Hanging by a Cheek: A Night Stalker Ride into Baghdad
Hanging by a cheek on an MH-6 Little Bird, a sniper recalls the cold, chaos, and grit of flying with the Night Stalkers.
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Hanging by a cheek on an MH-6 Little Bird, a sniper recalls the cold, chaos, and grit of flying with the Night Stalkers.
On August 22, 2007, a Black Hawk crash near Kirkuk killed 14 US soldiers, marking one of the Iraq War’s deadliest air losses.
We idled through Al Dujahl’s midnight arteries, numb and hollow, while men in the shadows watched us like witnesses at the thin border between heaven and hell.
We were fighting a war without a front line, where cruelty was as much a weapon as any rifle, and the enemy’s strength lay in finding the weakest point to strike.
I warned them it was only a matter of time before we were attacked—but nobody listened, and twenty-two people paid the price.
David Bellavia didn’t come back from Fallujah with swagger or speeches—he came back with ghosts, blood on his boots, and a vow that he’d never freeze again when the devil kicked in the door.
In a dusty courtyard outside Taji, surrounded by curious children and cautious sheiks, we built fragile bridges with bottled water, schoolbooks, and the stubborn hope that kindness could hold back the war.
I didn’t end up in that desert by accident—every hardship, every hard lesson, every quiet moment of doubt had been sharpening me for that exact stretch of sand, steel, and responsibility.
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In the stillness between IED craters and ambush points, barefoot children in sunlit fields reminded us—without knowing—that peace still dared to exist.
Beneath the corrugated shadows of the Taji Market, where farmers and fanatics shared the same dust, we moved—alert, measured, and unwilling to let the chaos define us.
Under Saddam, theft wasn’t a crime—it was the national business model, sanctified by fear, filmed for posterity, and sold back to the people like a bad memory on repeat.