Shooter

head had lingered with me overnight. The thought made me homesick. I missed my family.

As dawn broke, I went to find Paperboy-John Koopman, our embedded newspaper reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle- who had been receiving periodic e-mails for me on his laptop. All my sisters and their families, my mom, my mother-in-law, my kids, and my friends had sent warm messages, but there had been nothing from Kim.

Paperboy said there were no e-mails for me today, but he lent me the satellite telephone that he used to file his stories, and I stepped away to find some privacy as I dialed my home number far, far away. The call all the way from the battle zone to our house in 29 Palms went through without a problem, an amazing feat of technology, but the telephone was answered by the babysitter. Kim was once again away at school, she said. Cassie and Ashley filled me in on what was happening in school and at day care, and their happy voices were sounds from a different planet, a balm to me in troubled times. The babysitter sounded flustered, though, falling all over herself with apologies that my wife was not at home. The connection terminated with a forlorn little beep. I returned the phone to Koopman and walked off to find a quiet piece of desert.

Smack in the middle of the thousands of men of the 1st Marine Division, I felt isolated and alone, as if I were the only person out there on the desert sands. I had called home six times since I left California, and my wife had been there twice. I’d had more conversations with the babysitter than with her.

Then I thought about the time difference. California is eleven hours behind Iraq, so since it was about 6:30 A.M. on Sunday where I was standing, it would be 5:30 P.M. Saturday at home. Suddenly I realized that the babysitter had said my wife was at school, but I knew she didn’t have any classes on Saturday night! Why wasn’t she home with the kids? Was she out at a happy hour with some other teachers? Was she off at a library? Or was it something else? Shivers went up my spine. To me the word “wife” no longer seemed a term of endearment, home was on the far side of the world, and there was nothing I could do at the moment about the obviously out-of-whack domestic situation.

I was feeling crushed by demoralizing doubt. Killing enemy soldiers had not bothered me, but not hearing from Kim did. Churchill once called his own deep depression the “black dog,” and I could hear that same sort of drooling beast panting hotly in my own ear. Hell of a way to start a day.

I needed to shake up my brain. Too much emotion was creeping into my consciousness, and I could not operate as a shooter that way.

Jack (right) and Casey (left) are outside Ba’ath Party compound in Al Budayr.

(Courtesy of Gunnery Sergeant R. P. Simpson)

Jack on the plane to Kuwait.

(Courtesy of Major B. T. Mangan)

Sergeant Jerry Marsh is at his machine gun in the turret of Casey’s Humvee in the streets of Baghdad.

(Courtesy of Major B. T. Mangan)

First Sergeants Norm Arias (right) and Guy Rosbough (left) rest atop a mountain of money after we break up a bank robbery.

(Courtesy of Major B. T. Mangan)

Sergeant Major “Uncle Dave” Howell.

(Courtesy of Major B. T. Mangan)

Our secret chemical identification specialist-Little Bastard.

(Courtesy of Major B. T. Mangan)

Lieutenant Colonel Bryan P. McCoy (right) addresses the men of the Bull at Camp Ripper, Kuwait. Jack is on the left, and Casey, wearing glasses, is in the middle.

(Courtesy of Major B. T. Mangan)

Corporal Mark Evnin at Camp Ripper, Kuwait.

(Courtesy of Staff Sergeant M. S. Mattson)

Jack shooting from atop of Casey’s Humvee, Afak.

(Courtesy of Gunnery Sergeant R. P. Simpson)

Marines of the 3/4 Battalion, the Bull, move on Ad Diwaniyah.

(Courtesy of Staff Sergeant B. R. Bochenski)

Colonel Steve Hummer, commanding officer of the 7th Marines, gives the order to attack into Baghdad to Lieutenant Colonel McCoy (left), and Major J. M. Baker (right).

(Courtesy of Staff Sergeant B. R. Bochenski)

Jack throws a grenade in Az Zafaraniyah.

(Courtesy of Gary Knight)

Casey goes over a wall in Az Zafaraniyah.

(Courtesy of Gary Knight)

A column of smoke from an air strike rises on the far side of the Diyala Bridge.

(Courtesy of Major B. T. Mangan)

The Diyala Bridge, with the body of an Iraqi fighter.

(Courtesy of Major B. T. Mangan)

The new bridge we built across the Diyala River.

(Courtesy of Gunnery Sergeant R. P. Simpson)

The statue of Saddam Hussein, as seen between U.S. Marines, moments before it is pulled down.

(Courtesy of Major B. T. Mangan)

Cheering Iraqis gather before the statue falls.

(Courtesy of Staff Sergeant B. R. Bochenski)

Iraqis with Casey’s flag at the base of the fallen statue.

(Courtesy of Major B. T. Mangan)

Lieutenant Colonel McCoy (center) and Sergeant Major Howell at a memorial service for fallen Marines in Iraq.

(Courtesy of Major B. T. Mangan

Jack is presented his Bronze Star by Major J. M. Baker, 29 Palms, California.

(Courtesy of Lance Corporal H. E. Laredo)

As a sniper, you are supposed to be coldhearted and must be able to control yourself, no matter what is going on. But you are still human. If you don’t have feelings and emotions, then you step over the line and are just a