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After graduating from Princeton, Donovan Campbell wanted to give back to his country, engage in the world, and learn to lead. So he joined the service, becoming a commander of a forty-man infantry platoon called Joker One. Campbell had just months to train and transform a ragtag group of brand-new Marines into a first-rate cohesive fighting unit, men who would become his family. They were assigned to Ramadi, the capital of the Sunni-dominated Anbar province that was an explosion just waiting to happen. And when ...
After graduating from Princeton, Donovan Campbell wanted to give back to his country, engage in the world, and learn to lead. So he joined the service, becoming a commander of a forty-man infantry platoon called Joker One. Campbell had just months to train and transform a ragtag group of brand-new Marines into a first-rate cohesive fighting unit, men who would become his family. They were assigned to Ramadi, the capital of the Sunni-dominated Anbar province that was an explosion just waiting to happen. And when it did happen—with the chilling cries of "Jihad, Jihad, Jihad!" echoing from minaret to minaret—Campbell and company were there to protect the innocent, battle the insurgents, and pick up the pieces.
Thrillingly told by the man who led the unit of hard-pressed Marines, Joker One is a gripping tale of a leadership and loyalty.
Best Military Books of the Decade by the Military Times: "Joker One: A Marine Platoon's Story of Courage, Leadership and Brotherhood" by Donovan Campbell, 2009. This is "sweat-soaked, blood-soaked reality," written by a Princeton and Harvard graduate and Afghanistan veteran who talks about managing warriors and himself. The story is a first-rate study of management and manhood. Campbell's platoon taught him that "love was expressed in the only currency that mattered in combat: Action."
Campbell decided as a junior at Princeton that attending Marine Corps Officer Candidate School would look good on his résumé. Three years later, in the spring of 2004, he was in Iraq commanding a platoon known by its radio call sign, "Joker One." Campbell tells its story, and his, in an outstanding narrative of the Iraq War. Joker One counted around 40 dudes: country boys and smalltown jocks; a few Hispanics and a single black. Some were college men with futures; some had pasts they preferred to forget. The battalion was assigned to one of Iraq's worst hot spots: the city of Ramadi, where faceless enemies found shelter among 350,000 Iraqi civilians. Joker One fought from street to street, house to house and ambush to ambush for seven straight months. By the end of the tour, "even the Gunny's hands had started ceaselessly shaking," Campbell writes. Faced with urgent life-and-death decisions, Campbell had learned that "there are no great options... you live with the results and shut up about the whole thing." For all his constant self-questioning, Lt. Campbell brought Joker One home with only one KIA-a record as impressive as his account. (Mar. 17)Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Campbell does not come from a military family. Enhancing his résumé served as his sole reason for attending Marine Corp Officer Candidate School between his junior and senior years at Princeton, and he thoroughly hated the ten-week experience. By graduation, however, he recognized a challenge in the marines unavailable to him in corporate life. His book presents his experience as platoon leader of Joker Company in Iraq. From March to September 2004 this company of 120 marines fought insurgents in and around Ar Ramadi in a classic urban counterinsurgency within a city of 350,000 civilians. Outnumbered, outgunned, and lacking heavy weapons and air support, these marines patrolled the city, enduring countless ambushes and suffering many casualties. Through their efforts, Ramadi never fell into insurgents' hands, and the marines retained control of the city's major streets and government institutions. Campbell provides a gritty, down-on-the-street account of hard, house-to-house fighting against a foe that could disappear to attack another day. He also presents the physical and emotional toll that such combat inflicts on individuals. Through it all, Campbell shows that the men of Joker Company lost neither their humanity nor their humor. Highly recommended for all libraries. [See Prepub Alert, LJ11/1/08; for a Q&A with Campbell, see p. 78.]
—Stephen L. Hupp
I found myself fascinated by the interesting geometric designs of the twisted iron rebar in front of me. For a time, my eyes traced each of the dark, thumb-thick strands where they spewed out of the cinder-block walls like the frozen tentacles of some monster from the myths of antiquity.
I have no idea how long I spent engrossed in contemplation, because time in and around firefights is somewhat fluid, but eventually I tore myself away from profound admiration of the destruction in front of my eyes. It was difficult, this return to a reality that sometimes seemed more like a myth—or maybe a nightmare—but it was necessary, because the problem immediately at hand was all too real. If I ignored it for too long, I might get everyone around me killed.
