As Pathfinder cleared down Racetrack, they would be providing the dismounted units with a safe casualty evacuation route and quick access to armored vehicles or tanks. By clearing the structures directly behind Pathfinder, the dismounted Marines would force any IED triggermen or RPG teams, who usually harassed Pathfinder, to rethink sticking around. With such a large force of Marines moving through the night, the insurgents would likely rely on their defensive IEDs and withdraw from the objective area.
Captain Smith outlined the lane that was assigned to the company to clear. He instructed the group that all unit leaders, squad leader and above, must label every PIED on their maps. Rage 6 was ordering us to do this because he knew we didn’t take most of the reporting seriously. Almost every intersection had a PIED. Annotating each one resulted in your map’s being covered in an excessive amount of ink—not to mention that we were going through the intersections regardless.
What I did not realize at the time was that the issue of so many PIEDs was the first hint of the truth in the 1/6 intel officer’s statement regarding the battalion’s inability to act on its intelligence. Many of the PIEDs had been reported more than six months earlier. The majority were between three and six months old. Only a handful had less than a month since their initial reporting. Looking at the map led to one thought: there were not enough Marines in Ramadi. The battalion was therefore not able to vet its local sources of information because its combat power was stretched to the limit. Such a lack of intelligence would have a serious effect on Operation Hue City.
After reviewing the mission with the company staff, I headed to Camp Ramadi’s gym to relieve some stress. Many of the Marines said good things about the quality of the equipment, and I figured my body could use the exercise. After all, I hadn’t worked out in a month. When I got there, I found out that the warehouse-style building, a ten-minute walk from my tent, was more than a gym. It was a movie theater, an arcade, and an indoor basketball court. Chess sets and board games lined the shelves. Soldiers and Marines were slaughtering one another playing Halo 2 and Gears of War for the Xbox 360, as if their everyday lives weren’t exciting enough.
I skipped the modern entertainment and opted for a treadmill. A few miles later, I found myself playing basketball with some Marines from the company against a group of National Guardsmen. Even with the not-so-agile Joash Albin, we made short work of the larger and quickly winded soldiers. Over the course of the game, I came to pity the armed citizens. Their entire existence was spent driving convoys to the vast reaches of Al Anbar’s desert. Since IEDs were the number one threat everywhere, the Marines of our company swore their lives to one truth: better to walk than drive. Unfortunately for the guardsmen, they did not have the choice to walk.
I played three consecutive games on the court and headed back to my tent. I ran the half mile in near pitch-black conditions. A bitter cold attacked my sweat. Two distant explosions and machine gun fire echoed over the city. I jogged past the Ar Ramadi Regional Detention Facility, the barbed wire atop its sand-filled HESCO barriers barely illuminated by the moon. I turned into our parking lot after passing the ARDF. Rage Company’s dozen M1114 humvees and three seven-ton trucks were neatly aligned, awaiting the next morning’s convoy that would take us to Qatana. The sentry watching over them greeted me as I went past.
After entering the large white headquarters tent, I grabbed a pair of sandals, toilet paper, a towel, and some clean clothes. I headed straight for the shower trailer. Unfortunately, I forgot my shampoo. I had no idea it was the last time I would shower and use an actual toilet for twenty-five days.
The column of seven-ton trucks and uparmored humvees followed the same route along Michigan through Ramadi’s war-torn streets that we had taken to COP Falcon for Harrison Creek II. The only difference was our heading north at checkpoint 295 onto Racetrack, rather than turning south along Sunset.
The sight of Qatana from checkpoint 295 highlighted the intensity of modern urban combat. At the checkpoint’s northeast corner lay a pile of rubble that stretched for at least a quarter mile east along Michigan. Weeks earlier, coalition forces had leveled the structures because they were repeatedly being used by insurgents to engage Ramadi’s government center, which was on the south side of the street.
The mayor of the city had drawn up plans to one day turn the area into a park and a monument. At the moment it sounded like a fool’s dream.
