In Ramadi in 2006, we raided so many houses during clearance operations that we inescapably had to detain suspicious persons.
On the occasions when we did, the minute that we put the flexicuffs on them, they became our responsibility, and the clock started ticking to get them processed.
Inevitably, transportation got delayed, and we were forced to move them back to our firm bases. We never kept detainees at our firm bases because there was no way we wanted them getting an inside look at how our company operated or listening to our radio communications and because of the sheer fact that we didn’t have the physical space to accommodate the process.
We always pushed them to the IA compound across the street that we shared with their soldiers to safeguard them. Doing this, however, left us vulnerable to allegations. First, the detainees would make up any story to discredit U.S. forces to get their case thrown out. If they were “card-carrying” members of the insurgency, they had been trained on exactly what to say. Second, if we were short on the manpower to guard them, it was a task left up to junior Marines with no training on how to handle them—a dangerous position to put any young Marine in.
The bad guys we caught with stacks of contraband in their possession made it easy to justify detaining them. Our Terps would inform them of suspicion of being an insurgent due to possession of illegal materials and wanted for further questioning. They’d always try to plead their case and make excuses, giving some far-fetched story, like, “I’m just a radio repairman and the wire is for my business.”
Detainees would plead with us, “This stuff is not mine. The insurgents told me I had to keep it or they’d kill my family and me.” Sometimes they were on the brink of tears.
Normally, the ones who cried only did so in fear that we’d hand them over to the Iraqi Police. If that happened, they knew that it would only get worse. The Iraqi Police had no Rules of Engagement—they were brutal and dictated their own terms of justice.
Regardless of the excuses, we had to detain them. We’d gather up all the materials, photograph them, and then put the suspects in plastic flexicuffs, with their hands behind their backs. Then we waited for transportation to get them back to the THT unit at Camp Corregidor or Camp Ramadi.
The problem we faced was the fact that we never had sufficient training on how to carry out the process. The lack of training was evident at every level of command. It was no different when we started working for TF 1-9 Infantry. Even though the war had been going on for years, the U.S. military did not have enough trained personnel to deal with this issue. Marine infantrymen are trained to locate, close with, and destroy the enemy. But that only scratches the surface of the tasks they had to do on a daily basis.
It was not uncommon for an infantry Marine to go from engaging enemy targets to acting as a policeman, handing out claims cards for damaged property like a “would-be Geico insurance adjuster,” to corralling youngsters off the street who threw rocks at our patrols or giving candy and school supplies to the well-behaved ones. They had to be trash collectors as well—cleaning up the debris, dead bodies, and wreckage that cluttered our battlespace often used as concealment for IEDs by the insurgents. The job list was endless.
Although detainee facilities were located at Camp Corregidor and Camp Ramadi with trained soldiers from Tactical Human Intelligence Teams (THT) to handle them when they arrived, it was an area of expertise that was so in demand the manpower structure couldn’t keep up with the need.
What we needed were trained correctional officers to get the job done properly. It would have been ideal if this type of support was around at the onset of operations in Iraq, but it seemed to be an afterthought from the operational level planners.
Like much of what Marines and soldiers do in combat to survive and succeed, they had to learn new skills as they went along. It wasn’t like learning how to use a new rifle or radio. It wasn’t like being able to simply change a flat tire on a Humvee for the first time. These were people’s lives we were dealing with, and it was incredibly complicated.
In addition to the lack of trained personnel to handle the detainees, we faced numerous other hurdles. Echo Company was, for the most part, a foot-mobile infantry company with limited ground transportation assets. We had eight Humvees that sat five Marines in each—every seat filled on every mission. We didn’t have the organic lift capability to move detainees from the battlespace to the rear areas for interrogation at the drop of a hat.
When we did request ground transportation for detainees during clearance operations, we faced the problem of clearing the roads of IEDs and allowing the safe passage of the trucks. The massive amount of undetected IEDs added to the complexity. I had to decide on the scene whether the suspected insurgents were worth detaining and, if they were, I still had to figure out a way to get them moved under a strict timeline to the holding facility.
