Generation Kill Part 12

Then, after proceeding five kilometers north of the magic line, machine guns, rockets and mortars flash ahead of us in the darkness. The enemy has opened fire on the LAVs in front of us. Now I can see their outlines in the strobe-light effect of bombs and tracers going off around them. The blasts sound like hammers beating on the sides of Colbertas Humvee.

In the first moments, enemy ambushers who are entrenched alongside the road launch approximately forty RPGs at War Pigas column. In Wennbergas LAV, shrapnel from the RPGs immediately shreds four of his vehicleas tires. He estimates about 120 Iraqis are attacking from the west. Their ambush was coordinated enough that they held their fire until all of the LAVs had rolled into their kill box. As the enemy fire from the west intensifies, more Iraqis dug in to the east start to open up. They abracketa the convoy by dropping heavy 82mm mortars on both ends of it, north and south (where Colbertas Humvee is positioned). These Iraqis have apparently figured out that the LAVs use thermal sights, and many of them are concealed beneath blankets to minimize their heat signatures.

The convoy halts. Through the winds.h.i.+eld in Colbertas vehicle we can see the outlines of the LAVs as bombs flash all around. The LAVs open up with everything they have. Their cannons stutter explosively, spewing out tracer lines like red ropes that lash the ground for hundreds of meters on either side of the convoy. Pom-poms of fire bounce up from their targets. Iraqi tracers stream in toward them. The opposing lines of tracer fire tangle around one other, making it look almost like the two sides are dueling each other with glow-in-the-dark Silly String.

aI have no targets, no targets,a Colbert shouts. The fire just ahead of us makes a steady roar. We could be standing at the edge of Niagara Falls.

Ha.s.ser shouts down from the turret. aI donat see nothing!a Thereas nothing close enough for the team to engage. We watch the gun battle go on in front of us several minutes. Then the Iraqi fire into the LAV column drops precipitously. A lone Iraqi machine gun continues to spit tracers toward the LAVs. A half dozen of them pour fire onto it, but every time it looks like theyave silenced it, the enemy machine gun starts up again. This duel continues on and off for another five minutes.

In the relative quiet that follows, Colbert leans out his window, using his nightscope to observe a small hamlet of four to eight mud huts perhaps twenty-five meters to our immediate right. In the window of the closest hut thereas an amber light from a lantern or a candle.

aThereas nothing there,a Colbert says after studying the hamlet for a long time. aJust civilians behind a wall in back.a aSmall-arms fire to our rear,a Person says, pa.s.sing on a report from the radio.

Then we hear AKsa"they make a sharper, more substantial cracking sound than Marine M-4sa"directly behind our vehicle. Fick reports over the radio that enemy fire is coming directly in on his Humvee about 100 meters behind us. Several rounds snap close to his head.

Recon Marines behind us return fire. Itas not heavy yet, just intermittent crackling, like branches snapping in the woods.

aI have no targets, no targets!a Colbert repeats.

All at once, Marines in vehicles far to the rear of Fickas seemingly open up with every weapon they possess. Their gunfire sounds like a torrential rain. Itas Delta Company, the reservist Marines. Theyare blazing away with machine guns and Mark-19s.

aJesus Christ,a Colbert shouts, laughing. aThose guys are putting down FPF.a FPFa"or final protective fire, shooting every weapon you havea"is what Marines are trained to do only as a last-ditch measure. aThey must think theyave got the Chinese coming at them across the frozen Chosin,a Colbert says, referring to the epic Korean War battle.

The village to our immediate right now comes under heavy machine-gun and Mark-19 fire from the Marines in Delta. As dozens of their grenades bounce off the huts and flash, exploding just thirty meters from us, a few Marines in Bravo open up. They mistake the sparkling Mark-19 bursts for enemy muzzle flashesa"a common problem.

aI have no targets! No targets!a Colbert repeats. But our vehicle rocks as Ha.s.ser begins lobbing rounds from the Mark-19.

aCease fire!a Colbert shouts.

aI got muzzle flashes, for sure,a Ha.s.ser shouts.

aEasy there, buddy,a Colbert yells. aYouare shooting a G.o.dd.a.m.n village. Weave got women and children there.a The reservists behind us have already poured at least a hundred grenades into the village. Colbert continues scanning it through his scope. aWeare not shooting the village, okay?a he says. In times like these, Colbert often a.s.sumes the tone of a schoolteacher calling a timeout during a frenzied playground scuffle. Mortars explode so close we feel the overpressure punching down on the Humvee. But Colbert will not allow his team to give in to the frenzy and shoot unless the men finds clear targets.

