Hello everyone. Sorry to have not posted much in the past year, but I was fighting a war and all (I know, that's no excuse). I did post mid-tour, and had intentions of keeping everyone informed of what was happening, but soon after we launched a major offensive and ended up occupying the city for the remainder of the tour. The following is a letter I sent to my family and friends just before my tour ended, and though it is a little long, and lacking my usual knack for poetic cursing, I think it pretty much sums up everything. Consider it an After Action Review.
Reflections on War
March 07, 2005 to February 2006
To warn the readers of this email, be aware that it’s long, about twelve pages of a word document. It will include most of what I experienced, my thoughts and as much as I wish to put out in this venue about my time over here. In the end, I suppose this might end up being a reflection upon my entire military career, so without further to do, onto the meat of the letter.
I arrived at Fort Carson the last day of 2004 with the knowledge that I would be going to war in fewer then three months. I had chosen Fort Carson for this purpose. I suppose my decision might have been made in the rashness of youth, and the desire to accomplish something in my short military career. It was also guilt, since I had been sitting in Germany for two years, drinking beer, playing laser tag and watching the chaos unfolding in the Middle East form the comfort of the Armed Forces Network, knowing that I should be over there. Given my political outlook on the world, I would never be able to send my kids or someone else’s kids off to fight some future war if I had not taken up the mantel when it was my turn. It was also a sensible decision, since I was going to PCS (move duty stations) anyway, and I might as well get into the action as soon as possible, otherwise I could find myself being stop lost (that means being held over your Exit Time Service in Active Duty) and end up here later down the road.
When I arrived at Carson, I was placed in HQ Platoon (after a short stint in 4th Platoon). I felt like an outsider. This is typical of military life though. When you move from unit to unit, station to station, you leave behind friends and co-workers and inject yourself into the lives of others who are close and wary or outsiders. It was different though this time, since I was not just injecting myself into a group of co-workers and friends, but of war veterans who had been over there and seen it. Grim Troop had served in Fallujah long before the uprising of 2004, had patrolled the Syrian border but on the whole did not see a lot of combat the first time they had been over here.
In HQ Platoon, I was placed on the Commanders Tank as the Delta (Driver). My crew consisted of Sgt. Rehark (Golf Element, Gunner), who had rejoined the Army recently for reasons unknown to me, and Spc McGee the Lima or Loader Element. McGee had been in Iraq with the 1st Armored Division and spent sixteen months here, first in Baghdad and then during the brutal fighting at Kabala, where he had been wounded by mortar fire. He was probably the most experienced combat veteran in the Troop at the time. I on the other hand, had plenty of experience training soldiers to fight against insurgents, and knowledge about the M60A3 Tank, which was obsolete in the late 80's. My first task at Carson was to become familiar with the M1A2 Abrams Main Battle Tank, which, aside from the M1A2 SEP, is the most advanced MBT in the world. Least to say, I had a huge technological gap I had to overcome in the matter of a few weeks.
I did not find it difficult to leave for Iraq. I had no girlfriend, no wife or kids, I had been in Germany for two years so it wasn’t like the first time I’d be leaving America for an extended period of time. I had joined the Army in 2001 with the intention of seeing conflict. Though back in the summer of 2001, war seemed so remote and so unlikely that I never thought I’d actually get my childish fantasy.
To get the record strait, most of you know how I feel about world affairs. I supported both the Afghan War and the subsequent invasion of Iraq before I joined the Army. I feel that America has a mission, both to provide security for her citizens and to be a force of good in the world. I recognize that sometimes to promote that good, actions that can be termed evil must be taken. I believed that Weapons of Mass Destruction existed in Iraq, and even after it was proven false, that America had the chance to establish a just and fair government in the mist of the brutality and mediaeval Middle East. When I boarded the chartered plane to Kuwait, knowing my final destination would be that war torn land of Ancient Empires, I was both proud and excited.
When I exited that plane in the dark of night at Kuwait International Airport, I felt the humidity hit me like a wet sack. We were shuffled across the tarmac to waiting buses, driven my Kuwaiti nationals with the drapes on the windows down. It was here that I caught me first taste of the idiocy of this war. We were told that the drapes needed to be down so that the locals wouldn’t know that we were American soldiers, and thus prevent a terrorist attack on our motorcade. Forget the US Army HMMWV (High Mobility Multi-Wheeled Vehicle, or the Humvee) that would be escorting us, or the fact that US soldiers are transported from KIA to Base Camps on the frontier every day.