So I stepped back from the abandoned building' s wall and surveyed the floor around me. Somewhere in the various piles of newly created rubble scattered about the floor were pieces of the rockets that had just ripped through two feet of cinder block to explode inside my observation post (OP). I needed to find at least one of these pieces, preferably the base of the warhead, because this was the first time that my unit had been hit by rockets capable of doing this much damage. If I could find a piece, then we could figure out what kind of rockets these were, estimate what it would take to launch them, and predict how they would be used in the future. We could then effectively plan to thwart them and potentially save several lives, which was important to me because my job description was twofold: 1) save lives and 2) take lives. Not necessarily in that order.
With these considerations in mind, I sifted diligently through the rubble until I found what I was looking for: a smooth black object, just a little larger than a hockey puck, with a half dozen or so holes drilled through it. Though the little puck looked fairly innocuous, I knew from hard-won experience that it was actually a thing of great pain; it was the base of one of the rockets that had just struck us. Without stopping to think, I grabbed the thick circular object as firmly as I could, shrieked manfully, and then dropped it as quickly as I could. Even ten minutes after its firing, this part of the explosive warhead was still hot enough to sear my palm. Important safety lesson: When picking up a newly fired enemy rocket warhead base, allow proper time for cooling or handle it with gloves. I filed that one away with other lessons learned the hard way, right after "RPGs (rocket propelled grenades) that you need to worry about always make two booms" and "No one here is your friend." We now lived in a bizarre world where explosions were so commonplace that we had ways of distinguishing the more from the less harmful and where little tips and tricks about proper expended rocket handling made perfect sense to collate, absorb, and pass on. The absurd had become our baseline.
Ten minutes ago, though, the world was very simple, for it consisted solely of something that seemed like one gigantic explosion. Actually, it was three separate large explosions within half seconds of one another, but it's fairly difficult to make the distinction when you're lying on your back with your ears ringing. However, it's fairly easy to think rapidly and incoherently, which was exactly what I was doing as I lay on my back, wondering whether my hearing would return this time, and, incidentally, what in the hell had just happened to me and my men.
Time, I already knew, would answer the former question without any help from me, but as the lieutenant and the unit leader, it was my job to answer the latter one, and time in this case was working against me. If you're a Marine lieutenant in a firefight, a situation that's probably as good a proxy as any for hell, then it's your job to figure out at least 50 to 70 percent of what is going on around you so that you can make intelligent decisions, which translate into good orders, which lead to focused, effective, and decisive action. This whole process needs to be rapid to be relevant, but if you' re too hasty, then you can lead your men to their deaths, all the while believing that you're leading them to safety. It's not an easy tension to manage on an ongoing basis.
However, it can be done, and to do it well you must have absolutely no concern for your own safety. You can't think of home, you can't miss your wife, and you can' t wonder how it would feel to take a round through the neck. You can only pretend that you're already dead and thus free yourself up to focus on three things: 1) finding and killing the enemy, 2) communicating the situation and resulting actions to adjacent units and higher headquarters, and 3) triaging and treating your wounded. If you love your men, you naturally think about number three first, but if you do you're wrong. The grim logic of combat dictates that numbers one and two take precedence.
After the explosions, I rose, ears still ringing, and grabbed for the radio handset. Once the black handset was pressed firmly against my ear, I pushed the button with my thumb and, as calmly as I could manage, informed headquarters that my eleven men and I had just been hit by several large rockets. There were probably multiple casualties, I said, and maybe some of us were dead, but I didn't know just yet. I'd call back. Headquarters squawked something in return, but, with my hearing still questionable and one of our machine guns firing full bore inside the all-concrete building, I couldn't understand a word, so I told HQ I'd be back in touch when I could hear again. Then I put the handset down and resolutely ignored it until I could sort out what was going on inside the old abandoned hotel that my eleven-man squad and I were using as an observation position.
After five minutes of running helter-skelter through the thick dust that the rockets had kicked up, I found Sergeant Leza, my squad leader, and we conferred. Slowly the pieces of the attack came together to form a coherent picture: The massive explosion, which we assumed to be the rockets, had kicked off the insurgent assault. Seconds after their impact, one enemy from our southwest had fired an RPG at us but had missed, probably because one of my men had shot the insurgent as he took aim.
Simultaneously, several enemies off our southeast flank had sprayed the building with AK-47 fire, and the two Marines covering that sector had returned fire with their M-16s. They were unable to tell whether they had killed anyone. We had also taken some fire from our direct north and south, and the Marines in those positions, including my medium machine gunner, had reciprocated in spades. They, too, were unable to tell whether their return fire had had any effect. For the most part it was all pretty routine, with only two small deviations.
