Embedded (10 page)

We twisted along the one-lane paved road that snaked through the brigade camp until we reached the MiTT camp. We pulled our Humvees into their camp, which was a bunch of swahuts and other small facilities surrounded by a fence of Hesco barriers. Our accommodations were rugged. The brigade MiTT stuffed sixteen of us into a swahut. After we settled in, our next stop was a KBR chow hall, a treat we had not had in almost two weeks.

Entering a KBR chow hall was equivalent to entering heaven. There were lines of tables, many overweight civilian contractors and service members, and large flat screen televisions playing Fox News and SportsCenter at all times. On the perimeter of the enormous indoor spaces were various buffet-style choices. You had the option of the fast food lines, where you could order any fast food imaginable, or you could hit the main course line, where you could always get a healthy dose of steak, lobster, shrimp, chicken, or lamb. If you were not satisfied with a plate full of fast food and a gourmet steak, you had the option of indulging in the sandwich bar, where double or quadruple meat is standard.

If you were still hungry you could move over to the Mexican buffet to get enchiladas, tacos, quesadillas, or beans. If you wanted some greens to go with all your other chow, no problem. There were two identical fruit and salad bar stations in the facility.

At this stage you might have four or five plates of food on your tray. But then there was the comprehensive ice cream bar featuring a variety of flavors of ice cream, yogurt, or sherbet. If you weren't satisfied with the ice cream sprinkled with fudge shavings, sprinkles, and strawberry syrup, you could head over to the pie and fine desserts bar, where you could get four varieties of cheesecake, walnut pie, pumpkin pie, chocolate cake, and “you name it they probably have it” pie. KBR chow was outstanding in my
opinion. Regulars at the facility complained, but KBR put to shame some of the best restaurants I have been to in the States. Thank you, American taxpayer!

After recouping, in one meal at the KBR chow hall, the seven pounds I had lost in the previous two weeks, I waddled back to our swahut on the brigade camp. At 2100 we were told that the buses returning the
jundi
from Najaf were coming in at 0400 the next day. It was time to hit the rack.

Staring at the tin roof ceiling of the swahut, Lieutenant Adams and I came up with estimates for our chances of death in Iraq. It was a sick exercise, but talking about our mortality was more therapeutic than internalizing the worry and stress associated with these thoughts. Based on our calculations, we had about 270 potential meetings with the grim reaper. We had 180 convoy legs to do for leave runs, an estimated forty combat missions similar to Kaffijiyah and Bani Dahir, and perhaps thirty random chances associated with miscellaneous events. I did not include potential small-arms attacks on foot patrols or mortar attacks. For argument's sake we agreed that the total number of chances at death was five hundred.

Heck, I had lived in West Philly for two and a half years and on Chicago's South Side for two years. If I had a random chance of being killed each day I'd lived in those areas, that would mean I'd survived 1,642 (365 days x 4.5 years) shots at death, or three times the risk of my tour in Iraq.

The Clown Show Returns

An important lesson about Iraqi culture is that time lines are meaningless. The returning
jundi
arrived at the brigade Iraqi camp at about 1100, seven hours later than scheduled. The inbound
jundi
arrival scene was another lesson in Iraqi culture: Iraqis are, by American standards, lazy.

Being Americans, we had everything squared away and prepared for efficiency and time management. All the Humvees and Leylands were in convoy formation prepared to move out. The way our MiTT envisioned it, the Iraqis would come off of leave, we would conduct a quick accountability of everyone, we would load the convoy, and would rush out the gate to make up for our seven-hour time deficit. Our plan did not work (see
photo 9
).

Iraqis are intense friends and comrades. This became evident when the arriving Iraqi soldiers exited the buses after vacation. They started hugging and kissing one another as if they were at a family reunion. Everyone was overjoyed to see their comrades. This was a good thing, but keep in mind
it had only been twenty days since these guys had seen each other.

We sat in the scorching 125-degree heat in full battle-rattle for forty minutes. Waiting patiently for the Iraqis to finish greeting one another so we could actually be doing something, the boss' patience wore thin. “Gray, tell them to get off their asses,” he said, “and get their counts so we can get the hell out of here.” I responded, “Sir, I spoke to Captain Chin, and he said we have to wait this one out and let the dust settle.” Exhausted, he replied, “Roger, well kick them in the asses to get them rolling—this is ridiculous!”

