The Heart and the Fist Part 18

AK-47 fire barked to the north. I turned. Someone firing at us? Someone firing at us? One of the Iraqi soldiers started to run in the direction of the shots, and I grabbed his arm as he pa.s.sed me. He wanted to fight, and I appreciated his instinct, but we weren't taking effective fire and we had no targets. If he ran from cover and into an open intersection, he'd make an easy target. A young kid might have shot into the air to lure us into the open, and a sniper might have his sights fixed on the open intersection. One of the Iraqi soldiers started to run in the direction of the shots, and I grabbed his arm as he pa.s.sed me. He wanted to fight, and I appreciated his instinct, but we weren't taking effective fire and we had no targets. If he ran from cover and into an open intersection, he'd make an easy target. A young kid might have shot into the air to lure us into the open, and a sniper might have his sights fixed on the open intersection.

"We stay," I said to the soldier. Then, "Travis, let's send one of the Humvees north of us to watch our back."

Travis spoke into the radio and twenty seconds later one of our Humvees with a .50-cal gunner turned a corner and ran north in the direction of the AK-47 fire.

The Iraqis were not yet well trained. Out on patrol, we had to keep one eye on the street and one eye on them. Were they watching their field of fire? Were they bunched too close together? It was mentally taxing to be worried about insurgents, doubly so when we were also worried about our allies. We wanted and needed them to be successful. If the Iraqis failed, it meant that they weren't ready, which meant that we hadn't trained them well enough, which meant that we were going to have to stay here longer.

On patrols like this, the conventional forces were often hunting runts in the al Qaeda hierarchy. Some of the targets were men who'd been paid thirty dollars to bury a roadside bomb. I was surprised when I arrived in Iraq to find that we had pictures of many of our targets: Iraqi men dressed in orange tops looking straight at the camera. We had their pictures because we'd captured them before, then let them go.

Is it worth it to risk my life today?

Many of these Marines had been on hundreds of patrols in Fallujah, and they were shot at almost every time they left the base. On one patrol, a flash snapped to our right as a rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) was fired at the Humvee in front of us. The rocket bounced a foot in front of the Humvee and exploded when it hit a building on the other side of the street. On another patrol, the distinctive bark of an AK-47 broke through the night as the Marines turned a corner and then ducked behind cover. Today a roadside bomb had been triggered beneath them. Every day, every patrol, they-and we-seemed to take fire.

On base, you always knew that things had gone badly in the field when they shut off the phones and e-mail. A man had died, and the command didn't want word to get back to an unsuspecting wife or father or mother via a phone call or e-mail that might be laced with rumor. When the phones came back up you knew that a chaplain and an officer were visiting with grieving loved ones.

The streets of Fallujah were laden with dog feces. Plastic bags snagged on pieces of trash and flapped in the wind. For some reason, I thought of the Lakota war hero Crazy Horse, reputed to have said, as he rode into battle, "Hoka hey"-Today is a good day to die. The shops we poked through were full of rusted motors, rusted frames; all of the equipment seemed too far gone to be of any use, even for a suicide car bomb. Patrolling on the feces- and trash-covered streets, I thought, Today is not a good day to die. Today is not a good day to die.

Two Iraqi soldiers started to smoke and chatter behind me and I waved at them, "Hey," and pointed for them to get back in the line of the patrol. The jundis jundis-Arabic for "soldiers"-were a mixed bag of often ill-disciplined and frightened men of limited physical ability who had a tendency to group together and talk on patrol. Some jundis "swept" each other, pointing the muzzles of their rifles at their friends. Others tried to learn to become good soldiers: they kept a sharp lookout and patrolled with discipline. Yet for all the tactical frustrations they presented, the Iraqis were extraordinarily valuable.

Venturing out at night with the Army Rangers in Ramadi, I was impressed with their tactics. As soon as we stepped out of the Stryker, the Rangers fell into a perfectly s.p.a.ced formation. As I looked through my night-vision goggles, I could see that every open window, every open door, was covered by a laser sight. When the Rangers came to an alley, they b.u.mped across one by one, with precision. They approached houses quietly, efficiently blew open doors, and would sweep through a house and clear it in seconds.

