Generation Kill - Evan Wright [57]
In this war Marine intelligence analysts will later estimate that their advance into Nasiriyah was stopped by between 3,000 and 5,000 Saddam loyalists. Despite America’s dazzling high-tech capabilities—the Marines move through Nasiriyah by blasting it to hell.
As a reporter watching this bombardment from Colbert’s Humvee, knowing we will be rolling through Nasiriyah soon, I feel relief every time I see another round burning through the sky. Each one, I imagine, ups the odds of surviving.
AT THREE IN THE MORNING, Gunny Wynn pokes his head in Colbert’s window. We were supposed to move a couple of hours ago. But things are always delayed. “We’re going at dawn,” he says.
“That’s fucking asinine,” Colbert says. “Moving under cover of darkness is our primary advantage.”
Gunny Wynn attempts to reassure him. “One thing we saw in Somalia was no matter how hard the fighting, gunmen usually sleep between four and eight. They just conk out, like clockwork. So we should be okay.”
Colbert spends his final sleepless moments in the darkness, fantasizing about all the custom gear he should have brought for his Humvee—extra power inverters to charge the batteries of his thermal nightscope, a better shortwave radio to tune in the BBC, a CD player.
“We could hook up speakers and play music to fuck with the Iraqis,” Person says.
“We could drive through Nasiriyah playing Metallica,” Trombley adds.
“Fuck that,” Person says. “We’d play GG Allin.
“Who the fuck is GG Allin?” Colbert asks.
“Like, this original punk-rock dude,” Person says. “He believes murder should be legalized. You should be able to kill people you hate. He’s fucking cool.”
No one points out that this concept already seems to be the prevailing one in greater Nasiriyah.
ELEVEN
°
ON THE MORNING of March 25, the men in First Recon, most of whom have been up all night in anticipation of entering the hostile city, are finally told to start their engines. Colbert’s Humvee rolls toward the bridge at about six-thirty in the morning. The smoke has cleared, but it’s an overcast day. Just before the causeway onto the bridge, we pass Marines in gas masks standing by the side of the road. They gesture for us to don our masks, indicating there’s a gas attack.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Colbert says. He points out the window. “There’s birds flying. Fuck it. We’re not putting on our masks.”
We drive onto the bridge. The guardrails on either side are bent and tattered. There are piles of empty brass shell casings and discarded steel ammo boxes on both sides. But aside from these signs of combat, it just looks like your average concrete bridge. I’m amazed that with all the gunfire—especially mortars and artillery—it wasn’t hit. The Euphrates below is a flat ribbon of gray.
On the other side we pass several blown-up Amtracs. Marine rucksacks are scattered on the road, with clothes, bedrolls, and bloody scraps of battle dressing. Nearby are puddles of fluorescent pink engine coolant from destroyed vehicles.
The city ahead is about six kilometers across, a sprawling metropolis of mud brick and cinder block. Smoke curls from collapsed structures. Homes facing the road are pockmarked and cratered. Cobras fly overhead, spitting machine-gun fire into buildings on both sides of us. We see no civilians, just dogs roaming the ruins.
Nobody talks in Colbert’s vehicle. Reports fly over the radio that other vehicles in First Recon’s convoy are coming under fire. Then we halt on the northern end of Nasiriyah. We are surrounded by shattered gray buildings, set back about fifty meters on either side of the road. The things you look at are the thousands of gaps everywhere—windows, alleys, doorways, parapets on the roofs—to see if there are any muzzle flashes. You seldom see the guys actually doing the shooting. They hide behind walls, sticking the gun barrels over the edges to fire. All you see is a little flame spouting from the shadows. Colbert leans into his rifle scope, scanning