Generation Kill - Evan Wright [121]
Encino Man is baffled, but he hands his radio handsets over. Shoup later says, “I think taking the handsets from him was the most useful thing I did that night.”
Encino Man admits, “It turned out good. I went out to help manually pick up the trailer.”
With Shoup effectively in command, Encino Man’s brawn as a former college football star is put to good use. He and other Marines heave the stuck trailer wheel onto metal slats and pull it out of the hole, clearing the bridge at sunrise.
BY THE TIME BRAVO pulls its teams out of Al Muwaffaqiyah and regroups on the other side of the bridge, a small mob of officers and senior enlisted men are gathered by the eucalyptus trees where we were ambushed. There are five bodies of enemy fighters scattered under them, along with piles of munitions, RPGs, AKs and hand grenades. One corpse still holds a weapon in its hand, a Russian stick grenade, with the end shot off.
Several officers mill about, talking excitedly and snapping souvenir pictures of the dead. No one has bothered to search the area or examine the corpses in any methodical manner. Captain America is yelling at the top of his lungs, picking up AKs and hurling them into the canal.
Fick walks up, sees the pandemonium and says to Encino Man, “What the fuck are these people doing taking pictures when there’re guns on these guys, and none of them have been searched?”
No one pays him any heed. They’re distracted when Maj. Eckloff, the battalion XO, makes a curious discovery. He leans down and picks up the hand of one of the dead fighters. Between his thumb and index finger there are words tattooed in English: I LOVE YOU. Eckloff reads it aloud for the benefit of the other Marines nearby. The tattoo is in keeping with the anomalous attire of the fallen fighters. They’re dressed in pleated slacks, loafers and leather jackets, and wear cheap but stylish watches. Eckloff says, “These guys look like foreign university students in New York.”
Kocher arrives by the trees and notices one of the “dead” men peeling his head off the ground, looking around at the Americans.
“This guy’s still alive,” Kocher says. Like Fick, he can’t believe that the area still hasn’t been searched. The wounded fighter is lying within arm’s reach of seven RPG rounds. Kocher trains his rifle on him.
Captain America runs up shouting, “Shoot him!”
Kocher ignores him as usual.
Someone else calls for a corpsman. One arrives, along with Lt. Col. Ferrando.
“Can you help this man?” Ferrando asks.
Initially, the corpsman says no. He’s worried about booby traps.
Kocher volunteers to search him. As he pats him down for hidden weapons, the man shrieks. He’s shot in the right arm and has a two-inch chunk of his right leg missing, the bone blown out by a .50-cal round. He carries a Syrian passport that bears the name Ahmed Shahada. He’s twenty-six years old, and his address in Iraq is listed as the Palestine Hotel in Baghdad, which is by local standards one of the better hotels, catering to foreign journalists and European aid workers. He’s carrying 500 Syrian pounds, a packet of prescription painkillers in his shirt pocket and an entry visa to Iraq dated March 23. He arrived barely more than a week ago. Handwritten in the section of his visa that asks the purpose of his visit to Iraq is one word: “Jihad.”
When the corpsman begins treating the wounded Syrian, Captain America stalks over, enraged. “The guy’s a terrorist!” he shouts. He leans down, rips the wristwatch from him and stomps it under his boot. “Goddamn terrorist,” he shouts. Then he notices the 500 pounds in Syrian notes sticking out of the wounded man’s pocket. Earlier, Kocher had found the bills when searching him and had returned them to his pocket. Captain America grabs the money—worth about $9.55 U.S.—offers a few notes to the corpsman, who declines them,