Table of Contents
BOOKS BY PATRICK K. ODONNELL
Beyond Valor
Into the Rising Sun
Operatives, Spies, and Saboteurs
We Were One
The Brenner Assignment
They Dared Return
To my cute-o-saurus, the greatest daughter in the world, Lily
To the heroic men of George Company
To Amtrak, the greatest way to see the country and write a bookon the rails
PREFACE
January 2005, on the flight home from the Battle of Fallujah to Camp Pendleton, California.
MARINES in uniform packed the commercial airliner. Most of the men had aged well beyond their nineteen or twenty years. As I looked to my left, I noticed that Lance Corporal Dustin Turpen was holding two weapons as he stared blankly down the aisle toward the cockpit. One belonged to him, but the other contained the distinctive 203 grenade launcher. The pitted and pockmarked weapon had formerly belonged to Corporal Michael Hanks, one of Turpens fire team leaders. Two months earlier, in the fierce fighting at Fallujah, Hanks took mortal wounds while clearing a small house used by the insurgents to launch an ambush. I had helped carry Hanks from the house to the street, where he died of his wounds.
As the plane made its way over the Atlantic and into American airspace, a massive cheer went up from everyone on board. A tingle ran up my spine; it felt good to be an American. We were finally home.
Shortly thereafter, I made my way toward the center of the plane for a soda. A Marine from another company whom I had not met approached and, somewhat angrily, asked why I, as a civilian, was wearing a Marine uniform: It took me thirteen weeks to have the opportunity to wear this uniform.You think you earned it?
As he said that, I looked down at my boots, which were still coated a dark brown burgundy from Mike Hanks blood.
I just looked at him, and another Marine from the unit I was with answered affirmatively for me. During the Battle of Fallujah, I wore a Marine Corps uniform while I cleared houses and fought with the troops. Why? It was a simple matter of survival. Its something I rarely discussa part of my life thats been airbrushed over. Like many of the men on the plane, I too wore the thousand-yard-starethe result of multiple near-death experiences in combat.
Nevertheless, the encounter made me uneasy, and I changed into civilian clothes onboard the plane.
The aircraft touched down, first in Maine and then later at an airbase in California. There, a bus shuttled the men of Lima Company, First Platoon,Third Battalion, First Marine Regiment (or 3/1, as they are called) and me to Camp Pendleton, California. When we arrived, all of First Platoon walked across a small bridge ringed with yellow bows. On the other side stood the families of the soldiers.
Because I had asked my family not to attend, I was completely alone. As I made my way across the bridge, I could sense people wondering who I was. It was a surreal experience.
Standing with the families were several older men wearing Marine Corps emblemsveterans from a previous war. One wore a red Marine Corps windbreaker, and another had on a red shirt with a golden embroidered eagle globe and anchor on his chest near his heart.
The veterans greeted me warmly and after a brief conversation, I asked the veterans what they thought about this generation of Marines. One told me, I think this might be the next great generation. He was impressed by the quality of the men today and their willingness to go to Iraq and Afghanistan over and over. He then proceeded to tell me that he had fought at Guadalcanal, throughout the Solomons, and was later wounded in the Pacific. He was back in action for the Korean War.
Next, he told me, You know that 3/1 carried the George Company battle guidon in Fallujah. In the November 2004 Battle of Fallujah, I had seen that guidon carried into the battle. It was the same flag carried by George Company through the major campaigns of the Korean WarSeoul, Inchon, Chosin, and beyond.
In one of those remarkable random acts of kindness, one of the veterans, Lieutenant Colonel Clark Henry, asked me, Would you like a ride to the train station and lunch? Alone and without a ride, I gladly accepted. Other veterans of George Company joined us.
As we sat down for a meal, I began telling them First Platoons story.They listened intently. One of the men then chimed in, Youre a Marine too.
I said nothing, but felt deeply honored by the compliment.
For the past ten or fifteen years, the men of George Company have always been there for the Marines of 3/1, sending countless care packages, coming to events, and feeding wounded warriors with their support, both financial and emotional. Whenever the unit is deployed or returns home, these senior Marines attend to show their support. They care.
After lunch, they dropped me off at the train station. As we parted, Robert Camarillo said, You know, George Company has a pretty interesting story also.We held off elements of an entire regiment of Chinese at East Hill of the Chosin Reservoir. I didnt know it then, but his self-effacing and offhand comment belied the fact that George Companys story closely resembled the classic tale of the epic stand of three hundred Spartans who held off the Persians.
On five separate occasions George Company (outnumbered at least ten to one) made stands against enemy regiments.
And just like thatlike most of the books that I have writtenthe story found me.
Over the past five years, Ive come to know the men of George Company. They invited me to their reunions, and theyve become my friends. They have remained active in the lives of the Marines of First Platoon, as well as the Marines of 3/1. This book is a story about George Company, and a story of war and its aftermath. As one George Company Marine put it best, The generations are all interconnected.
Prologue
THE COLD WINDS of autumn were setting in, and the leaves just beginning to turn amber and crimson. In late September 1986, thirty-six years after their first taste of combat, the men of George Company reunited.
The aging warriors circled a room in the Thayer Hotel, located a stones throw from the U.S. Military Academy in West Point, New York. The venerable hotel had served as a temporary home to numerous dignitaries, generals, and even General Douglas MacArthurs mother, who stayed there while he attended the academy.
The castlelike ambience of the building seemed to fit the event. The handcrafted woodwork from the 1920s lent a stately air to the occasion.This chilly autumn day, it would be home to blood brothers who for the most part had not seen each other in three decades. Each man was anxious in his own way; the moment, bittersweet.
The majority of George Company hung up their uniforms at the close of the Korean War. They returned home, eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds who had grown older than their fathers. Part of the Forgotten War, the Leathernecks never talked about their experiences to anyone. America was ambivalent about their sacrifices. Nobody understood, and unlike WWII, nobody seemed to care about the Korean War. But the invisible scars of war remained. In some cases, those wounds had grown deeper, manifesting themselves in phantasmal dreams. But in the hospitality room at the Thayer, the men rarely discussed the unpleasant side of war, even among friends.
