1
Enter the âGhost Ridersâ
2nd Platoon, B/3-61 CAV
FORT CARSON, COLORADO : MARCH 2006
That though I loved them for their faults
As much as for their good.
âDYLAN THOMAS, âTo others than youâ
I was an accidental soldier. Admittedly, I played with GI Joes as a kid, read plenty of military history, and had considered enlisting since childhood. But as for a career, no thanks. Mostly, I think, Iâd wanted to prove I was just as tough as my firefighter uncles and street-wise father. Exotic travel sounded pretty good, too. In hindsight itâs easy to forget this, but back in early 2001, I assumed that a stint in the army would involve little more than tough training and an occasional trip to Bosnia or Kosovo. I counted on plenty of photo ops of cool Balkan landscapes and a few interesting stories along the way. Anything like 9/11 was beyond the scope of my imagination.
A soft kid, who liked hanging out with his mother more than most, Iâd been posturing my whole life. Always scared around the rough boys in the neighborhood, Iâd learned to act hard and fit in pretty early on. My dadâBob âButchieâ Sjursenâgrew up in Brooklynâs Sunset Park during the turbulent 1960s, when the Irish and Italian boys clashed with assorted Puerto Rican gangs for control of the streets. He taught me to stand firm, swing first, and hold my ground. I did my best. Raised in a house with no car or telephone, Dad was shot at and stabbed before his seventeenth birthday. With grit and natural intelligence, the guy managed to graduate from City College and worked two or three jobs at a time to wrench us into the lower middle class.
My parents divorced when I was seven, and unfortunately the split dropped us a few steps on the economic ladder. But my father dedicated himselfâwith every ounce of his soulâto being a full-time dad. My sister Amy and I bounced between my momâs small apartment, our grandparentsâ bungalow, and my fatherâs condo. When I first started talking about enlisting in the army or marines, it was my dad who pushed me toward West Point. Heâd done his research, tooâin a pre-Google era, mind youâand explained how academy cadets were actually active-duty soldiers and college students. I promised to apply. Hereâs the thing: I thought you had to be either a blue-blood rich boy or some congressmanâs kid to get into the place. That might have been true fifty years earlier, but times had changed. The thick green packet, replete with a congratulatory letter from Congressman Vito Fossella and a keepsake plaque, arrived while I was at work in a local hardware store. That night, climbing the steep stairs to my momâs apartment, I heard her and some friends whispering over their wine and sensed something was up. They already knewâclapping broke outâand my mother cried. As close as we were, I donât think anyone was more proud than she was. You canât say no to that.
In May 2005 I graduated, took two monthsâ leave, and attended the Officer Basic Course (OBC) at Fort Knox, Kentucky. After OBC I stayed on at Knox for a month-long Scout Leaderâs Course (SLC), preparatory training for platoon leaders in light reconnaissance units (Humvee rather than tank). Iâd received orders to the 3rd Squadron, 61st Cavalry RegimentââThe Destroyersââa recon unit in the 2nd Brigade of the 2nd Infantry Division. I showed up in March 2006 and on day one took command of a scout platoon. A lucky breakâsome guys waited months for an opening while toiling away in menial administrative staff jobs. The unit had only gotten back from their last tour in August 2005 but were already set to head back to Iraq in October. Thatâs how it worked: the army ran on a conveyor belt. You were either at war, just getting home, or training to go back. Period. I was in for months of field training, punctuated by occasional booze-soaked holiday weekends, and plenty of stress. The countdown to Iraq began right then and there. Itâs how we lived. But first I had a platoon to meet.
