Part 53 (1/2)

Tell me: Do you want us to conquer our enemy? Annihilate them? Or are we heading over to serve them tea and cookies?

Tell the military the end result you want, and you'll get it. But don't try and tell us how to do it. All those rules about when and under what circ.u.mstances an enemy combatant could be killed didn't just make our jobs harder, they put our lives in danger.

The ROEs got so convoluted and f.u.c.ked-up because politicians were interfering in the process. The rules are drawn up by lawyers who are trying to protect the admirals and generals from the politicians; they're not written by people who are worried about the guys on the ground getting shot.

For some reason, a lot of people back home-not all people-didn't accept that we were at war. They didn't accept that war means death, violent death most times. A lot of people, not just politicians, wanted to impose ridiculous fantasies on us, hold us to some standard of behavior that no human being could maintain.

I'm not saying war crimes should be committed. I am saying that warriors need to be let loose to fight war without their hands tied behind their backs.

According to the ROEs I followed in Iraq, if someone came into my house, shot my wife, my kids, and then threw his gun down, I was supposed to NOT shoot him. I was supposed to take him gently into custody.

Would you?

You can argue that my success proves the ROEs worked. But I feel that I could have been more effective, probably protected more people and helped bring the war to a quicker conclusion without them.

It seemed the only news stories we read were about atrocities or how impossible it was going to be to pacify Ramadi.

Guess what? We killed all those bad guys, and what happened? The Iraqi tribal leaders finally realized we meant business, and they finally banded together not just to govern themselves, but to kick the insurgents out. It took force, it took violence of action, to create a situation where there could be peace.

LEUKEMIA

”Our daughter is sick. Her white blood cell count is very low.”

I held the phone a little tighter as Taya continued to talk. My little girl had been sick with infections and jaundice for a while. Her liver didn't seem to be able to keep up with the disease. Now the doctors were asking for more tests, and things looked real bad. They weren't saying it was cancer or leukemia but they weren't saying it wasn't. They were going to test her to confirm their worst fears.

Taya tried to sound positive and downplay the problems. I could tell just from the tone of her voice that things were more serious than she would admit, until finally I got the entire truth from her.

I am not entirely sure what all she said, but what I heard was, leukemia. Cancer.

My little girl was going to die.

A cloud of helplessness descended over me. I was thousands of miles away from her, and there was nothing I could do to help. Even if I'd been there, I couldn't cure her.

My wife sounded so sad and alone on the phone.

The stress of the deployment had started to get to me well before that phone call in September 2006. The loss of Marc and Ryan's extreme injuries had taken a toll. My blood pressure had shot up and I couldn't sleep. Hearing the news about my daughter pushed me to my breaking point. I wasn't much good for anyone.

Fortunately, we were already winding down our deployment. And as soon as I mentioned my little girl's condition to my command, they started making travel arrangements to get me home. Our doctor put through the paperwork for a Red Cross letter. That's a statement that indicates a service member's family needs him for an emergency back home. Once that letter arrived, my commanders made it happen.

I almost didn't get out. Ramadi was such a hot zone that there weren't a whole lot of opportunities for flights. There were no helos in or out. Even the convoys were still getting hit by insurgent attacks. Worried about me and knowing I couldn't afford to wait too long, my boys loaded up the Humvees. They set me in the middle, and drove me out of the city to TQ airfield.

When we got there, I nearly choked up handing over my body armor and my M-4.

My guys were going back to war and I was flying home. That sucked. I felt like I was letting them down, s.h.i.+rking my duty.

It was a conflict-family and country, family and brothers in arms-that I never really resolved. I'd had even more kills in Ramadi than in Fallujah. Not only did I finish with more kills than anyone else on that deployment, but my overall total made me the most prolific American sniper of all time-to use the fancy official language.