It reminded me of Fallujah (A Marine remembers, Part 3)

[A continuing series by guest author Ross Caputi]

The sequence of events of that year is somewhat muddled in my memory, but certain experiences are still crystal clear.

Marines in Fallujah, Iraq
Marines in Fallujah, Iraq. Image in public domain.

I remember one night sitting with a friend from my unit in the back seat of a car in the ghetto. We were clean-cut with fresh high-and-tight haircuts, waiting for our contact to show up with the promised drugs.

The two junkies in the front seats were dirty and their skin sagged limply off their bones. They had burn marks on their fingers from cigarette lighters and they were unshaven and sweaty.

Up the street there was a group of guys, all wearing white t-shirts, who looked like they were guarding a house. I heard police sirens from about two blocks away in that densely settled neighborhood.

I watched my friend desperately bargain for drugs. He begged one of the guys up front to give him a bag, promising that when our contact showed up with our dope he would give him two in return.

I saw a disaster coming, but said nothing. I knew that when our dope finally arrived my friend would not want to give up two bags, and I expected that we would have to fight those two guys, and that they probably had guns or knives on them.

I remember the adrenaline that rushed into my veins and the indifference that I felt toward the consequences.

It reminded me of Fallujah. If a fight happened, it happened. If I died, oh well. Whatever fate brought me would be. I wouldn’t lift a finger to cause it or stop it. My mind and body were just along for the ride.

Ross Caputi, former Marine, founder of the Justice for Fallujah Project, and former president of the Boston University Anti-War Coalition