Kuwait was like purgatory before hell. The platoon was now living together twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. We had things to do every day, not even on Easter were we allowed to relax for the entire day. It would be at that point that I would be working every day for the next ten months. In Kuwait, we trained in everything from Close Quarter Combat to Tank Maneuvering and Gunnery, both getting used to the new environment and each other. Both tasks were difficult. It became a chore to walk the half mile to the Dinning Facility, and at the same time we were at each other’s throats. A mistake in Kuwait could cost you enormously in the establishment of positive relationships with your Platoon mates. At the same time, we had the typical hard-ass Sergeant who was constantly in our faces, demeaning us and treating us like utter filth. Unable to vent our frustrations out on him, we grappled at our peers. Each as frustrated as the other, we tore into each other with little mercy. And when it seemed like it would only get worse, we got the order to make the movement north.
I cannot fathom how I felt when we crossed the boarder twelve months ago. I was relieved. I know that. I cannot stand waiting for what is going to happen anyway. It was also a relief from the platoon’s building tensions. As we crossed the border, through the checkpoint that started with a Kuwaiti flag and ended with the Iraqi flag, it was almost instantaneous. From my diver’s hull, I could see children begging on the side of the road, a sight that would become typical in the next year. A small hovel village had formed at the border crossing, many of the inhabitants probably sustaining themselves on food thrown off the side of military vehicles and the hopeless dream of working across the line that separated war from peace. The burned remains of a Russian built T-62 Tanks on the side of the road spoke of the new world I was entering. The smell was unmistakable, and unforgettable. Take a walk to your local McDonald’s on the hottest day of the year and take a whiff and you got an idea.
Our first extended stop was Scania, a military outpost that served mostly as a transfer point for the military convoys headed north, though it also served as a place of operations for Ukrainian and El Salvadoran Troops. Our stay at Scania was short, but it was the first time we would see that the war was waiting for us. Some genius decided that Scania, which served as a stopping point for troops heading into the war also served great as a place to stockpile destroyed military vehicles for further movement towards Kuwait. When the shattered vehicles stopped next to our convoy, chills ran through all of us, especially those of us who had not seen such things close up and in person. The HMMWV’s which had been burned to nothing more then mere shadows of their original construction, the sight of an M1A1 with a massive black scorch mark in the front side, and the knowledge that the driver had been killed because of the percussion, which had turned his insides into jell-O made everything seem much more real. It was no longer television and no longer hundreds of miles away.
BIAP (Baghdad International Airport) was our longest layover. BIAP is the largest American Military Post outside the United States, and is the center of the Coalition. BIAP is more like a city then a military post in the mist of a war, with Pizza Hut and Burger King, Gyms and concerts. Except for the occasional patrol leaving the post or the plum of black smoke rising in the direction of Baghdad, it was as if a war were not occurring. We had only recently spent a week in the Area of Operations we had originally been assigned, which was just south of Baghdad. That FOB (Forward Operations Base) looked like it was taken directly out of a Vietnam movie, with palm trees, gunfire and Artillery rounds screaming out into the surrounding countryside, and daily prayers being blasted from Mosque Spires five times a day. BIAP was a world away from that place.
When we arrived at Camp Sykes, outside the shattered town of Tall Afar, we knew nothing of what was in store for us. All our briefings had been geared toward Southern Baghdad, and I had never heard about Tall Afar on the news. As far as I knew the Northern part of the country was relatively peaceful. The Kurds had supported the US invasion, even providing forces for the Northen campaign to the point that we only needed a few Special Forces Teams and a late Airborne Brigade to secure it. The truth though was that Tall Afar was shaping up to be this year’s Fallujah. After a small US offensive in the city, we had left a lone Cavalry Squadron of Stryker’s (a wheeled vehicle built for Recon and fire support, but grossly under armored). In recent months, the Squadron had been decimated by Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs) and the city had gradually fallen into the grip of extremist which fancied in cutting off school teachers’ heads and attacking the small Iraqi Police presence. On the final stretch toward Tall Afar, we were met by two Strykers’, our vehicles still strapped onto the transport trucks, they came over the radio with the following message, “You better keep up, you’re about to go through one of the most heavily IEDed stretches of road in Iraq. If you fall behind, we ain’t coming back to get you.”
