thedrifter
02-07-06, 06:29 AM
Iraqi sniper gives reporter a rude welcome to Ramadi
By Antonio Castaneda
The Associated Press
Editor's note: Antonio Castaneda, an Associated Press reporter, is embedded with Marines from the 3rd Battalion, 7th Regiment. Here is his first-person account:
Ramadi, Iraq - A loud "zing" echoed across the street, as if someone had swung an aluminum bat against a pole. I instinctively ducked, then quickly pressed up against the front- right tire of the car nearest me.
A telephone pole 10 feet to my right bore a 1-inch hole - the work of a hidden sniper. The Marine closest to the pole, Cpl. Ryan Osbrink of Portland, Ore., had ducked along with the rest of the patrol.
The Marines scanned the distance and shouted at one another, asking if anyone saw the gunman. Pedestrians scrambled away as Monday's daylight faded to dusk.
We were pinned down, and no one knew the source of fire.
I had been accompanying about 20 Marines doing "flash checkpoints" - stopping and searching cars in Ramadi, a dangerous city in western Iraq. At least two wanted suspects had been captured by this company through such tactics, the Marines said.
My mind flashed back to the security training course I took where my instructors told us high-velocity bullets could easily rip through cars. I hoped the sniper hadn't seen where the three of us took cover.
The commanding officer, Lt. Mauro Mujica-Parodi of Washington, D.C., scrambled over and knelt in front of me - like a wrestler in a starting position - to shield me from the open space down the road.
I felt guilty - I always tried to stay out of troops' way and not be a distraction. The lieutenant scanned the distance with his rifle pointed down the road.
Mujica-Parodi shouted to a Marine up the road who'd stopped a car to search it.
"Hey, just ask (the driver) if he's got a bomb in the car and we'll get the hell out of here," yelled Mujica-Parodi, a Marine who was a college student at Georgetown University less than two years ago.
The last time I'd been this close to the receiving end of gunfire I was also with Marines, on an early-morning offensive in the western city of Hadithah last spring. I remember running through unfamiliar streets and taking refuge on a rooftop with a group of Marines. One of them was killed later that summer.
I was wearing a blue flak jacket designed to withstand the fire from an AK-47, the most common gun in Iraq, along with a black helmet. The Marines crouched all along the road wore their standard thick jackets with neck and crotch guards that weigh several pounds more than mine.
Within my line of sight was an Iraqi shop owner who moments earlier I had exchanged a greeting with. His eyes were wide with fright as he stayed toward the rear of his shop.
Mujica-Parodi yelled for smoke, and seconds later a metal canister rolled between the car we were huddled next to and our Humvee 45 feet away. A green cloud formed over the street.
"Are you ready?" the lieutenant asked.
We then sprinted so fast I nearly lost my footing. The cloud was so thick I lost sight of the Humvee for a moment and almost forgot which side my seat was on before getting my bearings and jumping inside.
In the relative safety of our Humvee, we relaxed just a bit.
"God, I love sunset," said Cpl. Aaron Swallow of McLouth, Kan., the Humvee driver, referring to the usual jump in attacks as darkness descends.
As we sped away from the dissipating green cloud, he looked back with a broad grin and added, "Welcome to Ramadi."
By Antonio Castaneda
The Associated Press
Editor's note: Antonio Castaneda, an Associated Press reporter, is embedded with Marines from the 3rd Battalion, 7th Regiment. Here is his first-person account:
Ramadi, Iraq - A loud "zing" echoed across the street, as if someone had swung an aluminum bat against a pole. I instinctively ducked, then quickly pressed up against the front- right tire of the car nearest me.
A telephone pole 10 feet to my right bore a 1-inch hole - the work of a hidden sniper. The Marine closest to the pole, Cpl. Ryan Osbrink of Portland, Ore., had ducked along with the rest of the patrol.
The Marines scanned the distance and shouted at one another, asking if anyone saw the gunman. Pedestrians scrambled away as Monday's daylight faded to dusk.
We were pinned down, and no one knew the source of fire.
I had been accompanying about 20 Marines doing "flash checkpoints" - stopping and searching cars in Ramadi, a dangerous city in western Iraq. At least two wanted suspects had been captured by this company through such tactics, the Marines said.
My mind flashed back to the security training course I took where my instructors told us high-velocity bullets could easily rip through cars. I hoped the sniper hadn't seen where the three of us took cover.
The commanding officer, Lt. Mauro Mujica-Parodi of Washington, D.C., scrambled over and knelt in front of me - like a wrestler in a starting position - to shield me from the open space down the road.
I felt guilty - I always tried to stay out of troops' way and not be a distraction. The lieutenant scanned the distance with his rifle pointed down the road.
Mujica-Parodi shouted to a Marine up the road who'd stopped a car to search it.
"Hey, just ask (the driver) if he's got a bomb in the car and we'll get the hell out of here," yelled Mujica-Parodi, a Marine who was a college student at Georgetown University less than two years ago.
The last time I'd been this close to the receiving end of gunfire I was also with Marines, on an early-morning offensive in the western city of Hadithah last spring. I remember running through unfamiliar streets and taking refuge on a rooftop with a group of Marines. One of them was killed later that summer.
I was wearing a blue flak jacket designed to withstand the fire from an AK-47, the most common gun in Iraq, along with a black helmet. The Marines crouched all along the road wore their standard thick jackets with neck and crotch guards that weigh several pounds more than mine.
Within my line of sight was an Iraqi shop owner who moments earlier I had exchanged a greeting with. His eyes were wide with fright as he stayed toward the rear of his shop.
Mujica-Parodi yelled for smoke, and seconds later a metal canister rolled between the car we were huddled next to and our Humvee 45 feet away. A green cloud formed over the street.
"Are you ready?" the lieutenant asked.
We then sprinted so fast I nearly lost my footing. The cloud was so thick I lost sight of the Humvee for a moment and almost forgot which side my seat was on before getting my bearings and jumping inside.
In the relative safety of our Humvee, we relaxed just a bit.
"God, I love sunset," said Cpl. Aaron Swallow of McLouth, Kan., the Humvee driver, referring to the usual jump in attacks as darkness descends.
As we sped away from the dissipating green cloud, he looked back with a broad grin and added, "Welcome to Ramadi."