In the Gray Area

by Seth W. B. Folsom

  “But he’s never even met her!” I exclaimed, rolling my eyes.

  “I know, sir,” replied Bates. “Weird, huh? They sent him out on mujaas.”

  “Well, when will he be back?” I asked.

  “Who knows? He hasn’t been on leave in over a year.”

  I marveled at the situation. If something similar had occurred with a Marine officer—an emotional collapse over a faceless Internet love—he would have been laughed out of the service. If someone whom Al’aa had never even met face-to-face had been able to affect his work and personal state of mind that much, just how effective would he really be when he returned to the battalion—if he returned to the battalion? But Al’aa’s situation was not unique. Officers within the battalion routinely departed on “personal leave” for a variety of reasons. Whatever the reason—family crises, pay problems, illness—the IA officers typically left work at the drop of a hat. It was a luxury few Iraqi soldiers were afforded, and for us it demonstrated once more the gulf between Iraqi officers and soldiers and how differently they were treated. Whether it was personal liberties and entitlements, quality of food, personal allocations of water, or constant air-conditioning, the IA officers lived a better life than the soldiers, and the soldiers knew it. It was detrimental to their morale, and I wondered if my team and I—through our own personal example—would ever be able to convince the Iraqi officers to change their paradigm.

  Chapter 21

  Terps and Tensions

  The relationship between the Iraqi army and the police force—which had already been tenuous—took a turn for the worse on 16 April. During a routine convoy the 28th Brigade commander, Colonel Ra’ed, stopped off at an IP substation south of Ubaydi peninsula. Acting on a tip, Ra’ed and his PSD found a cache of RPG launchers and rockets, weapons that were illegal for the IPs to possess. Ra’ed and his men confiscated the ordnance and continued on their way. An angry, heated phone conversation between Ra’ed and Colonel Jamaal, the district IP chief, followed, during which Ra’ed attempted to smooth over the situation. His apologies were instead furiously rebuffed by Jamaal, and in an instant tension between the IAs and the IPs around Al Qa’im escalated. Lieutenant Colonel Gridley warned me about the potential consequences.

  “Keep your eyes and ears open about what is going on right now,” he cautioned. “After Colonel Jamaal motherfucked Ra’ed like that there’s no telling how the IAs will respond.”

  “We’ve been trying to keep Third Battalion out of the cities,” I replied. “But I don’t know how much success we’re going to have with that. Ayad is pretty determined to keep operating there.”

  “Just look out. Things could potentially get out of hand pretty quickly between the IA and IP.”

  Ra’ed’s actions had needlessly exacerbated the army’s lack of trust in the IPs, and I imagined our effort with 3rd Battalion taking another very large step backward. Unless Ra’ed and Jamaal met face-to-face and somehow managed to cool their newfound animosity toward each other, their attitudes were bound to trickle down their respective chains of command. As I had worried previously, it could climax with a shoot-out between the IAs and IPs. The results would be disastrous.

  The regional security meeting that took place at Mayor Farhan’s residence in Husaybah several days later was a tense affair. Colonel Jamaal did not show up, and his absence clearly insulted both the mayor and the IA officers present. Although the Marine task force commander attempted to gloss over the issue, Jamaal’s nonattendance hung like an uncomfortable shroud over the entire meeting. It did not bode well for the ongoing drama unfolding between the local army and police forces.

  Life around COP South was not solely focused on advising the Iraqis. Because of our isolation and distance from supporting units we spent a substantial portion of our time conducting camp maintenance and other life-support activities. A large part of our time was dedicated to running convoys to Camp Al Qa’im, where we tended to logistical and administrative matters. Around COP South there was always maintenance and area improvement work to be done, and it was always a team effort.

