And so, in a vain attempt to keep the unit’s momentum going while the commander was gone, I sought out the battalion XO. Sa’id had been with 3rd Battalion for more than two years, and despite his obvious suspicion of the Americans he appeared to be a straight shooter. As I got to know him I began to understand his skepticism toward me. My team was the sixth MiTT that had been assigned to 3rd Battalion, and each group of Marines had been equally anxious to sweep in and make institutional changes. He began listing names of previous team leaders, and to my surprise I recognized several of them. One previous officer from several years earlier had been particularly hated by the battalion staff, and Sa’id was not shy about recounting the Marine’s transgressions. Knowing the officer and his reputation back home I laughed, wondering how the IAs would eventually remember me and my team years after our departure. If they feel that way about him, I thought, then perhaps they are good judges of character.
The arrival of two transport helicopters to pick up the outgoing team on 17 March enabled us to heave a collective sigh of relief. They had provided us an adequate turnover, and now with them gone we were finally able to cease treading lightly around the compound. It was now our camp and our operation—ours at which to succeed or fail. We were not alone in our feelings, and after our experiences I was certain all units that conduct a relief in place and transfer of authority with another unit go through the same mental processes.
As the previous team boarded its flight out of COP South, the Outlanders traveled outside the confines of COP South with Sa’id and his PSD convoy to the Karabilah IP station located at BP Tarawa. Although the visit’s purpose was to conduct a joint IA/IP security meeting, from the outset it was clear that Sa’id and the IP station commander, Lieutenant Colonel Ghassan, didn’t trust each other one bit. Throughout the meeting the two men were professional and cordial, but their eyes burned holes in each other. The display the two men put on made me uneasy, and I remembered stories about past feuds and armed standoffs between the IAs and IPs (members of the Iraqi Police). Despite their palpable disgust with each other’s presence, they eventually agreed on the need for continued close cooperation and intelligence sharing between the two organizations. By the meeting’s close they had agreed to meet each week regularly, and I felt as though one small step toward progress had just been made.
As time wore on I began to learn that mutual dislike was not confined to Sa’id and Ghassan. The IA and the IP units stationed around the Al Qa’im region did not trust each other as a whole. Both Sa’id and Ayad staunchly claimed that the police force was a corrupt, unprofessional, and untrained gang. The perception was that because the IPs were mostly neighborhood boys, they knew and had grown up with all of the local criminals. Such an association, as well as the tribal ties that bound them, made the IPs hesitant to crack down on the criminals. No policeman, Ayad had reasoned, would arrest someone whom he had known and played with as a boy. The police, on the other hand, disliked the perceived preferential treatment the IA had received from the Americans, and they complained of a lack of intelligence sharing by the IAs.
Third Battalion had been accustomed to operating in the urban areas around Karabilah and Husaybah, what was now considered the urban security zone (USZ), and that was where they still preferred to be. It had been 3rd Battalion—working with the Americans—that had been responsible for chasing out the majority of the insurgents and Al Qaeda operatives in Karabilah and Husaybah in the previous years, and it was now a tough sell for us to convince them to stay out of the towns and focus more on the desert region to the south. The persistent lack of enemy activity in the desert made our task that much more challenging. As far as Ayad and his staff were concerned, the recent surge in IED activity in and around Karabilah and Husaybah was justification itself to continue operating in the USZ.
As my meetings with Sa’id progressed he began opening up, and soon our nightly discussions turned toward his concern about the performance of the battalion’s intelligence section. The right people weren’t running the shop, he confided to me, and junood working in the shop weren’t properly trained. His concerns seemed justified late on the evening of 18 March when Lieutenant Ski called me to the COC. In his hand he clutched a piece of paper, and he had a perplexed look on his face. He handed me both the document and a translated version.
“Hamood just gave this to me, and we got it translated,” he began. “It’s from the brigade G-2. They’re directing Third Battalion to roll up three suspects in Karabilah who’re suspected of planting IEDs.”
