The posts around the forward operating base were constructed out of two-by-fours and plywood. Rows of green plastic sandbags lined the outside of each post and were laid on the roof; their artificial green color always seemed like an absurdist joke. The bulletproof glass let us watch our sectors of fire; small openings in the glass were left so a rifle barrel could fit through and fire. But there were also a few unintentional gaps in the layered laminated glass; maybe a post was built a little too wide and the glass was just a little too short. Riviere’s post had a two-inch gap, small enough to seem insignificant and irrelevant, but wide enough to allow a slight breeze of fresh air to slip in.

Image Pfc. Christopher Riviere’s memorial service at Golf Company’s forward operating base in Haqlaniya, Iraq. Credit... via John Patton

One shot from the marksman came from a window or rooftop that we would never find and traveled through the city, over the heads of butchers and mechanics, mothers and their children, maybe even over the heads of Marines on patrol looking for exactly that kind of window or rooftop. The bullet flew closer to our base, closer to the post with our Marine on it. The bullet found the small two-inch gap that normally let in only fresh air. Riviere was standing behind it. He was wearing all his proper personal protective equipment. His helmet was securely fastened, and his ballistic glasses rested on his nose. His hands were sheathed in fire-resistant Nomex flight gloves, safeguarding his hands but thin enough not to impede dexterity. His flak jacket was properly adjusted to fit his small frame. Riviere had the thin body of a teenage boy, but the protective plates were positioned right where they were supposed to be, covering his organs. He was doing everything right, but the bullet didn’t care. It found the tiny void in the glass and passed through it, then it cleared the plate and slid into the flak jacket just above the life-saving armor, easily cutting through the Kevlar, which is only rated to stop pistol rounds. The projectile entered Riviere’s chest cavity from the upper right, crossed through a number of his vital organs, and came out his back on the lower left. He fell to the ground where he stood.

Cpl. Chris Mauzy, the sergeant of the guard that shift, heard the shot and ordered a radio check. Post 1 finished the check and listened for Post 2 through the black handheld radio. Marines waited, impatiently, for the response, their wait answered with a maddening silence. There could be many reasons that a Marine might miss a radio check. One guy had already been busted for masturbation, his pants around his ankles, his eyes closed in deep concentration on a memory instead of looking in the direction of his assigned sectors of fire. There was another who had been found on post sleeping, his boot kicked off as he slumbered in the warm embrace of the poncho liner that he had wrapped around his exhausted body. Mauzy might have hoped that Riviere was engaged in any of these acts, but it would only take a few minutes for him to suspect that something much worse than a breach of protocol was underway.

Mauzy sprinted up the steps that led to the post, taking them two at a time. He burst onto the rooftop and dashed across the last 30 feet that separated him and Riviere, coming to a rest at the entrance of the post, a hand on the wooden frame of the opening. He saw a young Marine in full body armor lying on the floor, frozen in a moment that had already passed. Mauzy frantically removed Riviere’s body armor and began administering whatever lifesaving skills could be shaken from his already-shook mind. Battle dressings were slapped on; chest compressions were administered; the sergeant of the guard even went so far as to try to breathe life back into Riviere, to inflate his chest and reanimate his body with the very essence of his own being, but the Marine’s life had already leaked onto the stucco floor of the guard post. The medical corpsman who rushed up to the post also tried, in vain.

A Marine had walked up to Post 2 in full battle armor, weapon at his side, but what was carried back down the stairs seemed so much smaller, like the fragile bird bones of adolescence. Riviere’s face was untouched, unbroken, unmarred. If not for the gray-purple color, I might have been tempted to shake him awake.