“You want to come on patrol with us?” Lieutenant Dirty Jerz asked. “I’m coordinating for some IPs since every patrol has to be ‘joint’ now. We’re checking out that rumored IRAM [improvised rocket-assisted mortar] factory site. You got anything better to do?”
I laughed. “Nope, just a meeting that will take what little is left of my soul. I’m definitely in. What time is your patrol brief?”
“Ten minutes before noon.”
“Word.”
A wave of IRAM threats had swept the greater Baghdad area in recent weeks, something that instilled legitimate fear in all of us, from the lowest-ranking private to all of the generals at Camp Victory and Camp Liberty. Designed for catastrophic attacks, the IRAM seemed tailor made for assaults on urban combat outposts; in essence, it lobbed multiple bombs, rockets, mortars, or ball bearings over obstacles like fences and T-wall barriers in an arced trajectory. The difficulties of defending against the IRAM compounded its dangers, as an attack could be initiated from the bed of a small truck by remote control. The device sort of reminded me of a Transformer, from the 1980s cartoon show, but I didn’t want to sound any more juvenile or irreverent than I already came across, so I kept that thought to myself. While this threat was nothing new to the Iraq War, an IRAM attack on JSS Ur directly to our south in July 2008 had, according to the after-action reports, barely avoided becoming an outright disaster for Coalition forces. While JSS Istalquaal didn’t seem like a prime site for an IRAM attack, as opposed to places like JSS Ur, located in the heart of that city, and Saba al-Bor, a smattering of intelligence reports suggesting that IRAM construction was transpiring in Hussaniyah became a focus of our brigade’s leadership. Thus, it became our new daily patrol focus as well.
Although not necessarily stoked to be IRAM hunting, I knew I needed to get back out of the wire, so I felt thankful Lieutenant Dirty Jerz had asked me to come along. With battalion on the JSS, my PowerPoint output had increased exponentially, and a self-respecting man could handle only so much of that. After I dropped off the aforementioned paperwork, I walked back to the Iraqi police dispatch office to thank Lieutenant Dirty Jerz properly for the patrol invitation. I found him talking to the dispatcher through an interpreter.
“I understand this patrol isn’t on your schedule,” Lieutenant Dirty Jerz said through clenched teeth, “but it’s important. We had a new intel report come in, so we have to adjust. We’re leaving in an hour. You’re telling me you can’t get me a few guys in an hour? All I need is two guys.”
The Iraqi dispatcher jolted visibly, rattled off a sentence in Arabic into his handheld radio, and waited for the reply. The interpreter heard it and turned to Lieutenant Dirty Jerz.
“His captain say that they have no one available because patrol not on schedule. Sorry, he say, but captain say it should have been on schedule.”
Lieutenant Dirty Jerz laughed bitterly. “Of course!” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind. Tell the dispatcher it’s okay. I don’t blame him.”
I walked up to him and slapped him on the back. “The IPs being their normal, efficient selves?” I asked.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, “same old story, different day. They won’t let me out of the gate if I don’t have any Iraqis with us, but there’s not an IP to be found right now.”
“Perception versus reality. It can be a mother fucker. We got to raise that joint-patrol number tally, though. That’s what is really important here.”
“No shit,” he fumed. I doubted I’d ever seen him this aggravated. “I mean, I understand the purpose behind the joint-patrol concept, and when it works the way it’s supposed to, it works great—when I can sit down and plan with their lieutenant or squad leader, and we get more than two of them to throw in the back of our Strykers. But it almost never works like that. This is Iraq, not training. It’s just turned into another check-the-block exercise.”
“Maybe try and get some National Police?” I offered. “They’re usually better with adjusting to the mission.”
“Yeah, that’s my next stop.”
At ten minutes to noon, I stood in the motor pool in full battle rattle, next to the platoon’s four Strykers, surrounded by forty or so of Lieutenant Dirty Jerz’s soldiers and NCOs. Lieutenant Dirty Jerz stood on the back of a lowered Stryker ramp, ready to give his patrol brief—as we all waited for the two junior NCOs who had been sent to retrieve the four Iraqi National Police already coordinated for. We continued to wait for twenty minutes, idle chatter filling the silence. Ten minutes after noon, Captain Frowny-Face’s voice came over the radio.
