We entered the MiTT camp, which was a small, square area about the size of a baseball diamond (see photo 2). Bulletproof Hesco barriers barricaded the camp on all sides (Hesco barriers are seven-foot-tall and six-foot-wide containers wrapped in a wire mesh that is filled with dirt and sand). Upon our arrival the boss said, “It’s 0445 now. Drop your gear in your rooms and be ready for action tomorrow morning by 0830.” He paused before continuing. “Tomorrow we will observe the Iraqi mission planning briefs and conduct a liaison meeting with the 3rd Battalion, 3rd Marines (3/3) battalion commander in the dam. Go to your rooms and have a nice night.”
I approached my room. The dual-occupancy rooms on the camp were modified shipping containers about eight feet wide, twenty-five feet long, and eight feet tall. Each of the living spaces was outfitted with electricity and the all-important air-conditioner. I wasn’t sure what to think about the accommodations. It wasn’t luxury, but it was a place to sleep.
Camp Ali
I sprang up the next morning at 0800. I use the term “sprang” loosely; my mind was ready to spring, but my body was moving at an anemic pace owing to a lack of sleep. I poked my head outside and realized I had opened an oven door. I slammed the door closed, chugged a bottle of water, and took my last gulp of air-conditioned air before cracking the oven again. Now I was ready to go. Our team gathered inside the camp and took in the moment. This was our first chance to explore the area.
The MiTT camp is a Marine’s paradise. Small and austere? Maybe. Filled with makeshift capabilities and livable? Heck, yeah. The camp was lacking some essentials, but thankfully, we had access to the resources of our next-door neighbors on camp, the Special Force’s ODA (Operational Detachment Alpha) team. The ODA had everything the MiTT camp didn’t have, including showers and a makeshift weight room. Within the MiTT camp we had a washer, a dryer that sometimes worked, and a rack on which to hang clothes. We also had a basic kitchen with a George Foreman grill, a microwave, and a deep-fat fryer. Seriously, what else could a Marine ask for?
After some exploration of the MiTT camp, it was time to move to the Iraqi Command Operations Center (COC) and watch the Iraqi mission planning briefs. Along the way Staff Sergeant Wear gave us a tour of the Iraqi camp.
Camp Ali is small, rugged, and relaxes across a flat piece of desert earth. The total area of the camp is perhaps three hundred meters across west to east and eight hundred meters from north to south. Scattered along the grounds are various guard towers, and there are berms (large mounds of dirt) across the southern and western boundaries to keep out the boogieman. The camp snuggles up to the west bank of the Euphrates about half a mile south of Haditha Dam.
It is apparent you are within Camp Ali the minute you pass through the main gate. The number of Marines, contractors, dam employees, and random coalition forces immediately goes from a ton down to one—the armed Marine at the gate leading to the Iraqi camp. This devil dog’s mission is to operate and secure the gates to Camp Ali while standing in full combat gear in 130-degree heat. His life sucks.
When you exit the Marine side of camp and enter through the main gate to Camp Ali, to your immediate right you see the Special Forces camp. In many ways their camp reminded me of a grungy trailer park. Despite its rugged look this small area of earth is where the Special Forces make plans to take over small nations, find Osama bin Laden, and plan for nightly ninja raids. Or at least that was their reputation. Their real mission was the same as ours: advise and support the Iraqi battalion during combat operations. Neighboring the Special Forces camp is the MiTT camp and another hundred meters beyond the MiTT camp are fifty swahuts.
The swahuts house the Iraqi soldiers, known to U.S. military personnel as jundi, the Arabic term for “soldier.” Swahuts are unlike any housing I have ever seen. They are simple dwellings—a square slab of concrete about twenty feet wide, thin plywood walls, and a tin roof. Scatter six to eight bunk beds throughout a small room, set up a satellite receiver to get the latest Arab news and Egyptian comedies, add fifteen to twenty jundi, and hang posters of Ali (a Shia Muslim hero) on the walls—now you have an idea of where the jundi live. It’s not the Ritz-Carlton, but it’s not bad considering the poverty with which most Iraqis are accustomed.