It was only a few hundred meters up Racetrack to our new home. After several moments of staring into destroyed buildings, the convoy made a left and pulled into COP Firecracker, slowly inching its way through the narrow gate. The COP itself had been built in a massive school compound. The large structure that was the main barracks and the living space for the COP, as well as five of the barren surrounding buildings, had been a school before the war. Combat had transformed these places of academia and development into symbols of conflict.
A wide, open courtyard was centrally located among the structures. It was lined with towering concrete barriers, isolating it from the rest of the city and allowing us to use it as a parking lot. A recent downpour had turned this secure area into a giant pit of mud, chunks of which sprayed up around the vehicles as they pulled into a dispersed formation and occupied the vast space.
We spread the vehicles out as much as possible. Only a few days earlier, a Marine had been killed from an incoming mortar round in this parking lot. The platoons quickly dismounted their trucks and hurried through the mud into COP Firecracker. I jumped down off the back of a seven-ton and followed suit.
The mud clung to my feet. I saw a Marine carrying a boot in his hand while he hopped toward the building. After a few jumps, he gave up and ran, exposing his naked toes to the muck. The empty boot was so filled with mud that he probably had made the right choice. I continued to slosh through the mess, without losing my boots, and eventually made it to the small doorway into the COP.
A group of Marines congregated around the entrance, stomping and kicking their boots against a litany of objects. It was a vain attempt to remove the mud that had caked onto their feet. I thought about skipping the pointless endeavor, but a staff noncommissioned officer (SNCO) from 1/6 was inside checking the cleanliness of the Marines’ boots. Men with too much mud were being sent back out to stomp some more.
I didn’t see the point. With our nearly four hundred feet, we were kicking against the same sandbags, wall, and wooden planks to remove the persistent dirt. The end result, regardless of how long we stomped, was a trail of muck up the COP’s wide staircase to the third floor. Nobody had to ask where to go; mud pointed the way.
The interior of the COP itself was empty, except that every window and thin exterior wall was lined with sandbags. Not a single item hung on the walls. There was no furniture. The floor plan on every level was exactly the same. The centrally placed front and back doors opened into the staircase, which spiraled all the way to the roof. A central hallway, stretching about 250 meters, split the four-story building along its length. There were opposing rooms on either side. At the end of these hallways were larger open rooms that served special functions. The second floor, north end, was the chow hall. The third floor, south end, was the bathroom.
There was no plumbing.
In the bathroom, a single urinal stood in the center of the room, elevated on what I considered a stage. With a line of squirming onlookers behind you, you could watch your urine as it traveled through plastic tubing that ran at a downward angle to a hole in the wall. The tube continued out of the structure and over the exterior wall of the small, unoccupied building next door. The owner of which had probably fled to Syria and was in for an unpleasant smell when the war was over.
The toilets were even better. Nothing more than five plastic chairs, each lined with a small green garbage bag in the center, would contain the bowel movements of two hundred Marines. You did your business in the bag, wrapped it up, and stuffed it into a separate green zip-lock bag. On the way out of the bathroom, you tos
sed this semi-sealed container, known as a Wag-Bag, into a garbage can. Every few days a group of unfortunate Marines would burn the COP’s trash, Wag-Bags included.
For living arrangements, Captain Smith had chosen a small hundred-square-foot room. From the top of the stairs on the third floor, it was the first door on your left.
It wasn’t much of a door. There were no hinges. You literally slid the plywood out of your way to go in and out. It was considered a luxury, though. No other room on the third floor had an actual door. Inside the room’s sea-green walls, laced with Arabic graffiti, the same five men who were at the photo op with Oliver North had placed their military-issued cots. The two enlisted men took the left side of the room, while the three officers went to the right. Somebody had set up a Christmas tree in the middle.
Once all of the platoons had arrived and were settled, the staff and the officers of Rage and Apache 1/6 gathered to discuss Operation Hue City.
