A bad day near Fallujah

The stretch of highway felt comfortingly familiar and far too benign – like driving through Texas on a pleasant spring day. The sun stood high in the sky, shining cheerfully down on an empty landscape broken only by the occasional overpass or clusters of abandoned fighting positions dug into the barren earth. Our three unarmored vehicles – a late model Korean SUV followed by two identical white Nissan pick-ups – were each separated by a 100 to 200 meter buffer. Far enough, we hoped, to keep all three from getting caught in one kill zone but close enough to allow communication over our small handheld radios. The pick-ups could cruise at 140 kilometers per hour (about 85 mph) before they started to shimmy and whine. Over the radio, Greedy (passenger of the lead vehicle) occasionally complained about the speed warning dinging inside his SUV while asking if the pick-ups could handle the pace. The U.S. military had declared this stretch of road between Ramadi and Fallujah one of the most dangerous in the entire theater…we could handle the pace.

Traffic receded and we had the road to ourselves, a welcome change from the claustrophobic press of animated Iraqi drivers we had nervously maneuvered through earlier in the day. We had just emerged from under another otherwise forgettable highway overpass when reality replaced our visions of Texas. It started with a series of pops – the sort a civilian might associate with popcorn popping in the next room and a peacetime soldier associates with a day at the firing range. Warily, I turned to my driver (Sleepy was his call sign…and I can't even remember his real name anymore) with the words half-formed on my lips. "Is that…?"

Popcorn popping became hail pounding mercilessly down on a tin roof. The snap-crack of high velocity rounds passing by in close proximity combined with the irregular metallic drumbeat of bullet impacts on our vehicle. My ears rang and I could barely hear my own voice as I yelled at Sleepy to push through. Time slowed – like a movie set to one-quarter speed – and images of the movie Heat (is it only in America that we so easily compare reality to Hollywood?) leapt to mind. As if in response to my cinematic thoughts, Sleepy slumped against the wheel as stars blossomed on the windshield and the vehicle began to slow.

"Go! Go! Go! Are you okay?" In the heat of the moment, it never occurred to me to ask if he was okay before demanding he go. Sleepy responded to my shouting with a look showing equal parts exasperation and fear, as if to say, "Yes, I'm okay. Do you really think I'm NOT trying to go…?" He had the gas pedal pressed to the floor. The vehicle was noticeably slowing as bullets continued to hammer into it. Hunched as far over as my body armor would allow, I placed my arm across Sleepy's back so I could have a hand on the wheel in case he really did get hit. A short – or long – time later (time continued to lurch between fast-forward and slow-mo), the driver's side window shattered and tiny beads of safety glass pelted us. Blood began to flow down Sleepy's head and back, pooling on the seat between us. I felt no pain. The blood had to be coming from him – and I told him as much as I scrambled to pull my radio from its pouch on my vest, one arm still stretched across his armor-plated back.

"Sleepy. You're okay. But I think you're hit." Between my continuing calls to go, go, go I gave him the bad news in somewhat confusing terms. Without waiting for his response, I concentrated on my radio and tried to force calm into my voice while relaying our situation to the others.

"Follow is disabled. I think Sleepy's hit." At least that's how I imagine it now. In truth, it probably sounded like "Follow is down! Follow is down! FOLLOW IS DOWN!" Five minutes later, as the adrenaline faded away, as the six of us crouched beside our three disabled vehicles, nervous laughter and amazement at our luck (good or bad? I still can't decide) would replace panic. Only then would we discover the blood drying on Sleepy's head was mine.




Fallujah
Iraq