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Authors: Joshua Key
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U.S. bomb that sat half-buried in the floor, sticking out about six feet. It didnât seem like a safe place to be, but at least I had a roof over my head.
I ate my rationâbeef enchiladaâand tried to smother the flavor with Tabasco sauce. Most of the other soldiers had no interest in the one-ounce shots of hot sauce that came with their MREs, so I scooped them up and used double and triple doses every time I ate. Oklahoma isnât far from Mexico, and an Oklahoma boy needs his hot sauce. Sometimes, in the boredom and fatigue of life in Iraq, hoarding and gulping down Tabasco sauce became a diversion in itself. I remember still being hungry when I went to sleep that first night in Ramadi. There were no bombs dropping or mortars falling, but I was awakened at three a.m. and told to get my ass up quickly because in one hour we were going to raid a house full of terrorists.
We had a few minutes of orientation on the grounds of the palace. Captain Conde and some sergeants showed me and my squad mates a satellite photo of a house and a drawing of the layout of the inside. Our assignment was to blow off the door, burst into the house, raid it fast and raid it goodâlooking for contraband, caches of weapons, and signs of terrorists or terrorist activity, then rounding up the men and getting out of there damn fast. The longer we stayed in any one location, the longer somebody would have to put us in the sights of a rocket-propelled grenade or lob mortars at us.
I had no idea what to expect. Would I charge through the door, only to be blown to bits by a grenade? Would somebody with an AK-47 knock my Oklahoman ass right back out that door? Would some six-year-old terrorist with two days of gun training be waiting to put me in his crosshairs? The minutes ticked on, and I wanted the hour to speed forward so we could get to our destination and get on with it.
One or two of the guys did push-ups to pump themselves up. I borrowed Specialist Masonâs portable CD player and bombed out my eardrums to the beat of Ozzy Osbourne. It got me going. High and ready for action. I topped that up by knocking back one or two more bottles of Tabasco sauce, which gave me a nice jolt. In Iraq, Tabasco sauce became my wake-up call.
I checked my watch, wished it would accelerate, and stuck some dipâCopenhagen, bourbon flavorâbehind my lip. You canât manage a cigarette when youâve got an M-249 automatic weapon on your arm. So dip was best. Makes your mouth black as sin, and rots the roots right out of your gums, but dip was my nicotine hit of choice going into that raid.
I committed our preraid instructions to memory. I knew the angles of the house, what door I would help blow down, how many floors were in the house, and who would do what when we busted inside. I would be third in the door, which means I was the second most likely to get shot if anybody had a mind to take us down, and Iâd head to the left. Always, for every raid, I would be third in, heading left. I gripped my M-249. Yes, it could belt out two thousand rounds a minute but only in theory. You couldnât really hold your finger down that long. When you were blazing away like that, the bullets turned the barrel as hot as Hades. And if you held your finger down too long, it would warp the barrel.
It was time to go. We went out into the cool Iraqi night. We took a civilian vehicleâa white Toyota truckâso that the Iraqis would not suspect we were coming. Sergeant Fadinetz was at the wheel. He had a map with exact directions, including information about where to park the truck. Also in the truck was our squad leader, Sergeant Padilla, as well as Sergeant Jones, Specialist Sykora, another grunt, and me. We had our basic moves plotted out, like a set play in football. We drove into an upscale Iraqi neighborhood, passed a mosque, and parked near an attractive three-story house.
We ran out. It took thirty seconds for Jones and me to put
I ate my rationâbeef enchiladaâand tried to smother the flavor with Tabasco sauce. Most of the other soldiers had no interest in the one-ounce shots of hot sauce that came with their MREs, so I scooped them up and used double and triple doses every time I ate. Oklahoma isnât far from Mexico, and an Oklahoma boy needs his hot sauce. Sometimes, in the boredom and fatigue of life in Iraq, hoarding and gulping down Tabasco sauce became a diversion in itself. I remember still being hungry when I went to sleep that first night in Ramadi. There were no bombs dropping or mortars falling, but I was awakened at three a.m. and told to get my ass up quickly because in one hour we were going to raid a house full of terrorists.
We had a few minutes of orientation on the grounds of the palace. Captain Conde and some sergeants showed me and my squad mates a satellite photo of a house and a drawing of the layout of the inside. Our assignment was to blow off the door, burst into the house, raid it fast and raid it goodâlooking for contraband, caches of weapons, and signs of terrorists or terrorist activity, then rounding up the men and getting out of there damn fast. The longer we stayed in any one location, the longer somebody would have to put us in the sights of a rocket-propelled grenade or lob mortars at us.
I had no idea what to expect. Would I charge through the door, only to be blown to bits by a grenade? Would somebody with an AK-47 knock my Oklahoman ass right back out that door? Would some six-year-old terrorist with two days of gun training be waiting to put me in his crosshairs? The minutes ticked on, and I wanted the hour to speed forward so we could get to our destination and get on with it.
One or two of the guys did push-ups to pump themselves up. I borrowed Specialist Masonâs portable CD player and bombed out my eardrums to the beat of Ozzy Osbourne. It got me going. High and ready for action. I topped that up by knocking back one or two more bottles of Tabasco sauce, which gave me a nice jolt. In Iraq, Tabasco sauce became my wake-up call.
I checked my watch, wished it would accelerate, and stuck some dipâCopenhagen, bourbon flavorâbehind my lip. You canât manage a cigarette when youâve got an M-249 automatic weapon on your arm. So dip was best. Makes your mouth black as sin, and rots the roots right out of your gums, but dip was my nicotine hit of choice going into that raid.
I committed our preraid instructions to memory. I knew the angles of the house, what door I would help blow down, how many floors were in the house, and who would do what when we busted inside. I would be third in the door, which means I was the second most likely to get shot if anybody had a mind to take us down, and Iâd head to the left. Always, for every raid, I would be third in, heading left. I gripped my M-249. Yes, it could belt out two thousand rounds a minute but only in theory. You couldnât really hold your finger down that long. When you were blazing away like that, the bullets turned the barrel as hot as Hades. And if you held your finger down too long, it would warp the barrel.
It was time to go. We went out into the cool Iraqi night. We took a civilian vehicleâa white Toyota truckâso that the Iraqis would not suspect we were coming. Sergeant Fadinetz was at the wheel. He had a map with exact directions, including information about where to park the truck. Also in the truck was our squad leader, Sergeant Padilla, as well as Sergeant Jones, Specialist Sykora, another grunt, and me. We had our basic moves plotted out, like a set play in football. We drove into an upscale Iraqi neighborhood, passed a mosque, and parked near an attractive three-story house.
We ran out. It took thirty seconds for Jones and me to put
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