thedrifter
07-25-05, 05:39 AM
Wartime DISPATCHES AL ASAD, Iraq
Correspondent Allison Perkins has been traveling through Iraq and reporting on soldiers who call the Triad home.
Darius Hyman uses a paintbrush to gently wipe sand from the metallic insides of his .50-caliber machine gun.
He removes the barrel, the charging handle, the bolt, moving each piece carefully, precisely. From atop the Humvee, where he and the machine gun sit nearly 7 feet off the ground, he looks over a row of Marines, all practicing the same ritual.
He yanks back on the charging handle.
Chaachink. That's the magic sound. It means the weapon is ready to be loaded and fired, ready to put a hole through almost anything it's aimed at.
In his five months in Iraq, the Marine private first class and Greensboro resident hasn't had to fire one round from the weapon he has come to call "a really good friend."
It's a record he hopes he doesn't have to break.
"The collateral damage it would cause," he says, pausing and shaking his head. "You would have to be in a pretty serious situation."
Many folks back home might consider Hyman's daily routine as serious as it gets.
The 23-year-old father of two, N.C. A&T student and Marine reservist is on his second deployment to Iraq. He travels in convoys, often in one of the first vehicles to rumble down the broken and pothole-filled streets of Iraq.
His job: to provide security for the long line of vehicles behind him carrying supplies and troops.
As they travel, often at a snail's pace, he looks over buildings, alleys and windows, searching for snipers and explosives.
Sometimes bombs are buried under mounds of sand. Other times, they're hiding deep in the crevices of the roads.
Hyman carries two personal items with him when he convoys. The first is a collection of sharp, metal fragments -- each measuring 3 to 4 inches in length and weighing as much as a small apple.
As he pulls them out of the Humvee, a Marine nearby yells, "Those will take your head off."
Hyman nods.
"It's a reminder," he says, turning the jagged edge over and over in his hand. "To actually hold something that has been used against American troops and has hurt a lot of innocent people.
"It can be very, very devastating."
He puts the shards of shrapnel aside and pulls a camouflaged Bible from his chest pocket. When he travels, it rests there, under his 35-pound vest of armor.
"I say my prayers," he says. "When you first go out, you feel a little naked, but once you start rolling, you feel like you have another type of protection over you and it's going to be all right."
Hyman's never fired the .50-cal, or the M-249 that rides at his side when he convoys. He has fired the M-16 rifle, the weapon he, like every Marine here, carries everywhere he goes -- to the chow hall, to the bathroom and to bed.
Hyman won't say where or when he's had to fire, or if anyone on the other end of the barrel died.
"I'd rather not say," he says, glancing away.
He prefers to talk instead about why he's here.
"It's for the freedom of our country, the pride of being a Marine," he says.
The wind kicks up as Hyman finishes checking his weapons. Sand blows against the Humvee, seeming to make his delicate cleaning a fruitless effort. Leaders shout as the countdown begins until the convoy lurches to a start. Today, they are headed back to Fallujah, where Hyman is stationed.
Three rows of giant, 5-ton trucks are loaded and ready. Their engines moan and hum as they prepare to leave.
Dust swirls around them, at times masking the giants completely and then exposing them again, allowing the sunlight's muted reflection to glow in the dusty rearview mirrors.
The trip could take a few hours, or it could take half a day. It's been known to take longer. There will be no breaks for sleeping, no stops at the restroom. The Marines eat as they roll and never take turns driving. Everyone stays in their spot; everyone stays focused.
After they arrive, the trucks will be unloaded; the weapons will be cleaned. Hyman and the others might grab a few hours of sleep before heading out the gate again. It's an exhausting existence, protecting the lives of his fellow Marines.
"It's constantly a matter of not, 'Will it happen?' but, 'When will it happen?' " Hyman says of the danger facing them outside the gate.
"I go out hoping I'll never have to fire a single shot," he says. "But I'll do anything I have to, to keep my Marines safe."