The fire from Delta Company continues unabated. One of First Reconas air officers riding near them looks back and sees a Mark-19 gunner in Delta standing at his weapon, burning through cans of ammunition, and heas not wearing NVGs, meaning he canat even see what heas shooting at. The reservists now make another cla.s.sic mistake of nervous, undisciplined Marines: They fire down the axis of the convoy, their rounds skipping and exploding next to the friendly vehicles in front of them. A platoon commandeer in Alpha gets on the comms, shouting, aGet those a.s.sholes to cease fire. Theyare shooting at us!a Their wild fire continues. Then the voice of Captain America comes over the radio, quavering and cracking. aEnemy, enemy! Theyave got us on both sides!a aOh, my G.o.d!a Person says. aIs he crying?a aNo, heas not,a Colbert replies, cutting off what will likely be a bitter tirade about Captain America. In recent days, Person has pretty much forgotten his old hatreds for pop stars such as Justin Timberlakea"a former favorite subject of long, tedious rants about everything thatas wrong with the United Statesa"and now he complains almost exclusively about Captain America.

aHeas just nervous,a Colbert says. aEveryoneas nervous. Everyoneas just trying to do their job.a aWeare going to die if we donat get out of here!a Captain America screams over the radio. aTheyave sent us to die here!a aOkay,a Colbert says. af.u.c.k it. He is crying.a The firing drops off behind us. In front, LAVs pop off quick bursts. We hear their diesels grinding as they maneuver.

aLAVs are breaking contact,a Person reports from the radio. Itas a relief. It means weare turning around, pulling back. Mortars are still bursting steadily, while AKs crackle intermittently.

aPerson, move forward,a Colbert says. aWeare covering the LAVs while they pull back.a aIs that right?a Person asks, startled.

aThey want us to envelop them,a Colbert says. aJust move up the road.a The wisdom of driving into a column of twenty-four LAVs while they pull beside us, some still firing their weapons, escapes the Marines. Colbertas team has no radio contact with the LAVs, nor much experience practicing an enveloping maneuver.

Person deals with the order by simply flooring it. We speed up alongside the LAVs as their guns pop off rounds in front and behind us. Their diesels growl past us as they retreat. Soon all of War Pig and First Recon are behind us. Second Platoon sits out alone on the highway for several minutes.

aTurn around,a Colbert says.

aRoger that!a Person says, evidently relieved.

aWeare moving three clicks south and punching out patrols,a Colbert says.

We draw past the hamlet lit up so heavily by Delta. aThat was a civilian target,a Colbert says. aI saw them.a He sounds tired. I think this war has lost its allure for him. Itas not that he canat take it. During the past hour or so of shooting, he still seemed excited by the action. But I think after mourning the loss of his friend Horsehead, trying to care for dehydrated, sick babies among the refugees the other day, the shot-up kids by the airfield before that, and having seen so many civilians blown apart, heas connected the dots between the pleasure he takes in partic.i.p.ating in this invasion and its consequences. He hasnat turned against the aims of this war; he still supports the idea of regime change. But the side of him that loves wara"his inner warriora"keeps b.u.mping against the part of him that is basically a decent, average suburban guy who likes bad eighties music and Barry Manilow and believes in the American Way.

THIRTY.

THE BATTALION spends the night of April 8 in a bermed field by the road just two kilometers north of the magic line. Because of the low cloud cover, itas an especially dark night. On the horizon, lightning competes with bomb bursts from mortars War Pig is dropping on suspected enemy positions. The rolling berms we occupy are rock-hard. Walking around in the darkness, unable to see my own feet, I feel like Iam in a curved, concrete skateboard park. The Marines were ordered out of their MOPP suits a couple of days agoa"the military no longer believes there is any chance of WMDs being used. But I put mine on tonight. Iave reached a point where I feel calm during shooting, but afterward I tend to get a little spun. Iam convinced thereas going to be a chemical attack tonight. Even though my MOPP suit has a hole in it and wouldnat do me much good, I wear it along with my rubber bootsa"eliciting amused laughter from Fick. I find a ditch to lie in for the night and wrap myself up in a poncho.

F-18s make repeated low pa.s.ses. Itas too cloudy for them to bomb anything, but according to Fick, itas hoped theyall scare off any tanks from approaching. Some of the pa.s.ses the F-18s make are so low, the sonic forces they exert feel like a crus.h.i.+ng weight on your skull.

