Evan Wright - Generation Kill

After sunrise, Bravo Company’s two platoons are sent over the tracks to snatch groups of surrendering Iraqis. By nine o’clock, it’s already becoming a hot day. The work of stopping and searching all the enemy soldiers is stressful and tedious.

The Iraqis stream along the tracks and a canal that runs behind them. The Marines set up positions to intercept them, and the Iraqis walk right into them with their arms up. Then the Marines herd them into groups, put them on the ground and search them. Quite a few of the Iraqis carry miniature Tabasco bottles and candies—from MREs—which means they’ve already been captured, fed and let go by other American forces. Most seem eager to surrender again, hoping to get more food and water. They’re dressed in a combination of military uniforms and civilian clothes. Behind them there’s a trail of discarded Iraqi fatigues and AK rifles.

Over the course of the morning, the Marines grab about 200 of them, putting them down and searching each one. There are so many Iraqis coming, the Marines wave off dozens, perhaps hundreds more, who cut a wide swath around them and continue on their way.

Through a Marine translator, the Iraqis say they’ve come from units in Basra and started fleeing two days ago as soon as the American bombardment began. They say because they surrendered, they are being hunted and executed by Fedayeen death squads east of here, and ask for protection. Many carry colorful slips of paper dropped by American planes promising them safety in return for surrendering.

Several of the men claim they worked in special units in charge of launching chemical-filled missiles. They say they were moving these missiles just a few days ago, getting ready to launch them. These men have atropine injectors, used to counteract nerve agents, which normally would be carried by those handling such chemicals. One of the more baffling aspects of the invasion is that the Marines will encounter numerous Iraqis, both soldiers and civilians, who claim to have firsthand knowledge of chemical weapons. At times, Marines will speculate that Iraqis are fabricating these stories in an attempt to curry favor by telling the Americans what they want to hear. But farther north, they will encounter village elders who seem quite sincere, pleading with the Marines to remove weapons stocks they believe Saddam’s military buried near their farms, which they fear are poisoning their water. Given the fact that no such weapons have been found, you get the idea Saddam or someone in his government created the myth to keep the people and the military in awe of his power.

The surrendered soldiers are a wretched lot. While most are in their early twenties and look decently fed, quite a few don’t have shoes and have swollen, bleeding feet. Doc Bryan, the corpsman, treats more than a dozen who have infected sores, dysentery and fevers. Even the healthiest are severely dehydrated. Some are old men. As a group, they seem dazed and numb as they accept the water and humanitarian rations the Marines hand out. A couple of them are crying. I walk among rows of them, offering anyone who wants one a Marlboro Red. Quite a few decline, patting their chests and coughing. Some say in halting English, “I’m sick.” Apparently, the continual dust of southern Iraq gets to them, too.

Several Marines pass around a photo pulled from the wallet of a surrendered Iraqi. Most of the Iraqis have ordinary pictures of families—children, wives, parents. But one guy has a picture of himself holding hands with another man. Both wear gaudy, effeminate-looking Western shirts, and one seems to have makeup on. The Marines can’t believe they’ve captured a gay Iraqi soldier.

But the funny thing is, most of the Marines passing the photo around aren’t making the homo jokes they usually make among themselves. Some of them just look at it, shaking their heads. After spending several hours with the surrendered Iraqis, the Marines seem taken aback, almost depressed by their misery. A Marine staff sergeant can’t get over the fact that so many are attempting to make a 170-kilometer trek through the open desert with rags tied to their feet and antifreeze jugs filled with water. “I knew from the first war they’d surrender,” he says. “But I didn’t expect how beaten down they’d be. I wish we could do more for them, give them more water.”

“We’re not the Red Crescent society,” Colbert says. “We barely have enough for ourselves.”

ON WHAT IS ONLY their second day in Iraq, the Marines in Bravo Company’s Third Platoon have concluded that their platoon commander has lost his mind. The men in Bravo’s Second and Third platoons are extremely close. Not only did they share the same tent in Kuwait, but here in the field the two platoons are usually right next to each other. Unlike the men in Second Platoon who universally respect, if not adore their commander, Lt. Fick, the men in Third Platoon view their platoon commander as a buffoon. While he is a highly rated Marine Corps officer, with stellar fitness reports and no signs in his record that he is mentally unstable or incompetent, some of his men have mockingly nicknamed him “Captain America.”

When you first meet Captain America, he’s a likable enough guy. At Camp Mathilda, when he still had a mustache, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Matt Dillon’s roguishly charming con-artist character in There’s Something About Mary. Captain America is thirty-one years old, married, and has a somewhat colorful past of having worked as a bodyguard for rock stars when he was in college. If he corners you, he’ll talk your ear off about all the wild times he had doing security for bands like U2, Depeche Mode and Duran Duran. His men feel he uses these stories as a pathetic attempt to impress them, and besides, half of them have never heard of Duran Duran.

Twenty-four hours ago, when the invasion started, Captain America revealed another side of himself, which further eroded his standing among his men. He’s prone to hysterics. Before crossing the border, he ran up to his men’s Humvees parked in the staging area and began shouting, “We’re in the shit now! It’s war!” All morning since the Iraqi army deserters first appeared by the railroad tracks, Captain America has been getting on the radio, shouting, “Enemy! Enemy! Enemy!”

While it’s perfectly fine for officers to shout dramatically in movies, in the Marines it’s frowned upon. As First Recon’s commander, Lt. Col. Ferrando, will later say in an apparent reference to Captain America, “An officer’s job is to throw water on a fire, not gasoline.”

One of Captain America’s team leaders, twenty-three-year-old Sergeant John Moreno, says, “Something twisted in him the night we crossed into Iraq. He gets on the radio and starts shouting about how we’re going to take on Iraqi tanks. We didn’t see any tanks. It’s like he just wants to exaggerate everything so he’s a bigger hero. It’s embarrassing for us.”

While rolling up to the train tracks yesterday, Captain America provoked Colbert’s wrath for leading his men on a treasure hunt for discarded Iraqi helmets. “We’re in an area suspected to have mines, and the most obvious thing to booby-trap is a helmet lying on the ground,” Colbert fumed. “It’s completely unprofessional.”

Now, while the Marines search and interrogate the surrendered Iraqis, Captain America draws the ire of his top team leader, Kocher. The sergeant and his men are guarding several Iraqis not far from Colbert’s team when a wild dog pops over a berm, barking and snarling. Behind them, Captain America races up, shouting, “Wild dog! Shoot it!”

Kocher quietly tells his men, “Don’t shoot.” Instead, they open up a beef-and-mushroom MRE dinner and lure the dog, who gratefully eats and is soon allowing the Marines to pet him. It’s a small act, but by making it, Kocher directly contradicts his commander. “I don’t care who he is,” says Kocher. “The guy turns the smallest situation into chaos. We’re surrounded by Iraqis, some with weapons nearby. Some we haven’t grabbed yet. If my men start lighting up a dog, the Iraqis might panic, other Marines might open fire. Anything could happen.”