Chaos at Both Ends of a Bridge

By Simon Robinson/Diyala River

The road to central Baghdad lies across a partly blown iron bridge. The bridge is unable to support tanks, so the Marines will have to take it on foot, which will let them be the first U.S. forces to hold ground in the suburbs of Baghdad.

In the early-morning light of April 7, Lieut. Colonel Bryan P. McCoy is discussing the crossing and the anticipated fight in the southern suburbs of Baghdad with several of his commanding officers. A song is running through McCoy's head, the one that plays every time he goes into battle: The Girl from Ipanema. "I have no idea why," he says.

The samba in McCoy's head is overtaken by a different beat--the whump of an artillery round. Suddenly, the courtyard where the infantrymen have assembled to make the charge across the bridge is black with raining oil and shrapnel and smoke. Marines are shouting, hitting the ground, running for cover. The round has slammed into an amphibious assault vehicle just five feet away from me, landing between the gunner's turret and the driver's hatch. Marines pull injured buddies away from the smoking wreck. Blood mixes with oil on the vehicle's metal ramp. They cover bodies--two of them--and carry four injured to a field ambulance. "Get his weapon; we're going to need it," one shouts as a machine gunner is stretchered away.

Minutes later, squads of Marines are pushing across the bridge. They pour into the streets on the other side, but the expected resistance never comes. Along the riverbank are bunkers, empty save for abandoned gear and piles of Iraqi army boots, shed, presumably, so the retreating soldiers can don civilian clothes and continue the fight if they choose.

And that's a problem. As the Marines move north through a section of middle-class houses, we pass bodies slumped over the steering wheels of cars. Many appear to be civilians, innocents caught in American fire. A captain tells his men that the rules of engagement have just changed; the enemy is using ambulances laden with explosives.

The Marines are video-game twitchy. They shoot up a minivan with a woman and child, fearing it is full of explosives. For an hour or so, the stress of the morning threatens to unleash lethal chaos. It isn't until American sniper teams set up on rooftops that order is restored. "These guys are more on the edge because they're sitting out in the open with vehicles coming at them," says Staff Sergeant Dino Moreno, a sniper. "We can fire into the grille or the tire. We're trying to prevent as many civilians from getting killed as possible."

The Marines have seen two of their own to the grave today. Many of them think the hit was a short round, friendly fire. But an investigation the following day points to an Iraqi shell. "We're really touchy about friendly fire," says McCoy later. "It's better that it was enemy. But either way, those Marines are dead."