Three or four solitary rifle shots crackled in the distance. None of the rounds had been fired at Lieutenant Thomas’s men.
“Stand by, Two, we are getting an update from battalion,” said Captain Smith. James Thomas decided to change his radio’s channel to battalion’s and listen in.
Rage 4 was receiving accurate harassing fire from 1,000 meters to the east. The origin was a small collection of homes, sort of a family compound on the northeast side of Gixxer-Rage. Then Manchu 6, the battalion commander, came on the net. He told Captain Smith that he had just received information that the family compound was the hideout of Ali Siyagah’s driver and security detail. Siyagah was potentially there.
Lieutenant Thomas flipped back to the company frequency. Within moments, Captain Smith ordered him to move into an over-watch position covering the compound. If necessary, Lieutenant Thomas was to support, by fire, Captain Smith and Rage 4’s isolation and subsequent clear of the houses.
The two squads of Rage 2 Marines moved east toward the compound. They stopped at a large house about 500 meters shy of the new objective. Inside was a young Iraqi couple. The woman offered Lieutenant Thomas and his men food. They politely refused. The group of Marines headed straight for the roof.
“I think this is a good spot, sir. We can cover both the cache site and the compound from here,” said Corporal Davila.
The platoon commander agreed. He moved to the north side of the roof and looked out at Rage 4. Accompanied by Captain Smith and a small headquarters element, Rage 4 was beginning to enter the field. Harassing fire from the insurgents continued. Multiple gunshots targeting Rage 4 rang out. Lieutenant Thomas and his men could not identify their origin. Nearly 400 meters from the compound, the Marines crossing the field took cover in an irrigation canal. The isolation of the objective was almost complete. Rage 4 covered the northern and western approaches to the compound, while Rage 2 cut off the south. To the east was the Euphrates River, only about a hundred meters wide; the insurgents would have to swim or find a canoe to escape.
To James Thomas, it seemed as if they were taking the last option. Two Apache gunships appeared from the southeast. The battalion must have spotted the insurgents crossing the river because the helicopters fired a few hundred rounds from their chain guns in that direction.
“Manchu 6, this is Rage 6, objective is isolated. I have one platoon in a support by fire, with a second as maneuver. Requesting permission to action the objective, over,” said Captain Smith on the battalion net.
“Negative, Rage 6, maintain isolation. A section of tanks and Bradleys will approach from Rage Road to maneuver on the objective, over,” replied Manchu 6. The tanks and the Bradleys were Manchu 6’s personal security detail. Lieutenant Colonel Ferry was doing something I had never seen a battalion commander do: lead his men into battle.
Unfortunately, the colonel’s good intentions had a serious drawback. Captain Smith and Rage 4 sat exposed in the field for five hours, waiting for the tanks and Manchu 6 to show up. Any insurgents who were on the objective were long gone by the time the colonel and his cavalry took down the houses. Because the target was initially deemed time-sensitive, Lieutenant Thomas and his men left COP Rage without their night-vision devices. By wasting five hours so that he could assault the objective personally, the colonel had forced some of his subordinates to walk in the dark without the NVGs’ technological advantage.
The Marines did, however, get a good meal out of the colonel’s time wasting. James Thomas was able to accept the woman of the house’s offer of food, and the Marines enjoyed authentic Iraqi cuisine: bread, vegetables, and goat meat, with cups of chai tea to wash it down.
January 25, 2007
In the battalion’s command post, I let out a loud sneeze at the top of the stairs. The second floor of 1/9’s CP was the only place that still held dust to irritate my sinuses. Everywhere else was mud. Then I pushed aside the flimsy plywood door to the Tactical Operations Center (TOC) as if it was weightless. I took off my Kevlar and noticed that the TOC was unusually quiet. Captain Clark was the watch officer. He immediately recognized me as I came around the corner of the plywood wall on my left, which separated incoming personnel from the five television screens and half-dozen computer monitors in the room.
“Rage Mobile, good to see you. How is Julayba going?” he asked.
“Just wonderful. There’s enough excitement for everyone out there.” I forced a smile. I was tired and wanted to get my convoy out to COP Rage as soon as possible.
