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Fallujah. Memory in Flames

"Groetken, you ready to roll?" asked my squad leader Sergeant Macias. "Remember, you're rolling through Fallujah, so bring a few extra mags, and make sure that Fifty is cleaner than a virgin." "I'm always ready Sergeant, Fallujah is my hometown, they love me there!" I replied with a hint of sarcasm. These were the standard words exchanged before any given mission. Even if I made sure the fifty caliber had no dirt whatsoever and I brought along a whole rucksack full of M-16 magazines, I still would not be prepared for the scene that would be permanently engrained in my mind in a few hours. "Oh, and remember not to die. It's your nineteenth birthday in a few days and we got some celebrating to do!" Sergeant Macias commented. To me it was just another day in beautiful, sunny Iraq.

This was to be a standard convoy security mission, nothing special. The goal of the mission was to escort a convoy of Army fuel tankers from our home base in the town of Habbaniyah to the built up Army base in the Baghdad International Airport called Camp Victory North. I was placed as the M-2 fifty caliber machine gunner on the massive homemade fortress we named "51/50." This vehicle was a beast; we took a 20 foot long connex container, cut off the top, save for the roof to protect us from the brutal sun, and placed it on the back of a large truck called the PLS. We proceeded to armor the sides and equipped it with a fifty caliber machine gun, a MK-19 Automatic Grenade Launcher, an M-249 Squad Automatic Weapon and an ammo loader who was armed with an M-16 and an M-9 handgun.
We rolled out of the gate and proceeded down the road, knowing that soon we would be in the most dangerous city in the world, Fallujah. The way our camp was situated south of Lake Taqqadum, in order to get anywhere we had to go south, then east around the lake which was nothing but arid and desolate desert for at least two hours of travel. This creates boredom which in turn decreases vigilance, something that is a necessity for survival once a convoy crosses over the Euphrates River into what is called "The Iraqi Jungle."
The convoy rolled over the bridge spanning the Euphrates, and almost instantly the terrain turned lush and green. There were also cars and pedestrians with unfriendly faces, lots of them. The air smelled like a mixture of oil, human feces and the Elephant exhibit at the zoo, an interesting aroma that instantly brought the words "third world country" to mind. It also didn't

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