Free Ambush Alley: The Most Extraordinary Battle of the Iraq War by Tim Pritchard

the two months since leaving Camp Lejeune, they had exhausted most subjects. They talked about the stupid stuff they’d done in high school, the things they wished they could do, the things they might do in the next few days, and the things they were going to do when they got home. For the last few hours they’d laughed about the time when Quirk’s buddy, Lance Corporal John Mathews, had made fun of their staff sergeant. They were digging a “SCUD pit” and Staff Sergeant Anthony Pompos had told Mathews to dig deeper.
    “Hey, Staff Sergeant, do you like duck meat?”
    “Yeah, I love hunting ducks and I love duck meat.”
    The lance corporal nodded and pointed to his dick.
    “Well, why don’t you duck down here and get some of this meat.”
    It was the funniest thing they’d heard in a long time. It was made even funnier when Staff Sergeant Pompos yelled back at him.
    “Well, Mathews, you duck down in the hole and keep digging until I tell you to stop.”
    Quirk had grown up in Ossining, New York, a nice, suburban neighborhood of small but smart houses with three-foot-square front lawns, about an hour’s journey from Grand Central Station in Manhattan. His parents were TV parents—caring, middle class, and so sweet. They were the best. His mother was a teacher and his father worked in computers. He respected his dad. He’d been in the Marine Corps and served in Vietnam. But Quirk could never bring himself to tell him just how much he admired him. Quirk, too, had wanted to join the Marines straight after high school, but he and his girlfriend had got into trouble for vandalizing a police car. They only meant to throw eggs at it but ended up jumping on it and breaking some windows. He was put on probation for three years. Then September 11 happened. He went home and saw the second tower falling on TV. His dad looked at him.
    “Well, what are you going to do now?”
    “I am going to join the Marine Corps.”
    “Hats off to you son.”
    He went to the Marine recruiting station in Middletown, New York, and told the recruiter about his neighbor and the local firemen who had died on September 11. Quirk laid it straight down the line to the recruiter because he knew they were conniving bastards. They tried to suck you in with stories of combat, of cheap blow jobs in Guam and Manila, of the thrill of killing and how every chick wants to hook up with a marine.
    “Don’t pump my ass. Don’t try and trick me with your bullshit. I want to be a rifleman. I want to be a grunt. Just tell me what I have to do to make this happen.”
    The recruiter said he could work with his criminal record. It took him several months but finally he managed to get the waivers, and on January 21, 2002, he went to Boot Camp at Parris Island, South Carolina. A year later he was on his way to Iraq. Not that he cared about Iraq or Afghanistan. He didn’t give a shit about those places, about liberating this guy or that guy. It was pure and simple.
If Americans are going to get killed, I
want to be right next to them because for whatever fucking naïve, childish
fucking reason, I fucking goddamn love my country.
    Quirk still showed traces of how young he was. He was short in stature, but his shoulders were broadening. He still had a baby face, but his jawline was getting stronger. Before joining the Marine Corps his biggest fear was taking a shit in front of other guys. He really didn’t want to wipe his ass in front of anyone else. But now he was getting used to life in the field and for the past few days, whenever he needed a shit, he’d take a buddy and the two of them would go over a hill and chat away as they were taking a dump.
    Quirk stood up and poked his head out of the AAV’s hatch. He offered to swap places with Lance Corporal David Fribley. Fribley, a twenty-six-year-old marine from Lee, Florida, had been posting air security all day and he was tired. Quirk was glad to do the guy a favor. He was about the nicest guy you could ever