In the early afternoon of December 2, I relaxed on my cot reading a few letters from home. The XO stormed into the tent. He went straight to Captain Smith, whose bunk was next to mine. “Guess who I just saw getting out of a hummer!” he said.
A few days earlier, Captain Smith had implemented a policy that officers were not allowed to drive vehicles. “If you are an officer, you will not drive a tactical vehicle,” he had said. The decision was made after Lieutenant Thomas drove some of his Marines to Camp Ramadi’s chow hall, avoiding the fifteen- to twenty-minute walk from tent city.
Captain Smith made the decision as a form of protection. If you aren’t driving, you can’t be responsible for any damages in an accident. The last thing Rage 6 wanted was to lose an officer to an investigation because he hit a pedestrian or crashed into something. At best, it was awkward for the rest of the officers, who would now have to ask one of their Marines to drive them around.
The XO looked back toward the entrance he’d come through and shouted. “Get the fuck in here!” Lieutenants Thomas, Shearburn, and Jahelka came into the tent.
Captain Smith put down his laptop and grabbed a spit bottle as he stood up. He looked down to the other side of the tent. “If you don’t have a rocker on your collar, get out!” The junior Marines of headquarters platoon scurried out the other end of the tent. Rage 6 proceeded to give three of his platoon commanders the ass chewing I had expected from Captain James. I stayed on my cot, listening and thinking about how each individual would react to the incident. I understood both sides. Captain Smith needed to put his foot down. The lieutenants were professionally embarrassed, scolded in front of the men they led. All for what would seem a trivial matter. I lay back and started to read again, hoping neither side would take personal offense. Only time would tell.
December 3, 2006
It had rained for only about ten minutes, but somehow everything was caked in mud. The mud was an ominous sign, as more rain was in the forecast. Rage 1 had already left for COP Falcon. I had decided that I would execute HC2 with Rage 2. I found Corporal Holloway and his squad staged outside the headquarters tent, ready to go.
Holloway was smoking. “You know, sir, if you had smoked before the last op, Davila wouldn’t be getting investigated. Seriously, sir, something is going to go wrong on every op until you smoke with Lieutenant Thomas before they begin.” Holloway wasn’t whispering anymore. The Marines of his squad didn’t even look like they thought what he was saying was crazy.
I wasn’t going to budge. “For the last time, I do not smoke. And I will not be one of those combat smokers,” I said.
Plenty of Marines had taken up smoking in-country. Somehow it calmed the nerves. The catchphrase for being one was combat smoker. I sat down with the squad and waited for time to pass. It eventually did.
The engines of Rage Company’s seven-ton trucks and humvees roared to life. I climbed into the back of the personnel variant seven-ton. It was a massive vehicle. Wearing a full combat load made climbing the stairs an arduous task. Benches were placed in the center, allowing the Marines to face outboard and use the top of the three-foot armored wall as a firing stand for their weapons. The Marines dropped the canvas top of the truck’s bed down over the sides, in an attempt to camouflage themselves from enemy snipers. It would also deflect any well-placed hand grenade throws.
The four idling seven-ton trucks and hummers drowned out all noise, except one: the high pitch of metal banging into metal randomly pierced the rumbling engines as Marines strategically placed gear on the back of their trucks. No one tried to speak over the ruckus. The last Marines of the squad struggled aboard, squeezing among one another and their gear. I had already made the trip to COP Grant multiple times at night; however, riding in the back of this truck on a daylight trip through Ramadi’s streets seemed likely to produce the same outcome as our one day-patrol: a firefight. It didn’t help that we were an IED’s dream. With all of our gear and packs, we were trapped behind the armor that protected us. It was a perfect thought as we started to make our way toward Ogden Gate and Route Michigan.
We linked up with our BFV and tank escort just before leaving Camp Ramadi. The convoy stopped short of Ogden Gate. Weapons went condition one. The snap of charging handles slamming home was our way of punching the clock. It was time to earn some pay.
