One Bullet Away

A few months later, I was working in Washington, D.C., and the platoon was back in Iraq. I drove down to Virginia Beach on a Thursday morning in April to pin a Bronze Star on Shawn Patrick’s chest. He had recovered from his wound and was an instructor at the Amphibious Reconnaissance School, training new recon Marines. As I passed Quantico on I-95, I listened to the national security advisor testifying before the 9/11 Commission. The symbolism struck me — passing the place where I had begun my Marine Corps career, listening to a debate over the event that had launched me into two years of combat, traveling to a ceremony to close a chapter of the story.

The phone rang. It was Cara Wynn, Mike’s wife. She was breathless, speaking so fast that I could barely understand her.

“The platoon was ambushed in Fallujah. A bunch of guys were hit and flown to Germany. That’s all I know right now.”

While on patrol, Bravo Company had hit a sophisticated combined-arms ambush. A group of insurgents had opened fire on the convoy from behind a berm next to the road. An RPG had exploded inside the lead Humvee. One Marine had lost both his hands, and four others had been wounded. The platoon had attacked the ambushers’ position, killing dozens of them.

In Virginia Beach, Sergeant Patrick stood unblinking as his commanding officer read the Bronze Star citation:

For professional achievement in the superior performance of his duties while serving in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom as Reconnaissance Team Leader, Team Two, Second Platoon, Bravo Company, First Reconnaissance Battalion, First Marine Division, from March, 2003 to May, 2003. On the night of April 1, while entering the town of Muwaffiqiya, Iraq, Sergeant Patrick was shot in an enemy ambush. While under hostile fire from three directions, he applied a tourniquet to his wound, resumed firing, and directed his team’s fire onto enemy targets, inflicting massive damage on the enemy forces. Sergeant Patrick remained in the kill zone and continued leading the Marines in his team until the enemy had been annihilated and his fellow Marines were out of harm’s way. Sergeant Patrick’s exceptional professional ability, initiative, and loyal dedication to duty reflect great credit upon himself and are in keeping with the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service.

We went to dinner afterward to celebrate, but we worried about our friends seven thousand miles away and wished we could be with them.

On my drive back to Washington, Cara called again. “Nate, I have some bad news.”

I pulled over to the side of the road, waiting as if watching someone wind up, in slow motion, to punch me.

“Captain Morel’s dead.”

Brent had been shot in the chest while leading the platoon’s counterattack. The Marines who fought to save him said that he had survived the golden hour. They recalled that when he died, aboard the casevac helicopter, he was so pale that his red hair had turned gray.

The new World War II Memorial in Washington had opened to visitors before its formal dedication. Still in shock over Brent’s death, I drove into the city under a full moon to see it. I needed a physical connection to sacrifice. Floodlights bathed the circle of granite slabs in a warm yellow glow, much less harsh than the stark white of the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. Elms towered just beyond the circle of light.