Embedded

  I started transmitting my EOD nine-line. “Checkpoint twelve, line one: 151300 Zulu, line two: grid, thirty-eight Sierra—” I could not transmit another word because my jaw had dropped. An American convoy was heading right for the IED Ayad had located. The jundi in the front Humvee were all out of their Humvees waving frantically to get the Marines to stop before they crossed the bridge. I quickly switched frequencies to contact the convoy that was about to run over an IED. I was too late. By the time I contacted the convoy commander, their Humvees were already past the kill zone of the IED. Even so, the IED never detonated. Either the convoy coming our way knew something we didn’t or they had Allah on their side.

  I addressed the Marine convoy commander, who stopped to chat. “You guys know there is a suspected IED on that bridge and your convoy just drove over the top of it, right?” The lieutenant convoy commander replied, “Hey man, EOD took care of that IED last night. I was here when they did the controlled detonation. It looks like they didn’t pick up all the wires in the detonation pit, hence the reason the jundi thought there was an IED in there.” I was speechless. EOD had already screwed us over, and this was just another addition to my long list of EOD complaints. I replied to the lieutenant in a sarcastic tone, “So what you’re telling me is we have been sitting here for an hour, calling in the nine-line, setting up the cordon, setting up security and making traffic wait, because EOD is too lazy to pick up the wires?” He responded bluntly, “Yep, pretty much.” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, shit, at least we’re all alive, right? Oohrah. Be safe, dude.”

  Our Iraqi-led convoy finally made it to the Baghdadi Iraqi army compound. We were greeted by Nuts, Lieutenant Adams, and Captain McShane, who had spent the past four days in Baghdadi helping 3rd Iraqi Company prepare for their move to Camp Ali. Nuts chided us. “Hey, thanks for leaving us down here to help the jundi organize their mountains of trash,” he said. “We really appreciate it, guys. I hope you all die tomorrow.” McShane replied, “Yeah, it pretty much sucked down here, but what can you do? Let’s get this convoy rearranged and get the hell back to Camp Ali!”

  We followed up on McShane’s suggestion and approached the problem of forming a new convoy with all of the equipment, personnel, and Humvees from 3rd Iraqi Company. The situation was daunting. Somehow Abdulredha and I needed to organize sixteen vehicles in some sort of convoy order. And all of this had to be completed inside the Baghdadi FOB, which was about the size of a baseball field. Faced with the complex problem, I realized why being an adviser could be a great job. I walked up to Abdulredha and asked, “You got a plan for getting this convoy together? If you need any help, just let me know. I don’t want to get in your way.” Wanting to impress me, Abdulredha replied, “Watch me make this happen. This is a difficult operation for the Marines, but an easy operation for the Iraqi army.”

  Abdulredha came through on his claim. Somehow he was able to put together the finest piece of Iraqi army planning I have ever witnessed. Within an hour the convoy was on Route Bronze heading north to Camp Ali. If this excellent performance by the Iraqi army could not convince the boss they were ready to do independent operations, then nothing would. The sooner the MiTT worked itself out of a job, the sooner America could quit wasting time and resources in Iraq.

  Chapter 17

  The Combat Operations Center Is Launched and the Mission Changes

  Late October–Early November 2006

  Our lives changed for the rest of our deployment. The Iraqis had shown an ability to conduct successful independent convoy operations, so we shifted our focus from training the Iraqis on the intricacies of combat operations to training them on higher-level functions like centralized command and control. To this end the first Iraqi problem we planned to address was the defunct Iraqi Combat Operations Center.

  In addition to a change in the advising agenda, the MiTT attitude changed. From here on out, if work needed to be done, the Iraqis would be doing it. If a problem required initiative to solve, the Iraqis would deal with it. In addition to a shift in attitude, half of the team was pulled away to focus on advising 3rd Iraqi Company, which had moved to Camp Ali a few days earlier. Meanwhile the rest of the MiTT, including me, would be in charge of maintaining and developing the Iraqi COC. From this point forward, our only chance to get outside the wire would be if a quick reaction force were needed. I was bummed I would not be heading outside the wire as often to take part in the action, but I thought I could serve the Iraqis better by staying back in the COC and working with their staff officers to facilitate better command and control. If it all worked out, the Iraqis would be running everything and we would go home.

