365 and a Wakeup

Elections - Part IV

     A little after midnight my eyes crept open and filled with the cold, diamond light of a full moon.  I squinted hard against the liquid glow, but the light seemed to seep through my eyelids until I gave up my futile attempts at falling back asleep.  As I sat up I felt the dull cacophony of muscles shot through with lactic acid, and for a long moment I sat there on the edge of the cot waiting for the staccato aches to fade. 

     It seemed like every nerve was yearning for rest, but      I walked out of our temporary CP and moved out to the soldiers manning the weapons positions.  At each position I gripped the soldiers shoulder as I approached and then settled next to them to watch the area.  In those long minutes the silence of the desert night was broken only by the soft rustle of palm leaves.  No words were exchanged, because no words were needed.  Somehow I knew that just being there with them would convey my pride in their hard work more clearly then with burdensome words.     

     Later that morning I headed over to one of the classrooms serving as a makeshift barracks, and was greeted by Black Sheep’s toothy grin.  He whispered good morning, but after the long silence the words seemed to boom in the darkness.  I answered with a wheezing croak, my vocal cords rusted shut by long silence.  We laughed at each others clumsy vocalizations for a minute, and then we started talking about the elections that was now only a few hours away.     

     Black Sheep started to explain to me the different parties and platforms, and as usual his insight cut right to the heart of the matter.  There are literally hundreds of parties competing for the electorate, and though I had dozens of documents on the elections my actual knowledge on the candidates was woefully inadequate.  Black Sheep started to paint the picture of the leading parties and their platforms.     

     Each electoral party has a name along with a number, the number corresponding with their place on the ballot.  The first party that Black Sheep mentioned was the one whose election posters were splattered all over the town.  The party known as 618, was a Sunni Islamic Party who claimed their hands had not been sullied by corruption, hence their unofficial title of “the clean hands party”.  Their campaign slogan was “Iraq for the Iraqis” and their campaign pledge was to clean the country of terrorists.  The next party Black Sheep mentioned was the Unified Iraqi Coalition List, also known as 555.  This party was composed of Shia fundamentalists including Hakim and Sadrists, and their campaign seemed to revolve around their interpretation of Islamic law.  Allawi’s party was number 731, and though they were a Shia party they had a more secular focus.  Their campaign pledge was to support the Army, Police, and security forces, and to encourage freedom of religion.  The other big player in the elections was party 730, an alliance of Kurdish parties.  Their focus seemed to be on splitting Iraq into three distinct states under one national government, thereby maximizing Kurdish independence.     

     By time Black Sheep had finished explaining the different parties I glanced at my watch and realized that it was time to start packing up.  I moved to each of the key leaders and woke them up, and within a few minutes the night air was filled with the sound of methodical packing.  The empty hallways started to pulse with movement, as if some silent heart was pushing Soldiers and material through the concrete halls, and in less then an hour the only remnant of our time here were the handful of Soldiers still providing guard.  With our bags packed and our vehicles loaded we waited in small groups, clustered together for camaraderie more then for warmth.  Ever so slowly light started to fill the Eastern sky, and as it did we finished the last of our coordinations with the Iraqi forces.  To avoid any perceptions of American influence on the upcoming vote we would leave the election site completely.  Our mission these last few days was to set the conditions for a successful election, the elections themselves would be in the hands of the Iraqis.      

      Once we finished our coordinations we wished our comrades the best of luck, and then we started the long movement back to the FOB.  We stopped just outside the small town to link up with another of our platoons that would remain in overwatch on the off chance there were any attacks on the election site, and then we made our way along the empty streets.  As soon as we returned our exhausted troops started to prep their gear for the next mission, and having finished that they started to catch up on much needed rest.      

     By late morning I had finished catching up on the mountain of paperwork and reports that had stacked up on my desk, and I was ready to get back out of the wire.  While I was working my crew had managed to get a few hours of sleep, but their features were still whittled with the unmistakable edge of fatigue.  I wondered just how deeply fatigue had settled on my own face, but as soon as the thought crossed my mind I laughed at my own petty vanity.  I silently chided myself, then poured another cup of coffee and prepared to return to sector.

     The drive out to the election site seemed utterly surreal.  With the driving ban in place the highways had become enormous soccer fields.  As far as the eye could see there were children and teenagers playing soccer in the empty streets, and as we made our way into sector we had to dodge dozens of hastily arranged goalposts.  Eventually we linked up with the platoon in overwatch, and we spent the rest of the afternoon watching the slow pilgrimage of voters make their way into town to vote.  They came alone and in groups, and they seemed to pass by like a long, knotted rope.  There were doddering men in traditional robes, their stiff canes helping them along.  There were whole families moving into the town, the parents and grandparents walking steadily forward while their children revolved around them like hyperkinetic satellites.  There were young men dressed in acid wash jeans and leather jackets and women in burkhas walking side by side… all making their way to the election site.  As the afternoon came to a close and the election site closed we cautiously made our way back to the election site.  The town square was relatively empty, save for a few scattered groups talking outside the small shops.  We linked up with the POB troops to ensure the election was over, and once they confirmed the elections had ended we pulled back into a security posture on the site.  As we manned positions on the second floor the election workers were busy tallying the thousands of votes that had been cast.  By late evening the votes had all been tallied and loaded into the POB vehicles.  We gave a quick brief to the Iraqi drivers on how to react to enemy contact, and then surrounded them with our own armored vehicles for the drive to the district election center.  We slipped through the darkened streets of Southern Baghdad, weaving back and forth through the traffic barriers like a needle slipping shuttling through thread.  After a Byzantine series of loops and u-turns we finally arrived at the ballot collection site, and the Iraqi soldiers linked up with their headquarters element.  We said our last goodbyes to the Iraqi troops and then slipped back into the night

