Once things began to settle down at the COP, Captain Smith decided to do a foot patrol to the Mohammara School. It was meant to be a show of support for the friendly militia. Lieutenant Shearburn didn’t like the idea. He objected on the grounds that the situation was too fluid, with too many randomly armed men, and the Marines couldn’t distinguish friend from foe. Not to mention that we had already treated their wounded. In his mind, we had shown our support.
As the two men spoke, heavy exchanges of machine gun fire sounded in the distance.
Then Captain Smith disagreed. He saw the event as an opportunity. To him, it was the perfect time for the United States to show that we had picked sides in the fight and to display our commitment to al Qaeda’s destruction. He ordered Shearburn to assemble a patrol.
The Marines left the COP, then followed Nova north while staying on the western side. Because Nova was raised three feet higher than the surrounding fields, any al Qaeda observers in the Albu Musa or Albu Bali areas would not be able to clearly engage the unit. There was also a Bradley fighting vehicle, courtesy of the battalion, that paralleled the formation on Nova. Its turret was oriented east at the enemy-controlled villages.
The patrol made it to the school. The majority of the original scouts were there, as well as at least fifty heavily armed locals. Captain Smith met Colonel Mohammed in what was probably the former school’s main administrative office. The scouts had turned it into an operations center. A basic map was on the wall, and half a dozen men with handheld Motorola radios were getting real-time updates from the front lines. Colonel Mohammed informed Captain Smith that his fighters had a foothold in the insurgent-controlled tribal areas. He claimed to have almost a thousand men under his control.
Captain Smith responded to the colonel by asking him to gather any available men in the room. Rage 6 wished to address the growing citizen militia.
About thirty Iraqis assembled. John Smith wasn’t the most inspiring public speaker, but the tone of the speech he was about to give was much different than the first time he had addressed some of these men two months earlier. In late January, we had viewed one another without confidence or trust. Now we were on the cusp of defeating al Qaeda. So, as Captain Smith spoke, his dry monotone voice probably bored the Marines around him; however, the Iraqis didn’t hear Captain Smith. They heard our interpreter, Jack, whose conviction in our fast-approaching success inspired their commitment to our mutual objective. The pacification of not only Julayba, but the capital of the Islamic State of Iraq, was days away. Hope and optimism filled the room.
The meeting ended with handshakes, hugs, and requests from the militia for more rifles and ammunition. We promised to do our best to answer the request. Then something symbolic happened. The Iraqis declared Captain Smith the “Sheikh of Julayba.” Coming from your average villager, such a title wouldn’t mean much. Yet the room was not full of average villagers. The respective leaders of every subtribe in Julayba, as well as Sheikh Jabbar from north of the river, were in the room.
Captain Smith recognized what was happening. The Iraqis had just made him the region’s “kingmaker.” He quickly praised the work of the ever-competent Colonel Mohammed and asked the tribes to support him in the war against al Qaeda. Julayba’s chain of command was established.
Then, as the group dispersed, Captain Smith asked Colonel Mohammed to bring his three best drivers to the COP right after sunset. When the colonel asked for more details, Captain Smith simply told him it was a surprise.
The Marines left the school, following the exact route they had arrived on. Halfway back to the COP, Lieutenant Shearburn’s concerns materialized. From the Albu Bali tribal area, a team of insurgents fired a Katuysha rocket at the Bradley fighting vehicle patrolling on Nova. It missed the Bradley and screamed over the Marines’ heads, then slammed into a house. The casualties were quickly brought to the COP. A young twenty-something mother suffered a serious shrapnel wound to the shoulder. She ended up losing her arm. Her son, seven or eight, had his nose cleanly removed from his face. It wasn’t a life-threatening injury, but I expected him to be very scared. Instead, he smiled at me. An arm and a nose were the price paid by two Iraqis so that we could show our support for the militia. The fighting in eastern Julayba intensified.
