Survivor Recalls Chaos in Roadside Bomb Attack

When a homemade bomb exploded under our armored SUV, I was discussing safety provisions for the upcoming electoral process with an American occupation official.

“We can’t open the meetings to everyone, because of security concerns,” Stewart Jones of the Coalition Provisional Authority was explaining.

Suddenly, our SUV rocked violently to the side, and the window next to my head burst into a starburst of cracks, each shard held in place by a film covering the whole.

Another flower of cracks appeared in the window behind me, and I fleetingly heard, or more specifically felt, the pressure of a great release as explosives ripped into the undercarriage of our vehicle.

What followed Wednesday morning was chaos and bravery -- and fortunately, no deaths. On a day when a car bomb killed at least 49 Iraqis in Baghdad, this was just another small, little-noted incident, so common as to be unremarkable. But it represents the daily dangers that U.S. soldiers in Iraq face.

Improvised explosive devices, or IEDs, like the roadside bomb that struck our GMC, have killed at least 79 troops in the last three months, according to military officials. At most, they cause one or two deaths at a time and receive little coverage compared with the big blasts.

But the IED attacks come with no warning, can happen at any time in almost any location and are almost impossible to defend against. They often precede bloody ambushes and highlight the risks that soldiers confront whenever they leave a secure building.

In our case, I was riding with a military convoy of nine vehicles en route to an interview in this town in the so-called Sunni Triangle, a stronghold of opposition to the U.S.-led occupation, when the bomb detonated under our vehicle on a near-empty city street. The SUV rolled to a stop and a great cloud of smoke obscured us from the other vehicles. It may have also protected us from gunfire when we exited.

No one inside was hurt, although one 19-year-old soldier riding in the open truck bed of the Humvee in front of us suffered small shrapnel wounds to his legs.

Our driver pulled out a rifle as I and the five other passengers began shouting. Suddenly, a small jeep pulled alongside and a civilian security expert leaped out to help us exit, a display of enormous courage. Insurgents typically open fire after a bomb explodes, and this man left himself exposed to save us.

We then sped up the road to where the rest of the convoy had stopped. There confusion reigned, with no one sure where to go. Soldiers yelled questions to one another and braced for an attack that, fortunately, never came.

Then we zipped off in the jeep, seeking the protection of the closest U.S. military installation. Although we took a wrong turn, we eventually reached safety.

“Everything that happened had been planned for,” said Maj. Jorge Ortiz, commander of the convoy, after everyone arrived at the base. But mistakes had been made, he said, and soldiers, many of whom had never run into an IED before, told me their shock initially overcame their training.

Meanwhile, outside the walls of the base, a firefight flared between insurgents and Iraqi security forces. One Iraqi police officer was killed.

Some tried to laugh off the IED attack with an air of nonchalance. “It was just more humorous than anything else,” said Pfc. Josh Cantrell, the wounded soldier.

I had other thoughts.

Driving back to Baghdad, I became desperately curious to know where the attacker had watched from and what he was feeling as the bomb went off. The only injury I suffered was a bent thumb -- I have hurt myself worse while shaving.

But I remain shaken.