Elections-Part III

    Once the mermites were stacked away the Soldiers who weren’t manning positions settled into a satisfied torpor, and several rooms filled with soldiers sprawled out like vagrants. Security is far and away the most critical element in a defense, but that duty also shares the distinction of being one of the most onerous. The difficulty with pulling guard doesn’t stem from any physical exertion; in fact it’s quite the opposite. When you stand guard behind a fortified position your awareness collapses down into a single lonely arc. As the hours wear on focusing on the same narrow shard of earth starts to weary the eye and numb the brain. Although you won’t read it in any book there are thousands of techniques to wile away the time. The techniques are passed down from Soldier to Soldier, forming a oral tradition that a Zen monk would envy.

    But however apt the technique, over time it becomes increasingly difficult to remain focused and alert. An hour or two after the off shifts had settled into sleep I walked between positions to check up on the Soldiers. The moon glittered in the winter sky like a silver lantern, and it drenched the area with its cool light.  As I settled into each site there would be a short whispered exchange and then the troop on duty would point out the highlights of the last few hours. They would point out the houses with generators, and note how often the occupants would slip out their doors to refuel their growling engines. They would point out the packs of haggard canines, and point out their pack hierarchy as if they were safari guides describing mysterious denizen of the African plains. Each conversation was carried out in soft whispers, despite the fact that our positions were unmistakable. Our subtle conversations weren’t based on tactical necessity, they just seemed appropriate in the silvery light of a desert moon. After a few hours I returned to the pink classroom that served as our CP and settled into a restless sleep.

     The next morning announced its arrival with waves of burnt orange that seemed to crash against the horizon like waves breaking on a reef. The fiery light of dawn leeched into the Eastern sky like dye spreading in a still water, and eventually the colors condensed into the bright eye of morning. The soft light did little to improve the local aesthetics, the area around our position still seemed raw and unfinished. The one and two story homes in the vicinity were in various stages of decay, and they all shared the same general look of disrepair. The slipshod appearance had little to do with economic prospects, there were several glittering cars sitting outside some of the careworn buildings bearing testament to their owners financial acumen. There just seemed to be an unspoken agreement that the aesthetic qualities of a home were secondary to convenience.

     As the day wore on the driving ban went into effect, and as it did the streets started filling with laughing kids playing riotous games of soccer. The kids would carry out random pieces of garbage to serve as goals, select their teams, and start boisterous games back and forth along the empty asphalt. We conducted several dismounted patrols with the POB soldiers to secure the local area, but other then the children playing soccer the area seemed strangely vacant.

     The highlight of the morning was watching the antics of an midget donkey just outside our security perimeter.  Physically the donkey was a rather plain animal, standing a shade higher then a Great Dane. But it wasn’t the donkey’s small stature that attracted so much attention, it was the creatures ridiculous displays of territorialism. It didn’t matter what wandered into the little donkey’s patch of dusty earth – if it came into range the bitter little animal bared its ridiculously blunt teeth and charged like a Spanish bull. The little animal seemed to lack any real maliciousness, choosing to butt its victims instead of trampling them under it gangly hooves, but that just made its ridiculous attacks all the more amusing. Regardless of whether the victim was a chicken, a stray dog, or a small child the donkey’s tactics remained the same. As the prey approached the donkey would bow its head and act like it was grazing on the dead underbrush. As the target drew closer the little donkey would bend its knobby knees as if it were attempting a feeble imitation of a jungle cat. When the victim was in range the donkey would make an ungainly leap into the air and clumsily gallop towards its cross species rival. I can think of no less fearsome sight then a temperamental midget donkey, but somehow the little animal managed to ward off all rivals.

