Rage Company

by Daly, Thomas P.

  It was a horrible opinion.

  “Warrior 6, this is Tarheel 3; have one of your Marines fire an M203 illumination round over the two men in order to confirm they are in fact hostile, over,” said the operations officer.

  Warrior 6 responded with “Roger.”

  I sat in my chair, dumbfounded. I must have said something out loud because Eakin immediately woke up. “What is it, sir?” he asked me.

  I didn’t say anything.

  An explosion shook Qatana. It wasn’t very big, but then again it didn’t have to be. In order to fire the illumination round, a Marine had to get out of his vehicle. In relation to the blast of an IED, he might as well have been naked. I continued to listen to the radio. Weapons Company was requesting that a recovery vehicle come tow the M1114 humvee that was damaged in the blast.

  I handed the radio handset to Eakin. I couldn’t bear to listen to any more stupidity. It was the final significant event in Qatana. In a few short days, Rage Company was back at Camp Ramadi.

  January 9, 2007

  Captain Smith was furious. He stormed into the southern entrance of the headquarters tent and barked at the XO to get all of the lieutenants into the room. Rage 6 then kicked out all of the junior Marines in the tent. With the XO gone, I grabbed my small camp stool and took a seat next to Captain Smith. A stack of photographs was in his hand.

  Rage 6 handed me the photographs and didn’t say a word. I began to peruse the PowerPoint display of digital pictures. The first was of Albin’s carving in the Ice Palace. “America, fuck yeah!” was imprinted on the white wall. “Found by Comanche in building 76” was written next to arrows that pointed to the carving. I continued to flip through the pages in disbelief. Drawing after drawing of stick figures and stupid caricatures were painting a picture of a company out of control. Then I got to the end. The photograph, from building 17, showed a life-size mural depicting what could only be explained as pornographic material. The artist was clearly talented, but the graphic scene he drew did not do his abilities justice.

  I handed the photographs back to Captain Smith. The other lieutenants arrived and sat across from us. Lieutenant Shearburn picked up the stack first and chuckled when he got to the last picture, portraying the porno. This small gesture riled Captain Smith, who fidgeted in his chair, saving his comments until all of the officers had seen the photos. The pile went down the line to Jahelka and Thomas. Then James Thomas passed them back over to Lieutenant Grubb, who had taken a seat next to Shearburn.

  Grubb started off the conversation when he saw the last picture. “That was my platoon, sir. I know there is no justification, but I thought battalion was going to destroy building 17 after we left, so I didn’t make them cover it,” he said.

  Captain Smith nodded in acknowledgment of Grubb’s remarks. Then he tried to remain calm. “I just got my ass handed to me by the 1/6 battalion commander and the brigade. The worst thing is they were right. I saw Albin drawing his little sketch of the Team America theme song; no big deal. However, what it spiraled into without my knowledge is despicable,” said Captain Smith, who began to raise his voice slightly.

  “What if CNN or MSNBC had that last picture? What would the headlines say or show? Better yet, what about the insurgents? We all know this is a propaganda war, a war of information. You cannot win that war by showing the Iraqi people cocks, with USA tattooed all over them, sliding under veils! It is a fucking disgrace of this company, the Corps, and, most important, our nation. Frankly, I don’t know what to do,” continued Captain Smith. He was visibly disappointed.

  A momentary silence hung over the group. Shearburn was the first to break it. “Sir, they are just pictures and random drawings. Marines are going to do stuff like that. We can’t—”

  Captain Smith interrupted him mid-sentence. “Bullshit! You will not tolerate this behavior, and if you do I’ll find somebody to take your place,” he said, angrily glaring at Rage 1 Actual.

  At that moment, Cullen Shearburn gave in to his frustration, which had been building up for weeks. On almost every mission, he had received some sort of verbal “counseling” from Captain Smith. Whether it was for destroying insurgent vehicles without permission or not giving advance warning for controlled detonations, Rage 6’s correcting was always about the professional conduct of his platoon. There was a sense, however, that Rage 1 was getting an unfair share of criticism.