For the last twenty-four hours, I had been finishing up the paperwork on the company’s dozen detainees from Churubusco. It was a frustrating process; the human-intelligence soldiers stationed at Camp Corregidor didn’t even make a visit. Without them, we couldn’t ask the detainees anything more than their names or where they lived. When I found the sergeant first class in charge of the soldiers, he told me not to worry about it; the ARDF would interrogate them. His answer wasn’t just bullshit, but because I wasn’t an intelligence officer by trade, I didn’t have access to the interrogation summaries. Plus, the ARDF, when it was full, would question only those detainees who had significant evidence or reporting against them. If the detained individual was unknown, the overworked interrogator would provide the three thirty-minute sessions and recommend him for release. The bureaucracy of our detainee process benefited both innocent and guilty Iraqis. I couldn’t stand it.
Sensing my lack of sincerity, Captain Clark got to the point. “There are twenty-five Kit Carson Scouts, for lack of a better term, over at Camp Ranger waiting for you to pick them up. How many of your seven-ton trucks do you have here?”
“Two, sir, but I will fit them into one; the second is full of ammo, chow, a refrigerator, and four hundred Wag-Bags.” There were a few dozen Marines squeezing cheeks, awaiting the arrival of the Wag-Bags at the COP.
“Wow, that’s a lot of shit. How long does that last you?” The tone of sarcasm in his voice told me he was referring to the Wag-Bags.
“A couple of days. With all the shooting out there, the Wag-Bags get some use.” I reflected on my own experience of calming pre-mission nerves with a relaxing sit on a plastic stand.
“If you would, Lieutenant Daly, stop your convoy out front of Camp Ranger, and I will have the scouts waiting for you. There is a major in charge of the Military Transition Team at the camp, and he will link up with you on Michigan,” said Captain Clark.
“No problem, sir. Do you have any idea what these scouts want to do?” I asked.
“They are concerned citizens. The Iraqi army has given them the chocolate chip desert uniform and body armor. All I know is that they want to help. I am pretty sure Captain Smith got a packet of information on them, including a proposed mission against al Qaeda targets in Julayba.”
My mind was screaming. I was his intelligence officer, and he hadn’t given me a heads-up on this? There must have been a good reason, or maybe the information was worthless.
“Roger, sir; my convoy is ready to go with six vehicles, twenty-one packs. I will inform you when link-up is complete,” I said.
“Rage Mobile, you are good to stage on Michigan. I will let Camp Ranger know you will be there in ten minutes. See you around.”
I glanced around the different stations in the TOC and thought about being a watch officer. The captain read my mind. “One day you will be sitting here, too,” he said. It was no secret that being a watch officer was a miserable job. I was certain that Captain Clark would have traded his for mine at the first opportunity. I swore to myself that I would never be reduced to his position.
As I walked out of the TOC, I opened the wooden door by leaning my shoulder into it. I slid my flak jacket on with my arms at the same time. With all of the gear on my legs, I somehow skipped down the dusty stairs and straight into my M1114. I started to think about why I should be in a good mood. I had showered, albeit in freezing water, shaved, and was looking forward to seeing what these scouts had to offer. Lawrence of Arab
ia was a damn good movie, and I felt as if I was going to have a similar opportunity. I climbed into the front seat and slid on my headset. It took a few attempts to shut the armored door.
“What is it this time, sir?” Corporal Joseph Jones asked. He was manning the 240G machine gun and wondered why I had kept him out in the dark and cold for an extra ten minutes.
I pressed the intervehicle communication button and shouted, “No prisoners!” It was the only line I remembered from the movie Lawrence of Arabia.
“I knew it. I knew one day Lieutenant Daly was going to walk out of that building just straight-up crazy,” Jones said, exchanging a few laughs with my driver, Corporal Jason Sperry.
“Rage Mobile Collective, this is Mobile Actual, roger up in convoy order,” I said on the convoy net. All vehicles responded.