  On 18 April, as the team worked in small groups on minor maintenance projects around the compound, Staff Sergeant Leek and I tackled a digging project that we had put off for too long. A communications cable running from the COC and across the camp’s throughway to our satellite relay needed to be buried to keep it from getting cut by the IA trucks and Humvees that constantly sped through the compound. Soon after we began our work Lieutenant Grubb joined us, and for close to two hours the three of us took turns hacking away at the rock-hard ground with a pickax. Choking dust and rock chips flew everywhere, and before long we were dripping in sweat and caked with chalky powder and debris. During the middle of our efforts Ayad drove through the camp with his PSD, and when he spied me swinging away with the ax a puzzled look filled his face. As he drove away he continued to gaze at me as if I was a life-form from another planet. I turned to Leek.

  “Jesus,” I said, wiping the dust from my eyes. “He looks like he’s never seen someone digging a fucking trench before.”

  “He’s probably pissed that the junood are seeing you do actual work,” Leek grunted, shaking his head. “Makes him look bad. The jundis know that their fucking officers don’t do any work at all.”

  “Well, we aren’t gonna change that,” I said, my aggravation bleeding through. “The only physical work they ever do is lifting a fucking glass of chai to their mouths ten times a day.”

  The inclusion of interpreters in our team and learning how to utilize them was something entirely new to me when we deployed to Iraq. Two interpreters—Muhammad and Muhammad, both hired through a Department of Defense (DOD) contract—had joined us at the start of our training at ATG, and the intent had been for them to train and deploy with us to Al Qa’im. A third interpreter had been unable to deploy with us at the last minute, and so Mason had been assigned to the team. Involving the interpreters early in the training had been a good idea. It gave the Marines a chance to find out how to employ them and learn about the culture and language before actually setting foot in Iraq.

  But our time with our three interpreters prior to departing the United States was not without friction. I had made my intent clear to the team and our interpreters early in our training. To the Marines I had simply said, “The terps are part of our team. Welcome them aboard and include them in everything we do.” Similarly, to the interpreters I had said, “Welcome to the team. We are happy to have you aboard with us. You are with a Marine team; I expect you to act accordingly and participate in everything the Marines do.”

  The friction began soon after. Of the two Muhammads on the team, Little Mo—so named because of his slender frame, as opposed to Big Mo, who was much heftier—tended to pick and choose when to become involved. When the Marines were taking turns jamming nose hoses into each others’ nostrils during our predeployment medical training he refused to participate. When there was heavy lifting to be done, he was often conveniently absent. When the team spent a freezing two weeks at Mojave Viper, he passed the majority of his time curled up in the warmth of his sleeping bag. He ostracized himself, and the situation initially came to a head during the team’s after-action review at the close of Mojave Viper. When his turn to speak came, he addressed the Marines sitting around the table.

  “You all have to remember that I’m just an interpreter. I’m not a Marine,” he had said, slight contempt coating his voice. “If I can help out, I will. I would take a bullet for some of you guys. But you can’t talk to me like a Marine. You can’t treat me like a Marine.”

  The Marines’ ears had perked up. Some of us, I had thought. A warning beacon had just been flashed to me, but I refused to heed its alarm.

  Similar behavior continued, and as we transitioned from Camp Pendleton through the different waypoints in Iraq Little Mo’s behavior became more and more unacceptable. At one point he refused to attend classes at the Phoenix Academy, choosing instead to sit in his room and pout l
ike a small child.

  His inability to mesh with the team continued after we arrived at COP South, and toward the end of March Captain Hanna pulled him aside and laid down the law. Hanna, who struck me as perhaps the most polished, levelheaded, and professional officer I had ever encountered, counseled Little Mo the way he would have a young Marine. Mo, who at age twenty-one seemed in the midst of a rebellious phase, was less than receptive to Hanna’s approach, and we soon learned that he planned to request reassignment to another team.

  Hearing all this from Hanna and Master Sergeant Deleonguerrero, I thought for a moment, and then turned to Deleon.

  “Well, Top, what do you think?”

  Deleon didn’t hesitate.

