American Sniper - Boekje Pienter

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There was no time to bitch. I ran forward as the Iraqi fell, unsure
whether he was dead or if there were others nearby. The entire platoon
followed, spreading out and “busting” the corners.
The guy was dead. I grabbed his AK. We ran up the street to the
house we were going to take, passing some smaller houses on the way.
We were a few hundred yards from the river, just off two main roads
that would control that corner of the city.
Like many Iraqi houses, our target had a wall around it approximately
six feet tall. The gate was locked, so I slung my M-4 on my
shoulder, took out my pistol, and hauled up onto the wall, climbing up
with one hand free.
When I got to the top, I saw there were people sleeping in the
courtyard. I dropped down inside their compound, holding my gun on
them, expecting one of my platoon mates to come over after me to
open the gate.
I waited.
And waited. And waited.
“Come on,” I hissed. “Get over here.”
Nothing.
“Come on!”
Some of the Iraqis started to stir.
I eased toward the gate, knowing I was all alone. Here I was, holding
a pistol on a dozen insurgents for all I knew, and separated from
the rest of my boys by a thick wall and locked gate.
I found the gate and managed to jimmy it open. The platoon and
our Iraqi jundis ran in, surrounding the people who’d been sleeping in
the courtyard. (There’d been a mix-up outside, and for some reason
they hadn’t realized I was in there alone.)