The Circuit (17 page)

Before the embed, Nic had given me several recent articles on Sassaman. They all painted a picture of someone who was larger than life. The hype surrounding him reached back as far as officer training school, where Sassaman had distinguished himself as an accomplished sportsman, particularly in American football. Seeing the man in the flesh, he certainly looked the part; almost six feet tall with broad shoulders and close-cropped hair, he was in very good shape for a man in his forties with all the confidence an officer of his rank should possess.

Having seen his Direct Commander off, Sassaman walked over to greet us. After a brief introduction, he told us he had to meet with a group of elders from Samarra. He apologized for not being able to stand and talk longer and extended an invitation to Nic and the crew to join him on a patrol later that afternoon. He then handed us over to one of his junior officers to show us to our quarters.

As Sassaman headed off, I wondered whether all the good press he’d received would come back to bite him in the arse. I had read about his meetings with tribal elders, which sounded like a good way to win people over. Perhaps the meetings would have been more successful, however, had Sassaman’s other policies been more complementary.

To be fair, Sassaman’s task was Sisyphean. He had a battalion of men (roughly 800 soldiers) to secure 466 square miles of the most volatile territory in Iraq. He tackled his mission with a two-pronged approach: during the day, he’d engage the locals in constructive dialogue. By night, he’d conduct door-to-door raids on homes to root out militants. Some would call that strategy ‘carrot and stick’. To me, it’s more like Jekyll and Hyde. What’s the point of courting local leaders in broad daylight if you’re going to terrorize the people they represent after the sun goes down?

Scaring the locals appeared to be just one of Sassaman’s mistakes. Many people, me included, would consider some of his tactics humiliating. An example of this involved the small Sunni village of Abu Hisham where one of his junior officers was killed in an RPG attack. The day after the attack, Sassaman ordered his troops to surround the village with razor wire and issue ID cards – written in English only – to all men between the ages of seventeen and sixty-five. The men were then forced to queue at checkpoints and show their ID cards when coming and going from their own homes.

It was as if Sassaman had ripped a page right out of the Israeli Defence Force’s playbook (one of the junior officers at the base later told me that he had received training from the IDF). I had seen for myself how Israel’s tactics only hardened Hamas’s resolve. Sassaman may have managed to capture a few insurgents in Abu Hisham, but at what cost? In my view, he’d sacrificed a long-term solution to short-term insecurities.

The junior officer showed us to our accommodation, an old classroom which we’d be sharing with a handful of troops. When we got there, a group of soldiers were sitting around cleaning their weapons. They had rolled out the welcome mat for CNN, putting up extra bunk beds in anticipation of our arrival. Unfortunately, their hospitality didn’t seem to extend to our Iraqi drivers. The soldiers glared at them like the enemy.

I stared at the soldiers until they went back to cleaning their weapons. While Nic and his crew got their kit together for the patrol, I took Yasir and the other driver outside. I let them know how angry I was about the cold reception they’d received and told them to let me know if anyone at the base gave them a hard time. Yasir said not to worry; he was used to being treated that way by Americans. I’d worked with Yasir fairly consistently by that point. He was a cracking young lad; reliable, intelligent, hard-working. He had taken a driving job with CNN to fund his education. I reminded him that we were there together as a team and all of us – British, American and Iraqi – deserved to be treated well by our hosts.

Around 1.30 p.m., we left our quarters for the pre-patrol briefing – a meeting to get all the soldiers and any press tagging along up to speed. During the briefing, I learned that there was only room for Nic and his cameraman to accompany the troops. I would have to stay behind. After listening to the Officer in Charge, however, I was fine with the arrangement. The patrol had been well thought out so I was happy to let my clients go.

With Nic and his shooter away for a few hours, I took the opportunity to conduct a more thorough security audit of the base, starting with where we’d be sleeping. Directly opposite our accommodation was a fenced-off patch of ground approximately fifty yards in diameter which the Americans used as a holding area for Iraqis they’d picked up on patrol and detained. There were a few dozen detainees of various ages milling around inside the barbed wire. Some of the younger ones were huddled together in groups. One detainee looked like he was well into his seventies. He was on his own, barefoot and shivering under a blanket. There was a two-litre plastic water bottle on the ground next to him. He must have been there a while because it was practically overflowing with urine.