As sunset approached, an ominous thing happened. While we were sitting in the COP’s COC, OP Trotter came over the battalion net. OP Trotter was a secure army position next to Camp Corregidor where Rage 2 was garrisoned on rest. The voice requested an urgent casevac and followed it up with “One of the Marines shot himself or something.”
The COC went silent, waiting for more information. Then our fears were confirmed. Lance Corporal Steven Chavez, twenty years old, had been killed by an accidental discharge of his shotgun. At that time, no one was sure about what happened. But later it became clear that another Marine had mistakenly set off the weapon. The event crushed morale. Chavez was one of the most-liked Marines in his platoon, full of life and vigor. It was taken away not by the enemy, but by his own brother, a fellow Marine. The needless loss of life ate away at our very existence. We fought and struggled for one another. What happened to Chavez was the exact opposite. Anger, sadness, and depression took over our minds. We tried to focus on something other than the emptiness and feelings of loss that consumed us.
Captain Smith left the COC with Colonel Mohammed and his three drivers. When he got to Corregidor, he showed the colonel his surprise: three brand-new F-350 Iraqi police trucks. To the Iraqis, they were the ultimate vehicle. Each one was painted blue and white, had blue sirens and a loudspeaker, and could transport a small army in the back. For the rest of that night, the Iraqis drove around the areas of Julayba under their control, flashing their sirens and declaring a jihad against al Qaeda via the loudspeakers. The fall of al Qaeda was almost complete.
After the excitement of that moment, Captain Smith began the preliminary investigation into the circumstances of Chavez’s death. Our greater success had been soured by yet another incident with a shotgun.
March 16, 2007
For the first time, I awoke to silence—no gunfire, no explosions. Inside the COC, we all wondered whether it was simply a lull or if one of the tribes was victorious. From the COP’s roof, we could see even more armed militiamen than usual. They were oriented in every direction, and we assumed they were friendly. No one was shooting at us. In fact, the most interesting part of the tribes’ one hundred hours of violence was that no one had fired at the COP. With the Iraqis busy fighting one another, no one had bothered to mess with us.
I headed out to the foyer. An excited Double-A greeted me as I stretched at the base of the stairs. The scouts had another cache of weapons to hand over to us. For the last two days and on every day of the following week, they brought us piles of weaponry. In their fighting against the pro-al Qaeda tribes, they found antiaircraft guns, surface-to-air missiles (SA-7 and only spent casings), recoilless rifles, suicide vests, 120mm and 82mm mortar tubes with base-plates and accessories, dozens of mortar rounds, artillery rounds, rockets, grenades, rifles, machine guns, and a minimal amount of ammunition. I was always amused by the response I received after asking Double-A what the scouts hadn’t turned over to us. He would smile and shake his finger but never offer any details.
I entered the COC. Inside, Lieutenant Trotter was dumbfounded. Colonel Mohammed was circling houses all over the map and declaring that each one was a friendly position. Trotter asked him to stop. There were at least seventy-five circles. He didn’t want to take up the entire map with militia fighting positions.
The colonel headed to the kitchen for food. I sat on the couch. “Daly, help me figure this shit out. Captain Smith wants us to mark all friendly positions,” said Trotter.
“Why? The dudes are everywhere; tracking their movement is almost impossible,” I replied.
“Actually, it is impossible,” continued Trotter, “but the mechanized infantry soldiers who are taking our place are coming out today. He want
s to show them an updated map that accurately reflects our AO.”
I stared at the map from the couch. Trotter probably thought I was contemplating a better way to depict the scouts’ positions. I wasn’t. The fact that someone was taking our place meant that my interaction with the scouts was ending. Soon they would be introduced to a different group of Americans. How would they react to one another? Were the soldiers going to disrespect them in the same manner we had early on? Would the movement lose momentum? Eventually, I stopped thinking about the unknown and helped Trotter with the map. In less than two weeks, I was going to leave Ramadi and was not at all confident in the capabilities of our replacements.
