Embedded

  Once Jaffer had left I grabbed Nuts, Kelley, Blanchard, and Espi. We went over our own internal plan. The operation had changed from a raid operation to a “protect-our-own-asses” operation. The biggest danger was not the insurgents in the building but the jundi under the leadership of Lieutenant Jaffer. The gist of my new plan was simple: let the Iraqis die first, watch out for jundi friendly fire, and take the lead in the operation only if it was a matter of our own survival. In my mind Iraqis should die for their country, not Marines.

  Jaffer showed up with his jundi around 0330, thirty minutes late but respectable by Iraqi standards. The jundi who showed up, many of whom were from our battalion, greeted me with much fanfare. “Mulazim Jamal, as salama aleikum. Shlonek? Shlon sawtek? Shlon ahelek? Inta zien?” (Lieutenant Jamal, peace be upon you. How are you? How is your health? How is your family? Are you good?) It felt good to know we would have some familiar faces on this mission.

  We pushed outside the compound gate and tactically moved in a squad-column formation to the building suspected to have insurgents. This was exciting. We slowly approached the abandoned building with our night vision goggles and watched as Jaffer put his so-called plan into action. Jaffer sent a few soldiers ahead to set up a “crap-tacular” cordon around the building. He next ordered two jundi with flashlights to search the building. I knew that if the two jundi entering the building encountered any resistance, they were toast. To make matters worse, from our position we would be unable to support them. Jaffer’s plan was flawed but workable, so as an adviser cadre we were going to allow him to execute it.

  I fully expected a gunfight. The abandoned building served as perfect terrain for insurgents who wanted to attack the WTF. But the gunfight never came. The jundi sent in to search nonchalantly walked back out of the building with their rifles slung and their flashlights dangling from their waists, swaying back and forth with the rhythm of their steps. They each fired up a cigarette and yelled to Jaffer, “All clear.”

  My heart rate dropped a good twenty beats a minute as my fear and excitement faded. So much for being Rambo and getting a chance to find some insurgents. I called back to the WTF, “Shadow One, there ain’t shit in this building. What do you want us to do?” After consulting Captain Mawfood, Major Gaines responded, “Roger, Shadow Two, continue on with a normal foot patrol, we were going to push a patrol out in a few hours anyway.” “Rog—,” I began. But before I could end my radio transmission, Jaffer was already moving the Iraqis across Route Boardwalk to search a large Iraqi home.

  We followed the remainder of the patrol across Boardwalk to ensure squad integrity. After examining the house and finding nothing except a family fast asleep, we continued east into the sleepy palm groves to search for stray command wires. The insurgents typically plant the IEDs on Route Boardwalk and string the copper command wires into the palm groves to maximize the concealment of the wires. By moving into the palm groves and walking parallel to Route Boardwalk, we would hopefully run into these command wires before the insurgents were able to use them to blow up a convoy the following day.

  We stumbled across barren agricultural fields and moved eastward toward the lush palm groves that nestled against the Euphrates. As we bumbled along, each of us tried to look less idiotic than the other. I have always considered myself a coordinated person, however, throw eighty pounds of combat gear on your back, look through a P.S.-14 monocular night vision goggle, try to walk across mogul-like terrain for a few hundred meters, and see what happens. It’s a humbling experience.

  We approached the palm groves. Moving into the groves in the thick of night reminded me of classic war scenes from the jungles of Vietnam. While we did not need a machete to get through the thicket, it was damn close. I called for Jaffer through Martin’s UHF radio, “Jaffer, let’s talk about how we are going to move through these palm groves.” Jaffer showed up and gave me his plan. His basic idea was for everyone to get in a line and start walking parallel to Route Boardwalk through the dense palm grove forests and the four-foot reed patches up ahead. This plan would cause him to lose control of his squad. We hacked on his plan and came up with something that was not perfect but could work.

  The intent of sleuthing through the palm groves in the middle of the night was to run across copper command wires. After five minutes of falling on my face, untangling my gear from reeds, and ensuring I was not in the sights of an Iraqi Army AK-47, I realized that finding these damned command wires was going to have to take a back seat. It was hard enough seeing a foot in front of our faces, let alone being able to see a thin copper fishing wire on the ground. We made a collective decision to return to the WTF.