Once they were inside, however, the Rangers ran into trouble. They couldn't speak with anyone. The Rangers usually had a translator with them, but that translator was often scared, and sometimes wasn't even Iraqi. The Rangers would do a valiant job of searching a home for intelligence-they'd grab papers and confiscate computers and sometimes take prisoners-but without the ability to talk with people, they'd often leave a house as ill informed as when they entered. And they made few friends and potentially many new enemies when bursting into house after house like that.

The Iraqis were the opposite. They swept each other on patrol. They bunched together at alleyways and ran across three at a time. I saw one Iraqi come to the wall of a house that he was about to raid, hand off his weapon, climb up the wall, jump into the courtyard, and then shout to his friend, who tossed his rifle over the wall to him. The Iraqis were tactically weak. Yet inside a house, they had great advantages. The Iraqis would search the occupants of a house for weapons, and then they'd stand with the man of the house and smoke together and talk. Often they'd learn something. They could apologize for the intrusion if they had to, and they stood a chance that their apology would be accepted. The Iraqi soldiers were not always loved, and sometimes they were even hated, but they all at least had the ability to communicate.

Americans were often blind to the cultural intelligence of the Iraqis. Most Americans can walk through an American house and, without asking any questions, know a little girl's room from a teenage boy's room. We can be pretty sure just by walking through a house whether or not a man lives there. The Iraqis, likewise, could look at a pile of mats and blankets on the floor of a house and tell if there were men living there. They could look at a tea set, clothing, and decorations, and be able to make a pretty good guess about where a family was from. In short, they were culturally sharp, and they did a better job than Americans could ever hope to do of talking with Iraqis to gain the kind of human intelligence that was necessary to defeat an insurgency, control a battle s.p.a.ce, and create peace.

We walked up to a bright blue gate locked against the trash-covered street. One of the Iraqi troops fiddled with a bar, then pushed open a door. The Iraqis stepped in, and as I stepped through the door I saw a large gray brick warehouse-like building to the north, a small white shack to the west, and next to the shack, the remains of a broken-down car. And there-in the middle of the concrete compound-sat what looked like a large metal dog cage with a wire running from it to the house.

"Kef," I said to the Iraqi soldier in front of me-stop. When he turned around, I pointed at the cage. The wire bothered me. When he turned around, I pointed at the cage. The wire bothered me. IED? IED? I thought. The wire seemed to be wrapped around a brick under the cage. I thought. The wire seemed to be wrapped around a brick under the cage.

It ran across the open courtyard and into the shack, which looked to be a night watchman's house at the far end of the compound. The car, without wheels, rested on blocks of concrete just a few yards from the house. Car bomb? Car bomb?

Why would they have an IED set in the middle of their courtyard? Could the brick be fake? An Iraqi soldier shouted, and a frail old man in a blue dishdasha tentatively stepped out of the shack, setting one foot down, and then another. Two heavyset women wrapped in abayas leaned their heads into the open doorway, watching us. An Iraqi soldier shouted, and a frail old man in a blue dishdasha tentatively stepped out of the shack, setting one foot down, and then another. Two heavyset women wrapped in abayas leaned their heads into the open doorway, watching us.

The Iraqi soldier shouted again, and when the old man started to step toward the dog cage in his ragged brown sandals, I knew, somehow, Not an IED. Not an IED.

As I walked forward, I saw bird p.o.o.p in the cage. The cage rested on the brick that the wire was wrapped around.

The Iraqis began to question the old man. I couldn't understand his answers, but I noticed that his speech was slurred and his pupils seemed dilated, and he had sweat on his neck.

"What do they use the cage for?" I asked the translator.

"They catch birds," an Iraqi said.

Another Iraqi made a motion with his hands to indicate that they were eating the birds they caught: What birds, What birds, I thought, I thought, the pigeons here? the pigeons here? Then again, I knew that the industrial sector in Fallujah was almost completely shut down. Unemployment was rampant. Then again, I knew that the industrial sector in Fallujah was almost completely shut down. Unemployment was rampant. People living on pigeons? People living on pigeons?

The old man stopped on wobbly legs, then sat down on a crate outside his shack. He let out a moan, "Ohhhh," and he reached his right arm for the ground, his left hand clutching his chest. He fell and lay crumpled on the ground.

The women began screaming. One of the Iraqis told me they were yelling, "He needs his medicine!" "He's got bad heart!"

Our doc bent to one knee to check the man's vitals. The women kept screaming.

