“Rat, tat, tat. Rat, tat, tat.” Bullets were bouncing everywhere as I lay on the rooftop clutching my M-16 in my sweaty hands as hard as I have ever clutched anything. “Blam! Blam! Blam!” Something with a larger caliber was sounding off.

It just takes one. It just takes one. It just takes one. Damn it Fergus! Once we got down range, the man wouldn’t stop telling everyone that it just took one well placed bullet to kill you. I had to turn that negative shit into something else.

“Get off your Goddamn asses and get into the fucking fight!” Gunny Grim Jaw screamed as he walked the roof with bullets bouncing around him. We all called him Grim Jaw because he had jack-o-lantern teeth. “If your gonna fucking die today, it might as well be while you’re shooting back!”

Damn, that hard ass is right. I pop up and point my weapon at the opposite rooftop while pulling at my trigger. Nothing happens. Oh fuck, my weapon is still on safe. I’m an idiot! I drop back down and click my rifle to semi. I hear a series of rounds slamming into the two-foot concrete wall that is protecting my head. I pop up and rip off several shots, which were answered by an equal amount of fire coming back from the neighboring rooftop.

Aim you moron! The wall in front of me is raked by heavy fire. I had seen a man with a red rag on his head on the opposite roof, shooting at me. Aim at him this time and stop firing at the clouds! I’m up and shooting again, this time peppering the roof near red sash man.

He starts shooting back. It only takes one. It only takes one. Turn that shit. God I hope I don’t piss myself. Help me Jesus. Rounds bounce all around me as I once again take cover.

Help me Jesus. Help me Jesus. Help me Jesus has replaced the negative, and actually has somewhat of a calming affect. I am up on one knee again, ripping off the rest of the rounds in my magazine at red sash man. Looks like he has an AK. My near misses send him diving for cover this time. A call to prayer sounds out from a distant tower, making the whole scene seem surreal. RPG’s start slamming into our building.

I’m down again, my hand shaking so badly that I can’t get the fresh magazine loaded into my weapon. Fuck! I’m not gonna die here! Help me Jesus! Help me Jesus! Help me Jesus! Please don’t let me piss myself! My hand steadies and I get the magazine in.

The terror is so gut-wrenchingly soul deep that the thoughts and words are running through my mind like a runaway freight train. I have zero control over my mental process. Thank goodness my muscle memory from training has kicked in and I am still able to function.

I pop up again, rounds slapping the wall around me, a sting from ricocheting concrete tearing into my cheek. I ignore it. Help me Jesus. Help me Jesus. I take a second, and after a deep breath, I unload on the red sash man. He goes down in a hail of fire.

Help me Jesus. Help me Jesus. But how could he, I just killed my first man. Funny how men cry out to God at the worst moments of their lives. That day, on that rooftop, under that middle eastern sun was just such a moment.

Driving down dirty dust choked desert roads, waiting for that instant when your legs would be blown off and your flesh burnt, with the unimaginable screams of pain being your own were more of those worst moments. Extended terror.

Everybody handled it differently. Some men sat mumbling. Henson told jokes. Constant and unfunny. Walsh just cried. Johnson rubbed the colors off his rosary. I said one thing over and over again in my head, until we arrived at our destination. Help me Jesus. But how could he? I was a killer. Still, I survived while others in my unit didn’t. Quite possibly, God has room in his heart for sinners as well as saints.