THE FELLAS
On day one I had nineteen soldiersâeighteen Cav scouts and a medic. My second in command was a grizzled old (late thirtiesâancient for the army) platoon sergeantâMalcolm Gass. Below that we organized into two sections of three trucks each. In addition to me and Sergeant Gass, we had four other truck commanders. The two most senior were the numbers three and four of the platoonâstaff sergeants Damian South and Micah Rittel. Our junior sergeants were Ty Dejane and John Pushard. Then came the heart of the platoon: thirteen young troopers belonging to the undifferentiated yet proud mass we called âJoes.â
The first time I saw Specialist Alexander Fuller, simply âFullerâ within the platoonâfirst names are all but nonexistent among soldiersâhe walked over, stood at stiff attention, and introduced himself. He was the only enlisted man to do so and was far more proper than any of the sergeants. My new platoon sergeant, essentially my second in commandâand to most young soldiers the number
one force in their livesâhad given me a quick rundown of the guys in the platoon. He described Fuller with a few choice, military-speak adjectives: âhigh-speed,â âsquared-away,â âmotivated as hell,â and â
NCO-material.â Fuller was young, just twenty then. He looked a bit older though. Medium height, medium build, dark hair cut close in an edged style. He had slightly olive toned skin that deviated just enough from his Anglo-sounding last name that some of the guys speculated he was part Puerto Rican, black, Asian, or
something. He claimed not to know. Fuller would say he was
American or âstraight Boston, son.â That settled it. There was something about his bearing, the mix of confidence and anxiety, something in that nervous smile. It was captivating. He stood stiff with his shoulders pulled back in perfect military posture and introduced himself. It was like something out of a movie and reminded me of a training vignette about âmeeting your new platoonâ Iâd seen at West Point. This didnât happen in real life. In that moment I donât think I had an inkling that Fuller would be forever with me, but I guess you could say I liked him from the start.
Private Edsel Ford was a pain in my ass from the day he showed up at the unit until the day we got to Iraq. His father had given him the strange first name as a tribute to the short-lived line of cars named for Henry Fordâs only son. A significant commercial failure, the Edsel division lasted only from 1957 to 1960. Private Ford started slow; it took the war for him to flourish. A late arrival to the unit, he looked about fifteen, though actually he was in his early twenties. Of medium height and slight, he appeared almost frail as his oversized uniform draped awkwardly over his skinny torso. Everyone said he looked like Justin Timberlakeâand he did! Fashion conscious when off duty, he frequented clubs and bars nearly every night of the week and twice on weekends. He was a legit dancer; come to think of it, Ford kind of thought he
was JT. The kid was seemingly late to every single formation. Heâd sleep in, miss
PT, and spend the rest of the day getting âsmokedââforced to do physical exercises to exhaustionâby the platoonâs sergeants. The thing is, he never seemed to sweat it. Heâd stay quiet, take the punishment, smile at the end of the day and do it all over again. We thought he was hopeless. The one thing Ford
did do wellâbesides break-danceâwas medical training. It turned out heâd been a volunteer firefighter and a certified first responder back home. Looking at him, that was hard to believe, but years later one of the other soldiers told me that Ford had once said, âHey, dude, if something bad ever happens when we get over thereâI can no shit help you.â He was right.
Sergeant Ty Dejane was the junior
NCO of the platoon, probably the least mature, but also the most popular with troops.
DJâas we called himâwas from the town of Salem, Ohio, a hardscrabble district of abandoned factories and thwarted dreams.
DJ was one of those young sergeants who could give two shits about getting some new lieutenant. Heâd been to Iraq once before, was about my age, and exuded an air of âwho gives a shitâ when I first met him.
DJ had had previous combat experience. Heâd patrolled north of Baghdad in 2003 to 2004, assigned to the scout platoon of 1-12 Infantry in the 4th Infantry Division. That first tour started slow, but as the insurgency heated up in the late summer of â03, his platoon started to see contact with
IEDs and some firefights.
Sergeants, so goes the popular platitude, are the backbone of the army. And sure, thatâs true. But hereâs the thing: itâs a lot more complex than that. Sergeants are essential. They stay in a unit longer than most officers and provide vital continuity. Theyâve risen up from the ranks and know the soldierâs life. Many are highly seasoned and their advice is invaluable. But some of them suck. Theyâre not all created equal.
NCO worship is no more rational than that of any other deified human group. Some are solid, others dreadful. A select few are exceptional. Staff Sergeant Damian South of Panama City, Florida, was my finest. Damianâwe were quickly on a first-name basisâwas twenty-six, just three years older than me, and close enough in age to feel like a peer.
