Generation Kill Part 13

The Marines smile at him and feed him more pound cake.

Al-Khizjrgee fails to catch on to the newly festive atmosphere. He leans forward and confides in me that he is desperately afraid. aHow can I go home now? What if my sergeant finds me? He will know I did not fight.a About half an hour earlier, Colbert tuned in the BBC and picked up the report that Baghdad had fallen. I pa.s.s this information on to Al-Khizjrgee. aThere is no Saddam. There is no Iraqi army. You have no sergeant anymore.a Al-Khizjrgee stares in disbelief. aItas true,a I tell him.

He begins to cry again, only now he smiles. aI am so happy!a The news is only getting better for Al-Khizjrgee.

Fick walks up and tells Al-Khizjrgee he will be driving him to a detention facility near Baghdad tonight.

aFor free?a he asks, as if unable to believe his good fortune.

THE BATTALIONaS final enemy contact outside Baqubah occurs an hour before sunset, when the men in Alphaas Second Platoon spot a T-72 tank near their roadblock south of the city. T-72s are the most formidable tanks in the Iraqi a.r.s.enal. As soon as the Marines call it in to their platoon commander, he orders them to attack it with an AT-4 missile. Ordinarily, Marines would call in an air strike on a T-72, but no aircraft are immediately available, and Second Platoonas commander wants this tank stopped now. One T-72 could wreak havoc on the whole battalion.

Burris, whose team led the way through the ambush at Al Gharraf, volunteers to lead the AT-4 strike on the tank. Itas potentially a highly risky mission. The shoulder-fired AT-4 missile isnat really designed to defeat a T-72. At best, Marines believe an AT-4 can score a amobility killaa"blowing a track off the tanka"and to do this Burris will have to get in close to the tank, within 150 meters.

Nearly every engagement Burris has been in since the invasion started has somehow turned into his own personal, comic mishap. From the time he tripped on his rifle stock at Nasiriyah, giving himself a shiner, to the ambush at Al Gharraf, where he was sprayed from head to toe with human excrement when his Humvee plowed into the townas open sewer puddle, Burris has concluded almost every firefight heas been in knocked on his a.s.s, laughing.

Now he approaches the T-72, with several Marines and his platoon commander by his side. They reach the stepping-off point, where Burris will continue on alone to get in close to his target, and his platoon commander, Capt. Kintzley, slaps him on the back. aBurris,a he says. aDonat miss.a Burris ducks down, runs across the road, dives into a berm and creeps up behind the tank. He gets even closer to the monster T-72 than his superiors had ordered him to go, crawling to within 125 meters. He sees an auxiliary fuel pod on the back of the tank and aims for it, figuring it will multiply the effects of his relatively puny AT-4 missile. He fires the missile.

Initially, Burris sees only a small flash where the missile hits. Heas worried that perhaps the missile glanced off the armor (believed to be nearly invincible on the T-72) and berates himself for not aiming at the track. An instant later, it feels like a giant fist comes out of the sky and pounds Burris on his back, slamming him to the ground. The tank erupts in a ma.s.sive explosion.

Down the road, his platoon commander can actually see individual pieces of the tanka"flywheels and gearsa"flying overhead. Several hundred kilometers farther back from the blast, twenty-three-year-old Corporal Steven Kelsaw, standing by a headquarters vehicle, is struck in the helmet by a piece of the tank and knocked down. It feels to him like someone just hurled a bowling ball at him. His Kevlar helmet is partially shattered, but all he suffers is a bad headache.

Burrisas. .h.i.t on the T-72 produces one of the biggest explosions many Marines have seen in the entire war.

When Burris walks back to rejoin his team, Capt. Patterson, his company commander, walks up to congratulate him. Patterson wants to commend athis kidaa"as he refers to each of his Marinesa"for going out there all by himself against the T-72. But as soon as he sees Burrisas dirty face and his dazed, somewhat confused-looking smile, Patterson is seized by a fit of laughter. Finally, he manages to say, aBurris, I was worried sick about you.a aSir, whatas so funny?a Burris asks, still shaken up, his ears still ringing from the explosion.

aNothing, Burris,a Patterson says. aGood job.a AFTER THE DESTRUCTION of the T-72 tank, ten Humvees from Charlie Company race into Baqubah, with A-10s flying overhead as escorts. The roads are blockaded with rubble and concertina wire. Abandoned Iraqi military positions are everywhere. The Humvees snake through the barricades and make their way toward two military command centersa"headquarters for a Republican Guard division and a brigade. The division headquarters is in ruins from repeated American airstrikes. The brigade headquarters is still partially standing. A team of Recon Marines speeds up to the building. They jump out, run inside and steal the Iraqi acolorsaa"the enemyas flag.

The Marines have reclaimed, in part, their honor, sullied after the loss of their own colors in their truck burned outside Ar Rifa. The Americans hightail it out of the city, and the battalion prepares to drive back to Baghdad. With hundreds of Iraqis killed or wounded during the operation, the most serious injury sustained among Marines in First Recon is Kelsawas headache. For the Marines it feels as if the entire mission to Baqubah has ended as an extremely b.l.o.o.d.y game of capture the flag. Weeks later, Baqubah emerges as a key center in the aSunni Trianglea insurgency against the American occupation. But for the Marines pulling out, the mission stands as one of their more clear-cut triumphs. They seized forty kilometers of highway, probably killed more soldiers than civilians and captured the enemyas flag.