  After a week of sleepless nights, we finally got the Iraqi COC into operation. Its setup was not complicated. In one corner there was a desk for a MiTT watch officer, who advised the Iraqi watch officer on COC operations, and in the other corner was a desk for an Iraqi watch officer, who monitored all combat operations for the battalion. But the new COC was a complete shit show. Nothing worked, communications were abysmal, and the Iraqi officers were not happy about actually having to perform watch officer duties. The Iraqi leadership was accustomed to their cushy jobs. They essentially did nothing except collect a paycheck, chain smoke, and order Iraqi soldiers to do all the work.

  An attack on an Iraqi foot patrol in South Dam Village illustrated how poorly the system worked. Upon hearing news of the attack, the entire MiTT converged on the Iraqi COC to see how they could help. Captain Mohammed, the Iraqi watch officer at the time, was on his two-hour lunch break. Fighting the urge to take control of the situation, I talked to Abit, the radio clerk. “Abit, you need to get Captain Mohammed to the COC. We are not gonna do his job for him.” Mohammed responded on his radio. “Abit, just have the Marines take care of the situation—I’m on break.” I grabbed the radio from Abit’s hand and said, “Mohammed, inta mejnoon? Ta’al il harakat, hessey. Il doriya yehtajek!” (Mohammed, are you crazy? Come to the COC, now. The patrol needs you!) Surprised that I had grabbed the radio or understood what he told Abit, he promptly replied in broken English, “Okay, okay, no problem. Now I come COC. No problem, Jamal. No problem.” By the time Mohammed made it back to the COC, the patrol that had been attacked and needed help had already returned to Camp Ali. Way to go, Mohammed.

  If Mohammed’s ineptitude wasn’t enough, Lieutenant Kusay, the 3rd Iraqi Company commander, piled on the problems. He walked into the COC around 1300 to talk about his upcoming patrol operations with Lieutenant Le Gette, who was advising him. Acting as an interpreter for Le Gette, I asked Kusay, “Brother, can you tell me what is going on right now with the Iraqi patrol schedule? I don’t even see a schedule posted anywhere.” Kusay explained, “Jamal, our patrol plan is working out so well right now we don’t even need a schedule.” Le Gette and I laughed.

  I knew a patrol was outside the wire and I wanted to test Kusay’s knowledge of his own operations. I asked, “Kusay, when is your next patrol leaving?” He confidently replied, “A patrol should be leaving in thirty minutes.” I snapped, “Kusay, there is a patrol outside as we speak, how can there be another patrol leaving in thirty minutes? You don’t have enough men to run simultaneous patrols.” Captain Mohammed, feeling the urge to help defend Kusay, chimed in. “Jamal, I am not sure about what is going on at the moment, but Kusay is the company commander and knows his operations very well.” Le Gette and I gave up. I said, “Kusay, Mohammed, I’m glad you guys are on top of it.”

  We followed up with a question about the future of patrolling efforts. Le Gette explained his basic plan to run three patrols every twenty-four hours to keep the insurgents on their toes. Kusay bagged on the proposal. “I think we only need to do one patrol.” Le Gette snapped in return, “But that would leave the insurgents twenty hours a day to conduct operations?” Kusay replied, “Yes, that is true, but my jundi will get very tired if they do three patrols a day.”

  Le Gette was stuck. He wanted to let the Iraqis run the show, but we also had to worry
about our safety and the safety of other Marines in the area. If he let Kusay do his one-patrol-a-day plan, the insurgents would place IEDs all along the routes frequented by the Marines from 2/3. If an IED were to kill the Marines along our assigned routes, their blood would be on our hands. He was stuck in a catch-22. If it became the Iraqi’s initiative, they would gladly go back to their lazy ways and let him do all the work, and if he let the Iraqis take control, it would put Marines in danger. Le Gette opted to compromise and insisted that they do at least two patrols a day.