  “Shit-can his trash,” he said, flashing me the rock band sign for emphasis.

  I looked at Hanna and Lieutenant Ski, who as the team’s “terp manager” had been responsible for Little Mo’s routine performance counselings. Both officers nodded in agreement.

  “Concur,” I said. “I’m sick of his shit, and I’m not going to let him leave on his own terms. Get him on the first bird out of here. Bring him to me the night before his flight and I’ll take care of it.”

  When Little Mo appeared at my door several days later, Deleon and I were waiting for him. I didn’t mince words or waste time.

  “Muhammad, it’s not working out with you here, and I’m having you reassigned.”

  He looked shocked; clearly he hadn’t been expecting it.

  “Do you mind if I ask why?” he asked contemptuously.

  “Sure,” I replied. “You’re lazy, immature, and generally not a team player. Quite frankly, Muhammad, you are a drain on the team, and your presence is disrupting for everyone.”

  “Well,” he answered aloofly, rolling his eyes. “If that’s what you want.”

  “You’re right, Muhammad. It is what I want. Pack your bags. A flight will be here for you tomorrow.”

  I was taking a gamble. Little Mo and Big Mo had grown up together, and both had signed on together as a package deal. The possibility existed that Big Mo would make his exit with his friend, but I was willing to take that chance. Little Mo’s departure would be the best thing for the team in the long run. Ultimately, Big Mo didn’t quit, but he was angry about his friend’s release for weeks afterward.

  Big Mo’s agitation wasn’t the only problem we had once Little Mo had left the team. Several weeks later Hanna alerted me that the interpreters were feeling isolated by the Marines and left out of the loop. In an attempt to remedy the situation, I reiterated to the men that they needed to treat the interpreters as vital team members. After all, without them we would be unable to do our jobs with the Iraqis. I adjusted my guidance by telling the Marines that while certain cultural differences existed that we needed to respect, the terps would still be expected to participate in all team duties. That included policing the camp and other routine duties the Marines themselves were required to perform on a daily basis. The same information was passed to the interpreters, and all seemed to be right with the world again.

  But the next day, 19 April, everything blew up. As the Marines prepared to leave the wire for the regional security meeting in Husaybah, I walked back to my hut to retrieve my backpack. While I was away Shawn, one of the local-hire interpreters, wandered up to the assembled Marines, more than thirty minutes late for the team’s convoy brief. Captain Hanna pulled him aside.

  “Listen, Shawn,” he said firmly. “You need to be on time for these briefings.”

  “Why do I have to be on time?” Shawn asked indignantly.

  “Look, you need to be here because you were fucking told to be here,” Hanna countered, his anger rising. “Period.”

  “I was in the toilet.”

  “I don’t care!” Hanna said, raising his voice. “You were told to be here at zero-eight. I’m fucking tired of you always being late and always having excuses. Let me be clear: When you are told to be somewhere at a specific time, you are expected to follow through.”

  Shawn stepped closer to Hanna and began yelling.

  “No one talks to me that way! I don’t understand why it’s so fucking important that I be on time!”

  “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are talking to, Shawn, but you will not yell at me, give me excuses, or tell me that you don’t have to be on time.”

  As the exchange between the two began to spiral, Mason stepped in, attempting to calm Shawn down. But Shawn would have nothing of it, and he stormed away from the Marines.

  “This is fucking bullshit!” he yelled to no one in particular. “Fuck you guys! I quit! I’m out of here! Someone take me to AQ right now!”

  As I returned to the vehicles I heard several Marines and interpreters yelling for Shawn to come back. I rounded the bend just in time to see him storming off across the compound, shaking his head furiously and mumbling to himself. I walked up to Hanna.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Hanna, who rarely expressed anger in front of the Marines, irately shook his head.

  “Shawn was thirty minutes late to the convoy brief,” he began. “We just got into a pissing match.” Hanna continued to relay the story to me.

