The Iraq War

Iraq, 2003 - Highway 1.

Shots rang out from the left and bullets impacted the tank all

around me. The whiff of each danced around my torso. It was a miracle I

was not hit. Unaware that rounds had struck the metal near his head, my

driver continued his straight course. It rattled like rain on a tin roof. An oil

jug riddled with bullets spewed its hot contents onto the blacktop,

spattering the hull. I bolted out of my hatch fully exposed. Muzzle directly

in front of the driver’s nose, I began firing at the innocent grass field that

made an attempt our lives. Nature was my foe, a shield to the heart that so

coveted my demise. There he was reloading under the cover of reeds, and I

could not see him. T he familiar chugging of my tank came rushing back.

Momentarily, there was peace.

T he marine convoy of tanks, amtracks, and Humvees staged tanks to the

right and left side of the road, the defensive formation that we were

all accustomed to. We heard shots and numerous transmissions that

the enemy was attacking with small arms fire from either side of the

road. I could see the warped heat and erupting dust each impact made, and

there were hundreds of them in a second. It was an ambush. The forward

tanks of the convoy stopped completely and engaged every target.

We called it “recon by fire.” I fired at anything that looked suspicious.

ADRENALINE

Forgive me but you have no idea where I have been.

Not just a time in place but a state of mind.

Once I never thought death could touch me, I was in that place

For a moment

Yet it is that moment that dictates a whole life.

I know how close death is - seen it - and it has not taken me.

I will not ask forgiveness.

I am in a desert few understand.

Shots continued from everywhere—from motionless tall grass and

seemingly vacant mud-brick homes. It struck me then that nobody

knew exactly what they were engaging. The homes became littered

with machine gun fire - and so did we. Pocks and wisps of smoke exploded

from the ground, off tanks, over heads, and right past the ear. Marines

cooped up in Kuwait for months had the chance to unleash on

a helpless machine-gun trigger - and we did.

“Move on! Move on!” our captain shouted into the radio. “Keep pressing

forward!”

Tanks wheeled back into a neat column on the pavement. I could not pick

out a single combatant. Not soon after the first contact, the radio erupted

that a white truck had been spotted coming in from the east. There it was

off to the right - men in black leaping from it into the concealing field.

Fedayeen Saddam - ruthless fanatics. A hundred yards

out, the truck stopped. I lifted my rifle and took my best aim at

the driver: a shot, then one to the passenger. I was an expert shot, and it

filled me with adrenaline knowing they were dead.

I felt as if would live forever.

T he marines pressed on. Thoughts rushed into my mind as a short

period of peace ensued - the first time in my life I had killed.

Other Marines no doubt were thinking the same thing. Fields of cattails

were everywhere and I hated them. The enemy had to be in there, and what

a handsome convoy at the cost of a rocket. An M1 Abrams had the best

armor in the world - depleted uranium in the front, and an ass of cold steel.

The Iraqis knew where to hit us.

A half mile from the ambush, the convoy stopped again. The lead tank

found a target. In the midst of the crossfire ahead, infantry spilled from

one of our tracks, sprinting to a small ridge to the right. The captain

made the decision to hold ground until the threat was extinguished. The

second tank flanked the Fedayeen with larger caliber fire, yet the fanatics

did not quit.

T here were mudbrick homes, a large one in particular on the left side of

the highway. Not a soul was visible. Five were on the right, equally

motionless in the chaos of destruction. The infantry set up facing the

homes, around fifty yards from the closest ones. Picking up binoculars,

I spotted the fields quickly. Complete stillness. The

occasional pop was all to be heard. There was a building with a

clothesline attached to it in the distance. There! I practically leapt

backward. Five soldiers ran toward the clothesline. All had matching

clothes of solid black, and all were carrying rocket-propelled grenades.

Dropping the binoculars, I flicked the communication switch.

“Over there! They’re carrying RPGs!” our tank

wheeled, this time with three rifles on target.

