From the WSJ Opinion Archives
LEISURE & ARTS
The Gift of Valor
A close look at one of our bravest in Iraq.
Editor's note: "The U.S. military announced that three American soldiers were killed . . . and one wounded in two separate attacks." So read an AP report last week in phrases that are roughly familiar to anyone who has followed the battle with Iraq's insurgency over the past months.
The facts, so stated, are as momentous as any facts can be, but stripped down to an almost clinical abstraction. One is left to wonder: What happened in those fateful, final minutes? Under what circumstances did death come--with what surprise, suffering, heroism or glory? Who exactly were these soldiers and how will they be remembered by their families and comrades in arms?
In "The Gift of Valor," Journal reporter Michael M. Phillips attempts to answer such questions for the events of April 14, 2004, when a platoon of U.S. Marines in Iraq's Anbar Province came under murderous assault.
Drawing on his experience as a reporter in Iraq--and on dozens of interviews--Mr. Phillips offers portraits of the young men in Kilo Company and reconstructs the action of that day: the takeover of an abandoned building, the shock and shrapnel of a hidden bomb suddenly exploding there, the rake of surrounding machine-gun fire, the wounds, the retreat; and later, more bloodily, an ambush, as another part of the platoon, in a convoy of Humvees, draws fire from insurgents armed with rifles and rocket-propelled grenades, and a nearby Marine patrol sprints toward the sound of firing.
One member of this arriving contingent is Cpl. Jason Dunham, the main figure in Mr. Phillips's account, a likable 22-year-old squad leader from Scio, N.Y., who suffers head wounds in the course of the day's fighting and, despite the efforts of his fellow Marines and of doctors in Baghdad and elsewhere, loses his life. Some excerpts:
The night before: "A patrol order was the most academic element of a squad leader's job, involving a multipage write-up that analyzed the likely course of enemy action, the position of friendly forces, the nature of the mission, the plan for maneuver and route, the logistics, the radio frequencies, and the meanings of various smoke and illumination signals. . . . Dunham seemed nervous about his first combat patrol order; after all, two other squad leaders in Kilo Company had already been demoted for failing to live up to their commanders' expectations. The night of April 13, Corporal Dunham sat at the plywood table in the Kilo Company command post, an office in the corner of the warehouse barracks. As usual, he was bare-chested, displaying his muscles and Marine tattoos. On the wall in front of him was a mosaic of spy-satellite photos. . . . Dunham worked long into the night."
The next day's battle: "Corporal Dunham and Pfc. Miller moved quickly up the street until they came to the elderly white Land Cruiser, which was some fifty yards from the intersection where the alleyway met the road. Miller edged along the passenger side and saw the muzzle and wood front grip of an AK-47 rifle poking out from under the floor mat. He looked up in time to see the driver, a young Iraqi man in a black tracksuit, open the door and lunge at Dunham. The Iraqi wrapped his left arm around the back of Dunham's neck and cocked his right arm to punch the corporal in the face. Dunham caught the man's fist to block the swing. The two stumbled toward the Land Cruiser."
The lethal moment: "Dunham yell[ed] a warning: 'No, no no--watch his hand!' [Lance Cpl.] Hampton heard nothing except the beating of his own heart, but he caught a fleeting glimpse of Dunham's helmet on the ground next to the Iraqi. Dunham was on his stomach with his arms stretched out in front of him and wrapped around the sides of the helmet, as if he were holding it down on top of something. Then came the [grenade] explosion."
The aftermath: "Doc Chops saw Corporal Dunham lying next to the cinder-block wall, his blood oozing into the dirt in a macabre halo. His eyes were swollen shut, and the skin on his forehead was folded crudely back. . . . He made gurgling noises, but said nothing. Doc Chops inserted an IV drip to keep him hydrated. Once he had stabilized Dunham, the corpsman walked around the wall to check on Miller and Hampton. They asked whether Jason was all right. 'To be honest with you, I really don't know,' Doc Chops responded."
In a Baghdad hospital: "The biggest piece of shrapnel, measuring about a third of an inch by a fifth of an inch, had hit behind Jason's left eye and cut an upward path into his brain, coming to rest three inches in toward the top rear of his skull. Dr. Gullick made no effort to dig the fragment out. Generally, superheated metal shrapnel is sterile and poses little infection danger. On the other hand, rooting around that far inside the brain could cause untold damage and simply wasn't worth the risk, he felt. Four other tiny fragments were lodged in Jason's head--two in his sinuses, one in the front left part of his brain, and one in the left side of his face. But it was the big piece that was endangering his life."
The end comes: "Dr. Dunne watched as the blue line on the monitor screen showed plunging levels of oxygen in Jason's blood. His heart rate fell until the green line went silently flat. Dunne stepped forward and bent down to listen to Jason's lungs and heart. He straightened up, removed the stethoscope from his ears, and said, 'He's gone.' It was 4:43 p.m. on April 22, 2004. Jason's body relaxed, and Dan [Dunham, Jason's father] thought his son looked like himself again. Deb [Jason's stepmother] put a photo of the Dunham family in Jason's hand."
You can buy "The Gift of Valor" from the OpinionJournal bookstore.