Contact Allison Perkins at aperkins@news-record.com
Ellie
Correspondent Allison Perkins has been traveling through Iraq and reporting on soldiers who call the Triad home.
Darius Hyman uses a paintbrush to gently wipe sand from the metallic insides of his .50-caliber machine gun.
He removes the barrel, the charging handle, the bolt, moving each piece carefully, precisely. From atop the Humvee, where he and the machine gun sit nearly 7 feet off the ground, he looks over a row of Marines, all practicing the same ritual.
He yanks back on the charging handle.
Chaachink. That's the magic sound. It means the weapon is ready to be loaded and fired, ready to put a hole through almost anything it's aimed at.
In his five months in Iraq, the Marine private first class and Greensboro resident hasn't had to fire one round from the weapon he has come to call "a really good friend."
It's a record he hopes he doesn't have to break.
"The collateral damage it would cause," he says, pausing and shaking his head. "You would have to be in a pretty serious situation."
Many folks back home might consider Hyman's daily routine as serious as it gets.
The 23-year-old father of two, N.C. A&T student and Marine reservist is on his second deployment to Iraq. He travels in convoys, often in one of the first vehicles to rumble down the broken and pothole-filled streets of Iraq.
His job: to provide security for the long line of vehicles behind him carrying supplies and troops.
As they travel, often at a snail's pace, he looks over buildings, alleys and windows, searching for snipers and explosives.
Sometimes bombs are buried under mounds of sand. Other times, they're hiding deep in the crevices of the roads.
Hyman carries two personal items with him when he convoys. The first is a collection of sharp, metal fragments -- each measuring 3 to 4 inches in length and weighing as much as a small apple.
As he pulls them out of the Humvee, a Marine nearby yells, "Those will take your head off."
Hyman nods.
"It's a reminder," he says, turning the jagged edge over and over in his hand. "To actually hold something that has been used against American troops and has hurt a lot of innocent people.
"It can be very, very devastating."
He puts the shards of shrapnel aside and pulls a camouflaged Bible from his chest pocket. When he travels, it rests there, under his 35-pound vest of armor.
"I say my prayers," he says. "When you first go out, you feel a little naked, but once you start rolling, you feel like you have another type of protection over you and it's going to be all right."
Hyman's never fired the .50-cal, or the M-249 that rides at his side when he convoys. He has fired the M-16 rifle, the weapon he, like every Marine here, carries everywhere he goes -- to the chow hall, to the bathroom and to bed.
Hyman won't say where or when he's had to fire, or if anyone on the other end of the barrel died.
"I'd rather not say," he says, glancing away.
He prefers to talk instead about why he's here.
"It's for the freedom of our country, the pride of being a Marine," he says.
The wind kicks up as Hyman finishes checking his weapons. Sand blows against the Humvee, seeming to make his delicate cleaning a fruitless effort. Leaders shout as the countdown begins until the convoy lurches to a start. Today, they are headed back to Fallujah, where Hyman is stationed.
Three rows of giant, 5-ton trucks are loaded and ready. Their engines moan and hum as they prepare to leave.
Dust swirls around them, at times masking the giants completely and then exposing them again, allowing the sunlight's muted reflection to glow in the dusty rearview mirrors.
The trip could take a few hours, or it could take half a day. It's been known to take longer. There will be no breaks for sleeping, no stops at the restroom. The Marines eat as they roll and never take turns driving. Everyone stays in their spot; everyone stays focused.
After they arrive, the trucks will be unloaded; the weapons will be cleaned. Hyman and the others might grab a few hours of sleep before heading out the gate again. It's an exhausting existence, protecting the lives of his fellow Marines.
"It's constantly a matter of not, 'Will it happen?' but, 'When will it happen?' " Hyman says of the danger facing them outside the gate.
"I go out hoping I'll never have to fire a single shot," he says. "But I'll do anything I have to, to keep my Marines safe."
Contact Allison Perkins at aperkins@news-record.com
Ellie