The convoy rolled forward, making a left onto Route Michigan and exiting the gate. Route Michigan was the main supply route through downtown Ramadi. It was repeatedly targeted by insurgent ambushes and IEDs. My side of the vehicle scanned into the industrial area adjacent to Camp Ramadi. The real threat was on the other side of the vehicle. A few hundred meters south of the road, the “Chinese” apartments were five or six stories high. Civilians still lived in them, and insurgents used the countless windows in the structures to engage coalition convoys along Route Michigan. They were also a great vantage point from which to observe all military traffic along the route. It was key terrain in the city. I bounced a few inches off the seat as we hit a pothole and made it onto the Saddam Bridge. I landed sideways on the seat, so I turned all the way around to see how the other Marines had taken the bump. I ended up getting a glimpse of the city I would never forget.
Driving over the Saddam Bridge and looking south showcased Ramadi’s geographic importance. About a mile and half down the banks of the Saddam Canal, the city abruptly ended. Its streets and walled structures stopped like the ramparts of a medieval fortress. Sand replaced the insurgent stronghold and flowed down to the banks of what I first thought was a mirage: a lake in the middle of the desert. With the Euphrates River turning north and Lake Habbaniya blocking land movement to the south, there was only one direct route to Baghdad you could take without getting your feet wet: through Ramadi. For centuries, merchants had traveled along these paths through Sunni Anbar’s first city. A lone highway runs west to Jordan; another snakes along the Euphrates north to Syria. Their intersection on the outskirts of Ramadi was the crossroads of the Sunni insurgency. That is, in the same sense that Quantico is the crossroads of the Corps. Everyone has been there once.
The column of vehicles crossed the bridge, moving through checkpoint 294. Directly to my front, where the Euphrates and Saddam Canal meet, was Camp Hurricane Point (HP). The former Ba’ath Party palace was now lined with fighting positions and observation posts. It was the headquarters for 1st Battalion, 6th Marines. The convoy veered to the right through the traffic circle outside HP’s main gate. We were about 2,000 meters from checkpoint 295 along Route Michigan. In seconds, the buildings along the road began to resemble the remnants of a World War II battlefield. As we drove, there seemed to be one general rule: the larger the building, the more pockmarks and gaping wounds it would have.
We turned right at checkpoint 295, heading south on Sunset. The buildings seemed to close in on the road. One could almost touch the concrete walls by reaching out of the truck. The convoy rolled through COP Falcon and went directly south to Farouk Way. Making the left, it was only a few hundred meters to COP Grant. The convoy filled the COP’s parking lot. I waited for a few mortar rounds to land. They never did.
The platoon dismounted and set up. With Rage 1 staging at COP Falcon, the living conditions at COP Grant for the next few hours were comfortable.
Most of the Marines slept to pass the time before the mission. At about 1945, no one was sleeping anymore. A huge explosion rocked the urban sprawl. Pathfinder had hit a massive IED at a notorious IED hot spot. None of the engineers were seriously wounded, though their vehicle was disabled. The mission would be delayed as we waited for another Pathfinder element to come out with a mine-resistant ambush-protected vehicle. The insurgents’ string of IED belts was buying them time. Pathfinder would hit two more IEDs before we left the wire. Each one rocked COP Grant but strengthened our confidence in the mission. Every IED Pathfinder hit was one less we would find. The mine-resistant vehicles had the armor; we had small-arms protective inserts. The Marines in Rage Company owed their li
ves to the engineers of Pathfinder.
Just before midnight, we began our infiltration. I moved out of COP Grant with the lead squad of Rage 2. There was a bit of confusion because Rage 1 was not completely past the COP, and we had to halt in the middle of the road as they passed by us. We had messed up the order of movement, and our punishment was halting and kneeling in the middle of the road. The squad was stationary and exposed, occupying the outer sides of the road, while the last elements of Rage 1 flowed through us. I hated sitting still. There was too much time to think. I moved a few meters to a couple of concrete barriers and set up in the kneeling position behind one. It was a cold night, and not moving amplified the weather’s effect.
