I moved upstairs, searching for an insurgent who had been shooting at our Bradleys. Halfway up, I discovered a smear of blood on the steps. Then I found a tuft of human hair. Another step up, I saw a tiny leg.
Ah, fuck. Fuck.
The child was dead. She was torn apart at the top of the stairs. Specialist Michael Gross had followed me partway up the stairs. I turned to him and screamed, “Get back down! I said get the fuck back down!” Gross stopped suddenly, then eased off the stairs, a wounded look on his face. I was overly harsh, but I didn't want him to see what was left of this dead child...
I'll never forget that house. The woman kissed each of us good-bye. As she touched her lips to my cheek, I pointed to my wedding ring and asked her where her husband was.
“Weina zoah jik? Shoof nee, shoof nee.” Where is your husband? Show me, show me.
She spat on the floor and cried, “Kelp.” Dog. I guessed he was the corpse on the roof.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Posted by Peter Risdon at 4:23 p.m.