Jim Spiri in Iraq

On the 8th of June, we went from back alley to back alley and entered several houses and did the "census"
type operation which keeps each house identified with who is there and who is new to the area. Entering the homes of the local Iraqi's in itself is a priceless experience. As a squad of marines comes upon a house, the pace is picked up to a rapid momentum as everyone takes his position and opens the metal gates that each house has as an entrance. The marines work in perfect unison attentively watching every angle for the ever present sniper(s) who roam the same streets we daily patrol. One never forgets, this is a war zone.
People are out to harm, that there is no doubt on.

One house we entered, we stayed for a long duration of time. Perhaps three to four hours, as the daylight hours soon drifted into evening dusk. While conversing with the residents, it is easy to become lulled by the ambiance of it all. The homes are big cinder block homes usually two, three stories in height. There is always a roof top that has a four foot wall around the perimeter. When we enter the home, the roof is always the first goal, as the marines in the remainder of the house secure the residents and keep them in one or two rooms.
Sometimes the men in one room, the women in another depending the make up of each home.

I always take photos of each home as the lighting in the homes lends itself to good practice of human interest type photos. I think back to the days of teaching black and white photography and wonder how good a project this would have been. I'm constantly reminded of my time 20-years back in doing exactly what I am doing now, only then it was a land called El Salvador, where I at least was somewhat familiar with the culture.

By late afternoon, I had gone up to the roof as the lighting was good for some late photos. I remember being constantly reminded by my marines, to always move around, don't stand still in one place, as I am a more difficult target by constant moving. I always do as they say, but I find myself getting lulled by the ambiance and the quietness of it all. Looking over the four foot wall into the streets of Fallujah, I think back to the years of 2004-2005, working the flight line in Balad, Iraq, where at nights, I assisted loading the wounded, in those days, coming from exactly where I am now. If one listens closely, one can hear three years back, the sounds of the US blood that has spilled in the very streets I am peering into this late afternoon.

Then, over the radio came chatter of a vehicle that had sped by and was dragging a body out of it into an empty school building we had been observing for quite some time this day. Then, the next thing I recall is the sound of a few "pop, pop, pops" going off.
Immediately, everyone on the roof, began to position themselves as something more was about to transpire.

It was at this time, I reached into my right side pant pocket on the tan colored jump suit and brought out my small digital voice recorder. I had brought this to record audio interviews for selected marines as I get to know them one by one, and try to find their home towns and perhaps send a short story back on each of them, one by one. Something I think the folks stateside should have, kind of what Ernie Pyle might have done had he been alive now in Iraq.

Then, it happened. We began taking fire from the area we had been observing. I immediately was on complete alertness, as I began to place my audio recorder in a position that would capture the current sounds all around me, while at the same time, snapping some photos of these marines doing their job, and that at this time, was returning fire, staying alive and communicating with other squads in the vacinity to coordinate each upcoming moves.

The sounds were loud, very loud. The seven marines with me on the roof were all positioning returning fire. One was calmly sitting on a crate, handling all the radio communication. I looked around at the scene and thought to myself that it looked like a symphonic orchestra all performing the 1812 Overture.

Everyone was in perfect unison. It was a well oiled machine, and at the same time, it was loud, intense, completely auxilirating and no one minded as I crouched near the ones returning the heaviest fire and took photos of their faces performing their duties.
What needs to reminded in this event, is the same thing I see on a daily basis. These marines are all at the very most, half my age, yet, far beyone their years in maturity allowing me the opportunity to take their photos. It was what I came here to do. Take photos of Marines, who have to be here, and be among what we all hear in word from many voices stateside, "those in harms way". I am here, and on this day, I know what it means to be in harms way, and for historical purposes, it is captured on this new machine called a digital camera, and on a voice
recorder.

I've played it back many times since that moment, with the marines that were there. It is an honor to watch them, listen to what they do. They have accepted me as one of their own, and daily, sometimes twice a day, I'm asked to accompany this platoon or that platoon, or this squad or that squad. I go on as many as I can, taking photos of patrols in the streets of Fallujah, because, well, at the moment, no one else is here for them. Others are here to "get the story" or "get the shot" for whatever reason. But, here, in Fallujah, the story is, just being here with them.
That's it.

After the firing stopped, we were all in communication via radio with others positioned in various places and we were directed to move to another house, a couple hundered meters away, moving towards the objective.
We gathered together in the home, downstairs, everyone completely ready, and began to move to the next location. At this moment, I was placed in the middle of the squad, with the "battle budy" I was assigned to, and this young man, named "Dunnigan", asked me, "Ready Jim?". As always, I said, "roger that", and then we exited the home we were currently at and proceeded to "move out" at a run.

I remember at that moment, feeling no pain, no stress, and as I moved following the marine directly ahead of me, I felt as I was a feather flying across the rutted dirt alleys of Fallujah while at the same time, snapping what photos I could. Everyone was "doing their job" and I was moving right along. We took up positions in the side area of another home, while all along listening to the radio for updates of critical information being passed from squad to squad as the orchestra did it's thing.

We entered another home, that was very close to all the events going down. The residents, about a dozen of them, were all terrified as we came in. There was children crying, mothers frantically gathering each member up, and one man directing the family to calm down. We secured them all in a safe room, and took up positions as other squads came to us. There we stayed for a time, as the others came in and a plan was formulated.

It was determined that the squad I was with, would be the assult squad and would enter the unknown first, and eliminate any threat that might be remaining. I again was asked, "ready Jim", and again, I replied, "Roger that". And then we moved once again.

This time it was now almost dark, and the photos would be hard to take while moving rapidly. We entered the building, that was still under construction or reconstruction, and each marine entered room by room expecting the unexpected. It was too dark now for photos, so I just followed the marine named "Dunnigan"
who had the SAW weapon. Everyone moved fast, and methodically, never once fearing for themselves, but again, the orchestra was a well oiled machine.

Eventually, one dead insurgent was located. For now, the place was secured. Outside, there were many people on the ground, kneeling, all in one area, monitored by the marines. Now it was time to figure out who was who. And this is the part that is always the most difficult. It is the part, I have not figured out yet, but slowly am learning the moves of the "bad guys".

In Fallujah these days, there are Iraqi police which many say are "shady" at best. That happens in a place like Fallujah, Iraq, as it does in many other parts of the world. We would spend a great deal of the rest of the evening, and follow up patrols both during the days and nights following, sorting out who is what and what was going on. That is the hard part of this war.
And that is what marines also do, the police work, the diplomatic work, as well as the "grunt" work that folks stateside might not know, or worse yet, even care. But, I am here to say, this is what happens, on the job, as a marine, in Fallujah, Iraq, in June of 2007.

And there are scores and scores of other things that go on, on a daily basis, during a deployment of America's finest, the marines, in harms way, just to do a days work. As the marines always tell me, "it's all in a days' work".

All I can think or say is, "What a day, in Fallujah".

Sincerely,

Jim Spiri
Forward Operating Base, Reaper, Fallujah, Iraq.
June 10, 2007