Wesley Gray - Embedded

Inside the home the family was courteous and understanding of our situation. Moody served as the “calm the locals” man, Kelley and Hussein set up security, and I coordinated for a QRF. Once things were settled I visited the casualty. A young boy had brought Ali, the wounded soldier, a large glass of water. I approached Ali and said, “Il hamdu Allah is salama!” (Thank God you are safe!) He grinned at me, blew a large cloud of smoke from his cigarette, and said, “Jamal, I am in fuckin’ serious pain!” I laughed uncontrollably. Ali proceeded to show me the hole in his flak and his magazines. All of the jundi rotated through to see how he was doing and to hear his war story. Ali was now a living legend among mere men.

After speaking with Ali I went into the main room of the home. It was stunning. I am always impressed with what Iraqis can do with little means. I have a hard time keeping a film of dust out of my hooch back at the camp, yet these people can keep an entire home spotless. Moreover, the home had a spiral staircase with beautiful marble footings. At the foot of the staircase sat a two-person rocking chair. I walked up to the man of the house, who was sitting peacefully in the rocking chair, chatting with Moody. I introduced myself and told him he had a wonderful home. I apologized for our uninvited entrance. I think he understood our predicament; having a jundi with a bullet hole in his SAPI plate was more than enough to convince them we were in need of their help.

The QRF flew at sixty miles per hour down Boardwalk to our position, scaring every man, veiled women, and begging child in the area. It was obvious the jundi were at the helm. When they arrived in a fury of dust, we mounted the casualty into one of the Humvees and the QRF scurried out of the area and back to the WTF without incident. We were left to our own devices to get back to camp.

Without the burden of a casualty we cautiously left the home and headed across Boardwalk and into the village. The squad was uneasy. We rushed north with a focus on returning to base. We had seen enough action for the day. Our beautiful day in Haditha had turned into a game of Duck Hunt for the insurgents. To make matters worse, temperatures decided to rise past 100 degrees. The squad walked through the front gate of the WTF ready to relax. This was my first serious combat incident and I hoped it would be the last. Insha’allah.

At the compound we had two new guests. The Iraqi QRF had managed to spot the two individuals running across the street at the time we were taking sniper fire. They detained them and brought them back to our patrol base for questioning. An Iraqi captain swiftly backhanded one of the detainees in the face as I approached. The bitch slap was followed by a rain of death threats and accusations. The scene was getting ugly. I sprinted to the scene, looking for hidden CNN reporters along the way. Dealing with a detainee abuse case was the last thing I wanted at this point.

Puzzled by what was happening, I said, “Captain Ahmed, let’s first GPR [gunpowder residue test] these guys before you get too wild with your interrogation.” He fired back in an emotional state, “Jamal, these men fired at you. They are insurgents. I know it. Let me take care of this the Iraqi way!” I replied calmly, “That might be the case, but let me test them first.” I reached into my grab pouch and grabbed some flexi-cuffs. “Here; take these cuffs and secure their hands behind their backs.” Ahmed snatched the flexi-cuffs from my hands while Espi went to grab the GPR kit.

“Owww!” The older detainee screamed in agony. I saw that his wrists were bleeding. Ahmed had decided to use the flexi-cuffs as a vice grip on the detainee’s wrists. He had tightened them so snuggly they were cutting into the detainee’s wrists, causing blood to spill on the ground. Captain Mawfood immediately yanked Ahmed from the scene to council him.

“Fuckin’-a, man,” I said in a defeated tone, “now we gotta get these damn things off of this guy.” I grabbed my Gerber all-purpose tool and went to work. I systematically tried to pry a knife under the cuffs, but because they were so tight, I only worsened the man’s pain. He yelled again. I peered into his eyes and in California English said, “Dude… shut up!”

After five minutes of getting nowhere I came to an unfortunate conclusion: This Iraqi would have to endure some pain if he wanted to be free. The detained gasped, “Wallahhh” (Oh, God). As surgically as I possibly could, I got the knife blade under the flexi-cuff and ripped upward, cutting the plastic cuffs in half. The detainee cringed in agony but was relieved to have the cuffs removed. Espi reapplied the flexi-cuffs appropriately and we began the GPR tests.

The GPR tests were overwhelmingly positive. These kids had been playing in daddy’s gun closet. The GPR was by no means a foolproof test, but given the circumstances, it was likely that these men had tried to kill me. After explaining to Captain Mawfood the GPR results, he ordered a group of jundi to take the detainees to the new U.S. COC, inside the security hut near the gate.

Major Gaines had us gather around. “Gentlemen,” he said, “Nuts is taking out the next patrol, everyone involved in that group get ready. Jamal, you are the intel dude. Watch over these detainees and see if the Iraqis can get any information. Everyone else get some sleep.” Everyone understood the order and went their respective ways. I stayed behind, wishing I could get some sleep too.

The makeshift guard shack that held the detainees was small, with a main room just big enough to hold a cot, a refrigerator, a bookshelf, and a side compartment room that acted as a sleeping post for the reserve guard on duty during Saddam’s reign. The Iraqis liked the idea of taking the detainees into the compartment room. I waited in the main room on the cot and took the opportunity to take off my heavy load and rest after a hectic twenty-four hours of combat.

Thud, thud. A dense pounding sound came from the interrogation room. “Damn, I told them to play it cool with the detainees!” I said under my breath. I busted into the room and witnessed Martin, one of our terps, head butting the detainee and pounding him in the center of the back with his fist. “Martin, what are you doing man? You know if the detainee facility sees this all of our asses are gonna fry!” He looked up with a grin. “Jamal, this is how we always do it. Do you really want the Marines getting information from these guys? Gimme a break. The Marines suck at getting info! Plus the detention center never looks in the center of their back. The bruises in the areas where I am hitting these guys won’t show up for weeks. Relax!”

I knew Martin. Any attempt to persuade him that torture was wrong would go nowhere. I addressed him anyway. “Listen dude, I don’t care if you rough this guy up a bit and need to scare him to get some information, but you can’t be pounding him in the back. That may be how you do it in Iraq and I understand Iraqis respond to this treatment, but I will be the one who goes to jail if they find out you guys beat the shit out of this guy and I knew about it.”

Resgar, a Kurdish jundi and one of the few Iraqis I trusted, took me out of the room to explain the situation. “Jamal, I understand your concern. We do not want to hurt this young guy. We know he has a mother and a father who love him. But if we want usable intelligence, this kid needs to have a sense of fear and a sense that we are in complete control or he will not tell us anything.” Resgar explained that he had done interrogations in the Iraqi army and for the U.S. government in the Kurdish regions for ten years before he became a communications expert. I believed him. The guy knew what he was talking about. Who was I to disagree?