The first couple of days in Tall Afar was nerve racking. I had come to the realization that I would be spending most of my time at Sykes, doing details and logistics well the rest of the troop would be pulling missions in the city. I had come half way across the world to sit in the rear with the gear. And it seemed like any other day when the war slammed home for me and everyone else in the Troop. On May 27th, Pv2 Murray and PFC Rockholt were killed when an IED exploded next to the Stryker they were riding on. I didn’t know either one of them too well, but the event hit me hard. The following days were full of reflection, what the hell had I got myself into. It hadn’t even been a month since we arrived at Tall Afar and already we had lost two Troopers and two more were in serious condition. At the funeral, I could barely hold back my emotions, not necessary for those Stetson’s hanging upon the rifles, but for the sacrifice that so many had already made, and that many more that would have to be made. It is hard to describe how one feels about the death of comrades in arms. It is not the feeling that you feel when some relative passes away, but a deeper sense that their sacrifice in some remote way, was for you. But what is more personal, is the knowledge of the people that soldier has left behind. A wife, kids, a father and mother. How can you explain to them that his life was worth freedom and security for the people of Iraq, the people that killed him.
Shortly after the deaths of Murray and Rockholt came May 3rd, 2005. May 3rd, a day that I will never forget. It was my first taste of direct combat, and it would be my most intense. 66 (My Tank) was tasked to make up for shortages in White (2nd) Platoon, and assist them in a combat patrol with the Iraqi Army in downtown Tall Afar. We arrived at Fort Defiance, a place which we would be many times during the deployment, and linked up with something between a platoon or company of Iraqi Infantry. They lined up on both sides of the road inside Defiance. Through my vision block, I could see the road we would be going down. Nicknamed Corvette, it was a beehive of insurgent activity. During the day, people lived their normal lives, shopping or working at shops, doing whatever Iraqi’s do to fill their jobless days. We were the lead tank, and when we were ready, I fired up the engine and the Iraqi Army began to march out of Defiance.
In an instant, it seemed like the entire city realized what was about to happen. Like a scene out of a Western, the civilians on Corvette picked up their shops and moved them inside as quickly as humanely possible. Anyone that was left on the street when the IA (Iraqi Army) stepped out of the gates of Defiance was quickly given a warning shot of AK fire, which prompted them to leave. As we advanced down the street, the IA fired off rounds seemingly indiscriminately, prompting us to stop and scan before we realized that they were shooting at nothing.
Off my right front, I could see five or six IA moving lazily along, one of them not paying attention to the fact that he was pointing an RPG directly at me. The IA had mix and match uniforms with seemingly no standard, one of them having tennis shoes on, another with machine gun rounds slung over his chest Rambo style. It was all fairly amusing until one f the rear tanks called up a possible IED in the road. We stopped, and suddenly it started. Out of my vision block I could see the IA looking down an alleyway, when suddenly I saw one their thy’s explode in blood and muscle. As the injured IA limped his way back towards Defiance, fire started to be exchanged down the alleyway. We pushed up and sent some Coax (7.62mm Machine Gun, mounted next to the Main Gun) rounds down the offending alleyway. Soon the entire street erupted in gunfire, grenades started to be dropped on the rear tanks. We had run into an ambush, though a poorly planned one.
We push up further and circled the wagons. The IA started shooting everywhere, making it impossible to tell exactly where we were getting shot at. At this point, my gunner decided that now was the perfect time to take a dump, using an MRE bag to do the deed. In the middle of a firefight, our gunner was taking a ****. Things started to cool off a little, the tempo of the fight rising and falling, when the Insurgents decided to hit my tank directly. Over the radio, one of the rear tanks called to us “66 someone is running behind your tank, I think he might have...” BOOM! Two grenades had landed on our back deck, forcing us to button up (close the hatches). During all this, we had been attempting to get authorization to fire our main gun, but our higher ups thought that an escalation of force at this point might not be prudent.
Finally though they relinquished. We had caught group of insurgents in the alleyway to our right through our CITV (Commanders Independent Thermal Viewer, this allows the Tank Commander the ability to target things independent of the main gun direction). The insurgents had no idea we were looking at them though, with our main gun pointed down the road. They had been making hand and arm signals to each other and mocking us for our apparent lack of knowledge at their presence. They were informed with the blast of a 120mm Smoothbore Cannon High Explosive Anti-Tank Round.
