Sunrise Over Fallujah by Walter Dean Myers Page A

Captain Coles told Ahmed to offer up some more apologies, and Ahmed did.
    â€œIt’s not going to do any good,” Ahmed said.
    â€œNo, but do it, anyway,” Coles said.
    It was the Iraqi shopkeeper who put an end to it. He put his arm around the shoulders of one woman and spoke to her softly. The women left and we gave the man the money. He signed for it and then we left.
    I didn’t know how much money we gave them. It looked like a couple of thousand dollars. I didn’t feel good about it. Everything the Iraqis were saying was right. We couldn’t buy an end to their grieving, or an end to their missing their kids.
    The Italians came over. They shook hands all around. One of them asked in English if I was an Iraqi. He knew I wasn’t. I guess they thought that was funny. But they seemed like okay guys, eager to try out their English. One of them said that he had been to the United States.
    â€œBayonne, New Jersey,” he said. “I took the bus off New York and live with my cousin two weeks at Bayonne. I go to New York three times.”
    Captain Coles had gone to Rome on his honeymoon. He mentioned that and one of the soldiers congratulated him and patted him on the back.
    The Italians’ vehicles were smaller than ours and didn’t have squad guns. The Italians were more casual than we were, too, and I noticed that none of them were wearing body armor.
    We mounted up and Captain Miller told us that one of the women said that there were children playing near the school when the plane attacked it.
    â€œShe was pretty pissed and I can’t blame her,” Miller said. “There’s a hospital behind the school. It’s a wonder they didn’t attack that.”
    â€œYou know, Miller, I bet those guys flying that mission that day are as sorry about what happened as you are,” Coles said. “Nobody wants to kill innocent people.”
    â€œI don’t think so, either.” Miller pushed a strand of hair away from her face. “But we learn to let ourselves off the hook pretty fast when we do, don’t we?”
    â€œWell, I…” Captain Coles started to say something but changed his mind.
    I really wanted to know what he was going to say.
    â€œHey, Captain Coles!” Marla was on the intercom.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou think Birdy is an Iraqi?”
    â€œCould be,” Captain Coles answered. “He’s very dark.”
    We drove for another few minutes when we saw the ambulance about a hundred yards ahead of us. It had the cross on the side and two guys standing by it.
    â€œContact straight ahead,” Marla said.
    The ambulance made a quick U-turn; the back doors opened and two guys came out.
    â€œRPGs!” Jonesy shouted; he braked to a skidding halt.
    My heart jumped and I heard Marla send a burst of machine gun fire toward the guys with the rocket-propelled grenadelaunchers. Captain Coles screamed into the radio that we were being attacked.
    â€œWatch out for more bandits!” he yelled.
    Me and Ahmed piled out and got to the right side of the road, which was higher. The fire from the squad gun must have spooked the guys ahead because they split and went to either side of the road. It couldn’t have been more than a hundred yards away.
    I went to one knee and brought my piece up to my shoulder. The scope was full of dust and I fired looking over the barrel, panning across the road.
    One of the Iraqis was sitting on the ground. He wasn’t firing. I saw him push at his legs as if he were trying to get them to move. Then he fell backward.
    The other Humvee pulled up with Darcy on its squad gun. Both our guns were trained on the ambulance; we could see the smoke and sparks where the bullets hit its side. Another moment and someone was calling a cease-fire. Nothing moved near the ambulance.
    â€œMount up!” Captain Coles shouted.
    We got back into our Humvees and rolled up cautiously, checking all around us