There I Was…
Often the best war stories start with, “There I was,” or “What happened was…”
So—there I was.
As a Chaplain, my war stories do not include exciting accounts of engaging the enemy. That said, I often placed myself in locations where the enemy did engage me—I just couldn’t shoot back. Technically, the Army issued me a weapon system, so if the enemy got close enough, they could engage.
My weapon system consisted of a single Chaplain Assistant (now called a Religious Affairs Specialist) who carried an M4 to protect both me and himself. That’s right—one weapon between the two of us.
I did not make my assistant’s job easy.
Many chaplains do not run toward the sound of booms and gunfire. I did.
Army regulations prohibit chaplains from carrying firearms. The only “weapon” I was authorized to carry was what I jokingly called my religious tool—a very large knife strapped to my side that extended nearly halfway down my thigh. Some Soldiers had a running bet that I carried a sidearm. Since they could only see the end of the scabbard beneath my blouse, they assumed it was a pistol. When I learned of the bet, I had to disappoint one Soldier by informing him he’d lost $20.
I called it my religious tool because I told my Soldiers, “You shoot them—I’ll circumcise them.”
It was a joke. I’m sure some will be offended, but after enough years in uniform, dark humor becomes a survival skill. I hit my 20-year mark while deployed to Iraq in 2004. By the time I retired in 2022, I had served 38 years and 3 days. Let’s just say I developed a bit of dark humor.
And for the record—I never circumcised anyone with my religious tool.
The vehicle in the picture above was mine in Iraq. For the first seven months of deployment, it had no up-armor. I patrolled outside the wire in a soft-sided Humvee—canvas doors, canvas roof, no ballistic glass. We had sandbags on the floorboard to “protect” us from IEDs. I was the driver, since I carried no weapon. If I needed a weapon, the vehicle was my weapon.
Before we even rolled into Iraq, I removed the sandbags from the driver’s side. They interfered with my ability to use the accelerator and brake smoothly. That was more dangerous than helpful. If anyone outside the vehicle was going to be at risk, it would be because I intentionally used the vehicle as a weapon.
I finally received up-armor and ballistic glass shortly before Fallujah. I had resisted it earlier because the added weight broke suspensions on the older 998 Humvees. I trusted God and believed a running soft sided vehicle was better than no vehicle at all.
Seven months in, higher headquarters decided no soft-sided Humvees were allowed outside the wire. For seven months I’d driven all over Iraq, and now—after the worst seemed behind us—they said I couldn’t. Insert facepalm.
I sent the vehicle in for armor. By then, they’d figured out how to reinforce the suspension.
In November 2004, my battalion—2nd Battalion, 2nd Infantry Regiment, the RAMRODS—was tasked to assist the Marines in Fallujah. Yes, I will forever remind Marines the Army had to come rescue them. In truth, it was a coalition effort—Army, Marines, British, and Iraqi forces.
Operation Phantom Fury, the Second Battle of Fallujah, was the most intense urban battle since Vietnam and the bloodiest of the Iraq War. Over 700 coalition casualties—110 killed, around 600 wounded. An estimated 3,000 insurgents were killed or captured. The OPORD predicted an 80% casualty rate.
2-2 Infantry suffered 34 casualties—four killed, most others returned to duty. Credit goes to God and extraordinary leadership from LTC Peter Newell down to squad level.
Because of the anticipated casualty rate, Soldiers who hadn’t yet taken R&R were sent home and excluded from the assault. My assistant qualified, so I ordered him to go. I requested a replacement from brigade rather than pulling combat power from my battalion.
I knew I had a reputation among chaplain assistants. I also knew they probably thought I was one brick shy of a full load—maybe even missing most of the Happy Meal.
I lived by a Stonewall Jackson quote:
"My religious belief teaches me to feel as safe in battle as in bed. God has fixed the time for my death. I do not concern myself about that, but to be always ready, no matter when it may over take me."
I shortened it to: “My faith allows me to feel as safe in battle as in my own bed.”
My wife hates that quote.
But I believed I could not ask Soldiers to trust my God if I did not trust Him myself—especially in battle.
I ran toward the booms because that’s where my Soldiers were. They didn’t need me safe in a bunker. They needed me present.