  Now Shearburn was going to respond. He questioned Captain Smith’s integrity, the core of every Marine officer. “Come on, sir; you were laughing with us about that picture earlier today. Remember, when Lieutenant Grubb and I were looking at his computer, you came through the door, we all laughed about that picture on his computer,” Shearburn continued. Captain Smith’s face was covered in bewilderment. I didn’t know whom to believe.

  “Are you calling me a liar?” asked an infuriated Rage 6. Shearburn responded with about ten words, the gist of which was yes. In Cullen’s mind, enough was enough; he wasn’t going to let Captain Smith get away with any more hypocrisy.

  The two men went back and forth. I couldn’t bear to listen to it. Instead I focused on the fact that 1/6 had turned us into a dysfunctional family. Shearburn was our most tactically capable platoon commander. Without question, he led the strongest platoon. Now he was the rebellious firstborn, quarrelling with our incensed father. To say the least, I was concerned.

  Like poison, their argument was about to contaminate the company.

  After the horrific heated exchange, Captain Smith stood up. “Inform your men that the entire 15th MEU is being extended. The new out-date for Ramadi is 15 February.” Then he walked out of the tent, heading to chow with the XO and the senior SNCOs.

  Twenty minutes later, I went to chow by myself. Once through the line of soldiers and contractors, I found an isolated spot within earshot of a TV and sat down at the wooden table constructed of plywood and two-by-fours. President Bush was on the screen, announcing to the United States his new strategy for the war in Iraq, the so-called surge. After a few seconds, I ceased to pay attention. The surge in Ramadi had begun long ago. What the president was saying wasn’t new to me; it was simply an affirmation of why the MEU was being extended.

  I began to focus on my food and hardly noticed when a Marine sat down across the table from me. It was Jason Mann.

  “Come on, Daly, I know you have some friends,” he said, taking note of the fact I was sitting alone.

  “No thanks to your battalion,” I responded. We proceeded to engage in small talk for a few minutes, then I asked him if he thought Operation Hue City had achieved any success in AO Tarheel.

  “Depends on your definition of success,” he replied. “The majority of our fighting, as you know, has shifted to the eastern fringe of the AO. That huge cache you guys found and the establishment of COPs Firecracker and Qatana have relieved the pressure on Sheikh Sattar’s tribe. You know who he is, right, the leader of Sahawa al Anbar [SAA] and Thawar Al Anbar [TAA]?”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of him.” I said.

  In September, Sheikh Sattar Abdul al-Rishawi, an ex-insurgent sympathizer, declared an Awakening of Anbar’s tribes against Al Qaeda in Iraq and vowed to defeat the extremists. Ever since the AQI parade on October 18, his fighters had gone into covert mode. He was conducting an Iraqi-style insurgency against the current Ramadi government, the ISI. One intel report described members of the TAA bursting into a local mosque and executing two dozen members of AQI while they prayed. Their success, however, was limited to two or three of these types of operations, and AQI was holding their own.

  “Well,” Jason said, “Sattar claims to have captured the leader of AQI in Ramadi, Thamir Hamid Nahar.” I remembered the name from Major Mayberry’s in-brief.

  Jason kept speaking. “I think this is evidence that if Operation Squeeze Play continues to contest AQI neighborhoods, like we have in Qatana, then these TAA guys will be able to move in and hit AQI where they hide. Their knowledge of AQI’s structure and leadership is inva
luable.”

  “Well, Jason, Sattar was probably one of them until that firefight between 1920s and AQI a year ago. You really think Sattar would be better for Ramadi than AQI?” I asked.

  “Tom, what is your detainee internment rate? Ten percent? And how many locals provide you with information after you barge into their homes? Ten percent? Think about it: Sattar, or men like him, is the answer. He can give us credibility with the locals and neighboring tribes. His spies are actually capable of infiltrating the al Qaeda network and exploiting detainees. Plus, you know he is a winner. The dude has his own TV channel and wears American sunglasses.” Jason was looking at his watch and trying to wrap up the conversation.

  “Gonna miss the convoy back to Hurricane Point?” I said.