“All stations, we will stop in front of Camp Ranger. Seven-ton one, you are going to pick up twenty-five Iraqis who want to help us. We will be bringing them to COP Rage. Convoy is moving,” I said, fastening my NVGs to my Kevlar.
Sperry revved the engine, and my humvee roared through Corregidor’s gate. An interesting trip to COP Rage was beginning.
10
THE SCOUTS
January 25, 2007
“Sir, those guys all have guns,” said my driver, his voice filled with concern. I didn’t respond to his statement; instead, I pushed open the armored door to the M1114. I stepped out into the street; the convoy of seven-ton trucks and humvees pulled up behind my vehicle and came to a halt. I headed toward the group of Iraqis on the far side of Route Michigan.
After passing through downtown Ramadi, Michigan became a two-lane road in either direction. The small median that stood a foot above the ground was hardly noticeable, destroyed by the weight and the tracks of armored vehicles driving over it for the last three years.
I stumbled over the broken concrete as I crossed the road. The dust kicked up by my seven trucks blew over the group of waiting men. I hoped it would blind the concerned citizens to the reality that each of the machine guns atop my vehicles was oriented in their direction. All of my Marines were keenly aware that the group was not supposed to be armed.
Looking for the American adviser, I scanned the stationary Iraqis through my NVGs. The silent group appeared to be in formation. One of them, a tall figure out front, was smoking. A Kalashnikov hung over his chest. The rest of the group carried similar weapons. Most of the men each also held what appeared to be a small sack or blanket to combat the low-forty-degree weather.
Area of Operations Rage: Rage Company’s area of operations after Churubusco.
An extra set of hands appeared around the tall leader, and I quickly spotted the American on the opposite side of the towering but skinny Iraqi. I walked directly in front of the group and took the opportunity to stare at each face as I strolled past, knowing that from their point of view, I was nothing more than a shadow floating through the dark night.
Collectively, the Iraqis were old. Every face was worn with wrinkles and lines. None was younger than thirty. It dawned on me that they were Saddamists, Iraqi veterans experienced through decades of conflict. I would come to find out that their perspectives were an even mix: half were officers; the rest, senior enlisted. Some had fought in the Iran-Iraq War; most, in the Gulf War. Nearly all of them were the soldiers who put down the Kurdish and Shi’a uprisings in the 1990s and the Ba’athists whom the United States faced in March and April 2003. Now they were forsaking their goals as nationalist insurgents to assist their notorious enemy in facing a greater threat to their social structure: the danger from al Qaeda.
I stopped between the smoking Iraqi and the one American. “Major, sir, Lieutenant Daly,” I said, extending my hand to the adviser. He shook it and introduced himself. Then he turned to the Iraqi, whom he referred to as “general,” and introduced me. The two of us exchanged greetings in simple English.
“General, you and your men can get on this truck,” I said, pointing at the vehicle behind me. The seven-ton was stationary opposite the group on the far side of the road. The senior Iraqi barked orders at one of his men, and the disciplined formation broke ranks and moved toward the vehicle.
As the Iraqis went past, the American major leaned over and spoke softly. “Lieutenant, treat this guy like an American general,” he said. “Do not make him ride with his men.” The simple words would become the most important advice I ever received in Iraq.
I spotted the general counting his men as they climbed onto the seven-ton. “Sir, I have a seat for you in my truck,” I told him.
“Okay, Daly,” he replied. He directed one of his men to take over counting. Then the general moved next to me at the front of the seven-ton and yanked a small laminated card from his left breast pocket. He gave it to me.
I pulled back part of the infrared lens covering the headlight and read the piece of plastic paper, roughly the size of a Community Chest card from the game Monopoly.
“This is to certify that ______ is a member of Thawar Al Anbar.” Below, it continued, “courtesy of 3rd Battalion, 2nd Marines.” I looked up at the general. His broad smile revealed the immaculate trimming job on his thick, black mustache. The card was his offer of cooperation. He informed me that all of his men had the same card. Although I understood how dangerous it was for the general and his men to carry such an item, it was not going to be enough to convince my fellow Marines to trust him. Twenty-five random Iraqis, all of them armed and none screened or vetted, were not going to be welcomed by many at COP Rage.
