Part 24 (1/2)

But there were times when it wasn't exactly clear, when a person almost surely was an insurgent, probably was doing evil, but there was still some doubt because of the circ.u.mstances or the surroundings-the way he moved, for example, wasn't toward an area where troops were. A lot of times a guy seemed to be acting macho for friends, completely unaware that I was watching him, or that there were American troops nearby.

Those shots I didn't take.

You couldn't-you had to worry about your own a.s.s. Make an unjustified shot and you could be charged with murder.

I often would sit there and think, ”I know this motherf.u.c.ker is bad; I saw him doing such and such down the street the other day, but here he's not doing anything, and if I shoot him, I won't be able to justify it for the lawyers. I'll fry.” Like I said, there is paperwork for everything. Every confirmed kill had doc.u.mentation, supporting evidence, and a witness.

So I wouldn't shoot.

There weren't a lot of those, especially in Fallujah, but I was always extremely aware of the fact that every killing might have to be justified to the lawyers.

My att.i.tude was: if my justification is I thought my target would do something bad, then I wasn't justified. He had to be doing something bad.

Even with that standard, there were plenty of targets. I was averaging two and three a day, occasionally less, sometimes much more, with no end in sight.

A squat water tower rose above the rooftops a few blocks from one of the roofs where we were perched. It looked like a wide yellow tomato.

We'd already moved a few blocks past the tower when a Marine decided to climb up and retrieve the Iraqi flag flying from the grid work. As he climbed, the insurgents who had lain low during the earlier attack began firing on him. Within seconds, he was shot up and trapped.

We backtracked over, moving along the streets and across the rooftops until we found the men shooting at him. When we had the area cleared, we sent up one of our guys to retrieve the flag. After we got it down, we sent it to the Marine in the hospital.

RUNAWAY SHOWS HIS COLORS

Not 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 pa.s.sed, 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 pa.s.sed him on the street?

No. Motherf.u.c.ker 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 h.e.l.l did you run away?” I demanded. ”You ran all the way down the block without covering me.”

”I thought you were following me.”