March 2004, an Arabic man stands in an alley in Fallujah, Iraq. In his arms he was cradling an RPG. He and about thirty of his friends, who were also hiding, were waiting for their prey, a convoy of civilian contractors that routinely rode through their city. The convoy turned on to the main road and the Iraqis waited. At the right moment they let go with everything. The out gunned contractors did their best, but couldn't last long against the RPG's and small arms fire raining down on them from all sides. They were killed and four of their bodies were burned and dragged by a mob to a bridge where they were hung for the world to see.
I was ten miles away on a patrol base. I had just arrived in country a few weeks earlier. As a Lance Corporal with two and a half years in the Marines I was transferred to the 1st Marine Division just in time to go to Iraq to fight the insurgents and get what I wanted when I enlisted, combat! I had to be patient. As the days turned into weeks the dream began to fade and I focused on the dull tasks of a Lance Corporal; cleaning the office, answering the phone, and standing gear watch.
While standing phone watch in my office, my friend Huesdens walked in talking about the event that just happened and I still knew nothing about. He was a tall lanky guy with a birth mark on the back of his neck that looked like a bad sunburn. We had been friends since we were stationed in Okinawa at the 3rd Marine Division. I over heard him talking to no-one in particular, “…the hajji's just attacked a civilian convoy.”
“Huh, where? Today?” I was confused that stuff happened a lot in the Sunni Triangle. I didn't know what made this news so important.
As we were talking my boss, Sergeant Rainey, a black man with a shaved head who physically had more in common with a semi-truck than other people walked in the office. He had news for me too, “Cook, I was at the COC, they need a team to go to 2/1.That's gonna be your team. Tomorrow you're going to hop on a convoy to their camp, and then report to Lt. Deda.” His voice sounded like the low rumble of a diesel engine which fit his appearance perfectly. I didn't realize it at the time, but these two pieces of news would put on a path with destiny.
The next day I took my “team” to 2/1 and tracked down the lieutenant. A Combat Camera team usually consists of two men; a videographer and a photographer. The senior man is considered the team leader. After we reported to the watch officer Lt. Deda, a “recruiting poster” Marine, filled us in on the situation. “We're going into the city to let them know the Marines are here. This will be the first time Marines enter this city. Since you're the Combat Camera team, you two are going to document this event.”
Around three in the morning we attached to Weapons Platoon, Echo Company. The sun broke over the horizon after a few hours and nothing happened. I heard on the radio a platoon was headed into the city. Explosions started almost immediately. The whistle and pop of RPG's, the thud of mortars and thup-thup-thup of AK's were faint on the wind. I could hear the fight and see the city but I had no clue what was happening. I wanted to hear, see and feel everything that was a firefight.
I found out what was happening in the city that afternoon as Weapons replaced 2nd Platoon in the city. With every step away from our foxholes the sounds of the fight became louder. I could see Marines and insurgents darting between buildings. Moving along the main road enemy rounds cracked overhead, and an RPG exploded against a building to our right. I was trying to focus despite the noise and flying debris on what was around me, tight alleys and packed in buildings, looking for were a terrorist might be hiding. The butt of my riffle was tight in the pocket of my shoulder, the muzzle facing the deck, thumb caressing the selector switch, and trigger finger straight along the receiver. The focus of my actions was broken by a thunder clap above my head.
A mortar had exploded fifteen feet above us, leaving its octopus shaped cloud as a reminder of the damage it was meant to cause. The machine gunner standing next to me spit a stream of Copenhagen on the ground, looked at the cloud and then at me, “We should be fucking dead.” We started walking again. I thought about the fact I should be dead. I should be scared, but I wasn't. I knew I was supposed to be there. What I didn't know was why I was there, and what caused me to want to be in such a terrible place. It felt like an uncomfortable silence between friends.
