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last mortar round hit around 1315. Eight or more rounds landed during
the 15-minute attack. Marines and soldiers lingered at the shelters
for a few more minutes, then staggered back to their barracks. Capt.
Spaulding, a wiry (polite code for "not large") officer
who tends toward listening and consensus-building rather than the
standard USMC bellow, gathered his staff to pinpoint the source of
the mortar rounds. They spread out an area map on the floor inside
the closest building and pored over it. Other Marines gathered around
them to vent, speculate, and simply to be near one another. Some men slammed the Army for not adequately securing the area surrounding the camp and the power plant that sits in its midst. They also blamed the Army for not aggressively stalking the forces that launch such attacks. "They're more interested in hot chow and hot showers" than in fighting, spit a senior noncommissioned officer. The 24th MEU's ground combat element, he insisted, could crush the Iraqi adversaries with a sustained and lethal application of firepower and skillful maneuver -- if they were allowed to. His suggestion: immediately after an attack, shoot mortars and artillery into the zones identified as the source of fire. That might kill innocent Iraqi civilians, he averred, but it would encourage the local population to blow the whistle on the forces launching the attacks. That's the dominant, though not universal, opinion I have heard here. To minimize civilian casualties, the Pentagon drafted rules of engagement that dictate the conditions under which US forces can shoot back in populated areas (conditions embedded reporters are not permitted to reveal). They were not met in this instance, so Marine and Army mortars did not return fire. (An armed team, however, was sent out from the base to hunt for the shooters.) "This is politics, not war," said an exasperated lieutenant. "This is politics. That's the problem."At 1428, a sweaty, grim-faced, flak-jacketed Marine entered the building. He spoke quietly and briefly with Master Sergeant Benjamin. "Sullivan died," the Master Sergeant said. "Sullivan passed away." The Master Sergeant, a career Marine, six feet and three inches of sinew and right angles, crossed himself. The swaggering, ball-scratching, Type-A Marines around him retreated into themselves. Later, the leader of Lance Corporal Sullivan's unit, a young lieutenant, visited Capt. Spaulding and the Master Sergeant to ask whether there is a standard letter one sends to the family of a Marine killed in action. No, Captain Spaulding told him, there isn't. He advised the lieutenant to tell Sullivan's family how much the Lance Corporal meant to his squad mates and what he contributed to the unit. Don't dwell on the explicit facts of his death, the Captain added. The Marine Lance Corporal who bellowed at me in the Battalion Aid Station, Ricky Funderburk, found me and apologized the following day. Funderburk, a 21-year-old from Milton, Florida, with roughcut dirty blond hair and restless eyes, told me that he realized I was doing my job by taking photos during the attack. I replied that I understood his anger in that terrible instant. He was protecting the dignity of a friend. "I had friends that passed away last year, but not that close. Until Vince," said Funderburk, softly, just yards from where the rounds landed. "It's hard to think back on it," he said weighing his words, still visibly shaken, but answering my questions respectfully. "In the long run, I think it will make me a better person," he ventured. Thinking too much about Sullivan's death, Funderburk continued, "will definitely always bring you down. But it will also remind you of what can happen to you and make you do your job that much better and that much safer." |
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