  “Damn, I’m sorry I missed that,” I said.

  “What do you want to do?” Hanna asked, calming down.

  “Can’t do much about it now,” I replied. “Come on, we’re late. Let him stew in his own juices, and we’ll deal with it when we get back from the meeting. He’s done, regardless.”

  The decision about what to do with Shawn was an easy one. He wanted to go, and I wanted him gone. By mouthing off to Hanna in front of all the Marines and then refusing to go on the convoy, Shawn had sealed his own fate. We arranged for his reassignment immediately, and once more a terp was removed from the team. Although I didn’t regret firing either interpreter—or a third whom we later had reassigned for a near inability to properly translate even the simplest dialogue—I wondered if I had set in motion a pattern that would eventually result in all of our interpreters leaving the team. The standards we had set for them had not been unreasonable. They were not expected to stand duty, nor were they expected to do things above and beyond that which was expected of the Marines. Yet as much as we tried to bring the interpreters into the fold and include them as part of the team, there would always be differences that made doing so that much more difficult. Little Mo had been correct: they were not Marines. But somehow we had to figure out a way to get along. Without them we were sunk.

  Following the regional security meeting Lieutenant Colonel Ayad began discussing the island cache-sweep operation he had first mentioned to me the previous week. As I sat in his office, a glass of chai in front of me, he told me he wanted to conduct the operation within forty-eight hours.

  “Were you able to get the boats that I asked you for?” he asked.

  “Sadie, you need to request them from Brigade before my team can do anything about it,” I answered, not liking where the conversation was headed.

  “They won’t give them to us.”

  “Did you request them?” I asked. Conversations such as this were becoming commonplace, repeating like a broken record.

  “No,” he answered. “They won’t give them to us anyway.”

  “Jesus,” I muttered to myself. “This is going nowhere.” I decided to try a different approach.

  “Well,” I continued, “if you want to conduct the mission in less than two days, then perhaps you should contract some boats from the local fishermen.”

  Ayad thought for moment, and then nodded his head.

  “Yes, that is what we’ll do since the MiTT was unable to get us the boats.”

  His comment took me by surprise, and I snapped back at him.

  “Whoa, wait a minute, sadie,” I said, stabbing my finger against the glass top of the coffee table for emphasis. It was time for a conversation that was long past due. “That’s not how it works. We don’t just ‘get stuff’ for you. You are suppos
ed to request all support through your higher headquarters, and then you are supposed to follow the request through to completion.”

  He stared at me blankly, and I continued to lecture him.

  “If your request goes all the way up the chain of command and back down with no results, only then will my team and I leverage Coalition support.”

  “It’s useless to request anything from our higher headquarters,” he protested, once again repeating his tired song. “They’ll never answer our request. They don’t have anything, and if they do they won’t give it to us.”

  The conversation was pointless; I felt like I was talking to a wall. I attempted yet another approach.

  “Look, sadie,” I began. “You need to make your higher headquarters work for you. That’s their job. Make them do it. You have to at least make the effort before my team can step in, otherwise the situation will never get better.”

  I continued, attempting to explain how the squeaky wheel gets the grease, but he still shook his head.

  “Look,” I finally said, exasperated. “Have you talked to the brigade commander about any of this?”

  “No.”

  “Well, if you identify something as being high priority and you feel the brigade staff isn’t giving your battalion the support it needs, then you need to engage Colonel Ra’ed on the matter.”

  I closed the conversation by reminding him once more that my MiTT team wasn’t there to give them things or do their job for them. We were there merely to train, coach, mentor, and advise. It had been our least pleasant chat to date, and I left his office deeply distressed. Clearly the previous teams had given much more than perhaps they should have, and in doing so had created unreasonable expectations on the part of Ayad and his staff.

  But I couldn’t leave the conversation where it had ended, so I returned the following evening to continue the dialogue. After our routine formalities I launched right into the points I had prepared.