Super Dave
05-26-04, 09:40 AM
The Wall Street Journal
May 25, 2004
Pg. 1
AL QA'IM, Iraq -- Early this spring, Cpl. Jason Dunham and two other
Marines sat in an outpost in Iraq and traded theories on surviving a
hand-grenade attack.
Second Lt. Brian "Bull" Robinson suggested that if a Marine lay face down on
the grenade and held it between his forearms, the ceramic bulletproof plate
in his flak vest might be strong enough to protect his vital organs. His
arms would shatter, but he
might live.
Cpl. Dunham had another idea: A Marine's Kevlar helmet held over the grenade
might contain the blast. "I'll bet a Kevlar would stop it," he said,
according to Second Lt. Robinson.
"No, it'll still mess you up," Staff Sgt. John Ferguson recalls saying.
It was a conversation the men would remember vividly a few weeks later, when
they saw the shredded remains of Cpl. Dunham's helmet, apparently blown
apart from the inside by a grenade. Fellow Marines believe Cpl. Dunham's
actions saved the lives of two men and have recommended him for the Medal of
Honor, an award that no act of heroism since
1993 has garnered.
A 6-foot-1 star high-school athlete from Scio, N.Y., Cpl. Dunham was chosen
to become a squad leader shortly after he was assigned to Kilo Company,
Third Battalion, Seventh Marine Regiment in September 2003. Just 22 years
old, he showed "the kind of leadership where you're confident in your
abilities and don't have to yell about it," says Staff Sgt. Ferguson, 30, of
Aurora, Colo. Cpl. Dunham's reputation grew when he extended his enlistment,
due to end in July, so he could stay with his squad throughout its tour in
the war zone.
During the invasion of Iraq last year, the Third Battalion didn't suffer any
combat casualties. But since March, 10 of its 900 Marines have died from
hostile fire, and 89 have been wounded.
April 14 was an especially bad day. Cpl. Dunham was in the town of
Karabilah, leading a 14-man foot patrol to scout sites for a new base, when
radio reports came pouring in about a roadside bomb hitting another group of
Marines not far away.
Insurgents, the reports said, had ambushed a convoy that included the
Battalion commander, 40-year-old Lt. Col. Matthew Lopez, of Chicago. One
rifle shot penetrated the rear of the commander's Humvee, hitting him in the
back, Lt. Col. Lopez says. His translator and bodyguard, Lance Cpl. Akram
Falah, 23, of Anaheim, Calif., had taken a bullet to the bicep, severing an
artery, according to medical reports filed later.
Cpl. Dunham's patrol jumped aboard some Humvees and raced toward the convoy.
Near the double-arched gateway of the town of Husaybah, they heard the
distinctive whizzing sound of a rocket-propelled grenade overhead. They left
their vehicles and split into two teams to hunt for the shooters, according
to interviews with two men who were there and written reports from two
others.
Around 12:15 p.m., Cpl. Dunham's team came to an intersection and saw a line
of seven Iraqi vehicles along a dirt alleyway, according to Staff Sgt.
Ferguson and others there. At Staff Sgt. Ferguson's instruction, they
started checking the vehicles for
weapons.
Cpl. Dunham approached a run-down white Toyota Land Cruiser. The driver, an
Iraqi in a black track suit and loafers, immediately lunged out and grabbed
the corporal by the throat, according to men at the scene. Cpl. Dunham kneed
the man in the chest, and the two tumbled to the ground.
Two other Marines rushed to the scene. Private First Class Kelly Miller, 21,
of Eureka, Calif., ran from the passenger side of the vehicle and put a
choke hold around the man's neck. But the Iraqi continued to struggle,
according to a military report
Pfc. Miller gave later. Lance Cpl. William B. Hampton, 22, of Woodinville,
Wash., also ran to help.
A few yards away, Lance Cpl. Jason Sanders, 21, a radio operator from
McAlester, Okla., says he heard Cpl. Dunham yell a warning: "No, no, no --
watch his hand!"
What was in the Iraqi's hand appears to have been a British-made "Mills
Bomb" hand grenade. The Marines later found an unexploded Mills Bomb in the
Toyota, along with AK-47 assault rifles and rocket-propelled-grenade
launchers.
A Mills Bomb user pulls a ring pin out and squeezes the external lever --
called the spoon -- until he's ready to throw it. Then he releases the
spoon, leaving the bomb armed. Typically, three to five seconds elapse
between the time the spoon
detaches and the grenade explodes. The Marines later found what they believe
to have been the grenade's pin on the floor of the Toyota, suggesting that
the Iraqi had the grenade in his hand -- on a hair trigger -- even as he
wrestled with Cpl. Dunham.