The fighting moved off Corvette soon after our tank announced the presence of the 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment and her M1A2 Tanks. The tanks on Corvette formed a protective barrier around the Explosive Ordinance Disposal team as they detonated the IED, well a Scout Platoon (equipped with M2A3 Bradley Fighting Vehicles and dismounted Troopers) assisted the Iraqi Army in perusing the insurgents that had mounted the ambush. The pursuit didn’t last long though, as the IA started shooting at each other in the alleys nearby. Soon the mission had transformed into a medical evacuation as Iraqi soldiers were brought bloodied back to our position. The Scout Platoon leader, unable to collect his thoughts so as to get a Medical Helicopter into the area eventually decided to do a ground evacuation of the injured soldiers. With Kiowa Scout Helicopters zig zagging over our convoy, Grim Troop left the scene of the battle. It would not be the first time we left in the middle of a fight.
The sight of the convoy on the road back to Sykes was unforgettable. I felt as if my entire military career had led to this exact climax. In the setting sun, the string of Tanks and Bradley’s, covered in the air by Kiowa choppers flying over head. The sweat pouring off my body, the moments ticking by both fast and slow at the same time. An IED explodes on the side of the road, no more then fifty meters in front of me. “Keep going, don’t stop. Push through it.” I pulled back on the T-Handles and accelerated the tank through the dissipating smoke. It wasn’t a large IED, but two troopers on the Bradley in front of us caught some shrapnel resulting in nicks and cuts.
May 3rd was the day that the Battle of Tall Afar changed. With the blast of that first main gun round the insurgents started to look at different ways to challenge American forces in the city. No longer would the insurgents be able to challenge US forces directly. I still feel proud to have been involved in the actions of May 3rd, even though I received no awards or citations for it. It was a day that I had been waiting for since I watched the towers fall. I had helped take the fight back to those that would see people terrorized. Now we were terrorizing them.
The summer of 2005 was the most challenging time of my life. I remember it in flashes. Maneuvering a tank through a system of Wadi’s to attack a truck full of insurgents planting an IED, the long nights of NAI over watch and route clearance, watching a tank run over a triple stacked anti-tank mine. Frustrating nights of Iraqi Logistic Package (LogPac), guarding the hilariously inept Iraqi’s driving old five ton trucks through a dangerous city. A Bradley blowing apart of dead dog in the middle of a route, suspecting it might have an IED inside. Rocket Propelled Grenades flying over the tank, and thanking God that the insurgents don’t take time to aim their weapons before firing.
Much of my time out in the city was spent at Fort Defiance, a name truly befitting the outpost that sat overlooking the insurgent infested old city like a middle finger extended at a raging bull. It was here that I had my first encounters with Iraqi’s, and spent many sleepless nights in the sweltering heat. It was here that the Death Blossom came into knowledge. The Death Blossom was a title given to the Iraqi Army’s response to any kind of threat, from mortars to direct fire, and consisted of every soldier firing their weapon in every direction possible. One of the most memorable Death Blossom occurred on May 23, when sitting inside Defiance during an Iraqi LogPac when we were attacked by Mortars (approximately four, two landing less then 25 meters from the tank). The Iraqi’s at first responded with small arms fire into the air, as if God was throwing them down at us. Then they all split into nearby alleyways looking for the tube, leaving our convoy undefended except for the tanks and a M113 Armored Personal Carrier. It wouldn’t be the last time I was mortared, nor the closest.
The second time would be at the Ottoman Castle, a massive fortification situated at the center of the city. Surrounded by massive Wadi’s and still serving its purpose hundreds of years after the end of siege warfare. It is now the nerve center of the Iraqi and US forces inside the city, and during the summer the sight of numerous mortar attacks. On June 1st we had transported 4th Platoon’s Platoon Leader up to the castle so that he could help familiarize the incoming Platoon Leader with the tasks he would be expected to do. It was a nice day for Tall Afar, and people were outside looking at the tanks. IA were standing in front of us taking pictures well kids looked on in wonder. The peace was broken by the crash of 82mm mortar shells slamming into the compound. We had our hatches open, trying to escape the heat of the tank, and we were lucky that none of us got hurt, as one mortar struck inches away from our tank, breaking several Hubs and peppering our left side with shrapnel. The battle scares on 66 remain to this day.
