by Joshua Welle
At that moment a number of thoughts were competing for my focus. What would I have done had I been at the controls? Would I have managed to crashland the helicopter as well as the pilots of 613 had? Would we have lived? How was our aircraft going to perform today and would I make any mistakes? My thoughts snapped back to the present—I had a helicopter to land and a mission to complete. We landed on our designated spot in the soccer field and began preparations to load food and water onto our stripped-down aircraft. All tactical gear and unnecessary equipment had been removed in order to carry as much as possible, whether it be people, water, or foodstuffs. We took on about 5,000 pounds of goods and were on our way again.
For the remainder of the day, we made our way up and down the coastline and ventured inland where villages once stood. Makeshift camps supplanted pretsunami communities, most of which had already been cataloged and marked for regular resupply over the coming days. On this particular day, we sought out inland communities and villages that had been spared from inundation but were isolated from assistance because the only road, their sole lifeline, had been consumed by the tsunami’s waves. These communities, in dire straits, desperately needed water and food. Many also needed medical assistance. Our one helicopter could only bring so much, but over the course of the day, we made multiple sorties and found a number of isolated villages in distress. We dropped off our load, marked the locations, and evacuated the injured or sick.
We refueled three times: aboard the carrier, on an amphibious ship, and on a cruiser. The only food we had was Pop Tarts, and I ate three packs. (I could gladly go my whole life without eating another Pop Tart!) We made multiple deliveries to villages along the coast and inland, and we evacuated dozens of people to the triage tent at the airport at Banda Aceh. In many ways, my ten-hour day captured precisely the intent of our leaders for the mission. Over time, the mission took on a clarity all its own with each flight and successful supply drop and evacuation. Our utility as a helicopter squadron was proven consistently over that long day and during the entire month we provided assistance to the people of Sumatra.
The panoramic view of devastation we had seen on our first day began to be built up and added to with every flight. Each village and makeshift camp was marked for continued resupply. As the weeks passed, we got a more comprehensive picture of the post-tsunami landscape, both human and geographic. People migrated to areas near the coastline where food, water, and medical assistance existed. We established ground checkpoints—often named after familiarities or derived from local names, one of the more memorable being PB&J—air routing, and altitude separation for aircraft heading up the coast and those transiting down the coast, and established common operating frequencies. All of this served to lay the foundation for successful flight operations as well as the overall mission.
The men and women of CVW-2, USS Abraham Lincoln, and HS-2 proved they were adaptable and could discharge any duty to which they were assigned. This mission was an unknown to all personnel but would in many ways set the precedent for future humanitarian assistance in disaster relief operations. Amid the ever-evolving landscape of conflict, threat, and natural disaster, the Navy will continue to adapt and bring to bear its assets in support of any mission it is assigned. It was proven in Sumatra, validated in New Orleans, and employed most recently in Japan. It will continue to be an integral component not only for advancing U.S. interests and national security, but also for showcasing the nation’s beneficence.
Training with the Enemy: Iraq and U.S. Naval Partnerships
Travis Bode
In 2006, I was assigned to a Tarawa-class assault ship called USS Peleliu—a “motorized island” stationed off the coast of Iraq and temporary home to more than two thousand sailors and Marines. I had always dreamt of being closer to the fight, so when the opportunity presented itself, I jumped at the chance to work with Combined Task Force 158. I would be a liaison officer for a U.K.-led group of Royal Navy and U.S. Navy personnel charged with training the Iraqi Navy. Maritime security in the northern Persian Gulf was anything but stable at the time, and we knew we had a challenge ahead of us in trying to build a strong and effective force in Iraq.
I would be based out of Umm Qasr, a major port facility. My responsibilities included going on patrols with the Iraqi Navy to nearby oil platforms and the Khawr Abd Allah River, the main waterway between the Persian Gulf and the port. This area had been a hotbed of contention between Iraq and Iran for decades, and as a result sunken ships litter the riverbed to this day. Another river, the Shatt al-Arab, serves as a maritime border between the two countries, forming Iraq’s southeastern border, and drains out into the Persian Gulf. The 1975 Algiers Accord between Iran and Iraq attempted to settle a border dispute between the two countries by designating the border at the thalweg, or median deep-water line. The thalweg, however, has shifted over time, and with no survey having been completed since the accord was signed, the exact border remains unclear and therefore contested.
