Rules Of Engagement

• Purpose: The purpose is twofold:

1. Provide implementation guidance on the application of force for mission accomplishment, and

2. Ensure the proper exercise of the inherent right of self-defense.

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Good Form

"Target suppressed," said Red. The familiar sounds of our M4s disrupted the sound of the AKs.

"We've got contact at the stone wall. We're in the fight. How copy?" Viking had that sound in his voice, excited.

Theo was quick at the reply. "Stay your sectors and stay frosty. Call your contacts for effect." He was calm and professional. His Marines were doing what the Corps bred us to do. Be as lethal as possible when the time comes. And it's now.

To my right was Kilo Two mobile, sprinting towards the poppy house. They were moving blindly and without orders. I saw one fall, the muzzle flash like lightning. They immediately took cover against the blind house, another taking a hit. I had no visual or contact. I was merely an observer waiting to get into the mix.

"Theo, we've got hostiles moving into the stony reeds. Kilo Four is engaged. They're taking casualties. Over," said Red. He was in the fight's thick and taking the brunt of it for now, T-Man hitting us in coordinated waves. Both our right and left. There was only one place left to attack. I knew it, and that's where I found them.

"Red, I have contact at your one o'clock. About eighty meters out, cutting the poppy and blind house. Looks like eight bad guys, over," I said as I saw them running from the berm, the moon giving them away. Several headed for the back of the Elder's hut. The others toward the blind house and Kilo Two. Red saw the T-Man runners and lit them up.

Holy shit. I saw Red's muzzle flash and several T-Man bodies fall.

A furious fight erupted as they ran into Kilo Two. It was brutal, hand-to-hand. The moonlight showed a gruesome scene of breaking bone and flesh. They were savage, using fists, knives, and point-blank shooting. I didn't have a clear shot and couldn't distinguish between the two forces. Within a minute, the Taliban, the apparent winner, drove Kilo Two back. All but those dying on the ground scattered into the night. Two of them ran past me with T-Man on their heels. I finally had my chance.

"Gotcha." Eight trigger pulls, three hits, at least two who would never again draw a breath. I stopped them in their tracks. Viking then opened up on them as we interlocked our fields of fire. Our muzzle flashes seemed to unite, peppering them and the poppy house.

I brass-checked my rifle, seeing no round in the receiver. I released the magazine, took another from my pouch, and reloaded. My movements were smooth, second nature to me. There was no urgency, and I never lost my line of sight.

I returned to the trigger, using my infrared designator to target a T-Man. Two pulls but no hits. Suddenly, two of our friendly combatants ran through my line of fire. I would have killed them both if it weren't for the white bands on their arms.

"Mountain hillbilly sons of bitches," I shouted.

They ran from the rear of the poppy house, making a beeline toward me. I couldn't fire, couldn't do anything. When they finally rushed by me, they fell on my back. Someone tugged at my arm. Whoever it was, was rambling. I never took my eyes off the fight, combat discipline. I tried to shush and ignore him as the fight came to us.

I fired two more bursts. T-Man was trying to gain a foothold near the poppy house, pouring more and more bodies through the middle of the village. I fired again. My rounds shattered the clay that was the corner of the house. I pinned three more against the wall. Viking opened on them, taking another one down.

Oh my God, we're freaking smoking them. I didn't want to lose this euphoric feeling, so I ignored the friend trying to get my attention.

"Loading!" I shouted, ejecting the spent mag.

Before I could do anything else, someone pulled my arm from my rifle. I turned and found a man crying, trying to communicate with me. On his lap, he held a boy with a gaping neck wound. He was bleeding out. There was blood everywhere. Now it was real. Slinging my rifle to my side, I immediately pressured the wound with my hands. I tried giving directions to the old man, but he didn't understand.

"You've got to put pressure on the wound. Hey, Grandpa, put your freaking hand on his neck."

He didn't get it. Letting go of the wound, blood spurted from the boy's neck onto my plate carrier and face. I forced the old man's hands on the boy's neck. Then, reaching for a small first aid kit on my battle belt, I tore open the flap and pulled out a trauma bandage. I ripped it open with my teeth, switched places with the old man, and applied direct pressure with my right hand.

With my left hand, I depressed the Push-To-Talk button clasped to my plate carrier and transmitted, "Friendly down, say again, I have a friendly down." I ignored the direct fire near the poppy house, kneeling tall and waiting for a response.

"What is the friendly's status? Over," said Theo.

I hit the PTT to transmit when I heard a shout from my right. It was familiar, the one they warned us about.

You may not hear it, but it could be the end if you do.

"ALLAHU AKBAR!"

My world stopped.

Looking up, I saw him. It was a surreal moment, with no emotion but no delay in action. My reaction was premeditated from training and anticipation of such a fight.

Get violent, Kelly. Get murderous.

My mind was sharp, remembering that my rifle was ineffective, with no magazine. His muzzle flashed, firing, drawing my attention to the most lethal instrument in my space.

He charged forward.

I grabbed the stock and magazine on his AK from the kneeling firing position. I drove my head into his chest and took hold of the magazine ejector. When I turned hard and straightened my right leg, I jerked him into my arms and tripped him. The old man holding the boy screamed as I fell to my back.

My hands slipped from the trigger housing, and T-man fired a stray burst into the air. He turned to his stomach and got one knee underneath him. I pushed his head into the hay as he tried to get to his knee. Then, wrapping my legs around his stomach, perched on his back mid-torso and began squeezing the air out of his diaphragm and lungs.

He fought, squirmed, and tried to claw at my face and arms, but I held on. I wrapped my left bicep around his throat, using my right hand to pry his neck back. I had him. My bicep constricted his trachea, my leg lock squeezing his diaphragm.

End this now. Kill him.

I reached back with my right hand, and by feel, I took my combat knife from my battle belt. With my heels locked near his groin and arms locked in an L shape, I leaned back. He grabbed hold of my forearm and the blade. I thrust my knife downward and sliced his wrist.

He cried out.

His grip wained, and I drove the blade through the side of his neck. Then, as the tip sliced through his jugular, I forced it deep into his cervical spine.

I heard it cutting through the tissue sinew in his throat. His once resilient battle cry, subdued, reduced to a mere gurgle. He shook, losing control, his bowels releasing. As he went limp in my grasp. His blood spurted into my eyes, mouth, and into my nose. It was awful. It was exhilarating. It was terrifying, and it was over.

Good form, Kelly.

I pushed off of his back, wiped his blood out of my eyes, and found my mag. I reloaded.

The old man spat on T-Man's soiled and lifeless body and screamed at it, the boy still cradled in his arms.

With my rifle, I returned to the wall, saw a target, and fired. When it fell, I found another with the same result.

Something changed in me at that moment. I wasn't missing anymore. With every pull of the trigger, I found my target. Perhaps the callous kill of the bad guy did something. Though I didn't see his eyes, I saw his face. It was dark and eerie, with no light suggesting salvation or penance. His was the face of death, a devout instrument of fear, pain, torment, and murder. While I would never forget it, I would never mourn nor regret ending his life. I had become an instrument of Sheol and the darkness of death's finality.