I went up to Abdulrachman, the Iraqi administrative chief, and asked if he could start taking a roll call so we could load the Leylands and return the
jundi
to their respective bases in the Triad. He responded in his standard asinine fashion, “We are working on it.” I pondered different methods of engagement with Abdulrachman, since the one I was using was not working. Chin suggested talking to one of the Iraqi officers to force Abdulrachman to do his duty. Chin's advice worked like a charm. Iraqis tend not to take orders or suggestions from an American unless you are in their inner circle—a position I had yet to attain in my short time with many of the
jundi
. However, Iraqis will listen to the Iraqi officers, who wield the power to take their pay or leave away from them as a form of punishment. With a credible threat behind him, Captain Natham spoke to Abdulrachman and the roll call was finally completed. The Iraqis loaded into the Leylands and we were ready to go dodge IEDs on Route Bronze.

On the return convoy our MiTT took over leadership on the operation, with the outgoing MiTT members there for guidance. I moved from Humvee driver to vehicle commander for the rearmost Humvee. As we moved north on Route Bronze, I noticed a consistent screeching on my radio. I tried to respond to the incoming radio traffic but was unable to do so. “Don't worry about it, it's the Chameleon—they fuck up comm [communications] all the time,” blurted Captain Chin, who saw I was struggling. Apparently the boss and Captain McShane had not received the same memo. The entire time on the radio, when I could actually hear them, it was a bitchfest: “Gray, get your comm unfucked! Gray, why aren't you responding to my radio check?” Chin comforted me, saying, “Gray, don't sweat it. It takes about two months for everyone on the team to understand that comm is going to suck, especially in the rear of the convoy. Until your team realizes and accepts this fact, there will be constant bitching at each other. From the sounds of your major and captain, you
guys may need the entire deployment.” I chuckled and said, “I sure hope not.” Knowing I was not screwing things up gave me confidence. For the remainder of the trip I concentrated my efforts on IED awareness and gave up trying to communicate on the radio.

Our first stop was the Baghdadi MHC, a residential compound protected by Colonel Shabam's police foot soldiers and home to the Baghdadi FOB. Unfortunately we had to stay at the MHC longer than anticipated. Shabam wanted to hobnob with our boss. As we waited hordes of Iraqi kids bum-rushed our positions. A wave of small humans ran in our direction and fear took over. Even though the kids were four hundred meters off when they saw us approach, their collective voices yelling, “Mister, Mister, give me, give me, give me” could be heard for miles. Where was Santa Claus when you needed him?

Iraqi people in general, and Iraqi children in particular, believe Americans have infinite wealth and infinite possessions. If we did not give them everything we owned, we were considered stingy. The kids wanted everything from your pen or your last water bottle in the Humvee to your M-4 assault rifle or the Humvee itself. (Yes, one of the younger boys asked me for my Humvee and told me to get a new one.)

Doc McGinnis and I had a crowd of ten kids surrounding us, picking on our gear as though we were zoo specimens, yelling at us to give them everything we owned. The next thing I knew the
jundi
came to our rescue. They swooped in. Samir yelled, “Get the fuck out of here, before I kick your little asses!” The kids scattered like flies.

Samir explained to me in broken English spliced with Arabic, “Seyidi [Sir], you need to let these kids know minu il masuul [who is boss] or you will have them on you all day. Bil [In] Basra, I would beat these kids if they begged for things. They have fathers and mothers whom to ask for things. They beg minek, besebeb inta Americii [from you because you are American].” Samir was right.

Samir, Barak, Karim, Hydr, and Muhanned lectured Doc and me on the realities of Iraqi children and the mistaken view we had regarding their innocence. The
jundi
tempered my vision that Iraqi children are innocent blank sheets ready to become freedom-loving democrats. I realized I was dealing with ten-year-old kids with doctoral degrees from the school of hard knocks. My focus was so much on winning hearts and minds that I forgot these kids only cared about survival. They were begging us for things because they thought they could swindle us into giving them something.
Afterward they would go to their friends and brag about how they outsmarted an American. It was all bullshit. Naïve generosity is a sure way to appear as a fool in Iraq.

