enemy was still capable, deadly, and determined to fight back for control
of the city.
What lasting impact did we truly have here? I wondered.
* * *Soon afterward, we turned over our operations to the next SEAL task
unit that took our place. Our time in Ramadi came to an end as the last of
us from Task Unit Bruiser boarded a big U.S. Air Force C-17 cargo
aircraft for the flight home.
Once back stateside, it was quite a transition from the intense
violence in the bloody streets of Ramadi to the peace and tranquility of
San Diego, California. For many of us it was an emotional return. After
all the blood, sweat, and tears that Task Unit Bruiser—and our brothers-
and sisters-in-arms in the U.S. Army and Marine Corps—had spilled
there, I felt torn. We had lost the first SEALs killed in action in the Iraq
War. As a leader, nothing had prepared me for that monumental burden I
must forever carry for not bringing all my guys home to their families. If
only I could trade places with them. When Ryan got shot and Marc was
killed, they were doing exactly what I had asked of them. I was in
charge; I was responsible. My fellow platoon commander felt the same
way about Mike Monsoor. I knew Jocko felt that burden for each man.
Hearing American pundits in the media talking about all the “blood
and treasure” spent in Iraq, I reacted with fury. To them, the casualty
figures were just statistics—numbers on a page. To us, they were
teammates and friends—brothers. Their families suffered the greatest
hardship. These men were deeply missed and painfully mourned. Others
had been seriously wounded and some would never fully recover. Their
lives, and those of their families and friends would likewise never be the