The jundi kept their motor transportation lot a hundred meters east of the swahuts. In many ways the lot reminded me of a Third World village. It consisted of twenty to thirty vehicles, three of which worked. In place of Oldsmobile, Cadillac, and Chevy cars, the lot had Iraqi-operated American Humvees, Leyland transport trucks (flimsy flatbed pickups), Krazes (a large and powerful Russian troop transport vehicle akin to the U.S. military’s seven-ton), Wazes (Russian jeep that never works), and small Toyota pickups. In the southern end of the motor transportation area sat the “random crap” area of the camp, which consisted of rusted concertina razor wire, barbed wire, metal rods and poles, old unfilled Hesco barriers, tires, and about everything else one would find in a junkyard. Finally, and most loved by the Iraqis, was the austere soccer field, complete with no grass, thick sticker bushes, and goals made of two-by-four boards nailed together.
Fifty meters south of the swahuts were the jundi’s prized possessions: the shower area and Iraqi chow hall. Considering the circumstances and the civilian living conditions in the Triad area, the jundi had a nice shower area. It consisted of a white trailer about twenty-five feet long that was propped off the ground on a few cinder blocks.
Inside the Iraqi shower trailer were four operational showers and an amazing stench that could only be created in a confined facility that provided services to over two hundred Iraqi men on any given day. Unfortunately the only alternative for cleanliness-conscious jundi was to swim in the Euphrates, which contains E. coli and other wicked parasites. According to the jundi swimming in the Euphrates is kullish mu zien, (very bad).
Next to the shower facility was the holiest building on Camp Ali—the chow hall. Not unlike American service members, jundi love to eat. Like all the buildings in the camp, the chow hall was encased in an array of Hesco barriers to keep mortar fragments out of the food. Inside the chow hall was a small assembly line where the soldiers lined up to a large bin of rice, a large bin of beans, a stack of khubbis (homemade bread), and a small container of chicken. Aligned throughout the interior were white plastic tables and chairs of the sort one could purchase at a summer sale at Wal-Mart. It’s not luxury dining, but the poor decor was complemented with engaging conversation and Iraqis wrestling each other for the last Pepsi (see photo 3).
Due west of the chow hall was the Iraqi COC, the brain of the Iraqi battalion and home for the senior Iraqi officers. It was strategically located only a hundred meters away in case the jundi got hungry. It was also where our first meeting with the Iraqis was to take place.
We approached the Iraqi COC. The three-man security detachment guarding the entrance to the facility awoke from their slumber, jumped from their lawn chairs, and greeted us with “Salam” (Hello). Caught off guard we replied, “Salam” and quickly entered the large swahut.
Our team had entered the Iraqi conference room a few minutes late. The meeting, which was already underway, immediately ceased. Every Iraqi in the room hopped from their seat and formed a line, waiting to greet each member of our team. It was overwhelming to say the least.
The Iraqis attacked. They swarmed around me and the rest of the team, hugging, kissing, shaking hands, and speaking Arabic. Lieutenant Le Gette, who was being mobbed by Iraqis, glanced at me. “Dude,” he said, “what happened to the meeting?” Squished between a group of Iraqis, I gasped for air and replied, “I’m not sure, man, but these guys sure are friendly. Sheesh!”
Our spectacular meet-and-greet subsided quickly. Nobody on our team, aside from me, had more than a basic grasp of Arabic, the Iraqis couldn’t speak English, and the two “terps” (short for interpreters) in the room could only do so much to keep communications flowing. Conversations that consist of Shlonek? (How are you?) and Anii zien, wa inta? (I am good, and
you?) can only go so far. It was time to start the brief.
Captain Muhanned, the IA battalion S-3 (operations section) officer, led the mission with an outstanding orientation brief. Following his opening remarks, Muhanned called the various sections to the front of the group to describe how their section’s planning efforts would affect the upcoming operation. The S-1 (administration section) talked about personnel and administration, the S-2 (intelligence section) gave the intelligence brief, the S-3 spoke to operations, the S-4 (logistics section) described logistics, and, finally, the S-6 (communications section) described the communications plan. After hearing the various S-shops give their respective briefs, it was time for a question-and-answer session and for another lesson in Iraqi culture.