“Blue 6, this is Gunslinger 6. Why haven’t you departed yet?”
“Those fucks,” Lieutenant Dirty Jerz said to no one in particular. “Major Husayn assured me they’d be ready on time.”
SFC A spoke up. “Sir, you better go talk to the commander. I’ll go find the bastards and get ’em down here.”
While we waited, I sat down next to Barry, the platoon’s baby-faced interpreter. “Why are they late, Barry?” I asked kiddingly. It had become a companywide joke to blame FUBAR matters on this young terp, as a sort of hazing ritual. The young Iraqi usually played along, using self-effacing humor as a defense mechanism.
This time, though, Barry did not share in or understand the taunt and instead responded all too literally. “Because they are Iraqi,” he said. “We Iraqis do not like schedule. Americans are crazy with schedule. This will never change.”
Fair enough, I thought. A more honest answer than I anticipated, but I probably deserved it for attempting to joke with the kid.
Five minutes later, seven bodies crested the top of the motor pool, all running. We could all hear SFC A yelling, “Faster, you bastards. Move faster!” as they moved, causing all of us to break out in hysterics. SFC A, the two junior NCOs, and four very winded Iraqi National Police broke into our circle, ready for the patrol brief.
“Sorry we’re late, sir,” SFC A said to his platoon leader. “The NPs were giving our guys the runaround up there. They just needed a swift kick in the ass.”
“I’m sure you were able to take care of that,” Lieutenant Dirty Jerz said, grinning widely. He then gave his patrol brief, while Barry translated the specifics to the four NPs. They said they understood what we sought and what they needed to do when we dismounted.
The IRAM-factory report turned out to be a dry hole; we found nothing but a long-abandoned concrete factory. The National Police performed satisfactorily on the ground with us, as they usually did. And one more joint-patrol got tallied for the great PowerPoint slide in the sky.
MERRY FUCKING FRAGO
“I have celebrated some really bizarre holidays during my time in the army,” SFC Hammerhead said from the driver’s seat of the Mine Resistant Ambush Protected (MRAP) armored vehicle, which is designed specifically to survive IED attacks. “But this might fucking take the cake.”
Exactly one year after I spent Christmas Eve with the Gravediggers in Kuwait, I trolled through the streets of central Baghdad with the Gunslingers Company, hunting for VBIEDs and car bombs. This seemed like normal Iraq counterinsurgency activity until we remembered we were conducting this mission set in the Green Zone, purportedly the safest part of Iraq and home to a multitude of government palaces, villas, headquarters, and international embassies. Iraqi security forces were slated to take control of the Green Zone on January 1, but a rash of car-bomb threats on the area threatened that benchmark date. Thus, in an effort to beef up security until then, division shifted units down to Baghdad a company at a time. Our slot just happened to fall from December 24 to December 26—something relayed to us on the evening of December 23. After all, nothing said Merry Fucking Christmas like a big, whopping plate of frago. Now, having spent over a year in combat, most of us were too tired to care, let alone fight it.
Statues of Saddam Hussein, discovered in a parking lot on a large forward operating base in the Baghdad Green Zone.
Back in our present, the MRAP’s gunner, Sergeant J, yelled
from above, “Did SFC Hammerhead say something about cake?” he asked, kicking his legs at the same time. “I want cake! I’m starving!”
I looked over at SFC Hammerhead, who grinned fanatically. “The best part about this,” I said, “is all of the air force personnel running around in their PT [physical training] uniforms, looking at us like we’re crazy.” Apparently, the sight of infantry squads dressed in their full combat kits searching vehicles and clearing buildings was not common within the confines of the Green Zone. “I mean, Green Zone or not, we’re still in Iraq, right? Did these chair-force faggots not get the memo?”
As if on cue, Captain Frowny-Face’s voice crackled across the radio. “Gunslinger 56, this is Gunslinger 6. We’re dismounting ahead and going to check out this building complex on our right, per division’s orders.”
“Roger that, sir,” I replied. “We’ll meet you on the ground.”