March 25, 2007
James Thomas stood on the front steps of the COP, a soiled and dirty red bandana slightly visible under his helmet. The sky was clear blue, and bright sun shone on the group. Thomas surveyed his men. Corporal Davila, a recently promoted Sergeant Holloway, Sergeant Karras, and a handful of other Marines stood in the parking lot. Next to them was the enlisted leadership of the soldiers who would take their places in Julayba.
None of the army officers were present. They didn’t seem to be interested in patrolling, only in cleaning the COC. Their company commander had emptied every drawer, removed the furniture, and ordered his soldiers to sweep the dust and the sand out of the room. He didn’t pay any attention to the fact that his soldiers were about to leave the wire for the first time in Julayba. Rage Company’s staff found the army captain to be nothing less than absurdly clueless.
The patrol was ready. James Thomas made eye contact with Davila, who was 150 meters away. “All set, sir,” said the corporal over his PRR.
“Roger, let’s go,” replied James.
The formation left the wire. In the back of every Marine’s mind was the Heidbreder ambush months earlier. Each of them was aware of the irony in the fact that Rage 2 was executing the last two patrols that Rage Company would conduct in Iraq. The Marines saw it as a validation of their success, a stark contrast from the fighting that had engulfed Julayba weeks earlier.
On the other hand, the soldiers had just finished taking part in the clearing of the Mala’ab sector. They had been in Iraq for sixteen months. Their mind-set was still wrapped around the expectation of daily contact with the enemy. Each soldier’s patrolling techniques showcased this uneasiness. The mechanized infantrymen bounded between buildings and intently scanned potential hide spots through their scopes. The Marines casually moved in a less threatening manner. Hide spots were scanned with eyes, while weapons remained oriented to the ground.
When the patrol came upon clusters of militia fighters, the soldiers were visibly nervous. The somewhat-complacent Marines waved to their allies. As the various groups passed close enough, Sergeant Karras would hand out American cigarettes. To the Iraqis, they were a delicacy. While Karras and the Iraqis interacted, Lieutenant Thomas could see that the soldiers were not comfortable.
The patrol continued on its route around the COP. Along Irish Way, they passed a group of militiamen and a young teenage boy manning a checkpoint. To show the Marines that the boy was a fighter, one of the militiamen gave the child his AK. The young kid pointed it at the Americans. Most of the Marines barely reacted. The soldiers, not knowing why the Marines were letting an Iraqi point a weapon at them, looked quizzically at their countrymen.
Sergeant Karras raised his rifle at the kid, only 100 meters away. He shook the muzzle up and down a few times as a gesture for the kid not to point the weapon at the patrol. The militiamen recognized their mistake. After snatching the weapon out of the kid’s hands, they proceeded to beat him. They yelled, pushed, and kicked at the boy. Then they gave a thumbs-up to the American infantrymen. Attitudes toward the Marines had changed.
The patrol slowly moved back to the COP. Nothing exciting happened. They reentered friendly lines. The army company commander was busy rearranging furniture. A few of the Marines gave him blank stares.
“What time do you want to go on the night-patrol, sir?” asked Corporal Davila.
“Have them ready at 2000,” said James.
Then the group headed to the chow hall. The leadership of Rage 2 and the enlisted soldiers used it as an opportunity to share war stories and review Julayba’s most dangerous areas. After the discussions, the conversation turned to the night-patrol. Then the two senior soldiers, both sergeants first class, said something that haunted the Marine lieutenant.
“We can patrol a short distance outside the wire and sit in a house, LT,” said one. The two soldiers exchanged looks, noticing James Thomas’s silent, annoyed response.
“Hey, we obviously appreciate you guys doing the great job you did out here, fighting on a daily basis for months, but our captain won’t have us leave the wire after you guys pull out. So we don’t have to take any additional risks unless you want to, LT,” continued the second.
James was still silent. The first sergeant to speak opened his mouth again. “Yeah, we’ll go, LT, but we don’t have to go far, you know what I mean?”
