EMBEDDED
BY WESLEY R. GRAY
NAVAL INSTITUTE PRESS
ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND
The latest edition of this work has been brought to publication with the generous assistance of Marguerite and Gerry Lenfest.
Naval Institute Press
291 Wood Road
Annapolis, MD 21402
© 2009 by United States Naval Institute
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-61251-406-2 (eBook)
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Gray, Wesley R.
Embedded : a Marine Corps advisor inside the Iraqi army / Wesley R. Gray.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Military assistance, American—Iraq. 2. Iraq—Armed Forces—Training of.
3. Internal security—Iraq. 4. Iraq War, 2003—Personal narratives, American.
5. Gray, Wesley R. 6. United States. Marine Corps—Officers—Biography. 7.
United States. Marine Corps—Iraq. I. Title.
DS79.769.G73 2009
956.7044’34—dc22
[B]
2008055201
Print editions meet the requirements of ANSI/NISO z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).
14 13 12 11 10 09 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
First printing
All photos are from the author’s personal collection.
To the soldiers of the Iraqi army,
who taught me that winning isn’t everything,
but friends, family, and honor are.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Part 1.Becoming an Embedded Military Adviser
Chapter 1.Guess What? You Are Going to Iraq
Chapter 2.Culture Shock
Chapter 3.Preparing for Combat Adviser Duty
Chapter 4.Meeting the Iraqi Army
Part 2.Learning Iraqi Army Systems and Culture
Chapter 5.The First Fight with the Iraqi Army
Chapter 6.Vacationing with the Iraqi Army
Chapter 7.Jamal in the Swahuts
Chapter 8.Simple Things Made Difficult
Chapter 9.Iraqi Payday Operations
Chapter 10.Insights on Iraqi Culture
Chapter 11.Death Operations
Chapter 12.The Iraqi Officer and Enlisted Relationship
Chapter 13.Iraqis Speak on the Nation, Region, and military
Part 3.Combat Operations with the Iraqi Army
Chapter 14.Operation Nimer
Chapter 15.Mo’ Leave, Mo’ Problem
Chapter 16.Transitioning to Independent Operations
Chapter 17.The Combat Operations Center Is Launched and the Mission Changes
Chapter 18.Chasing Egyptian Insurgents
Part 4.Between Iraq and a Hard Place
Chapter 19.Contending with Iraqi Culture
Chapter 20.Violence Spikes
Chapter 21.Wayn Jundi? (Where are the Soldiers?)
Chapter 22.Disaster Strikes
Chapter 23.Light at the End of the Tunnel?
Part 5.All Good Things Must Come to an End
Chapter 24.Civil War and Democracy in Iraq
Chapter 25.America Never Looked So Good
Chapter 26.An Assessment
APPENDIX: U.S. Marine Corps Rank Structure
GLOSSARY
INDEX
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Maj. Tom Ross once mentioned to me that his success as a Marine officer could be visualized as a turtle sitting on top of a fencepost—it was obvious he didn’t get there alone. For this project, I felt like a blue whale sitting atop Mount Everest—without massive amounts of help, I would still be stuck on the bottom of the ocean.
First, I would like to thank the United States Marine Corps for giving me an opportunity to serve with an elite group of warrior citizens who are second to none. Specifically, I want to thank my advising teammates, who taught me about life, leadership, and how to be a better Marine (in no particular order): Doc, Nuts, V, Slip, Legger, Cpl. Sal, Mac, Moto McCoy, Wonder Twin #2, the Boss, D, Superhero, and Mighty Morgan—oohrah! And thanks to Eric Earnhardt for teaching me how to be a motivated Devil Dog.
The folks at the Graduate School of Business at the University of Chicago went beyond the call of duty in supporting me during my “sabbatical,” for which I am extremely grateful. Thank you also to the many friends and family, too numerous to list here, who supported me during my deployment. My biggest fans were (and always have been) my parents, Bill and Jill Gray. Thanks for the unwavering support.
