Reporter
War.com
Every day in Iraq I conduct house-to-house searches, hunt down insurgents, get shot at— and then return to base and blog about it. Here are some of my posts from the front lines.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Back to Iraq
• The rotor wash of the UH-60 Black Hawk tossed dead weeds and sand around us like a warm tornado as we sped to gather ourselves and our gear off the dependable bird. We were greeted by our company XO at the airfield. A stout, bright-eyed first lieutenant with a slight Northeastern accent, he greeted me with a firm handshake: “Welcome to your FOB [forward operating base]. Go ahead and load up your bags, and I’ll escort you to your new home.”
The second my feet touched the Iraqi earth, I felt as I often did when I’d return home for an overdue visit during college. A comforting feeling of the familiar, only without the reassurance that the visit would be short-lived.
The brief journey ended at the doorstep of an old Iraqi ammo bunker. A concrete hangar was fortified by steep mounds of sand and rock, much too small to house 24 grown men. I grounded my gear and immediately reconnoitered our new home. KBR had been busy the last year. Electric outlets, a big-screen television with satellite, air- conditioning units, outhouses, and portable showers. I was happy as a pig in shit.
I eventually began talking to members of the National Guard unit we were to RIP [relieve in place]. Their eyes were heavy with the burdens of combat they never thought they’d have to endure. They were tired, homesick, and ready to wash themselves clean of this place. I could tell the sight of us and our energy disgusted them. Thus far, their battalion had suffered fifteen KIA and over two hundred wounded. Killed by IEDs, indirect mortar and rocket fire, and snipers.
The majority of poop we received from the Guard ran along the lines of how worthless the IA [Iraqi army] company was. They entertained us with stories about how the IA has no reliable support system; their commander steals from the company; they run when they’re engaged; they’re always late, never want to train, lie, cheat, steal, have no honor, no integrity, and are related to the insurgents. “Our condolences to you guys. It’s going to be the longest year of your life.”
Music to my ears.
At night I went on top of our bunker and looked at a city lying five hundred meters away in a blackout. The night is incandescent, and a luminous moon casts shadows onto the coarse ground, turning it into a still, gray lake. It’s beautiful. Speakers from a dark mosque break the quietness of the evening and fill it with prayer. Right on time. Two neon green lights powered by an independent source light up its tower. We hear they use the lights to orient their rockets and mortars in the direction of the FOB. How ingenious.
Monday, November 7, 2005
Home of Civilization
• Time has flown by. It’s hard to believe, with all the frustrations. Because we are a specialty platoon, we are only authorized a certain number of soldiers, which makes us one of the smallest platoons in the battalion. We are very competent, and I am blessed with the most dependable squad leaders and soldiers. We consider it an honor to be a part of this group, and if one cannot pull his weight, he is removed from our platoon and sent to the line companies without haste.
I made my way out of the wire for the first time Monday morning. I was a bit apprehensive but exhilarated nevertheless. After hearing all the horror stories for a week, I was ready to see what this part of Iraq was all about. When I was last here, for my first deployment, we didn’t worry about IEDs and land mines; we worried about RPGs and AK-47’s. We headed out the gate and made our way on a southern route through the desert. Our M1114 up-armored Humvee hummed down the blacktop, and I immediately felt like a cowboy back on his favorite horse.
The pace has been frantic. My platoon has already been hit by an IED. A 155mm artillery rocket, remote-detonated by the side of the road, covered our truck in shrapnel and a cloud of black dirt and smoke. My heart sank until the debris settled, and I got the word no one was hurt. We were the first hit in the battalion. In the ten days since, our battalion has been hit with over twenty IEDs and roadside bombs, found and destroyed a dozen others, had ten wounded and one KIA. Our battalion commander walked into an ambush—we believe it was planned by the town mayor and senior sheik—and on top of everything else, we take indirect mortar and rocket fire daily.
We spent the last eighteen months training for a deployment, with the promise we’d be aggressive. We haven’t. It feels like we’ve done little but shoot some innocent civilians who appeared suspicious in some very tense moments. There’s little hope that our commanders will make any significant difference or that any real good will be done here. Yet.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Dry Holes
• We headed out to search a neighborhood where several IEDs have been found or detonated. Army intelligence believes the weapons are made, bought, and sold there. My platoon was to cordon off an assigned portion of the area, roughly five square blocks, and I was to escort the IA through the area, searching and seizing anyone or anything that was suspicious.
We arrived to our blocking positions in time to find the area all but deserted. I suggested to my platoon leader that we chain the doors of the shops and pull them open with the trucks. He agreed. We’d pulled open and searched about five stores when we were ordered by one of our commanding staff officers to stop destroying the doors.
Standing a good head taller than me, his breath stinking of Berry Blend Skoal, he spoke to me like a child he had just spanked.
“Is this necessary, Sergeant?”
“It’s either chain them up and get them open fast or spend ten minutes a door trying to cut the locks. We do that and we’re going to lose the attention of the IA fast.”
“Use your shotguns.”
“The doors are metal, sir.”
“So?”
“We were issued bird shot, not slugs. It will ricochet everywhere.”
“Well, you just can’t pull off doors. Eighty percent of these people are innocent. You’re just going to have to search the open shops.”
“So much for being aggressive.”
“What, Sergeant!?”
“Nothing, sir. Roger, sir.”
We searched the rest of our designated area, targeting only open shops and cafes. The IA quickly lost interest in the mission, and their searches turned into conversations with merchants and store owners. I’d get one squad into a shop to search and find another squad getting food from a cafe. I’d have the interpreter explain that we had a mission and that they could eat later, finally getting them to continue, only to find the other squad smoking and drinking tea. One of our interpreters made his way to another cafe, giving up on the mission and getting himself some lunch. F—ing laughable. Not a weapon was found, and no one was detained. Dry hole. Again.
As the sun goes down and the city lights up, our trucks secure avenues of approach, shooting at cars that get too close. A VBIED [vehicle-borne improvised explosive device] wounded five this morning, two of them doubtful, a few miles from here.
The mosque sounds off behind me in prayer. The tower stands tall, marked by the crescent moon and neon lights. I call for an interpreter to tell me what the message is today.
“God is great,” he translates. “The coalition forces continue to occupy our holy lands, torture our people, and insult our women. We must stand up to the injustices. We call to everyone to stand up in the faces of the infidels. Justice will be served. God is great. … ”
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Election Day
• Three in the morning, and we’re sitting in the parking lot of some tire shops just north of town, committed QRF [quick reaction force]. I’m so tired, and I know I look it. The IP [Iraqi police] and IA have been out patrolling for the last 24 hours, doing God knows what. The goal was to let the Iraqis handle this election themselves, including security, but we just can’t keep our hands out of the cookie jar, can we?
At first light we begin our patrol, hitting four or five of the twenty-odd polls freckled around the city and surrounding area. No signs of life yet. I ask our interpreter where everyone is.
“They will be out soon, Sergeant. It is a great day for Iraq. I must be out today to see.”
“Who do you think will be voted president?”
“You know Allawi? He will win. George Bush loves him. He called him a very strong man.”
“Do you like him?”
“Yes. He is a doctor and has culture.”
His excitement makes my neck tingle; I haven’t felt that in a while. He is my age, and we’re so different. His heart and soul are so much richer than my own, and he makes me feel guilty for hating these people so much. He calls me his brother and forgives me for anything I hastily say or do. He loves me like family, and he knows I would do anything for him.
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