Ending a Life, and a Part of Yourself, for the First Time
By THOMAS JAMES BRENNAN
December 14, 2012
Two hundred meters was all that separated me from an insurgent carrying an AK-47. I sat in a dilapidated brown leather chair, recessed in the shadows of a second-story room in the government complex of Falluja, Iraq. My sights were perfectly centered as I perched my elbows on the desk in front of me. The clear tip traced the center of his chest. He crept around a corner of a mud wall and slowly moved toward our position. Fear built inside me. I hesitantly began to pull the trigger of my M-16.
I was scared, to say the least. It was the first time my training would be tested. I heard my rifle crack as I fired. The weapon’s recoil nudged my shoulder, and he crumpled to the ground. The aroma of gunpowder filled the room. I fired two more rounds into his motionless body, then stared in amazement as his body lay lifeless, his black and red scarf astray. The sun rose across the city’s skyline. I was 19.
For me, the 10th of November is special. It is the Marine Corps’s birthday, a day for celebrating camaraderie. But it is also the day, eight years ago, when I was pinned down in the relentless firefights of Operation Phantom Fury. It is the day when I took a person’s life for the first time.
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