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369 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2005
I felt impotent, but I wasn't powerless. I had an assault rifle in my hands. I could shoot the motherf****r. I could hold him hostage until he called in that helicopter.
In slow motion, I watch .50-caliber tracers and Mark-19 rounds arcing over the truck. It closed the gap on the gunners faster than they could lower their guns. For a second, I thought he'd run right into us. The gunners corrected, and grenades exploded against the grille and windshield as armor-piercing incendiary machine gun rounds ripped the cab apart...Still the truck rushed closer...I jammed the rifle stock into my shoulder and flipped the selector level to 'burst'...I aimed low, at the middle of the grille, knowing the shots would float upward toward the windshield. The rifle stuttered, three little kicks at a time.
The rules of engagement harked back to my college classes on Saint Augustine and "just war" theory. I couldn't control the justice of the declaration of war, but I could control the justice of its conduct within my tiny sphere of influence. Doing right, I thought, wasn't only a moral imperative but also the most expedient way to lead the platoon."
“I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it.”
“You’re quoted as saying, ‘The bad news is, we don’t get much sleep tonight; the good news is, we get to kill people.’ […] Could you please explain that quote for me?”
“No, I cannot.”
“Well, do you really feel that way?”
“You mean, will I climb your clock tower and pick people off with a hunting rifle? […] No, I will not. Do I feel compelled to explain myself to you? I don’t.”