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

J
UST 
A
NOTHER 
D
AY
A
s the Marine drive neared the southern edge of the city, the
ground action in our section started to peter out. I went back up on
the roofs and started doing overwatches again, thinking I would
catch more targets from there. The tide of the battle had turned. The
U.S. had mostly wrested control of the city from the bad guys, and
it was now just a matter of time before resistance collapsed. But
being in the middle of the action, I couldn’t tell for sure.
Knowing that we considered cemeteries sacred, the insurgents
typically used them to hide caches of weapons and explosives. At

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one point, we were in a hide overlooking the walled-in boundaries
of a large cemetery that sat in the middle of the city. Roughly three
football fields long by two football fields wide, it was a cement city
of the dead, filled with tombstones and mausoleums. We set up on
a roof near a prayer tower and mosque overlooking the cemetery.
The roof we were on was fairly elaborate. It was ringed with a
brick wall punctuated with iron grates, giving us excellent firing
positions; I sat down on my haunches and spotted in my rifle
through a gap in the grid work, studying the paths between the
stones a few hundred yards out. There was so much dust and grit in
the air, I kept my goggles on. I’d also learned in Fallujah to keep
my helmet cinched tight, wary of the chips and cement frags that
flew from the battered masonry during a firefight.
I picked out some figures moving through the cemetery yard. I
zeroed in on one and fired.
Within seconds, we were fully engaged in a firefight. Insurgents
kept popping up from behind the stones—I don’t know if there was
a tunnel or where they came from. Brass flew from the 60 nearby.
I studied my shots as the Marines around me poured out fire.
Everything they did faded into the background as I carefully put my
scope on a target, steadied the aim on center mass, then squeezed
ever so smoothly. When the bullet leapt from the barrel, it was
almost a surprise.
My target fell. I looked for another. And another. And on it
went.

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Until, finally, there were no more. I got up and moved a few feet
to a spot where the wall completely shielded me from the cemetery.
There I took my helmet off and leaned back against the wall. The
roof was littered with spent shells—hundreds if not thousands.
Someone shared a large plastic bottle of water. One of the
Marines pulled his ruck over and used it as a pillow, catching some
sleep. Another went downstairs, to the store on the first story of the
building. It was a smoke shop; he returned with cartons of flavored
cigarettes. He lit a few, and a cherry scent mingled with the heavy
stench that always hung over Iraq, a smell of sewage and sweat and
death.
Just another day in Fallujah.
T
he streets were covered with splinters and various debris. The
city, never exactly a showcase, was a wreck. Squashed water
bottles sat in the middle of the road next to piles of wood and
twisted metal. We worked on one block of three-story buildings
where the bottom level was filled with shops. Each of their awnings
were covered with a thick layer of dust and grit, turning the bright
colors of the fabric into a hazy blur. Metal shields blocked most of
the storefronts; they were pockmarked with shrapnel chips. A few
had handbills showing insurgents wanted by the legitimate
government.
I have a few photos from that time. Even in the most ordinary
and least dramatic scenes, the effects of war are obvious. Every so

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often, there’s a sign of normal life before the war, something that
has nothing to do with it: a kid’s toy, for example.
War and peace don’t seem to go together right.