Lance Cpl. Justin Sims

Todd Pittman writes about the Lance Cpl. and action in Ramadi in his AP blog.

I first met Lance Cpl. Justin Sims the day I arrived at the Marine base here called Hurricane Point. He was sitting in front of the battalion headquarters on the top of his Humvee, ballistic sunglasses over his eyes, hand resting on his gun turret. He was a machine-gunner. It was a bright, clear morning, good light, good photo. I took a picture.

I rode through the city with him several times over the next week. Whenever we left the relative safety of the base, it was Sims who always gave me the rundown: what to do if hit by a grenade (yell 'Grenade!'); what to do if hit by small arms fire; what to do if hit by indirect mortar fire; what to do if we roll off the bridge into the river (he'll get out first and try to pull the rest of us out); what to do if hit by a roadside bomb and we roll over (grab Sims' legs and pull him inside); what to do if we get into a fire-fight. All these things happen in Ramadi, but most times you drive out, they do not. These are safety procedures, just in case.

We drove several times to Government Center, the governor's sandbagged headquarters, a wrecked building that is a magnet for insurgent attacks. The first time I went there we drove inside the compound and I figured we were safe. I got out of the car and started to relax — I thought the dangerous part of the trip was over. I started taking off my helmet, but Battalion commander Lt. Col. Steve Neary made it clear: "Get inside, you're not safe yet." The main threat inside the compound is the occasional mortar round, and possible snipers. We sprinted the few steps across the exposed inner courtyard while a Marine stood on the corner pointing his rifle into a bunch of four- or five-story buildings to provide cover. My luggage was in the back of the Humvee. Without asking, Sims heaved my huge duffel bag onto his back, ran across and carried it upstairs.

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There is much more including how Sims lost his life. And this from the much older Iraqi interpreter who was wounded in the same action:

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There were bandages around his arm and leg, blood covering his boots. "He was like a son to me," said the interpreter, who can't be named for fear of reprisals. "He had his whole life ahead of him."

Justin Sims was just 22 years old. I can't say I knew him at all. But I will not forget him.

The bond that build between those who face death together crosses many boundaries, even interpreters and reporters. Is this what those who resist embedding fear?