An Iraqi soldier walked with the women into the shack and they grabbed the old man's medicine. Two other Iraqi soldiers walked over to the commotion, and I said, "Doc's got it. Stay spread out. Keep moving." We were in an open courtyard, overlooked by two two-story buildings across the street. A sniper in one of those buildings would have an easy shot. I walked away from the old man lying on the ground, and one of the Marines said, "I hope that f.u.c.ker doesn't die. Huge f.u.c.kin' headache."

The compound was secure, and by the time I'd walked back, the old man was sitting again on his crate, drinking water.

"He seems fine," the doc said.

A Marine glanced to the side and spit. "Fine as a motherf.u.c.ker can be living in this s.h.i.thole, eating pigeons. G.o.dd.a.m.n."

Travis turned to me. "Any suggestions on what we should do here?"

"We've been here awhile," I said. "We need to be thinking that a sniper might have set up to take a shot as we leave through the door. That door's the only exit, but let's pull the whole gate wide open so we're not squeezing through that little hole-harder for them to take a shot as we run out. And let's get down the street. They've watched us. .h.i.t shop after shop. Let's b.u.mp past the next shop in case they're expecting us there."

Snipers had become a major threat in Fallujah. Whenever we were on the streets, we moved constantly. Talking with an Iraqi in the street, men stepped forward and backward and swayed side to side. Always a.s.sume somebody's trying to line your head up in his crosshairs. Every second you're still is another second a sniper has to put a bullet through you. Always a.s.sume somebody's trying to line your head up in his crosshairs. Every second you're still is another second a sniper has to put a bullet through you. When we were outside of our Humvees, the drivers would pull a few feet forward before we got back in, in case a sniper had lined up a shot on a Humvee door. When we were outside of our Humvees, the drivers would pull a few feet forward before we got back in, in case a sniper had lined up a shot on a Humvee door.

We heard the bark of an AK-47 a block to the west and the radio crackled with reports of small-arms fire. One block away, a war was on and men were trying to kill each other. Our street was quiet.

We cleared another two shops and that ended our sweep. The patrol took up defensive positions and I bent to one knee behind a concrete barrier that gave me a well-protected view of the street while we waited for the Humvees to pick us up. Apache gunships appeared overhead, their metal bodies angled under their rotors like birds of prey ready to strike.

The Humvees brought us back to the Marine base at the center of the city. As I walked inside to drop my body armor, I heard yelling from down the hallway, and as I jogged down the hall I saw elbows flying and legs kicking in what looked like a schoolyard fight. A circle of Iraqi soldiers were kicking at a man on the ground who kept shifting and moaning and crying out. A lone, hooded figure, his hands were bound behind his back. Marines stepped between the angry soldiers and the hooded captive. I stepped in front of a jundi, his eyes red with a wild crying anger, and he leaned his head back and let out a moan, his mouth open and teeth bared as he brought his fists down and punched his thighs. One man with tears running down his face kept trying to kick at the captive, and the shouting grew louder, jundis yelling at Marines in high-pitched Arabic. Fingers pointed and the tension rose as men shoved, all of us sweating, hungry, exhausted, and armed.

The captive was brought to his feet by a Marine. An enraged Iraqi swung his arm and squarely punched the captive, causing him to fall back to the floor. I heard yelling in an adjacent room, and I realized that a similar fight was taking place there. Joel Poudrier ran into the room then, and he stood beside me as we both motioned to the Iraqis: "Calm down. Calm down." More Marines came running down the hallway, rifles in their hands. I tried to stay aware of the whole room-the Iraqis, their wild eyes, their weapons. If just one man does If just one man does one really stupid thing, this is going to get very bad, very fast. one really stupid thing, this is going to get very bad, very fast. I had my pistol strapped to my thigh. I had my pistol strapped to my thigh.

At six foot two, Colonel Ali dwarfed every other Iraqi in the unit as he walked in. He had tightly cropped black hair and a black mustache. Rumor had it that under Saddam Hussein, Colonel Ali was part of the Iraqi Special Operations unit that invaded Kuwait in the first Gulf War. Once our enemy, now-we hoped-our friend.