     By the afternoon the election officials arrived in a sputtering column of ancient cars and trucks. As they stepped out of their vehicles they nervously scanned the area, their heads craning about like a frightened herd of elk. As they took in their surroundings their gaze seemed to settle on the array of armored vehicles and weapons ringing the compound. Their eyes darted from vehicle to vehicle and from position to position, and as they did their nervous ticks dropped away like a winter coat. Emboldened by the unyielding forces deployed around them the election officials started to download equipment off the overburdened trucks. For almost an hour a steady stream of material spilled into the school, and when they were finished the lower floors were awash in cardboard boxes. The officials took a few moments to rest in the wide hallways, and for the next few minutes they splayed out across the haphazard array of cardboard. Eventually one of the lead officials got them all moving again, and the motley assortment of workers started setting up the polling site. I found it mildly ironic that the cardboard boxes were filled with… cardboard.  The officials took the folded sheets of cardboard and quickly slotted them together into individual polling booths. It was a little like watching a display of origami writ large, and it was repeated over and over until several classrooms were lined with cardboard booths the size of an Egyptian sarcophagi. It was strange to think that in these narrow boxes, little bigger then a child’s play fort, the next chapter in Iraq's history would unfold.

     After all the preparations were complete the election officials gathered into a small room and drank steaming cups of tea the rest of the afternoon.  The officials didn’t share any common uniform, they were dressed in a mixture of western and traditional garb. In fact the only evidence they were election officials were the laminated identification cards each official wore around their neck. If you squinted your eyes to blur the bright identification cards they could have passed for a random gathering of friends chatting about old times. As I watched them casually rest behind our curtain of security I had to smile, their lackadaisical posture was proof positive that our mission was succeeding. During the last two elections the election officials flatly refused to show up for fear of their lives, but now they were lounging around the election site without a care in the world.

     As the sun settled low in the sky I breathed a sigh of relief, our second day had passed without incident. All that was left was the big day…the day Iraq would become a true democracy.

Elections - Part II

        With the POB elements safely ensconced between our armored vehicles we began the movement to the election sites.  The movement was as short as it was uneventful, a testament to the professionalism of the anti-IED sweep by the Buffalo and its security detachment.  As we approached the first polling site our convoy started to transform with an almost organic grace.  In a matter of seconds our reed thin column started to form a dense knot of force, growing and swelling like an enormous, hollow fruit.  Just as the boundaries of this vicious wall of armor started to fill the dusty field the POB pulled into the middle of the swollen circlet.  As they pulled into the epicenter of our armored cocoon the chrysalis cracked and the formation folded into its next form.  The outer rings of vehicles peeled away, splintering into their overwatch positions.  What they left behind was a single wall of armored vehicles with the vulnerable POB serving as the kernel seed.  As soon as the last overwatch vehicle shuttled away our heavy doors swung open and troops pounded out, fanning out to secure the staging area.  Once all the overwatch positions were in place and the staging area was secure elements of the POB linked up with our Soldiers and started clearing the election site.  The radio hummed with clipped traffic as troops cleared through the classrooms and called up their reports, and in a handful of minutes the site had been secured. 

     With the sites secure our Soldiers started to stream into the enormous school and start the laborious process of turning a school into a fortified security position.  I spent a few minutes watching our NCOs position heavy weapons and set up the communication relays, and then I moved back to the powerful HEMMT wrecker.  Although the wrecker wasn’t a combat vehicle it was key to our long term survival, because it was the only vehicle capable of moving the concrete barriers into blocking positions.  I spent the next several hours leading the wrecker to our outer security positions to set up the concrete revetments.  As we approached each site the crew would dismount, affix the wrecker’s powerful crane to the concrete k-rail and deftly move it into position.  Although each concrete k-rail weighed several tons the practiced crews moved them like they were oversize children’s toys, easily slinging them into blocking positions.  By late morning the wrecker crew had finished setting the barriers into place, and from that moment on the area was no longer a school.  It was a fortress.

      With the outer perimeter in place I released the wrecker back to the FOB to assist other units and moved back to the school to check on our inner perimeter.  Our Soldiers had used their time wisely, by time I returned to the school the battle positions were hardened and the first guard rotation was scanning their perimeters.  I walked to each position to double check their work, and finding no fault I called over my terp and headed a few classrooms over to where the POB were staged.  Although showing up at the appointed hit time was a good indicator I was still uncertain about the tactical proficiency of the POB forces, and as I was walking over to their position I asked my terp, Black Sheep, for his take on our compatriots.

       Black Sheep is far and away the best terp in our Battalion, his tenure as an interpreter for combat units stretches back to the early days of OIF I.  More then a few terps flatly refused to work with our company because of the dangerous area we patrol, and several others have quit after surviving an IED strike.  But not Black Sheep.  Black Sheep has been through so many IEDs that even he has lost count, and yet he still happily jumps into my vehicle every time I head into sector.  After spending year after year working with American forces Black Sheep has gained an almost intuitive sense for what questions I am going to ask, and as soon as the question left my lips he was ready with an answer.  Black Sheep stopped in his tracks, turned to face me and said “most of this POB force just graduated basic training, but they are very excited to be here”.  With that in mind we walked over to the Lieutenant in charge of the POB forces and started integrating our security positions.

