Part of a continuing series about the life of an embedded reporter in Iraq.

FALLUJAH, IRAQ — The curfew had not yet come into effect, but the streets were already deserted, the darkened windows of buildings staring vacantly into the night. We were on night patrol, rolling through the streets of Fallujah with two 7-ton trucks and a few Humvees, waiting for something, or someone, to show itself.

The only sign of life I saw was an occasional brand-new Iraqi Police truck, invariably parked off to the side of the road, lights flashing. In a telling sign, each time we would roll by, at least one Marine would train his gun on the police vehicle until we passed.

Curfew in Fallujah falls at 11 p.m. each night, after which anyone found out on the street is considered a target. But the city is so dangerous that after nightfall, few venture out; with the Marines making random, quick-strike forays into town, and criminals and insurgents on the prowl, residents have long since learned to stay indoors.

The troops were ready to go as soon as we left the barbed-wire gate at the rail station. We stopped a few blocks into the city to pick up some Iraqi soldiers for the patrol; and one of them tried to frisk a Marine before he entered their post. The Marine brushed him off and walked on by, and a couple of the guys laughed. We waited while the Iraqis took their time getting ready, which didn’t endear them to the Marines sitting around me in the open back truck. The guys stayed alert however; any time a car happened to drive by on one of the side streets, the Marines trained their weapons...

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