Many friends and family also gave me insightful feedback and razor-sharp editing on early drafts of this book. Mike Beimer, Mike Bennett, Cliff Gray, Mike Hollander, Anne and Craig Jorgensen, Ben Katz, Andy Kern, Gabe Klehr, Sandy Li, Ronica Licciardello, James McGinnis, Maurice Medland, Scott Miller, and Dave Woodworth were all extremely helpful. Of course, Rick Russell and Elizabeth Bauman of the Naval Institute Press have been with me through every step in the publishing process and have really made me feel at home as an author with their organization. Special thanks to Karin Kaufman for her superb copyediting services.
Finally, my sincerest thanks go to my wife, Katie, my lead editor and best friend for life.
Part 1
BECOMING AN EMBEDDED MILITARY ADVISER
Chapter 1
Guess What? You Are Going to Iraq
February–March 2006
“Gray, nice fuckin’ brief. You wanna volunteer for some time in Iraq and train some Iraqis?” Caught off guard after completing an important intelligence brief to Brig. Gen. Mastin Robeson and a room full of Marine and Japanese military officers, I replied out of instinct, “Sir, hell yeah. When would I leave?” The granite-hard Col. Steven Manning, a legend in the Marine Corps intelligence community, peered into my eyes. “July time frame,” he said. “We’ll talk about it later this evening. Oohrah!”
We never did get a chance to talk about it that evening. Over the next few weeks that February, I participated in the bilateral Japanese and U.S. military Yama Sukura war game in Kumamoto, Japan. At the conclusion of the exercise, Colonel Manning directed me to participate in a joint military operation with the Filipino army in the Philippines until mid-March. After spending almost two months traveling around Asia, Iraq was the last thing on my mind. But this all changed when I returned to my home base in Okinawa, Japan.
On March 14 I strolled into the intelligence offices at the 3rd Marine Division Headquarters at Camp Courtney, a small Marine Corps base in the center of the island of Okinawa. I had had the time of my life in the Philippines participating in real-world operations, working with the Filipino army, and meeting new people. Life was good. I hollered to Lt. Nate Krissoff, who came stumbling into the office. “Krissoff, dude, I can’t believe those chicks you got in the Philippines. You are da man!” Krissoff, my best bud in the Marines, had partied too much while in the Philippines and was still feeling the aftereffects. He smirked and said, “Gray, hey brother, what happened in the Philippines . . . stays in the Philippines!” I laughed. “Nate, my lips are sealed—until I need something from you.”
I sat at my computer and opened my e-mail box. I had 150 unanswered e-mails, only one of which seemed interesting. The subject line was “RE: MiTT members from Okinawa coming in on March 19th.” I opened the e-mail out of curiosity, thinking it must have been addressed to the wrong Second Lieutenant Gray. But it was addressed correctly and would change my life.
At first I could make no sense of the e-mail. According to
it I was supposed to be in Hawaii in five days to start training for a “MiTT”—whatever the heck that was. I sprinted to Colonel Manning’s office, believing he would know what was happening. Manning examined the e-mail’s contents. “Hrmm. Gray, it looks as though you will be going on a MiTT about four months sooner than I anticipated. Congratulations. Head to the operations shop upstairs and tell them Colonel Manning sent you. Tell them you need priority to get the hell off of Okinawa and into the fight.” I answered, “Roger that, Sir.” But I had one remaining inquiry for Manning. “One question for you, Sir. What exactly does MiTT stand for?” He laughed. “Gray, for an Ivy League graduate you aren’t that bright, are you?” He paused then said, “MiTT stands for military transition team. You are going to be America’s main effort. I wish I were in your position, you lucky bastard!”
I rushed upstairs and spoke with Master Sergeant Hampton, always the man to turn to in an urgent situation. He calmed my nerves. “Sir,” he said, “don’t worry about a thing. You are now on my priority list. This Sunday you will arrive in Hawaii, conduct your predeployment training with the MiTT, and by mid-July you will be enjoying the Iraqi sunshine.” Crap, I thought to myself, how am I going to tell my wife?