We drive back to Baghdad in darkness. Person, at the wheel, navigating with NVGs on his helmet, begins to sing, aMamas, donat let your babies grow up to be cowboys.a aHold on, buddy!a Colbert shouts. aNo G.o.dd.a.m.n country music.a aThatas not country,a Person insists. aItas a cowboy song.a aI hate to break it to you, but there are no cowboys,a Colbert says.

aYeah, there are,a Person says, his voice simultaneously flat yet defiant. aThereas tons of cowboys.a aA cowboy isnat some dips.h.i.t with a ten-gallon hat and a dinner plate on his belt,a Colbert says. aThere havenat been any real cowboys for almost a hundred years. Horse raising is a science now. Cattle raising is an industry.a A report comes over the radio of enemy fire on the column. aHold on,a Colbert says, reluctantly putting the argument aside. aIad like to hear about this firefight.a War Pig, driving ahead of us on the same highway the battalion fought its way up earlier, is again taking fire from both sides of the road. Tracers stream through the night sky. We drive into the gunfire. Enemy muzzle flashes jet toward us from the right side of the road no more than five meters from my window. Colbert opens up on the position, his rifle clattering. Spent sh.e.l.l casings ejected from the side of his M-4 rain down inside the Humvee. If his past performances in these types of situations are any guide, thereas a strong likelihood he hit his target. I picture an enemy fighter bleeding in a cold, dark ditch and feel no remorsea"at this time.

We drive the next ten kilometers in near silence, while the Marines search for additional targets, until we leave the ambush zone. Colbert pulls his weapon back in from the window and resumes his discussion with Person. aThe point is, Josh, people that sing about cowboys are annoying and stupid.a

THIRTY-TWO.

BY THE NIGHT OF APRIL 9, offensive U.S. military operations in Baghdad have ceased. The city is taken. Crowds have toppled Saddam statues. American military units are pouring into the city to begin the occupation.

We reach the outskirts of Baghdad at about eleven oaclock, having driven straight from Baqubah. We arrive in the same industrial suburbs we pa.s.sed through the day before. The looters are gone, the streets are empty, the city is black. A few fires rage in the distance, sending columns of flame over Baghdad, but given the level of destruction Marines have witnessed recently, the place seems relatively tranquil. The American artillery that was pounding continuously for the past several days is silent. We pa.s.s construction sites where military bulldozers, with floodlights mounted on them, are laboring in the night. The military machine that crushes everything in its path is quickly followed by armies of worker-ant battalions, whoave already marched up and begun smoothing out the rubble and building infrastructure. We drive into a sprawling supply depot and fueling station erected in the past several hours to service thousands of American vehicles. Thereas a sense in the air tonight that Baghdad is pacified, the Americans are now quietly, efficiently in control. Itas perhaps the only time things will ever appear this way to the men in First Recon.

FIRST RECON enters central Baghdad on April 10, at about three in the afternoon. Colbertas team drives with Ha.s.ser at the wheel, singing the hobo cla.s.sic aKing of the Road.a We approach the city from the east. The striking thing about the outskirts of Baghdad is how green everything is. We pa.s.s through a wealthy neighborhood of s.p.a.cious stucco homes perched atop small hills, shaded beneath palms, sycamores and eucalyptus trees. Occupants of some homes sit outside in gardens, watching convoys belonging to the American invaders rumble past on streets below.

We cut down a dirt embankment and approach a temporary pontoon bridge over the Diyala River, the eastern crossing point into the city. When we reach the other side, Fick reports over the radio that American forces in Baghdad are experiencing aintermittent sniper fire and attacks from Fedayeen in trucks.a The eastern side of Baghdad is a shantytown. We drive on dirt roads past corrugated tin and mud-brick huts jumbled together amidst a patchwork of open s.p.a.ces, with cows and chickens roaming everywhere. We round a corner and two enormous bulls, each seeming more powerful than the Humvee weare in, stand in the road. Ha.s.ser gingerly veers around them.

We pa.s.s donkey carts pulled over on the side of the road, intermixed with Toyotas, ancient Chevys and BMWs. Barefoot, scruffy kids line the edges of the shantytown. Some shout, aGo! Go! Go!a while pointing toward the city center and dancing like cheerleaders. One kid we pa.s.s comes right to the point: aMoney! Money! Money!a he chants.

The battalion drives onto a ma.s.sive berm, about five meters wide by five meters high. The Marines laugh. There are berms even in Baghdad. The battalion stops. Marines get out. The berm offers a commanding view of the citya"a sprawl of low-slung apartment blocks, homes, offices, avenues, ca.n.a.ls, freeways that stretch beyond the vanishing point. It spreads across nearly 800 square kilometers and has a population of about six million people.

aJesus Christ!a Colbert says. aThatas a lot of city.a Gunny Wynn walks over to Colbertas vehicle. The two of them study maps and detailed satellite images of the city, marveling at the thousands of streets and alleyways. Gunny Wynn shakes his head. aAnd we thought those little towns a kilometer long were tough. I donat know how weare going to control this.a Person stands by the Humvee, urinating on the berm. aHey!a He calls out triumphantly. aI wrote U.S.A. with my p.i.s.s.a FIRST RECONaS DESTINATION in Baghdad is a working-cla.s.s slum called Saddam City (since renamed Sadr City). More than two million Iraqis live here in an expanse of vaguely Stalinist-looking apartment blocks spread out over several kilometers. We drive down the main road that edges Saddam City and are greeted with a blend of enthusiasm tinged with violence. Thousands of people line the street, pressing up against the sides of Colbertas Humvee. Sniper rounds periodically crack in the air. The side streets into Saddam City are barricaded with rubble, trunks of palm trees and scorched cars.

When Colbertas Humvee momentarily stops, along with the rest of First Reconas convoy, weare swamped by young men in threadbare clothes who zombie-shuffle up to the windows. Many smile, but their faces have a hungry, vacant look. They resemble a crowd from Night of the Living Dead. Several grab at the Marinesa gear hanging off the sides of the Humveea"canteens, shovels and rucksacks. Colbert pushes his door open, jumps out and cows the crowd of perhaps 300 people into backing away from the vehicle. He paces from side to side, weapon out, establishing his territory.

