The words once sent chills down my back.
I first heard “River City” called over the radio in 2006. I was a staff sergeant serving in the U.S. Marine Corps, manning the radio at our base in a bombed-out soap factory in Fallujah’s warehouse district. Working alongside 11 other Marines on a military transition team, we gave support to a Marine infantry battalion that patrolled day and night through the area.
On one particular day, the battalion had sent out a mounted patrol that struck an incendiary IED. When the words “River City” came over the encrypted station, I knew what it meant: a Marine had been killed. All radio traffic back to the United States was cut off to give time for the deceased’s family to receive the dreadful knock at the door. Even today, to read those words is to be reminded of how it felt that day. My breath caught in my throat; my stomach turned inside out. Who was killed? How did it happen? For anyone who served in close combat in the War on Terror, the words meant a loss of focus on the task at hand. I drifted into a menacing dream.
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