Wesley Gray - Embedded

Mesmerized by the sight of an Arabic-speaking Marine, the boys attacked me with a barrage of questions. The eldest son greeted me and said, “Please, Jamal, come outside to the patio and we must talk. I want to learn.” The four brothers escorted me to the front porch for a chat. I signaled to PFC Lynch to act as my bodyguard in case something happened.

One of the youngest boys was confused. “Jamal, are you Iraqi?” I laughed and told him I was from America, but that I would have been proud to be from Iraq. I pulled out my propaganda packet and showed them pictures of my family and my childhood. One of the other brothers asked me, “Can I see your rifle scope?” The sophisticated rifle scope on my M-4 assault rifle wowed the boy. I obliged and let the young boy look through the scope. He was bewildered. “Can we take a picture?” he asked. I replied, “Why not?” I gathered all the boys and gave the youngest boy my weapon so he could pretend he was Rambo. Ayad and Ali joined in as a jundi snapped the photograph. The kids clamored around me. “Jamal, you have to get us that picture. Whenever you come back, please bring us a copy.” I told them I would do my best to get them the picture (see photo 15).

Perhaps in ten or twenty years, when Iraq is safe, I will stop by this home and drop them a picture. Insha’allah .

The young Iraqis realized I was a person with whom they could speak freely. The eldest boy asked a provocative question: “Why are the Marines going to stay in Haditha?” Puzzled, I responded, “How long do you think we will be staying in the area?” He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Thirty years maybe?” I laughed, praying to God that his estimate was inaccurate. I explained to the boys America’s new strategy of helping the Iraqi Army stand up, so we could stand down. I reiterated my point and told him that the one thing the military wants is for Iraqis to solve Iraqi problems so Marines can go home to their families. I felt like the ultimate diplomat.

After bouncing between serious discussions of politics and local area security, the boys asked me about famous American cities, the Rocky Mountains, and Michael Jackson—their favorite performer. I spared them the details on Michael Jackson and told them we had to be on our way. Before we left Ayad asked one of the young boys, “Brother, can you run across the street and buy me a pack of cigarettes in the market?” The boy took the dinar bill from Ayad’s hand and sprinted through the front gate. He was more than happy to help us. He opened the front gate, peeked for danger, and zoomed across Boardwalk to the neighboring market.

The boy returned dripping with sweat, obviously distraught. He sprinted to his eldest brother and whispered something into his ear. The eldest brother clutched my arm and pointed to Ayad to come closer. His younger brother had told him something important. He whispered, “Jamal, my little brother says the insurgents have an ambush awaiting you on the other side of the market. They are planning to ambush you when you cross the street!” Ayad looked at me. He hoped I would say there was no need to confront the ambush. I pointed toward the palm groves and said, “Ayad, La. Rah nrooh hinak” (Ayad, no. We will go there.) Ayad was relieved. As my brother, he was ready and willing to follow me into combat if I thought it was a good idea, but he did not want to die today. I agreed, today was not a good day to die.

Talk about real-time intelligence. We shit-canned the idea of crossing Boardwalk and moving through the village to the WTF. I was amazed that a little Iraqi boy had saved our lives. I will never say learning Iraqi Arabic was a waste of time. Without the ability to humanize myself with these young boys, I fear he would have viewed us as the occupier. I finally had the locals working for the good guys.

We moved with intensity. Ayad regrouped the Iraqis and gave them the hasty plan. We would return the same way we came, through the palm groves, and would scratch the plan to walk through the village. The Iraqi point man peered through a hole in the fence looking at the intersection. “Clear,” he said. Like a group of deer crossing the road, the entire patrol started hopping the fence and running for the palm groves, quickly vanishing into the foliage, spoiling any insurgent attempt to surprise us. As I entered the dense foliage I looked back to see the young boys waving frantically in our direction. We owed that family our lives.

Living at the WTF was the definition of rough. We were patrolling eight to ten hours a day, sleeping two to three hours a night (if we were lucky), babysitting jundi , and living on MRE’s. The last night at the WTF, everyone was loopy from the lack of sleep, lack of water, and lack of chow. I was starting to approach my limit of sanity. We needed some comedy to break the monotony. Comedy came in the form of a portable toilet kit.

We had recently acquired a portable toilet kit so we did not have to bug the locals for restroom emergencies. The kit was a plastic version of a toilet with plastic bags strapped to the bottom designed to catch excrement. The kits were not fancy and worked a lot like five-gallon buckets. We always set our toilet kit directly outside the guard shack to maintain easy access. Whenever it was sunny the toilet area was exposed to the world to see. Every insurgent, village local, and donkey could see you taking a dump. But at night, because of the limited moonlight that would hit the area, using the toilet kit gave you a private moment.

Anyway, on our last night Major Gaines was out using the toilet kit. Meanwhile I was in the guard shack trying to find the light switch to the rear room. I sat there flipping switches up and down wondering why none of them worked. I continued going through the switches, but again none of them worked. I eventually found the right switch, very content with myself.

Major Gaines came crashing into the guard shack with his pants at his ankles. “Who the fuck is turning on the lights outside of the building?” he shouted. “I had a damn spotlight on me as I was taking a shit on the toilet kit! The whole village saw my white ass.” I responded, “Sir, did you feel famous?” We all burst out into laughter. Then Gaines laughed. “Jamal, if I didn’t love you, I’d kill you right now.” We all laughed and started telling war stories of the past few days. We were excited to leave this hellhole.

“Hallelujah!” Doc screamed the next morning as the MiTT convoy approached the WTF. Once the MiTT arrived to pick us up, we said goodbye to the locals, cleared our trash from the area, and checked that no sleeping jundi were left behind. On our way back Second Lieutenant Le Gette gave me the lowdown on the rest of the team’s situation over the past week. Apparently, while we had been ambushed and shot at, their days had been filled with hanging out in the Haditha FOB COC and lifting weights. Le Gette said he was getting bedsores from sleeping too much.

I felt my first bout of infantryman angst. I now understand why the grunts are always angry and feel they are being shortchanged by the support units. I will admit that the noninfantry Marine Corps, while necessary, is not what the Marine Corps is about. God bless the Marine infantrymen.

On arrival at Camp Ali, we showered, slept, and ate to our hearts’ content for the remainder of the day. We all needed to regain our senses. The best part about returning was finding the stack of packages from family and fellow Americans. My favorite piece of mail was a handwritten letter from my wife. It nearly brought tears to my eyes. I could only think about how shitty it would have been if I had been killed and never received her letter. Damn insurgents.