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War Never EndsGetting to know the men of Whiskey Six—and the loved ones they left behind.

By Phil ZabriskiePosted Tuesday, Nov. 11, 2008, at 4:39 PM ET

Whiskey Six's Humvee after it survived two ambushes one night in Ramadi, IraqIn my youth, I knew Nov. 11 as my sister's birthday. As I aged, I learned that it was also Veterans Day. Now, having spent time with American soldiers in Iraq, Afghanistan, and the Philippines—and time elsewhere with soldiers from other nations—I think I have a much better understanding of what the day is designed to commemorate.

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For the last three years, I've found myself looking past Veterans Day, to Nov. 15, which is now a more significant date on my personal calendar than many officially recognized holidays. It's only by a quirk of fate that the day means anything to me, but that quirk of fate had a lasting impact on me, and far more so on four different families.

I need to back up a little. In October 2004, I was halfway through my second stint with Time magazine's Baghdad bureau. Conditions in Iraq were rapidly deteriorating. Mobility was limited, reporting increasingly dangerous. And in several places, working as an embedded reporter almost certainly meant coming under fire.

Ramadi was one of those places. Some military men considered it more dangerous than Fallujah, but, at that point, it still seemed like a good idea to spend time there with the 2^nd Battalion, 5^th Marine Regiment, one of the outfits trying to keep the city from spiraling completely out of control. By chance, I was briefly billeted with the 2/5's Whiskey Company, which was charged with, among other things, patrolling the main thoroughfare, known as Route Michigan, which almost guaranteed they'd get attacked. A week later, I returned for a few days to report on Ramadi and on combat stress among front-line soldiers.

During that second visit, I mainly rode in company commander Capt. Pat Rapicault's Humvee, a vehicle with the call sign Whiskey Six. I'd initially thought Rapicault—"Frenchy" to his men—was Cajun, but I later learned he'd grown up in Martinique and France before attending high school and college in Mississippi and enlisting. He was joined by Cpl. Marc Ryan, a steely-eyed South Jersey native; Cpl. Lance Thompson, who hailed from Indiana farm country; and Lance Cpl. Ben Nelson, a Californian.

Late one night, Whiskey Company rode out to support other Marines. I sat behind Ryan, who drove. Rapicault was behind Thompson, who manned the radio, and Nelson was in the gunner's hole. "We'll probably get hit," Ryan said. He'd know, I thought; he'd already served a bruising tour in Ramadi with the 2/4 Marines, then he re-upped and came back after spending only two weeks at home.

Indeed, he was right. Whiskey Company was ambushed twice that night. Whiskey Six was very nearly disabled by roadside bombs that detonated a few feet from the front tires. The wheels were flattened, the windshield spider-webbed and covered with engine oil. When Rapicault bellowed at Ryan to get moving, Nelson had to shout down directions so he could steer to safety.

Now I see that night as the most frightening experience I've ever had. Then, it was part of my job—and even more so, part of theirs. At the end of the month, my stint in Iraq ended. The battle for Fallujah commenced. Fighting continued in Ramadi. And on Nov. 15, I learned from the newspaper the next day, a suicide car bomber rammed Whiskey Six, killing Patrick Rapicault, 34; Marc Ryan, 25; and Lance Thompson, 21. Ben Nelson was seriously wounded but survived.

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Formerly a staff writer for Time magazine based in Asia, Phil Zabriskie now lives in New York. He has written for National Geographic, National Geographic Adventure, New York Magazine, and others.

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