WE DRIVE OUT OF THE VILLAGE AND STOP AT AN INTERSECTION TO LET A CAR CREEP BY -- SLOW WITH FEAR. Then, I can't hear anything. Can't see anything. Dust and smoke are everywhere. I feel like I've been smacked, hard, with a hot pillow. The gunner, who was in his perch, is crouched beside me, as if he has been hit.
When the dust settles, we speed away. Everyone in the Humvee is screaming. Is everyone okay? Yes, yes, yes, yes. No one in our vehicle is hurt. What happened? An IED (improvised explosive device) went off about five feet from our Humvee. Planted in the grass beside the road. Triggered by someone.
Soldiers from the Army's 1st Cavalry Division, based in Baghdad,guard a man who has been detained at the checkpoint after his hands tested positive for explosive matter.
(Andrea Bruce Woodall)
|
|
The Humvee makes another sharp turn, and we return to the site of the IED. Small arms fire hits us from several directions. On one side of the intersection, buildings stand; the other side is a forest of date palms. The dusty air is filled with blue and red tracers. The Army gunners open fire in all directions. But the air is still so thick that no one can see anything. The rest of the soldiers have left the Humvee and stand just outside its doors, firing like mad. Everyone is yelling at one another -- but I can't understand what they're saying. We can't see anything. I sit in the fetal position in the back seat. I raise my camera over my head, firing at smoke.
After a minute -- maybe two -- the shooting stops. Completely. I'm still taking pictures, holding my breath to keep my camera stable -- hoping it can see things I can't. Hot casings from the gunners have fallen all over me, bounced off my helmet, fallen inside my flak jacket, in my camera bag. I can still hear the echoes of the Humvee being hit by bullets -- like large stones thrown with a pitcher's arm.
The scariest part is the silence afterward. I think, How many of these high school friends are dead?
"We need a medic!" someone screams from the dust cloud outside. Gun lights shine on two men, writhing, standing, sitting outside. One is speaking Spanish. Blood hangs from their faces like drool. Thick and sticky. Bright red. One still wears a helmet with night-vision goggles. One can't see -- he grabs his face. He prays. The medic works quickly. The soldiers are so nervous. I stay out of the way. I have left the Humvee, and I crouch by its side -- try to steady myself. My heartbeat makes my camera jump. I still can't hear much, so I can't tell when the shutter is pressed successfully. I'm unaware of myself. I can't think. I just take pictures. Stay quiet. Stay out of the way.
Shrapnel from the IED had blown into their faces. Their Humvee was not fully armored. The top was open to the sky -- and the bomb.
Being the only woman around, I try to help with a soothing voice. "You are fine," I say, without realizing I'm saying it. "You're going to be all right." They are freaking out. I try to calm them. "Shhhhhh, it's going to be okay." I think they are going to be okay, really.
For some reason, I think, I have to take these pictures. I will give them to the soldiers when they are better. When they are old and gray, they can tell war stories to their grandchildren, show them photos as proof -- alongside that scar on their chin.
They don't think they are okay. They scare one another with frightened voices. He can't see. They feel the blood. They pray.
6/22/04
THE 1ST INFANTRY DIVISION HAD THE MEMORIAL SERVICE FOR JASON LYNCH TODAY -- the morning after the IED explosion. I found out that the two soldiers I had followed to the emergency room will survive. One lost sight in one eye. The other's injuries were more minor. Those two men, what they went through, will not be reported to the media by the Army -- as if it didn't happen. The news of the day counts only deaths. I wonder if our readers will realize what an IED explosion means? These small incidents aren't small. And they happen every day.
Lynch's memorial service included hundreds of soldiers, all standing at attention, all saluting his empty boots and his helmet propped on top of his gun. His dog tags blew in the wind. Young, tough-guy soldiers told stories of this quiet, reliable man. A photo showed him baby-faced and smiley.
I was impressed with their tears and the brotherly comfort they showed for each other. The usual steely cool of the military -- of Americans in general -- has always frustrated me. What is so bad about showing grief? To me, it's beautiful. It's showing how much we love someone, that we miss them.