  We returned to the WTF after four hours of trudging in treacherous terrain. Then we gathered everyone around for a quick debrief, which is SOP (standard operating procedure) for the Marines. I began my brief comments, which lasted all of three minutes. Jaffer responded, smiling gleefully, “Jamal, you are my brother, these jundi and these Marines are your brothers. Why do you make them suffer through a debrief?” I gazed into the empty faces of the forty-year-old Iraqi army soldiers on the patrol with us, many of whom had lived harder lives than I could even imagine. I replied, “Jaffer you’re right. I’m sorry. Everyone get some rest. Great job today.”

  Insurgent Snipers Attack

  After three hours of dreamless sleep, I awoke to the sound of roaring generator engines and the sight of an Iraqi civilian snooping outside the building. Instinctively I reached for my M-4. I notified Doc, who I found was tracking on the same man. Before we could figure out what to do next, Martin, who was sleeping outside on his cot, addressed the man, “Hey, what are you doing over here?” The man, who was scared out of his mind, timidly responded, “I am sorry, mister. I am in charge of the generators here and need to change the power circuits. Please do not hurt me. Captain Mawfood said it was fine for me come here.” We calmed down the man and had him sit with us for a breakfast of MARES. The last thing we wanted was for the residents of the facility to fear our presence and cease to carry out their jobs at the WTF. I could only imagine how angry the locals would get if their primary source of clean water were to be halted.

  I was to be the lead adviser on the next patrol and my crew was stellar. I would have my trusty comrades Sergeant Kelley, Espi, Private First Class Lynch, and Moody on my team. Kelley was the best of the best. He was an eight-year veteran Marine infantryman, a grizzled combat veteran, and had been on countless patrols in Haditha. If there was anyone I wanted to patrol alongside in Haditha, it would be Kelley. His partner in crime was Espi. Espi and Kelley both reminded me of John Wayne toilet paper—rough, tough, and didn’t take any shit. It was a great reassurance to have these Marines on patrol with me.

  We pushed the patrol in column formation outside the WTF main gate at 1000 hours. We headed across Boardwalk and into the same palm groves we had attacked the night before. As I left the gate Samir, the jundi operating the P.C. machine gun on the main entrance, said, “Targa bil salama” (Return in peace). I exited through the gate and replied, “Insha’allah.”

  Fortunately we didn’t have Jaffer along for the patrol. In my mind this cut the probability of my dying enormously. Instead our patrol leader was Hussein, a forty-five-year-old Iraqi, with twenty-five years in the Iraqi army as an infantryman and special operations soldier. Hussein was as close to being a logical person as Iraqi people can get.

  Hussein and I agreed on a basic patrol plan. It was sophisticated enough to accomplish the mission, but simple enough to ensure everyone’s survival. We would sweep south through the palm groves for two kilometers and move west across Boardwalk into the villages. From that point we would push north back to the WTF through the villages, look for suspicious material, and ask the locals for information. While moving through the palm groves, we would split into two groups, one of four and one of six. Sergeant Kelley’s group of four would trail closest to the Euphrates, looking for car batteries, generators, and triggermen who could be initiating IE
Ds. My group of six would travel along the western edge of the palm groves searching for the copper command wires along the ground.

  We gingerly traversed the palm groves. As we commenced the movement south, I became furious. Daylight had revealed that if we had shifted our patrol from last night another hundred meters west, we could have completely dodged the reeds, jungle thicket, and mud pits that had caused us so much anguish. My resentment wore off quickly as I realized it was an amazing day to be in Iraq. The sun was shining, the temperature was hovering around seventy degrees, and we were on a long walk (okay, a combat patrol, but close enough). We came across farmers tilling their lands, sheepherders attending to their flocks, and kids playing games. I stopped to talk with everyone who would listen.

  Suddenly the ignition of a single AK-47 round screamed in my ears. A symphony of gunfire followed. “Holy shit, how many fuckin’ dudes are shooting at us?” I muttered to myself. My primal sensory abilities rose to a level I had never experienced. It was exhilarating. This shit was for real.

