The following is adapted from the book Guns, Girls, and Greed: I was a Blackwater Mercenary in Iraq by Morgan Lerette. 

We’re headed to a random ministry building so our principal can meet an Iraqi who’ll try and extort US tax dollars from him. Moving diplomats around a warzone for Blackwater is the apex of mercenary life circa 2004. 

We take a right onto the bridge to cross the river. The bridge connects the safety of The Green Zone to the traffic circle made famous for its statue of Saddam Hussein, which was toppled by US forces in 2003. A soldier put an American flag over his face as a crane pulled it down. It was dragged through the streets as locals hit it with shoes, a gesture of deep disrespect in Arab culture. It’s the definitive sign Iraqis are welcoming us as liberators and not filthy infidel invaders. Spot on assessment, Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld. 

​Traffic’s backed up in both lanes. We don’t have time for this. A stopped motorcade is a tasty target for terrorists. 

Team leader: Morgan. Ray. Move those cars. We’re crossing traffic. 

Me: On it. 

Becoming A Blackwater Mercenary

​I get out excited and scared. This is the first time I’ve walked the streets of OTW. I was told by a high school teacher that extreme fear causes the human body to pump adrenaline into the endocrine system, elevating the heart rate. This causes hyperawareness. I casually raised my hand and ask, “If I’m running from a bear, this chemical reaction would cause me to pop a boner when I’m running right?” I was sent to detention. 

​Now, I’m standing on a bridge in an active combat zone. This is the definition of fear. Nary an erection in my pants, not even a semi-chub. It’s sad. 

​I kick the door shut and walk toward the car blocking us. The car needs to move right a couple of feet so we can move left to drive into on-coming traffic. I tap the driver’s door.

Me: Move your car to the right. 

He looks at me indignantly and lifts his hands as if to say, “Where?” Yes, I see the problem, no room to maneuver. I go to the car in front of him, put my hand through his open window, and tap that guy’s shoulder. He’s startled. I point to the right. He gives me the same gesture as the previous driver. I’m over this. I push his steering wheel to the right and yell.

Me: Move your car! 

The car lurches to the right. I lift my rifle, point it at the driver of the first car, and flick my left hand, showing him where to go. I’m stunned how nonchalant he seems at having a rifle pointed at him. He moves, and the Hummer crosses traffic. Look at us crossing the language barrier.

​Ray and I walk down the center of oncoming traffic, rifles up. The Hummer follows. A driver yields, and the one behind him speeds into the space like Allah opened traffic. Then he sees me in full body armor. My M-4 pointed at his chest, and yields. 

The pattern repeats down the lane. Each car I move is followed by one speeding up until they, too, yield. I get tiny adrenaline spikes with each one. Sadly, no boner. I’m combat impotent. Maybe I’ve been here too long.

​The Hummer mounts the sidewalk, one side on the road and one on the curb. I hop in and go back to watching out the window. We drive against the flow of traffic on the sidewalk to the traffic circle. 

At the circle, we cross back to our normal lane. In at six, out at twelve, and head to a tunnel that I’ve affectionately named the Tunnel of Love. Me and everyone else. I’m so original. We hold outside the tunnel until it clears, backing up traffic behind us. A little bird helicopter flies to the opposite side to tell us it’s open. 

I put my windows up, the top gunner sits down, and we drive like crazy through it. The Tunnel of Love is known to have explosive devices hanging from the walls to blow through an open window or hit a top gunner. We emerge. I drop my window, the gunner stands, and we hold.

Steve: Vehicle one is through. Come on. 

Team lead: Roger. 

We roll forward as the convoy blasts through the tunnel. Once the last vehicle is in, we gun it so they don’t have to break stride. We’re a well-oiled machine.

We drive under a bridge, hang a left, and ascend to the elevated highway. I love the elevated highway. True love. We’re planning our wedding. It runs north-south and stands twelve feet above the earth with barriers on both sides to keep cars from flying off. It doesn’t always work. 

