My left foot touched the ground. It made contact with a small metallic object that instantly gave in to my weight. I was certain I had stepped on a pressure-plate IED, and I glued my foot to the ground. I turned around to see what Albin was doing behind me. He was scanning the same rubble I had been looking at and didn’t see that I had halted. Hoping that no one was looking, I jumped off the potential bomb. With all of my gear, I didn’t go very far. To add to the embarrassing experience, the inertia of my body armor and its weight carried me forward. I subsequently stumbled into the soft, wet dirt.
Lying in the mud, I thought, At least there wasn’t an explosion . . .
I quickly got up and heard a few chuckles from Albin. “What the hell was that?” he quietly asked, catching up to me.
“Fear,” I said. I was always amazed by my own reactions to battlefield paranoia. Every infantryman fights his own personal battle against the fog of war, the unknown. Clearly, I didn’t always win.
Eakin was shaking me. I opened my eyes, realizing I had fallen asleep against the white concrete wall. It was the morning of Christmas Eve, and I was in an abandoned Iraqi apartment building. I stood halfway up, still wearing my flak jacket and Kevlar helmet, M4 rifle slung across my chest. Every muscle in my body ached. They had been stuck under the weight of my gear for almost fifteen hours. My butt was frozen, having been exposed to the bare tile floor. There was no warm eggnog. No midnight mass to look forward to. Only Eakin, showing off the picture he had just taken of me waking up. He’d had the audacity to take the photo with my camera.
I threw a piece of gum into my mouth and collected myself. My breath was visible as I slowly chewed the rock-hard stick of sugar. Captain Smith’s radio operator, Corporal Robert Craig, was monitoring the radio next to a kerosene heater ten feet away. I headed toward the warmth, moving through a cluster of Marines sleeping under large hajji blankets. “Where did we get this stuff, Craig?” I asked in a hushed tone, referring to the blankets and the kerosene heater.
“One of the squads went out on a comfort patrol and found an Iraqi willing to sell it all,” he said, speaking through a balaclava. Condensation formed around his lips. I wondered how much truth was in the statement. Had the man wanted to sell it or did we force him?
The previous night, Rage Company had executed a relief in place with Comanche. In doing so, we had assumed their mission: secure, by observation or other means, the new COP’s construction site. The platoon of Marines I was with was exhausted. After occupying the building, they had spent the evening moving a few thousand sandbags and pieces of ballistic glass into the apartment complex. We were building a temporary COP until the new one was finished. Everyone knew the project would consume weeks; construction hadn’t even begun.
A map of the Qatana was taped to the wall behind Corporal Craig. I moved closer to it and noticed something written along the bottom: WELCOME TO THE ICE PALACE. I smiled, thinking of how fitting the name was. This tiny room on the third floor was Rage Company’s new COC. The headquarters element was colocated with Rage 3, which manned the Ice Palace’s six fighting positions. Rage 2 took over Rage 4’s position at building 17, and Rage 1 set up a defensive position in the five-story apartment building 200 meters away at the northeast corner of Thornton and Pope streets.
Headquarters and Rage 3’s initial position was a large apartment building on the southern side of the Give Me-Racetrack intersection. Walking toward the building the night before, I had noticed that the larger mined structures along Racetrack were more open and dominated the skyline. Captain Smith had seen the same thing. After seizing it, we did a thorough analysis of our ability to fight from the structure.
Rage 6 decided to pick a new location. He moved Rage 3 south to Thornton and assumed a position inside another large apartment complex with a better layout to defend. The new structure overlooked the construction site, and 1/6 gave us permission to switch positions. From the Thornton-Racetrack intersection, it was the third structure west, on the north side. Its new name was the Ice Palace.
Across from the Ice Palace, in a walled compound that stretched all the way to Racetrack, was a team of Navy SEALs. The special forces sailors were attached to Rage Company for the mission, a direct result of Captain Smith’s repeated requests to get them in on the action in Qatana. The frogmen also brought a lot to the table: they had their own unmanned aircraft, usually a Predator drone, which was more sophisticated than the Wasp UAV we employed. In addition, the SEALs used large-caliber sniper rifles and more complex radios capable of reaching a broader range of frequencies. The fundamental difference between Rage Company and the SEALs, however, had nothing to do with their large budget, which provided them with all of these aforementioned toys. It had to do with the ROE and was the factor that contributed to regular units’, such as 1/6’s, desire to avoid the highly skilled instruments of war.
