“I know, sadie,” I said, trying to console him. “But I think Third Battalion is ready to be on its own.”
“Well,” he replied, “you must have lunch with me every day until you leave.”
Our meal continued, but he didn’t eat much. It had never occurred to me that I would have such an impact on him when it eventually came time for us to leave. But then again, I wasn’t sure what it was that truly upset him. Was it the fact that I was leaving, or was it simply that there was no replacement team coming after us?
As our remaining days at COP South began to dwindle the Marines noticed a marked shift in the Iraqis’ attitudes toward us. The rank-and-file jundi in the battalion seemed not to care. To them we were pretty much just another group of Americans who had come and would soon be gone. But the battalion staff reacted to our impending departure with a peculiar mixture of glee and dread. Dread, because they knew their lifeline was essentially getting cut. They had failed to heed our warnings, and our looming absence meant they would be on their own to succeed or fail. Glee, because they couldn’t wait for us to depart our compound so that they could move in and assume control of whatever we left behind.
In preparation for our exodus my guidance to the team was clear: the most important items to account for and pack up were obviously our serialized and personal equipment. Anything that the new team could possibly use at the new brigade facility would also be packed up. And I placed special emphasis on accounting for classified material. There was to be nothing left behind that could potentially compromise Coalition operations after the team was gone.
The Iraqi officers grew bolder as each day passed, often asking the Marines what we would be abandoning. They also wanted to know what we personally planned to give them. One evening Master Sergeant Deleon commented to me on what was occurring.
“Check this out,” he said glumly. “Sergeant Major Sattaar asked me point-blank last night, ‘What are you going to give me before you go?’”
“Damn, that was pretty ballsy,” I said.
“You know, sir,” he said, shaking his head in the same crestfallen manner that had become common among the team, “it’s just disappointing. All these crazies care about is what we can give them. They just want a handout.”
“Well,” I said, “it won’t be long now before they get a rude awakening.”
Regardless, the Outlanders hosted the 3rd Battalion staff at a goat grab in our compound on 15 July. Crowded around tables brimming with platters of steaming rice and lamb, the Iraqis and the Americans laughed and joked together. It was a far cry from the stilted conversations held among the same men just five months earlier, when they had been complete strangers. Something resembling camaraderie seemed present during the feast, and I silently cursed that it had taken so long for a bond such as this to develop. The cultural differences had simply been too great, and the time had simply been too short.
The meal complete, we presented each Iraqi staff member with framed photographs of the Outlanders and each team member with his Iraqi counterpart. The Iraqis seemed genuinely appreciative. As I presented my gift to Lieutenant Colonel Ayad I spoke to the assembled audience.
“Sadie, our experience with Third Battalion has been interesting. We have learned a lot. And our experience with you and your battalion will be one that we never forget. We learned a great deal about you and your men, and I hope you were able to learn something about us.”
Because I was speaking on behalf of my Marines I had carefully chosen my words. I knew how they collectively felt about what had happened, and I didn’t want to falsely represent their feelings. During our time together they had observed closely my growing estrangement from Ayad, and had I stood in front of everyone and painted a rosy picture of friendship, equanimity, and harmony between the Americans and the Iraqis I never would have heard the end of it from my men. But I also didn’t want to embarrass the Iraqis. Nothing I said had been dishonest, but I wondered if they would be able to read between the lines.
The Marines began the packout of the camp in earnest on 16 July, and the following day the IAs increased their personal requests for gifts. Captain Ali and Warrant Officer Saadik arrived at our COC and presented to Lieutenant Grubb a typed, translated letter formally requesting supplies, including flash drives and a computer. The two men made a big production of it, and once they left Grubb showed the letter to me.
Name of God the Merciful
Sovereignty respected officer
I told you a few days ago I was needy to Flash 8 bytes and yucca to paper for use in the office of the securities in excess of your answer has been received so far and I hope that Karim Al-Janabi looking to you for using calculators father Tubb for use against me personally a sum of money for badly needed I hope that this matter myself to you and I should be grateful to you You know the Iraqi market expensive and I appreciate that the father bought a calculator Tubb amount Ghali and the memory of an American officer in the army served with us and we were collaborators together in various ways, for the second time I say to you that this is a secret to me Pink
Addressee
N z Sadik
Office training
Howling with laughter, I thrust the letter back at Grubb.
“Hey, ‘Father Tubb,’” I said, tears running down my face. “I can’t even tell what the hell they are asking for. Who translated that?”
“Who knows?” he asked with annoyance. “You believe that shit, sir?”
“Yeah, I do, man,” I said, shaking my head. “I really do.”
I folded the letter up and filed it away, a permanent reminder of the miscommunication and hilarity that had characterized our time as advisors to the Iraqi army.
Chapter 30
Leaving
Comething was different about Ayad, but I couldn’t place it. He sat at his desk the night of 17 July, shoulders squared, and he seemed to look around his office with an air of confidence I had not noticed before. He rose to greet me as I walked through the door, and he warmly embraced me in a hug that lasted longer than normal.
Man, I thought, he’s in a good mood.