The events of the summer came to head on the fateful day of July 9th, another day etched into my memory. We didn’t know what the mission was exactly, and assumed that it would be another Squadron Raid that would be relatively boring. I had been at Defiance again, this time with White Platoon, driving for Sergeant First Class Whompner. SFC Whompner, or the Whop (not because he’s Italian), is one of the worst human beings I’ve met. He’s one of the few soldiers that has actually gained weight here. One of his men explained him the best to me, “He’s the most demanding, but laziest Platoon Sergeant I’ve ever had.” Driving for him would increase the stress of that day, what is collectively named The School Raid.
After it was over I learned that the target was a group of Saudi Insurgents. Whether they turned out to be Saudi or not I don’t know, what I do know is that they were the toughest fighters that we encountered during our time in Tall Afar. We set up a Cordon of the area early in the morning as Blue Platoon (Scouts) began to hit the target building. As they did though, they encountered fire from a nearby school. They changed mission and hit the school instead and cleared the first floor. As they came up on the second floor, Spc Bradfield was mortally wounded in the throat. Hitting heavy resistance, Blue fell back to med evacuate the injured trooper.
The rest of the Troop closed the Cordon down as the injured soldier was brought out to the waiting M113 Medical Evacuation Vehicle. Soon fire was being exchanged between the troopers and vehicles outside and the trapped insurgents. We were called from our position, from which we had perfect fires on the school, to escort the Medical Evacuation. As we dashed up the road, I saw the explosion and smoke rising from a side road. The Med Vehicle had been hit, tossing it up into the air and landing it top first into the ground.
The injured soldiers were quickly evacuated from the burning vehicle thanks to the courageous acts of my fellow Troopers. But there was little that could be done. One of the troopers, PFC Woods, was trapped in the drivers station, the engine of the vehicle pinning his body inside, killing him instantly. The other two evacuated, Spc Bradfield and Sgt Scott were both gravely injured. The evacuation picked up and we drove to the Landing Zone were Black Hawks were waiting. Under sporadic gunfire the troopers were evacuated and we returned to our cordon, embittered by our losses and prepared to level the building.
July 9th will remain in my memories because of the combat I saw, I saw little but sporadic gunfire and a wild tank commander opening fire on every Iraqi he saw (including 50 Cal to a dog). What will remain with me is the actions of our leadership back on Camp Sykes and their decisions that led to a victory for the insurgents. When we returned to our position, the Troop had decided that the position would not be able to be taken by ground forces without unacceptable losses. We turned to our support fires, as a nearby flight of jets was vectored towards our location with JDAM bombs ready to be dropped. From the driver’s hole I could see the jets stream in, and past. Through jumbled radio traffic, I learned that someone had overridden the decision on the ground. First they decided to hit the original target building, then when corrected, cancelled the air strike all together. Kiowa Choppers, armed with Hellfire missiles floated above, not releasing their problem solving loads, and authorization to fire main gun rounds into the offending building were denied.
We left the battlefield, uncertain as to what had been accomplished, and with my confidence of those that send us into battle destroyed. I do not know who is to blame for the decision not to level the building, but I will find out, and try to make them accountable for their actions that day. The building was hit three days later with Hellfire and Howitzer fire, and we were told that some twenty bodies were found among the wreckage. Too little, too late.
With the results of June 9th, the fighting slowly died out as Sabre Squadron slowly weeded the insurgents out of several areas of the city, leaving the old city alone. We were told that a massive offensive, a total invasion of the insurgent occupied portion of the city was in the works. Until then, it would be business as usual as the forces were drawn together. June and August preceded agonizingly slow. Finally in August, my tank went down due to maintenance, and I sat in the rear for a good month, helping prepare for the offensive and fixing the tank. During this time, Sgt Rehark went on leave and injured himself in a “jet skiing” accident. He would not return.
On September 2nd, the offensive kicked off. For the first time since our arrival to Tall Afar, the line platoons had all four tanks functioning meaning that 66 would be ‘in the rear with the gear’ at an Iraqi COP on the outskirts of the city. Up until this point we had been involved in nearly every mission, and now it would be hard to get accustomed to Headquarters life again. The offensive started early in the morning, and resembled a real, conventional assault on a defended position. Troops rolling out in convoys, linking up with Iraqi Army Infantry Companies and attacking directly into the city under the cover of artillery and air support. I got a front row seat, watching from the tank at the COP as the mighty hand of the American Army was brought down upon the meager force of insurgent inside the city.