Navy SEALs were not subject to the standard ROE.
They could shoot whomever they wanted, whenever they wanted. This reasoning was based on their highly intensive selection and training process, as well as on the amount of money spent on each man to get him to such a proficient state. In a sense, the military was looking for a return on its investment, by removing the standard government oversight. You could refer to it as the Pentagon’s version of laissez-faire.
This inherently uncontrollable nature of the frogmen and their spec-ops brethren was to blame for 1/6’s previous decision not to allow them inside Qatana. No matter what the SEALs did, they would answer to a separate chain of command. The leadership of 1/6 had no authority to punish or take corrective action against them. It was a situation that most military leaders, and middle management, had nightmares about: a subordinate who could tell you no and get away with it. I was about to experience such a scenario firsthand.
I stared at the map with Lieutenant Jahelka, listening to Captain Smith’s plan for the evening. My fingers were freezing inside their thin Nomex gloves. I could barely take notes. Our conversation was interrupted by five or six muffled gunshots. I didn’t recognize the weapon at first, but Captain Smith, being the former spec-ops type, instantly identified the sound as a suppressed rifle. Only the SEALs had suppressed weapons.
Rage 6 turned around, snatching the radio handset from Corporal Craig. He waited a few moments for the SEALs to report what was going on. They never did. Our commander broke the silence. “Frogman 6, this is Rage 6, what is the nature of your contact, over,” asked Captain Smith. There was still no answer, only another short burst of suppressed rifle fire. “Frogman 6, Rage 6, what are you shooting at, over.” Captain Smith was getting annoyed now, frustrated that he was being ignored by the same guys he had vouched for.
Finally, someone responded. “Rage 6, this is Frogman, we are engaging Iraqis, over,” said the voice. The Marines in the room let out a few short laughs. Captain Smith gave the handset back to Craig, saying, “They wonder why no one wants to work with them.”
The SEALs made no attempt to explain their actions, let alone build our situational awareness about the threat perceived from their position. An hour passed. Then a hail of suppressed rifle fire erupted for about ten seconds. Captain Smith immediately reported the incident to 1/6 before getting word from the SEALs as to the nature of the contact. After speaking with the SEALs, we learned that they were opening fire on a group of Iraqis coming too close to their position. We relayed the vague statement to battalion, who in turn asked whether the SEALs had taken fire or observed hostile intent (meaning that the Iraqis were armed). Battalion also asked for a battle damage assessment (BDA).
The SEALs’ answer to both questions was no, and there was no BDA.
I immediately understood the attitude of 1/6’s operations officer during the brief for Hue City. Engaging unarmed Iraqis because they were close to your position did not fall within the standard ROE. The Marines of Rage Company would have been investigated for such an incident.
Thirty minutes later, Tarheel 3, 1/6’s operations officer, was
on the battalion net. He was furious and directed his ire at Rage 6. “Rage 6, Tarheel 3, there is a teenage boy at Ramadi General Hospital with a GSW [gunshot wound] to the abdomen. He claims he was shot by coalition forces near the intersection of Pope and Manson. The boy was wearing a red sweater with blue jeans. My understanding is you had no BDA for your previous engagement. Is that accurate, over,” he said. Captain Smith told Tarheel 3 to stand by. He asked the same question of Frogman 6 over the company net. The SEAL’s reply was maybe.
The answer served as an accelerant to the fire burning within Tarheel 3. His anger spewed over the net toward Rage 6. I thought he was being unprofessional.
While the SEALs may not have been the most talkative bunch on the radio, I knew they were not randomly targeting civilians, as Tarheel seemed to suggest. These men were veterans of the Papa 10. They invented the use of small-kill teams. In one twenty-four-hour period, a SEAL sniper team had killed more than twenty insurgents.