It was a very disturbing sight but what troubled me even more were the security implications of the set-up. From what I could see, the detainees were left completely to their own devices in the holding area. No one was guarding or observing them to try and determine which ones were behaving like insurgents (i.e. the ones liaising with others) and which ones were acting like innocent bystanders (the old man).

Even more worrying was that a portaloo had been positioned inside the holding area right next to the barbed wire fencing. It would have taken nothing for the detainees to kick over the portaloo, bring down the barbed wire, run over the top and escape the compound. If they were really savvy, they would stop at the nearest outbuilding – which happened to be ours – grab whatever weapons they could and shoot their way out of the base. They certainly wouldn’t have to worry about guards firing on them from the unmanned sentry towers I’d seen.

I soon discovered that the holding of detainees was the final stage in a very flawed process. During my audit, I watched a foot patrol return to base with several new detainees in tow. They were blindfolded and their hands were tied behind their backs. The soldiers ordered the men to squat outside the blast walls of the main headquarters. I then watched, slack-jawed, as the soldiers removed all the blindfolds and started questioning the detainees one by one, out in the open.

I took a photo because I knew if I told my mates, no one would believe me. These were suspected insurgents and there they were with a ringside seat to every vital activity taking place inside the base. An insurgent could gather loads of information from that location: how many soldiers were stationed in the camp, what types of weapons they carried, how many armoured vehicles were in use versus soft-skinned, what time of day patrols left and returned, locations within the camp like the HQ building, cookhouse, accommodation buildings, etc., not to mention where those locations stood in relation to the rusting water tower.

The US soldiers appeared oblivious to all of this, so much so that a group of commanders stood at the foot of the detainee line discussing their exploits in vivid detail. I listened to them bang on about patrols past, present and future over fat cigars and huge mugs of coffee bearing the unit’s insignia. If any of the detainees understood English – which was very likely – they were in a wonderful position to eavesdrop and gather even more intelligence.

The base’s handling of detainees was riddled with errors from start to finish, but there was an easy way to put it all right. I saw several buildings in the camp that were structurally sound but missing windows and doors. I thought with some dark hessian screening, those buildings could be converted into holding cells. The detainees could then be taken to the buildings blindfolded. Once inside, the blindfolds could come off and the administration process could happen without the detainees ever seeing the camp’s inner workings.

My audit complete, I decided to take my findings to the man in charge, Sassaman. In my experience, officers usually don’t react well to unsolicited, constructive criticism, especially when it comes from a civilian and a foreigner at that. But keeping my mouth shut would have exposed my clients and me to unnecessary danger. A base camp is supposed to be a defended position where soldiers can rest, recuperate and train between operations. As far as I was concerned, security wise, this camp was an absolute shambles. It was a wonder anyone could sleep there. I knew I couldn’t.

As soon as Nic returned from his patrol, I pulled him aside and got him up to speed. He agreed that I should have a word with Sassaman as soon as possible. Later that evening, Sassaman consented to see me at Nic’s request. I caught Sassaman between tasks. He had just completed a report on his day’s activities and was about to bury his head in his operational order for an evening patrol. He greeted me cordially and asked if I wouldn’t mind speaking to a soldier he described as one of his ‘better officers’.

I knew I was being passed off but I did as Sassaman requested. I went to see the junior officer – he was six foot six and just as wide.

After a quick introduction, I sat down and started listing my concerns. The meeting was as brief as it was frustrating. I asked the officer why there were no guards stationed in the sentry towers.

‘Fuck it, man,’ he said. ‘We’re trying to entice these fuckers over the wall so we can take them on!’

When I told him about the potential for the detainees to kick over the portaloo in the holding area and escape, I got a similar response.

‘Fuck it, man, we want them to come at us so we can take them on!’

That seemed to be his answer for everything. If he was one of Sassaman’s ‘better officers’, the Americans didn’t have a hope in hell of securing Samarra. Although he was three times bigger than me, I told the officer I didn’t agree with his tactics or his attitude and that I would raise my concerns directly with his Commanding Officer.

