning, but like everything else in life, it sorted itself out. Life quickly returned to feeling like business as usual. The high caliber of my platoon was one big reason the transition went smoothly. I knew I couldn’t be a shooter forever, and in the end I benefited from having had men far better than me show me how to handle the added responsibility.
I was lucky when I got in country to link up with the chief from Team 3. Chief Tony handled the pass-down to the Team 5 guys. He had a great reputation in the teams. He sat us down and gave us the play-by-play on how to fight and survive in Ramadi. He told us what was going on there, what parts of the city were hot, which tactics were working for them, and which weren’t. We talked about the operations they’d been running, the Iraqis they were working with, and what the state of play was with their training. Sitting there listening to him talk about patrols, routes, enemy tactics, and several dozen other things that could mean living or dying in this hellhole was an incredible experience. It was crazy, all the things he had seen.
When he handed out the maps his team had developed of the city, it was like looking at an inkblot test, a cluttered mess of markings, shadings, and comments. He told us, “It may look confusing now, but don’t worry, you’ll get it after a while.” He was right: you would be surprised how quickly you pick things up when your life is on the line. And we’d have a lot to learn about Ramadi that wasn’t on any map.
5
Shakeout Patrol
We unpacked our gear during most of the night of October 16. Our team house at Camp Marc Lee had been a dictator’s palace in older days. Fronted by impressive stone pillars, and situated right on the Euphrates River, the three-story stone building once served as quarters for the Iraqi dictator’s personal security detail. It wasn’t the most secure building we could have chosen. The riverfront side of our compound looked pretty exposed. Our best protection against the dangers of the street came from the high guard towers of Camp Ramadi. Situated to our west, the main U.S. base served as Camp Marc Lee’s rear wall. Because we were within easy range of rifle fire from the street, we filled the windows with sandbags and kept alert for incoming rounds no matter what side of the wall we were on.
The accommodations were basic and functional—spartan, just as we liked them. We spent our first days getting organized with our equipment and our accommodations. We sighted our weapons, worked out in the gym, and studied our maps. With summer at an end, the temperatures in western Iraq were slowly falling. It was eighty degrees on a typical October day. Soon, the winter rains would set in. But no matter the season, we would never have much hot water. Though SEALs aren’t high-maintenance guys, this does give us something of a problem. After all the time we spent freezing our asses in the cold surf during BUD/S, and all the diving exercises we SDV types did in icy water, we have little tolerance for cold showers. It’s a frogman thing—we’ll stink like sewers and bathe with baby wipes before we let ourselves freeze without an operation order. Freaking BUD/S; it ruins many of us forever.
Getting our minds around our new battle space was a high priority. On the night of our first day, rolling past midnight, I joined Lieutenant Commander Thomas, Senior Chief Steffen, our LPO, Marty Robbins, and half a dozen other team leaders on what we call a shakeout patrol or turnover op.
In a new combat environment, it usually takes several weeks to get our battle rhythm—a basic level of ease and comfort with the area we’re in and the kinds of things that can be expected to happen there. In time, you develop a nose for what’s normal and what’s not. You know how the people tend to move around. You learn when businesses are open or mosques are crowded. The goal of the shakeout patrol was to get our feet wet, to get acquainted with the area’s angles and corridors, and with its human dynamics as well. We had to get into rhythm with our own platoon, and also with the space around us and the local population. Some guys from Team 3 went with us to show us the ropes. Our first patrol was their last. Most of their teammates had left by the time we rolled out, but the guys who stayed behind earned our gratitude. They accepted risks that had to weigh heavily on them during that last night in country. What they taught us would later save lives, and we will forever be in their debt.
Finding our battle rhythm is the first step in a gradual process of plugging ourselves into our own network. SEALs have a culture of independence, sure, but we also develop a sort of hive mind. We interlink, learn to anticipate, think with each other, through each other, and for each other. Then we do
the same with our environment. When we do it right, our senses align with our surroundings and danger can reveal itself in something as instinctual as the hairs standing up on the back of your neck. But it takes time to get there.
Experience has shown us that our casualties tend to occur at the beginning and end of our deployments. At the beginning, we’re unfamiliar with the area of operations. At the end, with a flight home close on the calendar—and a steak dinner, a warm bed, and the first sight of a woman in maybe six or seven months (but, most important, the steak dinner)—we can get complacent. It’s simply human nature. The casualties that Team 3 took, losing Mike Monsoor less than three weeks earlier, told us we had to get up to speed fast, because the day would come when we’d be going after the same guys who had killed him—and more besides.
I liked the fact that an officer of Lieutenant Commander Thomas’s high caliber and long experience was running our show. He and my brother are very close, having practically grown up together in the teams. His friendship with Morgan automatically made him close to me. Like the center of an hourglass, I was Thomas’s conduit to the men. I made sure he knew the pulse of the guys who made it happen. I handled small problems and kept him up to speed on their morale. And when necessary, I took it the other way, letting the guys know what was going on at the top. I tried my best to stay in the middle to protect my guys from all the politics and make sure the head shed never had a reason to get upset with the boys. Luckily, our two platoons were squared away, so I never had to worry about trouble from above.
It’s common to think of people in the military as conformists. But that’s far from the truth in our community. Some pretty capable and colorful types join the SEAL teams, looking for bigger challenges than their high-flying careers or other interesting backgrounds can offer. Whether doctor, lawyer, longshoreman, college dropout, engineer, or NCAA Division I superathlete, they were more than just good special operators. They were a cohesive team whose strength came from their widely diverse talents, educational backgrounds, upbringings, perspectives, and capabilities. They’re all-American and patriotic, with a combination of practical intelligence and willpower that you don’t want to get crossways with. Streetwise, innovative, adaptable, and often highly intellectual—these are all words that apply to the community. And the majority are so nice that it can be hard to envision their capacity for violent mayhem. BUD/S filters out four of every five aspirants, leaving behind only the hardest and most determined—the best. I was so proud and humbled to be a part of the brotherhood.