  In the midst of the chaos it took me a moment to realize what was happening. It was likely that one sniper round had been fired in our direction and the remainder of the rounds were from the infamous “Iraqi fire blossom,” a colloquial term for the phenomenon that occurs when Iraqi army soldiers are attacked. When under fire every jundi in the immediate vicinity starts firing all their rounds in all directions. The event creates a cloud of firepower that resembles a blooming flower. In many cases the biggest danger in Iraq is not the insurgents but the Iraqi fire blossom.

  I took cover when the fire started and began to scan through my rifle scope for the attacker. I was staring into a palm grove thicket and could barely see thirty feet in front of me. Revenge was not probable, and it seemed the gunfight was over. I radioed to Sergeant Kelley, “We are gonna take cover here and lay down covering fire; you guys push south and try to flank this bastard.” Kelley was excited to get in the action, as he knew we were in a perfect formation to catch the insurgents for once. He radioed back, “Roger, we are pushing south. Make sure the Iraqis don’t shoot our asses.” I replied, “Good to go. For your information, it sounded as though the fire was close range, maybe two hundred meters away. Don’t push farther than five hundred meters if you can help it.”

  After my radio transmission with Kelley, I concentrated on the fight. I quickly realized a round aimed for my head had instead wasted the jundi who was patrolling ten feet in front of me. He cried in agony, flailing around as though he was on fire. Time to use some of Doc McGinnis’s combat lifesaver knowledge, I thought, as my adrenaline kicked in and everything started to slow down.

  Espi and I rushed to help the fallen jundi while everyone else posted security. This Iraqi was the luckiest bastard on the planet. The round had penetrated his leather gloves hanging from his flak jacket, and his two magazines and had gone through his entire SAPI (small-arms protective insert) plate. The round had stopped at the inside edge of his flak jacket, causing a small scratch and a silver dollar-sized burn on his chest directly over his heart. The pressure from the round had cracked his ribs, but he was going to live to tell the tale.

  I radioed back to Major Gaines, “Shadow One, this is Shadow Two, we have one friendly routine casualty. Request QRF. Stand by for details.” Following the transmission Sergeant Kelley radioed, “We are heading back to your position. We can’t get through the brush up ahead—too fucking thick.”

  Within minutes Kelley and his crew had linked up with our force. We had a powwow with Hussein and decided that the best course of action would be to move back in pairs to a berm that was 150 meters behind us. Kelley’s crew would go back first and we would follow. From there we would bound to the nearest home, where we could find and wait for the QRF. Once everyone got word of the plan, Kelley’s Iraqi fire team began bounding back to the berm as we provided covering fire.

  Kelley and his jundi sprinted to the earthen berm. I looked back to be certain everyone was okay and we had our sectors of fire covered. I gazed on the battlefield. All the jundi were hugging the ground, like cheese melted into a hamburger. These guys were scared shitless. In the midst of this, I saw Espi, snuggled up to a tree, trying to light a cigarette, seemingly oblivious to the immediate threat we had encountered. Perplexed, I hollered to Espi, “Dude, are you fuckin’ Dirty Harry, man?” He replied, “Sir, I have seen this happen hundreds of time and it makes me go crazy. I have a new SOP—to light up a cigarette first thing after a firefight or I end up doing something stupid. I can put it out if you really want.” I smirked and said, “Naw man, it’s all good. Just keep your fucking head down. You can be my bounding buddy to the berm.”

  I wanted to hug Espi after his cigarette incident. His actions calmed me down and had me laughing aloud. My mind was thinking clearly again. “Espi, you ready to move out?” He responded, “Roger, Sir, I’m moving.” I covered Espi as he bounded back to the berm where everyone else was taking cover. We continued to cover each other and move until we were the final ones to reach the berm.

  Once at the berm Kelley grabbed four of the jundi and hauled ass to a large Iraqi home a hundred meters from the edge of the berm. After they established a foothold in the home, they waved the rest of us to move the casualty into it. Hussein and a couple of jundi grabbed the injured soldier. Hussein yelled to me, “Jamal, cover us.” In response we provided cover fire while Hussein and his men moved the casualty to the home.