Master Sergeant Hampton was not lying. On March 19 I arrived in beautiful Honolulu, Hawaii, with my military gear, an M-9 service pistol, an M-4 assault rifle, and not a friggin’ clue as to what was going to happen next. I knew I was now on a military transition team heading to Iraq. I knew I had to train my ass off. And I knew this was a special duty assignment hooked up through Colonel Manning. I was afraid, but I was excited to get things rolling. I was heading to war.
Chapter 2
Culture Shock
July 2006
It was 0800—show time. As the intelligence officer for the MiTT team, I was about to give the predeployment enemy situation brief at the 3rd Marine Regiment classified material vault. I took my job seriously, but those in attendance would rather have been surfing or tanning on the beaches of Hawaii. I started the brief with a shallow warning, which at the time I found witty. “Gentlemen,” I said, “the biggest threat has gone from a mild sunburn on Waikiki Beach to bullet wounds. Let me tell you how the enemy plans to kill you.”
My intention was to get the MiTT members into a combat mindset. My efforts fell flat. The Marines in front of me were “salty dogs,” a Marine term for experienced combat veterans. Many of the Marines on the MiTT had spent ten to fifteen years in the Corps and had experienced multiple combat tours. One thing I had learned in my short two years in the Marines was that although the salty dogs bring a lot of wisdom and experience to the table, they also bring a certain amount of complacency and laziness. I now know the value of eager and motivated second lieutenants for the military: they make up for the apathy of the salty dogs.
Of course not all second lieutenants are created equal. A last-minute addition to the MiTT, 2nd Lt. Marco Le Gette, had an “alarm clock malfunction” before the meeting and managed to show up halfway through my brief. Great, I thought, another sign the MiTT team is not taking the upcoming combat deployment seriously.
I continued despite Le Gette’s interruption. My brief covered a recent attack in our future area of operations near an Iraqi town called Dulab, which is south of the Haditha Triad, the population areas surrounding Haditha, a small town of about forty thousand residents in Al Anbar Province (see map 1). Insurgents had conducted a coordinated attack on a Marine combat outpost. During the assault a truck approached the checkpoint from the north and fired rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs). Immediately from the south, another group of insurgents pulled up with guns blazing, sending a hail of 7.62-mm lead toward the Marines. The Marines were able to regroup and pour massive firepower onto the two enemy positions. In the end, the game was settled: Marines with eight kills, insurgents with zero.
Remarkably, two of the insurgents killed in the attack were rogue Iraqi police (IP) from Hit, a small town along the Euphrates approximately thirty minutes from the scene of the attack. It did not take a genius to realize that these two insurgents could have easily been Iraqi army (IA) soldiers, the same soldiers we would live with for the duration of our tour in Iraq. By the end of my brief I had the group’s attention. The team understood that our forthcoming duties as embedded military advisers would be unlike any experience any of us had gone through, even for the saltiest among us.
After my intelligence brief I rushed to finish packing. The Marine Corps likes to give Marines lists—many lists. In certain contexts (cooking is a good example), lists are great; in others they are a major pain in the ass. For our situation it was a pain in the ass. Major Pyle (a pseudonym) had us pack every item on the four-page predeployment gear list.
The supply officer for our MiTT, 1st Lt. Rob Adams, and I were not about to drag all the trash on our gear list halfway around the world (e.g., keep our normal sleeping bag and stash our bag rated for minus forty below zero). Immediately after our gear inspection Adams and I drove to his on-base home to dump a large chunk of the gear we were certainly not going to need. As Adams and I were loading our extra gear into his garage, his entire family—three young girls, a baby boy, and his beautiful wife—came out to greet us. Adams’s youngest daughter rushed up to her father and said, “Daddy, Daddy, how was work? What did you do?” Adams responded, “Oh honey, not much. Lieutenant Gray gave us an intel [intelligence] brief on what we will see in Iraq—nothing exciting, really.”
Adams’s daughter looked at me with suspicious eyes. “Lieutenant Gray,” she said, “what’s it like over there? Is my Daddy going to be safe?” Sam, Adams’s oldest daughter, chimed in. “Is my dad going to die? Are you guys going to get shot? Will I ever see my dad again?” I felt as if I was in the middle of a firefight.
