Derrick Young: Canfield, Ohio
Marine Staff Sergeant (E6) Mobile Assault Platoon 4, Weapons Company, 3rd Battalion 25th Marines attached to 2nd Marine Division Regimental Combat Team 2
We were approximately 4 and a half months into what was an almost 9-month deployment. We had been on a continuous rotation of missions and patrols since coming to the Middle East. It was all about to change. It was 0330 in the early morning of May 7th, 2005, Mother’s Day. We had been on patrol for a little over 12 hours and we were just finishing an OP (Observation Post) at ASP (Ammo Supply Point) Dulab in the Al Anbar Province of Iraq. Nothing happened to us throughout that patrol up until the end.
At that time, I was a sergeant assigned as Assistant Mobile Assault Platoon Commander for Mobile Assault Platoon 4 (Kabar 4) for Weapons Company 3rd Battalion, 25th Marine Regiment, attached to RCT-2 (Regimental Combat Team 2) 2nd Marine Division. Until that morning, we had only lost two Marines from our battalion. On March 25th, we lost our first Marine, Bryan Richardson, a Corporal, who was with one of our other Kabar units. I knew Bryan, but not very well. I was there the night he died and we had to recover his body. It felt like I lost a best friend. What we did as Infantry Marines became real to many of us the night we lost Bryan, and it set the tone for our actions for the rest of the deployment. Not long after we lost Bryan, I lost one of my Marines, Cpl. Mike Lindemuth, approximately two weeks prior to May 25th. Mike was from Michigan, and I being from Ohio, obviously gave each other a hard time. Mike was my go-to guy for anything I needed; damn, I miss him. As I said before, we were only a few months into that deployment, and we knew our AO (Area of Operation) quite well. The morning of May 7th we learned that no matter what we knew, it could never remove us from the cross-hairs of hate.
As my Marines and I loaded into our vehicles, it was the typical Marine Corps bitch and moan process. Men bitching about how messed up things were and how tired everyone was. I can’t judge, I bitched too. As they say in the Infantry, “A grunt that doesn’t bitch, isn’t a happy grunt!”
As we left, I remember making sure all of my Marines were accounted for and every vehicle “Rogered Up.” I gave the order to roll back to our firm base. We operated in four-vehicle units. I was in the tail, the last vehicle. John Guzman, another sergeant, to who I owe all of my tactical and leadership knowledge was in the lead. As we left ASP Dulab, we were traveling on a dirt and sandy road, getting ready to turn left onto the hardball (Paved Road). As each vehicle turned, confirmation was heard over the radio: “Victor 1 (Vehicle 1), ok, Victor 2, ok, Victor 3, ok, Victor 4,”… then all hell broke loose. It felt as if we were hit from underneath and on the sides by every semi-truck ever made. I felt things hitting my body, I felt fire, I felt scared, I felt helpless, and I felt that this was it. I remember thinking, “Please make this stop!” That wasn’t the worst of it. Once I gained consciousness and regained my bearings, I heard the screams. “Sgt. Young! Sgt. Young! Please help me!” To hear a man scream in agony is one thing. To hear them call for you while in agony and not knowing if there is anything you can do, is another. I didn’t know that I was hurt as bad as I was at that point. I could feel some burns and I had a lot of pain in my back but all I could think about was an ambush. No matter what or how I was feeling, I had to maintain composure and prepare for any and everything. My weapon was shredded. Earlier that day I gave my sidearm to my gunner, Cpl. Justin Pratt who was in the turret. So I unsnapped my grenade pouches, pulled myself out of the truck, and prepared for the worst. I couldn’t stand it, something happened to my back, but at the time I didn’t know what. Come to find out later while in the hospital that my spine was crushed but I could still move and that was all that mattered. I yelled for our Corpsman HM2 “Doc” Dang, but he was blown out of the truck and we couldn’t find him. I knew I had to assess the situation. I rounded the truck, but since it was 0330ish in the morning, I couldn’t see anything. I found a pistol, grabbed it, and tried to radio back to the patrol. I wasn’t sure if they heard what happened; my radios were shredded too. The helpless feeling worsened. You know, it’s amazing how even in the midst of chaos, how peaceful one can feel when they feel like it’s their last moment. Turned out my gunner regained consciousness, and used his PRR, a small inter-patrol radio and receiver to try to contact our other Marines. It worked. All the other vehicles were fine and they were already on their way back.
All of us were pulled from the vehicle and given medical attention. I remember being grabbed by some Marines and Army CASEVAC (Causality Evacuation) personnel. They put us on the Blackhawk. All five of us from my truck were alive, being flown to Bravo Surgical at Al Asad Air Base in Western Iraq. Three of us, Cpl. Justin Pratt, Doc Dang, and I stayed there, and the other two, my driver Cpl. Pedro Castillo and Sgt. Shurvon Phillip went to Balad, Iraq, and then on to Germany. Only two of us recovered and came back, Cpl. Pratt and myself. Doc Dang was eventually sent home. Pratt and I made it a point to finish the deployment because that’s what Marines do, especially us Grunts.
After we returned, the rest of the deployment was hell. Mission after mission, engagement after engagement, and death after death, every day taking a piece of you with it.
The Marines of 3rd Bn, 25th Marines were hit hard during that deployment. We lost a total of 48, 46 Marines and 2 Navy Corpsman. Close to 200 Marines and Corpsmen were wounded. In the end, I lost two Marines who were assigned to me, Mike Lindemuth and Sgt. James Graham III from Oklahoma, in addition to myself being wounded. It’s what Infantry Marines do, it’s our job.
There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of all of the Marines I have served with. I have since been medically retired by the Marine Corps due to wounds received in combat, leaving wearing the rank of Staff Sergeant and with 12 years of service. Some days, I wish I were one of those 48, just so that a family can have their son, brother, father, husband, or friend back. I know that will never happen. I would never wish what we all went through upon anyone. WAR IS HELL, and COMBAT IS A MOTHERFUCKER.
So many of us veterans try to live our lives by a code, misunderstood by many, developed to ensure that the memory, honor, and service of those who have sacrificed themselves for the greater good are never forgotten. This is why we are the way we are. Because of how we think, we know that we will never be understood by those who aren’t like us. Some of us carry that as a burden. Many of us carry that as a badge of honor. All of us are here for each other.
I have taken those life lessons learned from not only the Marine Corps, but from my life outside the Corps as well, and use them in all aspects of my life. I have earned undergraduate and graduate degrees from Youngstown State University since being retired, and am now finishing up my second year teaching as a graduate assistant at Youngstown State University. Being an Infantry Marine and a combat veteran has significantly helped me in the field of Criminal Justice, as a student and as a teacher. I have been able to learn from experience and teach through experiences that I hope no person ever has to ever go through.
*Please note that these are the actual accounts of the event from the veteran’s viewpoint. These stories were written by them and I am only sharing them with the art that I created. To learn more about this project, read the Seeking Solace post.