      After exchanging pleasantries the POB officer gave me a run down of his personnel and equipment and how he had initially arrayed his forces.  After he had given me the information I paused for a moment, waiting for the Iraqi LT to start his litany of supply requests.  The silence seemed to yawn out, and as it started to become awkward I turned to Black Sheep and asked why he wasn’t demanding equipment.  Black Sheep turned to me and said “I don’t know sir, let me ask”.  After a brief exchange Black Sheep turned to me and said “The LT has several shortages, but before he asks he wants to ensure his security positions are in the right location”.  I’m not sure what answer I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that one.  I silently chastised myself for being so jaded, and started towards the areas I wanted the Iraqis to occupy.  As we walked to the first set of positions I felt utterly bewildered, and for the first time I started to question some of my preconceptions about their tactical utility.  Once we were overlooking the area I wanted them to overwatch I explained my intent and asked the LT to show me where he planned to arrange his forces.  Once Black Sheep finished translating the LT looked around for a few seconds and then pointed out two positions.  The first location was tactically perfect, a commanding position with perfect views over the main avenues of approach.  The second was tactically sound, but slightly off my assessment of the best location.  His choices weren’t perfect, but they showed that he had a firm working knowledge of defensive positions.  I spent a few minutes coaching him on some of the nuances of defensive arrays, and why his forces in the second position would best be moved to another location.  The LT listened attentively and concurred with my assessment, and as we walked to the next position he barked out orders to his soldiers.  We walked from point to point, with the LT pointing out positions and asking for my assessment.  Most of his choices were well made, and when he made mistakes I quietly pointed out where he might want to set up instead.  Each time I offered a suggestion he readily agreed, and by time we moved to the second site he was choosing strong tactical positions.

      Once the Iraqis were busy setting in their own positions I headed to the pink walled classroom that was serving as my makeshift CP and started to settle in.  The headquarters element had done an impressive job, and I spent the next hour getting updates on events in the battalion sector.

       By time I was briefed up on the latest intel the dust started to dance across the tile floors in tune with the heavy throb of approaching tanks.  That could mean only one thing… dinner had arrived.  I headed over to one of the security positions and sure enough the tanks rolled in escorting a LMTV loaded with mermites (the insulated containers holding hot meals).  By time I clambered down the steps the 1LT Mo and 1SG Nascar had started unloading the mermites and arranging the chow line.  Setting in defensive positions is hard labor, and in seconds our troops started appearing to assist with downloading the vehicles.  I chatted with the XO and 1SG a few minutes and by time we wrapped up company business the chow line was up and running.  The XO and 1SG finished going over a few key items and then jumped back into the LMTV and prepared to head back to the FOB with the M1 escort. 

       Meanwhile SGT Bard and SPC Spartan were happily ladling out steaming scoops of rice and chicken onto long line of plastic plates.  The troops held out their plates like Buddhist monks seeking alms, until the plastic dishes looked like the steep sided slopes of a steaming volcano. After everyone was served I grabbed a plate and served myself.  The food was nothing spectacular, but it was hot and pleasantly satisfying.  Once we finished we started serving the Iraqi soldiers.  They seemed to have taken their cues from our Soldiers, and they happily piled their plates high with food.  The thoughtful DFAC crew had sent a mermite full of red jello, and watching the Iraqis poke and prod the wobbling scarlet cubes had me laughing outright.  Finally one of the Iraqis grabbed one of the cubes and popped it in his mouth.  As he chewed on the jello his grimace melted into a wide smile, and he quickly asked for more.  From then on every POB soldier giddily asked for large portions of jello to accompany their meal.  By time everyone was served there was still plenty of chicken and rice… but the jello had disappeared.

Elections - Part 1

     As our lead elements turned into sector I started to laugh at the absurd amount of military might rumbling into our AO.  Our normal patrols carry a fearsome amount of weaponry, but this was something altogether different.  The point element was composed entirely of M1 tanks and the impregnable Buffalo IED clearing vehicle, as they cleared the road ahead of us the resembled nothing more then the armored prow of an icebreaker.  Their appointed task was to keep a watchful eye for the insidious IEDs that seem to metastasize along our routes.  Their titanic weight and their powerful engines seemed to bleed through the asphalt in trembling crests, a microquake with the convoy at its epicenter.  They slowly moved out of sight, and eventually  even the sound of their titanic engines was subsumed in the low din of morning.

       A few minutes later our election day convoy moved out, a sinewy strip of armor and weaponry.   The armored flanks of our element glinted in the morning light, as bright and hard as the scales of a storybook dragon.  Our grim parade of vehicles were led out by the low, angry profile of M1 tanks,  whose slewing turrets whispered hymns of hydraulic force.  Following behind were a knot of M113s and armored HMMWVS, their irregular silhouettes studding the road like dull metallic beads.  Sandwiched in between our bellowing war machines was the lanky profile of a HEMMT wrecker, its lines still sleek and graceful despite the thick slabs of armor plating its sides.  It was an awesome spectacle, made all the more impressive by our mission.  This assemblage had only one purpose – secure an election site in one of the worst areas in Southern Baghdad.

