Yesterday morning I woke up around 4 a.m. to begin the day by walking through the chilly, dark city of Husaybah with about two dozen Marines. The Marines had night vision goggles to help them navigate through the dirt or crudely paved roads; I just tried to follow the sound of the quiet, soft crunch of the pair of boots in front of me and not trip on anything.

The Marines were on a joint mission with dozens of Iraqi soldiers to "sweep" through a neighborhood, essentially house-to-house searches, in this city along the Syrian border. Every home in the area had been searched in November during a major offensive, leading to a sharp reduction in insurgent attacks, but U.S. commanders this time wanted the Iraqi soldiers to get the experience of planning and executing a large-scale operation.

The Iraqis were just waking up when we arrived at their base, gathering in line to pick up their breakfast of two pieces of bread, cheese, and their most prized sustenance: small cups of hot, sweet tea. I sat on a plastic lawn chair and tried to stay out of the cold outside, hoping that the sun would be up by the time we hit the streets.

Over the past year I've been on several of these operations, which have subsequently led me through hundreds of Iraqi homes as U.S. troops search through mattresses, cupboards, backyards and anything else for weapons or insurgent paraphernalia. Many times the Iraqis were ready for the troops, with all their doors and drawers unlocked and their family's AK-47 unloaded and sitting on a table. On a few occasions the families were visibly irate at the intrusion, such as one time in the small town of Bidimnah where a man complained that soldiers tracked mud on his carpet.

After about four hours of searching Thursday, I walked into a courtyard where a group of about five Marines were huddled around a young girl covered in flies. She was partially wrapped in a white flour sack and trembling, apparently from some severe neurological disorder. She was close to death. Her mother spoke with tears in her eyes while some young boys, apparently neighborhood kids, ambled around the yard and curiously watched the Marines grouped around the girl. Every few minutes the girl would let out a short gasp. "This is just so sad," said one Marine, while most stood quietly watching with somber expressions.

One Marine unsuccessfully tried to swat away the dozens of flies hovering around the girl with a towel. The flour sack she was covered in had a large "Made in the USA" tag on its front. The commanding officer, Capt. Richard Pitchford of Norfolk, Virginia, immediately called headquarters for permission to have her evacuated. First a Marine doctor would be sent to see what could be done before a helicopter would be summoned.

"If she could get 24-hour care, she'd probably live for a while. But it sounds like the parents don't want to do that," said Lt. Brent Zamzow of Gaylord, Mich., as he took the girl's vital signs and explained that even advanced treatment would probably only prolong the inevitable by days. An Iraqi interpreter said the family was anxious about having her sent away to a military base for treatment.

By this point the operation was complete, with all the nearby homes searched. Pitchford remained in the courtyard, mostly quiet with the Marines around the girl. In the end, he ordered his Marines to regularly check up on the girl on their patrols to see if any medication or supplies were needed. They closed the gates and left in a long line of armored vehicles.