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The
author, a former Marine, participated in the second battle of Fallujah
and gives us this eyewitness report. The city, containing over 200,000 people,
suffered extensive damage in the U.S.-Iraqi attack.
According
to some reports, perhaps half the homes were damaged, and about 60
mosques were destroyed. The Red Cross estimated that over 800 civilians
were killed. The second battle
of Fallujah, in November 2004, has been called Operation Phantom Fury
and Al-Fajr [“The Dawn”]. But those of us who where there simply called
it “The City.”
Since
Operation Vigilant Resolve, our first attempt to pacify the city, in
April 2004, all coalition forces had been withdrawn from the city. In
the following six months Fallujah became a hot bed of insurgent
activity. Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, an insurgent leader and high priority
target for the U.S., was believed to be operating out of Fallujah. With
the upcoming national elections in Iraq and Zarqawi in Fallujah, the
U.S. military launched a second attempt to capture the city.
Like
most of the units that were called up for the second battle, we had
been doing routine convoys for American contractors for the past five
months. Nobody in my unit had even fired a shot yet. Occasionally,
Intel would give us the location of a high-profile target, and we got
to cordon off the area and kick the door in. Nine out of 10 times there
was nobody in the house but women and children.
“This
is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine,” our drill
instructors used to make us shout. “It is my life. I must master it as
I must master my life. Without me my rifle is useless. Without my rifle I am useless.” This
was pounded into our heads over and over again.
The
rifleman’s creed was just one of many tools used to mold and shape us
into the same Marine—proud, selfless, and violent. We were trained to
defend freedom by means of war, and never question orders, like
interchangeable parts of the war machine. Without combat our rifles
were useless. We were useless.
We
had become disillusioned with our missions and were growing restless
for action. But tomorrow would be different. We would finally get a
chance to use our rifles and all our months of training and preparation
would not be in vain. We could finally prove ourselves as warriors and
defend the nation that we all loved.
[Marine
battalion commander] Lt. Colonel Gareth Brandl addressed us, his men,
in front of an assortment of generals and news crews. He told us to
expect 2000 to 3000 hardcore insurgents when we entered the city. We
were also told that the civilians had evacuated the city. When
questioned about the possibility of civilian casualties Lt. Colonel
Brandl said, “The competence and compassion of my Marines will mitigate
any civilian casualties.”
After
that we were taken aside and given a second brief. Our commanders told
us to expect 50 percent casualties on our side. They explained to us
how things would happen tomorrow, and informed us of a new change in
our rules of engagement. Because the civilians had moved out, we were
to shoot anyone with a weapon in their hands.
The
next morning we loaded up into trucks and headed for the city. I could
see the smoke rising on the other side of the desert. We passed a
mother dressed in all black with her two small children wandering
across the desert. I wondered how many more there were in the same
situation or worse. I suddenly felt ridiculous for assuming that these
people could just pick up and leave their city. What about the old and
sick? Where would they go? How long could they wander in the desert?
That
night over 10,000 U.S. troops waited outside the city and watched a
fireworks show of military supremacy as we pounded that city with every
bomb in our arsenal, and even a little white phosphorous for effect. I
wondered if the air support got their targets from the same flawed
Intel from which we got ours.
The
battle officially began on Nov. 7. A few days later, AAVs dropped us
off by the mayor’s complex in the heart of the city. It was early
morning and still dark. We cleared our first three buildings without
seeing any signs of life or resistance.
The
sun began to rise over the beautiful Blue Mosque as we reached the roof
of the police station. Morning Prayer began to echo from loudspeakers
across the city. When the final words were sung the first burst of
machine gun fire could be heard in the distance.
Machine
gun fire answered back and forth and the beautiful sounds of war
erupted all over the city; officers barking commands over their radios,
machine gun bursts roaring in the distance, RPGs hissing by, grenades
detonating, and Marines shouting.
Fallujah
quickly became violent and chaotic. The adrenaline infected us like
fever, distorting reality and all sense of right and wrong. We became
bloodthirsty maniacs as we pushed through the city.
Rumors
started to spread about a Marine in 3rd Platoon that already had five
kills. When we learned that most of the insurgents were carrying large
amounts of international currencies on them we began going through the
pockets of every dead body like scavengers.
From
Morning Prayer until sundown we would fight, and as soon as night came
it was silent. Not a single gunshot or even a whisper for the entire
night. Every night we would occupy a different house; some were nearly
destroyed by artillery and air strikes while others still had family
photos hanging on the wall. We slept in their beds, ate whatever food
we could find, and helped ourselves to trinkets and souvenirs.
After
five days of battle everyone was used to the sight of dead bodies and
blood. Nothing seemed strange anymore. We no longer flinched at the
sound of gunfire or batted an eye at a severed limb. It was at this
point that things started to get out of control.
One
Marine slit a puppy’s throat because he couldn’t stand its crying.
Another Marine opened up a dead body like a cadaver to search for the
adrenal gland. Anyone who objected was afraid to speak up. The sickness
that had taken hold of us had become too dangerous. All rules of war
had gone out the window.
Some
became cold and were unaffected by all things good and bad around them.
Others lashed out in anger.
When the old man was killed nobody even seemed to notice. The
squad that shot him said that they couldn’t tell what was in his hands.
It was prayer beads. His body was left just as it fell and we moved on.
When
we where able to see the desert we knew that we were close to the end
of the city. We occupied a small house that would become our firm base
for the next few weeks. I was physically and emotionally
exhausted. The adrenaline had
worn off and my mind was coming back to reality. Thoughts of the old
man and the puppy ran through my head like a slide show. I was glad
that I had not committed any of these acts myself, but I felt guilty by
association.
I
looked at the pictures still hanging on the walls of the family that
had once lived here. Were they lucky enough to make it out of this
God-forsaken city to wander hopelessly in the desert? I wanted to throw
down my rifle and quit; it no longer defined me. It seemed sadly ironic
to me that someone decided to name this war Operation Iraqi Freedom. It
was all too absurd and I no longer believed in my purpose there. An entire city destroyed and its
people displaced and murdered—all in the name of freedom.
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