He held an AK-47 in his left hand and yelled loudly in Arabic, and then he yelled again, and the room quieted but for the Iraqi with tears on his face who'd punched the prisoner. Then we learned the reason. The crying soldier's friend had just been blown up and killed in the bomb blast that morning. The two captives had been responsible for setting off the explosion. The crying soldier shouted again at the captives. As Colonel Ali walked up to him, he stumbled back several steps and Ali backed him into the wall. Colonel Ali shouted at the soldier. The man yelled back at Colonel Ali and with a powerful twist of his shoulders, Ali turned and hit the soldier in the sternum with the barrel of his Kalashnikov. Finally, the room was quiet.

Two of our medics seated the prisoners and examined them for injuries, and I learned what happened. The other patrol had traced the trail of the detonation cord from the IED to a shack near the road. Seeing soldiers approach, two men ran out of the shack. The Iraqi soldiers gave chase and grabbed them. The men pleaded that they hadn't done anything. The Iraqi soldiers felt otherwise. Even if these men hadn't triggered the IED, they had watched the Iraqi patrol walk up to the bomb and they had given no warning.

The Marines had impressed me with their discipline, their calm, their willingness to put themselves between angry soldiers and captured insurgents. The system for dealing with prisoners, however, caused anger among both Americans and Iraqis. The way that we dealt with detainees was possibly the least impressive aspect of the U.S. engagement in Iraq.

No single U.S. government department seemed to have jurisdiction over the issue of creating a functional judicial system in Iraq. The military captured, the Justice Department advised, the State Department liaised, the Iraqis floundered, and the chaos was splayed out on the ground for all to see in a rotating system of in-and-out detention for Iraqi insurgents that seemed almost comically designed to help them become radicalized in prison without doing very much to thwart the insurgency.

No matter how firm our suspicions were, we could only hold captives for a few weeks. The most hardened al Qaeda veterans knew this and could usually outlast all the tactics of our junior interrogators. If the al Qaeda captives could stay quiet long enough, they knew they would be released soon enough. As a result, men with little intelligence value-those who placed roadside bombs for cash-would confess, while senior al Qaeda leaders would say nothing and be released. Many times we were forced to release men who we strongly suspected were al Qaeda insurgents, only to be told months later, as we were handed a picture of an insurgent in the orange jumpsuit he wore after the last time we detained him, "We need to capture this guy."

The problem was compounded by a shortage of prison s.p.a.ce and interrogators. If Marine teams captured seven suspected insurgents on any given day, we might be able to hold and interrogate five. If we captured thirty, we still might only be able to hold five.

The situation was made worse by the lack of honor and failure of discipline that had been on display at Abu Ghraib. After Abu Ghraib, the military made a strict effort to avoid another incident, and decision-making power was taken away from on-the-ground commanders. If, for example, a commander thought that it would be best to hold a particular captive for an extra week past his normal stay, the commander needed approval from Washington. It was hard to obtain. I wasn't an expert, but it seemed to me that the process for asking for extensions had become so difficult that commanders rarely asked.

The most knowledgeable person I met in Iraq on the issue of Iraqi prisoners was a Marine lance corporal who worked with the Iraqi police in Fallujah. We talked for half a day as he described to me the personalities of the Fallujah police officials, their methods of operation, their flaws, failures, frustrations. He explained that the Iraqi police had their own prison system, separate from the American military system, and when I asked him where the police in Fallujah kept their prisoners, he said, "Want to see?"

"Sure."

We walked across the compound with a skittish, overweight translator-"We should run, maybe mortars coming"-and we stepped through a door that led down a flight of steps. I caught the heavy scent of body odor, sweat, urine, fear. Humans in captivity.

At the bottom of the narrow, concrete stairs, an Iraqi guard leaned back in a chair, his forehead pressed with greasy hair, his police cap pushed back on his head. An AK-47 rested across his thighs. We turned right into a narrow hallway where two more Iraqi police sat on guard.

The lance corporal asked-via his interpreter-if we could have a look in the holding cell, and one of the Iraqis stood and walked to the iron door. He grabbed a k.n.o.b attached to a slot that was set at eye level and he pulled it open.

I stepped forward and felt a wash of hot, heavy air escaping from the cell, and I caught the stench of captive human beings in my nostrils. I looked through the slit and dozens of pairs of swaying, staring eyes looked back at me.

The men all seemed to be standing. Were they too packed in to sit? Were they too packed in to sit? Their eyes caught mine. They were captive. I was free. They might be standing there all night and all the next day, and the next night after that. Their eyes caught mine. They were captive. I was free. They might be standing there all night and all the next day, and the next night after that.

