The resulting explosion sent several large steel disks toward the Humvee at such high velocity that by the… — David Finkel

"The only hope you have is to get her to an American hospital?" Cummings asked, repeating what Izzy had just said. Izzy started to answer. The cell phone went dead. "Izzy?" Cummings said. "Izzy?" How did moments of decency occur in this war? "Izzy," Cummings said. "Bring your daughter here." That was how.

What do the rules say? At the moment, anyway, no one seemed concerned one way or another: not the doctors, not the family, and not Cummings, who stood at the same spot he'd stood at as he watched Crow die, watching once again. […] The glass had been part of an apartment that no longer existed, in a section of Baghdad where the sounds that night were the sounds of mourning. But here on the FOB, the sounds were of a mother whose home was ruined kissing her daughter's face, and a father whose home was ruined kissing his daughter's hand, and a little girl whose home was ruined saying something in Arabic that caused her family to smile, and Cummings saying quietly in English, "Man, I haven't felt this good since I got to this hellhole."

Most of the Soldiers he got weren't that way. A lot of them were great, some were brilliant, and almost all were unquestionably courageous: Sergeant Gietz, who was being nominated for a bronze star medal with Valor for what he had done in June. Adam Schumann, who had carried Sergeant Emory on his back. The list went on and on. Every company. Every platoon. Every soldier, really, because now, in July, as the explosions kept coming, and coming, the daily act of them jumping into Humvees to go out the wire and straight into what they knew was waiting for them began to seem the very definition of bravery.