Authors: Wesley R. Gray
Embedded (29 page)
Because the new Iraqi COC and the push to let the Iraqis take the initiative had all but failed, I asked Ahmed Ali, one of the few Iraqis I still respected, how we could make the Iraqi COC more proactive. “Jamal,” he said, “here is how I would do it. First I would get the lowest ranking
jundi
on camp and put him in a chair with a radio. Everyone else would go to their swahuts and sleep or watch television. When something happened with a unit outside the wire, the
jundi
on duty could run and awaken the officer. This system is what we used during the fights against the Americans in the old Iraqi army. Everyone gets more sleep and we still accomplish the mission. It's a great idea, isn't it, Jamal?” I wanted to say, “Ahmed, you want to know how we kicked your ass during previous wars? Because your COC operations rely on the lowest ranking
jundi
in your military for success,” but I replied more cordially. “Ahmed, I'm not sure I agree with that idea, but I'll take your word for it that it's great.”
December 2006
D
id a wild hare get up your ass?” I had heard this question countless times in the Marine Corps and I still wasn't sure what it meant. All the same I thought it aptly described my sudden burst of motivation to do something that didn't involve sitting around in the Iraqi COC any longer. I was ready for another combat mission.
2/3 needed some folks for a special operations type mission. They had asked us if we could take the Iraqi army scouts on speedboats to a remote island in Lake Qadisiyah. Our mission was to clandestinely approach the island, find some Egyptian insurgents, and bring them to the dam so the HET (Human Exploitation Team) could interrogate them. Moreover, because we were short on terps, it looked like I would be assigned as the interpreter for the mission. This was as close to being James Bond as I would ever get in my life.
Sightseeing around Lake Qadisiyah
Once the mission plan was finalized between the MiTT and the Marines driving the boats, we stopped by the scout swahut and told them to get their gear together for a special mission. After their gear was packed we marched up to the dam and jumped in the back of a Marine troop transport vehicle that was heading for the top of the dam.
On the drive to the launch point I slowly translated the intelligence material I had in the best Arabic I could muster. The Iraqis absolutely loved it. I couldn't speak fluent Arabic, but I could motivate the hell out of
Iraqis with the Arabic I did know. By the time I was done explaining the situation, the
jundi
were ready for the mission.
At the launch point we boarded the speedboats and sprinted north over the horizon in search of a particular remote island. The cold wind off the lake shot through our combat gear. Corporal Jackson looked to me and said, “Sir, we are going to freeze our asses off, I'm afraid.” I smirked. “Yeah, pretty much. Good times ahead!”
Fighting the frequent splash of freezing water hitting me in the face, I yelled at Abdulhaddi, “Sadeeki, inta zien? Khallis?” (My friend, are you good? You ready?) Abdulhaddi, one of the rare “glass half full” Iraqis, responded in terrible English, “Jamal, very good, very good. I kill Ali Babba with you!” Shaking from the thin coat of freezing water over my body, I responded with a huge smile. “Insha'allah,” I said. Abdulhaddi, Salah, and Ali Jaber, the three Iraqis on the craft with me, all responded in unison, “Insha'allah, Jamal. Insha'allah” (see
photo 17
).
The excitement of flying across the water in speedboats came to a sudden halt. The Marine operating the boat yelled, “Fuck! Boat down.” We looked across the way to see the other craft stalled. Nuts stood up and punched his hands in the air, obviously distraught. Sgt. Jamar Bailey whispered to me, “Sir, it looks like Staff Sergeant Chesnutt is pretty pissed.” Smirking, I replied, “Yes. Yes, it does.”
Forty-five minutes later, well into our special operations mission, we were still sitting a thousand meters from the dam trying to fix boat engines. The lead boat operator said, “Gents, I know you don't want to hear this, but we need to squish everybody onto two crafts instead of three. It's gonna be a little cramped, but we will need to make it work.” Grudgingly we piled onto the two boats. Within minutes we were once again galloping along the waves of Lake Qadisiyah. Our path took us on a typical patrol route, which would not arouse any suspicion among the insurgents who lived on the islands scattered throughout Lake Qadisiyah.
