The team returns safely to the compound, and as the day’s end approaches the hidden afternoon sun begins its slow descent toward the horizon. Its dying rays electrify the sand and dust that permeate the air, and the sky glows first a blinding amber, followed by a brilliant orange, then sepia, and finally a deep blood red. The crimson skies and reddened billiard table terrain that surrounds me is not the planet of my birth, but instead a world that is both inhospitable and malevolent. Visibility drops from feet to inches, and I know that the moment the sun dips below the horizon a shroud of inky blackness will envelop us. The headlamp strapped to my forehead transforms me into a hapless miner, and I trudge my way through the void as if searching for the exit from a bottomless shaft. The neon glow of the headlamp magnifies the flying dust into charged electrons before my eyes, and my constricted vision fills with a humming, vibrating picture tube screeching a cacophony of white noise.
There is only one place to be, and that is in the safety of my hut. But the efforts to barricade my sanctuary fail, and the dust penetrates the hidden cracks and crevices, clandestine points of entry known only to the storm and the fleet of mice that creep in nightly to feast on my hidden stash of PowerBars and SweeTarts. Hazy and gray, the suspended dust cloud defeats all efforts to protect my belongings and myself. As I begin to cough and hack and choke, I eagerly await morning.
Waking comes with a convulsive coughing fit, and I reach for a tissue to evacuate the scorched, clogged sinuses that feel as if they have been filled in by a cement mixer. I blow, jagged strips of pain exiting my nostrils, and when I look at the aftermath I am disgusted by the ropy brown and green afterbirth strings of bloody discharge. Coughing consumptively, I wonder what it is like to have tuberculosis. The enamel of my teeth loses a little more luster from the storm’s grit lining my mouth, and more than anything I want water. Water, and a shower.
Damage-assessment time is upon me, and I evaluate my surroundings inside the hut. The dust has settled, but a heavy film of grime plasters the walls, the floor, everything I own. I step outside into the crystal light of morning, the vacant skies divulging no trace of the previous evening’s maelstrom. My teammates likewise stagger out of their hiding places, digging out from the disaster. I laugh and joke with them, pointing to their filthy faces and my own. I am relieved. The storm is gone.
Another day begins.
Chapter 13
Outside the Wire
Four days into our turnover the team leader and I reached an objective always greeted by the outgoing commander with relief and met by the incoming commander with apprehension and dread: signing over custody of all equipment on the unit’s consolidated memorandum receipt (CMR). The team had already been outfitted with a host of new gear prior to leaving Camp Pendleton, everything from new body armor to night-vision goggles (NVGs). Each Marine was issued the exact same set of equipment, something I was not used to. In my earlier experiences in the fleet there had never been enough of certain items to go around, including NVGs, personal radios, and side arms. But the independent nature of the MiTT teams—the fact that we would be operating on our own and often away from each other—necessitated that each man receive the same equipment for the job.
The issued gear we brought with us made each Marine a formidable being, and the equipment we inherited at COP South only enhanced our capabilities as a team that much more. Our inventory was especially heavy on communications equipment, with an entire suite that included not only UHF and VHF radios, but also an HF satellite communications (SATCOM) set and an updated version of the Blue Force Tracker (BFT) system my company had experimented with in 2003. A host of laptop computers completed the electronics inventory, and once it was all put together it created an impressive command-and-control capability for the team. Overall, the number of serialized items on the CMR itself was not huge—nothing compared to what I had once signed for in my LAV company—but what it lacked in numbers it more than made up for in dollars. Signing for the inventory and assuming responsibility for the equipment was enough to make me break out in a cold sweat.
While I busied myself with completing the inventory, Bates, Grubb, and Davidoski set out with several Marines from the outgoing team to participate in a cordon-and-search mission in Karabilah with 3rd Company. Following a hasty brief by 3rd Battalion’s S-2 (intelligence) officer, the company and the Marines sped out of the camp to the city’s souq (market), where they searched the area for IED-making facilities. Although they never found the suspected site, 3rd Company ended up detaining four individuals (including someone who had been placed on their watch list).
