Amenah’s Story

The Humvee pulled up with a soft whoosh of tires on sandy gravel as near to the house as the driver could get. Marine Major Kevin Jarrard climbed out, tugged at his winter fatigues, and looked around, taking in the places where someone might hide—where they could take cover themselves if it came to that. By 2007, most of the insurgents had been driven out of this area, but there were incidents daily and it was wise to wear caution like an extra coat. This house, on the northern outskirts of Haditha, was no mansion, yet it was no appliance box either—a humble but functioning home for a shepherd with several children. The sky showed the rumpled gray of clouds bunching for a possible December rain, even snow. A breeze that swept across the Euphrates tugged at his short hair. He reached to tug his collar up higher against the chill. Born and raised in Georgia, he had never welcomed winter. But if you want warm sunny days and white picket fences, stay back in the United States.

He nodded to the surgeon, who climbed out of the vehicle with the interpreter. As they moved toward the house, Navy Captain John Nadeau asked a question with his eyes. Kevin’s checking on Alaa Thabit Fatah, the father, hadn’t confirmed that he’d been one of the insurgents, or that he hadn’t been. He shrugged. That didn’t seem to ruffle Nadeau, though only two years ago, the local police set up by the invading U.S. troops had been taken by insurgents to the town’s soccer stadium and had been beheaded, left there to lay with orders that no one touch the bodies. Haditha was more secure now, but peace is fragile, and never so much so as here. Kevin could only hear the wind rasping against the house they approached and no sporadic gunfire in the distance, which would not have surprised him.