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I
T
B
EGINS
O
n the evening of November 7, I squeezed into a Marine amtrac
with a dozen Marines and a few SEALs, all keyed up for battle.
The big armored vehicle rumbled to life, and slowly moved toward
the head of a massive procession of armor heading out of camp and
north of the city, into the open desert.
We sat knee to knee on benches facing each other in the bare-
bones interior. A third row had been squeezed into the middle of
the compartment. The AAV-7A1 wasn’t exactly a stretch limo; you
might try not to crowd out the guys on either side of you, but there
was only so much you could do. Tight wasn’t the word. Thankfully,
just about everyone inside with me had showered recently.
At first, it was cold—this was November, and to a Texas boy it
felt like deep winter—but within a few minutes the heater was
choking us and we had to ask them to crank it down. I put my ruck
down on the floor. With my Mk-11 propped between my legs and
my helmet on the butt, I had a makeshift pillow. I tried to nap as we
moved. Close your eyes, and time moves faster.
I didn’t get all that much sleep. Every so often I glanced toward
the slit windows in the rear door, but I couldn’t see past the guys
sitting there. That wasn’t much of a loss—all they could see was the
rest of the procession, a haze of dust, and a few patches of empty
desert. We’d been practicing with the Marines for about a week,
going over everything from getting in and out of their vehicles to
figuring out exactly what sort of charges we would use to blow
sniper holes through buildings. In between we’d worked on radio
coms and general strategy, exchanged ideas about how to provide
the best cover for the squads we’d be accompanying, and made a
dozen tentative tactical decisions, such as deciding whether it would
be generally better to shoot from the top floor or the one right
below.
Now we were ready, but as often happens in the military, we
were in hurry-up-and-wait mode. The tracked vehicles drove us up
north of Fallujah, then stopped.
We sat there for what seemed like hours. Every muscle in my
body cramped. Finally someone decided we could drop the ramp
and stretch a bit. I unfolded myself from the bench and went out to
shoot the shit with some of the other SEALs nearby.
Finally, just before daybreak, we loaded back up and began
trundling toward the edge of the city. There was maximum
adrenaline inside that tin can on treads. We were ready to get it on.
Our destination was an apartment complex overlooking the
northwestern corner of the city. Roughly eight hundred yards from
the start of the city proper, the buildings had a perfect view of the
area where our Marines were going to launch their assault—an
excellent location for snipers. All we had to do was take it.
“Five minutes!” yelled one of the NCOs.
I hooked one arm through my ruck and got a good grip on my
gun.
The amtrac jerked to a halt. The rear ramp slammed down and I
leapt out with the others, running toward a small grove with some
trees and rocks for cover. I moved quickly—I wasn’t afraid of
getting shot as much as I was of being run over by one of the
armada that had ferried us here. The mammoth amtracs didn’t look
like they’d stop for anybody.
I hit the dirt, got the ruck next to me, and began scanning the
building, watching for anything suspicious. I worked my eyes
around the windows and the surrounding area, expecting all the
while to be shot at. The Marines, meanwhile, poured out their
vehicles. Besides the tracked personnel carriers there were
Hummers and tanks and dozens of support vehicles. The Marines
just kept coming, swarming over the complex.
They started kicking in doors. I couldn’t hear much, just the loud
echoes of the shotguns they used to blow out the locks. The
Marines detained a few women who had been outside, but
otherwise the yard around the building was vacant.
My eyes never stopped moving. I scanned constantly, trying to
find something.
Our radio guy came over and set up nearby. He was monitoring
the Marine progress as they worked up through the apartment
building, securing it. The few inhabitants they found inside had to be
taken out and moved to safety. There was no resistance inside—if
there were insurgents, they’d either gotten out when they saw us
coming, or they pretended now that they were loyal Iraqis and
friends of the U.S.
T
he Marines ended up moving about 250 civilians from the
complex, a fraction of what they had been told to expect. Each one
was questioned first. Assuming they hadn’t fired a weapon recently
(the Marines did gunpowder checks), weren’t on a wanted list, or
were not otherwise suspicious, the head of each family was given
$300 and told they had to leave. According to one of the Marine
officers, they were allowed to go back to their apartments, take
what they needed, and leave.
(A few known insurgents were captured and detained in the
operation.)
W
hile we were on the berm watching the city, we were also
watching warily for an Iraqi sniper known as Mustafa. From the
reports we heard, Mustafa was an Olympics marksman who was
using his skills against Americans and Iraqi police and soldiers.
Several videos had been made and posted, boasting of his ability.
I never saw him, but other snipers later killed an Iraqi sniper we
think was him.
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