Moving detainees back to the rear meant a couple of things. One, it slowed the momentum of the clearance ops as we patrolled for weapons and high-value individuals. And two, I had to balance the value of the detainee with the risk of putting my Marines on roads scattered with IEDs. It was a constant dilemma of risk versus reward as a commander.
When they were available, armored 7-ton trucks would be dispatched to our locations as we picked up detainees. It took hours and sometimes days for them to get to us.
Friction.
It left us with another problem—either sit on the detainees and cough up the extra manpower from Echo Company to guard them, or release them and potentially let some shady assholes back into the fight that we’d have to face at a future time. Not to mention the fact they’d also know who we were, how we operated, and what direction we were traveling and pass the word to set us up for future attacks and possible ambushes from other teams of insurgents operating in the area.
As disjointed and unresponsive as it was, there was a process in place. I just don’t think anyone really knew what the hell it was. It wasn’t as if we had time to stop fighting and patrolling to have an academic discussion or formal class on the procedures. It just never happened, and everything was constantly reactionary instead of proactive when dealing with detainees.
In addition to the ROEs that we followed, we also had vague guidance on what the criteria were for detaining individuals within our area of operation. It ranged from weapons possession to the amounts of contraband on their person—that included spools of wire for command-detonated IEDs, Maytag washing machine timers, key FOBs for cars, dozens of Nokia cell phones in one location, homemade explosives (HME), unexploded ordnance, and tripwire. Or it could have included having anti-coalition propaganda or breaking curfew at night. The list was exhaustive, and it was ultimately up to the on-scene commander to make the call.
If it sounds subjective, it’s because it all was.
We also had to rely heavily on the experience and instincts of our interpreters and Iraqi Army counterparts to gauge whether or not the people in question were legitimate bad guys. It was not a science by any means, but something of an art form based on experience and the evidence found on the scene.
We were fortunate at times to have trained Human Exploitation Team (HET) Marines and THT soldiers with us on patrols to conduct tactical questioning (on-the-spot interrogations) of suspected insurgents. They had training on how to look for signs of suspicious behavior from those they questioned and make more educated assumptions regarding the importance of the individuals. They’d have a good idea if we decided to detain them whether they’d be of some future intelligence value.
In the absence of HET or THT, we were left to our own devices to determine whether or not we’d detain persons from the houses we raided. It frustrated me at times. I hated having to process detainees in such a haphazard fashion when we didn’t have the support structure in place.
I found myself making decisions sometimes based on arbitrary facts—if we found a pile of weapons or IED-making material, that sealed the deal for me, and we’d process them. O
ther times we’d find small amounts of contraband, but the demeanor and attitude of the suspect were enough to piss us off sufficiently, and we’d detain them—again, it wasn’t a science.
Sometimes we’d raid houses, and the occupants would try to run out of the house or hide or feign sleeping. They’d get a rude awakening if they tried any of that shit.
In late December 2006, during a clearance operation in the Sufia District, we raided a suspected insurgent’s house. As we cleared it, I found myself on the verge of snapping.
Our team made entry into the house, and the noise startled the occupants. The Marines began to clear the first floor, pulling AK-47s out from behind the furniture, complete with fully loaded thirty-round magazines—a strong indicator that bad guys lived there.
With a team of Marines, I made my way upstairs and began to search the rooms.
With my SureFire flashlight on, connected to my M4 carbine, I turned the corner of the room—a suspicious occupant hid in the back of the first bedroom, and he dashed from a pile of blankets on the floor toward the doorway, like a frightened rabbit.
He bounced right into the muzzle of my rifle. He’s lucky I didn’t shoot him, but he didn’t have a weapon in his hands. Stupidly, he tried to run for the back of the room. I grabbed the pistol grip of my M4 with my right hand and quickly reached up, caught him around his throat with the other, and pinned him up against the wall.