Marines on the perimeter talk among themselves, as they observe for enemy movement. They pa.s.s around different optical devices, debating whether different shapes they see in the surrounding fields might be weapons or enemy positions. Their voices are quietly excited, cheerful. They like this part of war, being a small band out here alone in enemy territory, everyone focused on the common purpose of staying alive and killing, if necessary.

The high winds pick up. But instead of dust, they carry rain. It pours for about twenty minutes, and two hours later the sun comes up.

Standing in the early-morning mist, Fick gives his team leaders the order for the day. aWe are clearing and killing enemy, moving north through hostile areas. We made two kilometers yesterday. We have thirty-eight to go.a THE BATTALION devotes the morning of April 9 to creeping up the road to Baqubah at a walking pace. Marines on foot clear the surrounding fields, with War Pigas LAVs sometimes joining them, sporadically firing into huts and ditches. The enemy drops mortars continuously, but with the Marine lines stretched across several kilometers, they present a diffuse target. In Colbertas vehicle, we sometimes get a flurry of mortars falling within a few hundred meters, then nothing for twenty minutes.

The Iraqisa tactics today seem clear: They let off some hara.s.sing fire with AKs and light machine guns, then retreat while dropping mortars. None of their fire is particularly accurate. While the Marine advance is dangerous, tedium sets in.

Colbert and Person are beginning to have personal problems. Thereas no particular reason for the strain; itas more like theyare two rock stars who have been touring a little bit too long together.

About noon, when a salvo of six to eight enemy mortars lands a few hundred meters from the Humvee, Colbert begins harping on Personas driving. The platoon is ordered to scatter into a berm by the road and wait out further mortar strikes. The idea is for Person to pull between two high berms for cover, but Colbert is not satisfied. As the next salvo begins to blow up in the vicinity, Colbert starts giving Person a driving lesson, ordering him to back up and maneuver the Humvee repeatedly.

aYou see that pile of dirt by the trail weare on?a Colbert says, his voice cracking. aThat is a berm, Person. Berms make me feel warm and fuzzy inside because they protect me from shrapnel. So when I say, aPull up next to the G.o.dd.a.m.n berm,a I mean pull the f.u.c.king Humvee up next to the f.u.c.king berm. Donat leave it sitting in the middle of the f.u.c.king field.a Person responds by alternately pumping the gas and brakes. We slam into the berm. Cans of ammo and AT-4 rockets piled in the rear shoot forward through the compartment. aSorry about that,a Person mumbles, not sounding very sorry.

A h.e.l.lfire missile blows up something 500 meters across the field. Mortars boom. Person begins belting out his latest song, one he and Ha.s.ser have been composing. Itas a country song, which he sings in flagrant violation of Colbertas ban. Colbert doesnat even try to shut him up anymore. Itas tough to reach Person these days. Heas had a severe allergic reaction to Iraq. His eyes have swollen to red slits. They ooze tears constantly, which mix with the snot pouring from his nose. Doc Bryan has put him on a regimen of antihistamines and other medications to combat the allergies. G.o.d only knows how these medications interact with the Ripped Fuel and other stimulants Person uses. The whole morning, Person has been babbling about his latest scheme. He and Ha.s.ser are going to change their last names to aWheatena and aFields,a respectively, in order to put out a country music alb.u.m, eponymously t.i.tled Wheaten Fields.

Now, as the explosions continue, he shares their first song, much of which they composed last night on watch. Itas called aSoma b.i.t.c.h,a and its aim, according to Person, is to hit every theme of the country-music lifestyle. Person sings: Soma b.i.t.c.h ana G.o.dd.a.m.n and f.u.c.k All I ever seem to do is cuss About how lifeas aa f.u.c.kina treatina me To save my one last shred of sanity.

Soma b.i.t.c.h and G.o.dd.a.m.n ana f.u.c.k The price of Copenhagen just went up My NASCAR wonat come in on rabbit ears My broken fridge wonat even chill my beer.

When he finishes, he turns to Colbert. aYou like that?a aWhy donat you just quit while youare ahead,a Colbert says.

MINUTES AFTER Personas performance, we drive back onto the road. Colbert stays behind, leading Garza and other Marines in a foot patrol of fields edging the highway. Several minutes later, they come under fire from Marines in Alpha Company, who rake their position with .50-cal machine-gun rounds. The Marines in Alpha are specifically trying to hit Garza. With his brown Mexican skin, theyave mistaken him for an Arab.

