So, on a battleground where many of them fought for their lives, U.S. forces are fighting to keep the peace in a city that was once one of the most dangerous in Iraq.
The biggest change for many GIs is the presence of civilians. By the time ground troops roared into the city, most of the nearly 250,000 residents had heeded warnings and fled. In the aftermath of November's offensive, troops expressed surprise when several hundred dazed and hungry civilians emerged from the rubble.
A store in Fallujah is surrounded by rubble left by the U.S.-led offensive against insurgents in the city in November.
(Jackie Spinner -- The Washington Post)
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Since Dec. 23, when the first residents were allowed to return, tens of thousands have poured back in. Many left again after finding that their homes were destroyed during the battle. The Marines estimate that there are about 60,000 people living in the city.
With the encouragement of U.S. troops, many returning families have marked their houses to let security forces know that they are inside. Crude cardboard signs scripted in a borrowed language hang on gates that were broken by advancing troops. "Family in said," one sign read. "Hear family," read another. Many residents also fly white flags fashioned from torn pieces of cloth, soccer jerseys or kitchen aprons.
Marines said that when they started patrolling the streets, residents were standoffish and rarely smiled or waved. Children were the first to approach them, and once they learned that the Marines would give them candy, footballs and soccer balls, they began swarming the patrols. "Saddam bad, George Bush good," one boy said, repeating a phrase the Marines said he often uses to get candy from them. It usually works.
Another small girl has learned to follow the Marines throughout their hour-long patrol, pausing to shed crocodile tears when she does not get a piece of "chocolata, mister." When she tried to pick the pocket of a visitor who was with the Marines, the visitor swatted her hand. She simply smiled and ran to a Marine ahead. "Chocolata, mister?" she asked, peering up at him.
Hattam Jasam Hussein, 50, who stopped the Marines on their patrol to show them a pile of empty artillery shells in a muddy field littered with trash, said he was happy the Americans were there.
"We're all very happy, everybody," Hussein said, pulling his leather jacket tighter around his gray dishdasha. "We're relaxed. The Americans protect us. We feel safe."
But, Hussein said, he wants more help rebuilding his house, which was burned during the offensive. "What about fixing the town?" he said. "We need to fix the city."
An Iraqi interpreter who works for the Marines nodded sympathetically and told the man to be patient. He then told him where to go to make a claim for his damages.
After they collected the canisters, the Marines scrambled back into their Humvees. As they roared away, a boy in a red jacket waved and called out in stilted English: "Thanks for coming."
