Wesley Gray - Embedded

We patrolled to the suspected dwelling on the other side of the island. I was convinced I had landed on another planet. The island was lifeless, aside from a handful of primitive stone-built huts the size of a one-car garage. The only signs of activity were three wooden boats and a line of fishing nets scattered along the shore. Nuts said, “Sir, I bet we are the first Americans to ever touch this land in the history of the world.” I looked around. “I think you’re right.”

At the objective, we found fifteen men hovering around a steaming cauldron of baked beans. In unison they welcomed us, saying, “As salam aleikum.” Ali Jaber replied on our behalf, “Wa aleikum salam.” He immediately got down to business, lined the men up single file, and started frisking them for contraband. Meanwhile, Nuts and I explored the detainees’ shack for weapons or booby traps (see photo 18).

The inside of their living quarters was atrocious. Trash was everywhere, blankets were strewn about the floor, breadcrumbs were scattered along the floor, and the rat shit was so thick it felt like we were walking on a bag of rice. Before we could investigate further, Ali Jaber cried, “Jamal, ta’al hinah. Shasowwi hesse?” (Jamal, come here. What should I do now?) I had some simple advice for him: find the Egyptians.

Ali Jaber and his jundi immediately went to work. He ordered the detainees to pull out their identification cards. He made quick work of the situation, approached me, and whispered in my ear, “Jamal, these two men are the Egyptians. It says so on their identification cards.” I replied, “Are you sure?” He snuck a little closer. “Yes, Jamal. What should we do with them?” I pondered, then answered, “Hrmm, tell them we need to take them back to the dam for some questioning. Tell them we do not believe them to be guilty of anything, but believe they may be able to help us find some insurgents and that they will be rewarded for their efforts.” Once we had attained our “prizes,” the next step was to explore the immediate area for suspicious activity. I grabbed a small group of Iraqi scouts and went to search some abandoned tents along the coast.

A spring from an AK-47 rifle came flying out of a shredded tent and directly into my face. “Ow. Shit, dude, watch out!” I blurted out in English to Mofak, one of the jundi with me. Mofak looked at me puzzled, not understanding what I had said. “Jamal, shaku maku? Inta zien?” (Jamal, what happened? Are you okay?) Still flinching from the pain, I replied, “Anii zien, bess shtisowwi wiya AK?” (I am fine, but what are you doing with the AK?) Mofak would not respond, so I entered the tent.

Mofak decided to dismantle the AK-47 inside the tent. “Mofak, what are you doing, man?” I asked. “Nothing,” he responded. “I am destroying this AK-47 so they don’t attack us with it when we leave.” Despite my desire to agree with him, I had to explain to Mofak that the Iraqi people were allowed to have one AK-47 per household, even if their household was a shitty tent on some island in the middle of nowhere.

Mofak understood and begrudingly tossed the rifle on the ground. “Jamal, you know everyone out here is an insurgent, don’t you?” I responded, “Yes, Mofak, that may be true, but we have to respect these people. Here’s a deal. If they fire on us when we leave, we will come back here and take them all back to the Iraqi camp for interrogation. Will that work?” He nodded in agreement. “Okay, that is good. However, I will kill them if they shoot at us so we won’t even have to worry about bringing them back to Camp Ali.”

At the conclusion of our search efforts, we rallied everyone together, including our two insurgent detainees, and patrolled back to our landing zone for extract. Our mission, despite its chaotic beginnings, had been a complete success. The Marines operating the boat hollered, “Sir, how was it? You got the insurgents?” Excited, I answered, “Oh yeah, we got them. Now let’s get the hell out of here!” They shouted back, “Oohrah, Sir. Roger that.” We loaded onto the speedboats and dashed for Haditha.

“Resgar, do you want to run with us?” Adams and I were on a jog and wanted to see if our resident Kurd, who speaks five languages, was interested. “Jamal, I am so sorry,” he replied. “I cannot run with you. I have too many bullet holes in my legs.” Never hearing this excuse before in my life, I asked again for clarification. Resgar elaborated. “Jamal, I have five bullet wounds in my legs from snipers in the Iran and Iraq War. I have shrapnel in my body and hands and I have a bullet wound on my head from a friendly Iraqi aircraft round that ricocheted off my head. I have a hard time moving my body.”

What can you reasonably say to an excuse like that? I laughed. “Resgar, my brother, no problem. We don’t want you running with us anyway—you will probably make us run too fast!”

Iraqis operate in an environment unimaginable to outsiders—and it is reflected in their unique culture.

Most of the MiTT hates sitting on Iraqi COC duty. I particularly love it because it is a great opportunity to speak with the Iraqis. One day the Iraqis and I discussed everyone’s favorite topic—sex.

The Iraqis receive little to no sex education and are naturally curious. Our first conversation was on the fabled clitoris: what it was, how to find it, and how it can give a woman pleasure. In what was very awkward conversation, I explained to the jundi the basic concept of the organ. I tried to explain everything to the serious-faced jundi in Arabic without bursting into laughter but had a difficult time. I think the Iraqis understood the gist of what I was trying to tell them, even if they got half of it wrong. I was amazed at how sexually illiterate they were. I felt like I was surrounded by a bunch of teenage boys who were frothing at the mouth for the opportunity to learn the basics of female anatomy. I didn’t claim to be any sort of expert on sexual matters, but even my rudimentary knowledge put me in a class above most Iraqis.

The conversation lit a fire under the jundi . Lieutenant Colonel Ali asked, “Jamal, how do American men last so long in bed and how do you grow your penises so large?” Baffled, I replied, “What are you talking about, man?” He responded, “On all the movies I see the man humping the woman for over an hour and they always have a penis the size of a baby’s arm! What cream or medicine are you guys taking?”

I shook my head in disgust, hiding my laughter. “Listen, you understand that in the porno movies they always hire the guys with the biggest dicks, right? You also gotta understand that the reason those movies go on for hours is because they cut scenes and take breaks—none of it is reality!” Ali wasn’t buying it. “Jamal, you are full of shit. I know there is a medicine you can take. I’ve seen these things on the Internet. I have also heard that to increase your penis size you guys inject some sort of jelly substance into your cock.”

Sometimes I wondered where Iraqis get their information. I continued, “Oh, so you saw it on the Internet and now it must be true? Guys, let me tell you, everything you see on the Internet or on television does not reflect the reality of America.” I paused. “Trust me, my penis is only nine inches long and I usually only last an average of thirty minutes in bed.” The sarcasm in my comment didn’t communicate to the jundi I was joking. They looked at me with a sense of reverence. “Guys, I’m joking. Lighten up.”