We met in the COP’s chow hall. A layer of sandbags lined a few former windows. Only one or two small rays of light breached the green bags and shone into the room. A large flat-screen TV adorned the wall on the left. Next to it was a white microwave. On the right side of the room, a lone table was set up to serve food. Hastily built wooden shelves were stocked with a few loafs of bread and the inseparable duo of peanut butter and jelly. The rest of the room was filled with picnic tables and a standard cafeteria-style table with built-in chairs. Fifty men could sit comfortably.
Seats quickly disappeared as Marines from the two infantry units showed up for the brief. Some of the squad leaders ended up standing as the brief began. Alpha’s commander, Apache 6, started first. The Marine outlined his platoon’s lane, which would be on our southern flank. After going over their route, he highlighted each of the targets his men would action. When he was done, he took questions from the group, most of which came from his Marines.
Next, it was Captain Smith’s turn. He got up and followed in the exact same format that Apache 6 had. Before I knew it, the mission was briefed and everyone turned to chow. I instantly regretted not asking more pointed questions at Hurricane Point days earlier. Tactically, our two units had done minimal coordination. We had simply told each other what we were going to do. There was no discussion of standard operating procedures or any warnings for insurgent trends. The basis of a working relationship was never established. Introductions between members of our two staffs never occurred.
I sat at a picnic table wondering whether anyone in the room knew what would happen once Comanche seized their COP. Were we going back to Camp Ramadi? Clearing the rest of Qatana? The realization that the gaps in the plan rested at the battalion level dawned on me. The battalion staff had whisked us out of Hurricane Point for good reason.
The intent of the mission was for Comanche to seize the new COP that would become their home; however, Rage and Alpha were tasked with clearing south of Racetrack. These tactical tasks were slightly contradictory: one was to control a specific building, while the other entailed the searching of five hundred. Unlike the previous missions with 1-37, there was no specific objective area. Instead, there were targets to search along the route that we would clear. I was concerned with the lack of specificity in our task.
For a moment, I almost realized what Operation Hue City would become. Tactically, the infantry units would execute the mission as ordered, but at the operational level the battalion was going to find itself reactionary. There was no plan for what would happen after the seizing of COP Qatana. Hindsight is, of course, 20/20, and at that moment I dismissed my own concerns, thinking I wasn’t seeing the bigger picture. Time would prove otherwise.
I leaned in close to the small flame emitted by the silver Zippo that Lieutenant Thomas held. Corporal Holloway did the same next to me. Simultaneously, our cigarettes caught. The flame went out and the enclosed room turned pitch-black, except for the dozen burning shredded rolls of tobacco already hanging from our lips.
The three of us sat down. “I’ m glad you could join us, Tom,” said James Thomas. I didn’t respond. Instead, I awaited Holloway’s voice.
“Twenty minutes from staging, and Lieutenant Daly is purposely smoking with Lieutenant Thomas. Only good can come of this, gentlemen,” said the corporal, satisfied that I had given in to his demands of smoking before the mission for luck. After nearly being shot in the Lima 2, I welcomed his idea of a pre-mission ritual. The three of us finished smoking and went to get our gear.
Forty minutes later bodies shivered, awaiting the word to step off. Lieutenant Richard Jahelka and the Marines of Rage 3 congregated at the front door to COP Firecracker. Rage 2 and Rage 1 had already stepped off to clear the company’s assigned lane. Now we were waiting for them to establish themselves on the eastern side of the Racetrack, inside Qatana. The company was going to move with two platoons forward, clearing the lane. Rage 3 and the headquarters element would fall in trace, acting as a reserve.
The lobby for COP Firecracker was packed with anxious warriors. Most of the Marines conversed in hushed voices. The only ones who shouted were the squad leaders, double-checking that their men had brought extra C4, linked 5.56mm ammo for the SAW, or an incendiary grenade.
“Tarheel, this is Rage 6, my last platoon is departing COP Firecracker time now, over,” said Captain Smith on the battalion net.
