“Don’t get any ideas, Corporal,” I replied.
I went down the staircase and stood four hours of watch. I took note of the fact that absolutely nothing happened and I was doing everything in my power to not fall asleep. Half a dozen cans of Rip It energy drink were my only relief. I decided that leaving at midnight just might catch some militants asleep in their beds. Al Qaeda didn’t have Rip Its.
Two steps behind Captain Smith and the general, I entered the five-hundred-square-foot room where the scouts were staying. Most of the men were sleeping under their blankets, with their heads toward three of the rectangular-shaped room’s walls. They naturally formed a half - circle for the general to address them from. I stood against the far, unoccupied wall with my arms crossed, disappointedly looking at the Iraqis, who were about to have their only sense of security snatched from their hands.
Earlier that morning, Captain Smith had informed the general of his decision. I was surprised when the general offered no real resistance to the idea. Based on his acquiescence, the other officers of Rage thought that maybe the scouts wouldn’t make a fuss over the issue of being disarmed. I knew, however, that the general was picking his battles. Like me, he did not want to create tension. His best bargaining tool would be when his men refused to go on the mission without the weapons.
From the center of the dim room, the general began to speak.
It went down as I thought. The general uttered two, maybe three sentences. Then his men began to shout at Captain Smith. For a moment, I feared for our lives. The twenty-four scouts were pumping fists and rifles, while shouting in Arabic. Captain Smith and I were both unarmed, with nothing more than the clothes on our backs to protect us from the immense stopping power of a 7.62mm bullet. My mind anticipated what I would do if one of the scouts started shooting.
The general’s booming voice filled the room. The scouts went silent. It was an example of the respect they held for the general’s tribal status.
Jack, the interpreter, came through the door. In the second that it was open, I made eye contact with the sergeant of the guard, who had a few Marines behind him. Their presence put me at ease, but I motioned for them to stay outside the door. I figured armed Americans would only increase tension.
“Jack-O.” Captain Smith spotted the interpreter as he came into the room. “Come over here and tell me what these clowns are saying.”
The general was going around the room and getting opinions from each of his men. Most of them responded with “La,” Arabic for no. From the responses, I assumed that he had asked them whether they would go on the mission without their weapons. Halfway through the group, one of the scouts gave a short speech. Jack translated. “The Americans not trust us. The area is very dangerous, and we already know they cannot protect us. Maybe they and the Iraqi army want to kill us,” said Jack on behalf of the scout.
Most of the scouts agreed with the man. Some did not. Captain Smith interrupted the process, telling Jack to say, “We must build trust between us. This will help my men focus on our common enemy, al Qaeda.”
There was a temporary silence in the room while the group thought about al Qaeda. The four or five ardent naysayers dismissed Captain Smith with their hands. The process of individual reactions continued.
Rage 6 was visibly frustrated. He turned his back on the group and headed for the door. “Well, I’d say that fucking went well,” he muttered as he passed me. I didn’t have to hear the sarcasm in his voice. It was written all over his face.
I was now the only American in the room. Jack left the general’s side and took a spot next to me against the wall. Together, we listened to the last few scouts disagree with the general about the weapons. “Daly, they all want to go home,” said Jack when they were done.
I felt that I had to do something.
The general turned and headed for the door. I stopped him. “May I speak to your men?” I asked.
“Of course, Daly.”
I walked to the center of the group. A few of the men were now sitting on their blankets, while the majority still stood. I began by introducing myself. After Jack’s easy translation, the general added in a few words. I wasn’t sure what he said, but I was sure it was giving me credibility. When he was done, I received a few nods from the majority of the scouts. I chose my next words carefully, aiming for the same purpose as the sentences just uttered by the general.
“I will speak to Captain Smith about letting you take your weapons on the mission,” I said.
