I found this interesting when we operated in Rutbah. It always made me think, from a tactical perspective, that women were actually the best sources of information. They stayed at home all day. They knew the comings and goings of everyone in their neighborhoods. Not to mention they liked having the MNF around to provide security since they knew the local police weren’t worth a shit when it came to protecting the common good.
I thought that we failed miserably by not having more female Terps and female Marines on patrols with us in Iraq. The Lioness program (female Marines attached to forward units) came of age late in the Iraq campaign, and was primarily designed to have female Marines at entry control points to conduct searches of women as they went through the checkpoints so as not to offend the sensitivities of anyone. I think if we’d had more female Marines supporting us on patrols the information we gathered might have been more substantial.
For the Iraqis, the experience of having their houses raided must have been unsettling at best, and terrifying at worst. We’d show up heavily armed at four o’clock in the morning and then scour every room looking for contraband.
To the average American, having his or her home raided in the fashion we conducted business would be incomprehensible—something most would only see on an episode of Cops and that only happens to drug lords and gangs. But that wasn’t the case in Iraq. They weren’t all bad people, but this was our job and how it had to be done.
I moved with the lead squad on foot, and as we progressed we continued to deplete the arsenal that the insurgents had been stashing away amongst the locals. We collected hundreds of AK-47 assault rifles, countless RPGs, and an unbelievable amount of loose ammunition.
In the end, we got shot at less, there were fewer IEDs, and the entire city was safer.
Not a bad day’s work.
CHAPTER 25
Governance
It galled me to no end when I’d have to sit and listen to officers negotiate with the local sheiks or city officials in Rutbah. It was all new to me. We never dealt with it in Ramadi, at least at my level. Our mission was clear there: kill or capture the enemy.
I couldn’t fathom how our military invariably got bogged down in such bureaucratic deliberations with self-appointed officials in Rutbah. Our senior officers spoke to the local officials about governance, roads, power, water, sanitation, and rebuilding—things that military officials probably didn’t know much about themselves.
For over a decade in Iraq, the Marines had perfected the art of blowing things up, but had scarcely learned much, if anything, about building things up. It wasn’t what we trained to do.
I don’t know if our people ever stopped to think about the fact that the men with whom they had these allegedly in-depth conversations might have the equivalent of a third-grade education, at best. They knew their city, yes, but they didn’t have the education to implement any of the grandiose ideas that we were proposing. They never came to fruition anyway, at least not during our time in Iraq. Maybe it was a game to make local leaders feel important, give them a sense of authority and an air of legitimacy, and get them to buy in to our presence.
It boggled my mind to think how we were ever going to get our ideas of governance and infrastructure to work. How? By trying to impose our western ethos on a culture that couldn’t even manage to pick up its own trash, or refrain from shitting and pissing in the middle of public streets? How could they comprehend how to rebuild an entire city? They couldn’t. Not the way we had envisioned it for them. It was a game, I suppose, to make them feel important. It gave them a sense of false authority, and it legitimized our existence in the town.
It is hard to explain the lawlessness and disorganization that pervaded the whole country. It wasn’t that there weren’t laws meant to govern people’s actions—there were. Plenty of them. It’s just that nobody seemed to care. They did what they wanted, and the barely functional police could do little to stop them.
To compound the problem, it was impossible to get a straight answer from Iraqis, whether it was from local sheiks at a meeting or from people we met on the streets during patrols. It was perfectly acceptable to lie.
They did not do it maliciously—it’s just what they do. It’s hard to explain and even harder for most Americans to comprehend because it was ingrained in their culture. It was a way to maintain status and prestige in their culture. There was no real way to stop it. We just had to deal with it and factor it into any discussion we had with them and any decision we made.
There was another steadfast rule in Iraq: the guy with the biggest stick won. Iraqis respected power, authority, and force. They responded to it. When we tried to transition to support and stability operations, the Iraqi Government could not grasp the concept, and it never seemed to take root—either the military was too inept at instituting it, or Iraqi politicians just didn’t want any part of it.
There were times when I asked myself, “How can we possibly expect a few meetings and a boatload of platitudes about effective governance and democratic values to transform a country overnight?”
American culture is an impatient one. We want, we expect, everything right the hell now. Fast food, fast cash from ATMs, email, online shopping with next-day delivery from Amazon. Now.
We should have considered that we were dealing with a culture that had developed over thousands of years and a country and people who had no experience with government as we understood it. Instead, we expected fast government, fast stability, and fast democracy. It was American hubris at its worst.
Considering all these problems, it seemed a risky move to shift to the SASO paradigm when we did—essentially replacing the “Iron Fist” with the gentler “Velvet Glove.” It was useless to try to win the support of the people, stabilize the country, and rebuild the cities without crushing the insurgency and keeping at bay countries like Iran and movements like ISIS, which had their own plans for Iraq. To do so, we should have staked a claim in the country and built permanent bases there like we did after World War II in places like Germany and Japan in order to keep the bad guys out. Politicians and senior leaders were too concerned that we might be viewed as occupiers—playing the role of the ugly Americans—rather than what we were: defenders. And the call was made to withdraw from Iraq. It’s still biting us in the ass.