       Our final destination was two nondescript schools sitting smack dab in the middle of our sector.  The Iraqi election officials had turned a blind eye towards the entire region during the last elections out of fear for their personal safety.  To ensure the citizens would have the opportunity to vote in this election we were assigned with the task of living on the polling sites in the run up to elections.

       But that of course, was our final destination.  Our first hurdle was to link up with the Iraqi Public Order Battalion that would live with us on the election sites.  As we pulled into the link up area I glanced at my watch and wondered aloud how long we would have to wait for the POB element to arrive.  This was our first time working with this specific POB element, but if they stayed true to experience I figured we would be waiting quite some time.  As the linkup time approached I noticed several HMMWVs speeding down the road followed by the POB’s white and blue chevy trucks.  As they stopped and linked up with our rear security I looked at my watch in disbelief… they had made the hit time!       As I glanced at the POB element sitting there in their standard issue 4 door light pickup trucks I almost laughed, they seemed to be a cross between a college road trip and a collection of Chinese acrobats.  It wasn’t the vehicles themselves; the trucks all shared the standard paint scheme of brilliant blue and gleaming white, and they are all crowned with the perennially flashing blue and red police light bar.   What made me want to break into laughter was the sheer amount of personnel and equipment they managed to cram into a single vehicle.  Each cab was crammed with six to seven POB soldiers huddled together as tightly as a coiled spring.  They were so tightly packed that when you looked into the cab you couldn’t identify individual occupants, it just seemed like a collection of limbs and heads were sprouting out of a crumpled pile of uniforms.  The beds of the trucks were equally overloaded.  In the middle of each POB truck bed you will usually find a 4 foot high weapons pedestal to mount an RPK machine gun.  The vehicles were so overloaded with vehicles and gear, all piled in one tottering mound, that the entire pedestal was buried.  As if that yawning height weren't enough several intrepid POB soldiers were clambering on the piles like strange mountaineers.  The majority of their bodies seemed to be hanging off the vehicle, but they managed to balance there in defiance of all known laws of gravity.   

    Despite their cluttered vehicles they looked excited and ready to move to the election center, and once we finished our link up we moved into town to secure the election site.

2005 Weblog Awards

     Voting has ended for the "Best Military Blog" in the 2005 Annual Weblog Awards.  Congratuations Blackfive!  It was an honor to even be considered, and I'd like to thank every reader who took the time to vote.   

And on the subject of voting.....
Ends up the Weblog Awards aren't the only Milblog contest, "365 and a Wakeup" is also in the running for a "Milbloggie" at Milblogging.com.  All you have to do is register, click on my site link, and “Add To Favorites.”  It takes less then 2 minutes (and for the record enlisting the aid of coworkers/family/friends isn't cheating) .  You can't help Killer Company secure the Iraqi elections sites these next few days, but only you can make sure this election goes well!

Filling in the Blanks

     After recent successes in our Company Sector our AO (Area of Operations) was expanded to include some of the scattered farms on the outskirts of our sector.  After spending hours sitting down with our key leaders and mapping out infiltration routes we set the plan into action. The new area is a rugged mix of fertile farms and pastures wrenched back from mankind’s guiding hand - all interlaced with scattered homes, stagnant pools, and reed choked canals…  

     When I get all my soldiers home I will start to fill in the blanks, how our soldiers rolled up sniper cells, coordinated artillery and close air support, engaged in some of the fiercest fighting to date, and foiled and survived the insidious IEDs laid in sector.  But for now that will have to wait until the endgame. Once the elections are over we will start our transition home, ending an 18 month rotation. Rest assured I will fill in the blanks when time permits.

New Set of Wheels

     During our last patrol through the shantytowns a young mother waited patiently outside the bustling throng of children hopping back and forth between our vehicles. I don’t remember seeing her arrive, she just suddenly appeared on the outskirts of the roiling flock of children. In that sea of motion she stood as still and resolute as a obsidian tower, her black burkha providing a mute contrast to the gaudy kaleidoscope of children’s clothing. She was clutching a toddler tightly to her chest, and I reflexively assumed she was trying to secure some candy for her child.  I watched her for a moment and sensed that she was too proper to approach and ask for treats. I made a mental note to hand her some candy once the throng had died down, and put a few pieces of candy into my pocket to pass to her later. Then I turned my attention back to the happy shrieks of the children vying for our attention, and finished passing out the remaining supplies

     Once our vehicles were stripped of humanitarian supplies the children started to settle down, happily splitting off to try to wheedle more candy from their favorite soldier. As the children filtered off I got my first good look at the young boy she held to her chest. And it was only then that I realized she hadn’t come here to ask for candy.

     The young boy was clearly suffering from a congenital birth defect - he looked as frail as spun glass. His slender, atrophied limbs seemed to hang off his little body like limp banners, and his oversized head rested on his mother’s chest as if he needed help supporting its bulk. As I approached I greeted the sad eyed mother, and then bit the inside of my mouth and waited for her to ask me for the medical help I knew I couldn’t provide. The mother spent several minutes explaining her sons medical condition, and then asked the question that I knew was coming - “You have helped fix some children – can you help my son?”. I already knew the answer, but to avoid appearing callous I called my medic over and asked him if there was anything we could do for the boy. He took one look at the crumpled waif of a child and then said “Sir, we couldn’t help him even if we were in the States”. I turned back to the mother and explained to her that her sons condition was beyond our ability to help. Once my terp had conveyed the message she gave a small smile, and thanked me for trying to help.  Then she turned away and made her way back to her tiny home.