We approached our objective. “Hold on, gentlemen,” bellowed the Marine staff sergeant controlling the raft. “We are gonna make a sharp turn and charge into the island, stand by.” Before we could react to the announcement, the momentum of quick change in direction created chaos. The
jundi
tumbled on top of me and we formed a human layer cake in the bottom of the craft. I looked at Ali Jaber, who had fallen on top of me, and said, “Uh, as salama aleikum, shlonek sadeeki?” (Uh, hello, how are you my friend?) Ali Jaber smiled. “Jamal, hatha Marine mejnoon!” (Jamal, that Marine [who is driving] is crazy!)
We zipped toward the island, attempting to maximize the element of surprise. The way the island was originally described to us in the intelligence reports, it was supposed to be a hundred meters long and have one hut that housed the Egyptians. The island we were approaching, though, was the size of a small college campus with rolling hills, ten to twenty primitive huts, maybe a hundred inhabitants, and a slew of donkeys and wild dogs. Human intel had once again gotten it wrong.
A hundred meters off land the boat operator yelled again, “Shit. Gentlemen, it's too shallow hereâyou aren't swimming in this stuff!” He slammed the brakes and all of us cannonballed along the belly of the speedboat for the second time. We continued to try to find a potential landing site, but to no avail. After six attempts at landing it was getting so ridiculous I felt as though we were playing a role in a spoof movie. To make matters worse, witnessing the entire escapade was a group of Iraqi fishermen, who were huddled outside their stone hut drinking tea. They waved in our direction. Our element of surprise was dead.
Sergeant Bailey pointed in the direction of a small peninsula jutting from the island. “That place looks good,” he said. We agreed with Bailey's suggestion so we could offload. We hopped out of the boats and immediately secured the area. The
jundi
and I were the first team off the boat and pushed ahead to recon the area.
What Next?
Nuts walked up to me and said, “Sir, what the hell are we going to do next? This island isn't exactly as small as they told us it was going to be.” During my Marine Corps officer training the instructors always mentioned there would be a moment where everyone looks at you and says, “What next, lieutenant?”
This was my opportunity to shine or falter. Perplexed, I relied on some common sense. “Well, we know they probably aren't those dudes over to the east, since they watched us try and land our boats for the past hour. And to the south is the lake. We don't want to go swimming. That narrows it down to either going north or west. Let's head west. We'll patrol to the top of the hill, get a better vantage point, and work from there.” I paused then said, “But before we do anything, let's ask Ali Jaber what he wants to do, since he is the Iraqi squad leader and in command of this operation.”
I confronted Ali Jaber, who was happy to let me lead the group. “You are the squad leader so I will let you make the decisions on what we do next,”
I said. Ali Jaber looked at me with a puzzled expression and said, “Jamal, I don't know what to do next. What do you want to do?” I said, “This isn't my country, what do you want to do?” Luckily, a couple of young Iraqi men started approaching our position. I leaned over to Ali Jaber and said, “How about you ask those guys if they know where these Egyptians are located.” He replied, “Good idea. Let's do it.”
Ali Jaber and I jogged over to the young men. The men stopped in their tracks and their eyes widened to the size of eggs. It was obvious they had never seen a Marine or
jundi
on this island. Ali Jaber spoke with the men for a few minutes. When the conversation ended, he addressed the squad. “Well, they gave me the directions to the Egyptians. All we have to do is head west over the hill and look in the hut closest to the shore.” I slapped Ali Jaber on the shoulder and told him, “Inta qaid doriya kullish zien!” (You are a great squad leader!)
We patrolled to the suspected dwelling on the other side of the island. I was convinced I had landed on another planet. The island was lifeless, aside from a handful of primitive stone-built huts the size of a one-car garage. The only signs of activity were three wooden boats and a line of fishing nets scattered along the shore. Nuts said, “Sir, I bet we are the first Americans to ever touch this land in the history of the world.” I looked around. “I think you're right.”
