Fifty Meters

It was 108 degrees in July 2006 in the Diyala Province, northwest of Muqdadiyah. We sat, baking in our MRAP, waiting, feeling like sitting ducks, while the lieutenant decided what to do.

There were a few shots in the distance–small arms fire, scattered and thin. The Skipper thought it was worth a look.

The platoon was light—two squads instead of three or four. We had two Iraqi Army trucks and two Iraqi Police vehicles, all RVing toward the noise.

A bad decision, but no one knew that yet.

They came to a small village, not much more than a handful of buildings strung along a dirt road. A canal ran to the right, a ditch to the left.

There was only one way in and one way out.

The lieutenant didn’t wait for the drone he had called in. He didn’t think about the blocked alternate route, didn’t think when the Iraqi Police left them, warning of an al-Qaeda stronghold ahead.

The lieutenant ordered the convoy forward anyway.

The Iraqi Army took point, our truck next. The others followed.
Halfway in, the lead truck stopped.

No radio call. No warning.

The driver pulled up behind them, where he saw the ditch across the road. The squad leader jumped out, spoke with the Iraqis, and then jumped back in.

That’s when the shooting started. I had no time to write, no time to take photographs.

Three men in the grass, fifty meters away to our left, with AKs.

Then we saw a bongo truck roll into the village, mounted with a DShK M1938, a Soviet heavy machine gun. The kind that tears through steel.

Stuck in an L-shaped ambush. No way forward. No way back. Just lead in the air and the sound of the big gun hammering.

The turret gunner fired back. The M240 barked beside him.

Our driver sat, hands on the wheel. Nothing to do but wait for the next bullet to find us.

Then, the explosion. A bang. Fire. Smoke. I thought it was an IED.

My ears rang from the blast. Knock out of my seat, I checked myself for wounds; nothing. Then, our driver felt something sharp on his cheek.

Touched his face. Blood on the glove.

Red. Wet.

“I’m bleeding,” he said calmly.

Then, the cab filled up with thick gas from the fire suppression system. Everyone’s voices dropped, low and strange, because of the gas, the opposite of sucking on a helium-filled balloon.

Time moved differently. It always did in moments like these.

He threw it into reverse. Hit the truck behind him.

No room. No give.

He hit it again. And again.

Finally, the convoy started backing out. It was slow, ugly work.

He had one mirror, no rear camera, and could barely see, blood filling his eyes. Then the Corpsman came, running under fire, climbing into the truck, hands on him, stopping the blood.

The squad leader took the wheel as the Corpsman and the driver got out to meet the Medivac. Air Force Black Hawk to Balad Medical, where we learned the truth.

It was not an IED. A DShK 12.7×108mm round.

It had punched through the armor, hit the roll bar near his head, shattered, and sent shrapnel across his face. A few inches closer, and perhaps none of us would be there to know any of it because of internal vehicular bounce around.