     The memory of that wisp of a boy stayed with me, and after a few days I asked SSG Spite if he could think of anything we might be able to do for the family. SSG Spite said that he would see what he could do and then disappeared for the rest of the day. The following day I knocked on SSG Spite’s door and when I walked in I almost dropped my coffee mug in shock. There sat SSG Spite quietly cleaning his weapon… sitting in a wheelchair. SSG Spite seemed to sense my agitation without even turning around and after a pregnant pause he said “Don’t worry sir, I’m fine. The wheelchair is for the kid”. Then he turned around, gave me a sly grin and said “But I had you worried, didn’t I?”. We laughed for a few minutes and then SSG Spite said “If I didn’t feel sorry for the kid I’d keep the wheelchair – this is the best seat in the barracks”.

      The next morning we loaded up our HMMWVs with small Iraqi flags, candy, and a bulky wheelchair and set out for shantytown to bring SSG Spite’s favorite chair to the little boy. As our combat patrol came to a close we turned onto the long, dusty road leading to Shantytown to drop off our supplies. The entire town seemed to flood into the alleys to greet us, and in a few minutes we were swimming in a sea of smiling faces. As we passed each mudbrick compound the head of the household would anxiously flag us down and offer their advice on how to catch the AIF, and we spent long minutes trying to politely bring each conversation to a close. Several of our soldiers were passing out small Iraqi flags and toys to the children yammering around our legs, and in a few minutes our procession through the alley ground to a halt under the sheer numbers of children vying for a small flag. Usually the children are fixated on candy or toys, but not today. Today the big ticket item was Iraqi flags. As we passed out dozens of the little flags the kids seemed sated, and the alleys started to clear. We continued towards the house followed by a phalanx of children happily waving their flags. When I looked back at this strange procession I almost felt like I was watching a miniature parade - the kids were laughing and waving their flags as proudly as drum majors.

     After the better part of an hour we arrived at the right house, and I rapped my knuckles on the tin gate to announce our arrival. I peeked over the gate to make sure we had the right house and noticed the little boy sitting in the dirt watching his mother prepare a meal. The mother must not have heard us knock, because she turned and looked surprised to see our kevlars peeking over her front gate. She recovered quickly and greeted us warmly, opening her gate and inviting us to come in for chai tea. We politely declined, but asked her to take her son and follow us to our vehicle. She looked a little confused at our request, but dutifully picked up her son and followed us to the HMMWV. When we arrived SGT Bard opened one of the doors and pulled and tugged until the wheelchair slid through the armored door. I wish I could describe the womans face when we gently picked up her son and placed him in the wheelchair - but there are some emotions words cannot hope to touch. We stopped to snap a quick picture as the little boy rested peacefully in the full sized wheelchair, and then we quickly said our goodbyes. As we loaded into our HMMWVs several of the local kids were arguing over who would get to take the boy for his first ride. I’m not sure who ended up shuttling him around, but as we left you could see his wheelchair weaving through the trash strewn alleys.

 

The Healers

The everyday kindness of the back roads more than makes up for the acts of greed in the headlines.

  - Charles Kuralt

     As we made our way to the home through one of the narrow alleys in shantytown a middle aged man flagged us down. We walked over to his shack, and after the traditional greetings he politely asked if we could provide medical care for his son. I grabbed our two medics, SPC Hart and SPC Night, and we followed the father into the dim hovel. As we stepped inside we passed through a closet sized kitchen thick with the sickly sweet scent of burned meat before passing into a small room adorned with thick sleeping mats. Inside the room doubled over on the floor, was a little boy whose face was creased with pain. Looking at the crumpled form in front of us I suddenly realized that I hadn’t smelled the burnt remains of breakfast… the source of the bitter stench was lying right in front of me. The back of the boys leg was a softly glistening ruin, raw muscle stripped of skin.

     Without saying a word SPC Hart and SPC Night dropped their medical bags and started sifting through their contents. As they carefully arranged the tools they would need to clean the boys burns, I marveled at their cool detachment. Although these men were barely out of their teens they suddenly seemed far older, as if they were wizened doppelgangers of the soldiers I had worked besides all these long months. It was the first time I caught a glimmer of just how much combat has aged all of us.

     As the medics set to work the father tried to soothe the little boy, but the sight of the two medics had him yelping in fright. While the medics were cleaning and dressing the wound my driver, SGT Bard, reached into his pocket and pulled out a stuffed animal. SGT Bard handed the little boy the stuffed tiger, and his crying stopped as quickly as if somebody had turned an invisible valve. A few minutes later the medics finished their work and they gave the boy’s parents extra dressings and antibiotics along with instructions on how to care for their son.