The boss returned. We mounted the Humvees and continued north to Haqliniyah along Route Bronze. We completed our bus stop at Haqliniya and rushed to Camp Ali. We still had to swap out
jundi
in Haditha and Barwana before we could do the return trip to Al Asad so the
jundi
could catch the bus to Najaf.

Once we completed a hasty security check of all the
jundi
going on leave at Camp Ali, we stuffed the Leylands and raced to Al Asad before dusk settled on the area (see
photo 10
). We made it to Al Asad in record time, offloaded the Iraqi soldiers due for Najaf, and quickly turned around for Camp Ali. Remarkably, we made it home by 2300 with all limbs intact. Il hamdu Allah (Thanks be to God). The team was exhausted and emotions were getting squirrelly.

Mission Recap

Our first leave mission really opened our eyes to the realities of working with the Iraqi army and the monumental challenges we faced. No amount of firsthand stories or Iraqi culture briefs can prepare anybody for the levels of ineptitude, laziness, and lack of motivation rampant in the Iraqi army. The frustration within our team was mounting. I was more worried about seeing a friendly fire incident within our team than I was about an insurgent ambush.

Despite my disappointments with certain adviser team members, following the stress, chaos, and hysteria of the leave convoy I had a chance to sit down with one of the great warriors in the Iraqi army, Captain Hasen. As an eleven-year veteran of the old regime army, Hasen was a proud Iraqi, faithful Shia Muslim, and dedicated family man. He was built like a small bull, with a broad chest and shoulders, a Santa Claus stomach, and a friendly smile. Hasen is also one of the few
jundi
who speaks outstanding English, something many of us on the MiTT appreciated.

Hasen lectured me on Iraq's past. “Lieutenant Gray, I sat for three years in my home during the American invasion. I was ashamed we had lost to American forces. Do you know how humiliating this was for those of us in the old Iraqi army? It took me three years to overcome my disappointment.” He continued in a solemn voice. “I had eleven years in the former Iraqi army, I had a bright future ahead of me, and in one instant the Americans
destroyed my future by telling me I was banished from the Iraqi army. When they asked me to come back to the army, I wasn't sure I had the will to restart from the ground up. Eleven years of my life—wasted.”

Captain Hasen elaborated on his past positions with pride. During his service as an SPG-9 antiaircraft gun company commander, his unit destroyed American planes and tanks during the initial phases of OIF and the first Gulf War. I listened to Hasen's stories of leadership and success on the battlefield, knowing his successes were our American losses. Hasen understood I had respect for him as a fellow warrior. It was fortunate our interests were aligned this time around.

Captain Hasen is a great man. I am certain he has his Iraqi quirks and oddities that seem selfish and ridiculous through an American lens, but there is something genuine about him. With men like him, perhaps there is hope for Iraqis to create a prosperous Iraq.

After speaking with Hasen I returned to my hooch. I quickly realized it was the first anniversary of my wedding and I had no way to contact my wife. The Iridium phones were out of batteries that day. Of course, my wife had come to expect this from the Marine Corps. The day after we got married we didn't go on a honeymoon; instead, we moved all my stuff down to Dam Neck, Virginia, so I could attend Ground Officer's Intelligence School. It wasn't exactly a romantic escapade. Sadly, our first anniversary wasn't romantic, either. C'est la vie.

Chapter 7

Jamal in the Swahuts

August 2006

T
he
jundi
loved my “top-secret weapon.” I want to reveal it here so that future ambassadors to the Arab world can take advantage of my technique. In reality my top-secret weapon was neither secret nor a weapon. It was a family photo album I stuffed in my cargo pocket.

During predeployment I put in a lot of time learning about Arab culture. One thing I took away from my studies was that family is central in Arab life. In the Arab mind anyone who keeps God and his family as the highest priority in his life cannot be a bad man. I knew the Arabs perceived Americans as Godless heathens, more concerned with material wealth than family. To combat this stereotype I created a family photo album that I could show the Iraqis.