Map 1. The Haditha Triad in Al Anbar Province.
All my infantry officer schooling, Marine Corps leadership training, and Officer Candidate School hazing should have taught me how to think on my feet. I was supposed to make decisions in the face of intense combat, yet I couldn’t figure out how to keep these young girls at bay. Although I knew that the area in which we would serve had become the most dangerous in Iraq, I decided that a little white lie was my only option.
“Girls, don’t worry,” I said. “I’ve researched the region we’re visiting in Iraq. There are a lot of bad guys in the place, but they have—for the most part—been killed by the Marines. I wouldn’t worry about your father. He will be safe in Iraq.” Adams and I saw his family members’ visible relief as I spoke my words of encouragement. I continued, “Don’t worry about your father; neither the insurgents nor the Iraqi soldiers we will be working with will hurt him. I promise.” Sam and the rest of Adams’s daughters surrounded him, with tears forming in their eyes. They cried, “Thank God, Daddy! We know you’ll be safe over there. Call us every single day!” Adams’s wife, Virginia, was not reassured. As a Marine Corps wife for over sixteen years, she knew the realities of war better than anyone. Virginia whispered into Adams’s ear, “I love you, honey. Be safe.”
On the short ride back to the MiTT office, I said to Lieutenant Adams, “God, I was full of shit, man.” Adams smirked. “Yeah, well, all intel officers are full of shit. But seriously dude, thanks for keeping my family calm. The last thing they need to worry about is me coming home in a casket.”
Kuwait
We flew from Honolulu to Los Angeles to Frankfurt and finally to Kuwait International Airport. The first two flights were cramped. Perhaps Lufthansa and United Airlines enjoy giving Marines non aisle, nonwindow seats. That makes sense, right? Let’s put Marines in the scrunched middles seats and let the anorexic-looking teenage girls relax in the aisle.
In the end we got our justice on the flight from Frankfurt to Kuwait when a few of us were bumped to first class. Hot dog! As I sat in first class, enjoying the in-flight wireless Internet, drinking wine, and being fed by attractive flight attendants, the ridiculousness of the situation struck home. I was on my way to a
combat zone.
We landed in Kuwait International Airport about 2230 and felt the culture shock immediately. Kuwaiti soldiers were returning from a tour of duty along the Kuwaiti border and the entire airport was celebrating. Women were making an awful yodeling sound that was a mix between a coyote’s cry and a cockatoo recently slapped in the head. Meanwhile, the men, in full traditional Arab dress, were dancing and hollering for their heroes. The airport was filled with excitement. This was a hero’s welcome done Kuwaiti style. This was a hero’s welcome we wanted to see in seven months.
We waded through the crowds of Arabs to find the lounge. We all looked forward to settling into the posh Kellogg Brown and Root (KBR) lounge. The company’s lounge rooms are what a Department of Defense (DoD) employee needs after flying around the world. They come complete with a fifty-inch flat screen television playing the latest DVDs and rows of luscious leather lounge chairs.
Just as we were sinking into our lounge chairs, Major Pyle walked in. “Gentlemen, we have a 0500 flight to Baghdad International Airport tomorrow. Buses are heading here now to take us to the Kuwait transient camp. When they get here, grab your trash, and get ready to move.” Unmotivated, we all acknowledged the boss with “Roger.”
Hell is hot . . . Kuwait is even hotter. Up until this point we hadn’t left an air-conditioned space in Kuwait. As Adams and I went rushing outside of the KBR lounge to get on the bus, the heat slammed us in the face. Even in the middle of the night, it felt as if someone was blowing a hair dryer into our faces. “Good God,” I murmured under my breath as heat blanketed my body. I have been in some scorching areas of the United States, yet nothing compares to Kuwait. In America, you can witness 120-degree heat in the Southwest, but it will be a “dry heat.” In Florida, it can reach 100 degrees and it will be a “humid heat.” Well, in Kuwait, it is 140 degrees and it is a “fucking hot heat.”
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