  “Yeah, if I don’t hurry up. Seriously, though, when it comes to the good of Ramadi, I don’t pretend to think that Sattar is the best choice. However, the first thing we need to do is to get these people to stop killing one another. He can do that.”

  Jason stood and picked up his tray. “Sorry about the rant. Send my best to your brother,” he said. Then he trotted for the door. Jason had me convinced; the Awakening was the answer for Ramadi.

  It was also the last time I saw Jason Mann. On July 17, 2008, in Afghanistan, the Corps lost one of its best officers. More important, his wife lost her husband; his daughter, her father.

  I lost a friend.

  PART THREE

  1st Battalion, 9th Infantry

  9

  SILENCE THE DOGS

  January 12, 2007

  Craig Trotter and I walked along a gravel road in Camp Ramadi’s tent city. Double-stacked HESCO barriers surrounded the white tents that had been our home for the last two months. Under a setting sun, we made it to the row of Porta-John toilets along the path. I swung open the door to the closest one, revealing an exhibition of graffiti complemented by ridiculous caricatures.

  Most of them were harmless, the usual Chuck Norris joke or something from boot camp. The fresher ink on the cold plastic walls wasn’t so mundane, though. The Marines had taken to referring to Captain Smith as “CS,” and the Porta-Johns were now their disgruntled sounding boards displaying hateful rhetoric against this acronym.

  I exited the makeshift bathroom and kicked at some of the gravel rocks while I waited for Trotter to finish up. “XO, you think Captain Smith knows that he is CS?” I asked, still thinking about the graffiti.

  “Daly, he’s not an idiot,” said Trotter. “He might sound like one sometimes, but he’s pretty smart for a guy who majored in forestry science.” Then he exited the stall and hesitated.

  Area of Operations Manchu: 1/9 Infantry’s area of operations in eastern Ramadi.

  Operation Churubusco: The battalion’s target areas during Churubusco.

  “These stupid-ass jokes are a reflection on us, the lieutenants, not on him. Too many fuckers venting in front of their Marines.” The XO was now in the street, buttoning his trousers.

  I nodded in response.

  Personally, I understood what was being said in the jokes. Rage Company’s deployment had been extended. Morale was low. The Marines were bitter because they would spend another month and a half in Ramadi. Thoughts of reuniting with friends and family were being delayed, replaced with the consideration that luck only lasts so long and eventually bullets find their mark.

  The men needed someone to blame, so they turned to the bearer of the bad news. It didn’t help that Captain Smith’s slow, monotone voice was easily interpreted as arrogant and condescending. The perception from the younger Marines was, however, a false perception. I could easily overlook it.

  Professionally, I saw this writing on the wall in the same light that the XO did: as a reflection of Rage Company’s leadership. We, the lieutenants, were not doing a good-enough job of ensuring that criticism flowed up the chain of command, rather than down.

  “You ready for this?” I asked Trotter.

  He was still deep in thought. Such an attitude from the XO was rare. He usually spoke before he thought. “What do you mean?” he asked. “You scared about the convoy through 295 and 296 or moving out to suburbia in Julayba? I hear there are going to be some desperate housewives out there to meet us.”

  “Never mind, asshole. But I meant the convoy.”

  “Come on, Daly, I know you watch that shit,” said the XO. “You are married. Plus, I have you all figured out. You don’t talk unless there is something to say, and you are content with silence. We have more in common than you think.”

  “Well, if I am so easy to read, what am I thinking right now?” It was a rhetorical question that the XO decided to answer.

  “Based on the look you’re giving me . . . you think I’m an asshole.”

  “Right on.”

  We shared a laugh and walked to our waiting Marines. After running through the usual pre-mission checks, the convoy departed Camp Ramadi.

  Three hours later, after waiting for Pathfinder to clear Michigan, our vehicles pulled into Camp Corregidor, safe and sound. Most considered it an uneventful convoy. Nobody was hurt, and we traded only a few hundred rounds of ammo with a group of insurgents around checkpoint 296.