Friction.
2 February 2007
Colonel Beaudreault requested that I attend a local governance meeting on the west side of Rutbah. Staff Sergeant Jeromie Slaughter, the platoon sergeant for 1st Platoon, had gathered a squad to provide security for us to move to the Government Center. The movement was less than a thousand meters away from Building 500; we moved by foot. Slaughter set up the patrol route, and we stepped off early that morning to make the meeting on time.
Some of the Marines joked. “Hey, the CO is coming out with us. What do you think the chances are we get shot at today?”
The other Marines laughed.
It was their respectfully sarcastic way of reminding me of the fact any patrol I accompanied would take contact from the enemy. I’m not sure if it was dumb luck or if the insurgents actually knew who I was and wanted to take me out. Either way, it happened. It was about to happen again.
We departed from the back side of Building 500 and made our way north, skirting up Stacy’s Mom, one of the streets named in jest after a trendy 2003 pop song. As we made our way up the street in a staggered column, we could see the Marines from 2nd Platoon on the rooftop of The Bank that sat to our left.
The Bank actually had been a functioning bank. It was now a prominent terrain feature on the corner of MSR Michigan and Stacy’s Mom that provided superior overwatch of the city and that two of my platoons used as a firm base.
The 15th MEU commander allowed me to use The Bank on one condition: that I turn it back over to the locals in better shape than I found it in. I stressed this point on more than one occasion to the Marines in The Bank. It didn’t really sink in. We provided them paint and told them to repa
int the interior. They weren’t in the mood to take on any do-it-yourself projects after patrolling all night, however. Incessant bitching ensued.
It was always dark and dreary inside The Bank because the thin ten-foot windows were sandbagged from top to bottom. It was crowded, too, and cots were jammed into just about every corner, nook, and cranny. The rooftop was a maze of fighting positions covered with desert camouflage netting, and intermittent walls of sandbags and old windshields from destroyed Humvees that served as protection and observation into the zone.
Days earlier I made a surprise inspection at The Bank. I stopped my vehicle convoy outside.
I told the driver, “Wait here; I’ll only be a few minutes.”
As I made my way inside The Bank, I asked one of the Marines where Grillo was.
He said, “Sir, I think he’s upstairs on the second deck.”
I made my way up trying not to grasp the handrail—it dangled loosely from the concrete wall by a few screws. I found Grillo and one of my combat engineers standing by the front wall of the building, engaged in some sort of project.
As I came closer, I saw they had placed a series of small C-4 plastic explosive charges on the wall with duct tape. The engineer was about to fuse the explosives and connect it all up with det-cord. When it went off, it would have blown a massive hole in the front of The Bank.
I motioned to Grillo to come to me. “What part of ‘Leave The Bank better than we found it’ didn’t you understand?”
Grillo explained that he wanted to build a better fighting position on the second deck, but the wall to which the engineer had rigged the explosives obstructed its fields of fire. It was a textbook case of what Marines refer to as, “good initiative—poor judgment.”
The tactical advantage The Bank provided our company was far too valuable to lose, and I didn’t want the MEU CO to evict us because we weren’t good tenants.
I shut the whole project down immediately, had them remove the demolition charges, and told them never to try something like that again—ever.
As our patrol came within one hundred meters of The Bank, we began to take small arms fire from the northeast, and the Marines quickly pushed into the row of buildings that sat along Stacy’s Mom. They began to return fire but they really had no idea where the shooting started. It was dangerous, but not uncommon for the Marines to return fire where they thought they had seen muzzle flashes. Doing so violated our policy of positive identification before you fired, and could have resulted in either civilians being hit or blue-on-blue casualties.
A machine gun crew on the rooftop of The Bank opened up too, spraying rounds into the buildings across the street from us. I quickly got on the radio and told them to cease fire.
When the firing abated, we emerged from the houses in which we had taken cover. The only confirmed kill we could see was a dead goat lying in the middle of Stacy’s Mom, bleeding out.
I thought, “Great. We killed someone’s goat. I’m going to have to pay for that too, I suppose.”
Self-imposed friction.
In Rutbah, the MNF had caused so much damage that paying the locals CERF money had become routine. Every morning, they lined up outside of Building 500, knocked on the gate, and told how the Marines had damaged something they owned. We paid up in American dollars. It was like I was a walking, talking ATM—they all wanted some of the American cash that seemed to flow freely.
Heading down MSR Michigan, we noticed an unusual amount of activity on the street, mostly men congregating around the local shops, all looking at us keenly as we moved toward the Government Center.
We made security halts along the way, during which I questioned some of the locals about the firefight, hoping to get some information. No one seemed to know anything.
We approached a group of young Iraqi males. They were posturing like tough guys as we advanced. One had his hands tucked in the back of his pants, underneath a lightweight jacket he wore. He was young, maybe sixteen years old.
I told him forcefully in Arabic, “Arini Yadaik!” Show me your hands.
He just stood there with his gaze fixed on my Marines and me. We had our rifles at the alert but were not pointing them directly at the boys.
