American Sniper: The Autobiography Of The Most Lethal Sniper In U.S. Military History Part 39

But I had an idea. I led the Ranger to the base hospital, and found a corpsman. I've worked with a number as a SEAL, and in my experience, the Navy medics always know their way around problems.

I took a SEAL challenge coin out of my pocket and slipped it into my hand, exchanging it when we shook. (Challenge coins are special tokens that are created to honor members of a unit for bravery or other special achievements. A SEAL challenge coin is especially valued, both for its rarity and symbolism. Slipping it to someone in the Navy is like giving him a secret handshake.)

"Listen," I told the corpsman. "I need a serious favor. I'm a SEAL, a sniper. My unit is in Ramadi. I got to get there, and he's coming with me." I gestured to the Ranger.

"Okay," said the corpsman, his voice almost a whisper. "Come into my office."

We went into his office. He took out a rubber stamp, inked our hands, then wrote something next to the mark.

It was a triage code.

The corpsman medevac'd us into Ramadi. We were the first, and probably only, people to be medevac'd into a battle rather than out of it.

And I thought only SEALs could be that creative.

I have no idea why that worked, but it did. No one on the chopper we were hustled into questioned the direction of our flight, let alone the nature of our "wounds."

SHARK BASE

Ramadi was in al-Anbar, the same province as Fallujah, about thirty miles farther west. Many of the insurgents who'd been run out of Fallujah were said to have holed up there. There was plenty of evidence: attacks had ratcheted up ever since Fallujah had been pacified. By 2006, Ramadi was considered the most dangerous city in Iraq-a h.e.l.l of a distinction.

My platoon had been sent to Camp Ramadi, a U.S. base along the Euphrates River outside the city. Our compound, named Shark Base, had been set up by an earlier task unit and was just outside the wire of Camp Ramadi.

When I finally arrived, my boys had been sent to work east of Ramadi. Arranging transportation through the city was impossible. I was p.i.s.sed-I thought I'd gotten there too late to join in the action.

Looking for something to do until I could figure out how to get with the rest of the platoon, I asked my command if I could sit out on the guard towers. Insurgents had been testing the perimeters, sneaking as close as they dared and spraying the base with their AKs.

"Sure, go ahead," they told me.

I went out and took my sniper rifle. Almost as soon as I got into position, I saw two guys skirting around in the distance, looking for a spot to shoot from.

I waited until they popped up behind cover.

Bang.

I got the first one. His friend turned around and started to run.

Bang.

Got him, too.

SEVEN STORY

I was still waiting for a chance to join the rest of my platoon when the Marine unit at the northern end of the city put in a request for snipers to help with an overwatch from a seven-story building near their outpost.

The head shed asked me to come up with a team. There were only two other snipers at the base. One was recovering from wounds and looped out on morphine; the other was a chief who appeared reluctant to go.

I asked for the guy who was on morphine; I got the chief.

We found two 60 gunners, including Ryan Job, to provide a little muscle, and with an officer headed out to help the Marines.

Seven Story was a tall, battered building about two hundred yards outside the Marine outpost. Made of tan-colored cement and located near what had been a major road before the war, it looked almost like a modern office building, or would have if it weren't for the missing windows and huge holes where it had been hit by rockets and sh.e.l.ls. It was the tallest thing around and had a perfect vantage into the city.

We went out in early evening with several Marines and local jundis for security. The jundis were loyal Iraqi militia or soldiers who were being trained; there were a number of different groups, each with its own level of expertise and efficiency-or, most often, the opposite of both.

While there was still light, we got a few shots here and there, all on isolated insurgents. The area around the building was pretty rundown, a whitewashed wall with a fancy iron gate separating one sand-strewn empty lot from another.

Night fell, and suddenly we were in the middle of a flood of bad guys. They were on their way to a.s.sault the Marine outpost and we just happened to be along the route. There were a ton of them.

At first, they didn't realize we were there, and it was open season. Then, I saw three guys with RPGs taking aim at us from about a block away. I shot each of them in succession, saving us the ha.s.sle of ducking from their grenades.

The firefight quickly s.h.i.+fted our way. The Marines called us over the radio and told us to collapse back to them.

Their outpost was a few hundred treacherous yards away. While one of the 60 gunners, my officer, and I provided cover fire, the rest of our group went downstairs and moved over to the Marine base. Things got hot so fast that by the time they were clear we were surrounded. We stayed where we were.

Ryan realized our predicament as soon as he arrived at the Marine outpost. He and the chief got into an argument over whether to provide cover for us. The chief claimed that their job was to stay with the Iraqi jundis, who were already hunkered down inside the Marine camp. The chief ordered him to stay; Ryan told him what he could do with that order.

Ryan ran upstairs on the roof of the Marine building, where he joined the Marines trying to lay down support fire for us as we fought off the insurgents.

The Marines sent a patrol over to pull us out. As I watched them coming from the post, I spotted an insurgent moving in behind them.

I fired once. The Marine patrol hit the dirt. So did the Iraqi, though he didn't get up.

"There's [an insurgent] sniper out there and he's good," their radio man called. "He nearly got us."

I got on my radio.

"That's me, dumba.s.s. Look behind you."

They turned around and saw a savage with a rocket launcher lying dead on the ground.

"G.o.d, thank you," answered the Marine.

"Don't mention it."

The Iraqis did have snipers working that night. I got two of them-one who was up on the minaret of a mosque, and another on a nearby building. This was a fairly well-coordinated fight, one of the better-organized ones we would encounter in the area. It was unusual, because it took place at night; the bad guys generally didn't try and press their luck in the dark.

Finally, the sun came up and the gunfire slacked down. The Marines pulled out a bunch of armored vehicles to cover for us, and we ran back to their camp.

I went up to see their commander and brief him on what had happened. I had barely gotten a sentence out of my mouth when a burly Marine officer burst into the office.

"Who the h.e.l.l was the sniper up there on Seven Story?" he barked.

I turned around and told him it was me, bracing myself to be chewed out for some unknown offense.

"I want to shake your hand, son," he said, pulling off his glove. "You saved my life."