Generation Kill - Evan Wright [155]
The convoy stops by a loading dock next to a warehouse untouched by bombs, the battalion’s first camp in Baghdad. Nicotine-addict Marines immediately loot the nearby structure. Inside, cases of Iraq’s “Sumer” 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. “Do you realize how fucking weird this is?” he says. “When we set up in Mogadishu, we spent our first night in a cigarette factory. I hope this turns out better.”
There’s a ten-story glass-and-steel office tower on the west side of the complex, perhaps 500 meters from the warehouse where we’ve 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, they’re killing Iraqis at a rate of about one every five to ten minutes. We on the ground below them have no idea who they’re 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. “Marines have been here for more than twenty-four hours,” he says. “They’re set up on the other side of this warehouse. They’ve had one killed and one wounded from sniper or mortar fire.” He then adds, “Compared to where we’ve been, I think it’s pretty safe here. We should all get a good rest tonight.”
A few minutes after his pronouncement, 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 can’t see anything. We just hear a torrent of shots.
Fick walks up to me and smiles, deeply amused by the crescendo of gunfire. “I was wrong about that good night’s rest,” he says. Moments later, a random bullet falls from the sky and skips onto the concrete, sparking behind Fick’s back. He laughs. “This is definitely not good.”
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. “Not good at all,” Fick says.
But to the men, racking out on pavement—no holes to dig here—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, it’s the first time they’ve 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 Colbert’s, 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. Espera’s wife was a sophomore 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 Espera’s life since has been an effort to better himself in order to meet her high standards. “You see, dog,” he explains, “my wife is smart, but she fucked up big-time when she married me. I was a piece of shit. I remember my wife talking about all the books she’d read, and it hit me there was a whole world I’d missed. Before I met her I used to think, I’ve got a shitload of hand skills—welding, pipefitting—any pussy can read a book. See, I didn’t grow up with no understanding. My mom tried, but my dad is a psycho ex-Marine Vietnam vet.”
Espera uses the term “psycho ex-Marine Vietnam vet” with the utmost respect. He aspires