  Because the new Iraqi COC and the push to let the Iraqis take the initiative had all but failed, I asked Ahmed Ali, one of the few Iraqis I still respected, how we could make the Iraqi COC more proactive. “Jamal,” he said, “here is how I would do it. First I would get the lowest ranking jundi on camp and put him in a chair with a radio. Everyone else would go to their swahuts and sleep or watch television. When something happened with a unit outside the wire, the jundi on duty could run and awaken the officer. This system is what we used during the fights against the Americans in the old Iraqi army. Everyone gets more sleep and we still accomplish the mission. It’s a great idea, isn’t it, Jamal?” I wanted to say, “Ahmed, you want to know how we kicked your ass during previous wars? Because your COC operations rely on the lowest ranking jundi in your military for success,” but I replied more cordially. “Ahmed, I’m not sure I agree with that idea, but I’ll take your word for it that it’s great.”

  Chapter 18

  Chasing Egyptian Insurgents

  December 2006

  Did a wild hare get up your ass?” I had heard this question countless times in the Marine Corps and I still wasn’t sure what it meant. All the same I thought it aptly described my sudden burst of motivation to do something that didn’t involve sitting around in the Iraqi COC any longer. I was ready for another combat mission.

  2/3 needed some folks for a special operations type mission. They had asked us if we could take the Iraqi army scouts on speedboats to a remote island in Lake Qadisiyah. Our mission was to clandestinely approach the island, find some Egyptian insurgents, and bring them to the dam so the HET (Human Exploitation Team) could interrogate them. Moreover, because we were short on terps, it looked like I would be assigned as the interpreter for the mission. This was as close to being James Bond as I would ever get in my life.

  Sightseeing around Lake Qadisiyah

  Once the mission plan was finalized between the MiTT and the Marines driving the boats, we stopped by the scout swahut and told them to get their gear together for a special mission. After their gear was packed we marched up to the dam and jumped in the back of a Marine troop transport vehicle that was heading for the top of the dam.

  On the drive to the launch point I slowly translated the intelligence material I had in the best Arabic I could muster. The Iraqis absolutely loved it. I couldn’t speak fluent Arabic, but I could motivate the hell out of Iraqis with the Arabic I did know. By the time I was done explaining the situation, the jundi were ready for the mission.

  At the launch point we boarded the speedboats and sprinted north over the horizon in search of a particular remote island. The cold wind off the lake shot through our combat gear. Corporal Jackson looked to me and said, “Sir, we are going to freeze our asses off, I’m afraid.” I smirked. “Yeah, pretty much. Good times ahead!”

  Fighting the frequent splash of freezing water hitting me in the face, I yelled at Abdulhaddi, “Sadeeki, inta zien? Khallis?” (My friend, are you good? You ready?) Abdulhaddi, one of the rare “glass half full” Iraqis, responded in terrible English, “Jamal, very good, very good. I kill Ali Babba with you!” Shaking from the thin coat of freezing water over my body, I responded with a huge smile. “Insha’allah,” I said. Abdulhaddi, Salah, and Ali Jaber, the three Iraqis on the craft with me, all responded in unison, “Insha’allah, Jamal. Insha’allah” (see photo 17).

  The excitement of flying across the water in speedboats came to a sudden halt. The Marine operating the boat yelled, “Fuck! Boat down.” We looked across the way to see the other craft stalled. Nuts stood up and punched his hands in the air, obviously distraught. Sgt. Jamar Bailey whispered to me, “Sir, it looks like Staff Sergeant Chesnutt is pretty pissed.” Smirking, I replied, “Yes. Yes, it does.”

  Forty-five minutes later, well into our special operations mission, we were still sitting a thousand meters from the dam trying to fix boat engines. The lead boat operator said, “Gents, I know you don’t want to hear this, but we need to squish everybody onto two crafts instead of three. It’s gonna be a little cramped, but we will need to make it work.” Grudgingly we piled onto the two boats. Within minutes we were once again galloping along the waves of Lake Qadisiyah. Our path took us on a typical patrol route, which would not arouse any suspicion among the insurgents who lived on the islands scattered throughout Lake Qadisiyah.

  We approached our objective. “Hold on, gentlemen,” bellowed the Marine staff sergeant controlling the raft. “We are gonna make a sharp turn and charge into the island, stand by.” Before we could react to the announcement, the momentum of quick change in direction created chaos. The jundi tumbled on top of me and we formed a human layer cake in the bottom of the craft. I looked at Ali Jaber, who had fallen on top of me, and said, “Uh, as salama aleikum, shlonek sadeeki?” (Uh, hello, how are you my friend?) Ali Jaber smiled. “Jamal, hatha Marine mejnoon!” (Jamal, that Marine [who is driving] is crazy!)

