Sunrise Over Fallujah

by Walter Dean Myers

  It wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

  I also lost thirty dollars.

  Captain Coles was down because his wife had written and said that his three-year-old had been hospitalized.

  “How’s she doing?” I asked.

  “They don’t know,” he said. “You got a bunch of doctors in a university hospital and they don’t know what’s wrong with her. All they know is that she’s having a reaction from the vaccination she had to have so she wouldn’t get sick.”

  I tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t. It didn’t seem fair, in a way, that everything back in the real world was still going on while we were in Iraq. Coles was worried about his kids, and wishing he could be there for them. I remembered Pendleton showing pictures of his daughters around. I hadn’t looked at them when he did. The next time he brought them out I would.

  We turned on the television and watched cartoons for the rest of the afternoon. After about three hours of watching we decided to map out a plan for Wile E. Coyote to finally trap the Road Runner.

  “We need a trap that’s activated by the beep-beep!” Marla said.

  Rooney, one of the construction guys, said that one could be built. All they needed was the specs. Marla, two of the construction guys, Toby Corbin, and somebody they got on the phone from Countermeasures drew up the specs to send to the Acme Corporation. They were going to send for a Burmese tiger trap, a Burmese tiger, a Road Runner costume and makeup kit, and a beep-beep audio trigger.

  “So Wile E. Coyote can dress the tiger up in the Road Runner costume and make it look like a foxy Road Runner. Then he puts him in the tiger trap,” Marla said. “When the Road Runner comes along and sees her, he goes into the trap and says beep-beep and the trap closes and the Road Runner is in the cage with the tiger, who then eats him.”

  It was a perfect plan and we spent over an hour in figuring out how the Road Runner was going to get away.

  Then we watched a show in which some woman was trying to figure out who the father of her baby was and we took bets if the guy she named was the father or not. I won three dollars by being the only one who didn’t think the dude was the baby’s father.

  I went to the sleeping area and had just pulled off my boots when Jonesy came in.

  “We’re going out again,” he said.

  “Where to?” I asked.

  “North on Highway 4,” Jonesy said.

  “Crap!” Highway 4 ran through some of the worst territory for ambushes in Iraq. The 2nd Infantry had spent days fighting house to house clearing terrorists from the small towns in the area. But as soon as they left, the terrorists would move back in.

  “It’s supposed to be safe now,” Jonesy said. “And the Iraqis are taking the area over. We’re going up there to give them a big hand, or hand over the keys, or something.”

  I got my boots back on, grabbed my gear, and went out to where the guys were already in a kind of huddle. They had all been bored twenty minutes before, but nobody wanted to leave the Zone.

  “What are we going to be doing?” Marla asked.

  “Showing support for the Iraqi police,” Coles said.

  “You can’t get us out of any of this crap?” Marla looked disgusted.

  “Kennedy, do you know what insubordination is?” Coles asked.

  “Yeah, that’s when you mouth off and they put you in some safe stockade so you don’t get killed,” Marla said.

  “The Iraqi police trainees are taking over security for that water project near Ba’qubah,” Captain Coles said. “We’re going to escort them and show our pretty faces for a camera op.”

  “I thought that water project was civilian?” I said.

  “It is, but we want to show that the Iraqis are taking over their own country and running as many operations as possible,” Captain Coles said as he checked his ammo pouches. “We’re doing the official show today and they’re actually going to take it over next week.”

  “How come the 3rd ID doesn’t make a presence?” Jonesy asked.

  We were all glad to see the Iraqis take over security and anything else they wanted to take over. The more Iraqis on the line, the less chance we had of getting hurt or killed. The 3rd ID guys were training the Iraqis and said that most of them weren’t interested in what they were doing: “They need the jobs, though.”

  That was good enough for me.

