“Doc…hey, check it out man.” It’s a little past 2 a.m. when U.S. Navy Combat Corpsman Justin Muxlow is awoken by his friend’s persistent nudging. Their armored truck has just rattled into the outskirts of the city. The night is eerie, and the full-throated grumbles of the truck’s diesel engine muffle the occasional whispers of the dozen or so troops riding in the back.

Muxlow twists his body to peer over the bulletproof siding, eyes wide open. A row of streetlights illuminates the concrete faces of homes. Every window is dark; many are abandoned. Some are just heaps of brick and concrete, swept from the streets into which they crumbled, and piled onto the side of the road. Those still standing are pocked with bullet holes, and few remain unscathed. This is what Muxlow signed up for—this is Fallujah.

Muxlow and the rest of 3/6 Kilo Company, 3rd Platoon spend a few days at Camp Baharia, also known as Dreamland­­—a former Baathist resort, complete with artificial lake, that rests on the eastern fringe of Fallujah. Then they head to OP Kadari, an observation post in the heart of the city.

The city is mangled. The smell of feces creeps into the air from gaping holes left in the sewage system, and government-generated electricity sputters through outlets for only a few hours each day. These are the vestiges of Operation Vigilant Resolve and Phantom Fury, the United States’ two major offensives.

Still, the people of Fallujah carry on. Five times a day, mosque loudspeakers blare the Salah—the Islamic
prayer—and the chants reverberate throughout the city. Markets are open, as are auto shops, dealerships, pool halls, hookah lounges, and Internet cafés, where Iraqi children enjoy exterminating virtual terrorists in an online cooperative game called Counter–Strike.

Back at OP Kadari, things are calm. For Muxlow, life becomes a blend of foot patrols, raids, eating MRE’s (Meal, Ready-to-Eat) and Hot Pockets, shitting in Wag Bags, and sleeping. Aside from the occasional gunshot off in the distance, the days go by without conflict, but still, fear sinks in.

“The enemy is watching you constantly, whether you know it or not,” Muxlow says.

Thoughts of dying fill his head—the idea of being blown up while peeking into dumpsters, getting sniped while walking in the streets—the possibilities seem endless. After some time, fear gives way to fatalism.
“The first month you’re like ‘I don’t want to die,’ but after a while you’re miserable, you’re hot. After a while it’s like ‘I really don’t care if I die tonight or not.’ You don’t give a fuck.”

Consciously or not, the fear of death still looms, and the anxiety can breed contempt. Sometimes, the Marines needlessly dishevel a house during a search, or disrespect a civilian to his face. Even Muxlow found his relations to be less than civil at times. Once, he went so far as to snatch hundreds of dollars worth of dinars he found while searching a house, though later his conscience caught up with him.

Muxlow remembers it quite vividly. It was sometime in July, early in the afternoon, as his squad was conducting routine searches. They chose a house, piled up next to the door, and busted in. The door swung open and inside was a family of six: an infant, two girls, two boys, and an older man. They were washing clothes in a bucket. Immediately, the older man began to scream wildly as tears ran down his face.

Muxlow tried to calm him. He took off his Kevlar, swung his rifle behind his back, and gave the man a hug. Soon, he began to understand the reason for the hysteria—the fellow, who was head of the household, was mentally challenged. “It took a good twenty minutes to calm that... dude down,” Muxlow recalls.

What he realized later was equally shocking: emptiness. There were no chairs, no couches, no beds, and no pictures. The only things in the house were sleeping pads, a couple of rugs, some clothes strewn on the floor, an empty refrigerator, and a stale piece of khubz bread on the counter, which felt rock hard to Muxlow’s touch.

“Talk about a rough... life; you think we have it rough in America… well fuck you!” Muxlow says. “I visited plenty of houses like that before. I don’t know what it was about that house, but it hit me. It hit me in my heart.”

Muxlow took the forty dollars he had in his wallet and went to a corner store to buy the family some food. He brought back soda, meat, bread and candy, and left that house feeling like a different man. To this day, he regrets stealing that money, and ended up giving what was left of it to poor Iraqis. When that ran out he gave from his own supply.

After a few months at OP Kadari, the platoon got orders to move out of the city. The situation in Fallujah was looking decent and Muxlow knew it. In his med pack he carried a needle thoracentesis for collapsed lungs, gauze for lacerations, and morphine and tourniquets for serious maulings. But the worst injuries he had treated were sprained ankles, headaches, and upset stomachs.

So the platoon set up shop one mile out in the desert as part of a plan to give Fallujah back to its people. Muxlow’s new home was much cozier than his last. At OP Spencer he could enjoy the subtle comforts of a Port-A-Potty and, eventually, the Internet. Every other day, when Muxlow wasn’t participating in forays into the city, he could lie back, read, watch movies, think about his friends and family, and watch the occasional fist fight.

Summer evenings in Fallujah are warm, to say the least. Whole families pull out their sleeping mats and settle in for the night on the rooftops, or in their outdoor courtyards, if they have any, to escape the engrossing heat that fills their tan, sun-baked homes. Sometimes, on early morning foot patrols, Muxlow and the others toss rocks at the sleeping children. Here, “f---ing” with kids is a pleasant diversion from pervasive thoughts of getting blown up, shot, and/or mutilated.

Summer days are hotter yet. Under the weight of his flak jacket, his helmet, his med pack, his M16, his extra magazines, his water bottles, and his boots, Muxlow trudges through the urban war zone, sweat dripping down his face, the sun warping his thoughts. “I thought about getting hit good enough, getting hit real good, like getting some shrapnel in my arm, just to get some rest.”

It’s just another routine foot patrol, on another infernal summer day, when Muxlow has to use his M16 for the first and last time. Muxlow and Lance Corporal Venus are guarding the rear, and the rest of the squad walks ahead in staggered formation. The sky is bright and clear, not a cloud to be seen, and a couple of construction workers are making repairs on a house as the troops move through the neighborhood. The heat is unbearable—on days like this the mercury routinely bubbles past the 115-degree mark.

Muxlow notices a white SUV is coming up behind them, with a single military-aged male behind the wheel. By the time he spins around the car is too close for comfort. He raises his M16 and Venus turns and raises his weapon as well. What happens next played out in a matter of seconds.

“My adrenaline was rushing,” Muxlow says. “I was thinking, fuck, I’m gonna have to kill this guy.” Muxlow aims at the empty passenger side and fires; Venus fires a split second later. They both miss the car entirely, but the shots give the desired effect: the car skids to a stop, driver unharmed. But the man in the car hunches over. It looks like he might be dead.

“Oh shit, you fucking killed the guy,” Muxlow says.

“Oh, shit dude,” Venus responds.

They approach the car cautiously and see that the man is only taking cover.

“Get the fuck outta the car!” Muxlow yells.

The man gets out. They pat him down, search his car, radio his name in, and find out he’s an ordinary guy running late on his way to a doctor appointment. He just didn’t notice he was approaching a group of Marines. “Make sure you put your glasses on,” Muxlow says, via interpreter of course, and sends the man on his way.

The months passed by. Fallujah remained calm, and in mid-October Muxlow caught a flight back to the States. In four months he will be honorably discharged. After that he plans on studying to become a physician’s assistant, but if it doesn’t work out he can always go back to firefighting. To this day he remains thankful for never having to kill, and as he looks back, he thinks of how Fallujah changed him. Sure, he still can’t get a full eight hours of sleep, but that’s not important, he says. Seeing the the vibrant spirit of the Iraqi people, who kept on living though they had next to nothing, taught Muxlow to appreciate his family and his friends.