The fire team flooded into the room and covered me. Jake followed after them and began questioning him on the spot.
I told Jake, “Ask this idiot why he was hiding, why he tried to run, and why the fuck he’s got so many AKs in his house.”
Jake translated, and as the dialogue between them went on—my hand still clenched around his neck and my index finger running alongside his carotid artery—I felt his pulse race.
When one of the Marines shined his flashlight directly on him, and I could see his face clearly, his blood pulsed faster. He was fully clothed in an Adidas athletic tracksuit with a gray winter coat over the top. I could tell he hadn’t bathed in a while. The foul, pungent body odor hit my nose when he moved even slightly.
Jake told me that the man said he wasn’t going to cooperate and that the weapons weren’t his, according to his story. He had an arrogant look of disdain on his face, coupled with the fear that was evident from the sweat now collecting on his brow and sideburns. I was on the brink of losing control. I wanted to smash his head into the wall for thinking he had any sort of upper hand on us.
My temper cooled as quickly as it rose. I released my grip from his thin, weakly muscled neck and told the Marines to cuff him. They spun him around, pulled his arms behind his back, strapped the thick black plastic zip-ties around his wrists, and hauled him out of the room.
He made the decision easy for me that time. His obstreperous, smug attitude and the stack of automatic weapons and ammo sealed his fucking case that night.
My dilemma of risk versus gain was tested that same night when Mac and the QRF were radioed to come and pick up the detainee. I couldn’t afford to wait to have 7-ton trucks pushed to our location. The clearance op was scheduled to end the next day, and we had orders to pull out of the area of operation. I had to risk sending a convoy to Camp Ramadi on the west side of town.
Mac was part of the team of Echo Company Marines who picked up all of our QRF vehicles from Camp Ramadi when we arrived in the city. Our vehicles and equipment remained plagued with problems from the onset. The Humvees lacked the proper FRAG 5 armor kits on the turrets. They didn’t have the right radios or any of the mission essential gear.
Our drivers lacked training and only had a handful of hours behind the wheel in most cases. When they did pick up detainees, they had to do so at night, and I realized none of the Marines had driven the vehicles with their NVGs. It was astounding to think how effective we were on the roads in these Humvees despite the lack of training they had in them.
Our success, most likely, was attributed to the fact that the Marines understood the seriousness of their responsibility whenever they got behind the wheel of the trucks. The Marines have this strange, innate ability to adapt quickly—in the absence of any formal training they would always figure a way to succeed at everything they did.
Friction.
Mac arrived at the house where the detainee was held, and I greeted him in the courtyard. It was late, around 0200 hours, and the transit to take the detainee across town was a ten-mile drive, but it would take them hours to do it because they had to drive so slowly to scan for IEDs.
Mac and his team loaded up the detainee in their four-vehicle convoy. He was in the lead truck as the convoy commander. The Marines sat the detainee in a back seat in the second truck of the convoy. They left the house and navigated their way a few kilometers south to Route Trans Am so they could push west over to Camp Ramadi.
Route Trans Am was a main avenue for MNF units in Ramadi. The road was south of the Ma’laab District and the Ramadi soccer stadium, an unmistakable terrain feature. The route itself was habitually known for being laden with IEDs. Mac and his team were well aware.
The road itself was nothing to speak of—an unimproved road on a raised berm of compacted dirt. But its composition made it easy for our enemies to slip in and burrow into the side of the road and bury 155mm shells packed with explosives—most of the IEDs were command or pressure detonated.
There was a false sense of security on Route Trans Am, however, because it was continually patrolled and used by coalition forces. M1-A1 tanks sat in overwatch at a tactical control point (TCP) and used their thermal imaging devices to look for any movement at night to ensure insurgents weren’t placing IEDs along the sides of the road. One tank sat at Entry Control Point 3 at the junction of the Euphrates River and was a strong show of force. It was not an easy post for those soldiers since the tank was a massive target for constant RPG and machine gun fire.