The first few Marines moved out of the building. I waited impatiently for my turn to follow them. Once I was outside, the frigid air amplified the effect of my fear for what awaited. Even though I had urinated moments earlier, my bladder seemed full. I repeatedly fidgeted, not just to keep my near-stationary body warm but also as an outlet for my anxiety.
Immediately after leaving the building, we went condition one: round in the chamber. The single column of Marines snaked its way through a maze of concrete barriers and sandbagged positions that made up COP Firecracker’s perimeter. I passed a guard tower manned by Apache Marines. One of the sentries wished us luck.
“Death to the hajji,” he said.
A Marine in front of me pumped his fist in acknowledgment. Just before we made it to the end of the perimeter, we stopped. The column got backed up as Marines waited at the gate for the men in front of them to get proper dispersion. My bladder was about to explode. I gave in to its urges, still unsure whether it was a mental fixation or if I really did have to go again. I was surprised when, after I moved toward a concrete barrier, the urine flowed freely. I wasn’t the only one who required such relief. Three other Marines joined me in marking the concrete barrier at the COP’s northeast corner.
Eventually, Albin walked out into the street and began to scan his right flank. I paused and waited for him to get about 3 meters in front of me. On my left, a small strand of barbed wire, which served as the door for the five-foot-wide gate, ran at a forty-five-degree angle away from me. Three waist-high concrete barriers served as the entrance’s serpentine, spread out over roughly 50 meters to my direct front.
I started to walk.
The formation was crossing Racetrack immediately after exiting the serpentine. As I crossed the street, I scanned north. An Abrams tank was 200 meters away on the far side of a five-way intersection. A destroyed five-floor apartment building towered over it on the southeast corner. Dozens of dark windows in the war-torn structure faced outward in every direction, a perfect vantage point for the enemy and a dangerous trap for us. With the building’s one-level height advantage over COP Firecracker, insurgents had used it to stage dozens of attacks against the COP’s Apache defenders during the previous three weeks. A handful of Marines had been wounded or killed by insurgent snipers operating out of the windows I now stared into.
An explosion shook the ground. Startled, I realized that the flash of light in my NVGs had originated beyond the apartment building and slightly to the right. Pathfinder had either hit or found an IED. I crossed Racetrack, following the two dozen Marines ahead of me onto Finney Street. The neighborhood opposite COP Firecracker was exclusively resi
dential. The small one- and two -story homes were similar in appearance to those that surrounded COP Grant.
The column of Marines turned north onto an unnamed side street. Breaking from the plan, individual squads began to enter and clear homes. Instead of moving all the way to our first phase line, Fire Station Road, we were halting our advance, probably to wait for Pathfinder to collect itself from the earlier blast.
I randomly entered a house in downtown Ramadi. It was the usual layout. The owner, who was about fifty years old, was speaking with Captain Smith in the foyer. I headed back to the room where the rest of the family had stayed. Mud covered the carpets, tracked inside by the twenty Marines who had just barged through the front door. A strong scent of kerosene wafted through the hallway. At the door to the family room, the company’s one interpreter, Marlo, was chatting with some of the home’s occupants. A Marine stood guard next to him.
I asked Marlo to apologize to the owner, who still stood in the foyer, for the mud caked on his carpets. When he walked away, I looked into the room. A dozen frightened sets of eyes stared back at me. Most of them belonged to young children.
I took off my helmet, revealing my human face, which had been masked by NVGs and a radio handset. Two elementary school-age girls exchanged smiles with me. They were every bit as cute and expressive as American children. The only difference was that these girls lived in one of the most dangerous places on earth. For three years, machine gun fire, IEDs, ambushes, air strikes, and constant scenes of death had surrounded their home. At the age of eight or nine, they had witnessed more of life’s horrors than Stephen King could fit into some pointless book. Yet they were still here, living in Qatana.
Rage Company Page 11