Without playing too much of an Armchair General, I could see from the get go that the offensive was just too much. There is something to be said about not underestimating your enemy, but there is also something to be said about not overestimating your enemy as well. We brought two Squadrons, several Iraqi Army Battalions and would later bring a Battalion of the 82nd Airborne down upon maybe two-hundred insurgents at most. And our over compensation wasn’t even used to its full advantage, as we advanced only a few blocks every day, losing the momentum of the initial assault and handing it over to the enemy, allowing the majority of them to escape in underground tunnels. From all of my reading in Military and American history, the only way to fight and win a war is to go all the way, but then again Iraq and to an extent Afghanistan have both been examples of half-ass war fighting. It seemed to me that this offensive was more about getting officers promoted then truly winning the battle of Tall Afar.
I would see the loss of an overwhelming victory in Tall Afar on the third day of the offensive. 4th Platoon had a tank go down, and 66 was once again called upon to fill the gap. We had pushed up to the entrance of the Old City, stopping at an invisible line that we weren’t supposed to cross until the next day of combat operations. We had met minimal resistance up until this point, when we started taking gunfire from the other side of that invisible line. In a stalemate produced by unchangeable lines on a battle board somewhere far away from the battle, we fired Coax well a Bradley next to us opened up with its 25mm Chain Gun. The Scouts, Special Forces and Iraqi Army occupying the buildings on our side of the line fired small arms into the positions of the enemy.
We continuously asked for authorization to cross that line, in hopes of trapping these insurgents now well their positions were known. When we finally got it we trapped a gunman in an alley way, blocking his escape allowing an Eagle Tank (a different Troop) to hose him down. Soon the street erupted in fire, as bullets started bouncing off my front slope. IA and the Scouts let loose with small arms, directly over our heads, catching the tank in a cross fire. It was no problem though, since small arms wouldn’t penetrate the tank.
The fighting slowed down by noon time, and we pulled back to the invisible line. Despite requests to advance into the old city, we remained. We would learn later that the Iraqi president had ordered a pause in the advance until he could be assured that victory could be attained (some circular reasoning for you there). But we did get the opportunity to launch the first raid into the Old City, escorting a Buffalo (a vehicle used for clearing routes of IED’s) some two hundred meters into the old city, becoming the tip of the Cavalry’s Sabre for a few brief minutes.
The next day I found myself back at the Iraqi COP, listening to news filter in from the radio and waiting in frustration for the next chance to go out into the city. That chance would come when we went to establish our new base of operations, the school. Just prior to taking up resistence in the school, the attack into the Old City was launched. Few insurgents were found, and even fewer were alive to fight back after days of bombardment. The Old City had been declared a free fire zone after the Iraqi government ordered everyone out, and the next time I would see the main street of the old city, it would be drastically different, the sight of a true battle (even if that battle was fought only on one side).
The next two months I would do little other then guard duty at COP Reaper. We had been told that we would be out in the city until October 1 (before that it had been September 15). Eventually we would come to realize that we would be out in the city until we left Iraq. My days were full of mindless guard duty, details and COP fortification. There is little worth telling about these days, which passed even slower then those of August. The one thing worth telling is a little difficult to explain. In the early days of our occupation of the school, and with it the city, there was much confusion and much frustration on both the military and the civilian side of things.
One particular day, during guard duty at the front gate, a man had come up asking for a job. He had with him records from a previous unit that had operated in Tall Afar and he spoke pretty decent English. He was surrounded by local kids, who prove more difficult to deal with then the insurgents. The past couple of days they had been coming to the gate yelling at us “Mistah! Give me al-abet” or even throwing rocks (usually in response to us throwing rocks at them to get them away). As I was talking to the Iraqi adult, I noticed out of the corner of my eye the silhouette of a handgun. Immediately I raised my Rifle and pointed it into the crowd of kids. The handgun fell to the ground and the kids scattered (thankfully the kids hadn’t been desensitize to us locking and loading on them yet). I walked up to the handgun and picked it up...it was a toy. I am confident to this day that if I had not seen that gun drop, I would have fired. I don’t know what more to say about that.
