American Sniper: The Autobiography of the Most Lethal Sniper in U. S. Military History

R
UNAWAY 
S
HOWS 
H
IS 
C
OLORS
N
ot long afterward, a guy I’ll call Runaway and I were on the
street when we had contact with Iraqi insurgents. We ducked into a
shallow setback in the wall next to the street, waiting for the hail of
bullets to die down.
“We’ll work our way back,” I told Runaway. “You go first. I’ll
cover you.”
“Good.”
I leaned out and laid down cover fire, forcing the Iraqis back. I
waited a few seconds, giving Runaway time to get into position so
he could cover me. When I thought enough time had passed, I
jumped out and started running.
Bullets began flying all around, but not from Runaway. They
were all coming from the Iraqis, who were trying to write their
names in my back with bullets.
I threw myself against the wall, sliding next to the gate. For a
moment I was disoriented: where was Runaway?
He should have been nearby, waiting under cover for me so we
could leapfrog back. But he was nowhere to be seen. Had I passed
him on the street?
No. 
....
was busy earning his nickname.
I was trapped, hung up by the insurgents and without my
mysteriously disappearing friend.
The Iraqi gunfire got so intense that I ended up having to call for

---

backup. The Marines sent a pair of Hummers, and with their
firepower backing up everything I could lay down, I was finally able
to get out.
By then I’d figured out what had happened. When I met with
Runaway a short time later, I practically strangled him—I probably
would have, if it hadn’t been for the officer there.
“Why the hell did you run away?” I demanded. “You ran all the
way down the block without covering me.”
“I thought you were following me.”
“Bullshit.”
It was the second time that week Runaway had taken off on me
under fire. The first time I’d cut him slack, giving him the benefit of
the doubt. But it was now clear he was a coward. Once he was
under fire, he just pussied out.
Command separated us. It was a wise thing to do.