fucking bed over there, and he just grunts when we try to ask him anything. Vingelli’s got a woman and a little girl in the back, and they’re both fucking screaming,” he said excitedly as I stepped into the small home.
The homes in Iraq, at least the ones I had been inside of, were far different than the homes in the United States. I was aware that the country also had mansions, and homes similar to Beverly Hill’s offerings, but the typical civilian home consisted of one large room where the family stayed, and a place to cook; and that was it. Some, but not all, had bathrooms. To the typical civilian in Iraq, having a rug thrown on the floor was a luxury.
As I stepped into the rear room of the house, I found a woman and a girl who was no more than twelve-years-old being detained by two of my Marines. The woman remained quiet until the girl began to scream, then the woman would begin to plead with the girl, obviously telling her to remain calm. The scene was far from calm, and I realized as soon as I entered the room if I didn’t take charge of the situation I would have two dead civilian women in my daily report.
“Settle the fuck down. I assume no one speaks English?” I asked of the two Marines.
“Fuck yeah they do, but they ain’t sayin’ shit. Cocksuckers got AK’s in the front room. They’re fucking al-Qaeda,” one of the Marines responded.
I turned to face the woman. “English. Do you speak English?”
Both she and the girl responded in Arabic, shaking their heads as they spoke. The woman seemed nothing but concerned for her family’s welfare, but the girl seemed to have something she wanted to say, and wasn’t interested in being quiet.
Although it wasn’t a common occurrence, women and children had opposed Marines in previous battles, shooting small arms, using grenades, and detonating roadside bombs. As sickening as it was to do so, on occasion, women and children had to be killed. In determining whether or not the person was a threat to my men, I couldn’t let gender come into play. Every person must be assumed a threat until it was determined they were not a threat. That determination came by no other than me, and was based on nothing other than my gut instinct.
To date I had yet to be wrong.
“Vingelli, go get the Terp. I think we’ve got a situation here, but this woman and her daughter aren’t al-Qaeda,” I said as I studied the eyes of the girl.
Her eyes told me she was scared, but not of my men. Her fear was deeper. In my opinion, she feared the men who had left the weapons in her home. Unintimidated by my uniform and weapon, she made eye contact with me, opened her brown eyes wide, and pressed her tanned hands against the hips of her red cotton pants. She began to babble so quickly even if I spoke Arabic I wouldn’t have been able to keep up. Calmly, I reached over and brushed the dust from the floral pattern shirt she wore, and earned a grin as I did so.
“They might not be, but the old man is. He isn’t responding to a god damned thing we ask him. He’s keeping fucking secrets. Ship his ass to Al Asad and let the CIA water board him for an hour and he’ll give it up,” Vingelli said as he turned away.
With two of my Marines guarding the front door of the residence, and the entire family in the kitchen, I studied each of the people we detained. An entire family incapable of speaking with nothing other than their eyes, they needed to say no more as far as I was concerned. They feared the same men we were searching for and wanted to simply be left alone.
They were one of the reasons I was fighting this war.
To provide them with the freedom to live a life free of fear and the threat of harm would satisfy me to no end, but after five long years of fighting and seeing no progress, I had my doubts if it could or would ever happen.
“Who’s got candy?” I asked as I reached into my pocket.
I found one sand covered peppermint in the pocket of my trousers.
“Fuck
The homes in Iraq, at least the ones I had been inside of, were far different than the homes in the United States. I was aware that the country also had mansions, and homes similar to Beverly Hill’s offerings, but the typical civilian home consisted of one large room where the family stayed, and a place to cook; and that was it. Some, but not all, had bathrooms. To the typical civilian in Iraq, having a rug thrown on the floor was a luxury.
As I stepped into the rear room of the house, I found a woman and a girl who was no more than twelve-years-old being detained by two of my Marines. The woman remained quiet until the girl began to scream, then the woman would begin to plead with the girl, obviously telling her to remain calm. The scene was far from calm, and I realized as soon as I entered the room if I didn’t take charge of the situation I would have two dead civilian women in my daily report.
“Settle the fuck down. I assume no one speaks English?” I asked of the two Marines.
“Fuck yeah they do, but they ain’t sayin’ shit. Cocksuckers got AK’s in the front room. They’re fucking al-Qaeda,” one of the Marines responded.
I turned to face the woman. “English. Do you speak English?”
Both she and the girl responded in Arabic, shaking their heads as they spoke. The woman seemed nothing but concerned for her family’s welfare, but the girl seemed to have something she wanted to say, and wasn’t interested in being quiet.
Although it wasn’t a common occurrence, women and children had opposed Marines in previous battles, shooting small arms, using grenades, and detonating roadside bombs. As sickening as it was to do so, on occasion, women and children had to be killed. In determining whether or not the person was a threat to my men, I couldn’t let gender come into play. Every person must be assumed a threat until it was determined they were not a threat. That determination came by no other than me, and was based on nothing other than my gut instinct.
To date I had yet to be wrong.
“Vingelli, go get the Terp. I think we’ve got a situation here, but this woman and her daughter aren’t al-Qaeda,” I said as I studied the eyes of the girl.
Her eyes told me she was scared, but not of my men. Her fear was deeper. In my opinion, she feared the men who had left the weapons in her home. Unintimidated by my uniform and weapon, she made eye contact with me, opened her brown eyes wide, and pressed her tanned hands against the hips of her red cotton pants. She began to babble so quickly even if I spoke Arabic I wouldn’t have been able to keep up. Calmly, I reached over and brushed the dust from the floral pattern shirt she wore, and earned a grin as I did so.
“They might not be, but the old man is. He isn’t responding to a god damned thing we ask him. He’s keeping fucking secrets. Ship his ass to Al Asad and let the CIA water board him for an hour and he’ll give it up,” Vingelli said as he turned away.
With two of my Marines guarding the front door of the residence, and the entire family in the kitchen, I studied each of the people we detained. An entire family incapable of speaking with nothing other than their eyes, they needed to say no more as far as I was concerned. They feared the same men we were searching for and wanted to simply be left alone.
They were one of the reasons I was fighting this war.
To provide them with the freedom to live a life free of fear and the threat of harm would satisfy me to no end, but after five long years of fighting and seeing no progress, I had my doubts if it could or would ever happen.
“Who’s got candy?” I asked as I reached into my pocket.
I found one sand covered peppermint in the pocket of my trousers.
“Fuck
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