I looked at the map, tracing my finger up Highway 7 from Nasiriyah to Al Gharraf. Then I continued tracing north along our proposed route. An Nasr, Ash Shatrah, Ar Rifa, Qalat Sukkar, Al Hayy, Al Kut — a string of towns stretching all the way to the Tigris. And north of the Tigris lay Baghdad, the biggest town of all.
“Well, it doesn’t look like it’ll get better anytime soon,” I said.
We traded radio watch back and forth for the rest of the night. Sometime before dawn, as I lay in my hole, it started to rain.
THE MORNING OF MARCH 26 cleared, as if the rain had washed all the dirt from the air. Sunrise revealed Marines caked in a muddy crust, stretching sore limbs and beginning the daily ritual of brewing coffee. Austere living intensified our appreciation of life’s simple pleasures. At the top of that list was a hot mug of coffee, the thicker the better. Next to each Humvee, battered canteen cups perched atop flaming pieces of C-4 plastic explosive. Brews were passed around and shared communally; to drink an entire cup yourself was poor form.
Having slept in my MOPP gear and boots, all I had to do after waking was stand up. I rolled up my sleeping bag and stuffed the wet, misshapen lump in the back of the Humvee. Despite the discomfort, this lifestyle hummed with efficiency. No shaving, showering, or ironing clothes. No blow dryers, breakfast, newspaper, or e-mail. Just wake up and live.
A radio call summoned me to company headquarters, where the same morning routine was under way. The captain briefed the day’s plan: get on the highway in thirty minutes and attack north. No Americans were currently farther north than Al Gharraf, and we’d be leapfrogging up the highway with other elements of the RCT. Changes would be briefed on the fly, he said, so be sure to keep the radios up and running. Oh, yeah, and watch out for RPG ambushes and car bombs.
Gunny Wynn and the team leaders waited around the hood of our Humvee. I grabbed my map and joined them.
“Everybody’s favorite mission: movement to contact,” I said. “We’re driving north on Highway 7, and we’re attached to RCT-1.” The team leaders took notes, studying their own maps. “We’ll be leapfrogging and strong-pointing as we go. All friendlies are on the road, so if anything off to the flanks worries you, it’s probably enemy. Cobras will be on and off. Any questions?”
“Sir, do you think Hooters girls would look better in white shorts than orange?” I grinned, and the others laughed. These guys were blessed with perfect timing.
We continued through a few serious concerns and contingencies before breaking up for the team leaders to brief their men. Gunny Wynn and I cleaned our rifles, rubbed pencil erasers on all the radio connections to scour off corrosion from the night’s rain, and started the engine. Ten minutes later, in fits and starts, the battalion snaked out of the field and up onto the single ribbon of Highway 7.
Like many bad days, this one started out well. We hummed north, passing the massed combat power of RCT-1 spread out along the highway. They were still stopped near the road intersection where we’d shot through Al Gharraf and landed in the sobka field. The town sat three hundred meters east of the highway, shuttered and menacing. As the sky continued to clear, sunlight dappled rich fields and green trees. Cooking fires smoked in chimneys. Young shepherds waved as we passed, while their sisters, dressed in robes of red and deep purple, peeked shyly from behind gates.
We halted at the southern end of An Nasr, pulling off the pavement in a herringbone. I walked to each vehicle, checking on the Marines and telling them we’d be holding for a few minutes while part of the RCT passed us to enter the town. The three snipers uncased their rifles and scanned our flanks, watching for Iraqi shooters.
In many cases, the Iraqis seemed almost completely indifferent to violence. We could be locked in a raging gunfight, with mortars exploding and jets screaming overhead, only to see three women saunter past with buckets on their heads, strolling to the town well. This made our obligation to spare civilians even harder. Snipers are the ultimate smart weapon because they hit only what they mean to kill.
