Page 18 of Hard Corps (Selected Sinners MC 7)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Summer 2005, Haditha, Iraq

In a briefing with my commander, I learned a six-man Marine sniper unit had been overrun outside the city of Haditha, and all six men were eventually killed. Five of the Marines died relatively quickly, possibly executed as soon as they were identified as US Marines. The one Marine who lived – while covered in blood and stripped of his uniform – was paraded through the city with the five dead members of his unit, and the event was videotaped and played on Iraqi television. Later, the sixth Marine’s throat was cut by his captors.

Two days later, Operation Quick Strike began, and 1,000 Marines were sent into the city – not as a retaliatory action – but in an attempt to identify and capture the insurgents who had overtaken the city. At the onset of the operation, an amphibious assault vehicle carrying 16 Marines hit a roadside bomb, and 15 of the 16 Marines were immediately killed in the blast. The one living occupant was burned over most of his body, and wasn’t expected to live. The crater left in the earth by the bomb was large enough to fit a four-bedroom home inside of it.

On the second day of Operation Quick Strike, it was determined the US Marines were outnumbered, and command likened the city to Fallujah, only worse. House to house searches, close quarters combat, and gun battles in an area the size of a living room were a common occurrence. In short, savage extremists had taken over the city, and were going to any length to kill the US Marines or the civilian population who opposed them.

Every Marine being sent into the city wanted revenge for the deaths of their brethren. The 115-degree daytime temperatures, severe wind, and blowing sand only added to the tension. Our convoy arrived at 0800, and the sun pressed down on us like a heavy weight.

As we approached the city, smoke bellowed from the tops of half of the homes and buildings. Bombs exploded every few seconds, and the earth beneath our Humvee shook repeatedly as we slowly rolled into the city.

“We’re going to fucking die in this one, Staff Sergeant Jacob,” Parsons complained as we hit the outskirts of town.

I shifted my eyes toward him for a split second. He looked no different than anyone else in my platoon. He was scared, and his eyes clearly showed it. Given the amount of insurgents in the city, and the temperament of the group who had executed the Marines, we were likely to be in for one hell of a fight and everyone realized it.

Price tilted his helmet up slightly and shook his head. “Jacob is immortal. Only motherfucker that can kill Jacob, is Jacob.”

“Enough about dying. Nobody’s fucking dying. We’re going to stomp in this motherfucker, capture insurgents, and send their asses to Al Asad Airbase for interrogation,” I said. “And then we’re going to finish that fucking football game.”

“Oorah!” Price grunted.

I didn’t think I was immortal, but I was beginning to believe I was something. After five solid years of fighting, I had sustained many injuries, but no one had killed me. The eerie vision of the C-130 filled with caskets still haunted my dreams, and I suspected it always would. Be it luck or the gracious hand of God that kept me from it, however, my body had yet to be shipped home in a casket.

And I was grateful.

“First and second squad take the far side, and third squad will go house to house, just like we discussed. If you think they’re insurgents, they’re insurgents, is that understood?” I asked as we assembled alongside the edge of the street.

“Oorah!” the squad leaders barked.

“We need to capture as many of these motherfuckers as we can. If you’re threatened, don’t think, just kill. Understood?” I asked.

Another Oorah rang out from the squad leaders and the Marines in the accompanying squads. The sound of small weapons fire in the background filled the air. With my eyes filled with sand, and my uniform soaked from sweat, I gave the signal to begin the house to house search.

Fifteen minutes into the search and we had captured four insurgents and found two weapons caches, one large enough to supply a battalion of men. Both weapons caches were in the homes of civilians, making it immediately apparent not only that we were in the right place, but that the city had been overrun by insurgents who were taking over the homes of civilians in their attempt to blend in.

As the Marines of third squad searched another home, an argument broke out between the occupants of the small house and the squad leader. In an effort to keep things as peaceful as possible, and to prevent tempers from flaring even higher than they already were, I stepped into the home to evaluate the situation.

“This motherfucker ain’t sayin’ shit, Staff Sergeant. Got twenty fucking AK’s hid behind that shitty fucking bed over there, and he just grunts when we try to ask him anything. Vingelli’s got a woman and a little girl in the back, and they’re both fucking screaming,” he said excitedly as I stepped into the small home.

The homes in Iraq, at least the ones I had been inside of, were far different than the homes in the United States. I was aware that the country also had mansions, and homes similar to Beverly Hill’s offerings, but the typical civilian home consisted of one large room where the family stayed, and a place to cook; and that was it. Some, but not all, had bathrooms. To the typical civilian in Iraq, having a rug thrown on the floor was a luxury.

As I stepped into the rear room of the house, I found a woman and a girl who was no more than twelve-years-old being detained by two of my Marines. The woman remained quiet until the girl began to scream, then the woman would begin to plead with the girl, obviously telling her to remain calm. The scene was far from calm, and I realized as soon as I entered the room if I didn’t take charge of the situation I would have two dead civilian women in my daily report.

“Settle the fuck down. I assume no one speaks English?” I asked of the two Marines.

“Fuck yeah they do, but they ain’t sayin’ shit. Cocksuckers got AK’s in the front room. They’re fucking al-Qaeda,” one of the Marines responded.

I turned to face the woman. “English. Do you speak English?”

Both she and the girl responded in Arabic, shaking their heads as they spoke. The woman seemed nothing but concerned for her family’s welfare, but the girl seemed to have something she wanted to say, and wasn’t interested in being quiet.

Although it wasn’t a common occurrence, women and children had opposed Marines in previous battles, shooting small arms, using grenades, and detonating roadside bombs. As sickening as it was to do so, on occasion, women and children had to be killed. In determining whether or not the person was a threat to my men, I couldn’t let gender come into play. Every person must be assumed a threat until it was determined they were not a threat. That determination came by no other than me, and was based on nothing other than my gut instinct.

To date I had yet to be wrong.

“Vingelli, go get the Terp. I think we’ve got a situation here, but this woman and her daughter aren’t al-Qaeda,” I said as I studied the eyes of the girl.