     As they started to pack up their gear one of the soldiers providing security outside the house walked in and asked if we could see another sick child. I told him to send in the boy, and a moment later a ten year old boy sheepishly walked in. His right arm was wrapped in dirty white gauze. In the middle of the gauze bloomed an ugly brown splotch… the telltale sign of physical corruption. As the medics peeled back the filthy dressings the air filled with the fetid stench of infection. As the dressings finally peeled away they revealed a wretched volcano wreathed in skin stretched taut with pus. I had to fight to keep the wave of nausea rumbling in my stomach at bay, but our medics didn’t even flinch. Instead they deftly started treating the infected wound. As they treated the boy I stepped out to get a breath of fresh air, and by time I returned they had filled a small plastic bag with pus filled dressings. I stepped out once again, and when I returned the swollen limb had regained its normal proportions.  With the wound clean our medics started putting on fresh dressings and in a few short minutes they were done.  Once the terp explained how and when to take the antibiotics we set off to finish the rest of the patrol.  There was still a lot of ground to cover.

Parting the Waters

     A little after the sun settled into its twilight cradle the radio in the CP hissed out a message from our tank platoon; apparently the Iraqi Army soldiers they were parked beside knew the location of a fresh IED. I told 1LT Mac to hold the element in place and put out a quick guidance to my NCOs. By time I suited up and stepped outside the vehicles were almost prepped, and a few minutes later we rolled towards the link up site. When we arrived1LT Mac jumped off his M1 and gave me a quick backbrief on the situation. Apparently a helpful local had reported that there was a newly emplaced IED lurking about a kilometer down the road, and the Iraqi police officers would be able to identify the exact location. As I walked over to the Iraqi officers it was apparent that they were more then a little agitated, and it took several minutes just to coax the story out of them. The officers weren’t exactly sure where the IED was, and as they nervously shifted back and forth it became apparent that they wanted nothing more then to flee the area. My terp dutifully passed along their concerns, and then turned to me and said “the man on the left said he knows who put the IED in”. I took a long look at the small police officer in front of me and then asked him if he knew who placed the IED in. He hesitated for a moment, and it was clear my terp had translated something they hadn’t meant for me to hear. He admitted that he knew where the IED builder lived, but the second he did so he seemed to ball up like a pillbug. After several minutes of questioning I was able to get the full story. The frightened police officer knew where the individual lived, but he was certain he would be recognized and the AIF would take reprisals against his family. I spent several minutes appealing to his sense of duty and the oath he had taken as a police officer, and when I finished he agreed to take us to the location. By then his watch commander had arrived and sheepishly asked if they could take custody of the AIF fighter if we were able to capture him. I readily agreed, and the die was cast. We would take down the IED cell and then locate the IED.

     As I was briefing the troops I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see the police officer and my terp behind me. The police officer had changed into civilian clothes, a flak jacket, and a Kevlar helmet to hide his identity and in that garb I barely recognized him. As I looked at his new apparel my terp asked if I could loan him a mask and gloves to further hide his identity. I pulled out a black ski mask, then took off my gloves and handed them to the policeman. He gratefully donned both, and when he did he looked for all the world like a haggard knock off of a GI Joe character. Another one of the IPs who wasn’t from the area agreed to come along to take the individual into custody, and when he gave me the thumbs up we set out in a long low line. The police officer familiar with the home was in the lead, and I followed a few steps behind him. We were paralleling one of the reed choked agricultural canals that criss-cross the area, and as we approached a small mound on the side of the canal the policeman whispered a quick message to the terp. The terp turned to me and said “they cut the bridge – we have to go around”. We doubled back until we found a crossing point and then we continued forward. After a few minutes our guide stopped beside another canal and looked back once again. This time my terp spent a long minute talking with the officer, and when he came back he looked dejected. He told me that this bridge had also been cut. I asked him if there was a way around and he told me that the bridge had been cut to allow the IED emplacer time to escape… if we took the long road around he would get warning of our arrival and skip away. As I looked down at that hateful black strip of water I thought back to some of the items I had seen in other canals and my stomach performed a slow, paralyzing roll. Then I heard a voice whisper “we are going across’ with perfect resolution. It took me a few seconds to realize those frightful words came from my own lips. By then the Iraqi policeman was already wading through the chest deep water, and I knew it was too late to turn back. I slipped down the muddy canal wall and sank into the cold, fetid water. I focused on keeping my weapons and equipment above the mire, and tried not to notice my boots settling into the thick scum on the canal floor. I made it across and clambered up the other side of the canal, then I settled behind the tall reeds net to our guide. Our troops quietly made their way through the canal, leaving only my terp on the far side. He stared at the water like a prey animal hypnotized by a weaving viper, unable to move forward into the watery morass below him. I hissed for him to follow and he plunged in, noisily made his way across the canal. While he sat net to me heaving and wheezing like an old steam engine I had our guide point out the target house, and then we set out with the other IP in the lead. We came up to the darkened home at a dead sprint, and the moment the IP barged into the unlocked home we detained the sole male inside. As we brought him out to allow the guide to positively identify him, the guide frantically waved off to his left. My terp turned towards me and said… “the IP went to the wrong house, it’s next door”. We immediately cut the man loose and stormed next door. We entered the home right behind our geographically challenged IP officer and started to clear the rooms.