None of the other Marines saw exactly what Cpl. Dunham did, or even saw the
grenade. But they believe Cpl. Dunham spotted the grenade -- prompting his
warning cry -- and, when it rolled loose, placed his helmet and body on top
of it to protect his squadmates.
The scraps of Kevlar found later, scattered across the street, supported
their conclusion. The grenade, they think, must have been inside the helmet
when it exploded. His fellow Marines believe that Cpl. Dunham made an
instantaneous decision to try out his theory that a helmet might blunt the
grenade blast.
"I deeply believe that given the facts and evidence presented he clearly
understood the situation and attempted to block the blast of the grenade
from his squad members," Lt. Col. Lopez wrote in a May 13 letter
recommending Cpl. Dunham for the Medal of Honor, the nation's highest award
for military valor. "His personal action was far beyond the call of duty and
saved the lives of his fellow Marines."
Recommendations for the Medal of Honor are rare. The Marines say they have
no other candidates awaiting approval. Unlike other awards, the Medal of
Honor must be approved by the president. The most recent act of heroism to
earn the
medal came 11 years ago, when two Army Delta Force soldiers gave their lives
protecting a downed Blackhawk helicopter pilot in Somalia.
Staff Sgt. Ferguson was crossing the street to help when the grenade
exploded. He recalls feeling a hollow punch in his chest that reminded him
of being close to the starting line when dragsters gun their engines. Lance
Cpl. Sanders, approaching the
scene, was temporarily deafened, he says. He assumed all three Marines and
the Iraqi must surely be dead.
In fact, the explosion left Cpl. Dunham unconscious and face down in his own
blood, according to Lance Cpl. Sanders. He says the Iraqi lay on his back,
bleeding from his midsection.
The fight wasn't over, however. To Lance Cpl. Sanders's surprise, the Iraqi
got up and ran. Lance Cpl. Sanders says he raised his rifle and fired 25
shots at the man's back, killing him.
The other two Marines were injured, but alive. Lance Cpl. Hampton was
spitting up blood and had shrapnel embedded in his left leg, knee, arm and
face, according to a military transcript. Pfc. Miller's arms had been
perforated by shrapnel. Yet both
Marines struggled to their feet and staggered back toward the corner.
"Cpl. Dunham was in the middle of the explosion," Pfc. Miller told a Marine
officer weeks later, after he and Lance Cpl. Hampton were evacuated to the
U.S. to convalesce. "If it was not for him, none of us would be here. He
took the impact of the explosion."
At first, Lance Cpl. Mark Edward Dean, a 22-year-old mortarman, didn't
recognize the wounded Marine being loaded into the back of his Humvee. Blood
from shrapnel wounds in the Marine's head and neck had covered his face.
Then Lance Cpl. Dean spotted the tattoo on his chest -- an Ace of Spades and
a skull -- and realized he was looking at one of
his closest friends, Cpl. Dunham. A volunteer firefighter back home in
Owasso, Okla., Lance Cpl. Dean says he knew from his experience with car
wrecks that his friend had a better chance of surviving if he stayed calm.
"You're going to be all right," Lance Cpl. Dean remembers saying as the
Humvee sped back to camp. "We're going to get you home."
When the battalion was at its base in Twentynine Palms, Calif., the two
Marines had played pool and hung out with Lance Cpl. Dean's wife, Becky Jo,
at the couple's nearby home. Once in a while, Lance Cpl. Dean says they'd
round up friends, drive to Las Vegas and lose some money at the roulette
tables. Shortly before the battalion left Kuwait for Iraq,
Lance Cpl. Dean ran short of cash. He says Cpl. Dunham bought him a
550-minute phone card so he could call Becky Jo. He used every minute.
At battalion headquarters in al Qa'im, Chaplain David Slater was in his
makeshift chapel -- in a stripped-down Iraqi train car with red plastic
chairs as pews -- when he heard an Army Blackhawk helicopter take off. The
46-year-old Navy chaplain from Lincoln, Neb. knew that meant the
shock-trauma platoon would soon receive fresh casualties.
Shortly afterward, the helicopter arrived. Navy corpsmen and Marines carried
Cpl. Dunham's stretcher 200 feet to the medical tent, its green floor and
white walls emitting a rubbery scent, clumps of stethoscopes hanging like
bananas over olive-drab trunks of chest tubes, bandages and emergency airway
tubes.