Jacob guns it. We’re driving sixty mph with my hair blowing in the wind. Why do dogs like this? Jacob honks the air horn to move a car. The top gunner throws a water bottle at it. We’re being ignored, so Jacob gives him a gentle nudge with the bumper. He moves right, and we pass. 

We approach a hatchback, refusing to merge. This is a special treat. Jacob pushes our front bumper into his hatchback door. This causes the window to flex and burst. It’s like a movie. Glass flies in the air, hits the top gunner, and falls through the roof onto my shoulder. The gunner’s pissed. He gets on the radio. 

Gunner: Stop hitting hatchbacks. 

Jacob: Can’t help it. 

Gunner: Every time I get hit in the face with glass. 

We target hatchbacks because they provide instant gratification. On to the next victim. The next car is going fast but not fast enough. We bump it, causing it to swerve right, then left, then right. He hits the barrier and pops up on two tires. The driver puts his left arm out the window. His arm crumples under the roof of the car. It’s looks like a Twizzler bending. Hell. Yes.

We arrive, drop our principals, and stick around to escort them back because it’s a short meeting, no more than forty-five minutes. An hour later, the Blackwater helicopter pilots who have been circling above us are bored, so they put on an airshow. 

One touches down on the wall of the elevated highway then lifts off. The second bird puts only the front skids on the wall. We cheer. Now it’s a competition. The first bird brushes the top of a streetlight with a single skid. We cheer louder. The pilots have skills. I’m impressed. 

After a thirty-minute show, we head back. Hell yes. Back on the elevated highway. We ascend via an on-ramp and merge into traffic. A red sedan’s hauling ass coming at us. The top gunner’s yelling at him. “Imshi, imshi! imshi!”

The horn blares as he approaches at eighty mph. We begin to merge, and my asshole puckers. This dude isn’t slowing down. He may be a car bomb, or he is just a crappy driver. 

My right thumb moves the safety selector to the fire position. I drop a couple of rounds in front of the car. I watch them puff as they impact concrete. My rifle moves higher, and I keep shooting. I’m alone in the world. Bullets impact the grill. I’m not looking down at my sights, but I know where each round will strike before I squeeze the trigger. 

The next round penetrates the engine. The car moves in slow motion. I’m seeing it in slow motion but reacting in real time. Bullet in the hood. It’s silent. I can’t hear a thing, not the deafening Hummer engine or the wind. I feel Top Gunner slap my shoulder, jolting me to full motion. The vehicle disappears from my view. 

Adrenaline’s coursing through my veins. I’m shaking a little. I drop the magazine and load another. I’m back in the fight. Combat reload. Still no erection. My teacher was full of crap.

I find Top Gunner when we park and ask why he slapped my shoulder. I’m afraid he saw something I didn’t, that I made a mistake. I don’t want to know if it was a bad shoot, but I have to ask. 

Top Gunner: I was telling you good shooting. 

Me: That car scared the hell out of me, man. He was hauling ass. 

Top Gunner: Dumb ass. 

George: How many rounds did you shoot? 

Me: Five. Maybe seven. 

George: You don’t know? 

Me: No idea, man. 

George: Do you know where they hit? 

Me: Most of them. The Hummer lurched hard left, so I may have put a couple on the ground next to the car.

George: You killed an innocent child. 

Me: Ha ha. Piss off, George

George: Baby killer. 

I walk with George to drop our kit. He’s the greatest. 

I have no idea if the driver had malintent or just wanted to drive fast. Did I shoot the driver? Maybe I took a life to save many. Or maybe my trigger finger was too itchy, and I scared the hell out of an innocent man. I’ll never find out. That’s fine, even if it sucks a little. It’s just another day in the life of being in Blackwater. 

Morgan Lerette is a former Army Intelligence Officer, who worked for Blackwater from 2004-2005. He wrote Guns, Girls, and Greed: I was a Blackwater Mercenary in Iraq , available in paperback and audio now.