Embedded

  We approached our tentative assembly area at the base of a small hill from which we would observe Route Boardwalk. From our position, we were not going to get close enough to the enemy to cut his throat, but we would have visibility on the road. At the assembly area the snipers and I had a U.S.-only meeting. We were carrying out a complicated operation and the last thing we wanted was the jundi to mess it up.

  I addressed the Special Force snipers. “Listen, you guys know we are dealing with jundi here. I can guarantee that one of them is going to light up a cigarette while we are out here observing.” Both the men nodded in agreement and I continued. “I’m going to have these guys sit at the base of this hill and get into a security posture beneath the hill. They can be the security element for the mission while you guys go up on the hill and observe with your thermal scopes and infrared optics. I’ll be the middleman on the hill. If you guys need support or extra firepower let me know and I will signal to Hussein to rally the jundi cavalry.” The snipers liked my plan. The plan allowed them to observe Boardwalk for enemy activity without having to worry about the jundi compromising our position and ruining the mission.

  After explaining this plan to Hussein, we were set to execute. Hussein, a former Iraqi Special Forces soldier with vast experience conducting reconnaissance missions, was the perfect guy to have as the Iraqi squad leader. He set his men into a security posture and prepared them for their duties.

  It became apparent that twenty-five years of service in the old Iraqi army was not helping Hussein. Marines know that while in a security position, weapons point outward, sectors of fire are assigned, silence is maintained, and movements are minimized. The Iraqi security posture is different. Their security involves small groups of three soldiers who sit in a circle talking about life and smoking cigarettes while one of the soldiers in the squad keeps a general eye out to see if anything dangerous is on the horizon. Suffice it to say I was glad I let the snipers push to the top of the hill alone. Sending the jundi would have compromised their position and ruined the mission.

  Once the jundi were set in their “gaggle” (Marine term for something that isn’t very organized), I crawled on my hands and knees up the hill to check on the snipers through my night vision goggles. I watched their left flank and marked the route back to the assembly area with infrared chemlights so they knew how to get back to the jundi without getting lost.

  We sat, sat, and sat some more. I was annoyed that my first chance to live in a Hollywood movie scene was going to end so anticlimactically. All I wanted was to light up insurgents emplacing IEDs along Boardwalk, and we were in the perfect position to do just that. We sat for three hours and watched the villagers carry out their nightly rituals: evening tea with the neighbors, prayer at the local mosque, more tea with the neighbors, and then off to bed.

  It was 2200—drop-dead time. I signaled to the snipers that it was time to move back to camp. We approached the Iraqi security circle at the base of the hill, praying they did not shoot us. Our worries were unfounded. Half of the jundi were fast asleep and the other half were smoking cigarettes and telling stories. Any hopes that this would be a clandestine mission were lost. The jundi still awake shouted to me, “Jamal, are we heading back to camp yet? We’re tired and hungry.” My only response was to laugh. These men were not military men, they were children. I found Hussein. He awakened his men and we went back to the WTF. The insurgents would live another day and we would go home empty-handed once again.

  Who’s Defending the Patrol Base?

  We arrived back at the WTF at 0100 in the morning after patrolling for seven hours. I was beat. I went to sleep on the floor of the guard shack, which had become our makeshift COC. I was unable to sleep; bed bugs and mites crawled over my body and devoured my flesh. “Fuckin’ fuck fuck, I’m going to kill these bugs,” I complained. Unable to sleep, I did some rounds on the defensive perimeter.

  In addition to continuous patrols in the town, the jundi maintain the defensive perimeter of the facility. Marine advisers are stuck in a “shit sandwich.” Their problem is that they need to let the Iraqis lead operations so they can improve their tactics, gain leadership experience, and become a better army. But in certain duties, such as establishing and maintaining defensive perimeters, how the Iraqis carry out their mission has a direct effect on Marines’ chances of seeing their families again.

  The Iraqi idea of a defensive perimeter means placing a few jundi at the corners of the WTF with their sleeping bags. These jundi stay up for a few hours, and when they get tired, they sleep and hope the insurgents do not attack. This is not defense. While the MiTT is selflessly willing to accept risks to our lives so the Iraqis can learn lessons the hard way and adapt, at some level we also need to look out for our own asses and step in. The last thing we need is an orange jumpsuit and a machete at our throats because the jundi failed to maintain a defense.