Person floors the Humvee toward Alphaas truck while screaming out the window, aYouare shooting Marines!a The men on the truck continue firing for another thirty seconds, until Capt. Patterson catches their error and orders them to stop. Colbert and Garza emerge from the field unscathed. Garza approaches the Humvee, shaking his head. aI figured it was those LAPD cops from Delta lighting us up. They love shooting Mexicans.a aMistakes happen,a Colbert says, climbing into the Humvee. Despite his attempt to slough it off, his face appears almost silver from the perspiration drenching it.

BY EARLY AFTERNOON the Marines have advanced more than twenty-five kilometers past the magic line and are fifteen kilometers south of their destination, Baqubah. In keeping with the poor judgment the Iraqis have shown in other situations, they only start to move their armor down to attack toward the middle of the day. But by now the clouds have burned off, and waves of British and American jets and Marine Cobras simultaneously bomb, rocket and strafe targets in all directions. Trucks, armor, homes and entire hamlets are being attacked from the air, blown up and set on fire. The Iraqisa one chance to wipe out the Marines with a ma.s.s formation of armor evaporated with the vanis.h.i.+ng cloud cover.

Right now, the worldas attention is focused on televised pictures of American Marines in the center of Baghdad, pulling down a statue of Saddam Hussein. Meanwhile, where we are, enemy mortars start exploding within fifty meters of Bravo Companyas position. From a raw-fear standpoint, this is among the worst moments for the platoon.

The Marines in Second Platoon have been ordered to hold a position in a barren field by the highway. Their five Humvees are bunched within a few meters of one another when the mortars begin to land.

aWe are receiving accurate mortar fire,a Fick informs his commander over the radio.

aRemain in position,a his commander, Encino Man, radios back.

Unlike earlier in the day, when Marines rolled back during close encounters with enemy mortars, Lt. Col. Ferrando doesnat want to lose his momentum. Now, having the benefit of robust air support, heas divided his Marines into two columns a few kilometers apart. His plan is to rush toward Baqubah as quickly as possible, while conditions remain favorable.

When Fick pa.s.ses the word that the men in Second Platoon are to remain in place, Espera turns to his men in the next Humvee over from ours and says, aStand by to die, gents.a The twenty-two Marines in the platoon sit in their vehicles, engines running, as per their orders, while blasts shake the ground beneath them. Everyone watches the sky. A mortar lands ten meters from Esperaas open-top Humvee, blowing a four-foot-wide hole in the ground. Itas so close, I see the column of black smoke jetting up from the blast area before I hear the boom. I look out and see Espera hunched over his weapon, his eyes darting beneath the brim of his helmet, watching for the next hit. His men appear frozen in the vehicle as the smoke rises beside them.

Before leaving on this mission, many of the men in Colbertas platoon had said good-bye to one another by shaking hands or even by hugging. The formal farewells seemed odd considering that everyone was going to be shoulder-to-shoulder in the cramped Humvees. The good-byes almost seemed an acknowledgment of the transformations that take place in combat. Friends who lolled around together during free time talking about bands, stupid Marine Corps rules and girlfriendsa fine a.s.ses arenat really the same people anymore once they enter the battlefield.

In combat, the change seems physical at first. Adrenaline begins to flood your system the moment the first bullet is fired. But unlike adrenaline rushes in the civilian worlda"a car accident or bungee jump, where the surge lasts only a few minutesa"in combat, the rush can go on for hours. In time, your body seems to burn out from it, or maybe the adrenaline just runs out. Whatever the case, after a while you begin to almost lose the physical capacity for fear. Explosions go off. You cease to jump or flinch. In this moment now, everyone sits still, numbly watching the mortars thump down nearby. The only things moving are the pupils of their eyes.

This is not to say the terror goes away. It simply moves out from the twitching muscles and nerves in your body and takes up residence in your mind. If you feed it with morbid thoughts of all the terrible ways you could be maimed or die, it gets worse. It also gets worse if you think about pleasant things. Good memories or plans for the future just remind you how much you donat want to die or get hurt. Itas best to shut down, to block everything out. But to reach that state, you have to almost give up being yourself. This is why, I believe, everyone said good-bye to each other yesterday before leaving on this mission. They would still be together, but they wouldnat really be seeing one another for a while, since each man would, in his own way, be sort of gone.

After the platoon holds its position under close mortar fire for about fifteen minutes, the attacks cease. The platoon is ordered to move a couple more kilometers north, toward an intersection where locals have warned of an ambush.

