Neither of them had ever been in a firefight before. Redus turned to Torres and said, “Grab all your fucking ammo, dude.” Through the wreckage of the back window, Redus and Torres saw dozens of masked men streaming out of buildings and alleys, pumping their rifles and rocket launchers in triumph. Redus screamed into the walkie-talkie, but the convoy had gone out of range. The wrecker slowed, almost to a stop, then sped off, its tow tackle jangling empty. Each of them later told Army investigators that they didn’t see anyone moving in the downed rig, but Redus claims he locked eyes with one of them. The last vehicle in line was an eight-wheeled wrecker, with a crew of three, whose job it was to recover disabled trucks. As did the following Humvee, its machine-gunner cowering in the turret, then another dump truck and another Humvee. Directly behind them, a military dump truck neared their position, but rather than scoop them up, it blew past at top speed. Up ahead, they saw the red taillights of the convoy bouncing away in a cloud of gun smoke and diesel exhaust. He shouted into his handset, “Help, help, we’re hit!” Redus came to and tried to force the truck into gear, but it wouldn’t budge. The tractor-trailer jackknifed and slammed sidelong into a Jersey barrier. Redus pinned the gas pedal to the floorboard as a rocket grenade exploded behind the cab, shredding the air lines to the rear axle and knocking both men unconscious. Curses and static came over the walkie-talkie. Then it was like a thunderstorm broke open: Bombs exploded, and fire and smoke erupted from under the pavement, followed by the deep thumping of machine guns. On a wide boulevard in the center of town, they heard a pinging noise, like the first drops of rain. They had no radio or satellite phone in the cab, just a store-bought walkie-talkie hanging from a bungee cord. Plates of rusty steel were bolted to the doors, a kind of homemade armor, but the truck, hauling a shipping container full of weapons, was otherwise unprotected. Stuart Redus was at the wheel of a boxy old big-rig, 28th in line, with Staff Sgt.
In the orange light of late afternoon, a mile-long Army convoy of 33 heavily loaded trucks crossed a bridge over the Tigris River into the dusty, trash-strewn streets of Al Amarah, Iraq.
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