  It was 0300, but I decided to snatch Captain Mawfood and show him how horrific his defense perimeter was on the WTF. He had promised Major Gaines that things were airtight. I didn’t believe it. I went into the local residence where Captain Mawfood was sleeping. He was snoring on the floor in deep slumber. I had slept three hours in the past three days and the sight of him all cozy on the ground infuriated me. I nudged him with my hand and said, “Mawfood, we need to exercise some leadership and see how your men are doing on post.” I was Mawfood’s worst nightmare. After sucking down a glass of sugar-filled tea, Mawfood strapped on his boots and was ready to go.

  The first position we examined, which guarded the entire west entrance into the WTF, was a perfect example of what not to do in a defensive position. I walked up to the abandoned PKC machine gun overlooking the western entrance. I questioned Mawfood in jest. “Captain Mawfood, is there a ghost operating this?” Mawfood smiled in embarrassment. I did not even have to add additional comments to get the point across to Mawfood. Instead, I pointed toward the ground where six sleeping bags were filled with Iraqis, dreaming about pork chops and unveiled women. If I wanted to, I could cut each of their throats before any of them even woke up. It was pathetic. The scene could have been yet another funny story about Iraqis being lazy, undisciplined, and selfish, but in this case the Iraqis’ behavior was lessening the probability that I would come home to my wife. I was pissed.

  Captain Mawfood, who was generally lethargic and slothful in everything I had seen him do, rushed to rectify the problem. He was professionally embarrassed. Mawfood roared, “Jundi, what the hell are you doing? Why are you sleeping on the job? In the old Iraqi army you would be beaten. What battalion are you from?” The single jundi who had the balls to speak up said, “Sir, we are from 3rd Battalion. We fell asleep. We are sorry.” Mawfood was enraged. “Do you expect a ghost to fire this PKC? I expect more from men who want to call themselves Iraqi soldiers. You are an embarrassment!” Mawfood’s tirade lit a fire under the jundi’s asses. They scurried like cockroaches. I was impressed. An Iraqi leader was actually solving problems and making things happen—absolutely, positively amazing.

  Saved by a Six-Year-Old

  Following a night of fixing the defensive perimeter of the WTF, it was time for yet another patrol. Thankfully, I was able to catch a few hours of sleep. The patrol would not leave until 1100. Our mission was to push south into the palm groves, clandestinely occupy a home along Route Boardwalk, and perform overwatch of the road in order to look for insurgents emplacing IEDs.

  We pushed south through the palm groves. As we approached the location I had been sniped at the other day, my heart rate spiked. I suggested to the jundi we move toward the Euphrates edge and push past the position. Being fired upon for a second time was not my cup of tea. We moved into the thickest section of the palm groves. Ayad, a jundi from the battalion scouts and the Iraqi squad leader at the time, and I pushed forward of the patrol to determine which home we wanted to occupy. It was obvious none of the homes offered a clandestine approach. I told Ayad, “Pick your favorite.”

  �
��Clear.” A jundi gave me the green light to cross an intersection adjacent to the home we were occupying. I darted across the intersection, jumped over a gate, and landed in a sheep pen where everyone else in the patrol had congregated. After a quick accountability check we knocked on the back door of the home. A young boy came to the door. Ayad explained the situation and the boy let us in. Once inside the boy introduced us to his father and four brothers. In accordance with the high standards of Arab hospitality, the father ordered his younger sons to bring us cold water and tea. Ayad ordered two jundi to the roof to establish overwatch on the road.

  Mesmerized by the sight of an Arabic-speaking Marine, the boys attacked me with a barrage of questions. The eldest son greeted me and said, “Please, Jamal, come outside to the patio and we must talk. I want to learn.” The four brothers escorted me to the front porch for a chat. I signaled to PFC Lynch to act as my bodyguard in case something happened.