A few weeks later, well on guard at another position, more kids showed up. I was fed up with the little -------s at this point and yelled in Arabic for them to amscray. Instead they stopped and I sat back and continued to eat my lunch of beef, formed and chunked, in gravy (an MRE), uninterested in what they hoped to accomplish by staring at me or yelling for food or water. Instead they lifted to doves, and at first I thought they wanted me to buy them (as we had seen kids try to do before). Instead he released it. It was strange moment. It seemed more like something out of a movie then reality. As the dove flew up into the air, the kid threw a peace sign my way. I returned it, knowing despite the losses, the long nights and early mornings, the seemingly mindless hours spent patrolling the streets of Tall Afar, we were doing something good here.
In the aftermath of the September Offensive (Titled Operation: Restore Rights), the city started to regain life. Many people left the city during the violent summer, and now many were returning. Despite the fact that we had missed a decisive victory in the offensive, we did at least displace the insurgent cells within the city. From this point on, there would be few attacks against US forces. As part of a nationwide strategy adopted by the insurgents, the attacks now focused around hitting the Iraqi Army and Police. Except for a Vehicle Borne IED that exploded a block away from our FOB, our sector remained relatively peaceful through out the stay at the school.
Then I moved to 4th Platoon. At first I was incredibly apprehensive of the move, which had been talked about for months. I liked most of the guys in 4th, and my perceptions of their leadership was that they were more laid back then those in 2nd Platoon. My crew was split up, and I went over to 4th. My schedule increased right away, with two days of operations, one day of Quick Reaction Force, and one day of guard.
The Operations day varied from Dismounted Patrol (a bunch of Tankers acting like Infantrymen), HMMWV Patrol and Tank Patrols. Like I said, the city was peaceful, and it was rare to even hear a gunshot except in the middle of the night (between Tribes, Iraq’s version of gangs). One of our primary missions was Census, in which we took records of almost every adult male in our sector. This was my chance to really see the people, and take away opinions of them. Most were very genius, willing to share hot sugar filled tea called Chi, tell us about their problems and allow us to rest in their homes. Of course, I don’t know if this generosity was real, since I’m sure most American’s would try to do everything in their power to please fourteen men with assault rifles, body armor and the American military machine behind them.
One local that we got to know well was Rafiq, who owned a small store nearby our FOB. Rafiq had been in the States for a few years and spoke decent English. I’m not sure what he was doing there, some kind of contractor. We attempted to build a good relationship with him, and hopefully turn him into a local leader, but the problems he presented were emblematic of the problems American forces are facing in the process of rebuilding the shattered Iraqi society and move them into the modern world. One day we went to his home for lunch, where he served chicken, Gouse Gouse (a rice which I’m fond of), soup and even fries (which were better then expected). We had a meeting in which we tried to get information on how we can help the neighborhood. “Get me a job,” is all he said. When we tried to explain to him that he had to either go to the castle to get a contract for city work, or leave the neighborhood to find something, he claimed it was too dangerous, or that the local leader, Sai’d, had a clamp on the contracts for his area. Sai’d is supposed to be a direct descendant of the Mohammad, and thus is a leader of the community. I won’t get into my opinions of Sai’d too much, but least to say, I don’t like him nor do I trust him.
Iraqi’s expected that the Garden of Eden was going to trail in the wake of the United State Military, so they do little to help themselves. Our responsibility to provide security for the citizens of Tall Afar, it is the Iraqi governments job to make sure that water, electricity, food and jobs are available for the people. Without getting into the internal politics of Iraq, I can say that we are in a Catch-22 when it comes to truly stamping out one of the root causes of the insurgency. Idle bodies become angry because they don’t have the necessities of life, and instead of trying to help create the blocks in which those necessities will become accessible, they lash out at the American Military and Iraqi government. I can say that we are responsible for much of the breakdown of Iraqi civil life, but Iraqi’s have not taken as a active role as they should. When the Allied Armies rolled across Europe, leaving a path of destruction much greater then we can even imagine in Iraq, the civilians left in the wake did not sit on their hands and say “Inshalla” (it is the will of God), they got off their ass and rebuilt. They didn’t lash out at the Armies that liberated them, they cooperated with them. I am not saying that there is a direct correlation between World War II and the Middle Eastern War (which include Afghanistan, and in a less direct way, everything between Morocco and Pakistan), but there are problems, deep routed in this society, that are producing the pain and suffering they are experiencing and they are inflicting upon us.
