[Fredslist] Reflections and stories of war

[David Abeshouse]

Gotham: 

My friend and fellow Gothamite John Dugan (Gotham L.I. and L.I. HealthCare)
had technical difficulty posting this yesterday, so I'm posting it for him
today -- I wanted to make clear that while I know and support John, his son,
his family, and the extraordinary efforts our young men and women overseas
do to protect us, this is their story and their heroism (not mine).  I only
can aspire to such service, sacrifice, and dedication. 

Here's John's note, and the story follows below. 

 * * * * * 

To all fellow Gotham  Members

This story is about my son Cpl. John C. Dugan's unit, the 1/3 Marines,
Charlie Co. (infantry) as they left the Line of Departure on Nov. 8, 2004 to
begin Operation Phantom Fury, the Battle of Fallujah. 

It was written by a Marine Reporter embedded with his unit. Several Marines
were severely wounded in the track explosion. My son had some blast trauma
around his face but was able to continue in the operation. I offer this to
all on Veterans Day (and the 235th Birthday -- Nov. 10, 1775 -- of the USMC)
to give you some idea of what our young and heroic combat troops face for
us. Note also my daughter Amanda's expressed sentiment as an insight into
the profound experience of military family members.



John Dugan 

Farmingdale Physical Therapy


 
Begin forwarded message:

From:  Amanda Dugan
Date: November 8, 2010 11:56:44 PM EST
To:  -


For my Brother, and ALL THE FALLUJAH VETS...6 years ago today...


by  <http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=728775214> Amanda Dugan on
Sunday, November 7, 2010 at 10:24pm


A P.O.G. pays tribute to 1/3 Charlie infantry Marines

Sgt. Clinton Firstbrook, combat correspondent with 1st Marine Division,
wrote this candid and compelling account of his experience with 1/3 Charlie
during the Battle of Fallujah.
 

On Nov. 8, I was cramped inside an Amtrac with 28 Marines in full combat
gear when two mortar rounds landed next to our position. The flash lit the
inside of the vehicle and the Marines who were standing fell. Several
screamed they had been hit. As sparks floated to the floor, and as blood
from the Marine standing next to me ran down the side of my flak jacket, all
I could think was What had I gotten myself into? 

Four months ago, my life was different. I worked in the Community Relations
office at the Pentagon, which I refer to as the concrete jungle; one wrong
turn and you're lost. I wore service Charlies every day and only broke out
my cammies for field day. An average day for me consisted of answering phone
calls, faxes and e-mails from people who had questions about the Marine
Corps. My main job was handling Marine Corps band requests from all around
the U.S. It was an administrative job, but it wasn't too bad. Stress for me
was waiting around for the shuttle bus to go back to Henderson Hall when it
didn't show up on time. When a quota came out requesting combat
correspondents to deploy for Iraq, I raised my hand. It's hard to explain
why now, but I just wanted to be a part of what was going on over here. Six
months later, I was working at the Combined Press Information Center in
Baghdad, traveling around the country writing stories on all of the services
stationed in Iraq. I saw my fair share of mortar attacks and convoy patrols,
but never any real combat. A week before we entered Fallujah, I was assigned
to the I Marine Expeditionary Force to report on the 1st Marine Division's
Marines, soldiers, sailors and airmen during the impending Operation Al
Fajr.

A few days after arriving to Camp Fallujah, I was attached to Charlie's
third platoon, in 1st Battalion, 3rd Marines. Running around with a camera
the size of a football doesn't really allow you to blend. I heard jokes as
soon as my boots hit the ground. First they asked if I'm a photographer,
then came the lines from Full Metal Jacket.  Seen any combat? Nothing I'm
not used to though, it goes with the territory.

As the days went by, I tried to attend every brief and training exercise the
platoon conducted. I wanted to know exactly where I'd be placed when we got
into the thick of things. I'm a P.O.G. (person other than grunt) and proud
of it, but I didn't want to do anything stupid when rounds were going down
range.