Iran’s Revolutionary Guard Corps aggressively enforces what it perceives to be Iran’s rightful territorial waters. On two occasions prior to 2006, coalition military personnel were taken hostage by Iranian naval forces in the general area. There was potentially imminent danger because the Iraqi government and military were in their infancy and vulnerable to attack. As I embarked on my new mission, foremost in my mind were the reports of American coalition advisers being killed by turncoat Iraqi soldiers. Here I was, about to be a senior Navy adviser and the only American on board a seventy-five-foot Iraqi Navy patrol boat. Just the thought of it made me instinctively reach down to check my side-arm in its holster—loaded, round chambered, safety on. I’d volunteered for this, but not without apprehension.
When the time came for me to be dropped off at the patrol boat, I was nothing but nerves. I tried to take in as many details as I could: The patrol boat was covered in black soot and tar from the vessel’s engine exhaust, and Iraqi sailors ran around on deck in all directions and dressed in all different kinds of uniforms. The scene reminded me of something out of the movie McHale’s Navy.
I was experiencing my own version of culture shock. This wouldn’t be like training plebes in King Hall; that was something I knew I could do. This felt different because of the cultural chasm between the Iraqi sailors and myself. I wondered how I would ever fit in with these sailors. I was raised in Scottsdale, Arizona—not exactly the roughest town in America; I was trained in Annapolis, the most structured college in the country; and I was a Judeo-Christian with only a limited understanding of the Islamic faith.
I thought back to the numerous statements by senior U.S. officials about what our mission was supposed to be: help the Iraqi military stand on its own feet. I heaved my bag on board the Iraqi boat feeling that the mission—to turn this ragtag bunch of Iraqis into a modern navy—was beyond my capabilities. Despite my reservations, since I was a surface warfare officer (SWO), and my seniors must have felt I was multitalented enough to make this happen, I was determined to prove them right. That was the SWO ethos. SWOs are flexible, quick thinkers, and willing to take on any challenge no matter how futile it might appear to be.
On board the Iraqi patrol boat, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that the captain had attended Dartmouth Royal Naval College (the United Kingdom’s naval academy) and spoke excellent English. Over Pepsis and Twinkies during the transit to Umm Qasr, the captain and I discussed life in our respective countries. It was evident from talking to him that he loved Iraq, but he was also envious of America’s wealth and democratic way of life. We found common ground in our love of the sea and knowledge of nautical rules of the road, the cornerstone of any mariner’s profession. It was a simple conversation, but already I was starting to feel some hope for our mission.
Early on, I had the opportunity to participate in Operation United River Dragon, a joint operation between Iraq, Kuwait, and the United States to provide security along the Khawr Abd Allah and the extreme northern Persian Gulf near Kuw
aiti and Iraqi waters. My job was to help the Iraqi captain coordinate his operations with the Kuwaiti and U.S. elements. This wouldn’t be easy. First, the Kuwaitis harbored a deep-seated resentment toward the Iraqis because of the 1990 Iraqi invasion and subsequent plundering of Kuwait. Their nationalistic distaste for one another was palatable. Second, the Kuwait Navy and Kuwait Coast Guard did not get along, because they were subordinate to two rival ministries—defense and interior. Thankfully, on board the Kuwait Navy patrol boat would be Joe Hooper, one of my Naval Academy classmates.
