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I wasn't really sure how to respond and simply replied to appease my Arab friends. “Sure, that sounds . . . awesome,” I said. “I'm so happy for your family.”

Great news? Were these guys serious? This was the most insane story I'd ever heard in my life. I was still trying to get a grasp on it. At the most basic level, I was convinced that a baby born in America and a baby born in Iraq were the same people, but Iraqis, who live in a complex and demanding environment alien to our own, have developed perspectives on life and society that bear no resemblance to those of Americans. I had learned many things from my experiences to date, but there was one overarching theme: Iraqi culture is not Western culture and never will be. My Uncle Richard, a retired Navy man, sent me an e-mail that says it all:

People ain't people the world over after all, are they? They sure ain't like us, and for any ignorant person here to even suggest using an American style of problem solving is ridiculous to say the least. The people of the Middle East or Southwest Asia are more of a feudal society than anything else. Yes or no? In other words, their allegiance goes to the path of least resistance or harm and that knows no government. Honestly, I believe individual courage is a rarity in their society unless you are a religious zealot. They fear being out of the mainstream, which is essentially forced upon them by thugs, warlords, and religious fanatics. There is no overarching rule of law such as we have in the United States, even though Iraq is where the rule of law actually started with Hammurabi. But trying to change their minds under that premise, is just plain ill informed and incompetent.

The smile of a child is a wonderful thing in any civilization. It is as if they have something in common with us after all. That is until they have been tainted by the idealism of their supposed adults. I hope you have spent more time with some of the elders there rather than passing candy or toys out to children. You must win the hearts and minds of the elders in order to help change the future lives of those children you encounter. Not to burst your bubble or anything,
but even the cutest of puppies can grow up to be a raged dog if not properly raised by a competent trainer. Hopefully that is what you will take home with you.

Stay alert, be smart, and learn every day. You are in the best college available. My dad told me, “There is a lesson to be learned from everyone, thing, or situation. The goal of the truly intelligent is be able to see what that lesson is.” I am proud of you, Wes. As proud of you as if you were my own blood.

Chapter 20

Violence Spikes

November–December 2006

“T
hey cut their heads off and mailed them to the families?” I asked Corporal Shlessinger, a member of the Police Training Team (PTT) working with Colonel Farooq, the Iraqi Police leader in Haditha. He replied, “Yes, it's completely fucked up. Ten of our Iraqi police members were going on leave just north of Barwana to a town called Beiji. The insurgents caught them in a vehicle check point, chopped off their heads, and sent the heads to each of the respective families with a note telling the families to never cooperate with American or Iraqi government security forces.”

I asked, “What did Colonel Farooq do about this?” Shlessinger replied, “Well, he actually collected all the heads from the families and gave them a proper burial during a ceremony held the other day. I mean, what can he say? All he cares about is getting revenge.” Taken aback, I replied, “Yeah, sheesh. This country is warped.”

After hearing about the bad news for the Iraqi police, I was in no mood to hear about more chaos. Nobody listened. Captain McShane came sprinting onto the MiTT COC patio with the bad news. “The leave convoy returning from Najaf was just attacked with a massive IED,” he said. “Captain Hasen is missing half his torso and is presumably dead. Lieutenant Leif cannot even be found. Lieutenant Ahmed and Lieutenant Abass are both seriously wounded—it isn't looking good. I'm still trying to get details from brigade.”

I couldn't believe it. Captain Hasen was dead? He was one of my best Iraqi friends and the best officer in the battalion. Hasen was a family man with two young daughters and a beautiful wife. He was not supposed to die. Losing Hasen would be a huge blow to the morale of the battalion and the country of Iraq. He was one of the few true Iraqi patriots in the country. Tragic. Doc said, “Dude, we are fucked.” I responded, “Yeah, that is some seriously bad news, man. I can't believe we were sitting on this same patio a week ago eating popcorn with Hasen. Things aren't looking up these days.”