He sat next to me, and after a minute of making our routine small talk I noticed the shine of new cloth material on his uniform’s shoulder epaulettes. An additional star had been added to his rank insignia, and he wore the new shoulder boards of an aqeed (colonel). Once he realized I had figured it out he burst into a broad grin, and I heartily congratulated him. A promotion always brings with it a deep sense of personal accomplishment, so I was happy for him. But I was also conflicted. The promotions for scores of soldiers in the battalion had been held up for months, and there Ayad was, flaunting his new rank. I also couldn’t help wondering how he would leverage his newfound authority as a colonel. Would he use it to improve the lot of his soldiers, or would he use it to elevate his own standing in the brigade? Our imminent departure meant that I might never know.
Before my evening get-together with Ayad, Lieutenant Ski had informed me that on the previous two nights 3rd Battalion had conducted raids into Karabilah. As we sat drinking chai Ayad did not mention the operations to me until I asked. He waved it off, saying there were some bad people in Karabilah who needed to be picked up.
“Did you coordinate the raids with the IPs?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “The IPs are corrupt. They would have told the people we were coming.”
His words—and the battalion’s actions—let me down. We had come full circle. In the previous months the Outlanders had gone to great efforts to convince the IAs to stay out of the cities and let the police do their job. Now there we were, preparing to leave, and already the Iraqis were returning to their old tricks and habits. I can see we’ve definitely left a deep impression on them, I thought sarcastically.
The next morning the team moved quickly around the camp, dismantling and cataloging equipment. Two Marines walked into the COC.
“Man, the IAs are going nuts out there with all that stuff,” one of th
em said.
I walked across the compound to the MWR hut. Iraqi soldiers were everywhere, carrying away crates of food, soft drinks, and supplies. It looked like a free-for-all, and I lost my cool.
“Hey!” I shouted to the Marines. “Get the IAs the hell out of here!”
Sergeant Frazier walked up to me.
“I thought we were gonna give them all our extra stuff,” he said.
“Not yet we aren’t,” I growled. “Get these motherfuckers out of the compound. This isn’t a fucking yard sale. I don’t want them in here until we are gone. Then they can have what we leave behind.”
But even after Frazier shooed away the soldiers one lone warrant officer remained, insisting to Lieutenant Bates that he be allowed to haul away everything.
“The battalion commander told me to come get everything,” he said through our interpreter, Sammy.
“Negative,” Bates replied. “Take what you already have in your truck and get out. You can get everything else after the MiTT is gone.”
“No,” the warrant officer demanded. “I have to take it all now.”
Sammy then raised his voice at the man. “Look, I don’t care what your commander told you!” he said, pointing his finger at the Iraqi. “The Americans just told you to get out. Now get out and come back after they are gone!”
Less than an hour later two more Iraqi NCOs found me and Captain Hanna outside the COC.
“Major Rabah told us to come pick up everything,” they told Hanna. “Where is it all?”
I stepped forward.
“Listen,” I said curtly. “I’m telling you this one last time. Get the hell out of here, and tell everyone not to come back until the MiTT leaves.”
The two soldiers walked away, mumbling to themselves. I turned back to Hanna.
“Jesus,” I said, exasperated. “They’re acting like fucking vermin. They’re just waiting to pick our camp clean.”
Once again I felt my goodwill toward the IAs rapidly disintegrating. As much as I wanted our mission with 3rd Battalion to end on a positive note, the closer we got to leaving, the less likely that possibility became.
That afternoon the newly promoted Ameed (Brigadier General) Ra’ed and Lieutenant Colonel Gridley arrived at COP South for a farewell lunch hosted by 3rd Battalion. After the meal the Outlanders filed into Ayad’s office, where he presented small gifts to them one by one.
“We are truly thankful for your presence and all the help you have given us,” he said. “We have lived side by side, through good times and bad, and you will always remain in our hearts.”
His words were touching, and in light of our frustrations with the junood that morning Ayad’s speech was what I had hoped for: a fitting way for our time there to end. But we weren’t gone yet.
By the morning of 19 July the camp was completely barren. Furniture, computers, equipment—all had been accounted for, cataloged, and packed in a row of massive shipping containers that lined the border of our compound. With nothing to do, the Marines sat around in their barren huts and shot the shit, waiting for the arrival of the trucks that would take us and our equipment to Camp Al Qa’im.
That afternoon Colonel Ayad called for me to have lunch with him one last time before the team left. As Sammy and I sat with him waiting for the food to be brought in, Ayad began listing his problems with fuel.
“Fuel is a constant problem for us,” he said. “I don’t have enough to run my battalion.”
“You’re right, sadie,” I said. “It will continue to be a challenge for you until the MOD and Division and Brigade start giving you more.”
“Yes, I don’t get enough,” he repeated. “And so I will have to ask you for fuel before your team leaves COP South.”
I should have seen it coming. I just shook my head slowly.
“Sorry, sadie,” I told him. “It’s no longer my fuel to give. It now belongs to the Coalition.”
A dejected look filled his face, and I continued.
