17 February 2009

MOSUL 15FEB09

Life is returning to normal for Blue Platoon at this point. At least, as normal as can be expected. Now that the information has been declassified, we can tell you that our Battalion Commander was one of the four US soldiers killed in the incident on Monday. That fact is tragic on a human level and catastrophic on a military level. Our entire command structure was thrown into disarray—though to the credit of our battalion staff, far less than I would have expected—and our initial operations to secure the area and regain control of the city after the fact was more disjointed and the guidance more contradictory than is usually customary in the US Military.

He was a good man. A knuckle dragger, as they said at higher headquarters, a bull who lowered in and charged the opposition with steadfast determination. He was, in my mind, invincible. Untouchable. He was the one who inspired and terrified us, who led us and pushed us, who made our battalion the main effort in the main conflict in the final segments of the war. As a mere Platoon Leader, I did not interact with him to the same extent that my commander and the staff officers did. But I still had the opportunity to learn from him. He was the man you did not dare disappoint. I remember the last thing he said to me, two days before his death, as I stood before him. “Get the f--- out of my office,” he said, throwing the Article 15 packet we had created for a SGT Crisis (so named because his life, and especially his finances, are perpetually in crisis). “He almost missed the flight to deploy, yes, but that was because he was arrested. Not a good thing in an NCO, but he’s here, he made it, and his crew can depend on him. He’s a shooter. I’m not going to punish a man who’s out there, every day, fighting the fight, for something like this. Get the f--- out of my office.” That’s the kind of man he was. Blunt, direct, focused on the mission. There is a time for garrison punishments, and then there is a time for fighting. Never the twain shall meet. I respected that about him. He was a bull of a man, and he will be missed.

The memorial ceremony was a phenomenal event, and I am grateful that my commander was able to push my patrol to the right so I could be in attendance. Men who knew the fallen, their best friends, stepped forward to give a short anecdote of a favorite moment or trait or just to give us an idea of who these people were. The translator who was killed was honored right beside all of them; he had just received his Visa, and was to become an American citizen in three months. He had voluntarily postponed his flight to the States so that he could be on hand until the Colonel was able to find a replacement for him. His roommate stepped forward and shared a bit of who he was as well. The roommate of the sergeant whose personal belongings I was ordered to inventory and organize for their flight to his next of kin (a painful process for anyone) said the most memorable thing, in my mind: “These men all came from very different backgrounds and very different places, but they died as they lived. Together. United in purpose, united in spirit. As a crew.”

I lost composure during the final part of the ceremony when the roll was called. All of the soldiers in the company of the fallen stood at attention and proceeded through the morning garrison ritual of taking the roll. The First Sergeant stood before them and began calling off names:

“Private Thompson!”

“Here!” came the reply.

“Corporal Mills!”

“Here!” he replied.

“Sergeant Phelps!”

Silence.

“Sergeant Richard Phelps!”

The room stood deathly still, eyes focused on the picture at the front of Sergeant Phelps, grinning at the camera, looking like he had the whole world ahead of him.

“Sergeant Richard Allen Phelps!”

After a pause, the First Sergeant moved to the next name on the list. And it resumed down the line until the whole company had been called.

“Sergeant Major,” announced the First Sergeant, turning to issue his morning report, “Four men are reported out of ranks.”

Then the headquarters element stood and proceeded with the same ceremony.

“Major Allen!”

“Here, Sergeant Major!”

“Captain Locks!”

“Here, Sergeant Major!”

“Colonel Redding!”

Silence.

“Colonel Thomas Redding!”

Eyes go to the picture up front, the command picture, with him staring down the camera. The American flag hangs in the background. He looks into your eyes from the picture, demanding loyalty and dedication, every ounce the commander.

“Colonel Thomas Richard Redding!”

He had a wife and three children. Words cannot express my sorrow for them.

“Sir,” said the Sergeant Major, turning to the Acting Battalion Commander. “The Commander is out of ranks.”

The event itself released an emotional catharsis in us, I believe. There is something to be said for grabbing five hundred infantrymen and tankers and forcing them to cry. Everything around us seemed as if it were returning to normal afterwards. The gnawing anxiety lifted. Things were going to be all right. We had suffered a tragedy—though I don’t dare compare it to the suffering of their families—but we would carry on. There was work to do.

Our response measures consumed nearly every hour of the week until today. Sleep was held over us as a sweet but unattainable temptation; every time we even considered laying down, the call went up for RedCon1. And back out we went. Day and night into day and night into day and night. It’s all blurred together in my mind. I can’t tell you what we did when. But in the end of the madness we captured some of the parties responsible, formed networks we hadn’t utilized before, fortified our positions and those of our Iraqi partners, and reinforced our presence in the city in a way no one could deny. They will know now what happens when they strike us, and they will learn fear.