Damian had lived with his father, a diesel mechanic, after his parents split up and had moved all over the Southeast before settling in Panama City, Florida. In high school he played football, joined the Air Force ROTC, and always planned to enlist in the military. Thatâs just what the men in Damianâs family did. His father was a former marine and a Vietnam vet, his uncle an army Special Forces Green Beret, and his grandfather a twenty-three-year veteran of the U.S. Navyâincluding service in World War II. Damian had originally signed a contract with the air force, but after he shattered his ankle wrestling with some friends the military was put on hold. He kept trying to join the army but each time was rejected on account of the old injury. In the meantime, he worked as a bouncer in a local club and spent some time studying criminal justice at Gulf Coast State College. Exceptionally bright but never a focused student, Damian quickly tired of school. It was 9/11 that changed everything. Suddenly the army starting accepting nearly everyone, and almost overnight he received an injury waiver. By January 2002, he was on his way to basic training.
Damian was young, energetic, physically fit, and wildly popular with the troops. He led by example in every wayâtechnically skilled, tactically aware, fastest runner, best athlete, and the most charismatic. About six-foot-three, he had the outsized personality to match. Ironically, heâd been a Cav scout for only about a year.1 Heâd first enlisted as an Air Defense Artillery (ADA) specialistânot generally considered among the elite combat branches. Nonetheless, he had been to Iraq before, with the 4th Infantry Division in 2003 to 2004. With the Iraqi Air Force all but nonexistent, most ADA units converted to armored infantrymen, and Damianâs platoon was no exception. He spent a year in the northern city of Tikrit, learned his trade, but saw little direct combat. Back in those early days large swaths of Iraq were relatively quiet, and it was fairly normal to serve a whole year without losing a man. Soon after, the army phased out Damianâs particular ADA specialty, and he had to switch jobs. He chose 19Dâcavalry scout.
There was just something about the guyâI guess you could say we got along from the start. Damian was smart and witty, by far the brightest guy in the platoon. He was young and relatable but simultaneously mature. Damian hung out with the soldiers but stayed a step above their nonsense. He treated officers with respect and never acted better than me, despite his greater experience. Turned out we shared an acquaintance, too. During his last tour Damianâs platoon leader had been Lieutenant Ronald âRonnieâ Iammartino, a fellow West Pointer and Staten Island native. Ronnie was a senior during my freshman year, so our overlap was short. Nevertheless, he was good to me. Plebe year sucks, what with the hazing and lack of off-post privileges, and there werenât very many New Yorkers around. Ronnie would always say, âHey,â and talked to me like a normal personâsomething surprisingly refreshing back then. Heâd once pulled me to the side and said that, when no one was around, I didnât need to call him âsir,â because, âafter all, Iâm really just Ronnie from Rose Avenue, ya know?â2 I did know. Damianâs and my shared affection for Ronnie built some key early trust between us.
By design, the closest relationship in a platoon is supposed to be between the lieutenant and his platoon sergeant. Mine, eighteen-year veteran Sergeant First Class Malcolm Gass, was in his late thirties. He knew the job, could acquire anything the platoon neededâwe called him the scrounger
3âand had a shortcut for everything. Gass was just what we needed from a senior sergeant, but he could have been my dad. Technically. As a result, Damian quickly became the guy to whom Iâd go with a question or concern. He was my rock. He talked about getting out of the army after this stint, and, given that I
was a brand new lieutenant without a clue, I spent an inappropriate amount of time trying to convince him to stay in. He didnât. But that came later. Right then, we needed a âsenior scout,â and Damian was it. Senior scout is not an official military rank, and it exists only in the cavalry. In our world, itâs the biggest honor and responsibility a sergeant can have. To simplify: the senior scout is the section sergeant in the lead vehicle on all patrols. He has immense influence on route selection and has the freedom to call an audible (make a last minute change) mid-mission. As the first set of eyes on everything the unit sees and eventually does, the senior scout is often the difference between success and failure, life or death. Heâs a guy you better trust. Choosing Damian was a no-brainer. We took to hanging out off-duty and drinking beers at a local diveâthe Hatch Cover. Trust is built on booze and bullshitting as much as it is on rank or training. Donât let anyone tell you otherwise.
Richard âDucksâ Duzinskas put up with a lot of shit. Ducks was our most experienced young soldier. Heâd been in the army for three years and had deployed to Iraq in 2004 to 2005. Youâd think thatâd earn him a ton of respect from the new guys. It didnât. Heâd been with our brigade on the last deployment but hadnât seen much combat compared with some of the other scouts. During that tour, Ducksâs personality conflicts with a couple of serg...