Echo in Ramadi

The Firsthand Story of US Marines in Iraq's Deadliest City

Scott A. Huesing

• Publisher: Regnery History
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN: 9781621577348
• eBook ISBN: 9781621577638
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Military & Maritime History
• Index: History

Winner of the 2019 Gold Medal Awar d, Best Military History Memoir, Military Writers Society of America Ranked inthe "Top 10 Military Books of 2018" by Military Times. "In war, destruction is everywhere. It eats everything around you. Sometimes it eats at you." —Major Scott Huesing, Echo Company Commander From the winter of 2006 through the spring of 2007, two-hundred-fifty Marines from Echo Company, Second Battalion, Fourth Marine Regiment fought daily in the dangerous, dense city streets of Ramadi, Iraq during the Multi-National Forces Surge ordered by President George W. Bush. The Marines' mission: to kill or capture anti-Iraqi forces. Their experience: like being in Hell. Now Major Scott A. Huesing, the commander who led Echo Company through Ramadi, takes readers back to the streets of Ramadi in a visceral, gripping portrayal of modern urban combat. Bound together by brotherhood, honor, and the horror they faced, Echo's Marines battled day-to-day on the frontline of a totally different kind of war, without rules, built on chaos. In Echo in Ramadi, Huesing brings these resilient, resolute young men to life and shows how the savagery of urban combat left indelible scars on their bodies, psyches, and souls. Like war classics We Were Soldiers, The Yellow Birds, and Generation Kill, Echo in Ramadi is an unforgettable capsule of one company's experience of war that will leave readers stunned.

CHAPTER 1

Phone Call

When I lost my first Marine in Echo Company, I was thirty-six years old.

We’d been battling in Ramadi, Iraq, in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom in 2006. Echo Company was made up of 248 men. But they were my men. Each of them was my watch, my responsibility. I trained them hard hoping that it would protect each and every one of them from the dangers of combat. I knew it was impossible in reality. I knew in my head that Ramadi was a dangerous place. I had prepared myself for the inevitability of losing Marines—or at least I thought I had. Now one had died, and it felt like a part of me had gone missing.

Corporal Dustin Libby—twenty-two years old from Maine—had taken a fatal bullet during a grueling four-hour firefight in Ramadi. He had died fighting to protect his platoon. Our Company. My Company.

Libby’s death hit me hard. It was almost incomprehensible to me to think about it. There was so much chaos that night. His death stunned us all, and when we heard the official report—the blur of fighting throughout the dark hours had distracted us from expressing any real emotions. But as the morning came, so did the reality that Libby was gone.

I was stationed at Camp Pendleton in Oceanside, California, when I met Libby before shoving off to Iraq. I was living in my office at the battalion command post and Libby, like the rest of the single Marines, was at the Bachelor Enlisted Quarters.

They tell us from day one as an officer that we should never have favorites, or at least not show that we have preferences in our unit. But I would be lying if I said Corporal Libby wasn’t one of my favorites. He was one of many, I suppose.

He had a cool, nonchalant attitude about him, yet he exuded confidence well above his years. Libby was as even-tempered as they came. He wasn’t timid in any endeavor—this included engaging his superiors in conversation.

I showed up at the barracks late one evening. Libby stood on the catwalk leaning against the metal railing. He was a good-looking kid with blonde hair—wiry 160 pounds at five-ten. He was shirtless. I read the Old English style letters “USMC” tattooed across his stomach, about four inches and centered above his belly button. Tattoos were badges of pride that many Marines wore.

I had none.

I’d come close on a couple of occasions as a lance corporal—drunk and waving a fistful of cash at a local tattoo artist in Oceanside and both times denied service.

Libby politely struck up a conversation as I approached his room. Like British royalty asking me to sit down for tea, he had a beer at the ready and asked if I would care for one. I didn’t decline.

It was times like those that my relationship with Libby developed. From then on, I always counted on his honesty, opinions, and loyalty to the Marines he led. His force of personality was something that made Libby indispensable to the men of his squad and made his leaders depend on him. When rounds are flying, they don’t distinguish between rank, age, color, or religion—Libby understood this intrinsically. We were all brothers thrust into the chasm, and we took care of each other better than anyone else we’ve ever known.

On that fateful night, Lance Corporals Jonathan Neris, Christopher Muscle, Jonathan Yenglin, and Hospitalman Nate “Doc” Dicks, sat with Corporal Libby in their room at Entry Control Point (ECP) 8, their battle position in the heart of central Ramadi. They were bullshitting and cracking jokes at each other’s expense like most Marines do to kill time. Libby regaled his men with excerpts and quotes from his favorite movies, Hang ‘Em High and The Boondock Saints. They were interrupted when gunfire snapped against the walls. Their adrenaline surged.

Fourth Platoon was completely engaged in one of the most complex attacks we’d faced to date. They raced to the rooftop. A blaze of intense small arms fire lit the air. Deafening bursts from machine guns made it impossible to communicate. The battle raged on, and the Marines fought side by side. Neris caught Libby out of the corner of his eye. He heard Libby say, “I’m reloading my M-203.” But then Libby didn’t come back up. He looked down and saw that Libby had fallen.

With rounds still smacking the walls of ECP 8, Neris took a knee in the middle of the roof. Tears came down his face, his chest heaved, and he tried to stifle the short audible gasps. He didn’t want his squad to see him cry.

As the firefight wound down in the early morning hours, every Marine in 4th Platoon found out about the loss of Libby and began to feel it. The next day, I carried their pain and mine, and I moved about numb and willing myself to not break down. I couldn’t because my Marines were looking to me for strength.