Colbert is ordered back into the vehicle. The convoy circles around, driving over some traffic islands, and snakes into a gated industrial complex across from Saddam City. Inside, vast warehouses are spread across several acres. Most of them are bomb-smashed, with smoke and flames curling out of missing roofs. Piles of bright silver paper flutter on the ground like leaves. A familiar aroma wafts from the smoldering warehouses: tobacco. Someone in the Humvee figures out the silver paper on the ground is from cigarette packs. We have rolled into Iraqas central cigarette factory. Hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of burning cigarettes fill the air with what is likely the worldas biggest-ever cloud of secondhand smoke.

The convoy stops by a loading dock next to a warehouse untouched by bombs, the battalionas first camp in Baghdad. Nicotine-addict Marines immediately loot the nearby structure. Inside, cases of Iraqas aSumera brand of filter cigarettes are stacked ten meters high. Marines emerge with cartons of them, then lie back by their Humvees and smoke the spoils of conquest.

Gunny Wynn paces uneasily up to Fick. aDo you realize how f.u.c.king weird this is?a he says. aWhen we set up in Mogadishu, we spent our first night in a cigarette factory. I hope this turns out better.a Thereas a ten-story gla.s.s-and-steel office tower on the west side of the complex, perhaps 500 meters from the warehouse where weave stopped. Every few minutes, loud bangs emanate from the upper floors of the office tower. Navy SEAL snipers occupy the top of the building, and are busy taking out targets across the city. Judging by the pace of their shooting, theyare killing Iraqis at a rate of about one every five to ten minutes. We on the ground below them have no idea who theyare shooting at. Only later do we discover there are Iraqis spread out around this complex, taking random shots at American troops, and the SEALs are attempting to eliminate them.

Fick gathers the men for a briefing. aMarines have been here for more than twenty-four hours,a he says. aTheyare set up on the other side of this warehouse. Theyave had one killed and one wounded from sniper or mortar fire.a He then adds, aCompared to where weave been, I think itas pretty safe here. We should all get a good rest tonight.a A few minutes after his p.r.o.nouncement, the complex is rocked by a powerful explosion. Someone has set off a car bomb outside the main gate. A furious firefight ensues outside, involving Marines from other units. The gun battle is only a couple hundred meters away, but the complex is surrounded by a three-meter-high cement fence so we canat see anything. We just hear a torrent of shots.

Fick walks up to me and smiles, deeply amused by the crescendo of gunfire. aI was wrong about that good nightas rest,a he says. Moments later, a random bullet falls from the sky and skips onto the concrete, sparking behind Fickas back. He laughs. aThis is definitely not good.a We both watch a casevac helicopter flying past the complex. Skimming low over rooftops, it suddenly rears up to avoid enemy tracer rounds fired at it from the ground. We watch the life-and-death drama playing out in the sky for several moments. The helicopter escapes. aNot good at all,a Fick says.

But to the men, racking out on pavementa"no holes to dig herea"surrounded by concrete walls, with all the gunfighting being handled by Marines from other units, this war-torn complex represents five-star luxury. They lie back, eating, talking, smoking. For many, itas the first time theyave rested since the mission to Baqubah started seventy-two hours ago.

WHILE MOST GOT TO SLEEP, Espera leans against the wheel of his Humvee parked by Colbertas, composing a letter to his wife back home in Los Angeles. He uses a red lens flashlight, which emits a dim glow, not easily spotted by potential enemy shooters, to write on a tattered legal pad. Esperaas wife was a soph.o.m.ore at Loyola Marymount College when they met. At the time, he was a nineteen-year-old laborer with no future. They married shortly after she got pregnant, and much of Esperaas life since has been an effort to better himself in order to meet her high standards. aYou see, dog,a he explains, amy wife is smart, but she f.u.c.ked up big-time when she married me. I was a piece of s.h.i.t. I remember my wife talking about all the books shead read, and it hit me there was a whole world Iad missed. Before I met her I used to think, Iave got a s.h.i.tload of hand skillsa"welding, pipefittinga"any p.u.s.s.y can read a book. See, I didnat grow up with no understanding. My mom tried, but my dad is a psycho ex-Marine Vietnam vet.a Espera uses the term apsycho ex-Marine Vietnam veta with the utmost respect. He aspires to possess warrior skills equal to those of his father, who won a bronze star in Vietnam, and believes if heas lucky, he himself will retire one day as a aproud, psycho ex-Marine.a Despite his reverence for his fatheras combat valor, the man abandoned him at a young age (after an incident, according to Espera, in which his dad was shot in their home by a jealous girlfriend), and their relationship remains rocky.

Espera bitterly recalls a past incident. Several years ago, when his father tried to patch things up by taking him on a fishing trip, his old man ended up stopping off at p.o.r.n shop on their way to the lake. While Espera waited outside for his dad to finish his business in the private viewing booths, he got into an altercation with a man he believed was trying to cruise him in the parking lot, and Espera threw a brick through the windshield of the manas car. aThat was our father-son trip,a he says.

Since meeting his wife, Espera has become an avid reader, voraciously consuming everything from military histories to Chinese philosophy to Kurt Vonnegut (his favorite author). In the Middle East, he spends every free moment either reading or writing long letters to his wife, who works at an engineering firm in the San Fernando Valley. Tonight, at the cigarette factory, Espera reads me the beginning of a letter to his wife. aIave learned there are two types of people in Iraq,a he reads, athose who are very good and those who are dead. Iam very good. Iave lost twenty pounds, shaved my head, started smoking, my feet have half rotted off, and I move from filthy hole to filthy hole every night. I see dead children and people everywhere and function in a void of indifference. I keep you and our daughter locked away deep down inside, and I try not to look there.a Espera stops reading and looks up at me. aDo you think thatas too harsh, dog?a GUN BATTLES RAGE all night long in Baghdad. Marines sleep soundly on either side of me. I watch tracer rounds rising almost gracefully over the city. Some of this is probably just celebratory fire. But every fifteen minutes or so, powerful explosions go off, followed by furious bouts of weapons fire. During the lulls, ambulance sirens wail through the streets.