The guard pulled the slot shut. I turned around.

Those dozens of men were packed in a holding cell like animals- Where do they p.i.s.s? How much water are they given? Where do they p.i.s.s? How much water are they given? The Iraqi police operated completely outside U.S. jurisdiction or influence. The Iraqi police operated completely outside U.S. jurisdiction or influence. Were the prisoners tortured? Left to rot? Were the prisoners tortured? Left to rot?

Our chain of command knew about the prison, but the Iraqi police were independent of us. I knew how many innocent people we picked up on our patrols, and I imagined that it had to be the same for the Iraqis.

We often think of wartime "collateral damage" as innocents who end up dead or wounded. Some of the men in those cells were terrorists, yet I knew that at least a few of those eyes staring back at me were bound to be those of innocent men.

Americans could argue that we were "independent" of the Iraqi police, but we were fighting right alongside them. We were there. I was there. "What can we possibly do?" was the same response that every human being has given as they shrugged and turned their backs on suffering.

The world, I believe, is not constructed so that it presents us with perfect choices. I'd joined the military, in part, because I saw that to protect the innocent, we have to be willing to fight. It is also true, however, that for all the warrior's discipline, when we pick up the sword, innocents will suffer.

Suffering is a theme in Greek literature and philosophy, and in the Western world's first war story, The Iliad, The Iliad, Homer portrays the injuries that war does to the innocent. After Andromache-the wife of Hector, prince of Troy-loses her entire family, she begs her husband to withdraw from battle, saying, "You, Hector-you are my father now, my n.o.ble mother, a brother too, and you are my husband, young and warm and strong!" Homer portrays the injuries that war does to the innocent. After Andromache-the wife of Hector, prince of Troy-loses her entire family, she begs her husband to withdraw from battle, saying, "You, Hector-you are my father now, my n.o.ble mother, a brother too, and you are my husband, young and warm and strong!"2 Yet Hector returns to battle. He dies, and when Troy falls Andromache is made a slave and her infant son thrown from the walls of the city. Throughout my life, I turned back to the Greeks, because their ideas, even when presented in a dramatic play or formal verse, seemed to be grounded in reality. Yet Hector returns to battle. He dies, and when Troy falls Andromache is made a slave and her infant son thrown from the walls of the city. Throughout my life, I turned back to the Greeks, because their ideas, even when presented in a dramatic play or formal verse, seemed to be grounded in reality.

The Greeks often talked about phronesis, phronesis, practical wisdom. It's a concept that has no direct equivalent in English. We sometimes talk of "knowledge" or "common sense," but practical wisdom. It's a concept that has no direct equivalent in English. We sometimes talk of "knowledge" or "common sense," but phronesis phronesis implies something more. implies something more. Phronesis Phronesis is the ability to figure out what to do, while at the same time knowing what is worth doing. is the ability to figure out what to do, while at the same time knowing what is worth doing.

Phronesis allows soldiers to fight well and leaders to rule well, and, as Aristotle argued, it can only be obtained through experience. My own experiences in Rwanda, in Iraq, and elsewhere had not made me a militarist or a pacifist, or any kind of "ist." I knew that the world would continue to require us to make hard decisions about when we draw the sword and I'd seen that the use of force was both necessary and imperfect. There is no school of thought that can save us from the simple fact that hard decisions are best made by good people, and that the best people can only be shaped by hard experience. allows soldiers to fight well and leaders to rule well, and, as Aristotle argued, it can only be obtained through experience. My own experiences in Rwanda, in Iraq, and elsewhere had not made me a militarist or a pacifist, or any kind of "ist." I knew that the world would continue to require us to make hard decisions about when we draw the sword and I'd seen that the use of force was both necessary and imperfect. There is no school of thought that can save us from the simple fact that hard decisions are best made by good people, and that the best people can only be shaped by hard experience.

After the patrol, men washed their faces, cleaned their rifles, and threw frozen pizza pockets in the microwave. We debriefed and then joined our Iraqi counterparts sitting at a long table for a late lunch of cuc.u.mbers, tomatoes, salt, beans, and lamb soup.

The language barrier and utter exhaustion led to stilted conversation. But there is still something deeply human about breaking bread together, and as we stood from lunch any damage from the afternoon's fight seemed to have been repaired.