The months passed by in 4th Platoon much faster then in HQ. I got to know the Platoon over long hours of Halo 2 multi player games, nights of tank maintenance and days of foot patrols. I got along with nearly everyone, and after my ‘introduction’ into the platoon, they accepted me as one of them, though I still get harassed about my time with HQ (though I’ve been out in the city nearly as much as they have). I’m glade the change was made, and now I can barely remember why I wanted to stay in HQ.
In December I went on leave. Without getting into that much, since many of you know, I spent it without much concern for getting anything done. I was back to party and release the pent of tension of nine months in Iraq. I can’t be certain if I truly felt like I was back though, it felt like more of an intermission then an act of the play. Moving on...
I returned to Iraq in early January. Much had changed. We had moved out of the School and into a group of buildings that the 82nd Airborne had occupied during their short stay here (the 82 showed up for the last day of the Offensive and stayed until after the December elections, there presence increased the number of forces in the city, and helped more then I thought it at the time). The new FOB had been christened BURMa, an acronym for the four soldiers killed in action from Grim Troop (I’m not sure if they realized when they made the name that Woods had been left out). When I first arrived, it seemed like the new digs would work out nicely, I would be in a two man room with power and a heater. The platoon had worked hard to improve the barn that we would be living in for the next month, with wooden walls, shelves and of course, a room for Halo 2.
The city had gotten a little more violent in my brief absence (I must intimidate the insurgents so much), but the majority of attack were aimed at the Iraqi Army and Police. Meanwhile, the city was starting to look much better, except for an increase in the number of concrete barriers and Iraqi Army checkpoints. The old main street was busy once again, and best of all, my platoon was back on tanks.
Near the end of January, we had to support an Iraqi Claims Process, which is sort of welfare for the civilian population affected by the fighting. For the most part, this process went without any problems, until we prepared to leave on the second day. Some nutcase threw a hasty IED into the path of a Bradley, injuring several of its crew forcing us to Med Evac. We did a quick search for the perpetrator, but lost him quickly. We had been sitting on over watch for about fifteen hours, and badly needed fuel. On the return trip, some Kiowa Choppers spotted some insurgents planting an IED in the center of the road where we had just been sitting. Through the night sight I could see the rockets fly out of the tubes of the Kiowa, a surreal sight of white streams flying across a green sky. The Kiowa’s apparently missed their target though and their 50 cal was inoperative, some more insurgents escaped the mighty hand of the US Army.
It is emblematic of the US effort in Iraq. I believe that the US military is the greatest war making force in history. Our soldiers are extremely well trained, our equipment is technologically superior and better maintained then any other Army I can think of. Our doctrines are flexible, and our lower leadership (Non-commissioned officers and Platoon through Company leaders) has the ability to make quick decisions that would baffle our ancestors in the other great military machines of history. Despite all our advantages we cannot decisively defeat an insurgency that deals in death and terror.
Why is that? It is my opinion (and this is way above my pay grade) is that because of the communications revolution that has occurred in the past few years, giving leaders at higher levels the ability to make decisions for our lower leadership. Our Colonels and Generals concerns are more of the nature of public opinion, reducing collateral damage and making headlines. To take the school raid as an example, a decision made on the ground getting shot at was over rode by someone sitting in an air condition office miles away, and his decision led to a shattering loss to our forces in Tall Afar and to Grim Troop in particular. During the summer, we would commonly get into fire fights, and withdraw quickly because we had an injury or some objective had been met (like the target houses had been searched).
We care to much about how our enemy feels about us. And despite my support of the war, I think from the invasion to today we have been fighting it without the acknowledgment that it is a war. I do think, despite our policies we will be successful, but it will take more blood, more treasure and more time then it should. We failed crush the Ba’ath regime during the invasion, and now we are failing to annihilate the insurgency. One could just look back at the events in Falluijia to see that the failures I have seen in Tall Afar have been common place throughout Iraq.
Now that I am almost done with my tour in Iraq, I can say finally that I have been there and done that. I knew coming here that it would help decide my future. It has not been as decisive as I thought it would be. Like many things in my life, Iraq lived down to my expectations (though I think this time it might have been a good thing). I do know that being a career enlisted soldier is not in my future...though I don’t think it ever really was. I am looking forward to the next year when I finally restart my life after a four year hiatus. I do not regret joining the Army, or being a tanker. I’ll be able to go to college virtually for free now, and hopefully live in my own place to boot. I’ve learned a lot about the world, about people and myself.