Rage 2 began to move again. It was a straight shot down Farouk Way, and in the distance I could make out the flashing infrared (IR) strobes of an Abrams main battle tank and a more distant BFV. The Marines of Rage 1 were also less visible as their IR tape glistened in my NVGs. I focused on the immediate area. The road was surprisingly clean. It was also relatively safe. There was always an armored vehicle maintaining observation over the route, as it was a direct link between 1-37’s COP Grant and 1-9 Infantry’s COP Eagles Nest.
The column approached the tank. It was oriented south in the intersection. The 120mm cannon was facing down Train Station Road. The northern side of the T-intersection was open ground. It stretched a few hundred meters, and our only cover from that direction was two old market stalls. The stalls looked like a small garage that could hardly hold a compact car. The metallic front doors were blown open, and each stall was littered with debris.
I instantly appreciated the Abrams, because its roaring engine muffled every step I took. I crouched a few meters behind it and covered the Marine in front of me as he crossed Farouk Way. The houses on the perimeter of Papa 10 were exactly as they appeared on the map: one on top of the other, their exterior walls forming a defensive perimeter. I could see gaping holes in the roof ’s retaining walls, which undoubtedly had served as firing positions for previous engagements. We moved through the courtyard and into the first home. Within minutes, Rage 2 was oriented south and clearing its lane.
The squads poured into the first houses in their respective lanes. The platoon was most vulnerable during this initial clear phase of the mission. Understanding this, every squad quickly established its foothold. Marines aggressively moved through each room. Locked doors were quickly blasted open with a shotgun. There were at least a dozen shotgun blasts in the first five minutes of the clear, and the radio was full of call signs, followed by the words “Shotgun breeching!”
The first home was empty. With no one to question, I went straight to the roof. A fire team of Marines was already oriented into the heart of the patrol sector. The group covered the other squads in Rage 2 as they moved on to clear the second homes in their lanes. I took up a position next to the fire team’s SAW gunner, scanning to the south with my scope. The enemy was out there. They had set off three defensive IEDs on Pathfinder, but would they stick around for the main event? I doubted it. Insurgents are survivalists. They were only going to fight if we could trap them. They had three hours to escape our cordon. It probably wasn’t very difficult; a tank’s armor is a better door than window.
The other squads took up positions on the second homes’ roofs. They would now cover us as we cleared the next two houses, moving one ahead of them. This leapfrog concept ensured that we always had Marines manning the high ground.
We moved into the second house. It was occupied by two younger couples. Both were rounded up and placed in an upstairs bedroom. When I made it into the room, Sergeant Dimitrios Karras was questioning them. He was the closest thing to an interpreter the company had. I immediately found the demeanor of the two men to be suspicious. I cross-checked each name on a master list of insurgents I had compiled. It was like playing Where’s Waldo?, and I had never been good at that. What made it difficult was that I was unsure of how to properly spell their names. I quickly became frustrated. I was angry at myself for not paying more attention during my Arabic classes in college.
Each man we interrogated claimed to be a teacher. Right. There were so many great schools to attend in southern Ramadi. At the time, there wasn’t a single one open. The men were too young to be former teachers, and I immediately thought the two were teaching something, but it wasn’t educational. The one we found upstairs then admitted he didn’t even live in the house. He appeared tired and depressed; his mannerisms shouted dejection. He was visiting his brother and had just come back from Saudi Arabia. I was in shock. Traveling at the time required protection from gangs of insurgents, unless you were one. Teaching in Saudi Arabia was as big an indicator as you could get. I called him “Wahhabi,” and the man got very upset.
I directed the Marines to conduct a thorough search. Blankets and mattresses flew across the room. The women cried. Rage 6 gave us a few minutes to focus on the house. As usual, we found nothing. Now I had a decision to make. I walked out of the room to remove myself from the situation. There was no evidence against the guy. Should I detain him for going to Saudi Arabia? I couldn’t. I thought about his getting paid for spending a few days at the ARDF. What a bureaucratic mess.