The SEALs’ story wasn’t all success, however. Over time, the enemy brutally adapted to their methods. The frogmen watched eleven-year-olds innocently walk up to their position, only to throw hand grenades at them. Children scouted their locations. Few Americans bore the brunt of the fighting in Ramadi as they had. If they were shooting, there was a reason. According to the ROE, they didn’t have to explain themselves to 1/6, so they didn’t.
Throughout the day of Christmas Eve, the Marines manned their fighting positions. None of the platoons ventured outside. Although the Ice Palace was not shot at, Rage 1 and Rage 2 both took numerous rounds of small-arms fire over the course of the day. The insurgents were testing the Marines’ positions, trying to figure out what terrain was covered by them. If the insurgents were successful at mapping out our sectors of fire, they would undoubtedly devise a plan capable of engaging us without facing an immediate response. With this knowledge, they could easily overwhelm our static positions. If they did so, it would force us to occupy the roof to engage them, bringing us out from behind our ballistic glass. It was the same concept as the flashlight trick from the Lima 2.
I spent most of the day observing the city with the Vector 21b from each fighting position. On the fourth floor and in the late afternoon, I spotted a group of three middle-aged men smoking. The trio stood near the intersection of Playground and the no-name alley that connected it to Farm Road. After I watched them for a few moments, a pattern began to develop. Two of the men blatantly stared at the Ice Palace, while the third, with his back to me, turned his head every few seconds. My instincts told me the group was up to no good. I seriously considered shooting at them. The thought never developed into action. Since they didn’t have weapons, I would have been violating the ROE. I pointed them out to the Marine manning the .50cal machine gun and headed down to the COC on the third floor.
A few hours after dark, Gunny Bishop brought a convoy to the intersection of Thornton and Racetrack. The primary purpose was to bring more sandbags, but he also had a few heated vats of chow. The warm chicken fingers, French fries, egg rolls, and bland noodles were good for morale. We were all thinking about how quiet the day had been, and I was sure it wasn’t luck. Everyone knew the insurgents had their own Christmas gift for us.
From the enemy’s point of view, attacking us on such a holiday was a necessity. They had to remind the locals who was in control. The easiest way to do so was with the sound of gunfire and explosions. Without an effective information network, the rumor on the street was the only source of news. Insurgents could spin it however they wanted.
Sometimes they didn’t have to.
The day after the Heidbreder ambush, an insurgent blogger posted the details of their small victory online. Without any sort of local media, this version of the event was the only option for the citizens. I was first enraged when I read the translation of the article. Those were the early days; every incident elicited an emotional response.
Once I convinced myself I had made the right decision in not taking Holloway’s squad out of COP Grant, I put the blogger in context. It was nothing more than the Ramadi news cycle, which the insurgents updated almost daily. It was also a reminder that the enemy understood how to win in Ramadi: control the population.
The temperature dropped. After finishing the dinner of assorted finger foods, I hit the rack. Eakin, Bustamante, and I all huddled under the same blanket. I slept with my flak jacket wrapped around me. Before falling asleep, I thought about the MEU commander’s speech a few days earlier. I found it amusing that he’d told us that MNF-West was issuing a directive to essentially not fight on Christmas. Yet here we were, sleeping on the floor of an abandoned building in the heart of the insurgency’s capital. To the insurgent, there was nothing more provocative.
That night I pulled a four-hour radio watch, staring at my timepiece as Christmas officially arrived. The only excitement was listening to the brigade’s engineers trying to level the ground for the new COP. Apparently they had found some large-caliber mortar rounds while bulldozing half a dozen buildings. It made for some good radio traffic.
When I switched out with Lieutenant Jahelka, Corporal Matthew Conley’s 2nd squad relieved the SEALs across the street. The frogmen then moved to a position at the intersection of Farm Road and the no - name street the VBIED factory was on. It was an attempt to counter the insurgents’ previous day of reconnaissance. The Ice Palace’s northeast flank had a lone .50cal machine gun covering it, and the insurgents would have certainly noticed this basic fact. If the enemy, the trio of men I had spotted, figured out the weapon’s dead space, they would be able to mass their firepower on the lone position.
