Wesley Gray - Embedded

What Moody said made so much sense. From an Iraqi perspective the facts are very clear: to beat the insurgents one needs to fight fire with fire or one will lose the fight. If the sheikhs can collect thousands of dollars from insurgent groups by promoting violence against Marines, without incurring any cost, the decision is simple: continue supporting the insurgents. Likewise, if the Marines put a little pressure on the sheikh—take his electricity, his ability to drive, his food, his water, and so forth—he now has a cost associated with accepting money from insurgent groups. You have now shaped his decision-making process in your favor.

Toto, we aren’t in Kansas anymore.

I got my last dose of Iraqi perspective this evening speaking with Colonel Abass. I addressed Abass with the standard litany of greetings, pleasantries, and small talk Iraqis need before getting down to business. But then I asked, “Sir, what are your thoughts on implementing some sort of awards system to recognize the work of jundi who are doing excellent work?” Abass sunk into his leather chair and twisted his handlebar mustache. “Jamal, what exactly are you thinking?” I replied, “Sir, to be quite honest, I’m not sure. I know what works in the Marines, but I’m not sure how our system would translate into the Iraqi Army. One idea I had would be to give the jundi formal letters of appreciation signed by you. What do you think of something like that?”

Colonel Abass chuckled in a low grumble and propped himself upright. “Jamal, Jamal, Jamal, I love your enthusiasm. You are a happy fellow and I think it is wonderful. God has obviously blessed you.” I quickly replied, “Sir, I know you think I’m full of shit on this one and I actually realize that I probably am. I’m really just fishing for some ideas from you. Why won’t a system like this work? Didn’t you have an awards system in the old Iraqi army?”

Abass proceeded to lecture me. “Jamal, in the past the Iraqi army was a job of pride and honor,” he said. “Today, it is purely a way for people to make ends meet. Iraqis no longer have any pride in the country or their military anymore. God willing, we can fix this over time, but I doubt it. The only thing that will motivate my jundi is more money, more leave, or less work. These men are not soldiers, they are civilians.”

Colonel Abass summarized his thoughts. “Jamal, did you know the brigade tried to write me a formal letter of appreciation a few weeks ago? It was a wonderful gesture, but even I have become disillusioned in this new Iraqi army. I don’t command anything, the Americans do. I can’t kill insurgents, because the Americans won’t let me. Civilians don’t even respect the power of the Iraqi army anymore. How can I have pride in it? You know what I did with the letter I received?” I replied out of courtesy, “What?” Abass said, “I wiped my ass with it and used it for toilet paper. That’s how much that paper was worth to me. The same holds for a majority of the jundi in my battalion.”

At the conclusion of the initial Iraqi invasion, we should have never dissolved Iraqi’s only functional organization. It now may be irreparable.

Five years ago, on September 11, 2001, terrorists blew things up in New York City and Washington, D.C. At Camp Ali terrorists decided to celebrate the five-year anniversary by sending a 107-mm rocket screaming over the MiTT camp. It landed thirty-five meters north of us. Luckily it was a dud or it could have killed our entire team in one shot. Death was a reality we faced in combat. We had been lucky thus far to have experienced relatively few casualties in the Iraqi battalion. But in September we headed into our biggest operation yet, and I was certain that at the end of the operation someone would be dead or missing a body part. Surviving the operation would be a serious relief.

We began the operations briefs. Even by Iraqi standards the preliminary Iraqi order had failed. Don’t get me wrong, the content was solid. The briefer communicated his ideas and everyone understood how we would accomplish the mission. Even so, the Iraqis made a rookie mistake in formulating the plan. They assumed they could fit 222 individuals into the Haditha FOB, a space designated for a maximum of 100. The Iraqis may enjoy the idea of being stacked on top of one another, but I didn’t want an Iraqi sleeping on top of me.

Captain McShane did not endorse their plan either. “What about the idea of using peoples’ homes as patrol bases?” he asked. “We can switch every day or so.” Although such an idea would certainly infuriate the locals, we thought it was better than stacking 222 bodies in a shoebox. But McShane’s ideas did not persuade the Iraqis. Captain Hasen said, “We are Iraqis; we do not want to invade another Iraqi’s home. The Americans may be willing to do this, but we refuse to do this!” Hasen’s critique was correct, but he did not offer any alternative solutions. McShane, visibly frustrated, fired at the Iraqis, “We must do this. You have presented no solutions—we are doing it our way now!”

McShane’s plan angered every Iraqi in the room. Unfortunately Iraqis are not Marines. Marines will come to the position of attention, salute, and carry out the mission their commander gives them, even if the commander is a dope. Iraqis will do no such thing. McShane, who was used to being in command, still had not grasped the difference between commanding and advising. There are two things Americans should never do with Iraqis in public: Never tell them they are wrong and never command them to do something. Both of these infractions shred an Iraqi’s pride and honor, effectively murdering him in the eyes of society. An equivalent offense in our culture would be to get on a bus, call the first black person you saw a “nigger,” and tell him to sit in the back of the bus. These things do not sit well.

The Iraqis had a point. McShane’s counterproposal was an untenable option. It would rightfully cause Anbar Sunnis to view Americans as occupiers and was sure to create even more insurgents in the region. In addition, setting up patrol bases in local homes would expose us to VBIED and grenade attacks. It would not work.

The upcoming operation was causing tempers and emotions to fly sky high, not only between the MiTT and the IA but also among the MiTT members. During our nightly MiTT meeting Lieutenant Adams asked Staff Sergeant Haislip to get batteries for all the Humvees. Haislip responded, “That ain’t my job.” Adams, a prior-enlisted Marine for twelve years, responded in the way he knows best. “Haislip, I didn’t ask you if it is your job. Just fuckin’ do it!” On Haislip’s behalf Staff Sergeant Donaldson said, “Lieutenant Adams, aren’t batteries your issue as the supply officer? Why aren’t you taking care of that?” Adams was seething. He said, “Stay in your fuckin’ lane, intelligence boy. How about you figure out what the hell is going on in the area of operations and let me figure out how to get the batteries?” The team was on the brink of mutiny. The boss jumped in, but his yelling only heightened the frustration. “Everyone shut up and quit fuckin’ bitching! No more talking.” These people cannot handle the stress of planning the mission, I thought, God help us when we move to the execution phase of the mission.

The day came to kick off Operation Nimer (Tiger). All the soldiers from our battalion would be in the operation, along with elements from 3rd Iraqi Battalion in Hit and 1st Iraqi Battalion in Rawah. With a mere 222 jundi involved, the Marines thought it would be routine. But no matter how routine an operation might be for Marines, nothing is routine for Iraqis.