As the night wound down, we gathered around a small TV to watch what was then the newest James Bond film. Exhausted, we gradually morphed into silliness, joking about all of the high-speed "secret agent" gear we needed to win the war in Fallujah. The jokes-"Hey, Joel, I thought you were supposed to get those devices for your Humvee?"-weren't funny, but still we laughed.

When the film ended, we stood in a post-movie stupor and walked to our bunks. I lay down with some comfort, knowing that this was going to be my last night in the city of Fallujah. I had no idea that at that moment an Iraqi man was planning his own suicide, and that he'd be coming to find us before we woke.

Epilogue: The Mission Continues I COULD HEAR COULD HEAR the whomp of the Chinook helicopter's blades before I saw its gray outline against the black sky. I stood thirty yards from the airstrip with my bags at my feet, and despite the plugs in my ears, the high-pitched whine of the twin engines was deafening as the helo set down and kicked up a swirling storm of dust. I shook my buddy's hand, picked up my two stuffed duffel bags, and jogged toward the bird. the whomp of the Chinook helicopter's blades before I saw its gray outline against the black sky. I stood thirty yards from the airstrip with my bags at my feet, and despite the plugs in my ears, the high-pitched whine of the twin engines was deafening as the helo set down and kicked up a swirling storm of dust. I shook my buddy's hand, picked up my two stuffed duffel bags, and jogged toward the bird.

For me, the whomp and dust of a helicopter always suggested the promise of something about to happen, and I felt a familiar buzz of adrenaline as I stepped up the ramp and into the helo. I carabineered my bags to the deck of the aircraft and stepped past Iraqi prisoners sitting blindfolded, their hands zip-tied behind their backs. I wondered what was going through their minds. They had been captured, yanked from their homes, only a few hours before, and now they were on a helicopter for the first time in their lives surrounded by unfamiliar smells and sounds, with no idea where they were headed.

This helicopter was devoted exclusively to our task force, and along the sides of the aircraft sat special operations personnel wearing beards and nontraditional uniforms, their weapons resting lightly in their hands. Beside them sat civilian contractors, one of them wearing new, ill-fitting body armor that rode high on his heavy stomach.

The bird made a number of stops in the black of night, and at each stop the crew chief held up a sign that said RAMADI RAMADI or or BAGHDAD BAGHDAD or the name of some other base, to let everyone know where we had touched down. Commandos walked off, others stepped on, the helo's blades still spinning. As we took off from Baghdad and headed for Balad, I thought, or the name of some other base, to let everyone know where we had touched down. Commandos walked off, others stepped on, the helo's blades still spinning. As we took off from Baghdad and headed for Balad, I thought, This is the last leg of my last trip of my last day in Iraq. This is the last leg of my last trip of my last day in Iraq. In Balad I was scheduled to board a plane for home. I sat on the port side of the helo, and as we flew I looked past the gunner out the window onto a black night. I let my mind drift. I was going to be met in Virginia by a beautiful girl, devilishly smart, warm, with an eyes-over-the-shoulder smile that always made my world brighter. I was thinking about walking with her down the beach. In Balad I was scheduled to board a plane for home. I sat on the port side of the helo, and as we flew I looked past the gunner out the window onto a black night. I let my mind drift. I was going to be met in Virginia by a beautiful girl, devilishly smart, warm, with an eyes-over-the-shoulder smile that always made my world brighter. I was thinking about walking with her down the beach.

Bright red tracer rounds flew past us into the sky. I expected some reaction from the crew-a hard banking maneuver, some return fire from the door gunner, but we flew straight ahead, tracers still ripping into the sky. Why aren't we evading? Why aren't we evading? Over the past few months, six helicopters had been shot down over Iraq. My mind worked to come up with some explanation. Over the past few months, six helicopters had been shot down over Iraq. My mind worked to come up with some explanation. Maybe those are our tracers? But they're too close. Maybe those are our tracers? But they're too close. The tracers kept whizzing by, our pilot flying the same line. The tracers kept whizzing by, our pilot flying the same line.

I thought, Not now, on the last leg of my last ride on my last day of this deployment. Not now, on the last leg of my last ride on my last day of this deployment. Then the helicopter banked hard to port. A few more tracers flew past and then finally the door gunner racked his weapon and pulled the trigger and bullets barked out at the ground below. Then the helicopter banked hard to port. A few more tracers flew past and then finally the door gunner racked his weapon and pulled the trigger and bullets barked out at the ground below.