May 25, 2004
Pg. 1
AL QA'IM, Iraq -- Early this spring, Cpl. Jason Dunham and two other
Marines sat in an outpost in Iraq and traded theories on surviving a
hand-grenade attack.
Second Lt. Brian "Bull" Robinson suggested that if a Marine lay face down on
the grenade and held it between his forearms, the ceramic bulletproof plate
in his flak vest might be strong enough to protect his vital organs. His
arms would shatter, but he
might live.
Cpl. Dunham had another idea: A Marine's Kevlar helmet held over the grenade
might contain the blast. "I'll bet a Kevlar would stop it," he said,
according to Second Lt. Robinson.
"No, it'll still mess you up," Staff Sgt. John Ferguson recalls saying.
It was a conversation the men would remember vividly a few weeks later, when
they saw the shredded remains of Cpl. Dunham's helmet, apparently blown
apart from the inside by a grenade. Fellow Marines believe Cpl. Dunham's
actions saved the lives of two men and have recommended him for the Medal of
Honor, an award that no act of heroism since
1993 has garnered.
A 6-foot-1 star high-school athlete from Scio, N.Y., Cpl. Dunham was chosen
to become a squad leader shortly after he was assigned to Kilo Company,
Third Battalion, Seventh Marine Regiment in September 2003. Just 22 years
old, he showed "the kind of leadership where you're confident in your
abilities and don't have to yell about it," says Staff Sgt. Ferguson, 30, of
Aurora, Colo. Cpl. Dunham's reputation grew when he extended his enlistment,
due to end in July, so he could stay with his squad throughout its tour in
the war zone.
During the invasion of Iraq last year, the Third Battalion didn't suffer any
combat casualties. But since March, 10 of its 900 Marines have died from
hostile fire, and 89 have been wounded.
April 14 was an especially bad day. Cpl. Dunham was in the town of
Karabilah, leading a 14-man foot patrol to scout sites for a new base, when
radio reports came pouring in about a roadside bomb hitting another group of
Marines not far away.
Insurgents, the reports said, had ambushed a convoy that included the
Battalion commander, 40-year-old Lt. Col. Matthew Lopez, of Chicago. One
rifle shot penetrated the rear of the commander's Humvee, hitting him in the
back, Lt. Col. Lopez says. His translator and bodyguard, Lance Cpl. Akram
Falah, 23, of Anaheim, Calif., had taken a bullet to the bicep, severing an
artery, according to medical reports filed later.
Cpl. Dunham's patrol jumped aboard some Humvees and raced toward the convoy.
Near the double-arched gateway of the town of Husaybah, they heard the
distinctive whizzing sound of a rocket-propelled grenade overhead. They left
their vehicles and split into two teams to hunt for the shooters, according
to interviews with two men who were there and written reports from two
others.
Around 12:15 p.m., Cpl. Dunham's team came to an intersection and saw a line
of seven Iraqi vehicles along a dirt alleyway, according to Staff Sgt.
Ferguson and others there. At Staff Sgt. Ferguson's instruction, they
started checking the vehicles for
weapons.
Cpl. Dunham approached a run-down white Toyota Land Cruiser. The driver, an
Iraqi in a black track suit and loafers, immediately lunged out and grabbed
the corporal by the throat, according to men at the scene. Cpl. Dunham kneed
the man in the chest, and the two tumbled to the ground.
Two other Marines rushed to the scene. Private First Class Kelly Miller, 21,
of Eureka, Calif., ran from the passenger side of the vehicle and put a
choke hold around the man's neck. But the Iraqi continued to struggle,
according to a military report
Pfc. Miller gave later. Lance Cpl. William B. Hampton, 22, of Woodinville,
Wash., also ran to help.
A few yards away, Lance Cpl. Jason Sanders, 21, a radio operator from
McAlester, Okla., says he heard Cpl. Dunham yell a warning: "No, no, no --
watch his hand!"
What was in the Iraqi's hand appears to have been a British-made "Mills
Bomb" hand grenade. The Marines later found an unexploded Mills Bomb in the
Toyota, along with AK-47 assault rifles and rocket-propelled-grenade
launchers.
A Mills Bomb user pulls a ring pin out and squeezes the external lever --
called the spoon -- until he's ready to throw it. Then he releases the
spoon, leaving the bomb armed. Typically, three to five seconds elapse
between the time the spoon
detaches and the grenade explodes. The Marines later found what they believe
to have been the grenade's pin on the floor of the Toyota, suggesting that
the Iraqi had the grenade in his hand -- on a hair trigger -- even as he
wrestled with Cpl. Dunham.