Occasionally rounds snap into the complex. You hear them zinging, then cracking as they strike nearby buildings.

After one of them hits, I hear a Marine in darkness say, aIs that all youave got?a Ripples of laughter erupt. Between the gun battles and ambulance sirens, we hear singsong Arabic blaring through loudspeakers. Itas either muezzins calling prayersa"unlikely after darka"or American psychological operations units trying to calm the people down by playing messages urging them to stop fighting. Itas not doing much good.

At around midnight I decide to use the toilet facilities. About 200 meters from where we sleep, Marines have set up a designated as.h.i.tteraa"a grenade box perched over the open storm drain that encircles the cigarette factory complex. I creep over to it in the darkness. A solitary Marine is perched on the s.h.i.tter. I wait a long time. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I finally make out whatas keeping him. His right arm is moving up and down. Heas getting in a late-night combat jack.

I leave him in peace and go over to another section of the storm drain. As Iam about to settle over it, I notice that on this side of the complex the wall separating us from the street is an open-stake fence. Marines had been told the complex was surrounded by a solid concrete wall, but in this corner you can look through to the street and shops just a few meters beyond. I decide to perch down anyway, but as Iam about to do so, a gun battle erupts on the street, maybe ten meters in front of me. Red lines of tracer rounds zoom past, skipping low over the pavement on the street directly before my eyes. You canat see whoas shooting, how far away they are or what theyare aiming at. I retreat back to the Humvees.

I fall asleep to the sound of pitched street battles in Free Baghdad.

THIRTY-THREE.

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, April 11, at the cigarette factory, Fick gathers his Marines to brief them on their mission in Baghdad. He reads from the official statement: aFirst Recon will conduct military operations in and around Saddam City to include patrols establishing the American presence, stop the looting, and restore a sense of security in order to allow critical, life-sustaining functions to take place. The intent is to locate key facilities in our zones, such as schools and hospitals, to collect intelligence on Fedayeen and Baath loyalists who are still at large and to prevent lawlessness and to disarm the populace. The end state is a humble, competent force occupying this area, ensuring security and mutual trust between us and the local populace.a After reading the official statement, Fick adds, aWe have rolled through this country f.u.c.king things up. Now we have to show these people what we liberated them from.a Fick radiates quiet confidence, mixed with purpose. He tells me after the briefing, aWhat we did up to now was the easy part. This is where the work really begins.a Fick is under the impression that Marines will stay in this cigarette factory for at least a month, maybe longer. They will be given sectors to patrol. They will set up nighttime observation posts in neighborhoods in order to capture or stop looters, paramilitary forces or jihadis who are still active. They will come to know the people in the neighborhoods they patrol, rendering them a.s.sistance and serving as liaisons for the nation-buildersa"engineers, doctors, civil-affairs specialistsa"who are no doubt on their way.

aThis is going to be tough,a Fick tells me. aBut I think for my men it will give them a sense of purpose about all the terrible things theyave seen and been through.a A SHORT WHILE after Fickas briefing, he invites his team leaders and me to accompany him on a tour of their new home, the cigarette-factory complex. As soon as we near the open-stake fence I discovered the night before, a crowd of civilians on the other side rushes forward. They stick their faces between the bars and begin shouting at the Marines, several of them in English. aPlease, stop the looting,a two of them plead.

Fick approaches the fence, telling them, aOrder will be restored very soon.a More civilians mob the fence, shouting in Arabic, gesticulating. Fick and the others retreat from the babble. We walk into in an open area between looming warehouse structures, cross about fifty meters of barren ground and approach another section of fencea"this one with no people on the other side. Weare looking out at the city when thereas a loud cracking sound, followed by a zing. A few more follow. Smoke puffs pop up from the ground a few meters behind us.

aSniper,a several of the Marines say at once.

Lovell, whoas also an expert sniper, says the rounds are coming from close by, and that we are directly in front of the barrel of whatever gun is shooting at us. I ask him how he knows this. aYou can tell by the sound,a he says. He explains that the type of cracking weare hearing isnat the gunpowder blast of the bullet being fired but the sonic boom the bullet makes as it crosses the sound barrier. You only hear it so clearly when youare pretty much directly in front of the barrel. The zinging sound we also hear, he says, is something you only pick up if the bulletas pa.s.sing within a few meters of your ears. This is all more information than I wanted.

The five of us have fifty meters of open ground to cross before we can reach cover. We sprint back one at a time under fire from the sniper. For some reason, as I make the dash all I can think of is the scene from the Peter Falk comedy, The In-Laws, in which Falk absurdly urges his sidekick to run in a aserpentinea pattern when they come under fire from a band of guerrillas while stuck in a Central American dictatorship. In my fear, this scene comes to me when I run through the sniper fire. Following Peter Falkas advice, I zigzag in a serpentine pattern as the shots ring out. It takes me twice as long to reach safety as it takes the Marines. After everyone gathers behind a building, we stand for a moment, panting heavily, collecting ourselves. Finally, Fick looks at his team leaders and they all burst out laughing. Lovell asks me why I was running back and forth. When I tell him, he suggests, aNext time we come under fire, just run in a straight line. You might live longer.a FIRST RECON BATTALION only launches one patrol on its first full day in Baghdad. The problem is, the battalion has just one translator, Meesh. While looting and burning continues unabated in the city, the Marines, with nothing to do in First Reconas aoccupation force,a kill the day by exploring the factories, warehouses and offices in the complex.

I follow along with several on a mission to ratf.u.c.k the main office tower. Marines are hoping to find cool souvenirs to bring home. On the way in, the Marines grab giant crescent wrenches from one of the cigarette-factory buildings to break down doors.