I examined the letter, and then handed it back to Ski.
“So? What’s the big deal?”
“Well, the battalion S-2 also said that they don’t intend to inform the XO until midnight, right before they plan to execute the mission.”
I raised my eyebrow, suddenly a bit perplexed myself.
“What the hell? No one else in the battalion knows about this?”
“No, sir. Oh, and they also want us to go with them.”
“Do they have a plan?”
“Not really.”
“Hey,” I said, turning to Lieutenant Bates. “This is bullshit. The S-2 doesn’t have the authority to go do this on their own. Go talk to the S-3 and see what the hell is going on.”
Bates returned thirty minutes later, shaking his head.
“Man, Al’aa’s pissed, sir,” he said. “He didn’t know a damn thing about it.”
As I thought about it, Captain Hanna spoke.
“Sir, do you think you should go talk to the XO about it? If he doesn’t know about it he’s probably going to get pissed off as well.”
I pondered the issue. There was something wrong if the S-2 didn’t want the battalion XO or the S-3 to know about an operation. It was something I didn’t want to get caught in the middle of, and I tabled it.
“No. Let them continue with their plan. If they want to piss all over each other, let them. I’ll talk to Sa’id about it tomorrow and get to the bottom of it. Regardless, we’re not going with them. This is sketchy enough as it is.” I turned to both Ski and Bates. “If they want us to participate in their bullshit ops, they better start putting more effort into their plans. This ‘hipshoot’ shit has got to stop.”
Captain Hanna’s prediction had been correct. Upon hearing the news Sa’id had indeed been infuriated. As we discussed what had occurred, Sa’id grew more and more agitated while he relayed the chain of events. He had actually approved the mission concept several nights earlier, but when Hamood informed him late the previous evening Sa’id had decided that more planning was required. Disregarding the XO’s directive, Hamood and his soldiers initiated the mission anyway and detained two of the three targeted personnel.
As Sa’id conveyed to me his concerns about the battalion’s intelligence section, I heard what Lieutenant Ski had already been reporting to me after his nightly meetings with the S-2: Hamood was a loose cannon. A swarthy warrant officer with a bushy mustache and deeply set eyes, Hamood somehow had his hands in everything within the battalion. He had strong ties to the Abu Mahal—the dominant tribe in the Al Qa’im region—and he was also currently under investigation by the Iraqi Ministry of Defense (MOD) for charges of corruption. Hamood was a legend within 3rd Battalion. He apparently had been there forever, and whenever anyone needed anything he could get it. Did the battalion run out of food? Hamood would feed the soldiers. Has the generator broken down? Hamood would find mechanics to fix it. I likened him to the indispensable gunnery sergeant that every Marine infantry battalion always seems to have—the go-to guy about whom no one really knows what he does on a daily basis, but can always “get stuff.” The only catch is that no one will ever dare to ask the indispensable gunny where he gets stuff or how he gets things done. Also, no one is ever willing to piss him off for fear that his acts of goodwill might suddenly dry up. Hamood was that guy in 3rd Battalion, but he was also the principal human intelligence (HUMINT) source manager within the battalion. He seemed to know everyone
and everything that went on outside the wire of COP South, and he represented the battalion’s only real intelligence link to the Al Qa’im region.
Hamood’s mere presence in the battalion riled the XO, and Sa’id made it clear that he wanted the warrant officer removed from the unit. But Sa’id was also no idiot. He understood the local politics, and he was fearful of tribal retribution (which had nearly cost him his job under the previous battalion commander). It was a unique concern at all levels that seemed to work its way into every major decision made in the region. It was Sa’id’s hope that my team would conduct an evaluation of the S-2 shop and present it to the battalion commander. Such an assessment would build a case for Hamood’s dismissal or reassignment, as well as the reorganization of the entire S-2 section.