“But I want to tell you what we will be leaving behind in our camp,” I said, reading from my small notebook. “Rolls of concertina wire, empty HESCO barriers, six fully functioning huts with air-conditioners, bottled water, soft drinks, food, and personal hygiene items.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling now. “All of the supplies will go to the junood, and we will use the buildings for billeting spaces, offices, and classrooms.”
“I think that’s a great idea, sadie,” I said, relieved. “I’m glad you have a plan for it all.”
With lunch finished, I prepared to take my leave from Ayad. I had thought long and hard about what I would say to him before leaving, and as our time together came to a close I spoke.
“Sadie, I’ve been your advisor for five months,” I said. “My job has been to give you my advice and recommendations, so before I leave I will pass on to you my parting guidance.”
He sat, listening intently, and I continued.
“No commander makes it to the top by himself. It is not only his skill that gets him there. He gets there because of the men he leads—”
My words were cut short by Ayad’s cell phone. His cell had been the bane of my evening meetings with him; our get-togethers frequently had been interrupted by its ring. The courtesy of not answering a phone call when you have company clearly had not yet made it to Iraq. And so it was during our last meeting. He chatted with some local sheikh for ten minutes while Sammy and I stared at each other.
I had wanted to tell Ayad that leaders are made by the people that they lead, that the most important thing he could do as a commander was to take care of his soldiers. To do so would earn their trust and confidence, and they would eventually do anything for him and the battalion. I had wanted to tell him that it is the staff that makes a battalion work, and that it is the junior officers and NCOs and enlisted men who, when empowered to make decisions, accomplish the mission. I had wanted to tell him all of these things and more, but his cell had rung. In the end a phone call had been more important than what I had to offer him. When his call ended he hung up and looked at me.
“Well,” I said coldly, rising to my feet. “Time for me to go, sadie.”
I stood up and walked out of his office.
The trucks pulled into COP South, and as our shipping containers were being loaded the Iraqi soldiers lined up outside the spiraling concertina wire that circled our camp, waiting for us to leave. As the moment of our departure grew closer the junood brazenly began walking into the camp’s perimeter, practically pushing the Marines out. The Marines stared at them.
“Look at them,” I commented. “They look like a bunch of white trash lined up at the Wal-Mart entrance for a midnight sale.”
“Sir,” one Marine laughed, pointing to the soldiers slowly making their way into the compound. “We got gooks in the wire.”
The Outlanders loaded into their vehicles, and I hopped in the team’s Chevy pickup truck for the drive to Camp Al Qa’im. I had never pictured being able to ride in a truck on the roads in Iraq and still feel secure, yet there I was. It was perhaps a testament to how safe our part of the country had become.
As the long convoy of vehicles pulled away from the compound and turned toward COP South’s ECP I glanced at my rearview mirror. The Iraqi soldiers were filing into our camp in droves, eagerly searching for what the Marines had left behind.
The Outlanders returned to COP South four days later as part of an AO tour we were providing for the overwatch MiTT. Eager to introduce the new team leader to the battalion commander, I escorted him across the camp to Ayad’s hut. But I had timed the visit incorrectly, and we learned from Ayad’s bodyguard that he was asleep. With nothing else to do, I turned to the captain at my side.
“Come on,” I said. “I’ll show you where our team used to live.”
We walked to the MiTT compound. The entrance, which had always been blocked with a strand of razor wire strung across it, was wide open. Trash and debris casually fluttered through the ghost town the ca
mp had become. Glancing around, I was floored by the sight that greeted me. In our absence the IAs had come in and completely wrecked the place. Huts had been ransacked, doors had been torn from their hinges, and bed frames had been broken. Inside the huts all internal wiring and fuse boxes had been stripped, and all light fixtures had been torn out. Bags of garbage had been torn open, their contents strewn across the compound. To add insult to injury, one jundi had even taken a shit in the empty throne of the WAG shack, yet had neglected to use a WAG bag. Another had likewise crapped in the concrete cave of the team’s indirect-fire shelter.
The Marines were livid. I too wanted to feel the same rage, but instead I was merely overcome with utter and complete disappointment. I remembered King Lear’s sad utterance and numbly thought to myself, “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is / To have a thankless child!”
The team had turned over a fully functioning camp to the soldiers of 3rd Battalion, and they in turn had repaid us by raping it. Ayad had assured me the compound would be converted into useful spaces for the soldiers, but now the buildings were unusable. It was a final slap in the face to the team, and the Outlanders departed the camp in a dark mood, utterly disillusioned with what we had been doing.
It was perhaps the worst possible way for us to complete our time as advisors, and everyone—myself included—fought to rinse the bad taste lingering in their mouths. My confidence in 3rd Battalion’s ability to succeed was shaken, and more than ever I began to question what we were doing there. Remembering software engineer Robert Glass’s words about the true definition of reality, I wondered sadly if the “beautiful theory” of the advisor team mission had been murdered by “a gang of ugly facts.” My Marines had done everything they could to help 3rd Battalion—more than they probably should have—but now the Iraqis truly would have to do it on their own if they wanted to succeed. It was time to throw them in the water and let them sink or swim. Our part there—my part—was done.
In the Gray Area Page 22