The main office tower has already been claimed by the First Battalion, Fourth Marines. They guard the front entrances, but the ratf.u.c.k crew Iam with smashes through some of the side windows with their monkey wrenches and circ.u.mvents the sentries. We take stairs up to the eighth floor. Some of the outer offices are occupied by the SEAL sniper teams, still busily shooting Iraqis every few minutes.

We sneak into rooms containing vast rows of low cubicles. The Marines are simultaneously freaked out and disappointed. It looks like any boring American office. You can see some workers have gone to a lot of trouble to decorate the drab cubicle walls with family photos, framed kitschy pictures of peaceful sunsets, beaches, forests, as well Christmas and Valentineas cards with holiday sentiments written on them in English.

Marines rifle through everything, looking for souvenirs, but all they find are colored pens and coffee mugs. aItas all stupid c.r.a.p,a one of them says, slamming his wrench into a computer screen.

The Marines kick down the door to what looks like the bossas office in the corner. One of them sits behind the expansive wooden desk, punches b.u.t.tons on the speakerphone and plays boss. aHave my secretary send in my next appointment,a he says in an obnoxiously official voice.

Then he starts smashing the phone and the desk apart with his wrench. The Marines destroy the bossas office with gleeful vengeance, throwing stuff at the walls, p.i.s.sing in the corner, all of them maniacally laughing. In a weird way, theyare living out the fantasy Carazales often talks abouta"in which one day a year the blue-collar man gets to go into rich neighborhoods and smash apart expensive homes.

AFTER TWO DAYS of aimless waiting, the Marines in Second Platoon finally get a mission in Baghdad. Their job is to enter a neighborhood north of Saddam City and drive through the streets. The goals are simple: to talk to locals whoave never seen Americans before and to not get into any gunfights. Before leaving, Fick briefs his men. aIf we take a potshot, donat open up with a machine gun on a crowd. The days of running and gunning through towns are over.a His precautionary briefing seems unnecessary when the Marines roll into the neighborhood. Compared to Saddam City, the place they enter seems almost bucolic. Broad, unpaved roads lead to large stucco homes that would not be out of place in San Diego. Lush gardens grow from vacant lots. Young men line the street and greet the Marines in halting, yet formal English. aGood morning, sir,a they say.

The Humvees drive for about 500 meters until a cl.u.s.ter of residents blocks the road. They stream out of their homes bearing jugs of water and hot tea, which they offer the Marines. Small girls emerge carrying roses for the Americans.

The neighborhood men gather around the Humvees, puffing cigarettes and b.i.t.c.hing about life under Saddam. Most of their complaints are economica"the lack of jobs, the bribes that had to be paid to get basic services. aWe have nothing to do but smoke, talk, play dominoes,a a wiry chain-smoking man in his late thirties tells me. aSaddam was an a.s.shole. Life is very hard.a He asks if the Marines can provide him with Valium. He pleads, aI cannot sleep at night, and the store to buy liquor has been closed since the war started.a Aside from the complaints of the idle men, the most striking feature of the neighborhood is the hard labor performed by women. Covered in black robes, they squat beneath the sun in the empty-lot gardens, harvesting crops with knives, while children crawl at their feet. Others trudge past carrying sacks of grain on their heads. The division of labor exists even among children. Small boys run around playing soccer while little girls haul water. ad.a.m.n, the women are like mules here,a Person observes.

aIf wead have fought these women instead of men,a another Marine comments, awe might have got our a.s.ses kicked.a The other culture shock for the Marines is that several of the men seem to be hitting on them. One asks Garza to lift up his gla.s.ses. When he does so, the man leans forward and says, aYou have pretty eyes.a Another of them asks a Marine if he likes boys or girls. When the Marine says, aGirls,a the man makes a face and says, aGirls. Blah!a Then he points to a young man standing nearby, makes an intercourse gesture with his fingers and says, aYou go with my friend, you like.a The Marines are amused. Soon Marines and Iraqis stand around the Humvees in a big, noisy klatch, laughing, trying to communicate through gestures and fractured English. They trade Marine gear, like their soft-cover hats, which Iraqis seem to universally prize, for Muslim prayer beads, which Marines all covet. After worrying that his Marines were going to indiscriminately shoot civilians, Fick has to wade in and break up the party.

The neighborhood is filled with unexploded munitionsa"mostly mortars and RPGs, fired by Iraqi forces, that failed to detonate. Fick roams around the area, scrupulously recording the locations of unexploded munitions in a handheld computer for a future removal effort.

Residents a.s.sail him with a list of other problemsa"lack of electricity and running water, broken phone lines, ransacked hospitals, bandits coming in at night and robbing homes, even the dearth of jobs. They expect the Americans, who so handily beat Saddam, will take care of everything. The Marines shake their hands, promise to see them again soon, and drive off, heroes for the day.

They never return to the neighborhood.

