Lunch is served. We sit on cushions on the floor and eat from a big tray. Then tea is served, and we get a disquisition from the sheik on all the secular aspects of the Koran. Outside, things have quieted down. It's been an hour at least with no bombs, no shooting and no choppers overhead. The sheik's brother says fifteen or more civilians are dead. We had wanted to go to the hospital, but it was too close to the muj positions downtown. We decide it's time to go before the fighting starts again. We thank the sheik and start to leave.

"Every man has his fate," says the sheik as we climb back into the car. "If you die here today it is the will of God. Don't worry. It is all in God's hands." This attempt to reassure me fails.

The main road out of Baquba is empty and lined with eucalyptus trees. Just before we get to the highway, we pass a car straddling the median; it's shot full of holes. A corpse is sprawled in the street, and the ground is covered in blood and oil. A hundred feet ahead are the obvious scars of tank or Bradley tread marks and a heap of spent brass shells from a 50-caliber machine gun. We stop to take photos, but then Abu Talat sees a van and some men lurking in the trees near road. "No, let's go," he says.

We drive away fast, then lurch to a halt. "Humvees!" says Abu Talat. I can't even see them at first. They're about a half-mile off, at the end of the wide, empty road. We pull over, not sure what to do: We have the muj behind us and trigger-happy US troops ahead.

We'll have to walk out. Dahr and I leave our gear with Abu Talat and--with our hands in the air, press passes held high--start the trek toward US lines. When we're equidistant between the fresh corpse behind us and the guns ahead, we start yelling, "American journalists, don't shoot!"

When we reach the GIs they are mellow, spaced out from the heat, tired. Some seem a bit freaked out about having killed the motorist down the road. "He rammed a tank, that's why we lit him up," says one soldier. It seems an unlikely story--the car bore no sign of collision. Perhaps the car was speeding and a soldier got scared, thought it was a car bomb and opened up. The troops clear us to pass. I walk back for Abu Talat; they search the car and then we race at top speed back to Baghdad.

"Boys! That was 100 percent dangerous," chides Abu Talat, in his avuncular, military way. "But I think my wife will be very happy to see me when I get back tonight." He grins. And then, as if to warn us for real, he says, "You know, all the modern Iraqi revolutions--they always happen in July."

• « Previous
• 1
• 2
• 3
• 4

• Get The Nation at home (and online!) for 75 cents a week!
• If you like this article, consider making a donation to The Nation.