American Sniper - Boekje Pienter

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“Hold on, we’ll find out,” said the com guy on the other end of the
radio.
I watched them. I wasn’t going to shoot them—no way I was going
to take a chance and kill an American.
The unit took its time responding to our TOC, which, in turn, had
to get a hold of my platoon guys. I watched as the men walked on.
“Not ours,” came the call back finally. “They cancelled.”
“Great. Well I just let four guys go in your direction.”
(I’m sure if they had been out there, I never would have seen
them. Ninjas.)
Everybody was pissed. My guys back at the Hummers sat ready,
scanning the desert, waiting for the muj to appear. I went back to my
own scan, watching the area they were supposed to hit.
A few minutes later, what did I see but the four insurgents who’d
passed me earlier.
I got one; one of the other snipers got another before they could
take cover.
Then another six or seven insurgents appeared behind them.
Now we were in the middle of a firefight. We started launching
grenades. The rest of the platoon heard the gunfire and came hard.
But fighters who’d stumbled past us melted away.
The element of surprise lost, the platoon went ahead with the raid
on the marketplace in the dark. They found some ammo and AKs, but
nothing important in terms of a real weapons cache.
We never found out what the insurgents who slipped past were up to.
It was just another mystery of war.