  We zipped toward the island, attempting to maximize the element of surprise. The way the island was originally described to us in the intelligence reports, it was supposed to be a hundred meters long and have one hut that housed the Egyptians. The island we were approaching, though, was the size of a small college campus with rolling hills, ten to twenty primitive huts, maybe a hundred inhabitants, and a slew of donkeys and wild dogs. Human intel had once again gotten it wrong.

  A hundred meters off land the boat operator yelled again, “Shit. Gentlemen, it’s too shallow here—you aren’t swimming in this stuff!” He slammed the brakes and all of us cannonballed along the belly of the speedboat for the second time. We continued to try to find a potential landing site, but to no avail. After six attempts at landing it was getting so ridiculous I felt as though we were playing a role in a spoof movie. To make matters worse, witnessing the entire escapade was a group of Iraqi fishermen, who were huddled outside their stone hut drinking tea. They waved in our direction. Our element of surprise was dead.

  Sergeant Bailey pointed in the direction of a small peninsula jutting from the island. “That place looks good,” he said. We agreed with Bailey’s suggestion so we could offload. We hopped out of the boats and immediately secured the area. The jundi and I were the first team off the boat and pushed ahead to recon the area.

  What Next?

  Nuts walked up to me and said, “Sir, what the hell are we going to do next? This island isn’t exactly as small as they told us it was going to be.” During my Marine Corps officer training the instructors always mentioned there would be a moment where everyone looks at you and says, “What next, lieutenant?”

  This was my opportunity to shine or falter. Perplexed, I relied on some common sense. “Well, we know they probably aren’t those dudes over to the east, since they watched us try and land our boats for the past hour. And to the south is the lake. We don’t want to go swimming. That narrows it down to either going north or west. Let’s head west. We’ll patrol to the top of the hill, get a better vantage point, and work from there.” I paused then said, “But before we do anything, let’s ask Ali Jaber what he wants to do, since he is the Iraqi squad leader and in command of this operation.”

  I confronted Ali Jaber, who was happy to let me lead the group. “You are the squad leader so I will let you make the decisions on what we do next,” I said. Ali Jaber looked at me with a puzzled expression and said, “Jamal, I don’t know what to do next. What do you want to do?” I said, “This isn’t my country, what do you want to d
o?” Luckily, a couple of young Iraqi men started approaching our position. I leaned over to Ali Jaber and said, “How about you ask those guys if they know where these Egyptians are located.” He replied, “Good idea. Let’s do it.”

  Ali Jaber and I jogged over to the young men. The men stopped in their tracks and their eyes widened to the size of eggs. It was obvious they had never seen a Marine or jundi on this island. Ali Jaber spoke with the men for a few minutes. When the conversation ended, he addressed the squad. “Well, they gave me the directions to the Egyptians. All we have to do is head west over the hill and look in the hut closest to the shore.” I slapped Ali Jaber on the shoulder and told him, “Inta qaid doriya kullish zien!” (You are a great squad leader!)

  We patrolled to the suspected dwelling on the other side of the island. I was convinced I had landed on another planet. The island was lifeless, aside from a handful of primitive stone-built huts the size of a one-car garage. The only signs of activity were three wooden boats and a line of fishing nets scattered along the shore. Nuts said, “Sir, I bet we are the first Americans to ever touch this land in the history of the world.” I looked around. “I think you’re right.”

  At the objective, we found fifteen men hovering around a steaming cauldron of baked beans. In unison they welcomed us, saying, “As salam aleikum.” Ali Jaber replied on our behalf, “Wa aleikum salam.” He immediately got down to business, lined the men up single file, and started frisking them for contraband. Meanwhile, Nuts and I explored the detainees’ shack for weapons or booby traps (see photo 18).

  The inside of their living quarters was atrocious. Trash was everywhere, blankets were strewn about the floor, breadcrumbs were scattered along the floor, and the rat shit was so thick it felt like we were walking on a bag of rice. Before we could investigate further, Ali Jaber cried, “Jamal, ta’al hinah. Shasowwi hesse?” (Jamal, come here. What should I do now?) I had some simple advice for him: find the Egyptians.