Prior to the commencement of the exercise, the participants rendezvoused on board the Kuwait Navy boat for a coordination meeting. In private, Joe and I discussed our concerns about the meeting and the overall operation. We knew we’d be the only real sounding board for one another’s ideas and that we’d need to work together to get through this in one piece. In my speech in front of the whole group, I reminded the separate factions that we had a singular goal—to bring security to the river and provide a better place for people to live. I tried to say it with confidence, although the Iraqis and Kuwaitis would not speak to each other, and the Kuwait Navy and coast guard representatives wouldn’t either. As we were leaving the conference room, Joe and I exchanged looks of doubt; we both knew from the first meeting that this operation would be fraught with complications. Whatever lessons I had drawn from my political science classes and from reading Tom Clancy novels were being put to the test. The plan was for each of the different elements to patrol a specific sector of the Khawr Abd Allah—God willing, or insha’Allah, as my Arabic-speaking comrades would say.
Those of us on the Iraqi patrol boat proceeded to our assigned sector. One of the long-term objectives for the Iraqi Navy was for it to assert itself as the primary security provider along the Iraqi part of the Shatt al-Arab. After the fall of Saddam Hussein’s government and the disintegration of the Iraqi military as a security provider, pirates—ali babas in Arabic—had free reign along the river for smuggling and robbery. It was the job of the nascent Iraqi Navy to reclaim the local waters from the ali babas and provide a secure environment for fisherman and merchant traffic. It was particularly important for local fishermen and merchants to see the Iraqi Navy actively patrolling the local waters. To accomplish this, I encouraged the Iraqi captain to approach and interact with various fishing vessels (dhows) to reinforce the presence of the Iraqi Navy and to ask questions regarding the presence of ali babas. The Iraqi captain was skeptical of the practice. The first time we came alongside one of the dhows, he didn’t know what to do, so he chose to remain inside the pilothouse.
The crew of the dhow looked at us like we were crazy. “What are you doing here? Do you need something?” their looks seemed to ask. The Naval Academy had taught me to make decisions and take swift action, and it was difficult for me to let the Iraqis take the lead. The Academy had also taught me patience, so I waited. (It helped to think back to what it had been like standing at attention on the parade ground in Annapolis, sweating on a hot Maryland day waiting for the next command from the Brigade adjutant.) As much as I wanted to, I didn’t leave the pilothouse, and I didn’t take charge. It was important to let the Iraqis do this themselves.
I did, however, coach the Iraqi captain through a series of questions, such as, Have you seen any ali babas in the area? If so, when? Which direction do they normally come from? We also told the crew to contact us over bridge-to-bridge radio if they saw any ali babas. As we executed several of these approaches and visits, the Iraqi captain’s confidence grew, and I could tell that he was feeling more sure of himself and enjoying the work.
It didn’t take long, however, for the tensions I had witnessed in the coordination meeting to resurface. My first indication of a problem came over the bridge-to-bridge radio in the form of yelling in Arabic and a look of alarm from the captain. He immediately got on the radio and began conversing with someone in Arabic. He told me that a Kuwaiti patrol boat was harassing an Iraqi merchant ship transiting the Khawr Abd Allah to Umm Qasr, ordering the vessel to lower its Iraqi flag and strike up a Kuwaiti flag while it was in Kuwaiti waters. (Parts of the Khawr Abd Allah are Kuwaiti, but vessels of all flags are allowed to transit this area in accordance with international law.) The Iraqi merchant had refused to comply, and the Kuwaitis threatened to open fire. As we rushed to the scene, I radioed Joe to get an explanation from him and figure out how to diffuse the situation.
We were right in the middle of a potentially serious international incident, and as we sped along, I worried that one of our patrol boats would open fire on the other, putting me and Joe on opposing sides. Joe told me that he didn’t know why the Kuwaitis were doing what they were doing and that he had thus far been unsuccessful in getting them to back off. As we tried to come up with a plan, a U.S. Coast Guard patrol boat came to the rescue. Its captain contacted the Kuwaitis, citing specific articles of international law that supported the Iraqi merchant’s insistence that he was not obligated to follow the Kuwaitis’ demands. After several minutes of discussion between the Kuwaitis and Coast Guard captain, the Kuwaitis backed down, barely avoiding an international incident.