“Have fun!” SFC Hammerhead boomed, as I opened my door, while Sergeant Secret Agent Man, Specialist Gonzo, and two other soldiers dismounted from the back.
“Now I know why you insisted on driving,” I muttered back at him. “You’re a cagey one.”
“Sir,” he said, “I’ve been in the army for ten years. I can smell bullshit a mile away. Let me know if someone starts shooting and you need some firepower. Until then, I’ll be right here.”
“Check and check!” After flashing him a thumbs-up for good measure, I rounded up my makeshift squad, and we joined Captain Frowny-Face and his men fifty meters to our front, next to a large, lightless compound. The austere, black silhouette of Assassin’s Gate, a sandstone arch that marked a prominent entryway into the Green Zone, loomed in the background.
Since arriving in Baghdad in the early afternoon, we had found no signs of—or even any clues about—the reported VBIED. The real highlight of the mission thus far had been the movement south from JSS Istalquaal along Route Senators, known affectionately as “EFP Alley” throughout Coalition forces stationed in Multinational Division-Baghdad, or MND-B. It had been a few months since I had genuinely feared for my life, but the trip through EFP Alley certainly qualified. Every piece of trash and every shadow we drove by threatened a certain blast that never came. It had taken a few hours for my nerves to steady back out.
As we walked up to our commanding officer’s location, we found him already talking to a man of African descent at the front gate. At least it’s not humid here, I thought, as I breathed freely in the nighttime air. The drier air was a vast change from Hussaniyah, as were the greenery and tall palm trees that spotted the Green Zone landscape.
“I realize this is a contractor’s facility,” Captain Frowny-Face said to the man, “but we are still going to check it out. I’m not going to tell you again. Open this gate now.”
The African man’s English didn’t seem to be great, but he understood enough of Captain Frowny-Face’s tone to open up the gate.
“Matt,” our commander said to me, “take your guys around to the south side. We’ll stay over here. Check every fucking thing out, especially all the cars. If it seems stupid, it probably means you’re doing the right thing.”
“Roger that, sir.” There was a time and place for my sarcastic banter, and I knew this was not it.
We moved to the south side of the compound in a diamond formation, with the radio operator, Specialist Gonzo, and me in the center. We came across an empty parking lot and three trailers housing confused Africans in their pajamas. After explaining to one of them why we were there, I learned that they were Ugandans working for the same security contractor that employed their countrymen on Camp Taji.
“But . . . we are in Green Zone,” the man sputtered. “Why would car bomb be here?”
“That’s a good question,” I replied. “And one I don’t have an answer for. We’re just playing it safe, I guess.”
Predictably, we found nothing of interest in the lodging trailers, minus a bottle of lube I made the soldiers put back.
I sent my report via the radio to Captain Frowny-Face, who told us to remount the MRAP and stand by for further guidance. By the time I got settled back into my seat, Lieutenant Mongo was speaking to our commander on the radio, giving him a SITREP from his platoon’s end of the Green Zone.
“Roger, Gunslinger 6. We’ve cleared all the way to the Unknown Soldier monument roundabout. Any word on how long we’re going to be out here? In another hour, we’re going to be the only ones walking on the streets.”
“Negative, White 6, just continue mission.” Captain Frowny-Face seemed just as frustrated by the inanity and the repetitiveness of this mission set as we were, but the unwritten rules of command prohibited him from venting out loud. Such was not a burden, however, that anyone on my vehicle carried.
“This is fucking retarded!” Sergeant J crackled from his gunner’s hatch. “I mean, I have done some seriously stupid-ass, retarded shit in the army, but this is by far the most fucking retarded. We are searching for a car bomb in the goddamn Green Zone. News flash: If a terrorist already got a VBIED in here, it would have fucking exploded already! These fucking colonels and generals need a commonsense sergeant or staff sergeant permanently assigned to them to keep them from doing stupid-ass shit like this.”
SFC Hammerhead arched his eyebrows and laughed. “Let it all out, man. Tell us how you really feel!”
About an hour after we cleared the Ugandans’ trailers, Captain Frowny-Face again spoke on the company net. “All Gunslingers, the division commander wants to speak to all of us in fifteen minutes. Grid to follow for location. Do not be late. I repeat, the division commander will be speaking to us in fifteen minutes. Do. Not. Be. Late.”