We walked together to the head of the convoy. I opened the door to the seat directly behind me for the general. He was immediately captivated by the map of the surrounding area displayed on the monitor next to my green chair. I didn’t hear his questions about the map; my thoughts were hovering around the fact that the truck behind the Iraqis, seven-ton two, did not have a machine gun. I put my headset on and keyed the radio.
“All victors, this is Mobile Actual; stand by for change in convoy order. Gun truck 3, I want you to move between the seven-tons to—” I paused, thinking that the general might understand English more than he was letting on and would take offense to my orders of moving a machine gun to cover his men. I didn’t want him to know my thoughts about the twenty-five Iraqis possibly assisting in a complex ambush of our convoy. “To better protect our cargo. Acknowledge receipt,” I said, finishing the radio transmission. Once the vehicles were in order, we began another trip to COP Rage. As the convoy went through the arches, the general pointed toward the north, the Sijariah crossing, and stated, “Al Qaeda neighborhood.” I pretended to be surprised by his information.
When my vehicle turned onto Ruby Road, it immediately halted. A column of tanks and Pathfinder vehicles were at a stop, occupying the hard-packed dirt path. Their pause in route clearance meant that they had found something.
“Daly, there is IED near mosque,” said the general. “You should move on this road.” The general pointed to the left window of the vehicle. He was referring to Irish Way.
I could not follow his advice, because in our push into Julayba, Pathfinder had never cleared Irish Way. The engineers had focused on the Ruby-Nova-Orchard Way loop that followed the region’s perimeter. Irish Way was a risk I did not have to take. The general might know the area better than I did, but I was willing to wait and follow Pathfinder.
The tank in front of us began to spin its turret. In seconds it stopped, the 120mm cannon pointed directly at my vehicle.
“Convoy on Ruby Road, this is Warlord Blue 1, identify yourself, over,” said a voice on the battalion net.
The Marine manning my truck’s turret flashed his middle finger at the tank. I, too, was upset. For the last ten minutes I had been the only voice on the radio, passing my convoy’s location to battalion. Only moments earlier, I had stated that the convoy was turning onto Ruby Road. The tankers were probably sleeping and spooked by our presence. Their actions, however, gave me an excuse not to respond to the general�
�s advice.
“Warlord, this is Rage Mobile, convoy is en route to COP Rage. Recommend you orient your turret to an exposed flank, over,” I said. The tankers moved their turret and informed us of a pending controlled detonation 100 meters north on Ruby. I assumed that Pathfinder had found the IED outside the mosque. After the blast, the convoy moved agonizingly slowly through the Nasaf Marketplace and along the dimly lit Route Nova to COP Rage. The snail’s pace allowed the general plenty of time to give me his version of an intelligence update on the local area. I was impressed.
Albin’s head rested on the gray metallic table. He intently monitored the radio but also listened to the discussion that I, Captain Smith, and all four of the platoon commanders were having.
“All right, I know each of you is wondering who the hell these random Iraqis are who just showed up, so here is what I know.” Captain Smith began to read an official Iraqi government document that had been translated into English. “This guy, the general, I think he is General Faris. Under Saddam, he was a high-ranking Ba’athist and considered a war hero. He created the Saddam Fedayeen and worked with Uday. Now he is the commanding general for the First Iraqi Army Division.”
Something didn’t seem right to me about Captain Smith’s assessment. He continued on, saying that the men with the general were not Iraqi soldiers but local nationals who lived in the area. During Operation Churubusco, they got together and went to Habbaniya, a thirty-minute drive east. Once there, they offered their services to the Marines of 3/2, saying they wanted to help the Marines in Julayba. Two days later they were here.
As I followed Captain Smith’s summary, it was apparent to me that the general was not Faris. Faris commanded thousands of soldiers. We had a hard enough time convincing Iraqi captains to patrol with their men, and now an Iraqi major general was here to work with a company of Marines? Analyzing the scenario, I found it unlikely that Faris would leave his post to command twenty-four locals in a small raid against al Qaeda. He had a division to run.
Rage Company Page 24
