On Nov. 8, I was cramped inside an Amtrac with 28 Marines in full combat gear when two mortar rounds landed next to our position. The flash lit the inside of the vehicle and the Marines who were standing fell. Several screamed they had been hit. As sparks floated to the floor, and as blood from the Marine standing next to me ran down the side of my flak jacket, all I could think was “What had I gotten myself into?”
Four months ago, my life was different. I worked in the Community Relations office at the Pentagon, which I refer to as the concrete jungle; one wrong turn and you’re lost. I wore service Charlies every day and only broke out my cammies for field day. An average day for me consisted of answering phone calls, faxes and e-mails from people who had questions about the Marine Corps. My main job was handling Marine Corps band requests from all around the U.S. It was an administrative job, but it wasn’t too bad. Stress for me was waiting around for the shuttle bus to go back to Henderson Hall when it didn’t show up on time. When a quota came out requesting combat correspondents to deploy for Iraq, I raised my hand. It’s hard to explain why now, but I just wanted to be a part of what was going on over here. Six months later, I was working at the Combined Press Information Center in Baghdad, traveling around the country writing stories on all of the services stationed in Iraq. I saw my fair share of mortar attacks and convoy patrols, but never any real combat. A week before we entered Fallujah, I was assigned to the I Marine Expeditionary Force to report on the 1st Marine Division’s Marines, soldiers, sailors and airmen during the impending Operation Al Fajr.
A few days after arriving to Camp Fallujah, I was attached to Charlie’s third platoon, in 1st Battalion, 3rd Marines. Running around with a camera the size of a football doesn’t really allow you to blend. I heard jokes as soon as my boots hit the ground. First they asked if I’m a photographer, then came the lines from “Full Metal Jacket.” “Seen any combat?” Nothing I’m not used to though, it goes with the territory.
As the days went by, I tried to attend every brief and training exercise the platoon conducted. I wanted to know exactly where I’d be placed when we got into the thick of things. I’m a P.O.G. (person other than grunt) and proud of it, but I didn’t want to do anything stupid when rounds were going down range.
Three days before we left , I was assigned to first squad, third fire team. I would be the fourth man. They were a tight group of guys who did everything together and understand why the higher ups wanted me along for this mission. They answered every question I had about their role in the squad. Even after the platoon had finished its training each day, they spent countless hours with me going over tactics to make sure I would know what to do and how to react when thrown into certain situations. However, none of the extra training prepared me for that first night in the Fallujah.
When the Amtrac doors opened and everyone ran out, I didn’t even think of trying to take pictures. I ran right behind someone and jumped down right next to him. All I wanted to do was find cover. Two members of my fire team were extracted by medevac right then and there. I was left to fend for myself, and so was the other Marine left from my fire team. I just looked to the guys beside me and did what they did.
When we loaded up again to head for the breech point, my legs started shaking uncontrollably. I tried to hide it, but I know whoever was sitting next to me felt it. I grabbed a railing in the opening of the Amtrac to steady myself and put my hand in a pool of blood. I knew exactly what it was and tried to wipe it off right away. I didn’t want to think about what had just happened.
When we arrived at the breech point a few hundred meters from the city, there were no fires or explosions to light our way. It was a moonless night, and I could barely make out the Marines who were running in front of me. We trekked through ankle-deep mud, stumbling over the holes and ditches hidden in the shadows of our night-vision goggles. We were trying to find our way to the point where we were supposed to infiltrate the city. I was still shaken up, but I pushed forward.
When we arrived at the edge of the city, all was quiet except for the rumbling prayers emanating from a mosque that was held by insurgents. We were the first platoon from 1/3 to enter Fallujah, and the enemy was unaware of our presence.
We sneaked as quiet as possible down the first street of broken-down buildings looking for a place to establish a foothold – our first objective. While part of the platoon looked for a house to base our operations, the rest of us bounded in fire teams to the first intersection. As I lay in the prone behind a mound of dirt alongside two other Marines, I could make out our second objective: a mosque held by insurgents.
We only laid there for a minute or two when I started hearing shouts in Arabic that seemed to be coming from right around the corner: “Ensha Allah! (God willing) Allahhoo akbar! (God is great).”
I couldn’t see anyone, but I knew they were out there waiting. Then it happened. Barrel flashes from AK-47s sprayed tracer rounds over our heads at once in every direction. Our battle for Fallujah had started, and I was nowhere near ready for it.
When there was a lull in gun fire, we pulled back to a safer position. Not being able to see everything and having rounds bearing down on my position – plus the mortar incident earlier – was too much. I thought I was going to die right then and there. I’m a P.O.G. What am I doing here on the front lines? I don’t belong here. Thoughts like that echoed in my mind as each second passed and I made them well known. I didn’t care. I wanted out of there and back in the rear. To my surprise, I wasn’t laughed at or mocked. They told me it’ll be all right and not to worry; they were going to watch my back. The Marines I talked to said they were just as scared. While they said they were afraid, I didn’t see their fear. None of them faltered or hesitated while doing their jobs. I watched as they ran through a hail of bullets diving behind a makeshift wall of cinder blocks to lay down cover and suppressing fire as other members of their squad ran to other positions down the street. I have respect for all Marines no matter what their occupation because they earned the title just as I did, but that night, I gained a newfound respect for “O3’s,” – infantrymen – different from the respect I gave everyone else.
For some reason, when the sun rose, my fear melted away with the night sky. Everything that had occurred only hours before seemed unreal like I was watching a movie. During the weeks that followed, I fed off the strength of the Marines around me and the patrols and fire fights hardly bothered me. Don’t get me wrong, I was still nervous every time we went in to clear a house, but I felt different somehow in a way that I can’t even describe. I hope the history books depict Fallujah as it should, describing the heroic acts and sacrifices of the Marines who took part in the operation. In time, some of my memories might fade only to be remembered when I scan over the images I captured on film, but I will never forget the Marines of Charlie Company who fought beside me. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for them. They are the reason I can tell this story today.