First off, directly across the street from our hotel, a car blazed furiously in an alleyway. I had seen burning cars before, but they were usually the result of either nearby bomb detonations or steady machine gun fire during particularly fierce combat. I had yet to see a burning car accompanied by a simultaneous rocket attack. I pushed the incongruity aside—the more important question was how the enemy had managed to attack us with such powerful rockets, which were almost certainly antitank weapons and definitely not man-portable. Ten minutes later, my first squad, patrolling in from the north, called in with an answer: The backseat of the burning car bore the clear remains of a homemade-rocket launcher, still smoldering inside. Our attackers had simply parked the vehicle in an inconspicuous place next to the gates of a house, hoping that we would lose track of the nondescript vehicle amid the hustle and bustle of the thriving marketplace area below us. When the rest of the assault was ready, a spotter within the crowd had launched the rockets with a cellphone call.
The second small plot twist, however, was that no United States Marines were wounded or killed in this story, a very unusual thing for a Ramadi day in August 2004. In spite of their clever plan and their disciplined execution, our enemies had failed—we hadn' t stopped our mission for even a second. Indeed, we had probably winged at least one of our attackers, although it's sometimes difficult to tell because most people don't go down when you shoot them with our little .223 bullets. So on that day, I believed that God had been watching over us. Up to that point, even with the horrors I had witnessed,
I retained my faith, if only barely. Every time events made me ready to throw in the towel, a small miracle happened—like antitank rockets missing our floor—or I saw something supernaturally beautiful in the actions of one of my Marines, and for one more day, it was enough to keep faith and hope alive.
Now, nearly three years after that August day, those Marines and I have long since parted ways. Our time together in Iraq seems like someone else's story, for there's nothing in America even remotely similar to what we experienced overseas, nothing that reminds us of what we suffered and achieved together. And none of us have really been able to tell that story, not fully, not even to our families, because each small telling takes a personal toll. No one wants to suffer the pain of trying to explain the unexplainable to those who rarely have either the time or the desire to comprehend. So, many of us have simply packed our war away and tried hard to fit into normalcy by ignoring that time in our lives.
But our story is an important one, and I believe that it' s worth telling truthfully and completely no matter what the cost. For seven and a half months, from March to September 2004, my company of 120 Marines battled day in and day out against thousands of enemy fighters in a city that eventually earned the title of Iraq's most dangerous place, a city called Ramadi. Our story has been largely overshadowed by the two battles of Fallujah that bookended our deployment, battles in which the U.S. Marine Corps (USMC) brought the full weight of its combat power—jets, tanks, artillery, and so on—to bear on a city populated almost entirely by insurgent fighters. Fallujah I and II have probably been the closest thing to conventional fighting since Baghdad fell, and they're a gripping story: intense, house-to-house combat between clearly defined foes—the Marines on one side, the jihadists on the other—with a negligible civilian population muddying the battlefield.
We, by contrast, fought a much blurrier battle, a classic urban counterinsurgency, a never-ending series of engagements throughout the heart of a teeming city where our faceless enemies blended seamlessly into a surrounding populace of nearly 350,000 civilians. These civilians severely limited the assets we could bring to the fight, negating entirely the artillery and air power that American forces invariably rely upon to win pitched battles. Thus my men and I usually fought on foot, street by street and house by house, using only what we could carry on our backs. Outnumbered and outgunnedin nearly every battle, we walked the streets of Ramadi endlessly, waiting, tensely, for another enemy ambush to kick off. For us there was no end to the mission, no respite from the daily violence—for seven straight months we patrolled without ever having a single day off.
Indeed, we never experienced anything even remotely resembling a normal day, and as I searched my memory and my diary for one to bring the reader into our world, the brief August rocket attack was the best I could come up with—nothing too terrible, just a standard day with a few little twists that made it slightly memorable.
During our entire deployment, I prayed for something other than this standard day, for a respite from the unrelenting pace of combat, but a break never came. Instead, we fought and fought and fought until, on our return, one out of every two of us had been wounded—a casualty rate that, we were told, exceeded that of any other Marine or Army combat unit since Vietnam.
However, our perseverance and our sacrifices paid off. Despite the determined attacks of the insurgents, Ramadi never fell entirely into their hands as had its sister city Fallujah, and we retained control of the key thoroughfares and all the institutions of government until we were relieved by other Marines. Three weeks thereafter, Central Command doubled the U.S. forces in Ramadi, then tripled them. In early 2005, the Marine Corps formally honored our efforts by giving the Leftwich award to my company commander (CO), Captain Chris Bronzi. With this award, the USMC officially stated that it considered Captain Bronzi its best combat company commander (and our company as its best combat company) for all of 2004, a year that included both Fallujah invasions.