Whoa, I thought. The division commander was a two-star general. Maybe this VBIED threat existed after all. At least I’m not in Kuwait this year, I decided. And at least I only have three months left, instead of fifteen. Thank God for small wonders.
We followed the patrol to the linkup location, a small parking lot off the main drag. It nestled up to a small, lush garden that buzzed with evening insect activity, and as soon as I dismounted, a large mosquito made a play for my neck. I smacked and killed it and saw Specialist Gonzo do the same thing on his arm. “Damn mosquitoes are trying to give me Iraqi SARS,” he said with a smile.
We stood around for a few minutes, correcting each other’s inevitable uniform deficiencies, like loose strands, muddy boots, or unauthorized rifle enhancements. We knew we needed to look as pretty as possible for the general and his entourage. During this time, Lieutenant Mongo’s platoon and the mortarmen/tanker combo platoon drove up, parking in Stryker coil formations. Lieutenant Dirty Jerz and his platoon had been left at JSS Istalquaal for force protection—which none of them seemed to mind—when the frago came down on December 23.
Shortly thereafter, four jet-black suburbans peeled around the far corner, coming to a screeching halt in front of us. The doors opened, and a multitude of sergeant majors, majors, and colonels stepped out, smiling widely, calling over soldiers, and handing out Christmas cookies and hot cocoas. The soldiers reacted tentatively at first, put off by all the rank in front of them, but eventually their stomachs drove them over en masse. The sergeant majors and majors and colonels all smiled widely and proudly.
“I thought this was going to be a speech or something, sir,” I said to Captain Frowny-Face.
“So did I,” he responded, clearly as shocked as I was. “So did I.”
I noticed my bootlace had come undone and bent over to retie it, slinging my rifle in the process. When I stood back up, a stocky man about my father’s age faced Captain Frowny-Face and me. He wore two stars on his uniform. “Evening son,” he said to me, slapping me heartily on the back. “Thank you for what you’re doing here and what you’ve done for your country. Have some cookies. It looks like you could use them.” He held a plate of frosted sugar cookies in his right hand like a waiter.
I did as told and took three cookies for good measure. And so my division commander, a m
an with a very gruff and very demanding and very hard reputation, fed me cookies on Christmas Eve in Baghdad with a large smile on his face. My eyes felt as big as saucers, and I didn’t relax until the general walked off with Captain Frowny-Face to get a company commander’s take on the ground situation. Halfway through my second cookie, the division sergeant major shoved a hot cocoa in my hand. “Here you go, Captain,” he said with a wink. “General’s orders.”
I thanked him, walked away, and found Lieutenant Mongo and SFC B standing nearby. “Hold me,” I said to Lieutenant Mongo. “I don’t know what to think about anything right now.”
He laughed and draped his large wing around me. “Neither do I. But I do know these cookies are delicious!”
The general and his entourage left fifteen or so minutes later, and we continued our mission for another two hours before receiving word that we could call it a night. Some of the soldiers slept in their vehicles, but most of us made the short trek to temporary housing. It was worth the walk for a mattress.
I awoke Christmas morning to SFC Hammerhead poking me in the ribs. “Time to wakey-wakey, sir,” he said. “More car-bomb fun awaits!”
“Fuck,” I said, usually the first word I uttered every morning, whether trapped in Baghdad or not. A few seconds later, when slightly more cognizant, I added, “My mom wrote me a note. She says I don’t have to go to war today.”
SFC Hammerhead laughed. “Sir, what more do you want? You got a bed, a personal wake-up, and a general delivering goddamn Christmas cookies. I can guaran-dam-tee you that didn’t happen the last time I was here.”
I sat up and rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I muttered. “I know all about the last time everyone was here. No roofs on the outposts and no shitters, either. It was worse than the Marne and Bastogne put together. And half of you guys used slingshots instead of rifles because supply didn’t have enough guns. Blah blah blah.”
“Cranky this morning?” SFC Hammerhead laughed again. “Man oh man, you are not a morning person.”
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