As we prepared to convoy to Fallujah, SGT James Matteson sought me out and asked if I was going. When I told him yes, it comforted him. He wasn’t afraid—he was one of our best Scouts—but faith mattered to him.
That photo below of me praying with him was taken before we left. He was later killed by an RPG. Years later, meeting his family helped me understand why he sought me out. I represented his faith going into battle. He may also have known he wouldn’t return.
Brigade sent SPC Figueroa—“SPC Fig”—to replace my assistant. He’d spent most of his deployment inside a FOB or a tank. Working for me was going to be…educational.
This young Soldier's combat experience to this point has been in or around tanks. He was less than confident in our equipment. When he asked about our vehicle, the up armor, the roof, the floor—I reassured him. Well kind of reassured him. I pointed out we had up armor. He then questioned the roof and I reassured him the enemy would not be shooting down on us (this is important to remember later). I assured him that IEDs came more at a 45 degree angle so the up armor would protect us. Those who have been in combat know there is no way of knowing how an IED is going to impact a vehicle. They have been known to be powerful enough to flip tanks. Some details mattered less than confidence. I am not sure I fully achieved that mission. Maybe he would have more confidence had he been with me when we only had the soft side. My wife always says this is the moment she feels sorry for Fig. Her words are, "Poor Fig".
When we rolled out, I strapped a boom box to the roof rail and played TobyMac’s “Get This Party Started ("Get This Party Started").”
SPC Fig was unimpressed with my choice of music. I thought the choice was perfect.
We arrived at Camp Fallujah and spent about a week in training and preparation for the assault on the city of Fallujah. What I saw of the Marines training it gave me understanding how they got into the situation that required the Army to come out them out of it. It also did not give me much confidence in their ability to survive the assault. I went and visited a Navy Chaplain buddy that was at Fallujah. As I walked past a large group of Marines that suddenly went screaming and running down the road. I asked my buddy what were they doing? He said training for Fallujah. I shrugged and said okay then. It thrilled me to be part of an Infantry unit who were skilled in their craft. I am not saying the Marines were not skilled just the skills they showed was not ones I had confidence in like my infantrymen.
On 8 Nov 2004 we rolled out of Camp Fallujah to our staging area outside the city of Fallujah. As we rolled in the staging area rockets and mortars came raining down on our area. Once the perimeter was set I exited my vehicle along with SPC Fig and I started heading out to the vehicles along the perimeter to see how the Soldiers were doing and to check to ensure all were okay.
As we headed to one side of the perimeter rockets and mortars came raining down in that direction. SPC Fig was begrudgingly walking behind me not sure about moving about with incoming coming in. Remember he had not been outside the wire of his unit much and I am certain he stayed in a bunker or a reinforced area when there was incoming. Now I had him wandering in the open to check on the Soldiers.
As we headed to the perimeter SPC Fig called out, "Chaplain." I said, "What." He said, "Rockets and Mortars." I responded, "You have been in Iraq long enough to know the enemy cannot hit in the same place twice so the safest place is to be where they already shot." He sighed and continued to the perimeter with me.
We completed our rounds on that side of the perimeter ensuring all were safe and ready for the assault on Fallujah we proceeded across the staging area to the other side of the perimeter. As we were making our way to the other side more rockets and mortars began to rain down. It was almost as if they were bracketing off of us. I passed CPT Cobb's vehicle on our way to the other side and saw that a mortar dud had landed just outside of his vehicle and he had the door partially open observing it. CPT Cobb was our Fire Support Officer (FSO) for the battalion. He and his team call in fire on the enemy to help silence the enemies rockets and mortars. So I found it ironic and slightly humorous that a mortar dud landed near our FSO. Once again my dark sense of humor. Knowing he was okay and more qualified than I ever would be to handle the situation I proceeded with checking on my Soldiers.
The rest of Fallujah followed—rockets, mortars, doctrine bent but not broken, Soldiers served, casualties borne, heroes honored.
We lost four Soldiers. Many were wounded. I was honored to serve among legends.
This is only part of the story.
Fallujah changed us all.
I am grateful God placed me exactly where He did.