We drive to within a kilometer of the intersection and stop. Thereas a cl.u.s.ter of barracks-like structures, a water tower and high-tension power lines ahead where the road forks into a Y. To the left thereas a thick stand of palm trees extending west for about a kilometer. Several minutes earlier, Cobras had come under AAA fire from the buildings near the intersection. They and other aircraft decide to prep the area before the Marines roll through on the ground.

We sit back and watch them bomb and strafe the intersection for about ten minutes. Colbert tunes in the Air Wingas radio channels. We listen as the pilots call in intended targetsa"from Iraqi military personnel hiding behind garden walls and in berms to trucks and armored vehiclesa"then watch as the aircraft nose down and destroy them. Orange rosettes flash ahead of us from powerful bombs dropped by jets.

aWeave never had this much air,a Colbert says, eyes gleaming, pleased with all the destruction we are witnessing. aItas all about having some air and LAV escorts,a he concludes with a grand smile.

Pilots over the radio now discuss their next move, doing a arecon by firea on the palm grove to the left of the intersection. The pilots canat see whatas in the palm grove, nor have they taken any hostile fire from positions inside it. Nevertheless, they request permission to do a recon by fire, which simply means theyare going to rocket and machine-gun the f.u.c.k out of it and see if anything shoots back. The battalionas forward air controller on the ground approves the plan. Helicopters skim low over the trees, st.i.tching the ground with machine guns, setting off a storm of white fire with their rockets. Itas a real Apocalypse Now moment.

Colbertas team and the rest of the platoon are ordered to drive up to the intersection, take the Y left and enter the palm grove while itas still burning.

We drive into a bank of smoke, glimpsing a succession of small horrors. Thereas a truckful of shot-up cows in the field, nearby several slaughtered sheep, their guts smeared out around them. Two charred human corpses by the road are still smoking. Thereas a dog with his head buried up to his ears in the stomach of a cow heas eating. We are again in Dog Land.

We come alongside the palm grove on our left. Fences made of dried reeds crackle and burn outside the vehicle. We continue on, pull upwind of the smoke and now see thereas a hamlet nestled between the treesa"a series of farmhouses, interconnected by walls, animal pens and grape arbors. Thatched roofs and fences burn. These are what were reconned by fire.

aI hope thereas no people in there,a Colbert says. The gleam that had been in his eyes moments earlier during the bombing has been replaced with his worried, helpless look.

Republican Guard berets, uniforms and other pieces of military gear are scattered by the road across from the palm grove. Iraqi forcesa"legitimate military targetsa"have obviously been in the area. Colbert stops the Humvee. He and other Marines get out. Iraqi military communications linesa"cables from field phonesa"lie by the side of the road. Colbertas men cut them apart with their Leatherman tools.

While standing outside, we hear a babble of voices. Men whom we canat see are chanting something. Their voices come from ditches by the road across from the burning hamlet. An old man now rises from behind a berm ten meters away. His hands are up. His eyes are wild and his face covered with tears as he shrieks, aNo Saddam! No Saddam!a A couple of other men rise behind him, all of them chanting the same words. One has his s.h.i.+rt off and is waving it as a surrender flag. Another man climbs out of a ditch carrying a small frightened girl, about five or six. She stares at the Marines in shock. Theyare all civiliansa"probably residents of the hamlet reconned by fire.

The Marines lift their rifles high and gesture for the now-homeless villagers to step forward. The men keep chanting.

aOkay, okay!a Fick shouts. He gives them an exaggerated smile, trying to rea.s.sure them.

The eldest man approaches, still chanting insanely. Fick pats his arm. The man begins to shout. aGeorge Bus.h.!.+ George Bus.h.!.+a he says, p.r.o.nouncing the first name like aJor.a The Marines offer the little girl some candy but she turns away in mute fear.

Fick grabs the old manas shoulder, steadying him. aYes, George Bush,a Fick says. aNo problem. Okay?a The old man finally stops shouting. He stares at Fick, perhaps finally recognizing that this American is not going to kill him. He breaks down sobbing, grabs Fickas face and smothers him in kisses.

THIRTY-ONE.

BY THREE OaCLOCK in the afternoon of April 9, First Recon and War Pig have come to within about ten kilometers of Baqubah, advancing in two columns s.p.a.ced several kilometers apart. While Bravo Company clears through the burning hamlets reconned by fire to the west, Alpha Company, led by Patterson, is pus.h.i.+ng north on a trail that follows a ca.n.a.l to the east. The ca.n.a.l runs north-south, and the Marines in Alpha are pushed up against the edge of it to their right. Ahead of them is an expanse of bermed fields. Even as they creep forwarda"eighty Marines in about fifteen Humvees and trucksa"shepherds dot the fields around them, tending flocks of sheep.