THE ORIGINAL PLAN Fick had briefed his men on executinga"restoring stability to Baghdad by patrolling specific neighborhoods and rooting out Fedayeen and Baathistsa"never materializes. Instead, over the next several days, First Reconas plans shift, as the city plunges further into chaos. The battalion moves from the cigarette factory to a wrecked childrenas hospital north of the city to a looted power plant. Each time they change locations, Second Platoon is a.s.signed new sectors to patrol. Within a few days, Fick admits to me the whole endeavor is so haphazard it seems to him at times like a apointless exercise.a The basic problem with the American occupation of liberated Baghdad is that the fighting is so heavy at night, most U.S. forces decide not to go out after dark. On their third day in Baghdad, Fick tells his men, aWeare not going out at night. There are too many revenge killings going on in the city. Mostly itas Shias doing a lot of dirty work, taking out Fedayeen and Sunni Baathists.a Lt. Col. Ferrando takes this even further, telling his senior men that the Shias are wiping out paramilitary forces through aa sort of an agreementa with the American occupiers. aWe have to be careful about nighttime operations,a he tells his men, abecause the Shias will be out doing the same things you are. They might want to engage you.a An internal Marine intelligence report I come across, dated April 12, confidently predicts that the ability of hostile forces in Baghdad ato successfully and continually engage our forces will be complicated by the local Shiasa intolerance for regime paramilitary forces hiding out in their neighborhoods.a The Americansa a.s.sumption seems to be that all they need to do in Baghdad is sit back and let the Shias clean house. Not only do the Americans tolerate this bloodshed, but at least one Marine commander in an infantry unit working in Saddam City allegedly distributes stocks of confiscated AKs to Shia leaders who promise to use them to rout out the abad guys.a FLAWS IN THE American occupation plan become apparent to the Marines in Fickas platoon when they mount their first patrol into a vast, predominantly Shia slum on the northeast side of Baghdad. On the morning of April 13, Colbertas Humvee leads the rest of the platoon into the slum known as Seven Castles. We roll in atop a high berm overlooking about a square kilometer of ramshackle, two-story apartment blocks. According to the translator with us, 100,000 people live here. The twenty-two Marines in Second Platoon are the first Americans to enter this neighborhood since Baghdad fell four days ago. The platoon stops in the crest of the berm overlooking the neighborhood.

Within minutes hundreds of children run up and surround the Humvees, chanting, aBush! Bush! Bush!a They are soon joined by elders from the neighborhood.

The translator helping Fick today is a local Iraqi, Sadi Ali Hossein, a courtly man in his fifties who used to work at the factory the Marines occupy. He showed up yesterday to offer his services to the Americans as a translator. (An exceedingly polite man who wears a rumpled yet dignifying brown suit, Hossein vanishes the day after this patrol; other Iraqis who work at the factory later claim heas a Baathist agent.) With his help as a translator today, Fick tries to find out what the neighborhood requires. Initially, elders who emerge from the mob tell Fick they need just two things: water and statues of George Bush, which they plan to erect up and down the streets as soon as the Americans help them pump out the sewage currently flowing in them.

Fick turns to the translator with a puzzled expression on his face. Hossein explains, aThey think Bush is a ruler like Saddam. They donat understand the idea of a president who maybe the next year will go out.a The streets below not only run with sewage but are filled with uncollected garbage. In the midst of this, there are pools of stagnant rainwater. Somehow, locals differentiate between pools of stagnant rainwater and sewage, since they dip buckets into the former and drink it.

They say they havenat had water or electricity in the neighborhood for a few years now. What the elders urgently need help with is security at night. All of them have the same story: As soon as the sun goes down, bandits roam the streets, robbing people and carrying out home invasions. Residents in the neighborhood have set up barricades on the streets to keep them out. Everyone is armed. The locals claim that since armories and police stations were overrun at the end of the war, an AK now costs about the same as a couple of packs of cigarettes.

aThey kill our houses,a one of the men says.

aThe Americans have let Ali Baba into Baghdad,a his friend adds.

Another man claims enemies from an outlying neighborhood have set up a mortar position behind a mosque and are randomly sh.e.l.ling them at night.

Even late in the morning, you can still smell cordite in the streets from all the gunfire of the previous night. Whatas striking about the residentsa complaints is the fact that Marine commanders have been claiming that all the gunfire at night is a result of Shias removing Fedayeen and other enemies they share with the Americans. But this is a 100-percent Shia neighborhood, and these people are clearly distraught by the violence. They ask Fick if his Marines will stay for the night.

He tells them that is not possible, but that his men will try to bring water some other day.

Hossein tells me he has a grim view of Iraqas future. aYou have taken this country apart,a he says. aAnd you are not putting it together.a He believes that the violence the Americans are allowing to go on at night will only fuel conflicts between the Sunni and Shia factions. aLetting vigilantes and thieves out at night will not correct the problems of Saddamas rule,a he says. He gestures toward the crowded slum below, teeming with people. aThis is a bomb,a he says. aIf it explodes, it will be bigger than the war.a Espera, whoas been listening to Hosseinas a.n.a.lysis, offers his own take on the situation. aLet a motherf.u.c.ker use an American toilet for a week and theyall forget all about this Sunni-Shia bulls.h.i.t.a Doc Bryan sets up a medical station under some ponchos in front of his Humvee. Mothers bring children sick with giardia caused by drinking dirty water, feverish infants, a girl whose legs were burned when a cooking fire exploded. Men start pushing to the front of the line, complaining of headaches and sleeplessness. Like the guy we met in the first neighborhood, they want Valium. Another family brings a son who canat walk, hoping that Doc Bryan can cure him like a faith healer. A fight nearly breaks out between a Marine and men in Doc Bryanas line who are stealing candy the Marines are giving to the sick children. By this time, hundreds of people throng the Marinesa position, just trying to get a look at the Americans.

The Marines are driven out as the pandemonium grows. Farther into the neighborhood, hundreds of people descend on the Humvees. What Marines had initially viewed as jubilation begins to feel increasingly like hysteria. The mobas incessant chanting starts to drive the men crazy. Everyone who approaches is dirty, scared and desperately in need of help, which the Marines are incapable of giving. They nearly run over children who fall in front of the Humvees while running beside them. At one stop, Fick and I get out and see kids rocking on an unexploded artillery sh.e.l.l, gleefully bouncing on it like a hobbyhorse. aThis is madness,a Fick concludes.