War was indeed hell. Just a few weeks earlier we had lost some of our top Iraqi officers to an IED attack near Fallujah. A few days earlier Capt. Rob Secher, a fellow MiTT member in Hit, had been killed by a sniper bullet. During Captain Secher's memorial service 122-mm mortars came crashing into the ceremony with pinpoint precision. Someone within their Iraqi battalion had likely snitched to the insurgents. The initial estimates were five
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killed, thirty-two seriously wounded, and one Marine adviser seriously injured. The insurgents didn't even have the decency to allow us to mourn our dead.

Baghdad on Fire

There was huge news out of Baghdad in late November. A massive attack on Sadr City, a primarily Shia area of the city dominated by the Mahdi army, had caused over 160 dead and anywhere from 200 to 300 wounded, with perhaps many more dead. At first glance a massive attack in Baghdad shouldn't have had an effect on our operations in Al Anbar Province. Unfortunately, we were feeling the effects.

The attacks prompted a countrywide vehicle curfew, which meant that the leave runs from Najaf had to be delayed yet again. And that meant that we would lose our fresh soldiers coming back to the battalion. The other consequence was that all the
jundi
were extremely concerned about their families and knew that they would not be going home anytime soon. Morale, already low, was sure to plummet.

To get further insight on how the recent violence in the country was affecting the
jundi
, I went directly to the source. I made my way to Sermen's swahut to get the inside scoop. Sermen, who had just returned from vacation in Baghdad, greeted me at his door. “Wasup, Jamal? Come on in, let's drink tea.” I obliged and followed him into the rustic swahut. “Jamal, Baghdad is pure chaos,” he said. “You wouldn't believe it. There are no longer rooms in the hospital to care for the wounded and people
are being left in the streets to rot and die. Shit is disgusting.” I urged Sermen and his mates to tell me more.

Sermen went on to describe a harrowing incident he had experienced at one of the sectarian checkpoints set up all around the country by various Sunni, Shia, and tribal militia groups. “Jamal, it's crazy. Just last week on my vacation, my buddy and I, who are both Sunnis, were actually stopped at a checkpoint on my motorcycle. We tried to divert our path, but their cars barricaded the road so fast we couldn't run away. Before Mohammed and I could figure out a getaway plan, the militiamen approached us.” Sermen paused briefly then continued. “Mohammed, the dumbass he was, thought the men were Shia, so he pulled out his Shia version of identification [many
jundi
carry a Shia version of their identification and a Sunni version of their identification so they can present the appropriate version at militia checkpoints, which are scattered throughout Iraq]. I knew they were Sunni, so I pulled out my Sunni ID. In the end I was right. They were part of a local Sunni militia.”

I asked, “What did they do to you guys?” He replied, “Well, for the next ten minutes I had to beg for Mohammed's life and try to convince the men that he was trying to cover as a Shia because he believed they were Shia. These guys were not having any of it. They gave me a proposal and said I had to accept it. The lead man told me, ‘Kill your friend—now. If you do not, we will shoot him in the head and then shoot you in the head.'”

Taken aback, I said, “Whoa, fuck. Are you serious?” He answered, “Dead serious. I was in shock at the moment. I couldn't figure out what to do next, but by the grace of God a U.S. Army convoy started heading to the checkpoint. I thought for sure I was saved. Of course, the stupid Army guys just kept on driving and didn't notice that a militia checkpoint was underway and we were about to die. My heart sank again.”

“Wait, the Army dudes didn't stop? Why not?” I asked. “Man, Jamal,” he replied, “I have no idea, but I will hate the U.S. Army for the rest of my life. Anyway, so I had to think fast. I told the lead man, ‘I will shoot my friend.' I then grabbed Mohammed—who yelled, ‘Sermen, are you fucking crazy?'—and quickly drug him over to my motorcycle so I could grab my pistol. I winked to Mohammed and whispered, ‘one, two . . .' I cranked my motorcycle, slammed the accelerator and we peeled out of the scene. Bullets were flying everywhere past us, but none hit us.”

Gasping, I said, “Good God, man. Were you afraid or what?” Sermen peered downward, grasped his Jack Daniels cowboy belt buckle in both
hands, and proclaimed, “Naw, it was cool, man!”