  One of the youngest boys was confused. “Jamal, are you Iraqi?” I laughed and told him I was from America, but that I would have been proud to be from Iraq. I pulled out my propaganda packet and showed them pictures of my family and my childhood. One of the other brothers asked me, “Can I see your rifle scope?” The sophisticated rifle scope on my M-4 assault rifle wowed the boy. I obliged and let the young boy look through the scope. He was bewildered. “Can we take a picture?” he asked. I replied, “Why not?” I gathered all the boys and gave the youngest boy my weapon so he could pretend he was Rambo. Ayad and Ali joined in as a jundi snapped the photograph. The kids clamored around me. “Jamal, you have to get us that picture. Whenever you come back, please bring us a copy.” I told them I would do my best to get them the picture (see photo 15).

  Perhaps in ten or twenty years, when Iraq is safe, I will stop by this home and drop them a picture. Insha’allah.

  The young Iraqis realized I was a person with whom they could speak freely. The eldest boy asked a provocative question: “Why are the Marines going to stay in Haditha?” Puzzled, I responded, “How long do you think we will be staying in the area?” He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Thirty years maybe?” I laughed, praying to God that his estimate was inaccurate. I explained to the boys America’s new strategy of helping the Iraqi Army stand up, so we could stand down. I reiterated my point and told him that the one thing the military wants is for Iraqis to solve Iraqi problems so Marines can go home to their families. I felt like the ultimate diplomat.

  After bouncing between serious discussions of politics and local area security, the boys asked me about famous American cities, the Rocky Mountains, and Michael Jackson—their favorite performer. I spared them the details on Michael Jackson and told them we had to be on our way. Before we left Ayad asked one of the young boys, “Brother, can you run across the street and buy me a pack of cigarettes in the market?” The boy took the dinar bill from Ayad’s hand and sprinted through the front gate. He was more than happy to help us. He opened the front gate, peeked for danger, and zoomed across Boardwalk to the neighboring market.

  The boy returned dripping with sweat, obviously distraught. He sprinted to his eldest brother and whispered something into his ear. The eldest brother clutched my arm and pointed to Ayad to come closer. His younger brother had told him something important. He whispered, “Jamal, my little brother says the insurgents have an ambush awaiting you on the other side of the market. They are planning to ambush you when you cross the street!” Ayad looked at me. He hoped I would say there was no need to confront the ambush. I pointed toward the palm groves and said, “Ayad, La. Rah nrooh hinak” (Ayad, no. We will go there.) Ayad was relieved. As my brother, he was ready and willing to follow me into combat if I thought it was a good idea, but he did not want to die today. I agreed, today was not a good day to die.

  Talk about real-time intelligence. We shit-canned the idea of crossing Boardwalk and moving through the village to the WTF. I was amazed that a little Iraqi boy had saved our lives. I will never say learning Iraqi Arabic was a waste of time. Without the ability to humanize myself with these young boys, I fear he would have viewed us as the occupier. I finally had the locals working for the good guys.

  We moved with intensity. Ayad regrouped the Iraqis and gave them the hasty plan. We would return the same way we came, through the palm groves, and would scratch the plan to walk through the village. The Iraqi point man peered through a hole in the fence looking at the intersection. “Clear,” he said. Like a group of deer crossing the road, the entire patrol started hopping the fence and running for the palm groves, quickly vanishing into the foliage, spoiling any insurgent attempt to surprise us. As I entered the dense foliage I looked back to see the young boys waving frantically in our direction. We owed that family our lives.

  Comic Relief

  Living at the WTF was the definition of rough. We were patrolling eight to ten hours a day, sleeping two to three hours a night (if we were lucky), babysitting jundi, and living on MRE’s. The last night at the WTF, everyone was loopy from the lack of sleep, lack of water, and lack of chow. I was starting to approach my limit of sanity. We needed some comedy to break the monotony. Comedy came in the form of a portable toilet kit.

  We had recently acquired a portable toilet kit so we did not have to bug the locals for restroom emergencies. The kit was a plastic version of a toilet with plastic bags strapped to the bottom designed to catch excrement. The kits were not fancy and worked a lot like five-gallon buckets. We always set our toilet kit directly outside the guard shack to maintain easy access. Whenever it was sunny the toilet area was exposed to the world to see. Every insurgent, village local, and donkey could see you taking a dump. But at night, because of the limited moonlight that would hit the area, using the toilet kit gave you a private moment.

