American Sniper - Boekje Pienter

300/439
he flicked off the safety and hit the trigger, causing a burst of rounds to
blow right next to me.
I thought they’d come from the house. So did Brad. We started returning
fire, dumping bullets through the door.
Then I heard all this shouting behind me. Someone was dragging
an Iraqi whose gun had gone off—yes, the gunfire had come from us,
not anyone inside the house. I’m sure the jundi was apologizing, but I
wasn’t in the mood to listen, then or later.
Brad stopped firing and the SEAL who’d come up to get the door
leaned back. I was still sorting out what the hell had happened when
the door to the house popped open.
An elderly man appeared, hands trembling.
“Come in, come in,” he said. “There’s nothing here, nothing here.”
I doubt he realized how close it came to that being true.
Besides being particularly inept, a lot of jundis were just lazy. You’d
tell them to do something and they’d reply, “Inshallah.”
Some people translate that as “God willing.” What it really means
is “ain’t gonna happen.”
Most of the jundis wanted to be in the army to get a steady
paycheck, but they didn’t want to fight, let alone die, for their country.
For their tribe, maybe. The tribe, their extended family—that was
where their true loyalty lay. And for most of them, what was going on
in Ramadi had nothing to do with that.
I realize that a lot of the problem has to do with the screwed-up
culture in Iraq. These people had been under a dictatorship for all
their lives. Iraq as a country meant nothing to them, or at least nothing
good. Most were happy to be rid of Saddam Hussein, very happy to