One arched and crashed to the earth, rocket launcher tumbling across the

ground. The others, leaving him for dead, sprinted into the building.

T hen chaos broke loose.

Civilians crowded into the areas of engagement, mixing with the enemy.

Guerillas ran to and fro in the distance, perhaps mingling with their own

families. The Fedayeen had done something. They must have threatened

the civilians out of their homes. I spotted a pink shawl on a small girl,

running, arms outstretched to mother crouched beside one of the heated

buildings. An old man standing beside a wooden light pole dashed

aside as a bullet splintered it next to him. People sprinted between

homes, a mother hastily rounding up her children, a man dressed in

white diving to the dirt, all in the midst of the true enemy, cunning

in his methods of camouflage. The civilians made their way to the fields

farthest from battle and back into their homes hiding. An explosion

vomited rock and shrapnel close to the infantry; rocket grenades

sliced the air in every direction. Then I heard it. An unknown voice

over the radio shouted in my ear.

“Shoot everything that moves! SHOOT EVERYTHING THAT

MOVES!”

I felt the hot buttstock of the rifle against my cheek and took aim

at the crowd 300 yards away. I adjusted my rear sight to match. I was

a rifleman, and I was not going to miss. Conscience. My conscience

was blotted out; my eyes became fixed on the targets. I wanted the

Fedayeen to die. And as if I were outside my body looking inward, I fired.

Again and again. Screaming. My conscience was screaming to stop because

I did not know for sure what I was engaging. They were wearing white

and racing in between the homes; the Fedayeen were wearing black.

I just saw them and then they disappeared. I was firing at civilians!

My hands froze. I lowered my rifle.

Aaron. What did you do?

Rounds continued to flare from the houses and fields distant.

Two rockets cut the air directly for me, stopped short,

and exploded a hundred feet from impact, dirt, sand, and shrapnel

f lying everywhere. The explosions, attempts at our lives, did not register.

Gaping at the settling dirt, I felt as if I had been lulled into a dream, not

caring about the noise, the carnage, the hearty shouts of Marines, not

giving heed that there might be more rockets aimed directly for me. Focus

determined reality. My attention diverted to the second tank off to the right

that had been supporting the infantry. T he menacing turret fixed its sight

on the closest mud house and fired. A deafening blast followed the tire-

sized hole it ripped - like a needle through a sheet of paper, clean and swift.

The home collapsed in a cloud of dust.

Emptiness.

I remember the emptiness inside of me, a void where

memory should be. I lost focus as my reactions to the gunfire softened.

Sounds faded to whispers, and for a short time I remained in a world of no

thought, word, or question.

Complete nothingness.

Miscommunication made its way through the confused Marines:

“The building with the flag leaning up against it! Over to the

right! See it?”

T he firing tank responded, “I see the building you described, but can't

find the black flag on its side; over.” BOOM!

“NEGATIVE! The building to the right! What are you firing at!?”

Despite the effort expended to determine which building held

the Fedayeen, every home in the area received the same treatment—

shot through with a tank round - all of them. Mud homes that

appeared to have no role whatsoever in the tirade were pounded as

fiercely as the next. Only God knew what was in those buildings.

We heard rumors that infantry later charged in to discover old men

and their families hiding under beds and in basements. Under the

debris were also the combatants who, under the charge of Fedayeen,

had passports from far away as Egypt and Yemen, and as close as

Iran and Syria.

T he area settled in smoke, and all was quiet once again. I lifted

my hands in front of my face, studying the wrinkles and orange desert

upon them. I will never forget my hands. They had just killed. Not

in defense, or in protection of what I held most dear, but in necessity

rooted in an others’ ambition. I had become an instrument of war. All

acts became justified hiding behind the command of the unknown

voice. Did this absolve me from sin? In my heart I knew it didn’t.

My heart was sick, my morals were struck, my soul tainted: I would

never know if, or how many, civilians died that day.

Everything had changed.