Throughout all the fighting, I led a forty-man infantry platoon—onequarter of our company—under the CO's command. Day after unrelenting day bound our platoon tightly together, eventually creating a whole much greater than the sum of its parts, and we grew to love one another fiercely. I knew these men better than my best friends; better, in some ways, than my wife. For what they did and what they suffered, my men deserve to have their story told.
But it's so hard to tell the truth, because the telling means dragging up painful memories, opening doors that you thought you had closed, and revisiting a past you hoped you had put behind you. However, I think that someone needs to do it, and I was the leader, so the responsibility falls to me.
I was neither born into the military nor bred for it—aside from a two-year stint my grandfather did as an Air Force doctor, no one in my family had ever served in the armed forces. Indeed, the thought of joining the service never really occurred to me until my junior year at college, when I decided that the Marine Corps Officer Candidate School (OCS), the ten-week selection process that qualifies university students for an officer' s commission, would look good on my résumé.
With this less-than-altruistic motivation to spur me on, I headed down to Quantico, Virginia, to take in the ten weeks of uninterrupted screaming that constitutes OCS. Unsurprisingly, I hated the experience, and on the day I completed the course, I swore internally never, ever to join the Marine Corps. I hadn't done ROTC, and I hadn't accepted a dime from any of the services to help pay for college, so I didn't owe the military a thing. I intended for it to stay that way.
Over the course of my senior year, though, something shifted. Somehow, the Fortune 500 recruiters and the postgraduation salaries lost their luster, and, somewhat to my surprise, I soon found myself casting about for a pursuit that would force me to assume responsibility for something greater than myself, something that would force me to give back, to serve others. Try as I might to avoid them, I kept coming back to the United States Marines. I knew from OCS that if I could make it to the Marine infantry, then I could be a platoon commander and have forty men whose lives would be entirely my responsibility. I also knew that in the infantry I'd be in a place where I could no longer hide behind potential, a place where past academic achievements and family connections were irrelevant, a place where people demanded daily excellence in action because lives hung in the balance. As my final semester of school wound down, I thought of the words one of my sergeant instructors had screamed at me over the summer: "Candidate, the currency in which we trade is human lives. Do you think you can handle that responsibility?"
I didn't know if I could, but I did know that I wanted to try, and I knew that I wanted to learn to lead, which, I soon discovered, simply meant serving others to an increasingly great degree. Surprising everyone in my family (my mother called me crazy), I joined the Corps after graduation, and I foundered at first in the training, but eventually I righted and eventually I got my wish—I made it to an infantry platoon.
So, that's me: an ordinary young man who once made the choice to serve. I wish I could present someone greater to the reader, someone whose exploits and whose fame could automatically make people sit up and pay attention to the story of my men, but I can't, because I'm not that someone. However, to this day I love my Marines with all that I'm capable of, and in spite of my shortcomings I want to do my utmost to help tell their tale.
Though I can't offer myself to the reader, I can offer my men, and I can tell a true story with love and heartfelt emotion from the inside out. And I hope and I pray that whoever reads this story will know my men as I do, and that knowing them, they too might come to love them.
Posted March 17, 2009
If you want a compelling, honest look at the war on terror in Iraq - you need to buy this book. The author leaves out all the political BS, and focuses on his men and all that happened to them during their tour. Great story - the flow was great and it kept me turning the pages like no book has in quite a while. These guys are all heroes by anyone's measure.
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I was looking for an honest view of what the soldier on the ground experienced in the Iraq War. The beginning was rather slow moving. The author had to describe his reasons for joining the Marine Corps and the training necessary to keep the squad alive in battle. After that, the book took off. He describes how the men bonded in battle and boredom. He explains how personalities affected each soldier's ability to cope with the dangers and loneliness facing them away from home. The author gave insight into the occasional lack of needed supplies and weaponry to fight the enemy. The conclusion was extremely moving.