After hearing Sermen's amazing story of survival, he told me more about the situation in Baghdad. “Jamal, I'll tell you what I think the biggest difference is in Baghdad these days. It is not the Iraqis hatred for each other—this has been around forever and always will. It's the newfound hatred for Americans. Everyone hates you guys these days: old, young, Sunni, Shia, male, female—everybody. Hell, I have even heard of kids in Baghdad shooting RPGs and AKs at Americans because of the mess you have created.”

I said, “Wait a sec, this is all our fault?” Sermen, a remarkably sensible Iraqi, replied, “You and I both know this is everyone's fault; however, one thing is true: if America wants to win Iraqis hearts and minds, they need to kill every Iraqi in the country. Then, they need to transplant new people in the area, because I doubt the current society will ever forget the pain and anguish America has put them through. Personally, if I was America, I would just bring in nuclear bombs and kill everyone.”

Typically I took Sermen's assessments with a grain of salt. I also tried to get other Iraqi opinions on the matter and I talked to the terps to get the update on the sense of the Iraqi people. Unfortunately everyone I'd talked to was singing the same tune. I was even seeing reports in the Triad that validated some of the crazy comments made by Sermen. Recently I'd seen multiple human intelligence reports of little kids carrying guns and helping insurgents conduct attacks in Haqliniyah and Haditha.

It seemed the strategy of “winning over the younger generation” had all but failed. The perception in Iraq was that America was responsible for the chaos, ethnic cleansing, and tribal bloodbaths occurring throughout the country. Our designation as the ultimate scapegoat in Iraq may have laid the foundation for a whole new generation of people that hate our guts.
Awesome
.

It appeared that with the added children and with those who used to be fence-sitters, the supply of insurgent labor had gone way up. Now that we had effectively pissed off all of Iraq, we had more insurgents who were willing to accept lower wages to conduct terrorist activities. Our policy in Iraq sucked.

Business in Baghdad

My newest neighbors were Salah, Mostafa, Younis, and Qutaiba. All four of these Sunni men were highly educated, English-speaking engineers from Tikrit who were the leaders of the Iraqi construction company that was
building new facilities on Camp Ali. To say they had lived tragic lives was an understatement.

Qutaiba invited me into his trailer to speak about his own struggle with the violence in his country. Qutaiba, an elderly man, “not a day over sixty” in his own words, was quite impressive. He was fluent in English and Arabic and conversant in Russian from studying advanced physics. His degrees included a bachelors, a masters, and a Ph.D. in civil engineering from the top universities in Iraq and the Middle East. If Qutaiba had been sent to America and dropped into the professor role at any university, nobody would have been able to distinguish him from any other highly educated university professor. Even so there was one distinguishing feature that made him different from your average university professor: twelve bullet holes in his body.

Qutaiba invited me to sit down. “Jamal,” he said, “we have not spoken much, but I hear you are a legend on this camp.” I replied, “Who told you that? Do you talk to the
jundi
? Actually, here is the important question: did people tell you I was legendary in a good way or a bad one?” Qutaiba laughed. “Jamal, it was all bad, my friend. I am sorry.”

After looking with curiosity at Qutaiba's arm, which was surrounded in a metal contraption with medical pins penetrating his flesh, I had to ask him about it. “Qutaiba, what the heck is on your arm? You look like Robocop.” He replied, “Jamal, are you sure you can handle this story? I know you Marines are squeamish.” I smiled and said, “You think you're funny, don't you? Let's hear your story.”

He went on to tell me his tale. “Jamal, six months ago, a group of men approached my corporate headquarters in Baghdad dressed in U.S. Army camouflage uniforms, spoke fluent English, and told me that they needed to set up a meeting to talk about a future construction job. Because these men were U.S. Army soldiers and I knew they had money, I quickly agreed to meet with the gentlemen, thinking it would be a great way to tap my business into the American money that was rushing into construction projects. The men requested that at the meeting I bring all of my top employees for the discussion. Excited about the opportunity, I agreed to set up a meeting for the following week.”