I had no intention of actually speaking to Captain Smith. But based on our previous discussions regarding the opportunity the scouts represented, I knew he was going to let them take the rifles. If the Iraqis thought I had something to do with his change of heart, they might start to come to me with their requests. Then I hoped to figure out which scouts held critical information that could be useful.
“If you need anything while you are here, you can ask me,” Jack translated.
Then I turned my focus to al Qaeda. I said a few sentences that focused on their brutality and crimes against locals. I got carried away, though, and ended with a line about the extremism of al Qaeda and how we could return Iraq to its secular status.
The scouts’ faces soured. I had assumed that they were all secular. It was poor form on my part, because I had ignored the fact that for the last three years these men had fought against me with a mutual understanding between themselves and al Qaeda. The general went into damage control on my behalf. When he finished, his men were arguing with one another. Chaos had taken over, and I knew I had no future as a motivational speaker.
“Daly, they are hungry. Do you have food for them?” asked the general.
“Of course. Give me a few minutes.” I left and grabbed a case of Otis Spunkmeyer muffins and another of twenty-ounce Gatorades. I was disappointed that I hadn’t realized that the scouts were not being fed. When they first arrived, Captain Smith ordered the Iraqi army soldiers to provide them with food. This order ignored the fact that the relationship between the Shia Iraqi army and the armed Sunni, ex-Saddamist scouts wasn’t based on common interests or beliefs. The obvious result was the neglecting of the twenty-five volunteers.
When I returned, the scouts drank the Gatorade but weren’t very interested in the muffins. I guess the preservatives were an acquired taste. I thought about leaving the room, but Abu Ali, one of the general’s appointed leaders, approached me. He wanted to see the pictures I had shown the general the night before. Within five minutes, I had 75 percent of the local Iraqis in a semicircle around my laptop screen.
The group wasn’t very interested in the first few pictures of San Diego or Honolulu, but when a picture of my wife appeared, they all commented to one another in hushed voices. It dawned on me that the general had told them of the beauty of my wife, and it was probably this fact that had earned me a few nods from the crowd earlier.
“Daly, she have sister?” asked one of the scouts. I knew what he was getting at: an arranged marriage.
“Yes, she does.”
“You let me marry her, no? We be brothers, then!” he continued.
“She is very expensive,” I said. “But that is for her father to decide.” The scouts collectively agreed when Jack translated. I flipped through the remaining pictures. At the end, the men thanked me for showing them. I left somewhat confident that the mission was going to happen.
Around midday, Captain Smith and I went for round two with the scouts. The purpose was to announce that we were going to allow them to keep their weapons. We assumed that such a decision would unite our two groups.
So Captain Smith was caught off guard when, after he announced his decision, the scouts still refused to go on the mission. We had miscalculated their primary concern. It wasn’t being able to carry their weapons into the fight. Instead, the majority believed that by their executing the mission and not being able to quickly return home, al Qaeda would figure out who was assisting the Americans. The fear instilled by a
l Qaeda’s murder-and-intimidation campaign was evident on their faces.
I felt like a new toy had been snatched from my hands before I could play with it. I watched Captain Smith, who was looking at the floor, and waited for him to tell the scouts that the trucks would bring them back to Camp Ranger. We couldn’t force the group to fight alongside us. Rage 6 was silent for a solid thirty seconds.
“Jack, tell them that the trucks are not coming.”
“Sir?” replied the interpreter.
“There are no trucks. Headquarters had to divert them to another unit in Ramadi. They are stuck here for the night and might as well do the mission as planned,” said Captain Smith.
It was a bald-faced lie. I didn’t know how many would buy it. Then the general asked how many would go on the mission anyway. Four raised their hands. As it sank in that those four men would execute the mission and therefore cast suspicion on the entire lot, because none of them would be home the following morning, more hands began to go up. Soon we had 100 percent participation. As soon as they all agreed to go, we immediately left the room before they could change their minds.
I went into the COC with Captain Smith. I let out a few laughs once the door was closed. “Sir, that was the most obvious lie I have ever heard. The damn trucks are sitting outside!” I said.
