![]() ![]() He shouted into his handset, “Help, help, we’re hit!” Redus came to and tried to force the truck into gear, but it wouldn’t budge. The tractor-trailer jackknifed and slammed sidelong into a Jersey barrier. Redus pinned the gas pedal to the floorboard as a rocket grenade exploded behind the cab, shredding the air lines to the rear axle and knocking both men unconscious. Curses and static came over the walkie-talkie. ![]() Then it was like a thunderstorm broke open: Bombs exploded, and fire and smoke erupted from under the pavement, followed by the deep thumping of machine guns. On a wide boulevard in the center of town, they heard a pinging noise, like the first drops of rain. They had no radio or satellite phone in the cab, just a store-bought walkie-talkie hanging from a bungee cord. Plates of rusty steel were bolted to the doors, a kind of homemade armor, but the truck, hauling a shipping container full of weapons, was otherwise unprotected. Stuart Redus was at the wheel of a boxy old big-rig, 28th in line, with Staff Sgt. In the orange light of late afternoon, a mile-long Army convoy of 33 heavily loaded trucks crossed a bridge over the Tigris River into the dusty, trash-strewn streets of Al Amarah, Iraq. ![]()
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