  Another sniper round went flying over our heads, coming from the direction of Boardwalk. “Aw fuck, here we go again,” yelled Moody in his thick Arab accent. We were facing fire from multiple snipers and they almost had us surrounded. Everyone took cover. I looked up and down the berm and everyone was clean. Before I could blink the Iraqis did what they do best under fire—get out of the area. The old saying “When in Rome, do as the Romans do” became immediately relevant. Bounding was a tactically sound idea, but we needed to get out of the kill zone—in a hurry. Everyone crouched under the berm and ran as fast as they could into the courtyard of the home Kelley and his men had under control.

  Exhausted, Moody rushed to give me the bad news. “Jamal, my fuckin’ radio is back at the berm!” I did the calculations in my head: a one-hundred-dollar UHF commercial Motorola radio or risk people’s lives. The solution to that problem was easy—to hell with the radio!

  Inside the home the family was courteous and understanding of our situation. Moody served as the “calm the locals” man, Kelley and Hussein set up security, and I coordinated for a QRF. Once things were settled I visited the casualty. A young boy had brought Ali, the wounded soldier, a large glass of water. I approached Ali and said, “Il hamdu Allah is salama!” (Thank God you are safe!) He grinned at me, blew a large cloud of smoke from his cigarette, and said, “Jamal, I am in fuckin’ serious pain!” I laughed uncontrollably. Ali proceeded to show me the hole in his flak and his magazines. All of the jundi rotated through to see how he was doing and to hear his war story. Ali was now a living legend among mere men.

  After speaking with Ali I went into the main room of the home. It was stunning. I am always impressed with what Iraqis can do with little means. I have a hard time keeping a film of dust out of my hooch back at the camp, yet these people can keep an entire home spotless. Moreover, the home had a spiral staircase with beautiful marble footings. At the foot of the staircase sat a two-person rocking chair. I walked up to the man of the house, who was sitting peacefully in the rocking chair, chatting with Moody. I introduced myself and told him he had a wonderful home. I apologized for our uninvited entrance. I think he understood our predicament; having a jundi with a bullet hole in his SAPI plate was more than enough to convince them we were in need of their help.

  The QRF flew at sixty miles per hour down Boardwalk to our position, scaring every man, veiled women, and begging child in the area. It was obvious the jundi were at the helm. When they arrived in a fury of dust, we mounted the casualty into one of the Humvees and the QRF scurried out
of the area and back to the WTF without incident. We were left to our own devices to get back to camp.

  Without the burden of a casualty we cautiously left the home and headed across Boardwalk and into the village. The squad was uneasy. We rushed north with a focus on returning to base. We had seen enough action for the day. Our beautiful day in Haditha had turned into a game of Duck Hunt for the insurgents. To make matters worse, temperatures decided to rise past 100 degrees. The squad walked through the front gate of the WTF ready to relax. This was my first serious combat incident and I hoped it would be the last. Insha’allah.

  Iraqi Interrogation 101

  At the compound we had two new guests. The Iraqi QRF had managed to spot the two individuals running across the street at the time we were taking sniper fire. They detained them and brought them back to our patrol base for questioning. An Iraqi captain swiftly backhanded one of the detainees in the face as I approached. The bitch slap was followed by a rain of death threats and accusations. The scene was getting ugly. I sprinted to the scene, looking for hidden CNN reporters along the way. Dealing with a detainee abuse case was the last thing I wanted at this point.

  Puzzled by what was happening, I said, “Captain Ahmed, let’s first GPR [gunpowder residue test] these guys before you get too wild with your interrogation.” He fired back in an emotional state, “Jamal, these men fired at you. They are insurgents. I know it. Let me take care of this the Iraqi way!” I replied calmly, “That might be the case, but let me test them first.” I reached into my grab pouch and grabbed some flexi-cuffs. “Here; take these cuffs and secure their hands behind their backs.” Ahmed snatched the flexi-cuffs from my hands while Espi went to grab the GPR kit.

  “Owww!” The older detainee screamed in agony. I saw that his wrists were bleeding. Ahmed had decided to use the flexi-cuffs as a vice grip on the detainee’s wrists. He had tightened them so snuggly they were cutting into the detainee’s wrists, causing blood to spill on the ground. Captain Mawfood immediately yanked Ahmed from the scene to council him.