“It worked because they can’t speak English and don’t realize that I am a horrible liar. Plus, they aren’t allowed outside and will never see the trucks,” he said.
“So long as Gunny Bishop is out of here before midnight,” I replied.
“Good point. Go get that fucker.”
Eakin pushed the barbed wire off the path with the muzzle of his M16. Albin and I slowly moved through the gap, and another Marine from Rage 2 traded spots with Eakin. Behind us, the ten-foot concrete barriers that protected COP Rage stood in the darkness. It was the first time I had been outside their protection and not in a vehicle.
The formation walked up the slight berm that held Route Nova above and crossed the asphalt road. We immediately went down the far side and within 100 meters were moving through the rich farmland that encompassed half of Julayba’s acreage. The open terrain served as a natural north-south boundary between the Albu Musa and Albu Bali tribal villages that sat on the eastern side of Julayba. This boundary was more of an obstacle for the enemy than it was for us. For us, it provided a clear insertion route into the two pro-al Qaeda villages and prevented them from assisting each other during an attack by coalition forces. Isolating the two tribes was much easier for it.
Our presence alerted the natural sentries that watched over the region. A dozen wild dogs barked in the night. Some were close; most were distant, but to the area’s insurgents their ruckus was evidence that something was afoot.
We crossed into a farm that resembled something out of a Vietnam War movie. I stepped down into an irrigation ditch. The soft dirt rose up around my boots, and I struggled to get up the opposite side. After clearing the obstacle, I turned around and offered Eakin and then the general my hand in assistance. Moving through the grass field, we were in a heavily exposed position. Irrigation canals ran parallel to our direction of movement. The accompanying palm trees and shrubs that lined the canals provided excellent cover and concealment. They ensured that a small group of men could tactically move through the adjoining fields without our knowledge. I scanned the numerous potential ambush points with urgency.
A massive explosion rang out over the farmland. I dropped to a knee and rotated in its general direction. The blast was loud but distant. Its origin and flash of light were probably a mile to the southeast.
“Eakin, anything on the company net?”
“Negative. Must be 3/2, sir.”
I agreed with him. Before we had left, the Marines on our eastern boundary informed us of a Pathfinder mission in their AO that would cross into Julayba. It was a standard method to blur the tactical boundaries for our enemies. The result was Pathfinder hitting a massive IED in the Albu Bali tribal area.
I gripped my rifle tighter, and we moved another thousand meters through the open fields. The column halted about 300 meters south of a cluster of buildings that formed the outlying perimeter of the greater Albu Musa tribal village. A team of scouts was at the front of the formation scoping out the homes, undoubtedly getting their bearings after trudging through the fields in the pitch blackness. Navigation was easier for us; we wore NVGs. The scouts sported black ski masks.
The leader of the four-man team, Abu Tiba, ran back to the command element. Captain Smith, Lieutenant Thomas, the general, and I were crouched behind a cluster of small shrubs and palm trees. Three cows tied to old wooden poles grazed 100 meters away. Abu Tiba knelt next to the general and relayed his knowledge of the local area.
“This house is the legal court of the ISI. Ali Siyagah lives here,” said the general. He pointed to the center house of the three. Captain Smith exchanged a look of “Sure it is” with Lieutenant Thomas and me; capturing Ali Siyagah couldn’t possibly be this easy.
Lieutenant Thomas got on the PRR and directed his platoon. Corporal Davila’s squad would clear the structure after Holloway’s established an inner and outer cordon. We watched from behind the palm trees as the Marines moved into position. Davila personally went through the building’s front door, followed by his squad. The command element was less than a minute behind him.
I went up two stairs onto the home’s porch and through the front door. By the time I was inside, Davila’s men had cleared the one-floor building and were separating the women and the children from the men. Abu Tiba picked out the man of the house, his son, and his teenage grandson to be brought into the foyer. None of the three matched the description of Ali Siyagah. Captain Smith and I commented to each other on this fact. Abu Tiba noticed our demeanor and explained that we were at the wrong house. A sense of doubt regarding the effectiveness of the scouts began to build in my mind. The Marines prepared to leave.