  We mounted up with all three squads and two ugly-butt Stryker vehicles that were around to be up-armored. The Strykers looked like toy tanks that had grown too fast; they had conventional tires instead of tracks. They could carry a whole infantry squad into battle, but the guys had to come out the back when they let the ramp down. I wouldn’t want to be cramped into that dark tin can interior and then have to come out into the daylight looking around to see who’s trying to kill me. Word was the Strykers could be knocked out with an RPG or a single grenade into the tire well. The army had put a steel grid on the front and sides of most of them. The theory was that if they got hit by an RPG, the rocket would go off before it actually hit the body of the vehicle. The Iraqis saw that and started shooting two RPGs at the same time. The first would blow away the steel cage and the second would microwave the guys inside the Stryker. We were supposed to convoy up to Ba’qubah escorting a bus-load of Iraqi policemen and a bus of PR guys. There would be a ceremony, and then we would all come back to the Green Zone, except for the Iraqis, who would go back to their training barracks.

  We found out that there were only two guys in each of the two Stryker vehicles. A driver and the Vehicle Commander. It was all show-and-tell. We had our three Humvees and the Iraqi trainees were in a bus.

  “Probably air-conditioned,” Marla said.

  “You can ride with them if you want,” Captain Coles said.

  One of the Strykers led the convoy and the other one was on the tail end. Harris took his Humvee into the two slot. Third Squad was next, then the two buses, then us and the other Stryker. We got held up while they tried to round up some more news guys for the PR bus.

  With the buses it took forty minutes, with all of us sweating and grumbling, to get to the place they were going to have the ceremony. I had got a infection of some kind between my legs; it felt like jock itch, and the bouncing around in the Humvee chafed it more. Technically, it was Ba’qubah, I guess, but just on the outskirts of the city. Good.

  The company that was working on extending the freshwater lines had hired private guards, a lot of ex-Special Ops guys, some good old boys from stateside police departments, and just some dudes who didn’t mind killing people. They dressed like they had all just come out of central casting: sunglasses, bandanas, beards, earrings, and scowls.

  “What they really have going for them is no ROE cards,” Captain Coles said.

  The Iraqis knew that the private guys did not have Rules of Engagement cards and didn’t care who they shot. If you weren’t wearing a standard coalition uniform you were fair game.

  The media people got out of the bus and I saw that Sessions was with them. They set up a table with a white tablecloth and laid out some food. Then they had the Iraqi trainees line up outside of the bus, do a little marching around, and get their pictures taken. It was cool for our guys to put down the Iraqi soldiers, but I liked them. Better than that, their taking over the operations made a lot of sense to me.

  We hung for an hour while the Iraqis ran through some drills for the cameras. I could tell that the official press guys weren’t that interested, but they took lots of photographs, anyway.

  “Stock footage,” one of the cameramen said. “They have huge vaults of this kind of stuff in case they need it as background for a real story.”

  “Are you saying this isn’t a real war?” Captain Coles asked.

  “Not this part of it,” the cameraman said. “This is about as real as Little Red Riding Hood.”

  I saw Harris running his mouth with the 3rd ID guys and reminded myself that I didn’t like him. He had even come over to Jonesy and made s
ome crack about how lame the Iraqi trainees looked. Jonesy had ignored his remarks. I could tell Jonesy was tense when Harris was talking to him.

  Captain Coles went to the PR bus and copped some sandwiches and brought them back. Sessions checked to see if we could split and got the okay.

  We mounted up to go back to the Zone and I could see that there was some beer being passed around in the PR bus. Coles must have seen it, too.

  “It’s probably warm,” he said.

  The mood lightened and we started singing “Survivor.” We had left Yossarian back at the base because we were afraid of running into brass but we sang his theme song, anyway. We were making good time, looping northwest to take a different route, when Marla announced a roadblock a quarter of a mile ahead of us.

  “Looks like a bus broken down at the intersection,” she said.

  “Don’t bunch up,” Captain Coles said, trying to look out of the side window.

  Jonesy had already stopped and had moved the Humvee to the right. The Stryker behind us stopped and the driver popped out and ran up to us.

  “You guys got any cigarettes?” The kid didn’t look old enough to smoke.

  “Nobody in this squad smokes,” Marla said. “Check out the film crews.”

