American Sniper - Boekje Pienter

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We waited, continuing the firefight and ducking the insurgents’
growing spray of bullets. Finally, the relief force reported that it was
five hundred yards away, on the other side of the soccer field.
That was as close as they were getting.
A pair of Army Hummers blew through the village and appeared
at the doors, but they couldn’t take all of us. The rest of us started to
run for the RG-33s.
Someone threw a smoke grenade, I guess with the thought that it
would cover our retreat. All it really did was make it impossible for us
to see. (The grenades should be used to screen movement; you run behind
the smoke. In this case, we had to run through it.) We ran from
the house, through the cloud of smoke, ducking bullets and dodging
into the open field.
It was like a scene from a movie. Bullets sprayed and plinked into
the dirt.
The guy next to me fell. I thought he’d been hit. I stopped, but before
I could grab him, he jumped to his feet—he’d only tripped.
“I’m good! I’m good!” he yelled.
Together we continued toward the trucks, bullets and turf flying
everywhere. Finally, we reached the trucks. I jumped into the back of
one of the RG-33s. As I caught my breath, bullets splashed against one
of the bulletproof windows on the side, spiderwebbing the glass.
A few days later, I was westward-bound, back to Delta Platoon. The
transfer I’d asked for earlier was granted.
The timing was good. Things were starting to get to me. The stress
had been building. Little did I know it was going to get a lot worse,
even as the fighting got a lot less.