Three days before we left , I was assigned to first squad, third fire team.
I would be the fourth man. They were a tight group of guys who did
everything together and understand why the higher ups wanted me along for
this mission. They answered every question I had about their role in the
squad. Even after the platoon had finished its training each day, they spent
countless hours with me going over tactics to make sure I would know what to
do and how to react when thrown into certain situations. However, none of
the extra training prepared me for that first night in the Fallujah.

When the Amtrac doors opened and everyone ran out, I didn't even think of
trying to take pictures. I ran right behind someone and jumped down right
next to him. All I wanted to do was find cover. Two members of my fire team
were extracted by medevac right then and there. I was left to fend for
myself, and so was the other Marine left from my fire team. I just looked to
the guys beside me and did what they did.

When we loaded up again to head for the breech point, my legs started
shaking uncontrollably. I tried to hide it, but I know whoever was sitting
next to me felt it. I grabbed a railing in the opening of the Amtrac to
steady myself and put my hand in a pool of blood. I knew exactly what it was
and tried to wipe it off right away. I didn't want to think about what had
just happened.

When we arrived at the breech point a few hundred meters from the city,
there were no fires or explosions to light our way. It was a moonless night,
and I could barely make out the Marines who were running in front of me. We
trekked through ankle-deep mud, stumbling over the holes and ditches hidden
in the shadows of our night-vision goggles. We were trying to find our way
to the point where we were supposed to infiltrate the city. I was still
shaken up, but I pushed forward.

When we arrived at the edge of the city, all was quiet except for the
rumbling prayers emanating from a mosque that was held by insurgents. We
were the first platoon from 1/3 to enter Fallujah, and the enemy was unaware
of our presence.

We sneaked as quiet as possible down the first street of broken-down
buildings looking for a place to establish a foothold  our first objective.
While part of the platoon looked for a house to base our operations, the
rest of us bounded in fire teams to the first intersection. As I lay in the
prone behind a mound of dirt alongside two other Marines, I could make out
our second objective: a mosque held by insurgents.

We only laid there for a minute or two when I started hearing shouts in
Arabic that seemed to be coming from right around the corner: Ensha Allah!
(God willing) Allahhoo akbar! (God is great).

I couldn't see anyone, but I knew they were out there waiting. Then it
happened. Barrel flashes from AK-47s sprayed tracer rounds over our heads at
once in every direction. Our battle for Fallujah had started, and I was
nowhere near ready for it.

When there was a lull in gun fire, we pulled back to a safer position. Not
being able to see everything and having rounds bearing down on my position
plus the mortar incident earlier  was too much. I thought I was going to die
right then and there. I'm a P.O.G. What am I doing here on the front lines?
I don't belong here. Thoughts like that echoed in my mind as each second
passed and I made them well known. I didn't care. I wanted out of there and
back in the rear. To my surprise, I wasn't laughed at or mocked. They told
me it'll be all right and not to worry; they were going to watch my back.
The Marines I talked to said they were just as scared. While they said they
were afraid, I didn't see their fear. None of them faltered or hesitated
while doing their jobs. I watched as they ran through a hail of bullets
diving behind a makeshift wall of cinder blocks to lay down cover and
suppressing fire as other members of their squad ran to other positions down
the street. I have respect for all Marines no matter what their occupation
because they earned the title just as I did, but that night, I gained a
newfound respect for O3's, infantrymen different from the respect I gave
everyone else.

For some reason, when the sun rose, my fear melted away with the night sky.
Everything that had occurred only hours before seemed unreal like I was
watching a movie. During the weeks that followed, I fed off the strength of
the Marines around me and the patrols and fire fights hardly bothered me.
Don't get me wrong, I was still nervous every time we went in to clear a
house, but I felt different somehow in a way that I can't even describe. I
hope the history books depict Fallujah as it should, describing the heroic
acts and sacrifices of the Marines who took part in the operation. In time,
some of my memories might fade only to be remembered when I scan over the
images I captured on film, but I will never forget the Marines of Charlie
Company who fought beside me. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for them. They
are the reason I can tell this story today.

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