  We looked down the line and saw the Iraqis getting out of their bus and waiting by the side of the road. Marla said they were probably waiting for the film crew to set up before they pushed the bus off the road. Sure enough, a moment later some guys from the PR bus got off; one carried what looked like a camera.

  Ahead of us Darcy was climbing out of the turret and I watched her go off toward the side of the road. When she unrolled her poncho and started wrapping it around her waist I had to laugh. She was going to take a leak.

  “Yo, Jonesy, check out what Darcy’s doing!”

  I had my head turned when the bus exploded. The impact went through my body and slammed me against the back of the Humvee. My rifle was between my legs, the butt on the floor; by the time I got it up and pointed out of the window, the second explosion went off.

  “Daisy chain!” Jonesy threw the Humvee into reverse and started backing up toward the Stryker.

  The guys in the Stryker didn’t know what was happening. They figured it out when Jonesy screeched by them.

  “Look for bandits! Look for bandits!” Coles was yelling.

  “Darcy, get in!” Marla was screaming even though Darcy was way too far away to hear her.

  I saw Darcy dive through the side window as Third Squad’s Humvee started backing toward us.

  Ta-ta-chow! Ta-ta-chow! Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-chow!

  The harsh chatter of the M-240 filled the cab of the Humvee and damned near sent me into a panic.

  “Where? Where?” Jonesy searched both sides of the road.

  “I don’t know!” Marla said. “But there’s a ridge over there!”

  “Cease fire! Cease fire!” Captain Coles’s voice was calmer than ours. Then it went into panic mode as two heads came up over the ridge. “Fire! Fire!”

  Marla opened up again and the heads ducked down. Up ahead of us Darcy was back up in the Humvee, the poncho still tied around her waist. The guys from the Stryker were out and racing toward the ridge. Third Squad had the same idea and moved toward it, too. There had already been two explosions and I was hoping there wouldn’t be a third.

  The Stryker guys were spread out as they went over the ridge; I saw them stand, fire some short bursts, then lower their weapons. As quickly as it had started, the attack was over.

  “Check out the damage up ahead. Don’t get jumpy,” Coles said.

  I looked down at my finger, which was wrapped tightly around the trigger—but the safety was still on. I brought the muzzle of the 16 up and sniffed it. Crap. I hadn’t fired a shot! I was squeezing a locked trigger.

  The bus had been the main blast. The Stryker had been in a direct line and the blast had tipped it over on its side. The Stryker’s front was crushed on one side, the side that was off the ground. The driver was hurt bad.

  Two of the cameramen were slightly wounded. One had an ugly scrape on his head, more blood than depth. The other wasn’t hurt at all. Inside the PR bus they had been scattered, but no one had been hurt too badly.

  “They set off the bus and daisy-chained IEDs along the road, but most of them didn’t go off,” an Infantry officer was saying. “We were lucky.”

  Third Squad’s Humvee was off the road and Evans pulled up to them. At first I thought they had just driven off the road to guard the flank. But Evans signaled us over.

  “I’ll check it out,” I said, sliding out of the Humvee.

  “Watch yourself,” Marla said.

  The front of Third Squad’s Humvee looked fine. I looked in the cabin and saw Sergeant Love, his forehead down on the dashboard, his body shaking. Pendleton lay next to him; there was a huge wound in the side of his neck. Victor was on turret and had been hit through the windows. One hand and both of his legs were bloody. We lifted him from the top and let him down the side of the Humvee.

  “I’ve called for medevacs,” Major Sessions said. The side of her face was swollen where she had slammed into something. “How are the squads?”

  It took a while to get Pendleton’s door open. I couldn’t help myself when I started to cry. I couldn’t help myself when the door opened and we unbuckled him and let the weight of his big body fall against our chests. We got him on the ground and felt around for a pulse.

  “You never can tell,” Coles started. “You never can tell…”

  You could tell.

