THE ATTACK BEGAN TWO hours later when an old cargo truck pulled into the checkpoint, groaning on its springs beneath the weight of boxes of scrap metal covered by a ratty tarpaulin. The driver stared straight ahead, as if lost in thought, then pushed a button to detonate his bomb, a pair of artillery shells that were tamped down beside cans of gasoline. A stolen case of M-84 flash-bang grenades also was in the cargo bed, four containers in the case, and three grenades in each container. The explosion had nothing to contain it, and curtains of sharp and heavy steel fragments whipped across the area, while the instant mixture of the ammonium and magnesium in the grenades temporarily created a world of instant light a thousand times brighter than a welder’s torch. The driver was vaporized.

Javon Anthony had been looking the other way through his NVGs but was still knocked silly by the blast. His goggles, which amplified light, were lit up by the flash and temporarily blinded him. He was deafened by the roar, and the ground shook. Fighting the pain in his eyes, he ripped off the goggles and screamed, “Everybody up! Jones and Stewart: Get on those guns. Everybody get sharp. Now!” He shook his head to try to clear his vision, but it was no use. He saw only dancing panels of red and yellow, and felt the wetness of blood coming from his ears.

As soon as the explosion rocked the checkpoint, a rocket-propelled grenade whistled in from behind the Americans and smashed into one of the stationary Humvees, turning it into a flaming pyre. Shadowy men rose from the tangle of irrigation ditches and stormed in firing automatic rifles and more RPGs. The surprised Americans were barely able to react, much less fight.