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Phelps relied heavily on Abdualla, who offered more than simple translations. "You can say 'hello' in different ways," says Abdualla, who often served as an early warning system."I'd be talking to a sheik," explains Phelps, "and I'd hear Mustafa saying quietly, 'Sir, he's lying.'"
Each morning when the team set out, Phelps recited a simple prayer: "I hope to God we make it back." Incoming fire from snipers and the threat of homemade bombs were routine. "It was like going on patrol in Vietnam looking for an ambush," says Phelps. "But you can't worry about being blown up. If you're constantly fearful, then the enemy has won."
"Even when bombs destroyed our vehicles," says Abdualla, "we had to keep moving. That's all you can do -- keep moving."
Back at Camp Fallujah in the evenings, Phelps would smoke a cigar while Abdualla puffed on Marlboro Lights. They learned they had more in common than they thought. Both of their fathers were military men; their mothers were teachers.
Phelps's dad, Master Gunnery Sgt. Kendall Phelps, was so devoted to the Marine Corps that he rejoined at age 57, much to the chagrin of his wife, Sherma. He wanted to deploy to Iraq with his son (see My Son, My Hero) and was stationed in Ramadi.
Abdualla's father, Subhy Abdualla Mohammed, died in 1976 when his only son was two. He had a distinguished 29-year career in the Iraqi army but refused to join Saddam Hussein's Ba'ath Party when it rose to power in the '70s. His wife, Nidhal, attributed his death from a massive heart attack at age 47 to pressures Ba'ath operatives put on him.
Abdualla paid little attention to Iraqi politics until the first Gulf War. He was 16 and couldn't understand why Hussein was invading Kuwait and torturing people. "Suddenly there was fear that you could lose your life because you disagreed," he says.
When U.S. and Coalition forces invaded Iraq in 2003, Abdualla was ecstatic. "I felt like we were in a hole in the middle of the world, waving and screaming with nobody hearing us -- then here come these great guys," he says. He quickly applied to be a translator for the United States.
After just a month on the job, he was patrolling with the 82nd Airborne along Fallujah's main road when there was a huge explosion. "Within seconds, we had eight casualties," Abdualla recalls. His lieutenant, still yelling commands to his patrol, was bleeding profusely from a shrapnel wound to his leg. Though he had no first-aid training, Abdualla rushed through gunfire to pull him under a dump truck; he removed his flak jacket and applied pressure. He was later credited with saving the lieutenant's life.
By the time Chris Phelps arrived, 16 months later, Abdualla had been through both battles for Fallujah and was well known to the insurgents, who had made him a target. He had been shot at and pursued Mafioso-style on the road to Baghdad. Still, he chose not to wear a mask. The purpose of the civil affairs team, he reasoned, was to befriend his fellow countrymen; an interpreter wearing a ski mask seemed a contradiction. "If I die," he said, "I die doing the right thing."
But Phelps worried about him. "When you are in combat with someone, you rely on them day in and out," he says. One evening, Phelps asked Abdualla if he had ever thought of going to America. Abdualla confessed that it had been his lifelong dream, but how could it come true? "It's going to happen," Phelps replied.
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