I went back into the room. The Marines had bagged and tagged him as a detainee. I looked at Corporal Holloway. “Leave him,” I said. Holloway didn’t question my call. He knew why I had walked out, and he also knew there was no evidence. I decided that our methods needed some serious reconfiguring. The insurgents had been playing this game for years. They knew better than to bring incriminating materials into their homes. We moved on.
I linked up with Lieutenant Thomas outside the house. The plan was evolving. Rage 2 was falling slightly behind the other platoons. To catch up, Rage 4 had cleared the homes across Hook Street, where we were supposed to go. This allowed us to skip the buildings opposite us and move down the no-name road where Pathfinder had hit the first major IED.
The squad move out of the courtyard and approached the intersection, only a few meters away. Lieutenant Thomas went around the corner with the first team. I sprinted across the street and instantly caught wind of a familiar smell: cordite. I followed the first team, finding the origin of the smell much closer than I’d anticipated. The blast hole for the IED was huge. Asphalt and chunks of concrete littered the road. It was a sobering sight. This was the spot, the same IED crater where the three soldiers had perished at the hands of Moneybags and Propane. I couldn’t help but wonder if they had personally initiated the IED that hit Pathfinder here. Lieutenant Thomas jumped down into the smoldering hole. I ran up and looked at him. We had both been briefed on the fact that insurgents would hastily emplace victim-activated IEDs, which function like land mines, after Pathfinder came through. It was a smart attempt to counter the dismounted infantry that would follow.
I had a few choice words lined up for Lieutenant Thomas’s actions, but in the presence of his Marines I held back. I was also shocked by the size of the crater. The platoon commander’s head was level with my shins. “Rage FO, what do you think did this?” he said.
I laughed, finding it funny that he referred to me by my call sign. I didn’t answer until after I helped him out of the crater. “Well, it’s probably been used a few dozen times before.” I shrugged, clueless as to the answer. “I have no idea. Smells good, though,” I said.
He gave me a slight smile. “Say that to Pathfinder.”
We turned the corner and found ourselves looking out over the central open terrain. It was much smaller than it appeared on the map. Holloway’s squad made entry and began to clear the corner house. By the time I got inside, the family was isolated in a room and the building was clear. There was nothing suspicious.
As we prepared to move to the next house, Rage 6 came over the radio and asked me to move a few houses down to Rage 4’s position. I reached the home within moments. It wasn’t hard to find the room where the family was located. It was packed with six Marines questioning the three m
en living in the house. Two women and a cluster of kids cried in the room’s opposing corners. On the floor was an AK with a few loaded magazines. An Iraqi police armband was draped over the weapon. A red flag went up in my mind. There was no way an Iraqi police (IP) officer lived in the Papa 10. IPs hadn’t even had a presence in this area in more than a year, back when twenty or thirty of them had their throats slit in the street.
Captain Smith noticed that I was there. “Daly, try to figure this shit out,” he said. He took the crowd with him, leaving one Marine to guard the group. The interpreter followed him out.
I grabbed the interpreter’s arm and tried to get Rage 6’s attention. “Six, you going to leave me the terp?” I said.
Captain Smith didn’t even turn around. “No need; the old guy speaks English,” he said.
This was going to be an interesting house. It took five minutes for me to get out of the dad that his son used to be an IP. The kid even had an ID card. The confusing part was why they kept the IP armband and ID card. They claimed to have burned the uniform, but they kept these items? I also found it abnormal that the mother continued to sob. Once an interrogator at the ARDF told me, “If you want to figure out an Arab, take note of his wife’s behavior.” Although I couldn’t directly ask her questions or even look at her the wrong way, the reaction of the man’s wife after the Heidbreder ambush confirmed the interrogator’s advice.
I continued to grill the father with basic questions about the insurgents. His wife seemed to sob a little louder every time I said, “Irhabi.” Something just didn’t feel right about the group. Again, though, there was no evidence other than the items on the floor, none of which were illegal. There was nothing to detain the men for, and I stopped asking questions. As soon as I stopped, the father started.
Rage Company Page 7