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Posted December 25, 2008
This is a Marine platoon leader's account of some of the most difficult fighting in Iraq during the dark days of the spring and summer of 2004. Much has been said about how a later surge of additional troops and more aggressive tactics turned the tide in Iraq. Although the author doesn't say so directly, this book suggests other reasons.<BR/><BR/>History has not been kind to the Iraqi people. Saddam regarded Hitler and Stalin as role models. His secret police kept every Iraqi living in terror. No one was safe. When he saw members of his own family as a threat, he murdered them. When he believed religious and ethnic groups were a danger to his rule, he turned to genocide. He was the sort of brutal dictator only a film maker like Michael Moore could love.<BR/><BR/>It was into that bubbling caldron of distrust and anger that the men of Lt. Donovan Campbell's platoon stepped in March of 2004. Their initial efforts to establish friendships got them nowhere. They would fight and perhaps die without Iraqi help. <BR/><BR/>Nothing illustrates that better than an event that took place on May 27, 2004, when Lt. Campbell was ordered to take an inspection team to check out work at a school. As they were leaving, the enemy launched a RPG (rocket propelled grenade). It missed them and exploded in a group of small children, scattering the bodies of wounded and dying children in all directions. <BR/><BR/>Lt. Campbell faced a difficult choice. His small force could quickly be out-gunned. Proper military tactics said they should leave. Instead, he stayed, calling in two other squads. They give what aid they could until Iraqi ambulances arrived. It was then that they ran headlong into Iraqi fears. People in the neighborhood would not even let someone into their homes to call ambulances. Their lives were that dominated by fear. It was in the battle that followed that the only man under Campbell's direct command died, Lance Corporal Todd Bolding, who had both his legs amputated by a RPG.<BR/><BR/>Eventually all that suffering affected Lt. Campbell. He called the first part of his book "Eager" to describe his zeal to test himself in combat. Six months later, he was utterly burned out. The fifth and last part of the book is titled "Tired," to describe just how exhausted he had become as his platoon approached its final weeks in Iraq. It was at that point that his men took over, doing what he could no longer do. As he put it, "They loved one another and their mission--the people of Ramadi--in a way that I didn't fully appreciate until just a few days before we left the city." He closes out his description of their combat experience with these moving words.<BR/><BR/>"So that was how we loved those who hated us; blessed those who persecuted us; daily laid down our lives for our neighbors. No matter what we felt, we tried to demonstrate love though our daily actions. Now I understand more about what it means to truly love, and what it means to love your neighbor--how you can do it even when your neighbor literally tries to kill you."<BR/><BR/>Though you're unlikely to read about it from any of our nation's self-appointed sneering class, it was that willingness to love in the midst of hatred that opened up the hearts of Iraqis and gave them the courage to stand up and begin to rebuild their nation. Before the Surge, there were the brave and loving men of Joker One. That's why this is a book that you must read.<BR/><BR/>--Michael W. Perry. editor of Dachau Liberated
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Posted December 17, 2008
Describing Joker One by Donovan Campbell in one word is a difficult task but if forced to do so the word would be poignant. Joker One is the story of the individual Marines who comprised one of the platoon¿s deployed to fight in Iraq. More than a story about a war, Campbell slaps the ¿Human Condition¿ on the face of the Iraqi War, and for good measure nail guns it in place. His story is one that needed to be told, not to sway your opinion of whether the United States occupation of Iraq is justified, but rather to put names and faces to the individuals who served their country. It doesn¿t matter whether you are pro or anti war what matters is that you understand the struggles of the individuals involved. The men in this story didn¿t wage the war but rather carried out their mission with courage, bravado, and outright selfless determination. If you are not touched by the words between the bindings of this book than I might suggest you send out a search party for your soul.<BR/><BR/>The Stateside news reports of the Iraqi War have been meaningless rhetoric up to this point. We have been fed the gruesome details of body counts and have seen the anti-American sentiments of the Iraqi people, but up until the story of Joker One these stories have been a benign representation of the actual happenings in Iraq. We haven¿t been told the stories of the ¿so-called¿ US allies who when forced with the decision of standing up for their own free society or their own mortality immediately switch their alliances and begin to open fire on our troops. Nor have we seen firsthand, the cowardly Iraqi insurgent¿s complete disregard of their own countrymen as they use them as human shields as a means to an end. <BR/><BR/>Some soldiers have returned to the States battered, beaten, and broken both physically and mentally. Others have returned Stateside in wooden boxes draped with the United States flag. Campbell has identified these soldiers by name. Soldiers like you and I who have families, dreams, and ambitions now which regardless of injury or death have become severely altered by their mere participation in the ugliest form of human interaction. <BR/><BR/>Lieutenant Campbell takes this opportunity to provide the reader a front row seat into the daily struggles of his platoon. It would have been easy for him to shed the spotlight directly upon himself in this story; in order to boost his own ego. But to the contrary, Campbell highlights the extraordinary camaraderie of the men under his charge. Instead of highlighting his successes, he focuses on the successes of his men and points out his errors in judgment. He continually second guesses the split-second decisions he was forced to make. If only I had done X rather than Y, things might have been different; is the common theme of his thought process.<BR/><BR/>Joker One reads like an action packed Major Motion Picture. I had to constantly remind myself that I was reading a true story and not a piece of fiction dreamed up by some overly imaginative author hammering away at the keys of his or her word processor. <BR/><BR/>Joker One is so vivid and alive with detail that it hits the reader in the solar plexus with unrelenting force. Thanks to Lieutenant Campbell, here is to the soldiers of Joker One, Semper Fi!