The tank, a hulking mass of machinery, was a domineering sight, shielded with seemingly impenetrable armor and machine guns and a massive cannon. It even sounds menacing idling—as its engines hiss. Its presence alone should have scared off even the most determined enemy.
On occasion, however, it was reported that the tank’s crew were fast asleep during the most crucial times of day, usually at night, when convoys would pass by their position. The carelessness allowed the insurgents the opportunity to slip through the farmlands to the south and plant their destructive IEDs successfully under cover of darkness—waiting for the mounted patrols that drove by.
Mac’s convoy crept west about five miles per hour, as they approached the east side of the Euphrates River at 0300 hours. The vehicle and its occupants hit a searing wall of pain as a sub-surface IED exploded with force.
Mac instantaneously felt like he was nonexistent.
The Marines inside the truck couldn’t see as dust whooshed through the tight cabin. They couldn’t hear. They couldn’t breathe.
Mac was alive.
He began to hear yelling and screaming as the Marines called each other’s names in a panic. Mac instinctively reached in between his legs to a small tan backpack that was on the floor. He rummaged through it and fished out a couple of chemlights. In the blackness, Mac couldn’t see what colors they were.
He reached for his M4 carbine that he had clipped into the rifle rack on the doorframe. It snapped in two. He grabbed the top half, turned on the Surefire flashlight and tossed a couple of green chemlights outside through the gun turret. Green chemlights meant everyone was good to go. Red meant casualties.
Time had slowed down—what felt like hours were only minutes as Mac scrambled to assess the damage. He reached forward to get the radio. It wasn’t there.
The entire dash and center console of the vehicle were blown backward—the radios were destroyed.
Mac checked on his driver, Lance Corporal Kenneth Clark, a twenty-year-old SAW gunner from Orange County, California. He was six-two and 200 pounds, with dirty blonde hair and
blue eyes. Clark was a natural fighter. Fierce in every action he took.
Clark was groaning in pain. His left arm had been lacerated and crushed by the steering wheel and console as they had been blown back. Lance Corporal Cortez, the turret gunner, was cussing. He’d taken bits of hot shrapnel to the face.
Lance Corporal Ivan Montez, a twenty-year-old rifleman from Dumas, Texas, and HM3 David “Doc” Andresen, a red-headed nineteen-year-old from Davenport, Iowa, were both in the back of the Humvee during the blast. They were shaken up, but uninjured.
Mac and Clark tried to exit the vehicle but found they were trapped inside. The doors of the heavily armored Humvee had jammed shut from the blast of the IED, making it inescapable. They piled over the debris that lay in the center of the truck and crawled to the back to exit by the rear doors. Montez and Doc moved to the second vehicle for security.
Doc stood outside the Humvee, seemingly unfazed, and relieved himself on the front tire despite the madness that had unfolded around him.
Mac regrouped the Marines and began to set up a perimeter of security. He was bracing for impact and scared to death of a secondary IED explosion. A common tactic for insurgents was to blow the lead truck with one bomb, and as the Marines scrambled in the chaos, detonate a second device to kill more troops—which was a psychological mind-fuck if executed properly.
A second device never went off.
Mac moved to the other vehicle, opened the front passenger door, reached inside, and grabbed the radio handset. He called in the attack to the TOC at Camp Corregidor—relaying the casualty report. He could hear small arms fire in the distance. It was uncertain if the convoy was under attack again. The enemy fire was poor, and the rounds were ineffective, missing the Marines that were the intended targets.
The Marines in the other trucks held their fire. They looked in the direction of the muzzle flashes ready to suppress the insurgent attack. Mac stood there dazed. He heard the distinctive high-pitched whining of the M1-A1 Abrams as it pushed close to their position.
Echo in Ramadi Page 14