Just south of Nasiriyah, we stopped for gas. Despite having one of the world’s largest oil reserves, Iraq has relatively few filling stations. Thanks to sabotaged oil pipelines and a huge glut of new vehicles (more than three hundred thousand since the war), every station has a gas line. Some are more than a mile long. People can wait for days, camped out in their cars, for a full tank. We had no intention of doing that. Waiting in line, stationary and exposed, was simply too dangerous. Instead, we commandeered the gas station.

All four vehicles roared in at high speed. Two went directly to the pumps. Two formed mobile roadblocks near the entrance. Contractors with guns jumped out and stopped traffic from coming in. Others took positions around the perimeter of the station. Kelly motioned for me to stand guard with my rifle by the back wall. There was a large and growing crowd around us. It looked hostile.

And no wonder. We’d swooped in and stolen their places in line, reminding them, as if they needed it, of the oldest rule there is: Armed people get to do exactly what they want; everyone else has to shut up and take it. It wasn’t until later, after we’d left the gas station and were back on the highway, that I felt guilty about any of this. Kelly, to his credit, felt bad, too. There had been quite a few children there. I’d seen them watching as we forced their fathers out of the way to get to the pumps. "We neutered their dads," Kelly said. He was right. We had. And we’d had no choice. It was horrible if you thought about it.
*********************
I was not going to miss Nasiriyah. The city has about as bad a vibe to it as any place I’ve ever been. Ten miles away, my skin began to crawl. The fact that our fuel tanks were almost empty added to the tension. We were driving slowly on the outskirts of town, caught in traffic. It was market day, and the road was lined with hundreds of people, most of them staring at us. Both gas stations we passed were closed. Someone nearby started firing a gun at us. Kelly pulled the SUV into the oncoming lane, and then back again. There were too many vehicles to go anywhere. We were boxed in.

A few tense minutes later, we came to a working gas station. It was packed with people, crowds of them, some waiting for gas, some just milling around outside a mosque next door. It was the worst possible place to stop, but there was no choice. We needed fuel. We initiated the gas-station takeover.

It was different this time. I hadn’t thought about it till now, but we had fewer armed men with us than we’d had driving in. Kelly stayed with the car, which was left running in case we needed to leave quickly. I hopped out with my rifle to keep an eye on two large groups of men who seemed to be approaching us. I walked about twenty feet, then turned to my left to see what the man next to me was doing. That’s when I realized there was nobody next to me, no one whose lead I could follow. I was by myself.

During our first conversation about going to Iraq, Kelly and I had talked about situations like this. It’s one thing to believe in the principle of self-defense. Most people do. It’s quite another to make the conscious decision to kill someone. Kelly had made it clear that I’d have to decide ahead of time whether I’d be willing. "Final confirmation of an attack usually comes in the form of injury to you," he’d said. "If you feel threatened, engage, up to and including lethal force." Survival means acting first. Hesitation equals death.
I’d had plenty of opportunities to mull this over since getting to Baghdad. I didn’t want to hurt another person. The idea sickened me. But now I knew for certain that I would, without hesitation.

The groups of men were definitely walking toward me now, talking to one another and looking angry. The crowd behind them was getting larger and more agitated. In my peripheral vision I could see shapes, people darting in and out between cars parked in the gas line. I hoped someone else was watching them.

At the center of the group advancing on me were two youngish men with tough-guy expressions on their faces. They were obviously leading whatever was about to happen. I decided to shoot them first. I’d start with the one on the right. I unfolded the AK’s paratrooper stock and tucked it into my shoulder, raising the muzzle. Then I switched off the safety. I waited for one of them to make a quick movement.

Neither one did. In fact, both stopped where they were and glared at me. I glared back. Five minutes later, our tanks were full and we left. There was no firefight at the gas station, but I left feeling as if something important and horrible had just happened. I’d been forced to make a decision about life and death. There were no official guidelines. There was no one around to make the call but me, just as there would have been no one around to judge the consequences. I could have done anything. The only rules were those I imposed on myself. I hated it. It was an instructive experience. For a moment, I felt what it is to be an American civilian contractor in Iraq.