I repeated the command. The boy still didn’t comply. Defiant. Then he bolted. To me, it confirmed he had a weapon. I shouted, “Kiff! Kiff!” Stop! Stop!
I instinctively took off after him. I had a habit of doing this, much to my Marines’ frustration.
Lance Corporal Zach Shores followed close behind me for cover. Another veteran of the battalion’s 2004 deployment to Ramadi. Shores was big—six-two and more than 200 pounds. He was scruffy and surly, and exuded a “Don’t-give-a-shit-about-it” attitude most of the time. In a firefight, however, he was as dependable and as dangerous as they come—a killer.
I pursued the boy as he made it around the corner, yelling at him again to stop.
This time, he did, and then he turned to face me—his hand still in his coat. I trained my M4 on him, ready to shoot if he drew a weapon. I could see him looking around for an escape route, sensing he was about to dart into an alley.
He made a move.
I fired two shots.
Not aimed at the boy. I drilled two rounds into an air conditioner unit that was on the ground ten meters away from him in a vain effort to get him to comply. I had just violated our own policy of never firing warning shots.
The boy took off.
Shores grabbed me and said, “Sir, he’s gone. Fuck him. Let him go. It was nothing. Let’s get back to the squad.”
As we moved back, I could still feel the effects of the adrenaline rush. I was out of breath and sweating. The men in the street looked at me coldly, scornfully.
When we made it to the Government Center several minutes later, my Marines set up a security perimeter with the others who were already on site. The place was packed. It seemed that every Iraqi and his brother were there for the meeting.
For the next hour, I sat watching the local officials arguing with our key leaders. I’m sure it was the same shit they always argued about—mindless and incessant discussions about how great the city could be if we worked as a team. It was a circus show.
I couldn’t remember a word because the whole time all I thought about was that kid.
After the meeting ended, I made my way out into the courtyard. I saw Staff Sergeant Slaughter sitting on the elevated, concrete sidewalk, his feet dangling over the side. I walked over to him and sat down. I took off my helmet and stared at the ground.
Slaughter was twenty-nine years old and from Sante Fe, Texas. Married with two kids. He stood five-six. He was rough and built like a fireplug and constantly had a big, thick dip of Copenhagen snuff tobacco in his lower lip. He always had an air of seriousness about him, maybe because he was on his second combat tour in Iraq.
A sense of vulnerability and uncertainty hit me as I sat there.
Slaughter sensed it. “So, sir. How’d the meeting go?”
I said, “Same shit.”
He dug deeper. “What’s going on, sir? You alright?”
I didn’t normally divest my emotions with the Marines, but when Slaughter asked me I felt an overwhelming need to share with him.
“Staff Sergeant, what the fuck would have happened if I had shot that kid? I don’t know what I was thinking. I just can’t get it out of my head. Why did I even shoot my rifle if I wasn’t going to shoot him?”
Slaughter didn’t hesitate to respond. “Sir, you did the right thing. It wasn’t worth it either way. It’s this place. It’s a fuck story, and it gets to everyone. That includes you. You’re good, sir.”
I felt that Slaughter was right. At least that’s what I wanted to believe at the time. He was, though. I thanked him for listening. He gave me a quick head nod. I told him to get the boys together and get ready to go.
That moment weighed on me for days. That young kid, cocky as he may have been, would never know how close he was to death. Either way, S
laughter and Shores were right.
I never saw the gun.
Later that week, on the morning of 7 February to be precise, I led a patrol with one of the squads in 1st Platoon. It was routine. We kept an eye out for suspicious activity. We met with the locals. I handed out Tootsie Roll candies to the kids that I kept in a small pouch that I had attached to my gear. We were back in Building 500 after a couple of hours.
When we entered the compound, I saw a group of 15th MEU command element vehicles parked out back. My first reaction was, “What did we fuck up today?” It was my gut reaction whenever higher command showed up unannounced to our position.
I walked inside the house and made my way up the stairs to the COC on the second floor
When I came to the top of the stairs, I saw Colonel Beaudreault standing at the large table in my COC.
He turned to me with a solemn look on his face, and said, “Scott, I’m not sure if you’ve heard yet, but Sergeant Major Ellis was killed this morning in Barwana.”
It felt as if someone punched me in the stomach. I couldn’t breathe. I felt dazed.
Colonel Beaudreault explained that Ellis and some others had been killed at an Entry Control Point (ECP) in Barwana by a suicide bomber.
The 2d Battalion, 4th Marines, staff had gone down to the ECP in the morning to promote a Marine from Golf Company that day.
The battalion headquarters and three other companies worked in Barwana, two hundred miles northeast of Rutbah, conducting operations to secure the area. They’d been there for several months and had not encountered any heavy fighting, only sporadic small arms fire from time to time, punctuated by an occasional mortar attack.
The insurgents must have been conducting surveillance on the ECP for weeks in order to see if there was a moment when the Marines might let their guard down—gauging their reactions and looking for an opportunity to strike. They were always watching. We knew that.
Echo in Ramadi Page 25