Upon their return the three lieutenants briefed me on the operation, and while I was pleased that they had thrown themselves into the mix and were already taking the initiative both with missions and with the Iraqis, my lack of situational awareness about exactly what they would be doing before they left the camp gave me cause for concern. But my uneasiness was not directed at the lieutenants. Throughout the course of our training together I had become comfortable with their abilities; although Davidoski had not previously deployed to Iraq, Bates and Grubb already had plenty of experience outside the wire. I was more concerned with the hasty planning and execution demonstrated by the IAs. The debrief the officers provided me indicated that the Iraqi plan had essentially amounted to this: We think there is a bomb-making factory somewhere around here. Let’s go find it.
Such a lack of proper mission planning could eventually lead to a catastrophe, and so for future operations I mandated mission products for each occasion team members went outside the wire. Whether it was an operation with the IAs or a simple resupply convoy to Camp Al Qa’im, the designated patrol leader would be required to generate an operations order, a mission storyboard, and a post-mission debrief and after-action report. The purpose of the products was threefold: to ensure all members of the patrol knew what was going on; to enable the team’s COC to track the mission; and to guarantee that learning points from each operation could be disseminated throughout the team. The products would also serve as a historical record of the team’s operations, whether it was for command chronology purposes or for command investigations if something ever went awry during a mission. It was a decision that met with some derision by several members of the team, who initially felt shackled by the premission requirements I had levied. The hurried, reckless mission planning demonstrated by the Iraqis—a trait that would come to characterize the majority of their operations—placed a heavy burden on the team to generate the required mission products in time before the IAs sped out of the camp, but I didn’t care. If a combined operation with the Iraqis went to hell I didn’t want it to be because the Marines hadn’t done their part to ensure mission success.
The Outlanders didn’t have long to complain about the new requirements I had imposed. The following day the majority of the team left the wire on its first solo mission. It was a simple logistical convoy to Camp Al Qa’im, but since every trip outside the wire counted as a mission the Marines prepared for it as such. Although I ached to accompany them I still had turnover work to do, and so I cut the apron strings early and let them do their jobs the way they had trained to do them. I rose early to observe Staff Sergeant Leek brief the patrol, and as the Humvees rolled past me and out of the compound I made eye contact with each gunner, pointed to my eyes, and mouthed the words “Keep your eyes open.” There wasn’t much more to do or say. I was nervous watching them exit friendly lines on their own; simple convoy or not, a trip outside the wire is a trip outside the wire. After all, plenty of other Marines had bought the farm while on simple convoys. For some bizarre reason I felt the way my own parents must have felt the first time I pulled out of the driveway after I received my driver’s license. But at the same time I knew that together my Marines were in good hands. They had trained hard, had practiced their immediate-action drills and standing operating procedures (SOPs), and had learned each others’ capabilities and limitations. They were more than ready. And, sure enough, se
veral hours later they rolled back through friendly lines safe and sound. It was an uneventful mission, they told me. I was glad, and pleased to have them back.
Late on the afternoon of 6 March the outgoing team leader, Lieutenant Colonel Ayad, and I hopped aboard a UH-1N Huey for an aerial reconnaissance flight around 3rd Battalion’s AO. The helicopter soared north to the Euphrates River, and as we traced the steep, curving banks of the waterway I thought back to the last time I had ridden on a Huey. It had been a similar recon flight, but along the banks of the Tigris River as my battalion secured Tikrit. Now as we flew over the Euphrates its electric greens and blues mesmerized me, and my thoughts again drifted to five years earlier and the first time I had traversed the river. My company had crossed in a dead area of marshland nearly devoid of vegetation, and the river itself had barely amounted to more than a muddy, silted trickle. Five years later and two hundred miles upstream, however, the river was wide and aqua blue, and its cultivated banks teemed with human and animal life.