I wasn’t worried about evaluating the S-2; we had already planned to conduct such a review of all the battalion’s staff sections. My concern was that Sa’id might pay the price if we ended up submitting a negative evaluation up the chain of command. If it backfired it would not be the first time in history that an Iraqi officer woke up with his throat cut for crossing the tribal boundaries the wrong way. Sa’id was a member of the Al Khalidi tribe, and with the Abu Mahal as the region’s prevailing tribe he was running scared. The Abu Mahal was the tribe that had been behind the Awakening movement in Al Anbar province, and they dominated local political control. But I also knew that Ayad was an Al Karbuli who claimed some influence in the area. I hoped he might be able to provide some measure of top cover for Sa’id if anything went south. I would just have to wait.
I didn’t have to wait long. Days later I learned that Sa’id had been “reassigned”; no further information was offered. I ran to his hut to get to the bottom of it, but I found his door padlocked. In a matter of hours he had been dismissed and had packed up and left the battalion. I was nearly apoplectic, and I wondered if someone had complained up the chain to have him removed. All the progress that had been made in forging a relationship during my nights in his office had walked right out the door with him.
That night Lieutenant Colonel Ayad returned from leave, and during my visit with him I expressed my concern and disappointment over Sa’id’s removal. He limply agreed with me, saying that he had opposed the reassignment, but he left it at that. There was no indication that Ayad would attempt to resolve the situation, and I left his office chafed and wondering what the real story was.
Later I sat down with Mason, the interpreter whom I had adopted as my principal linguist when dealing with Ayad. A Jordanian by birth, Mason was an American citizen who had completed a previous interpreter tour with the U.S. Army several years earlier. A restaurant chain manager in a former life, he claimed to have had experience in nearly every facet of society. As the deployment wore on the two of us spent so much time together that I would frequently seek him out for assistance in solving the endless cultural puzzles in which I frequently found myself. As the two of us discussed my conversation with Ayad, Mason suggested that perhaps Ayad might have disagreed verbally with Sa’id’s removal but in fact may have been secretly happy that the XO was gone. Over time Sa’id had ruffled a lot of feathers among the local tribes, and his removal meant that Ayad would be free to be the hero and smooth things over with the tribal leaders. In effect, Ayad appeared to have sacrificed Sa’id to improve the battalion’s relationship with the town elders of Husaybah and Karabilah.
But that wasn’t all. Several days later I raised the issue with Lieutenant Colonel Gridley when I met with him at Camp Phoenix.
“Lieutenant Colonel Sa’id was reassigned,” I told him matter-of-factly, not hiding the disappointment in my voice. “He just up and disappeared a couple of days ago.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Gridley answered nonchalantly. “He was hip deep in the theft ring in Third Battalion last fall. No big loss for the battalion.”
Gridley’s comments left me speechless, and once it dawned on me that Sa’id had duped me I was furious with myself. How would I ever manage to figure out the Iraqis if I continued to eat their bullshit with no questions asked? The experience became a warning for me. In building relationships with the IAs it was imperative that I learn to trust them, yes, but I would also have to apply a mantra my father had repeated to me over and over again throughout the years: Trust, but verify.
Chapter 16
Al Gab’aa
Lieutenant Bates announces to the team that 3rd Battalion has planned an “intelligence-gathering” mission for 16 March, and as he explains their half-baked plan to conduct a cordon and search I am thankful that the IAs are finally conducting a deliberate operation. A plantation known as Al Gab’aa sits astride the main road in our AO approximately twenty-five kilometers southwest of our camp, and the battalion commander thinks the site is a possible cache point for transient insurgents, terrorists, or smugglers in our area. No credible reporting on Al Gab’aa exists, and the commander’s decision to send a patrol to investigate is based more on a hunch than anything else. I am surprised at the decision to execute the mission because the IAs are always hesitant to conduct an operation unless they have rock-solid intelligence. They don’t want to waste fuel if they aren’t going to find something.