As they did, I was struck by what the four-man team of scouts was doing. One of them was in the room with the women and the children. He stood in front of the terrified group of civilians, lecturing them. I tried to walk into the room, but the general stopped me.
“Daly, he is telling them what they need to know,” he said. Then he tried to close the door. My first thought was that our scouts were about to beat the locals. I stuck my foot in the door and pushed against it with my hand. “I am going to listen and watch from out here,” I said. The general acquiesced and opened the door. The family was in the corner on the opposite side of the room and could not see me. I shouted for Jack to come over. Before he got there and began translating, all I could discern was “Thawar Al Anbar,” over and over.
Once Jack arrived, he explained to me what was happening. “Lieutenant, it is propaganda. He says Thawar Al Anbar is the real power, that they declare jihad against al Qaeda, that they will kill the terrorists, and so on,” relayed Jack. At the end of the speech, the scout removed a piece of paper from his jacket. I waited for him to leave the room and asked him to show one of the pages to me. Jack explained that it said, essentially verbatim, what the scout had just discussed.
“Jack-O, get in here!” yelled Captain Smith from the front of the house. I went with the interpreter to the foyer. Abu Tiba was harshly questioning the home’s only military-age male. The chubby Iraqi receiving the brunt of questioning was sweating, even though the temperature hovered in the mid-forties. Abu Tiba noticed that the general was in the room. He quickly ordered the three males of the house to turn around and face the wall. Then the masked scout approached the general and whispered to him. In turn, the general leaned over to me and said, “This man can bring us to Ali Siyagah’s house.” I doubted whether it was true. Captain Smith had begun to look uncomfortable. No longer were the scouts directing our movement, but a random local was going to lead us. It seemed like an obvious trap, but Captain Smith rolled the dice. The squat, fearful Iraqi would lead us.
We left the
house, and Abu Tiba, along with the chubby Iraqi, went to the front of the formation. We crossed over more farmland, moving through half a dozen irrigation canals. We approached another cluster of houses and came across a canal that was full of water. The chubby Iraqi moved south, away from the houses, and led us to a stone dam that controlled the flow of water. I was nervous that such an obvious crossing point, the only place where you don’t get your feet wet, would have an IED or something protecting it. But the scouts went across without hesitation, and we followed.
After crossing, we headed back to the north, moving through a small orchard of fruit trees. The column of Marines walked past another group of grazing cows and resting sheep. After a few hundred meters, we were looking at a small village. The chubby Iraqi led us through overgrown brush and tightly packed trees between the two southernmost homes. He halted us at a dirt path that ran from the southern house to what I thought was Gixxer to the north.
Abu Tiba ran back to the general, who was with me. The chubby Iraqi accompanied him. When the random Iraqi got to us, I could see that he was petrified. Clearly, he did not want to go anywhere near the home that we were now looking at.
“Smith, can you leave men to guard him here?” the general asked Rage 6. Lieutenant Thomas agreed to leave a team of Marines with the Iraqi.
The process of cordoning off the house and the subsequent clearing followed in the same format as the first. When I neared the home with the general, the other scouts went insane. Before we even made it inside the house, they became agitated.
“These are Ali Siyagah’s cars!” said the general, pointing at the two vehicles under the one-story home’s carport. Holloway’s team of scouts immediately joined Abu Tiba’s in assaulting the vehicles. They began to break the windows and the glass with the butts of their rifles. Captain Smith ordered them to stop.
“Why?! We must send a message!” said Abu Tiba.
Captain Smith responded by making the sound of an explosion and demonstrating it with his hands. The scouts got the idea, but one of them decided to break off a side mirror regardless. They wanted the personal satisfaction.
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