Wesley Gray - Embedded

Did a wild hare get up your ass?” I had heard this question countless times in the Marine Corps and I still wasn’t sure what it meant. All the same I thought it aptly described my sudden burst of motivation to do something that didn’t involve sitting around in the Iraqi COC any longer. I was ready for another combat mission.

2/3 needed some folks for a special operations type mission. They had asked us if we could take the Iraqi army scouts on speedboats to a remote island in Lake Qadisiyah. Our mission was to clandestinely approach the island, find some Egyptian insurgents, and bring them to the dam so the HET (Human Exploitation Team) could interrogate them. Moreover, because we were short on terps, it looked like I would be assigned as the interpreter for the mission. This was as close to being James Bond as I would ever get in my life.

Once the mission plan was finalized between the MiTT and the Marines driving the boats, we stopped by the scout swahut and told them to get their gear together for a special mission. After their gear was packed we marched up to the dam and jumped in the back of a Marine troop transport vehicle that was heading for the top of the dam.

On the drive to the launch point I slowly translated the intelligence material I had in the best Arabic I could muster. The Iraqis absolutely loved it. I couldn’t speak fluent Arabic, but I could motivate the hell out of Iraqis with the Arabic I did know. By the time I was done explaining the situation, the jundi were ready for the mission.

At the launch point we boarded the speedboats and sprinted north over the horizon in search of a particular remote island. The cold wind off the lake shot through our combat gear. Corporal Jackson looked to me and said, “Sir, we are going to freeze our asses off, I’m afraid.” I smirked. “Yeah, pretty much. Good times ahead!”

Fighting the frequent splash of freezing water hitting me in the face, I yelled at Abdulhaddi, “Sadeeki, inta zien? Khallis?” (My friend, are you good? You ready?) Abdulhaddi, one of the rare “glass half full” Iraqis, responded in terrible English, “Jamal, very good, very good. I kill Ali Babba with you!” Shaking from the thin coat of freezing water over my body, I responded with a huge smile. “Insha’allah,” I said. Abdulhaddi, Salah, and Ali Jaber, the three Iraqis on the craft with me, all responded in unison, “Insha’allah, Jamal. Insha’allah” (see photo 17).

The excitement of flying across the water in speedboats came to a sudden halt. The Marine operating the boat yelled, “Fuck! Boat down.” We looked across the way to see the other craft stalled. Nuts stood up and punched his hands in the air, obviously distraught. Sgt. Jamar Bailey whispered to me, “Sir, it looks like Staff Sergeant Chesnutt is pretty pissed.” Smirking, I replied, “Yes. Yes, it does.”

Forty-five minutes later, well into our special operations mission, we were still sitting a thousand meters from the dam trying to fix boat engines. The lead boat operator said, “Gents, I know you don’t want to hear this, but we need to squish everybody onto two crafts instead of three. It’s gonna be a little cramped, but we will need to make it work.” Grudgingly we piled onto the two boats. Within minutes we were once again galloping along the waves of Lake Qadisiyah. Our path took us on a typical patrol route, which would not arouse any suspicion among the insurgents who lived on the islands scattered throughout Lake Qadisiyah.

We approached our objective. “Hold on, gentlemen,” bellowed the Marine staff sergeant controlling the raft. “We are gonna make a sharp turn and charge into the island, stand by.” Before we could react to the announcement, the momentum of quick change in direction created chaos. The jundi tumbled on top of me and we formed a human layer cake in the bottom of the craft. I looked at Ali Jaber, who had fallen on top of me, and said, “Uh, as salama aleikum, shlonek sadeeki?” (Uh, hello, how are you my friend?) Ali Jaber smiled. “Jamal, hatha Marine mejnoon!” (Jamal, that Marine [who is driving] is crazy!)

We zipped toward the island, attempting to maximize the element of surprise. The way the island was originally described to us in the intelligence reports, it was supposed to be a hundred meters long and have one hut that housed the Egyptians. The island we were approaching, though, was the size of a small college campus with rolling hills, ten to twenty primitive huts, maybe a hundred inhabitants, and a slew of donkeys and wild dogs. Human intel had once again gotten it wrong.

A hundred meters off land the boat operator yelled again, “Shit. Gentlemen, it’s too shallow here—you aren’t swimming in this stuff!” He slammed the brakes and all of us cannonballed along the belly of the speedboat for the second time. We continued to try to find a potential landing site, but to no avail. After six attempts at landing it was getting so ridiculous I felt as though we were playing a role in a spoof movie. To make matters worse, witnessing the entire escapade was a group of Iraqi fishermen, who were huddled outside their stone hut drinking tea. They waved in our direction. Our element of surprise was dead.

Sergeant Bailey pointed in the direction of a small peninsula jutting from the island. “That place looks good,” he said. We agreed with Bailey’s suggestion so we could offload. We hopped out of the boats and immediately secured the area. The jundi and I were the first team off the boat and pushed ahead to recon the area.

Nuts walked up to me and said, “Sir, what the hell are we going to do next? This island isn’t exactly as small as they told us it was going to be.” During my Marine Corps officer training the instructors always mentioned there would be a moment where everyone looks at you and says, “What next, lieutenant?”

This was my opportunity to shine or falter. Perplexed, I relied on some common sense. “Well, we know they probably aren’t those dudes over to the east, since they watched us try and land our boats for the past hour. And to the south is the lake. We don’t want to go swimming. That narrows it down to either going north or west. Let’s head west. We’ll patrol to the top of the hill, get a better vantage point, and work from there.” I paused then said, “But before we do anything, let’s ask Ali Jaber what he wants to do, since he is the Iraqi squad leader and in command of this operation.”

I confronted Ali Jaber, who was happy to let me lead the group. “You are the squad leader so I will let you make the decisions on what we do next,” I said. Ali Jaber looked at me with a puzzled expression and said, “Jamal, I don’t know what to do next. What do you want to do?” I said, “This isn’t my country, what do you want to do?” Luckily, a couple of young Iraqi men started approaching our position. I leaned over to Ali Jaber and said, “How about you ask those guys if they know where these Egyptians are located.” He replied, “Good idea. Let’s do it.”

Ali Jaber and I jogged over to the young men. The men stopped in their tracks and their eyes widened to the size of eggs. It was obvious they had never seen a Marine or jundi on this island. Ali Jaber spoke with the men for a few minutes. When the conversation ended, he addressed the squad. “Well, they gave me the directions to the Egyptians. All we have to do is head west over the hill and look in the hut closest to the shore.” I slapped Ali Jaber on the shoulder and told him, “Inta qaid doriya kullish zien!” (You are a great squad leader!)