"Did you kill anyone?"
"So, what do you think of the war?"
Of course this might now be the case for every veteran, but I find it is the case for me. I therefore have decided to write this account. I will carry it in my back pocket and when someone asks me about my experience I will simply hand it over. This should bring me a small ounce of relief I think.
In the fall of 2004, my unit, Blackjack Troop 2/14 Calvary and I were deployed to a northern city of Iraq called Tal Afar. Our mission was simple. Kill or Capture AIF, or Anti Iraqi Forces. There are many events I will remember from that year, and I could go on for ten more just talking about it. One I will share with you now is the events of November 14th, 2004. This was my platoon's baptism by fire, and it is a day that will, like the smell of the gunpowder, forever be burned into my memory.
It was the afternoon, and we had been sitting in a traffic circle on the southern corner of the city for almost two days. During Ramadan, insurgents had blown almost every police station from Mosul to the border. We were assigned to guard one of the last remaining in Tal Afar. It had been a quiet day so far, and it was close to my relief. I was eager to get off the gun and sleep for awhile. I was about to wake my driver, when I spotted a young teenager walk up to the station. He told us that "Ali Baba", the word used for a thief or someone with a bad label, were up the road and preparing for an attack. We geared up and moved out to patrol the area.
We spent about forty minutes patrolling the outskirts of Al Seriah*, the worst neighborhood in Tal Afar. This was a place where it wasn't if you got shot at, it was when. We headed up the road leading from Al Seriah to the main highway of the city, and turned around for a third pass. It was then that we passed by the police station at the entrance to the city. I surveyed the damage caused by a bomb the day before. It had been leveled. The perfect distraction, it seemed that the tip was a false alarm and I was going to get my rest after all. That was when someone yelled it.
"Grenade!"
I turned to see a young boy no older than twelve toss an object at our vehicle. Time slowed like one of those John Woo action films. I watched, mouth gaping, as the explosive flew over my dismount's head and landed on the other side of the Stryker. It exploded and shook the world.
Almost immediately, I heard the retort from his weapon. A pair of bullets ripped through the air, cracking past the boy as he bolted down the alley paralleling us. The street turned to utter chaos. People ran in every direction, cars sped away, groceries flew, mothers screamed. They knew what was coming. From every window AK-47 fire erupted in bursts. We were in the middle of a planned ambush. Most of the battle was a blur, accentuated by explosions, cracks of automatic gunfire, and the pink mists that appeared when they hit their targets. I was the gunner of our 50 caliber machine gun, and unleashed upon that street a lead hell. I fired at everything and everyone, because that was where the gunfire was coming from.
More clear than anything that day is a moment frozen in time. One single moment that wasn't drowned out by the noise and smell of gunfire and smoke. We had been separated from our convoy when my driver did not take a turn. This forced us back through the carnage, because I'll be damned if I was going into Al Seriah! Ahead of us, a car had driven across the road and smashed into a truck that was parked. It was blocking the road. My driver asked me what to do.
"Smash through it!" I screamed.
He slammed on the gas, and at the exact point of impact I glanced into the back of the truck. Time halted for that instant.
Curled in the bed of the truck was young boy. He couldn't have been any older than six. I have never seen anyone so terrified in my life. He looked up at me with those eyes and burned that moment into my soul. I will never forget those eyes and the face they were held in.
As quickly as it had stopped, time resumed. The car, the truck and everything in it flew onto the sidewalk in a twisted mess of steel and glass. We had made it out alive, but the street and everyone, and everything on it, had suffered a horrible wrath.
We headed back to our security spot to link up with the rest of our platoon. Fortunately, none of us had been hit. I could still feel the adrenaline flowing through my body. As we entered the traffic circle, crowds of people lined the streets. I screamed at them, waving my weapon in the air like a gladiator who had just won his match. I felt great. I felt alive. All we could do was laugh, because we had made it. Upon further investigation of my turret, I found a bullet hole that, at its trajectory, should have hit me square in the face. For some reason I'm still here. God knows we were protected that afternoon.
When I think about that day, I think about how lucky I am to be alive. I am grateful to have been born in a country where war and violence is not a daily part of life. I think about how I should never take advantage of a single second of this precious life we are given. Most of all, however, I think about the eyes of the children, and they will haunt me until my dying day.
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