The Marine lieutenant was disappointed. He responded by telling the soldiers to meet him in the foyer at 2000. Then, when the time came and the group left on the patrol, he couldn’t stop thinking about how the new American unit would change the region’s dynamic.
On that patrol, Julayba’s citizens met the Marines at the door, rather than hiding in a room and waiting for them to barge in. Interior lights were on; blinds were open. Families gathered in living rooms. A sense of normalcy that none of the Americans had previously seen in Iraq seemed to be taking place. The change tugged at James Thomas; would these soldiers allow this opportunity to founder?
On the way back to the COP, after six cups of sugar-laden chai, Lieutenant Thomas came to a realization. The incoming army unit, one that would exert no influence over the region, could be a blessing. By not engaging the populace, they would ensure that Colonel Mohammed and the scouts would have free rein. The men with the knowledge and the ability to exert control just might be in a better position to do so. To the Iraqis, it would appear that America was rewarding them with the power to govern themselves. Hopefully, other regions, tribes, and cities would recognize this and assist the United States in order to gain a similar power.
At least, that’s how he hoped it would turn out.
The patrol made its way inside Combat Outpost Melia. Rage Company’s deployment was over.
March 30, 2007
Two CH-53 helicopters swooped down onto the landing zone. A dim moonlight illuminated their frames on the ground. I clenched my jaw in anticipation. The wind from the aircrafts’ rotational blades blasted the column of men I stood among. The ramp to the closest helicopter dropped. The crew chief exited, flagging us to him with an infrared device.
The column began to trot. Each of us carried more than a hundred pounds of gear, but I wasn’t thinking about the weight. Instead, I was regretting what I was about to do. I was going to leave Ramadi.
The cool air of the beautiful spring night continued to pound into my body, propelled by the helicopters’ whirring blades. A hundred meters to the ramp and the deployment was over. I felt more regret. Now was not the time to leave. The clearing of the Mila’ab was complete. In the Papa 10, the children who once hunted for American small-kill teams now searched for al Qaeda snipers. Every district was under coalition control. Insurgent attacks were nonexistent. After the dramatic turnaround in Julayba, I sensed what was coming.
Without militant interference, the tribes of Ramadi united. In the coming months, they would spread their influence across all of Al Anbar Province. On a larger scale, the rebirth of Iraq’s Sunni population was about to take place. I wanted to be there when it happened.
My boots met the steel ramp. I entered the fuselage. We all took seats, weapons oriented to the floor. The ramp closed, and our helicopter began to take off. The moment it left the ground, I felt something change in my body. It was just as tangible as the rifle in my hands, but I have no idea wha
t I was feeling. My first thought was that it was a reaction to knowing I was now safe or that I might not ever see Ramadi again. I had anticipated those emotions to be positive, however, and I was feeling anything but positive.
Instead, I felt like I was betraying a friend. The scouts had risked everything to help us. A little more than two months after accepting that help, we were leaving. Al Qaeda was on the run; now was the time to finish the job, not celebrate prematurely.
I looked around at the faces of my fellow Marines. Just about everyone was in a similar state of self-reflection. I wondered what they were thinking about. Did they know the importance of what they had just done? Did they or anyone in the United States know that the capital of al Qaeda’s self-declared government had been secured by a combined force of American, Iraqi, and local militia? I knew the answer: no.
In many respects, the outcome of Rage Company’s enterprise in Iraq was predetermined. During America’s disastrous attempt at regime change, nothing but total failure was the logical outcome. Somehow, reporters and historians would explain away our success by saying that we hired Sunni insurgents to do the fighting for us. The spin would be that America was not responsible for the turnaround in violence during that spring. The thought angered me, but ultimately I didn’t care. My greatest concerns were that our military would not learn the lessons of the counterinsurgency fight that had taken place in Ramadi. That Operation Squeeze Play would be forgotten. More important, though, I feared that men like Melia, Ahlquist, and Chavez would become nothing more than names on a wall. The true meaning and sacrifice that was their lives would remain hidden to those they had sacrificed so much for.
Rage Company Page 38