While the company is halted, a volley of mortars lands in their midst. A blast detonates so close to Capt. Patterson, standing beside his Humvee, that it knocks him against the side of his vehicle and rips up his pack with shrapnel but misses him. Then his column comes under machine-gun fire from a lone hut 200 meters ahead. Beyond the hut, Iraqis concealed in ditches, some fortified with sandbags, begin firing at them with AKs.

The lead Marines in Alpha begin to take fire from heavy, 73mm guns on BMPsa"light Iraqi tanksa"that seem to be about a kilometer ahead of them. The Marines in Alpha dive for cover. Patterson estimates there are as many as 150 Iraqi soldiers entrenched in the fields. With his unit hemmed in by the ca.n.a.l on the right side and by Iraqis to the left and in front, for the first time of the war, Patterson thinks, as he later tells me, aWe are really on the brink here.a Fawcett, whose team is near the front of Alphaas position, takes cover behind a berm. The enemy BMP continues blasting at his men with its main gun, which fires sh.e.l.ls about half the size of a Marine heavy artillery round. Fawcett and Sutherby, the sniper, peek up and observe more enemy troops pouring into the fields ahead of them. The Iraqi soldiers are being ferried in aboard military trucks, hopping out, then scrambling behind berms to fire on the Marines, whom they will soon outnumber about three to one.

Battalion forward air controllers contact an Air Force F-15 Strike Eagle in the vicinity to take out the BMPs. Marines are wary of working with jets, especially those flown by the Air Force. The fear is that jet pilots, moving too fast and far removed from Marines on the ground, will end up striking friendly positions. This fear is borne out when the F-15 drops its first 500-pound bomb intended to hit the BMP. The pilot misses by nearly a kilometer. The bomb lands fewer than 200 meters from Fawcettas position. The men are buffeted by the shock wave, and temporarily deafened by the blast, but unharmed.

The pilot drops a second bomb directly on the BMP, destroying it, then moves on to take others farther north. Cobras linger to wipe out enemy machine-gun positions with h.e.l.lfire missiles.

Alphaas Marines climb into their Humvees and advance on the Iraqis in the fields ahead. The Iraqis put out a lot of AK fire but seem incapable of hitting the Marines. Many put their rifles over their heads and shoot indiscriminately, without looking. Marine snipers steadily pick them off, while the .50-cal and Mark-19 gunners saturate their positions with lethal fire. The thing that amazes Sutherby is seeing shepherds run onto the field amidst the shooting, to drag off wounded sheep caught in the crossfire.

Alphaas pace quickens. Marine gunners begin competing with one another to cut down the enemy fighters. Over the course of the next two hours, they advance approximately ten kilometers, destroying or routing all hostile forces ahead of them. When I run into Fawcett a short while later, he greets me with a blissed-out, ashram grin. After weeks of complaining about the war, fretting over its moral implications, he enthuses about slaughtering squads of uniformed Iraqi soldiers in the fields with the nearly 250 Mark-19 rounds he fired. aI feel invincible,a he tells me. aI had rounds skipping in the dirt right next me, a BMP shooting straight at us, Cobras lighting stuff up all around, a five-hundred-pound bomb blow up almost on top of us, and nothing hit me. Maybe itas karma.a On its western approach to Baqubah, Bravo Company stops outside a two-story, pale-yellow stucco building that appears to be an abandoned military post. Two hundred meters behind us, Kocher leads his team into the field, advancing just thirty meters into it from the highway. While picking their way through dried brush, waist-high in places, they encounter a group of Marines from Delta Company, the reserve unit. Several of the reservists surround a dead enemy fighter, a young man in a ditch, still clutching his AK, lying with his brains spilled out of his head. While the reservists gawk at the corpse, a man on Kocheras team notices a live, armed Iraqi hiding in a trench nearby.

Kocher and his men turn on the armed Iraqi with their weapons ready to fire. They shout at him to drop his AK. Itas a tense moment for the Marines. Strictly speaking, this armed Iraqi had gotten the drop on them and could have easily taken them out had he fired. Thereas gunfire all around, and the Marines are worried more Iraqis are hidden nearby.

