There was an occasion where I censored myself, which I've always regretted. I was on a patrol in Mosul, and we heard a staccato of shots coming from some blocks away. We raced over to where the shots had come from, and we found a bullet-riddled body lying in the street. A policeman returning home had been murdered in a drive-by shooting. As we arrived on the scene, the family of the policeman burst out of their house, clutching and clawing at one another and shrieking miserably. The patrol I was with was deeply affected by the scene and started pounding on all the neighbor's doors, demanding to know if they'd seen or heard anything. The neighbors were scared witless, and claimed they hadn't heard anything, not even the gunshots. As we were going door-to-door, a few young men began hanging about, giving us venomous looks. A beefy soldier, angry about the murder and the reluctance of the populace to help the investigation (he was in the sixth month of his tour, and no doubt had seen many similar situations) ran to them and grabbed one with each arm and slammed them against a wall. The platoon commander ran up and put his pistol to their heads, demanding to know if he'd participated in the shooting. It was an act of frustration, and I hesitated for a few seconds. When I finally raised my camera, the platoon leader saw me and lowered his gun, and I snapped a picture but it was too late. I had a personal affection for the guy and it clouded my judgment.