     One room held a combative 20 year old Iraqi with wild eyes and once we detained him we marched him out for the informant to identify. To my surprise the informant shook his head side to side to signify this wasn’t the AIF fighter, and we turned him back around and led him back to his living room. One by one we brought out the males and one by one the informant shook his head to signify that they weren’t our target. Finally we brought out the mildest of the bunch a smiling, neatly dressed man in his early 20’s. As soon as we too him out the IP seemed to shrink back in terror, and he nodded wildly before disappearing behind the home. We had our target. We flex cuffed the AIF fighter and turned him over to the other IP, then we made our way next door to apologize for our earlier mistake. Once we had made amends we made our way back to the tanks, our boots squishing with every step.

     After returning the two IPs and their detainee to their police station we returned to the forsaken stretch of road that contained the alleged IED. By now we had long since lost our “guides”, and the entire road was cloaked in deep shadow. Rather then blindly searching the road for an IED we decided to continue the second part of the mission at first light - at least then we had a chance of spotting it while we were still out of the kill zone. Once the coordinations were complete we made our way back to the FOB… we all had clothes we needed to sterilize. 

Foot Patrol

Bite off more then you can chew. Then chew it.

- Ella Williams

     Before this deployment our unit focused its training on Air Assault tactics, and we practiced those maneuvers with the type of devotion you would expect from a team trying to win the Superbowl. There is nothing magical about air assault missions, if you skip over the helicopter insertions they don’t really differ from any other dismounted infantry maneuvers. During our train up for the mission we started to become familiar with patrolling, fighting, and maneuvering in the heavily armed and armored HMMWVs that comprise the backbone of our ground maneuver forces. Our soldiers have long since becoming experts at motorized tactical patrols, but despite all the formidable power at their fingertips most of our soldiers still prefer the hyperreality of a foot patrol.

     To truly understand why we prefer walking the terrain you would have to integrate yourself into the tightly knit family we call a unit, but I’ll do my best to explain it regardless. If you boiled down the infantry into its raw essence, stripping away the proud swagger, the bravado, and the fierce camaraderie, you would be left with a diamond hard knot of sheer willpower. Infantry soldiers don’t try to avoid misery, they embrace it. And in doing so they learn lessons no book could ever teach, about themselves and their environment. The single most important lesson is the one that many in the outside world tend to forget… the easy way is not always the right way.

     Slogging through faulted earth and dense underbrush isn’t pleasurable, but it provides the kind of insight no technology on earth could hope to match. When you are dismounted there is no thrumming engine to deaden your ears, and your eyes wander freely instead of conforming to the constraints imposed by armor plate. What you lose in terms of protection you gain back in raw sensing ability.

     Driving in our armored vehicles you can sense the change in season; the blistering heat has given way to air laced with chill threads of winter. The cold, biting air is easily overpowered by the glowering heat that leaks past the firewall, and the net result isn’t too far removed from our summer patrols. But on the ground there is no mistaking the changing tides of sun and sky. In summer we patrolled though earth as faulted and ruptured as a volcanic plain. In some regions the dusty ground seemed an amalgam of the raw elements, the ground seemed to have a greater affinity for the roiling air then the staid earth we trampled underfoot. We drudged through the remnants of ancient floodplains, and marveled as our boots kicked up screens of atomized dust. In those fire bright days the plowed earth was a hardened sea of jagged peaks and valleys, as if we were walking through a flash frozen ocean.

     Autumn changed all that. With the distant sun in retreat the earth started to slowly recover, and the fields have been reborn.  Many of the desolate fields continue to vacillate between the elements, only now they ally with water instead of air. The result is a porridge thick medium that weighs down your every step, and latches to your uniform like so many misshapen leeches. The plowed fields have lost their concrete constitution, now the broken earth swims with scattered emeralds that herald the rebirth of life and vitality. You can see these changes as you barrel down the roads, but you can’t sense them in the same way as when you are moving through the area on foot.

     What holds true for the inanimate earth holds especially true for the complex cultural fabric of the populated regions. Although the days have grown shorter there is far more activity now that the air isn’t swollen with wretched heat. On foot you catch all the nuances that are so easily missed when you look out an armored window. You can see the smiling faces of children and see their sharp eyes gauge whether or not your pockets are full of candy. You can read the subtle shifts in posture and carriage, and use those to sense the truth behind the smiling mask some cowardly predators hide behind.

     There is no perfect tactic, and approaching every situation with the same methodology is a recipe for disaster. But its always good to add tools to the tool kit… especially when you have soldiers as capable as those in Killer Company.