But the Iraqi complies, drops his weapon and rises. One of the reservist Marines, First Sergeant Robert Cottle, a thirty-seven-year-old SWAT team instructor with the LAPD, jogs over, takes out a pair of zip cuffs and binds the Iraqias hands behind his backa"so tightly that his arms later develop dark-purple blood streaks all the way to his shoulders.

The prisoner, a low-level Republican Guard volunteer in his late forties, is overweight, dressed in civilian clothesa"a sleeveless unders.h.i.+rt and filthy trousersa"and has a droopy Saddam mustache. He looks like a guy so out of shape head get winded driving a taxicab in rush hour. Surrounded by Marines, the man begins to blubber and cry.

Kocher hands his rifle to another Marine, pulls out his 9mm sidearm and approaches the prisoner. With combat raging around them, this enemy takedown begins in a highly charged manner. Kocher slams the Iraqi to the ground, puts the pistol to his head and shouts, aIf you move, Iall blow your f.u.c.king head off!a Pinning the guy with his knee in his back, he pulls AK magazines and a military ID out of his pockets. The prisoner starts pleading in English, aI have a family.a Kocher hauls him to his feet and frog-marches him to the highway. In the surrounding fields, enemy mortars continue to boom amidst the crackling of Marine machine guns. Kocher knocks the prisoner over. He falls facedown in the dirt, with his hands still bound behind his back. In Kocheras mind, his aggressiveness fits with his philosophy of handling prisoners. aI try to keep a prisoner off-balance so he knows Iam in control.a The Marines bring Meesh over, and he barks at the man in Arabic, repeatedly asking him where the enemy mortars are positioned. The prisoner begs for his life. They conclude he knows nothing. They tie a sack over his heada"a precaution taken since they are on a battlefield and donat want this guy to shout or signal his comrades in any way should he see thema"and wait to load him onto a truck.

Cottle, from the reservist unit, walks up to Kocher and shakes his hand, saying, aThanks for saving my life.a The situation seems pretty much wrapped up when Captain America makes a dramatic appearance, jogging up the road, screaming, with his bayonet out. He brandishes his bayonet toward the prisoner and shouts, aWe ought to cut his throat like the Chechnyans in the video.a Itas a reference to a gore video circulating on the Internet, which many of the troops had seen before the invasion. It consisted of choppy MPEG-file footage that purported to show live Russian soldiers having their throats slashed by Chechnyan guerrillas.

Captain America then jabs the prisoner several times in his ribs and neck with the tip of his bayonet. The man starts screaming through the bag on his head, pleading again about his family. aShut up!a Captain America yells. aShut the f.u.c.k up!a Watching this bizarre drama, Kocher orders Redman to step off the Humvee and guard the prisoner. They both figure the move will be a way of calming down Captain America. Redman picks up his M-4 and approaches the prisoner. He says to Captain America, aDude, Iave got him.a Redman stands over the prisoner, placing his boot heel on his neck. Captain America shouts at the guy a few more times, then backs off.

Fick arrives. He exchanges a few words with Captain America, whoas now smiling and chuckling nervously, as he often does after a good outburst. Fick has no idea that anything out of the usual just occurred. He loads the prisoner into his Humvee and drives off.

A while later some of the reservist Marines approach Kocher and Redman. Cottle, whoad thanked Kocher a few minutes earlier for saving his life, now says, aYou guys abused that prisoner. I should never have let you take custody of him. I ought to kick your f.u.c.king a.s.s.a Within twenty-four hours, the reservists file a report charging Kocher, Redman and Captain America with a.s.saulting the prisoner. Captain America is temporarily suspended from command. Kocher is relieved of his job as team leader and ordered to ride with a support unit. Redman, whoas allowed to remain on the team, is dismayed. aDude, when I put my boot on the prisoneras neck, there were people out there still shooting at us. I wanted to control the prisoner and still be able to see what was happening.a He adds, aKocher and I were trying to calm the situation down. I didnat stomp or kick the guy. Dude, we just wanted Captain America to go away.a Even Cottle later confesses, aI feel bad for the enlisted guys. They werenat really the problem. It was the officer.a One of Cottleas fellow reservists, a senior enlisted man who also witnessed the events, says, aFrom what I saw, that officer is sick. Thereas something wrong with him.a Captain America denies committing a misdeed. He later tells me he simply thinks his accusers in the reserve unit were insufficiently acquainted with the realities of the battlefield. aThe prisoner was handled properly, even though they didnat like the way it looked,a Captain America says. aThey saw the beast that day, and they didnat know how to handle it.a BY FIVE OaCLOCK in the afternoon, the Iraqis who had earlier put up determined-though-inept resistance have either fled or been slaughtered. Colbertas team, along with the rest of the platoon, speeds up the road toward the outskirts of Baqubah. Headless corpsesa"indicating well-aimed shots from high-caliber weaponsa"are sprawled out in trenches by the road. Others are charred beyond recognition, still sitting at the wheels of burned, skeletized trucks. Some of the smoking wreckage emits the odor of barbecuing chickena"the smell of slow-roasting human corpses inside. An LAV rolling a few meters in front of us stops by a shot-up Toyota pickup truck. A man inside appears to be moving. A Marine jumps out of the LAV, walks over to the pickup truck, sticks his rifle through the pa.s.senger window and sprays the inside of the vehicle with machine-gun fire.

