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 Tattooed on arm and memory: Friends killed in IraqBy Michael Holmes Editor's note: In our Behind the Scenes series, CNN correspondents share their experiences covering the news. CNN's Michael Holmes reflects on the two-year anniversary of losing two colleagues in Iraq on "Anderson Cooper 360°," Wednesday, 10 p.m. ET.  CNN correspondent Michael Holmes reflects on the deaths of two colleagues. SPECIAL REPORT
• Interactive: Who's who in Iraq
• Interactive: Sectarian divide
• Timeline: Bloodiest days for civilians
BAGHDAD, Iraq (CNN) -- The first bullet flew through the rear window of our vehicle, between our heads and out the windshield. Cameraman Scott McWhinnie and I had been chatting about nothing in particular. Our first realization that something was amiss was the hole in the windshield, which seemed to appear a fraction of a second before the sounds of breaking glass and the sharp "crack" of the gunshot itself. We were under attack. A high-speed, highway ambush. Despite our numerous shared experiences in war zones amid conflict and gunfire, Scotty and I later recalled this was different. It was personal. We both looked backwards and saw the man who was trying to kill us. As windows exploded and the sheer noise of our would-be killer's weapon echoed in the vehicle, our security guard swung into action, screaming "DOWN! DOWN! DOWN." And to our driver, Ahmed, "GO! GO! GO!" We always travel in more than one car in case one breaks down. Two members of our team, my translator Duraid Mohammad and a second driver, Yasser Khatib, were in the other vehicle. Before I threw myself across the back seat, I had one more glance out the now-shattered back window. It was just in time to see Yasser and Duraid's car leave the road, the windshield splattered with their blood. We later learned both were dead. It's a mental snapshot that will stay with me forever, joining an album I keep deep in my mind. It's one I try not to flip through too often. By now, our security guard was literally hanging out the front passenger window, firing his own weapon. As I lay across the seat, I had a perfect view as he fired, the other guy fired, and on it went, for maybe 30 seconds. It felt like an hour. I had pulled Scotty across the seat in front of me, and when the bad guys stopped the attack -- we believe their shooter had been hit -- the firing died down. If we hadn't had an armed guard that day, all of us would be dead. End of story. We laugh darkly now about Scotty's first comment, or rather how he said it in his "Austin Powers" British accent: "Holmsie, man, I think I've been hit." Despite what seemed like copious amounts of blood, it was a flesh wound, the bullet skipping along the top of his scalp. Always "lucky," Scotty was, at this moment, the luckiest man alive. But Yasser and Duraid were dead. Scanning Atlanta freewaysThe sheer violence of such an event is impossible to explain to those who haven't experienced it. Usually, those who have don't try to explain. It was January 27, 2004, my third "tour" of Iraq. I'm now nearing the end of my fifth, and the sad reality -- for me, at least -- is this place seems less secure each time I've come. More necessary security, more danger, a greater likelihood you could get killed doing your job. I've had my share of risky assignments, from Afghanistan to Gaza and the West Bank, Rwanda to Romania during the 1989 revolution. None come close to the daily feeling here that anything could happen to you, at any time. Driving in the city, I constantly scan other vehicles, immediately suspicious of cars with one occupant (car bomb potential) or cars full of men (ambush potential). When out of our vehicles, we move quickly to complete filming. Too long in any one place is a no-no. I know when I return home to Atlanta I will spend maybe two weeks scanning cars on the freeways. It takes that long to tone down the natural vigilance. It's a sad fact of war coverage that casualties become numbers, compounding the tragedy by trivializing the individual. But that's what many victims here have become -- numbers. Forty-five killed in this bombing, 80 in that one. The maimed, their own lives shattered, even if not ended, are more numbers. With so many deaths, it's impossible to cover the individual stories, the lives of those who perish. Reporters can become anesthetized to the violence. There's an element of déjà vu here sometimes. Another day, another bomb, another attack, another death toll. Many of us try to stay detached. You'll go crazy if you get emotionally involved in every horror you see. But there are always times when we in the media cannot avoid it. Usually it's when that horror involves you or someone you know. Tattooed names in ArabicThis week, it is two years since we lost Yasser and Duraid on that Iraqi highway. It changed me, changed all of us in those cars that day, and many who were not. These were our friends, people we lived, worked, fooled around with. It changed, too, how we work here in Iraq. Those of us here in the early days would take precautions, but we would think little about walking the streets in Baghdad and elsewhere, speaking with locals, getting a firsthand look at the story we were covering. I have photographs of colleagues and me sitting -- sans flak jackets -- on the recently pulled-down statue of Saddam Hussein in Firdos Square. Today, you wouldn't stroll through that square with all the body armor in the world. It is so much more difficult to get out and about in Iraq today. We do, but it's always with great caution. The kidnapping of journalist Jill Carroll is another reminder of the risks involved. Like most of us, she is here to tell a story that needs telling, despite the risks. What we do may appear foolhardy, but we're not stupid. It's our job, and as a journalist, who doesn't want to be where the story is? It's a close-knit media family in a war zone. Shared experience makes competitors become friends, friends become close friends. Very close. Being here on the second anniversary of Yasser and Duraid's death is pure co-incidence. It doesn't make me nervous, or afraid. Just sad. I miss them, and think of them most days. Their names are tattooed on my arm in Arabic, a design I had specially done in Cairo. It helps now and then to remind ourselves, and those who watch our work, that those casualty lists contain more than numbers. Iraqis or coalition forces. They're people. 
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