The operation is led by Captain Hassan and 3rd Company, but it isn’t really a company-level operation. With 3rd Battalion’s diminished personnel and vehicle numbers it is more like a platoon-level mission, and we augment the force with two Humvee crews. My team and I go along as advisors and observers—not as trigger pullers—but we bring firepower and communications assets to the operation that the IAs don’t have. We are loaded for bear, each Humvee packed with belts of machine-gun ammunition and each Marine stacked with rifle and pistol magazines. Throughout the team we spread-load personal radios, satellite phones, cell phones, and the team’s SATCOM system. If the mission runs into trouble we can leverage Coalition firepower, and if the Iraqi soldiers take casualties we can call helicopters for casualty evacuation (CASEVAC).
We travel south in a column along the deserted highway, the team’s Humvees interspersed throughout the Iraqi patrol. It is the IA’s convoy, but the invisible bubble of our Chameleons protects the Iraqis from radio-controlled IEDs (RCIEDs), and so they keep their vehicles close to ours. We concentrate on the route in front of us and the garbage strewn along the roadsides, and even though no one ever talks about the IEDs we know they are out there somewhere. Instead, the Marines chat back and forth over the vehicle intercom system. It is better than sitting in silence, alone with your thoughts.
Eventually we approach the plantation; from a distance it is an oasis in the middle of the barren desert. From high above it looks like a grid, and it is apparent that somehow someone managed to break the code on desert irrigation. The cultivated area was a deliberate project at some point in history, its neatly lined rows of trees parallel and even. But it is overgrown now, untended and wild. The rows of shaggy, unpruned olive trees crowd the paths and block any view of the plantation’s center. The battalion commander and his staff are correct: Al Gab’aa is a perfect place for the enemy to hide—either himself or his weapons.
Several of the IA vehicles break off from the column and occupy blocking positions at the plantation’s corners. We follow suit and set our two Humvees in the shadow of a small bridge near the southeastern entrance to the tree line. SSgt. Clarence Wolf, the team’s communications chief, unpacks the SATCOM radio and assembles its antenna array. He is from Wisconsin, and he has completed a previous tour as a Marine recruiter. He has a smooth, shaved head, and his soft-spoken demeanor and youthful features are deceiving. He is capable of transitioning to a direct, hands-on leadership style, and the business and people skills he has learned during recruiting duty help to balance out the rigid drill field mentality possessed by Staff Sergeant Leek. He tends to begin his answer to every question I ask him with “Honestly, sir?” as if I might want him to bullshit me rather than telling me the hard truth. Soon Wolf is talking to the team’s COC back at COP
South, and once that link is established my comfort level increases. The rest of the Outlanders now know where we are and what we are doing.
The junood move into the tree line, and Sgt. Theo Bowers, Lieutenant Bates, Mason, Big Mo (another interpreter), and I follow them, trailing behind far enough to let the Iraqi soldiers do their job but close enough to observe them and assist them if necessary. Once past the initial barrier of trees we find a series of small houses within the plantation. The homes are tiny and rundown with age, and none appears to have electricity or running water. Chickens and unkempt, scabby dogs wander back and forth through the courtyards. Small children peer out at us from behind tattered curtains. The difference between the Marines and the junood is striking. The junood carry little more than their uniforms and rifles, while the Marines stand in the shadows weighted down by their menacing, oversized body armor and helmets. The locals who venture outside their homes eye us with no small degree of suspicion and wonder. But eventually they accept our presence and seem to forget we are even there.
The locals are compliant with the Iraqi soldiers, patiently answering questions and even offering information. When the IAs find an unregistered AK-47 with one family they question an old woman who claims ownership of the rusted weapon. The soldiers determine that the rifle is used only for home defense, and since each family is authorized to have one AK-47 they record the serial number, take her name, and hand the weapon back to her. We are unconcerned; the rifle is so worn out and rusted that we doubt it will even fire.
In the Gray Area Page 10