There is a formal process in the Marine Corps called the Casualty Assistance Calls Program (CACP). Select Marines—Casualty Assistance Calls Officers (CACOs)—have the unenviable job and the immense responsibility of being the first to officially notify family members of Marines killed in action (KIA). They arrive in formal blue dress uniforms and knock on front doors of family members, bearing the worst news anyone could ever get—or ever give. The CACO process had already been completed for Corporal Libby when I began to put pen to paper and started writing my letters of condolence to his mother, Geni, and his father, Judd.

Marine Corps officers get a minuscule amount of training on how to properly approach family members about the loss of their son or daughter. Normally, “training” involves a class or two with a homework assignment of writing a fictional letter. I’ve got a news flash—no class can teach the right protocol. To find the right words in real life is near impossible. Emotions run rampant at the death of a Marine who, hours before, stood next to you, fought beside you, was someone you knew at a personal level—someone who became your brother—someone who would have died for you.

But I knew I couldn’t just write Libby’s parents a canned letter of condolence.

He deserved better. His parents deserved a phone call.

In terms of time, Ramadi is eight hours ahead of Castle Hill, Maine, so it wasn’t until late that night that I was able to call Libby’s family via an Iridium satellite cell phone.

Everyone from the Echo Company headquarters staff was in the Tactical Operations Center (TOC) in our little corner of the battalion command center planning space. I told First Sergeant Thom Foster that I had to step out to make a phone call.

He looked at me with a face lined with deep wrinkles. Those around his mouth were set and grim. In a quiet voice, he said, “Take all the time you need, sir. I have everything covered for a while.”

Outside the TOC, darkness engulfed the area. Within the confines of Camp Corregidor, AM General High Mobility Multi-Purpose Wheeled Vehicles (HMMWVs—also known as Humvees), generators, and pallets of supplies were laid out in no particular fashion. The M1-A1 tanks, however, were lined up in a nice neat row, twenty deep.

I found a place out of view from the soldiers and Marines. A Humvee sat parked in the shadows behind the TOC, so I set my helmet on the hood then placed my satellite phone next to it. Despite the cool night air, when I ripped open the Velcro closure on my body armor, musty steam instantly escaped. I rifled through my breast pocket. The dialing instructions for the phone and my CACO sheet with family notification phone numbers sat tucked inside.

I turned on the small red-lens Petzl helmet light strapped to my Kevlar so I could read the information. The papers were damp from my sweat, and I pushed the tiny power button of the phone on. The keypad and screen lit up with a greenish glow. My stomach began to knot tight as I dialed the number for Libby’s mom.

As the phone rang, my throat tightened from nerves as a hundred thoughts of how this speech was going to sound ran through my head. I thought for sure she wouldn’t even want to talk to me. I had no idea what to say to a mother who had lost her son. I thought that surely everything I had to say would sound so canned and insincere as if I was reading off a pre-written government script.

On the fifth ring, a frail-sounding, sweet voice came on the line.

“Hello.”

Geni Libby. Corporal Dustin Libby’s mother.

I introduced myself. “Mrs. Libby, this is Captain Scott Huesing, your son’s company commander and . . . ”

My voice began to crack. I had to take a moment and find the words.

“ . . . I can’t tell you how truly sorry I am at the loss of Dustin.”

Tears came quickly to my eyes, and a lump rose in my throat as I uttered that first sentence. I had not felt that afraid to speak since I was a child and endured that uncontrollable terror of having to tell the truth after something bad happened—I struggled with it.

I tried to imagine what Geni looked like as I spoke. I wondered what she was doing and if her family was around her at the time. I didn’t expect it to be so hard, and I tried to hold back the pain, but I couldn’t seem to get a grasp of my emotions. I knew she could hear it in my voice.

As the conversation continued, I tried evading some of her questions, but she pressed me for specific details about that night. She already knew that he had died from a single gunshot wound to the neck, having been told this by the CACO.

I gently tried to explain the events, including how I was in the Tactical Operations Center at Camp Corregidor when the call for the casualty evacuation (CASEVAC) came across the radio as we raced to her son’s aid.

I told her that Dustin had fought bravely in the face of a tough, well-organized enemy, and that his actions saved the lives of countless Marines in his platoon before he was wounded. I told her how we rushed Dustin to the battalion aid station at the Combat Outpost in my Humvee.

“Thank you for telling me the truth,” she said.

“Dustin meant a lot to me,” I said. “He was truly one of my favorites in Echo Company. I know there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for his Marines.”

Geni was silent for a moment. “Dustin loved bein...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Foreword
• Prologue
• Chapter 1: Phone Call
• Chapter 2: Lieutenants
• Chapter 3: Movement
• Chapter 4: Pressure
• Chapter 4.1: Phrogs
• Chapter 5: Sixth
• Chapter 6: Terps
• Chapter 7: Seventh
• Chapter 8: Angels
• Chapter 9: Livestock
• Chapter 10: Sacrifice
• Chapter 11: Fallbrook
• Chapter 11.1: Rollup
• Chapter 12: Captive
• Chapter 13: Tigers
• Chapter 14: Jump
• Chapter 15: Mopeds
• Chapter 16: Rafts
• Chapter 17: Millions
• Chapter 18: Damage
• Chapter 19: Ta’meem
• Chapter 20: West
• Chapter 21: Gateway
• Chapter 21.1: Pueblo
• Chapter 22: Anthem
• Chapter 23: Mosques
• Chapter 24: Crush
• Chapter 25: Governance
• Chapter 26: Wreckage
• Chapter 27: Liberty
• Chapter 28: Tribute
• Chapter 29: Risk
• Chapter 30: Unseen
• Gratitude