American Sniper - Boekje Pienter

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He was up on the roof with us one night when we started taking
shots from insurgents somewhere.
I ducked behind the four-foot perimeter wall. Once the gunfire
subsided, I glanced over the roof and looked to see where the shots
had come from. It was too dark, though.
More shots were fired. Everybody ducked again. I went down just
a little, hoping to see a muzzle flash in the dark when the next shot
came over. I couldn’t see anything.
“Come on,” I said. “They’re not accurate. Where are they firing
from”
No answer from Runaway.
“Runaway, look for the muzzle flash,” I said.
I didn’t hear a response. Two or three more shots followed,
without me being able to figure out where they’d come from. Finally, I
turned around to ask if he had seen anything.
Runaway was nowhere to be found. He’d gone downstairs—for all
I know, the only thing that stopped him was the blocked door where
the Marines were pulling security.
“I could get killed up there,” he said when I caught up with him.
I left him downstairs, telling him to send up one of the Marines
pulling security in his place. At least I knew that guy wouldn’t run.
Runaway was eventually transferred somewhere where he wouldn’t
go into combat. He had lost his nerve. He should have pulled himself
out of there. That would have been embarrassing, but how much
worse could it have been He had to spend his time convincing everyone
else that he wasn’t really a pussy, when the evidence was there for
everyone to see.