Lt. Col. Owen Lovejoy, the outgoing MiTT leader, started the session. He pointed out various flaws in the operation plan and asked the jundi how they would address the issues. Silence. In the Iraqis’ mind without their commander Colonel Abass present at the table (he was at a meeting in Al Asad), there was no point even talking about possible changes to the plan. Lieutenant Colonel Ali, the Iraqi’s second in command, kept swatting questions back at Lieutenant Colonel Lovejoy as if they were pesky mosquitoes. Each time his response and rhetoric were the same: “How can I change this plan if the commander is not here to make the decision? As a commander, how would you feel if I were making decisions behind your back? Would you still be the commander?”
The Iraqis’ behavior struck me as odd. In the Marines battle decisions can be made at the lowest levels of command. Subordinate Marines are expected to make decisions when their leaders are not present. In the IA the exact opposite occurs: the commander makes all decisions, even the trivial ones. If the commander does not make all decisions, his authority is undermined. I realized that changing this environment was going to be a serious challenge.
Words of Wisdom from the Marine Colonel
The sandstorm was so thick I could not see more than three feet in front of me. I was driving the Iraqis’ Chevy Luv, a two-door pickup with slabs of metal bolted to the sides acting as armor. We were cruising on the top level of the dam to make our meeting with Lt. Col. Norman Cooling, the 3rd Battalion, 3rd Marines (3/3) commander. The small pickup swayed and dipped at the whims of the storm’s power. At one point, when the winds were particularly fierce, we stopped the vehicle, blocked off all air-conditioning vents, and experienced the insides of a tornado. Within twenty minutes the storm passed, the tornado miraculously transformed into a cloudless, sunny day. The sandstorm had melted into the desert floor.
We faced another sandstorm in our meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Cooling. 3/3 was the unit that would save our asses if the Iraqi army ever decided to mutiny and take the entire MiTT hostage. It made sense for our team to have a good relationship with Cooling. Our meeting took place in the commander’s boardroom, located on the seventh floor of the dam. The room resembled a corporate boardroom setting, save for the fact that it was 100 degrees in the room and we sat in plastic chairs. All the same we were honored and wanted to hear what the lieutenant colonel had to say.
The first words from his mouth stung our adviser team. He lectured, “Here is the bottom line gentlemen: these MiTTs are supposed to be the best of the best, the most capable Marines our Corps has to offer. If the MiTT mission is to succeed in Iraq, that is exactly what we need to be doing.” He paused, sat up in his chair, and continued. “Here is the reality. MiTTs are usually staffed with leftovers . . . no offense.” We got the drift. His experience with MiTTs in the past apparently had not been that great and he intended to set things straight this time around.
The stressed-out warrior went on. “You want to know what I expect from the MiTT if we are going to get along out here? Solid leadership.” We all gulped, knowing our MiTT leader was nowhere near the hottest on the planet. “You know,” he continued, “here is my experience with Marines dying. For every ten Marines that die out here, two are because of dumb leadership decisions, six of them are because of individual Marine complacency, and maybe two of them are from actual enemy skill and craft. When you break that down, eight out of ten Marine casualties could be saved through solid leadership—first, by making good decisions and second, by ensuring Marines do not get complacent.”
Cooling followed up with an example that still haunted him: “Five months ago a seven-ton full of Marines was told to go check out a wadi (dried river bed) for IED wires. When they got to the wadi, it was heavily pouring rain and the wadi was full of water. The staff sergeant on the scene made the decision to try and cross it. Suffice to say, it was a bad decision; twelve men drowned and one survived—the staff sergeant who made the retarded decision.” He grimaced. “My guess is that poor staff sergeant isn’t sleeping well nowadays.”