That same night, we proceeded out to sea to patrol the area just northwest of the offshore Iraqi oil terminals. An estimated 90 percent of Iraq’s oil is exported through the two oil terminals we were visiting, and as a result they are closely guarded by the Iraqi Navy and a coalition naval task force. As we drew closer to the terminals, the ship went dark, and we lost all power. No propulsion, no radio, and no lights. I knew that if I didn’t remain calm, the Iraqis around me might panic. As we drifted to the southeast, I was concerned about two things: being fired upon by the coalition naval task force as we drifted into the security sectors around the oil terminals, and drifting into Iranian territorial waters, which were about a mile or two away.
With no way to call for help, I urged the Iraqi captain to fix the problem as soon as possible. If we drifted into Iranian waters and an Iranian patrol identified us, we would almost certainly be taken into custody. Much to my surprise, he responded quickly this time and went into the engine room and personally helped the crew rectify the problem. After several hours, and before drifting into Iranian waters or the security zone around the oil platforms, the engineers were able to fix the problem, and we resumed our patrol. Less than a year after my deployment, fifteen British sailors and marines were detained by Iranian military personnel in this same area, allegedly for violating Iranian territorial waters.
Being an adviser in a complex joint environment was both empowering and humbling for me. I was proud to wear the American uniform and could tell it was respected by the foreign militaries, but as an adviser my authority was limited. It was a powerful lesson in respecting the mission and supporting the host nation with patient, steadfast leadership. With each successful day, trust grew between me and the Iraqi captain. I began to think there was real hope for Iraq’s reconstituted navy. When I let Iraq, I felt confident that my contribution, albeit quite small in the grand scheme of things, helped the Iraqi Navy stand on its own two feet and eventually turn the tide in that country.
Travis Bode at sea in the Persian Gulf mentoring an Iraqi naval officer. (Courtesy Travis Bode)
UN Peacekeeping in Practice
Dave Augustin
The dirt roads leading out of the city of Voinjama were some of the worst in all of Liberia. It took almost an hour for our UN patrol vehicle to travel the short distance from the city to the village of Masabulahun. Thankfully it was January and the beginning of the dry season, otherwise the roads would have been impassable trails of red mud. Occasionally we passed a pickup truck overflowing with people and supplies headed toward Sierra Leone or Guinea, but otherwise the roads were clear, and it was a lonely journey. I had plenty of time to reflect on how I had gotten there and what a unique deployment I was entering.
As a submarine officer, I never imagined my career path would bring me to the jungles of West Africa. A Navy officer’s c
areer progression is generally rigid and does not allow for opportunities outside the submarine community, so when I was offered the opportunity to serve with the UN mission in Liberia I jumped at the chance. At the time, I didn’t even realize that the United States sent officers to UN missions.
Many of the countries that support UN missions do not have large militaries, therefore sending fifty or one hundred soldiers to a UN peacekeeping mission is significant, and only the best and brightest are chosen. Presently there are twenty deployed U.S. military members supporting several UN missions. This is a small number and will remain small because the United States provides so much financial assistance to the United Nations. In our compound, I was the most junior officer and the youngest, but I was the team’s operations officer, a senior position, because I am an American, and Americans are considered to be particularly capable and hard working. It was an honor for me.
That first trip from Voinjama had left me tired and thirsty from inhaling dust and dirt kicked up by our vehicle. I was also nervous. I had only been working in Liberia as a UN peacekeeper a few days prior to heading out on my first patrol. I barely knew my teammate, a friendly Nigerian named Nehemiah, and now we would be on a patrol together to an isolated village in the Liberian countryside for the rest of the day. Our task was to enter a village of complete strangers and assess health conditions, education, economic development, and crime in the community. The first village we visited was one of nearly one thousand towns and villages under our jurisdiction. We were unarmed peacekeepers, each wearing our national military uniform and a light blue and white armband to signify our mandate. I didn’t really know what I was supposed to be doing or how the villagers would react to our presence. Arriving at the town, I grabbed my camera and clipboard and got out of the patrol vehicle.