  In the dark landscape of Corregidor, headquarters platoon dismounted the trucks and set up shop in a two-story cinder-block building. The north side of the structure became our parking lot. A hundred meters south was 1/9’s battalion headquarters. We selected a dusty, empty room for the company’s command post. It had one crucial comfort item: a fifty-inch television. The Marines set up their standard-issue green cots and went to bed.

  January 13, 2007

  Unlike at Camp Ramadi, you had to wear your Kevlar helmet and body armor everywhere you went at Camp Corregidor. The base was constantly being mortared. I had to put on my gear to walk next door to the battalion command post. Between the two structures were three Porta-Johns. They served as the only toilets for a few hundred men and were cleaned every other week. Unfortunately for us, the three stalls actually required cleaning every three or four days. One was overflowing as I went past.

  Inside the adjacent building, two dozen soldiers and Marines milled about 1/9 infantry’s headquarters. I headed up the dusty stairs to the second floor and went straight into the briefing room. I figured it was better to show up early for the confirmation brief and get a chair, rather than arrive at the last possible moment and stand for three hours. As a lieutenant, I found a spot in the cheap seats, two dozen black solitary chairs. Opposing them were three elongated tables positioned in the shape of a U. On the wall behind the U hung a mural of 1/9’s area of operations. The map was so large, you could read the building numbers and the patrol sectors for every structure. The command was taking advantage of their extensive wall space.

  Over the next twenty minutes, I watched the representatives of each unit come into the room. The laundry list of characters represented the broad scope of our next mission: Operation Churubusco. There was an Iraqi army battalion commander, a platoon of Navy SEALs, Rage Company, military working dogs, tactical human-intelligence teams, a psychological operations team, Baker and Dog Company 1/9 INF, EOD, and a squad reinforced with infantrymen from 3rd Battalion, 2nd Marines. The room was quickly filled by the leadership of each unit.

  The battalion commander for 1/9 INF, Lieutenant Colonel Chuck Ferry, gave the mission brief. He began by allowing each of the unit commanders sitting at the U to introduce himself. Then he started to speak. “Manchus, the shaping phases of Operation Squeeze Play are over. We have one major neighborhood in Ramadi left to clear, the Mila’ab, which is in the process of being barricaded. The insurgents obviously know what is coming. In anticipation of their fleeing from the city, we are going to hit Julayba, an eastern suburb of Ramadi.”

  The lieutenant colonel paused and allowed the translator to repeat his words for the Iraqis. Then he turned around and began to brief off a PowerPoint presentation: “The Julayba area of greater Ar-Ramadi has become a safe haven and a C2 node for AQ
operatives in the Al Anbar Province of Iraq. From this remote rural community, AQ has facilitated, planned, and supplied insurgent operations in neighboring cities and throughout the country. Recent operations, lack of a coalition presence, and the emergence of Thawar Al Anbar have made Julayba the only viable safe haven in the Ramadi-Fallujah corridor for AQ.” The colonel spoke very smoothly, and the badges on his shoulder identified his background as an operator, a Ranger.

  “Since the AQ attack on the Abu Soda tribe on the twenty-fifth of November, support for coalition forces has dramatically changed. Tribal support continues to grow with the development of the Sofia Reconstruction Counsel and Sheikh Sattar’s meeting with the leaders of the eastern tribes. If we successfully isolate AQ in the Mila’ab and deny them the ability to launch coordinated assaults out of Julayba, then their ability to influence the eastern tribes will be minimal. Without this AQ threat, I believe the locals will support their tribal leadership in renouncing AQ.” I made a note of the battle of Sofia. I needed the details from the intelligence officer.

  The lieutenant colonel continued, “Here is my intent for Churubusco:

  1. Isolate AO Julayba to prevent escape of insurgents during first seventy-two hours of operations.

  2. Kill/capture the Hanush Network with a series of targeted raids.

  3. Maintain the ability to rapidly attack emerging targets.

  4. Find and recruit the tribal sheikhs.

  5. Conduct Search and Attack to clear routes, control key terrain, collect HUMINT [human intelligence], and recon for a permanent COP.