When we landed safely in Balad I knew that, barring anything bizarre-being hit by a wild mortar round, choking to death on a turkey leg in the chow hall-I'd get home safely, and when I made it to my rack on base I dropped my duffel bags and took off my body armor. I unb.u.t.toned the left chest pocket of my desert camouflage top and took out a St. Christopher medal given to me by a Catholic friend, a Buddhist prayer scroll from a Buddhist friend, an angel coin from a Protestant friend, a hamsa from a Jewish friend, and a coin imprinted with a Hindu deity from a Hindu friend. Before the deployment I had figured that it would be a bad move to turn down any prayers that were offered. I'm not sure which one did the trick, so I said simply, "Thank you, G.o.d," as I stepped out of my uniform.

When I made it home I called Joel Poudrier, whose head injury in Fallujah had led to his evacuation all the way to Virginia. I hadn't seen him since the morning of the truck bomb. When I got him on the phone, Joel said, "They put a ridiculous number of staples in my head, and the Marines are making me go to a psychologist to see if I'm crazy. Problem is, I was nuts before the explosion, so he's got no way to tell if I've changed." Joel told me that his golf game was coming back and that his family was happy to have him home. We made a plan to get together.

Three weeks later, still getting used to the routine of home, I was stepping out of my truck when my cell phone rang.

"Hey Eric, it's Joel."

"Hey man, how's it going?"

"I got some bad news."

"Yeah?"

"Travis Manion was killed yesterday in Fallujah."

I stood on the street. A red-and-white taxi slowed at a stop sign and then accelerated away.

Joel said, "I heard this morning..."

I thought of the last time I'd seen Travis. The day of the suicide truck bomb, Travis had run straight across the compound-rifle in hand and Marines behind him-to aid us. He was the first man to join me on the roof.

When the casevac convoy arrived to take the injured to Fallujah Surgical, I said to Travis, "You got it?"

"Yeah, I got your back, sir."

"Take care of your people" is one of the princ.i.p.al lessons of military leadership, and my people were not just SEALs, or SWCC, or the men in my targeting cell. Serving overseas, everyone in uniform is part of the same team. Everyone is away from their family. Everyone is exposed to danger. Everyone endures the same long, hot days, hears the same bad jokes, reads the same old magazines. Everyone loses friends. If we take care of our people on deployment, why should that change when we come home?

After Joel and I met with the Manion family, I made arrangements to visit the wounded at Bethesda Naval Hospital. As I pulled into the hospital, I thought, There is only one reason I'm not a patient here: luck. There is only one reason I'm not a patient here: luck. If one RPG had been better aimed at our Humvee, if the suicide truck bomb had detonated two feet closer, if the shots at the helo had hit their mark, I could have been lying in one of those beds. If one RPG had been better aimed at our Humvee, if the suicide truck bomb had detonated two feet closer, if the shots at the helo had hit their mark, I could have been lying in one of those beds.

As I pushed open the heavy brown door to one of the hospital rooms, a young soldier lying in bed caught me with his eyes and followed me as I walked into the room. Gauze bandages were wrapped around his neck. He'd taken a bullet through the throat.

"How you doin'?" I asked, and he wrote on a yellow legal pad, "Fine, was actually having fun over there before this."

His young wife sat next to him with red-ringed eyes, her hand on his shoulder. Most of the Army's wounded were at Walter Reed, but this soldier-for some reason having to do with his care-had been brought to Bethesda. I joked that he was in enemy territory at a Navy hospital, and he wrote, "Navy actually OK, some of them," and he smiled. We communicated a bit more, and as I walked out of his room, I was thinking, What's this guy going to do next? What's this guy going to do next?

I walked into another room where a Marine had lost part of his right lung and the use of his right hand. With his good hand, he took mine and shook firmly. His mother sat hunched at his side, and it seemed to me that she'd been there for a very long time, trapped in worry and confusion and heartache. I guessed that the Marine was nineteen, maybe twenty years old. He reminded me of many of the men I had served with. I could picture him cleaning his weapon on a sweltering morning in Southeast Asia, turning a k.n.o.b to check his radio frequency before a mission in Kenya, or strapping on his body armor before a night patrol in Iraq.