As the Marines gather around their concrete sleeping area that night, some are disgusted by the behavior of the Iraqis. aWhat American man,a Doc Bryan asks, awould cut in a line of children with life-threatening illnesses to try to get Valium for a headache, then steal their f.u.c.king candy? I have no respect for these men.a aBro, itas not that bad here,a a Marine says in the darkness. aJust think if someone invaded Los Angeles. Americans would f.u.c.king riot if their cable went out for three days. These people donat have water, electricity, hospitals, sewers, nothing, and theyare waving and smiling.a aThey wonat be for long,a Espera says. aIraqis have a short attention span just like the American public. As soon as they stop celebrating that we got rid of Saddam and we cut aem off at the t.i.ttya"they figure out weare not going to be pouring money into this motherf.u.c.ker, giving everyone a new car and a color TVa"theyall turn on us.a IN AN EFFORT to reach out to community leaders, Bravo Company sends Meesh to meet with the imam at a Shia mosque during a patrol. This neighborhood in north Baghdad is marginally better off than others. Thereas no sewage in the streets, and the low apartment blocks and shops near the mosque look tidy. The mosque itself is a squat, stucco building, with a small dome and a minaret not much bigger than a telephone pole. There are loudspeakers hanging from it for the prayers broadcast through the neighborhood.

Meesh enters the mosque early in the afternoon. Several young men who serve as the imamas bodyguards train their AKs on him the moment Meesh sets foot in the gloomy anteroom. After twenty minutes of negotiating with these characters, one of them leads him into the imamas office in the back.

The imam, a man in his early fifties who studied in Iran, looks to Meesh almost exactly like a younger version of the late Ayatollah Khomeini, with a long, pointed white beard and dark-black eyebrows. Though Meesh is a Sunnia"as well as a beer-drinking dope smokera"he and the imam kneel and perform a prayer together. Then, according to Meesh, the imam tells him he welcomes the Americans, so long as they donat expose the Iraqi people to corrupting Western influences. Meesh tells the imam the Marines will try to bring some water the next day to distribute from the grounds of the mosque. He asks for the imamas help in controlling the people who invariably mob the Marinesa vehicles. According to Meesh, the imam tells him, aIf they come too close, the Americans should hit them. These people are used to being pushed around. You have to threaten them.a Within hours of Meeshas meeting, the loudspeakers from the minaret blare a message from the imam: aIt is against your religion to harm Americans.a Then the imamas guards go through the neighborhood, painting messages in red on the stucco walls lining the streets. They say, aAn AK used after sunset is a tool of d.a.m.nation.a At least this is what Meesh claims happens as result of his meeting with the imam.

The next morning Second Platoon returns to the mosque, escorting a military tanker truck to distribute 2,000 gallons of fresh water to the residents. The Marines park the truck beside the mosque in an open dirt lot and wait beneath overcast skies. Unlike the day before, when crowds had turned out cheering the Marines, this morning thereas almost no one on the streets. The few adults and children who are out hang back, staring vacantly. The Marines stand around the truck, holding a hose up, beckoning people to come and get the free water, but in twenty minutes only two or three venture forward. aAll week people have been asking for water,a Fick says. aWe finally bring it to them, and n.o.body f.u.c.king wants it.a Though Meesh vows to me that the messages blared from the mosque and painted on the walls by the imamas followers were all pro-American, something has dramatically changed in the neighborhood. The people seem almost frightened of the Marines. I press Meesh about this. aAre you sure the imam said he wanted the Americans to come here?a I ask him.

aDude, the meeting was totally cool,a Meesh a.s.sures me.

Whatever really transpired with the imam, only Meesh knows. As has been the case since the invasion began, First Recon Battalion is almost entirely dependent on Meesh for all its Arabic intelligence gathering. Itas not that Meesh is a bad guy, but itas astonishing to me that in an elite unit of American forces, among the first to occupy the capital city of a conquered country, thereas no one within the command structure who fluently speaks the local language.

ONE WEEK after arriving in Baghdad, Second Platoon finally receives orders for a night mission. Thereas a park in Baghdad that Fedayeen are suspected of using as an operations base. Second Platoon is ordered to set up observation posts near the park overnight, then move in and sweep it for signs of hostile forces in the morning.

An hour before sunset, the platoon moves into position on a high berm near the park. When the sun drops, the vast city, without any electricity, goes nearly black. Then tracers light up the sky from the gun battles raging on all sides of the berm we occupy.

What makes the spectacle of these nocturnal gun battles even stranger is the fact that a kilometer to our east, a freeway is filled with cars streaming into Baghdad. We watch the fire course over the string of headlights.

Fick and I are taking this all in when he receives a call on his radio from his commander, Encino Man, who suggests he send foot patrols out tonight into the neighborhoods below. Encino Man tells him that Lt. Col. Ferrando has decided, after a week of keeping the men off the streets at night, that itas time for the Marines to become amore aggressive.a Fick resists the order, telling Encino Man heas going to keep his men in a defensive position on the berm and not move until dawn. He sits down next to Gunny Wynn and vents. aLook at this,a he says, gesturing to the hundreds of tracer lines zipping through the sky. aThey want me to be amore aggressive,a to send the men into this? For what? Just to be out there waving the American flag? So I can come home with nineteen men instead of twenty?a Fick watches the ongoing destruction in the city, then adds, aIf Iraq stays a flaming cesspool until the end of time, does anyone really care? Does it f.u.c.king matter?a Fickas talk a week earlier at the cigarette factory of giving his men a purpose by restoring order in Iraq seems like ancient history. Fick appears to have lost his belief in his mission here. The problem is not so much that the city has unraveled before his eyes in the past weeka"he pretty much expected Baghdad to be in total chaos. Instead, whatas come undone is his belief that the Americans have any kind of occupation plan to remedy the situation. aOur impact on establishing order is just about zero,a he says. aAs far as I can see, thereas no American plan for Baghdad. Maybe itas coming, but I donat see any signs of it.a But he adds, leaving room for optimism, aA platoon commanderas situational awareness doesnat extend very far.a In the morning the platoon drives down to the entrance of the park. Thereas a road bridge leading into it, with a tower sort of like Seattleas s.p.a.ce Needle rising beyond. It turns out this is Baghdadas amus.e.m.e.nt park, complete with roller coasters, hot-dog stands and buildings with giant pictures of Disney characters painted on them (no doubt in fiendish violation of international trademark law). The platoon stops by the bridge outside the park. Cars are driving in and out. Meesh finds out that thereas a fuel depot in the park, and citizens are entering to steal gasoline. The Marines block off the bridge, turning away traffic in preparation for moving into the park.

