By William Epps
“Damn, that was moving fast.” I heard the words over my radio headset as we cruised through the dark Iraqi night.
“What?” I asked my gunner, Trevis.
“Fucking firefly just buzzed by my head.”
I thought nothing more about it, keeping my eyes out my Mine Resistant Armor Plated (MRAP) window on my sector of fire. Our convoy security element was traveling on Main Supply Route Mobile from Fallujah, past Ramadi, on our way to Al Asad.
I was the convoy commander of a 27-man, seven-gun-truck team that transported men and material all over western Iraq in 2007 and 2008. To give you an idea of our missions, our team escorted third country nationals, coalition forces, dignitaries, and materiel around the province of Al Anbar, Iraq. We were stationed out of Camp Fallujah, running missions from there to Baghdad International Airport, Al Asad Air Base, Al Taqaddum, Ramadi, and Hit.
The Convoy
From Truck #1, our navigator, to Truck #7, the rear gunner, there were times we might be stretched out for over a mile. Being the convoy commander, in Truck #4, the only thing that kept me in contact with all of them was our radio—and only if atmospherics were in our favor. This being my second deployment to the sandbox, I thought I had seen and heard it all. But that was about to change.
In 2003, during the Operation Iraqi Freedom invasion, I had been the heavy machine gunner on convoy and site security for the Navy Seabees. Back then it was the Wild West. We drove 70 mph down the wrong way on the roads and streets and shot at anything that was a threat. I literally stood behind a .50-caliber machine gun in the back of a soft top, open bed HUMVEE.
Now, in 2007, we drove around in up-armored MRAP vehicles, as IEDS and roadside bombs were a much bigger threat than some Hadji with an AK-47. Since my team had written the book on convoy security operations in 2003, I was the logical choice to head up this current group.
So now I found myself running teams and drinking whiskey out of a Listerine bottle in an old abandoned Iraqi storage shed that was our sleeping quarters, instead of on a beach somewhere.
Nocturnal Gnats
“There’s another one,” Trevis said.
Trevis was one of my youngest Seabees and one I had a lot of hope for, but right now, I’m thinking, Who gives a shit about bugs. I understood that standing up in the turret behind the 240B medium machine gun, on a six-hour mission, could get tiresome. But I needed his head in the game, watching out for any Hadjis out there who might want to blow us all to hell in the name of Allah.
This night was much like any other as we rolled through the Iraqi landscape. We were discussing the important issues of the day. Like who was the hottest actress and which dog breed was best. Living like that for the past 10 months, we’d all become a family and closer than brothers. But, as I said, Trevis was the little brother and needed a bit more seasoning.
Keeping my eyes moving, and disagreeing with Pat, my driver, that a Black Lab is not the best dog breed ever, I heard a snap and cussing from Trevis through my earphones.
“Man, I could hear that one. Son of a bitch was moving.”
“What?” I asked.
“There’s another one. I thought fireflies were yellow, not red.”
Suddenly, it hit me like a sledgehammer. “Hey you dumb motherfucker, those aren’t fireflies, they’re bullets. Somebody is shooting at you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. Look for muzzle flashes in the distance and then shoot back.”
Travelling at 40 mph we must have gotten through their kill zone, because he never saw any more fireflies or muzzle flashes.
And to this day, I never let him forget the night he saw “fireflies” in Iraq.