We wanted to put them back at square one. With a quick study of the map, Rage 6 determined that denying the insurgents movement along Farm Road took away their easiest insertion route on the exposed flank. The only question after that was deciding who would take up a position in the area.
When Captain Smith presented the SEALs with the mission, they jumped at the opportunity. It would allow them to operate independently but still under the protection of the .50cal machine gun. The frogmen also had the assets to succeed on their own.
I went back to sleep thinking about Christmas. I dreamed about one gift: the one the insurgents were going to give me when the sun came up. Waking the next morning was the same cold routine as the previous day’s experience. With about twenty minutes to sunrise, everyone was getting ready for the big day.
Albin put the Wasp’s antenna on the roof, and Eakin helped run the cable to the video screen in our small COC. After everything was hooked up, we turned it on to make sure it was operational. The three of us huddled over the tiny screen. I made a joke about how the morning had a Christmas feel to it, setting up the new piece of gear and all. Albin reminded me that it wasn’t new; he had to carry the extra thirty pounds of antenna, cable, and batteries out here.
Disappointed with his lack of holiday spirit, I grabbed my camera and took a short video of our Christmas morning. One day, I chided him, his family would want to know what he did for Christmas 2006.
Walking around the third floor and videotaping, I realized that the street below us was flooded. I knew it had rained a little overnight, but there were literally five inches of standing water surrounding the Ice Palace. I came to find out that the engineers who had been working on the new COP ruptured the city’s water main after I went to bed. The entire Give Me-Racetrack intersection was underwater, exacerbating the usual small puddles that were the by-product of the slightest drizzle.
At around 1000, 1/6 flew the Wasp out to our position. Albin took control of the aircraft when it came within range of our antenna. As it drew closer, the buzzing of the UAV’s motor was audible from inside the Ice Palace. It sounded like a lawn mower hovering overhead. I wondered whether the sound would keep the insurgents indoors for the day. I already knew the answer: not a chance.
I was surprised by the clarity of the picture on the Wasp’s video screen. During training, I had experimented with o
ther UAVs, but they were generally useless. Nothing on their small screens was discernable. The Wasp was different. With the well-placed antenna, we received a clear top-down view of Ramadi from a couple hundred feet up. I watched Albin fly a circular pattern around each platoon. The streets were generally empty, except for a large group of children playing soccer about 500 meters to the south of the Ice Palace. The fact that I could differentiate between child, teenager, and adult on the screen was a capability unique to the Wasp.
With the Wasp running low on battery, Albin flew it back to Hurricane Point. The sound of the flying lawn mower was gone. In retrospect, it was the signal for the enemy to occupy their assault positions.
Rage 2 was hit first, taking sporadic sniper fire from the abandoned COP’s location. Rage 2 responded with medium machine gun fire from a 240G. Its 7.62mm rounds raked the northern second-floor windows, ripping through the dark green sandbags the insurgents hid behind. The same sandbags Comanche had placed in the white structure days earlier.
For the insurgents, this northwestern side of the building was the most protected. Even the Abrams tank, less than 50 meters away, could not directly engage that portion of the structure. The tank could see only the south- and eastern-facing walls. At that moment, I knew the insurgents had successfully mapped our fighting positions.
From the Ice Palace, only one fighting position covered the COP. The position had no crew-served weapon, only a Marine with an M16. We had placed our crew-serves where we thought we were most vulnerable, on the east and west flanks. We assumed that the Abrams outside the abandoned COP was more than an equivalent of a crew-serve. Now the enemy was exploiting our assumption.
A loud blast ripped through the Ice Palace. The Marine manning the post that overlooked the abandoned COP was thrown backward, nearly falling down the stairs he stood above. I ran out of the COC and to his position. I looked out his small window to see dirty brown smoke billowing 20 meters away. An RPG had detonated on the exterior wall of the small building north of us. The angle of the impact had blown the debris into the wall of the Ice Palace. The RPG shot came from our direct north: the abandoned COP.
Rage Company Page 16