A beat-up red Volkswagen Pa.s.sat speeds toward them. Marines aim their weapons at it. The car stops nearby. Thereas a woman at the wheel with a fifteen-year-old girl in the pa.s.senger seat. The girl looks out at the Marines, smiling almost flirtatiously.

The driver gets out. A worried-looking middle-age woman in a brightly colored shawl, sheas the girlas mother. Her name is Mariane Abas, and she tells Meesh that eight days ago while playing outside their house north of Baghdad, her daughter, Suhar, was. .h.i.t in the leg by shrapnel from a bomb that seemed to come out of nowherea"perhaps from a high-flying U.S. plane. Doc Bryan opens the door. Suhar smiles at him. Her leg is in a cast. Doc Bryan and Colbert turn the girl sideways, extending her leg out of the car.

aDoc, youave got fifteen minutes,a Fick says. aWeave got to move into the park.a Doc Bryan cuts away the cast. The girl screams. Her mother climbs in on the driveras side and wraps her arms around her daughteras head and chest, holding her in place as she writhes in agony. Whatever hit the girlas leg ripped chunks of flesh off from her calf to her thigh. The bones were broken as well. Whoever treated her stuffed the wounds with cotton, which Doc Bryan now must rip out. Pus oozes out. She has a high fever, a bad septic infection. On top of this, her foot was set in the cast with the toes pointing down, so if she lives and her bones heal, sheall walk with a lame foot.

aWeave got to get her to a hospital,a Doc Bryan says. aThis infection is going to kill her.a Fick radios the battalion, requesting permission to medevac the girl. Itas denied. The platoon delays its mission for two hours, while Doc Bryan does his best to clean the wounds out. The girl wails and sobs most of the time. Her mother holds her head. Doc Bryan curses softly.

Fick walks away, turning his back on the girl. aThis is f.u.c.king up our mission,a he says, p.i.s.sed off at the girl for showing up with her horrific wounds. aA week after liberating this city, the American military canat provide aid to a girl probably hit by one of our bombs,a he says, p.i.s.sed off at the war.

DESPITE AN APATHY thatas set in among many Marines over the futility of their missions in Baghdad, Colbert remains committed. When a resident of one neighborhood comes forward complaining of an unexploded bomb in a garden where children play, Colbert enlists Esperaas (grudging, extremely reluctant) aid to destroy it with a C-4 charge, though neither of them is specifically trained in ordnance removal, and the platoon is under orders to avoid handling unexploded rounds. Later, Colbert climbs into a five-foot-deep hole in a risky effort to locate and destroy an unexploded artillery round next to a home. Fick, concerned that he might kill himself, orders him to cease the operation.

Colbert despairs when he hears reports of other units accidentally firing on civilians. One episode reported on the BBC enrages him. U.S. soldiers, newly arrived in Iraq to begin the occupation, accidently slaughtered several Iraqi children playing on abandoned tanks. Under the ROE, the children were technically aarmeda since they were on tanks, so the GIs opened fire. Maj. Gen. Mattis would later call this shooting athe most calamitous engagement of the war.a After he hears of it, Colbert rails, aThey are s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g this up. Those f.u.c.king idiots. Donat they realize the world already hates us?a Espera tries to console him by sharing some wisdom he learned on the streets of L.A. Espera explains that if he were writing a memoir of his days as a car repo man before joining the Marines, he would t.i.tle it n.o.body Gives a f.u.c.k. According to Espera, the ideal place and time to repossess or steal an automobile is a crowded parking lot in the middle of the afternoon. aJump in, drive that b.i.t.c.h off with the car alarm goinga"n.o.bodyas going to stop you, n.o.bodyas going to even look at you,a he says. aYou know why? n.o.body gives a f.u.c.k. In my line of work, that was the key to everything. The only people that will f.u.c.k you up are do-gooders. I canat stand do-gooders.a As Colbert continues to fulminate over mounting civilian casualties and their effect on undermining the American victory, Espera throws his arm over his shoulder. aRelax, Devil Dog,a Espera says. aThe only thing we have to worry about are the f.u.c.king do-gooders. Luckily, thereas not too many of those.a EARLY ON APRIL 18, the men in First Recon are told they will be departing Baghdad. Though they havenat completed their mission to arestore a sense of security,a few regret the order to leave.

Their final night in Baghdad is spent camped in the playing field of the soccer stadium that once belonged to Saddamas son Uday. Tonight, the usual gun battles fought by locals start before sunset. Recon Marines keeping watch high up on the bleachers come under fire. As rounds zing past, one of the men up in the bleachers, caught by surprise, stumbles as he tries to pull his machine gun off the fence and take cover. His arms flail while he tries to regain his balance. More gunshots ring out. Marines watching on the gra.s.s below burst into laughter.

Later, several Marines in First Recon gather in a dark corner of the stadium to drink toasts to a one-armed Iraqi man in Baghdad who sold them locally distilled gin for five American dollars per fifth. Generally, it doesnat require any alcohol to lower the Marinesa inhibitions. But now, with the gin flowing, a Marine brings up a subject so taboo I doubt head ever broach it sober among his buddies. aYou know,a he says, aIave fired 203-grenade rounds into windows, through a door once. But the thing I wish Iad seena"I wish I could have seen a grenade go into someoneas body and blow it up. You know what Iam saying?a The other Marines just listen silently in the darkness.