None of the other Marines saw exactly what Cpl. Dunham did, or even saw the
grenade. But they believe Cpl. Dunham spotted the grenade -- prompting his
warning cry -- and, when it rolled loose, placed his helmet and body on top
of it to protect his squadmates.
The scraps of Kevlar found later, scattered across the street, supported
their conclusion. The grenade, they think, must have been inside the helmet
when it exploded. His fellow Marines believe that Cpl. Dunham made an
instantaneous decision to try out his theory that a helmet might blunt the
grenade blast.
"I deeply believe that given the facts and evidence presented he clearly
understood the situation and attempted to block the blast of the grenade
from his squad members," Lt. Col. Lopez wrote in a May 13 letter
recommending Cpl. Dunham for the Medal of Honor, the nation's highest award
for military valor. "His personal action was far beyond the call of duty and
saved the lives of his fellow Marines."
Recommendations for the Medal of Honor are rare. The Marines say they have
no other candidates awaiting approval. Unlike other awards, the Medal of
Honor must be approved by the president. The most recent act of heroism to
earn the
medal came 11 years ago, when two Army Delta Force soldiers gave their lives
protecting a downed Blackhawk helicopter pilot in Somalia.
Staff Sgt. Ferguson was crossing the street to help when the grenade
exploded. He recalls feeling a hollow punch in his chest that reminded him
of being close to the starting line when dragsters gun their engines. Lance
Cpl. Sanders, approaching the
scene, was temporarily deafened, he says. He assumed all three Marines and
the Iraqi must surely be dead.
In fact, the explosion left Cpl. Dunham unconscious and face down in his own
blood, according to Lance Cpl. Sanders. He says the Iraqi lay on his back,
bleeding from his midsection.
The fight wasn't over, however. To Lance Cpl. Sanders's surprise, the Iraqi
got up and ran. Lance Cpl. Sanders says he raised his rifle and fired 25
shots at the man's back, killing him.
The other two Marines were injured, but alive. Lance Cpl. Hampton was
spitting up blood and had shrapnel embedded in his left leg, knee, arm and
face, according to a military transcript. Pfc. Miller's arms had been
perforated by shrapnel. Yet both
Marines struggled to their feet and staggered back toward the corner.
"Cpl. Dunham was in the middle of the explosion," Pfc. Miller told a Marine
officer weeks later, after he and Lance Cpl. Hampton were evacuated to the
U.S. to convalesce. "If it was not for him, none of us would be here. He
took the impact of the explosion."
At first, Lance Cpl. Mark Edward Dean, a 22-year-old mortarman, didn't
recognize the wounded Marine being loaded into the back of his Humvee. Blood
from shrapnel wounds in the Marine's head and neck had covered his face.
Then Lance Cpl. Dean spotted the tattoo on his chest -- an Ace of Spades and
a skull -- and realized he was looking at one of
his closest friends, Cpl. Dunham. A volunteer firefighter back home in
Owasso, Okla., Lance Cpl. Dean says he knew from his experience with car
wrecks that his friend had a better chance of surviving if he stayed calm.
"You're going to be all right," Lance Cpl. Dean remembers saying as the
Humvee sped back to camp. "We're going to get you home."
When the battalion was at its base in Twentynine Palms, Calif., the two
Marines had played pool and hung out with Lance Cpl. Dean's wife, Becky Jo,
at the couple's nearby home. Once in a while, Lance Cpl. Dean says they'd
round up friends, drive to Las Vegas and lose some money at the roulette
tables. Shortly before the battalion left Kuwait for Iraq,
Lance Cpl. Dean ran short of cash. He says Cpl. Dunham bought him a
550-minute phone card so he could call Becky Jo. He used every minute.
At battalion headquarters in al Qa'im, Chaplain David Slater was in his
makeshift chapel -- in a stripped-down Iraqi train car with red plastic
chairs as pews -- when he heard an Army Blackhawk helicopter take off. The
46-year-old Navy chaplain from Lincoln, Neb. knew that meant the
shock-trauma platoon would soon receive fresh casualties.
Shortly afterward, the helicopter arrived. Navy corpsmen and Marines carried
Cpl. Dunham's stretcher 200 feet to the medical tent, its green floor and
white walls emitting a rubbery scent, clumps of stethoscopes hanging like
bananas over olive-drab trunks of chest tubes, bandages and emergency airway
tubes.