‘Fuck it, man, do what you want. We’re here to kill Iraqis,’ he said.

I left the officer and went straight back to Sassaman.

‘I think you sent me to the wrong man,’ I said.

‘Why?’ Sassaman asked.

By that point I’d lost patience. I didn’t have time to tiptoe around personalities or worry about offending people.

‘You seriously need to listen to what I’ve got to say. You’ve got problems,’ I said.

Sassaman paused and looked me in the eye. ‘OK, Bob. Please give me twenty minutes.’

I returned to Sassaman’s office to find him flanked by his 2 I/C (second in command) and Sergeant Major. I wasn’t sure if he’d gathered them there to listen to me or lock me up. Maybe both.

Again, I began with the guard towers. ‘Why aren’t they manned?’ I asked.

Sassaman explained that he didn’t have the troops to spare; if his soldiers weren’t on patrol they were resting up for the next one.

I pointed out that while I sympathized with his manpower issues, it was imperative that he and his troops live in a secure environment. If soldiers don’t feel secure when they rest, their performance on the ground will eventually suffer.

To my surprise Sassaman and his officers agreed with me.

I then asked Sassaman if insurgents had fired mortar rounds at his base.

‘Three times,’ he said, adding that the strikes had been very accurate.

‘Why do you think that is?’ I asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Sassaman.

‘Do you think it has something to do with the sixty-foot water tower in the middle of your camp?’ I asked.

Sassaman and his officers looked at each other and then at me.

‘It’s a brilliant reference point,’ I explained.

‘Shit,’ said the Sergeant Major. ‘We didn’t think of that.’

‘You may want to dismantle the water tower, especially as it’s not in use,’ I said.

The Sergeant Major pulled out a pen and paper and started taking notes.

Next, I listed the problems I’d observed regarding their handling of Iraqi detainees. I gave them my idea for converting the unused outbuildings into processing and holding areas. I also suggested that in the meantime they removed the portaloo from the holding area and posted sentries outside the barbed wire to observe for signs of suspicious activity.

When I finished, Sassaman and his officers looked at me as if I’d just unravelled the secrets of the pyramids. I was starting to understand why the Americans assumed such an aggressive stance all the time. Living and working in a state of perpetual insecurity without the proper skills to limit the risks is enough to drive even the most controlled character into a frenzied state. Maintaining a cool head whilst operating in an insurgent-rich environment requires proper training, pre-deployment. It certainly didn’t appear as if Sassaman had received it. And if a highly competent, committed officer assigned to one of the most dangerous areas of Iraq hadn’t got it, then it was doubtful anyone else in the US military had. That meant that the ex-US soldiers feeding American CSCs were in the same boat – only worse: they didn’t have a professional army to bail them out if they got in the shit.

Sassaman and his officers were very gracious. They all thanked me for sharing my concerns and suggestions. Later, the Sergeant Major came to see me privately. He thanked me again and told me he’d taken on board all that I’d said and that it was indeed appreciated. He wasn’t bullshitting; that same night hessian screening was wrapped around the detainee holding area and the portaloo was removed. Had I known they would act on my advice so swiftly, I would have asked them to give an extra blanket and a pair of shoes to the shivering old man.

CHAPTER 17

By February 2004 I was rounding into the final stretch of a two-month assignment with CNN Baghdad. My first post-invasion trip to Iraq had been marked by both high and low points. At the pinnacle was the time I’d spent looking after Nic Robertson and his crew as they filmed their documentary. Thanks to Nic, I was exposed to an incredible cross section of players in Iraq’s unfolding drama. In addition to Lt Colonel Nathan Sassaman, Nic interviewed a highly articulate Shiite widow seeking compensation from the US military for mistakenly bombing her house into oblivion; an outspoken Iraqi police major who wasn’t afraid to stand up to insurgents or his American mentors; and the heir to Iraq’s throne, Sharif Ali bin Hussein – a man with the potential to unite Iraq’s historically warring factions but whose constitutional monarchy movement lacked American backing.