Wesley Gray - Embedded

Abass paused for emphasis then continued. “Listen to how much I would have saved your government. First, you had to bring a helicopter to pick this guy up; this costs manpower, gas money, and precious pilot time. Second, you had to bring a QRF [quick reaction force] to the situation so you could have some Marines tend to the casualty; this is wasting your Marines’ energy and lowering their defenses at the base because you had to take the QRF from the base defenses. If we add up all the expenses and the time taken to take care of this insurgent, it is quite expensive. Is this additional cost worth having disciplined fires?”

Colonel Abass switched his focus from the group to Cooling. “Lieutenant Colonel Cooling, next time you send your Marines on patrol, let me be certain my jundi are out there with them and I will tell my men to make sure they kill anybody they shoot. We will then split the cost savings. Deal?” Everyone in the room erupted in laughter. This guy broke things down so simply and peppered them with so much common sense, it was hard to argue with his logic.

After a few hours of great conversation and insight from Colonel Abass, we headed back to the MiTT camp. Regardless of what happens on this deployment, I thought, I will never forget Colonel Abass. This guy could talk about beating women with a straight face and convince a room of Marines why undisciplined firepower makes sense. It was nothing short of amazing.

Homosexual intimacy has always wigged me out at some level. To me it’s a lot like trying to play football with a baseball bat. People are free to engage in the practice, but they are never going to convince me it makes any sense. This same philosophy applies to some of the unique practices Arab men engage in with one another. I really don’t care if Iraqi men enjoy holding hands, rubbing each other’s bellies, kissing each other’s cheeks, or having sex with each other—I just don’t want to be involved.

For whatever reason, one day the Iraqis wanted to get especially friendly. Love was in the air, I guess. I am well aware that in Arab culture men have much tighter relationships, they touch each other more, and their bonds run much deeper than in Western cultures. I am willing to learn new cultures, but I could not adjust to this aspect of Iraqi culture. Abit, the Iraqi S-6 communications chief, ran up to me with open arms, hugged me, kissed me multiple times on the cheek, told me he loved me, and then grabbed my hand in the same manner my wife and I would use on a romantic walk through the park. It caught me off guard.

Abit and I walked to the MiTT camp holding hands. The entire time we walked, he relaxed his head on my shoulder and caressed my forearm as if I were his lover. The last time I’d felt this awkward was when I crapped my pants in the fifth grade. Nevertheless I resisted every temptation to tear my hand away from him for fear I would offend him in some way. Eventually, we parted ways and I hustled back to the MiTT camp to clear my mind.

The man love did not end with Abit. Later a pair of 2/3’s Marines from the S-6 (communications section) came to Camp Ali to install the SIPRNET (Internet that is classified Secret) in the Iraqi COC so the MiTT would have better connectivity. Both these Marines were around five feet four inches, eighteen years old, and had no facial hair. They looked like prepubescent boys.

I was on my way to the Iraqi COC in the Chevy Luv (similar to a Toyota Tacoma) when I saw a huge crowd of jundi around the two S-6 Marines. I rushed to the scene to see what was going on. I asked the Iraqis for a situation report, saying, “Shaku maku?” (What’s happening?) Ayad and Juwad explained the situation in a mix of Arabic and English that only I could understand. “Jamal, those two Marines are wasiim [pretty] and nreed fikki fikki wiyahum bil swahuts. Nreed nshoofhum minu il masool [we want to have sex with them in the swahuts. We want to show them who is boss].” Floored by the comment, I said, “You guys are sick. I don’t want any of you ever touching these Marines—nasty bastards.” The Iraqis all laughed. Juwad retorted, “Jamal, you know we are all going to masturbate to the thought of these two guys from now on, right? Just give us one of them for some fun! A few minutes is all we need.” Sadly, I knew Juwad was serious. I smirked and shook my head in disgust.

The two Marines, who had no clue what was happening, asked me, “Sir, what was that all about? What did you tell them, what is going on?” I did not want to break the news to them that they were objects of desire to the jundi ; nonetheless, I responded, “Gents, the Iraqis think you’re cute and want to take you behind a swahut. The sick thing is they are only half joking. I am going to get you guys the hell out of here before this gets out of hand.”

The two Marines’ eyes widened. They did not have to say a word; their body language was more than enough to communicate what they were thinking: The jundi are warped! We left the area.

After I dropped off the potential rape victims in the Chevy Luv, I returned to address the jundi . Fifty jundi started yelling, “Jamal, come over and talk. Jamal we love you.” Within thirty seconds forty curious Iraqis had surrounded me. I rushed to lock the doors on the Chevy. Ayad, a goofy-looking Arab and the comedian of the crowd, addressed me: “Jamal, you like boobs and asses, don’t you?” I replied, “Of course.” Ayad continued. “Well you know why you need to try gay sex?” I asked mockingly, “Why, Ayad?” He responded, “The ass is much tighter, feels better, and you don’t have to deal with an emotional woman afterward.”

I addressed the crowd from my uneasy, outnumbered position. “Dude, Ayad, I realize you are too ugly to get women and must resort to men. If you need me to help you get some Iraqi women, let me know and I’ll make a few phone calls.” The crowd erupted in laughter. Ayad slapped me a high five and gave me a huge hug through the truck window. “Jamal,” he said, “you are an Iraqi. We love you.” I smiled and dissed Ayad one last time to the amusement of the crowd. “Ahebbek Ayad,” I said, “bess ma tshoof ila Marinesee. Inta Faregh!” (I love you Ayad, but don’t look at my Marines. You are gay!)

Corruption is a means to an end. I used to think it was a dishonest way of carrying out business; however, I am slowly coming to grips with the fact that corruption is as much a part of Iraqi culture as is greeting friends and guests with as salamu aleikum . Moody, our top terp, and Ahmed, my stellar S-1 clerk, who spoke very good English, gave me a crash course in the economics and social dynamics of the corrupt Iraqi pay system. What he taught me can go a long way in Iraq toward helping Americans at all levels—from my level to the strategic level—understand how business gets done.

Our discussion began quite innocently. “Ahmed,” I said, “I am trying to understand why there are so many discrepancies in what Captain Tseen is telling me regarding the pay status and what he is sending to the Ministry of Defense.” Moody looked at Ahmed, giving him the nod that he would explain to the uninformed American how things really worked in Iraq. Moody said, “Jamal, the first thing you have to understand, is that Captain Tseen is looking after his jundi and does want them to get paid. You also have to understand that Tseen is a highly connected individual in the MOD. This is a huge asset.” I reluctantly said, “Okay.” Moody continued, “Jamal, let me ask you something. Do you know why our battalion is paid at the highest rates in the brigade and do you also know why all jundi in the 1st Division Iraqi Army are paid at higher rates than everyone in our 7th Division?” I shook my head and said, “No, why?” He replied, “We are paid at the highest rates in the brigade because Tseen knows the most people at MOD from our brigade and is able to cut the most deals. First Division is paid at a higher rate than everyone in our division because their pay officers know even more people than Captain Tseen does at the MOD. Americans like to call this corruption. We call this ‘getting things done.’”