Free Sunrise Over Fallujah by Walter Dean Myers Page A

Jonesy said.
    Ahmed said something to the guy but there was no answer.Ahmed hit him in the forehead with the heel of his hand, snapping his head back, and the guy looked first startled, then angry. My rifle was between my legs and I turned slightly so that it was pointed at him.
    The old man spoke in Arabic and I looked at Ahmed. Ahmed asked something and the guy answered. His voice was soft and he talked with his head down. I wanted him to speak louder even though I didn’t understand Arabic.
    â€œWhat’s he saying?” Jonesy asked.
    â€œHe’s saying that he’s been a good man all of his life,” Ahmed replied. “He’s made his Hajj and does God’s will. He says he’s an old man and doesn’t know why we want to kill him.”
    â€œWhy are we taking him instead of some of the others?” Jonesy asked.
    Ahmed talked to the man again. This time his voice softened and I wondered what he was saying, because whatever it was changed Ahmed’s attitude toward him. Ahmed had just rapped the old guy in the forehead, but now I could definitely hear a change in his voice.
    The man answered, then looked away out of the window. He was looking at a road he had probably traveled all of his life. Past familiar rocks, past a burned-out building, maybe even past people he knew.
    â€œHe says that the Americans found an AK-47 in his house,” Ahmed translated. “He said it was a Russian gun that he boughtyears ago to protect himself. He says he wanted to protect himself from robbers, and he didn’t expect Americans to come to kill him.”
    â€œTell him we didn’t come to kill him,” I said. “That we’re trying to build a democracy over here.”
    â€œYou bombed my village,” the old man, his head down, replied slowly in English. “First you shoot into my house, then you come to the door.”
    â€œWhere you learn to speak English?” Jonesy asked.
    â€œI drove a cab in London for twelve years,” answered the old man. “When I had enough money to buy a house for my family, I came back to my country.”
    â€œYou’re going to be all right,” Jonesy said. “We don’t hurt our prisoners.”
    â€œMy house had holes in the walls,” the old man said. “I am away from my family. Is this all right?”
    â€œYour ass could be dead,” said Jonesy.
    We drove the next miles in silence.
    It was all pretty confusing. We had been attacked. The guys who had fired on us didn’t know us, and we didn’t know them. I thought of them getting up in the morning and having their breakfast. Perhaps they had talked about the war. Perhaps they had imagined themselves fighting heroically against us. Now they were dead and the meaning of it was somewhere in the thin smoke that rose over the buildings.
    There were lots of vehicles on the road: Bradleys, big trucks, all headed north. We passed Iraqis going about their business on the highway. Some of them just stood by the side of the road, watching us. There was a man and a boy on a cart piled high with old furniture, being pulled by a donkey. We passed a tank that had a sign on its side: john 13:15. I asked Jonesy what it meant; he didn’t know.
    We reached a command post set up in a private house. An MP took the old man from us and put a hood over his head before leading him away. I hoped they were going to treat him gently.
    The 3 rd , according to Captain Coles, was headed toward Tallil Airport, which was southeast of us.
    â€œYo, Captain, is the Third leaving a couple of companies when they take over a place to make sure it stays safe?” Jonesy asked. “They moving so fast they’re going to have one dude left when they reach Baghdad.”
    â€œThat’s the point,” Captain Coles said. “Hit hard and hit fast.”
    â€œYeah, all that’s good on paper, sir,” Jonesy said. “But one time I hit a guy hard and fast