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Posted June 3, 2013
I served with 2/4 during the Battle of Ramadi, and this book is an excellent account of the events that occurred during our deployment. Thank you Donavan Campbell for telling our story. Semper Fi Bastard!Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted April 19, 2013
The author needs to stop refering to a person as staff sergeant . The staff sergeant has a name,he put his life on the line for you and me , and I would thank him for serving . The story is well written ,I'd like to thank all the soldiers trying to make our world a better place to live in .Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted July 17, 2012
EXCELLENT BOOK..... VERY ACCURATE
Mr. Campbell holds back no punches in describing the details of his time in the Marine Corps and his time In Ramadi. Being a former Marine myself I can say his accounts are extremely accurate, as to the thoughts and fears experienced in those environments. My hat is off to you Lt. Campbell for telling the story of you and your men. All too often millions of stories just like this one go untold. Lt. Campbell OUTSTANDING JOB…. SEMPER FI
Posted May 19, 2012
Hard to disagree with most of the other reviews. I looked forward to go to bed early just so I had more time to read this book. Great writing style. Too bad for us readers Donovan Campbell is a civilian now and unlikely to find himself in a situation as exciting as Iraq again. He is a good author, but don't think even he could make working at Pepsico as intense a story as leading a platoon in war. Thanks for your service.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted August 28, 2011
Posted July 14, 2011
Anyone who wants to umderstand life and combat through the eyes of a platoon commander should read this. Anyone planning on beingvan officerNEEDS to read this.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted March 21, 2011
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Posted January 28, 2011
I could not put this book down. By the end of the book you really started to get attached to the men and what they where going thru. The insight of the brutal war zone really got to me. God Bless the Armed Forces and everything they do .Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted January 2, 2011
Posted August 13, 2010
Posted May 15, 2010
This memoir has got to be one of the best ones I have read about Iraq/Afghanistan. It made me cry, laugh, and at times upset. Really brings you into what our soldiers experience while fighting over there and give the reader a restored appreciation for what our soldier are enduring over there! A must read for anyone who whats a gritty truthful look at the war.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted March 4, 2010
Posted February 20, 2010
I bought Joker One simply because it was on the 'history' shelf at B & N. I had not heard nor read any reviews on the book, but when I find a book on the war in Iraq I usually grab it. When I finally got around to reading Joker One I could not put it down. The writing is superb, and if you have previously led men in combat, the book re-ignites all of the memories (both good and bad) that have laid dormant for years. Do yourself a favor and read Joker One.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted December 7, 2009
This book is one of the best military books I have read. It tells the story of their struggles and shows what it truly is like to be a Marine platoon leader. It describes the emotions one feels in the battlefield and how close you get to the Marines with you. I recommend to anyone who likes military books.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
After reading the first few chapters of this book it is obvious that the author is somewhat egotistical and "ate up" regarding his position and billet as a Platoon Commander. Those who refer to everyone as "MY Marines, MY Platoon, MY responsibilities, ME, ME, ME, are dismissed and looked down upon by junior troops. After 3-4 chapters I have yet to read anything on the Senior Enlisted Marines within the Battalion or Company. 1stSgt's and Sergeant's Major are the backbone and leadership within these units who mold and mentor the SNCO's and NCO's, NOT the Officer Corps!
Written for those who do not have working knowledge about the Marine Corps some of his facts are incorrect. As a Marine who was in his area of operations during the exact timeframe he seldom mentions operations outside of his box. Terminology is often outdated and fictitious.
There was a fantastic ability for this book to become a "must read" before being "individualized" by the author. It's not all about HIM!
Those who relive their personal experiences by writing a book for profitable gain have much to lose in credibility from those who served in this conflict. Buyer beware if you are a current or former Marine, it's not what you think it would be!
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