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Casey hurried back with the news, our first clue that there had been a major change in strategy. The original game plan simply wanted the Marines to be a blocking cordon south of the city while the Army secured the place. Now it looked as if we were going to get a piece of that action. “Told you so, asshole,” I said to Casey, recalling my prediction back in Kuwait that we would get a bite of the Baghdad apple.

Casey and I and our boys were soon on the road again as the advance quartering party, and after traveling only about three kilometers, we got a taste of what the 5th Marines were facing. The battalion headquarters unit we were looking for was near the burning remnants of an M1A1 Abrams battle tank that had been ripped apart, and the crew inside killed, when a suicide bomber drove a pickup truck loaded with explosives into it. Our only job was to pick out a safe place for our own battalion to stay that night, and we weren’t there to get involved with someone else’s fight. That changed in a hurry.

Their busy command tracks were parked in a scrubby area where black smoke blossomed from a nearby burning oil pipe. I left my sniper rifle in the Humvee and was carrying only an M-16 as we walked over to the headquarters. There was a crisp burst of loud popping noises, but the officers were not bothered by it, explaining that the sound was only the creaking expansion of that burning pipe.

They told us that Iraqi paramilitaries, the fedayeen, were running around out there in the fields, wearing black pajamas and causing trouble. Black pajamas? Were they were trying to look like the Viet Cong and scare us with the shadow of Vietnam? That was a long time ago; we weren’t Vietnam vets, and some of our boys probably didn’t even know what a Viet Cong was, so old spooks could not haunt us. Did they really think they could freak us out with some Halloween getup?

There was more popping, and I asked again if someone was shooting at us. No, that was just the pipe. Then, closer, it happened again. Pop-pow! Pop-pow! Casey and I ducked at the familiar crack of 7.62 mm bullets passing overhead, and I shouted, “That’s no fucking burning pipe! That’s incoming!”

“No,” protested their executive officer, a major, as Casey and I moved behind an armored Amtrac. “That’s been going off all day. It’s just the pipe burning.”

“Sir. Trust me on this one,” I told the XO. “I’ve been shot at many times, and that definitely is incoming fire.” I wasn’t supposed to get involved, but people were trying to kill us!

First, I needed my sniper rifle. Someone would have to grab the big gun from the truck, cross fifty yards of open ground over which bullets were flying, and bring it to me so I could start hunting. Luckily, I had just the guy. “Daniel! Bring my rifle! Now!”

Since we still had not reached Baghdad, Daniel Tracy was immovable in his faith that he was immune to enemy gunfire. I saw him gently pick up my rifle with both hands and jog toward us. He wasn’t moving in much of a hurry.

“Keep your head down,” Casey shouted. Bullets showered around us, kicking up the dirt and plinking off the armored vehicles as Daniel loped across the open area, then came through a gully. He arrived unharmed and not even breathing hard, holding out my gun with a grin. “Here y’are, boss.”

“About fuckin’ time,” I said, and we traded weapons.

I started to climb atop an Amtrac, but Casey grabbed my shirt and hauled me back. “Hold on, jackass. Let me go up first,” he barked. This sudden transformation into John Wayne startled me, but I realized that he was getting the hang of that leadership thing and was addressing me not as a friend but as an asset to be deployed. Casey went up first to see if there were any immediate threats, and I followed, feeling as if I were going to war with my mother telling me how to behave.

“Hey! What are you guys doing?” the XO snapped. “There are friendlies out there. Make sure you don’t shoot any of them. We don’t want any friendly fire incidents.”

I almost laughed. “Sir, I