At the objective, we found fifteen men hovering around a steaming cauldron of baked beans. In unison they welcomed us, saying, “As salam aleikum.” Ali Jaber replied on our behalf, “Wa aleikum salam.” He immediately got down to business, lined the men up single file, and started frisking them for contraband. Meanwhile, Nuts and I explored the detainees' shack for weapons or booby traps (see
photo 18
).
The inside of their living quarters was atrocious. Trash was everywhere, blankets were strewn about the floor, breadcrumbs were scattered along the floor, and the rat shit was so thick it felt like we were walking on a bag of rice. Before we could investigate further, Ali Jaber cried, “Jamal, ta'al hinah. Shasowwi hesse?” (Jamal, come here. What should I do now?) I had some simple advice for him: find the Egyptians.
Ali Jaber and his
jundi
immediately went to work. He ordered the detainees to pull out their identification cards. He made quick work of the situation, approached me, and whispered in my ear, “Jamal, these two men are the Egyptians. It says so on their identification cards.” I replied, “Are you sure?” He snuck a little closer. “Yes, Jamal. What should we do
with them?” I pondered, then answered, “Hrmm, tell them we need to take them back to the dam for some questioning. Tell them we do not believe them to be guilty of anything, but believe they may be able to help us find some insurgents and that they will be rewarded for their efforts.” Once we had attained our “prizes,” the next step was to explore the immediate area for suspicious activity. I grabbed a small group of Iraqi scouts and went to search some abandoned tents along the coast.
A spring from an AK-47 rifle came flying out of a shredded tent and directly into my face. “Ow. Shit, dude, watch out!” I blurted out in English to Mofak, one of the
jundi
with me. Mofak looked at me puzzled, not understanding what I had said. “Jamal, shaku maku? Inta zien?” (Jamal, what happened? Are you okay?) Still flinching from the pain, I replied, “Anii zien, bess shtisowwi wiya AK?” (I am fine, but what are you doing with the AK?) Mofak would not respond, so I entered the tent.
Mofak decided to dismantle the AK-47 inside the tent. “Mofak, what are you doing, man?” I asked. “Nothing,” he responded. “I am destroying this AK-47 so they don't attack us with it when we leave.” Despite my desire to agree with him, I had to explain to Mofak that the Iraqi people were allowed to have one AK-47 per household, even if their household was a shitty tent on some island in the middle of nowhere.
Mofak understood and begrudingly tossed the rifle on the ground. “Jamal, you know everyone out here is an insurgent, don't you?” I responded, “Yes, Mofak, that may be true, but we have to respect these people. Here's a deal. If they fire on us when we leave, we will come back here and take them all back to the Iraqi camp for interrogation. Will that work?” He nodded in agreement. “Okay, that is good. However, I will kill them if they shoot at us so we won't even have to worry about bringing them back to Camp Ali.”
At the conclusion of our search efforts, we rallied everyone together, including our two insurgent detainees, and patrolled back to our landing zone for extract. Our mission, despite its chaotic beginnings, had been a complete success. The Marines operating the boat hollered, “Sir, how was it? You got the insurgents?” Excited, I answered, “Oh yeah, we got them. Now let's get the hell out of here!” They shouted back, “Oohrah, Sir. Roger that.” We loaded onto the speedboats and dashed for Haditha.
NovemberâDecember 2006
“R
esgar, do you want to run with us?” Adams and I were on a jog and wanted to see if our resident Kurd, who speaks five languages, was interested. “Jamal, I am so sorry,” he replied. “I cannot run with you. I have too many bullet holes in my legs.” Never hearing this excuse before in my life, I asked again for clarification. Resgar elaborated. “Jamal, I have five bullet wounds in my legs from snipers in the Iran and Iraq War. I have shrapnel in my body and hands and I have a bullet wound on my head from a friendly Iraqi aircraft round that ricocheted off my head. I have a hard time moving my body.”
What can you reasonably say to an excuse like that? I laughed. “Resgar, my brother, no problem. We don't want you running with us anywayâyou will probably make us run too fast!”