  Two A-10s flew overhead and circled us, looking for bad guys. The first medevac chopper came and took Victor and Jonesy, who had a piece of shrapnel cut through his chin, and the two PR guys. A 3rd ID company rolled up and deployed around us. The next medevac took a cameraman and Pendleton.

  I felt pressed by a huge weight, like every bad minute you had ever had in your life had come back and was inside your chest and just sitting there. It was like having a huge vulture eat at your stomach and being too tired to do anything about it. I couldn’t stop crying as we made our way back through the streets of Baghdad to the Green Zone.

  “Stay alert!” Coles said.

  “No.” I heard myself say the word. I wasn’t sure if it was loud enough for anyone else to hear. I didn’t want to be alert anymore. I didn’t want to be a good soldier. I just wanted to shut down this whole damn war.

  “Stay alert,” Coles said again.

  I straightened up and focused on the low rooftops, barely visible through the dust rising from the vehicles ahead. I wiped my sweaty palm on my pants leg and gripped the stock of the weapon in my lap.

  Back in the Zone, Major Sessions got us together in the officers’ tent. Her face was swollen badly. One eye was shut and she couldn’t talk clearly. Captain Miller was there, trying to get Sessions to lie down.

  “We’ll have a memorial service this Sunday,” Sessions said.

  She was crying, too. I was glad to see her tears. I wanted the whole world to feel the pain.

  We went back to the quarters and guys started asking us what had happened. We just told them that Pendleton was dead and that we would let them know the rest in the morning.

  I was lying across the bed when Marla came in.

  “I just figured it out,” she said. Her face was twitching in anger. “Somebody knew all the damned details. Somebody knew all the damned details and passed it on.”

  When we thought of it we realized that she was right. The insurgents had had time to set up the IEDs along the road, waiting for our convoy. We had taken a different road out than the one we had taken going in, but still they were waiting for us. Somebody had called them. Had given them our route.

  Later, as I lay in the darkness, I thought about Pendleton’s two little girls. How he had talked about sending them to college. I hadn’t even looked at their pictures when he was showing them around. Oh, God, why hadn’t I looked at the pictures?

  The
memorial for Pendleton was held two days after we watched a plane lift off with his remains from Baghdad Airport. Earlier that morning we had received word that Saddam’s two sons had been killed in a firefight. Reporters were running around shoving mikes into faces and getting the responses they expected. Al Jazeera was trying to spice up their stories with talk about whether the sons’ bodies should have been displayed.

  “They’re trying to play it down the middle.” Evans was sipping from a plastic cup of coffee. “I bet they’re coming off a lot different when they talking to the Arabs.”

  What was the right way to report a war? A neat list of names in a hometown newspaper? Maybe your picture in The New York Times?

  That was all that mattered. Nothing was ever settled. It was just who was dying and who was coming home.

  Darcy showed up with her plastic mug full of coffee. She sat at the end of the table and cupped it in her hands. She was still standoffish, but drawing closer.

  Coles came a bit later and told us that Jonesy was back with a puffy chin, but Victor couldn’t make it.

  “He wanted to come but they ordered him onto the plane for the hospital in Ramstein,” Coles said. “They think they can save two of his fingers. They can definitely save the thumb. That’s good.”

  That’s good. I imagined Victor on the streets back home. Would the streets be less hard because he had lost two fingers?

  The memorial was in front of the tent we were using for a chapel. We lined up in four rows. First, Second, and Third Squads were in the first row, with other CA Squads behind us. Some guys from the 3rd were there, too. Miller was crying. So was Jonesy.

  The ceremony was brief. Pendleton’s boots, M-16, and Kevlar were on the small altar. We stood for the national anthem. He asked if anybody wanted to say anything about Pendleton. No one did. No one really knew him that much. Finally Coles stepped forward and took a paper from his pocket.

  “Lord, have mercy on us as we feel the pain of loss, and the endless emptiness that marks the passing of Corporal Pendleton; and have mercy on us as we feel sorrow for ourselves, and for all the angel warriors for whom we feel kinship. Let us fear death, but let it not dwell within us. Protect us, O Lord, and be merciful unto us. Amen.”