Watching this apparent execution unfold, I wonder if shooting the Iraqi in the truck ahead of us was an act of barbarity or a mercy killing along the lines of the one Doc Bryan had tried to perform on the wounded man outside Al Muwaffaqiyah. Thereas no time to sort this out.

We advance a few more kilometers, and Colbertas team sets up a roadblock. We are now within four kilometers of Baqubah. My first encounter with the enemy prisoner whom Captain America had taunted and abused earlier takes place in the back of Fickas Humvee parked nearby.

The prisoner is squirming on the truck bed, the burlap sack tied over his head, when I approach. A few Marines have gathered around and are taunting him. aWhat do you think youad be doing to us if we were your prisoner?a a nineteen-year-old Marine rails at him.

Fick walks over. aHey, I donat want any war crimes in the back of my truck.a He says this lightly, having no idea yet of the brewing controversy surrounding the manas capture. aUntie him and give him some water.a The manas arms are swollen and purple when the Marines cut off the zip cuffs. The angry nineteen-year-old Marine helps give him a bottle of water and a package of MRE pound cake. The prisoner, snuffling his tears away, eyes the offerings suspiciously for a moment, then eats hungrily.

aJust acause weare feeding you doesnat mean I donat hate you,a the young Marine says, still trying to keep up his edge of hostility. aI hate you. Do you hear me?a I study the man closely while he eats. He wears a torn, grimy wife-beater unders.h.i.+rt with his fat belly protruding. I look for bleeding or bayonet marks on his bodya"to see if Captain America penetrated his skina"but see no evidence of this. The worst signs of mistreatment on his body are gruesome bruises on his arms from the zip cuffs. While eating, the man periodically grabs his shoulders and winces in pain. I ask him how badly he hurts. He speaks English reasonably well.

aI need medicine,a he says, then bursts into tears, sniffling loudly.

aFor your wounds?a I ask.

aNo, I need medicine for my heart,a he says. aIt is bad.a He tells me his name is Ahmed Al-Khizjrgee. Despite his suffering, the more we talk he gives the impression of being both buffoonish and crafty. With his considerable girth, he brings to mind Sergeant Schultz in the old Hoganas Heroes series. He tries to convince me that he is not actually a soldier. aIt is your imagination that I am a fighter,a he says.

When I point out that he was found with military ID doc.u.ments, carrying a loaded rifle in an enemy-ambush position, he finally admits, shrugging and stroking his Saddam mustache, aI am a very low soldier.a Al-Khizjrgee says he is forty-seven years old, with two sons and five daughters. He claims he was originally a shoemaker and joined the Republican Guard late in life. His brother is a cabdriver in Baghdad. He is a peace-loving man. One of the Marines points out that a lot of other Iraqis threw down their weapons and fled. aYou were waiting to kill us,a the Marine says. aYou didnat put your weapon down until we made you.a aIt is not true,a Al-Khizjrgee protests. aI am afraid. If I put my gun down, the police come and beat us.a He says he and the other men in his unit received no outside information on the state of the world. They could be shot for listening to a radio.

I ask him how he thinks the war is going. He tells me his superiors told him and the other men in the unit that Iraq was winning the war. He says he and the other men holed up in Baqubah had their doubts but kept these to themselves. aEverybody under Saddam is silent,a he says. aIf Saddam say we have war with America, we say, aGood!a If he say no war, we say, aGood!a a The Marines, who were so angry with the man a moment ago, have now warmed up to him. One of them says, aWe canat put our weapons down, either.a aHe was just doing his job,a another Marine adds, now sounding almost impressed with the guyas tenacity in hanging on to his rifle.