This was a country that had known its share of invaders. The roads and desserts were littered with the destroyed war machines of the past, and the present. Buildings bore the unmistakable signs of shell and mortar damage, and the ground, just below the surface was littered with exploded shells.

Lieutenant Andrew Peters surveyed the village, outside of which he had halted his platoon, with his cold blue, calculating eyes. Planting his elbows on the hood of his Humvee Peters scanned the village with his binoculars. Everything was quiet, but something was wrong.

It was too quiet. Glancing at his watch, he frowned. It was almost noon, the village should be a hive of activity, but there was barely a person in sight. The few people who had been out were quickly disappearing into buildings.

Lowering his binoculars, Peters surveyed the village with his naked eye. Peters reached down to the radio handset on his Kevlar vest and unhooked it. The radio was his way of communicating with the entire platoon.
“Anybody got anything,” asked Peters.

Each squad reported in the negative. As he raised the binoculars to his eyes again, the Platoon First Sergeant came jogging over from his Humvee. Sergeant Kosakowski was a large, muscular man. His chest was so broad it always seemed like he was going to burst out of his Kevlar vest.
“Sir, I don’t like this,” said Kosakowski.
“I know, I don’t either,” Peters replied. He thought for a moment, “Get the platoon ready to move.”
“Yes sir.”

Kosakowski jogged off to see to the rest of the platoon and Peters took up the handset again and began to relay the order.

The sound came a moment later. A deep thud, deadened only by distance, followed by a low whistle that got louder and louder.
“Incoming, get down,” yelled Peters diving behind the wheel well of his Humvee. The mortar round landed almost thirty yards in front of the group. Seconds later the platoon was taking small arms fire from the village. They were completely exposed.

The clatter of AK-47’s was quickly joined by the slow thud of the .50 caliber machine guns, mounted in the turrets of the Humvees’ and the distinctive sound of M-16s as his men returned fire.

Another round fell, this time closer. Peters knew that they needed an airstrike. It was only way he could neutralize the mortars. As a third round fell, again closer, he realized something else. They have a spotter. Someone telling them where the rounds are falling. He grabbed the handset and called his sniper team “hunter 1” who were part of his second squad.
“Hunter 1 be on the watch for an enemy spotter. Do not engage without my say, how copy?”
“Copy that.”

The rounds were getting closer and closer. He got the fire direction center on the radio, but they told him that there were no air support units in his area at present. The volume of small arms fire was increasing. Peters mind was spinning.

We can’t withdraw, the fire is too heavy. We need to try and suppress their fire and we have to do it before they range their mortar fire.

Suddenly the radio crackled to life. One of his men had been hit by small arms fire, but he was stable. The mortars were getting closer.
“This is hunter one we have a possible enemy spotter, how copy?”
“Copy that, do you have a location on suspected spotter?”
“Two story house, third from the left, second story balcony.”

Peters took his binoculars and peered carefully over the hood of his Humvee. He found the suspected spotter. He only emerged as each round was falling. He seemed to have a cell phone, but he couldn’t be sure. He was going to have to request permission to engage. The Rules of Engagement (ROE) classified him as an unarmed “non-combatant.” As he took up the radio, another round fell, closer.

It took a minute for him to get through to the fire direction center this time. Two more rounds fell. Each was closer than before. Finally he reached the officer in charge of ROE change requests. He explained the situation to the colonel. He was told to stand-by.
“Request for a change to the ROE is denied,” said the colonel flatly.
“Copy that,” said Peters in an equally flat voice.

S***. What do I do now? Another round fell this time right next to his third Humvee. Two more men were wounded, one critically. Sergeant Kosakowski came running over to the Humvee.
“Sir, Anderson and Hailey were both hit,” he said breathlessly.
“Condition?”
“Hailey is stable, minor leg wound, but Anderson took shrapnel in the chest. He’s stable, but he needs to be evacuated PDQ.”

Another round landed just behind the platoon. We need to take out this spotter. But I don’t have permission. I’ll have to request a change again. Picking up the handset, he began to make another request for a change to the ROE.
“Sir, where is this spotter,” asked the sergeant, taking the binoculars.

First Sergeant Johnathan Kosakowski observed the suspected spotter for a moment. As if in slow motion, Peters saw him turn to him, beginning to say something. Then the bullet struck him in the chest.

Peters watched in horror as his sergeant fell in a bloody mass. He was dead before his head hit the sand.

The voice of the colonel was coming from the radio.
“Submit your request for ROE change at this time, how copy?”

Peters sat staring at Johnathan’s body for a long moment. His face was frozen in a look of surprise. Peters dropped the handset. Taking the Platoon wide communications:
“We have a KIA.”

Another round fell this time, right in the middle of the platoon. Another man was wounded. Things were getting worse. He didn’t know what to do.
“Hunter 1, do you still have the enemy spotter,” asked Peters coldly.
“We do sir.”
“Stand-by.”

What am I supposed to do? I have no air support, and I am pinned down. This spotter will destroy my entire platoon. That’s sixty men. Sixty letters home. Sixty fathers who will not see their kids again, sixty husbands that I promised to return to their wives. Another round fell.
“Orders sir,” asked Hunter one.

What can I do? I have no choice. What do they expect me to do?
“Orders sir?”
“Hunter 1…you are cleared to engage target as a suspected enemy spotter,” replied Peters breathlessly.

He was still looking through the binoculars as he gave the order, suddenly he realized something. As the figure emerged, he saw that it was standing up straight, it wasn’t crouching like they had thought it was a kid.
“Hunter 1, stand down, I repeat, stand down,” said Peters desperately.

The thud of the sniper rifle seemed to echo forever in Peters ears.




...


To: Nicholas Kristof
New York Times



December 30, 2010. That was the day I ceased to be a soldier. Soldiers fight their countries enemy’s honorably. They do not shoot unarmed kids on a hunch.

When I returned from Iraq I requested an investigation of the incident. Though there was little evidence to justify my actions, I was cleared of all wrong doing. The report stated that I had acted upon “the best intelligence available at the time.” The report was then classified and essentially buried. They even gave me the Bronze State for meritorious service.

I have lived with the guilt of that day for four long years. Every night I see my sergeant’s chest, the look on his face as the life left his eyes forever, and hear the thud of the sniper rifle. I live with this guilt because justice was never done. Today I intend to change that.

Enclosed is my account of the events of December 30, and the contact information of members of my platoon that are willing to corroborate the story on the record. I want this done right. This story must be told correctly, and with no mistakes or bias. I wish I could be the one to tell it.

People, in the coming days, will say that what I did was a result of PTSD, or depression. This is not true. I am doing this for the sake of justice, nothing more.

I bought the ammunition this morning. It seemed a waste to buy fifty rounds of .9mm ammunition when all I needed was the one. I’m going to do it in the backyard. I don’t want to leave a mess.

I was once a soldier, I am now a murder. I was once a husband, I’m now a divorcé. I was once a father. It’s been over two months since I’ve seen my kids. I was once a graduate of the finest military academy in the world. I sent back my commission, diploma, and ring today.

This story needs to be told, but I cannot bare the shame anymore. I need justice. I have given you the pieces and now you must put them together, and show the world what I did.

Beyond this I ask only that you do not pity me. I am more at peace now then I’ve ever been in my life. I know that soon the pain will be over. That soon I will be free from it all. Free from the dreams, the guilt, and the flashbacks. Today I will be free for the first time in more than four years and I can’t help but smile at the thought. I will be free. Free from it all. Free.