  Anyway, on our last night Major Gaines was out using the toilet kit. Meanwhile I was in the guard shack trying to find the light switch to the rear room. I sat there flipping switches up and down wondering why none of them worked. I continued going through the switches, but again none of them worked. I eventually found the right switch, very content with myself.

  Major Gaines came crashing into the guard shack with his pants at his ankles. “Who the fuck is turning on the lights outside of the building?” he shouted. “I had a damn spotlight on me as I was taking a shit on the toilet kit! The whole village saw my white ass.” I responded, “Sir, did you feel famous?” We all burst out into laughter. Then Gaines laughed. “Jamal, if I didn’t love you, I’d kill you right now.” We all laughed and started telling war stories of the past few days. We were excited to leave this hellhole.

  Mission Accomplished

  “Hallelujah!” Doc screamed the next morning as the MiTT convoy approached the WTF. Once the MiTT arrived to pick us up, we said goodbye to the locals, cleared our trash from the area, and checked that no sleeping jundi were left behind. On our way back Second Lieutenant Le Gette gave me the lowdown on the rest of the team’s situation over the past week. Apparently, while we had been ambushed and shot at, their days had been filled with hanging out in the Haditha FOB COC and lifting weights. Le Gette said he was getting bedsores from sleeping too much.

  I felt my first bout of infantryman angst. I now understand why the grunts are always angry and feel they are being shortchanged by the support units. I will admit that the noninfantry Marine Corps, while necessary, is not what the Marine Corps is about. God bless the Marine infantrymen.

  On arrival at Camp Ali, we showered, slept, and ate to our hearts’ content for the remainder of the day. We all needed to regain our senses. The best part about returning was finding the stack of packages from family and fellow Americans. My favorite piece of mail was a handwritten letter from my wife. It nearly brought tears to my eyes. I could only think about how shitty it would have been if I had been killed and never received her letter. Damn insurgents.

  Chapter 15

  Mo’ Leave, Mo’ Problem

  September 2006

  Jundi-bots in Actio
n

  One day in September we went cruising down Route Bronze on another leave run to drop the jundi off on vacation. The convoy was running smoothly until we reached checkpoint eleven, which is a Marine outpost with a primary mission to keep Route Bronze free of IEDs. They had not done a very good job.

  We approached a bridge that crosses a large wadi along Route Bronze. Bridges are always likely areas for IED activity. Acknowledging this, the Iraqis stopped short of the bridge and conducted a sweep before the convoy passed through. We sat in our Humvee and watched Sermen and Juwad walk onto the bridge. They skipped along without a care. At the end of the bridge things changed. Sermen jumped off the ground like LeBron James preparing to dunk a basketball. Juwad ran over to Sermen’s position and started frantically hopping in place. From their actions, I figured they had found a huge cobra or scorpion. If they had found an IED, they would be sprinting to the Humvee.

  The Motorola radio screamed Iraqi Arabic, “Aku abu’at chebeera hna!” (There are huge IEDs here!) Major Gaines yelled to Martin in the backseat, “What the hell did they just say, Martin?” Martin responded in his sassy fashion, “They think they found some IEDs. I told them to get away from them; hence the reason they are sprinting to the Humvee right now.” Gaines and I peered through our window and watched Sermen and Juwad clamoring to get back to the safety of their Humvee.

  Sermen came sprinting to our Humvee after talking with the Iraqi convoy commander. Out of breath and sweating profusely, he described what he saw. “Jamal, holy shit, man. There are like ten to twelve artillery shells and a few propane tanks stacked on top of one another. The insurgents want to destroy the bridge, I think.” Gaines interrupted. “Sermen, are you serious? We need to get the Humvees back. If that thing goes off we will all die from the blast overpressure.” Gaines transitioned to the radio and requested the MiTT vehicle in the rear of the convoy help the jundi shift the convoy at least another four hundred meters away from the bridge.