Our flight continued east past the Almari and Jibab peninsulas, and then south over the Coalition base, Camp Al Qa’im, and a nearby oilpumping station designated on the map as T-1. Camp Al Qa’im—known among the Marines simply as “AQ”—was the major American outpost in western Al Anbar, and was home to the Marine battalion task force responsible for the Al Qa’im region. A sprawling camp built around an old Iraqi railroad station and maintenance hub, AQ was a maze of converging railroad tracks, abandoned railcars, and massive warehouses capable of storing and maintaining railcars, locomotives, and other heavy equipment. The facility was further crowded by hundreds of stacked shipping containers, SWA huts, tents, generators, and containerized living spaces called “cans.” The standard amenities common to all FOBs were present at AQ: a contracted chow hall, an air-conditioned gym and movie room, an Internet café, a post office, a laundry facility, and a post exchange (PX). There was even a small shop run by local Iraqis—called the “hajji store”—where Marines could purchase bootleg DVD copies of newly released movies. AQ was our team’s mother ship, and in time it would become a routine convoy destination for us so we could tend to administrative and logistical matters. But, like all other FOBs, AQ was also subject to the trappings of rear-echelon standard-bearers, and despite our frequent need to be there we tended to avoid it whenever possible.
As the Huey circled the region its escort, an AH-1W Super Cobra gunship, shadowed us, banking in wide S turns and occasionally firing off flares that trailed fiery streamers in its wake. The bright cobalt skies above us seemed to illuminate the landscape, painting it into a portrait completely different from the one I had seen half a decade earlier. I thought back to a conversation I had had with Abu Fayehdi, the Iraqi role player at Mojave Viper. He had told me that the situation now facing us was Iraq’s last chance, its final curtain call. If the Iraqi nation didn’t succeed now, with the Americans’ assistance, it never would. From my seat high above in the helicopter the placid scenery below me seemed devoid of the violence and chaos I had witnessed in the past, and in my bliss I began to convince myself that the country still had a fighting chance.
We returned to the isolation of COP South, and later that evening my predecessor and I again called on Lieutenant Colonel Ayad. After a few minutes of formalities the major turned over the conversation to me, essentially handing me the reins as senior advisor. Although the team leader attended the rest of the meeting, he remained in the wings, speaking only to offer parting advice and seek clarification on issues I had neglected to mention. I had no illusions about achieving any major accomplishments during that initial meeting with Ayad. A relationship had to be built first, and it was only once that foundation had been laid could I hope that Ayad would listen to me and heed my advice. As I clumsily navigated my way through the conversation I slowly realized that I had no idea what the hell I was doing. The Marine Corps can train you for many things—how to fire a weapon, how to give an operations order, how to call in supporting arms—but, as I was quickly discovering, there are some things for which you just cannot prepare. Building a personal relationship and advising a foreign military commander is one of them. One thing was certain: I had my work cut out for me.
Up to that point in my marriage I had not made a habit of being absent on my wife’s birthday. As near as I could remember I had only missed it once, and that had been while I was in Kuwait preparing for the invasion. It was ironic that I was missing it this time because I was once again deployed to Iraq. All throughout the day of 8 March I mulled over not being around for Ashley’s birthday, and my frustrations were compounded by my inability to communicate with her. The day was spent in long, droning meetings at Camp Al Qa’im and getting acquainted with the various personalities who worked with the Marine infantry battalion task force there. The one bright spot was getting the chance to sit down with and meet the Army Special Forces detachment detailed to the camp. They were unlike any group of servicemen I had ever met. They resembled less a military unit than they did a group of backpackers and hikers, but their professionalism was obvious. The outgoing team had worked with the detachment in the past, and as we talked with them I grew to like them. Low-key but personable, they were a good bunch of guys. Their team leader, a short, mustachioed captain known only as “Pete,” welcomed us back any time.
The team returned to COP South that night, and several hours later Lieutenant Ski called me to the COC with news. The battalion’s S-2 shop had planned another cordon-and-search mission in Karabilah and was asking for our support on the operation that evening. I thought about the skimpy plan that had just been briefed to me and looked at Ski.
“That’s all they have? A hunch that something’s there?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “They’re ready to go right now.”