Cooling abruptly moved to the next thing on his mind. “Oh, and here is another thing, you now have a microscope up your ass, congratulations.” We were perplexed by his statement. “Well, gents,” he explained, “if you think back about seven months ago you will remember the infamous ‘Haditha Massacre’ where Marines from 3/1 [3rd Battalion, 1st Marines] were accused of killing a bunch of civilians in Haditha. The press went wild with the story, which inflamed world and American opinions. Following the incident, the generals out here decided to jam a microscope up all regimental commanders’ asses in Iraq, and they subsequently grabbed the microscopes from their asses and proceeded to jam them up the battalion commanders’ asses—mine included. Now, following suit, I am now taking it out of my ass and jamming it up yours.”
It didn’t take long to realize Cooling was completely serious. “The situation is so ridiculous,” he continued, “that anytime Marines engage the enemy in my area I have to do an investigation on the incident and verify it was legitimate. I fully understand this may lead to you and your Iraqis hesitating in the heat of battle—I’m sorry. You can thank the media for that one; they have no understanding of the situation on the ground or a grasp of the Iraqi people.” We read between the lines; we were out here to be bullet sponges, and if we retaliated against the insurgents, we were going to be investigated under the assumption we had used force unnecessarily. The media blowback from the so-called Haditha Massacre was going to have a direct effect on our ability to operate.
Lieutenant Colonel Cooling moved away from addressing the negative realities of the war and focused on motivating our team. He lectured, stealing a page from President George W. Bush: “There are two truths to the situation out there. First, if we aren’t fighting these terrorists here, we will be fighting them in America. And second, the only way out of this place is to train the Iraqi army and the Iraqi police so we can leave to fight who we really need to fight—Iran, Syria, and North Korea.”
After that sad attempt at motivation, he told us more about the area. “Here’s a wake-up call. Your training in America is shitty and doesn’t prepare you for what you face out here. And another thing. You are going to have the urge to act like your Special Forces neighbors, who run around like cowboys on convoys, going way too fast and rarely doing the proper precombat inspections and precombat checks. Don’t do that shit. You are Marines, not U.S. Army Rambo wannabes.” The lieutenant colonel did not actually think our training was shitty or that we would try to emulate the Special Forces; he just wanted to stress to us his key point: complacency kills.
In conclusion Cooling said, “Gentlemen, we are ahead of these guys with the Chameleons coming into theater. This is going to stop the radio-controlled IEDs for the time being. I figure we have a one-to two-month edge on these guys. But standby, I will bet my paycheck they will figure out a work-around soon enough. Good luck, and get those Iraqis to work.” We all left the meeting motivated but feeling as though we indeed had a microscope jammed up our asses.
Finalizing the Mission Plans
The mythical Colonel Abass, whom we had heard so much about from the outgoing advisers, soon returned to Camp Ali. The guy was a sight to see. He tipped the scale at 270 pounds and
packed his weight in a frame that stood about five feet seven inches tall. Abass’s trademark was his handlebar mustache. When he opened his mouth, it looked as if he had a small squirrel sleeping on his upper lip.
What was most amazing about Colonel Abass was his intellect and wit. He redefined what it means to be “street smart.” At the time I met him, Abass had twenty-four years of service in the old IA, a fundamental understanding of the political situation in Iraq, and a deceptive ability to influence Americans. The only reason he was not at the Ministry of Defense (MOD) or in a higher position of power is that he was a Sunni, a former regime supporter, and could not speak a lick of English.
With Abass back at camp we redid the mission-planning brief. This time around a different feel was in the air. When Abass entered the COC conference room, everyone snapped out of their seats and jumped to attention. He spoke to the crowd, welcomed our new MiTT, thanked God for our safe arrival, and told Captain Muhanned to begin the brief. The brief was similar to Lieutenant Colonel Lovejoy’s brief, except with more formalities and more questions from Abass to his staff. Abass brought up many of the same points Lovejoy had, which was a testament to his ability to notice the same issues and concerns as our top military leaders.
Once the brief was over I had a vague idea of what we were getting ourselves into and a decent level of confidence in the jundi to accomplish the mission. I wouldn’t say the jundi are Marines, or that they could execute half of what they had planned, but I was pleasantly surprised at their ability to give a thorough brief.
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