Generation Kill - Evan Wright [63]
Colbert’s vehicle creeps forward, hugging the edge of a dry canal. Here the canal is about seven meters deep and an equal distance across. The Humvee is squeezed between a two-meter-high berm on the left and the canal on the right. We’re on a donkey path, on the verge of slipping into the canal. We find out from the battalion radio that RCT-1, moving several kilometers west of here on the highway, is in contact with suspected Republican Guard units.
We round a bend. A village directly across from us on the other side of the dry canal looks like something out of a Sergio Leone Western. Tumbleweed blows past crude adobe huts. One of them has a peaked roof and arches in the entrance, making it resemble a small Spanish church. Villagers stream south (against the direction in which we are moving) on the opposite side of the canal. There are dozens of them—women carrying bundles on their heads, children and old ladies pulling handcarts loaded with household goods. Whereas an hour earlier villagers had been waving and smiling, the demeanor of these people is radically different. Most avoid eye contact with us. Some on the other side of the canal break into a run when they see us approach. Watching them go, Colbert concludes, “These people are fleeing.”
On our side of the canal, an Iraqi man walks briskly past Bravo Company’s first sergeant and gives him the thumbs-down, indicating trouble ahead. Then a villager tells a Marine translator that they are fleeing because enemy forces are preparing for an attack in the town north of here.
Inside Colbert’s vehicle we hear the news of a possible attack over the radio while watching the continued exodus of villagers. Black clouds roll overhead. Lightning flashes. The winds are so strong now, the palm fronds on the surrounding trees have flipped backward. We’re riding directly into the wind. Colbert shakes his head, laughing. “Could it look any worse than this? Every sign is telling us something bad is going to happen.”
Moments later, gunfire erupts ahead. The five Humvees from Bravo’s Third Platoon are directly in front of us, squeezed onto the donkey trail in a single-file column. The weird Spanish-looking village remains beside us across the canal on our right. To the left over a berm, there’s a small cluster of two-story adobe huts, with palm trees growing between them. Unseen people inside this mini-hamlet seem to be shooting at Third Platoon.
We stop. More rifle shots crackle.
“There’s incoming rounds to our rear,” Person says, sounding almost bored as he passes on a report from the radio.
“Damn it,” says Colbert. “I have to take a shit.”
Instead, Colbert picks up a 40mm grenade, kisses the nose of it and slides it into the 203 launcher on his rifle. He opens the door and climbs up the embankment on the left to observe the homes on the other side. He signals for all the Marines to come out of the vehicle and join him. Marines from other vehicles fire into the hamlet with rifles, machine guns and Mark-19s. There are about forty-five seconds of popping and booming, then it stops.
“They say we’re taking fire from those huts,” Colbert says, eyeing the hamlet through binoculars. “I see no targets.”
“There’s people poking their heads out behind a palm tree!” another Marine on the berm shouts.
Trombley lies next to Colbert with his SAW poised to fire. “Should I light ’em up?” he asks Colbert.
“No, not yet, Trombley. Those are civilians.”
ALPHA AND CHARLIE COMPANIES are currently about two kilometers ahead of us on the same trail on the outskirts of the