I thought about the team, most of whom were still cleaning their equipment and winding down from the day’s business at Camp Al Qa’im. There was no doubt that they would willingly put their gear right back on and head out with the IAs if I directed it, but suddenly I wasn’t so sure it was such a good idea. A lot of things needed to happen in a short period. Patrol members needed to be assigned, briefs and orders had to be completed, and vehicles and gear had to be prepared. As I considered the requirements, Lieutenant Grubb jumped in.
“Sir, our weapons aren’t zeroed yet,” he pointed out. “After the banging up they took on the trip here we can’t be sure they are still holding their BZOs [battle-sight zeros].”
Captain Hanna, who until that moment had stood in the corner without commenting, finally spoke up.
“I recommend we pass, sir. Grubb has a good point, and I don’t think we can meet their timeline with everything we have to do.”
I turned back to Ski and Bates.
“All right, canc [cancel] it. Ski, let the S-2 know. Bates, let Captain Al’aa also know that we can’t support it. Tell them we’ll get them next time around, provided they give us a better plan.”
A pattern had begun, one in which the IAs would come to us at the last minute and expect us to jump through hoops to meet their compressed time line. I was no stranger to hastily planned and executed missions. During the invasion the majority of the mission briefings I had given my company staff had consisted of little more than “Here’s our current location. This is where we’re going. Here’s our mission. We’re leaving in five minutes.” But that had been the nature of Marine Corps operations at the time: swift, violent, and with a hazy intelligence picture of the battlefield. At the time we also had the full force of our battalion and the 1st Marine Division to back us up if we got into a fix. But now the MiTT team couldn’t be given the same guarantee of support if we got into trouble while on a mission with the Iraqis. Additionally, the rules of engagement had been much more permissive back in 2003. They were less so now.
And while I understood the necessity for rapid planning, preparation, and execution of “time-sensitive” missions in a counterinsurgency environment, what the Iraqis were call
ing hasty planning and preparation hardly fit the definition. The Marine battalions in Iraq were filled with officers and enlisted men who had undergone extensive training in planning for such missions. The IAs were not yet to that level. Instead, their mission planning tended to be more reactive in nature, and the soldiers who were expected to carry out the missions generally had no idea what they were getting themselves into or what was expected of them. It was a recipe for disaster. Until we could get a better feel for how 3rd Battalion planned its missions, and until we could inject ourselves into the Iraqis’ planning and preparation cycle, I wasn’t willing to risk my Marines’ lives for such shoestring operations. My decision at the time, and later ones like it, undoubtedly cost me and my team some wasta (influence or clout) with the battalion, but I didn’t care. My Marines were my first concern; the Iraqis came second.
Chapter 14
Matters of Importance
The furor within 3rd Battalion surrounding the accidental shooting on 9 March was over as quickly as it happened. I followed up on the issue with Lieutenant Colonel Ayad each evening for several nights after the incident, and each time the subject was raised I received the same response: “We have a committee investigating it.” It was a common answer. The IAs seemed to appoint a committee for everything, whether it was a command investigation or accounting for the unit’s payroll. It was a rare occasion indeed when the commander took resolute action and simply directed that something happen. It was the way the IAs did things—an attempt to limit graft, corruption, and perhaps nepotism—and the mere mention that a committee had been assigned to any given occurrence was enervating. But I was particularly distressed over the shooting. The soldier who had pulled the trigger had been placed in jundi jail to await the outcome of the investigation, as well as for his own protection, but the attitude that Ayad had adopted concerning the incident was that it was merely an unfortunate accident. The Iraqi army didn’t attach the same degree of gravity to negligent discharges as we did in the Marine Corps. In our system there was no such thing as an “accidental” shooting. We followed strict weapons-handling rules, and only a violation of two or more of those rules could lead to a weapon discharging. But the Iraqis believed in accidents, and in this case such an accident had taken the life of a young jundi. My recommendation to Ayad for my team to conduct weapons-handling and safety classes for 3rd Battalion soldiers was discarded. But as aggravated as I was to have my offer snubbed, I knew it wouldn’t be the last time my counterpart refused to heed my advice. After all, the deployment had just begun.
In the Gray Area Page 8