While I can’t tell you much at all about what occurred in response, I can tell you one thing: Navy SEALs are like kids in the playground with weapons. Part of me respects what they’ve been through to earn their place. The rest of me thinks that they are cowboys out there that may do us more harm than good. We hit a neighborhood one night in conjunction with them; my platoon hit one part while they hit the other. We breached and cleared many a building (I’ve discovered that “breaching and clearing” is surprisingly like “breaking and entering”) in pursuit of our targets. Every few minutes, though, the district was rocked with an explosion. The first time I rushed over with a dismount squad to support the SEAL Team, which I assumed had hit a house bomb or a grenade. Nope, they said, thanks, but that was us. We’re using explosives to breach the doors. I just looked at the guy in my squad with the bolt cutters, looked back at them, and walked away. Seriously. Why would you blow up the doors when the bolt cutters are faster and quieter? I think they just like blowing stuff up.

My translator that night was Kyle. I have to say, I was impressed with his performance. Not at translating, mind you… we really didn’t talk to anyone. We cut a lock and prepared to enter and clear—only to find that there was an internal lock. SGT Darkness started pulling out his shotgun. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I see a flash of movement and later recognize it as Kyle doing a flying mule-kick at the door. “Oh, hell yes, Kyle! Go, buddy, go!” He hits the door, caves it in slightly, bounces back, and then shoots in for another kick. And another. And on the fourth, the door slams open—and Kyle goes in right with it. He doesn’t even have a weapon. The guy is nuts. I was told later that he is prior Iraqi Army. Go figure. I’ve said it before: whatever we may say about their tactical training, you should never underestimate their courage. They are insane. I wouldn’t have been surprised if one of my men did it, but the translator? That just boggled my mind.

We’ve got more operations in the morning, so I’m going to have to end this entry before I go through everything. It’s already getting pretty late. The internet is down, so I’m going to have to post this whenever I get a chance. I know. We may be back to the old system for a few days. Oh, and Blue 4 (SSG Lark) would like to thank Grandmother for the cookies. I’ve been sharing them around, as instructed. He also stumbled across my collection of Wagner and had some questions. Mostly he just kept repeating: “Seriously? I mean, seriously?” Yes, seriously. I LIKE it, damn it. Besides, I’m in the 1st Cavalry! Haven’t you seen Apocalypse Now? We HAVE to play Ride of the Valkyries at least one patrol. We HAVE to.

So, that’s it for this report. We’ve got some work to do, and that requires that I cram some of that sleep in. I’ll write as soon as I can.

10 February 2009

MOSUL 11FEB09

I can't really talk about what happened yesterday. Not yet. I can't tell you anything more than you've already learned on CNN. Just know that yesterday, we suffered tragedy. Not the platoon, not the company, not the battalion, but the whole brigade. Five good men were killed, right inside my own sector, by a suicide car bomb. Four American soldiers and one Translator.

When my platoon arrived on the scene, the unit that was hit was just starting to recover bodies. The blast was tremendous. I found parts of the car bomb 200 meters away. The hole was a good eight feet deep. Our truck was thrown across the road... I'll spare you what happened to the bodies. God be with their families. I'll be able to comment on the significance to greater effect once the information is declassified. For now, just understand that we are all shaken and angry. We are taxing ourselves to maintain our composure when every ounce of our being is crying for retribution. The attack struck us to the core. We want vengeance. Nevertheless, 99 percent of this city had nothing to do with this. So we can't just vent our rage on the populace.

Such a damned waste.

Last night, the Standard Operating Procedure was out the window. We were busting down doors and inside the houses. I spent a good hour in a traffic circle, staring every driver/passenger in the face before letting them proceed. The new method, coordinating with our Iraqi counterparts and having them take the lead in the operation, was scrapped for the day. OUR men were dead. OUR men responded. Today was much the same; we saw two individuals on a rooftop holding what we initially assessed to be an AK-47. National Police in the area verified that none of their men were on that roof. So up we went, ready to engage, and our Iraqi counterparts could tag along if they wanted to. But we aren't waiting for them anymore. If they can't act on the target in time, we'll do it alone. That's fine by us. Because today I assess it as more important that we kill the enemy than build our partner's self-esteem.

Turned out that the AK-47 was just an unfortunately shaped piece of wood, and we scared the living daylights out of two young men who were trying to build a birdhouse for the pigeons on their roof. I felt a bit foolish. It would have been all right if they had been doing something shady. But coming up, weapons at the ready, and forcing two men to spend thirty minutes crouching with their hands up because we spotted them doing something ADORABLE? Embarrassing. Especially as I had to climb over a series of rooftops with a fire team to get to them. Not easy in all that body armor. Couple that with last night, when I dragged a different fire team through knee-deep open sewage to get them into a battle position in time, and I think they're actually getting reluctant to roll out with me.

So, as you may have noticed, I have internet. Kind of. This is a sluggish abomination, slouching towards an eventual connection, that will have to do until the wireless they promised comes online. But I can't really complain. The guys who came in the initial invasion certainly didn't have internet. Thus, my updates will be more frequent. I won't have to stockpile a month worth of entries before I post them. Expect a more regular update.

Hope is doing well, all things considered. She's having a time of it this term with her overloaded schedule. I told her not to, but God help her, she's just frolicsome like that. She's off debating today, so I'm missing contact with her, but this internet will make both of us much happier.

And a big shout out to my brother and sister-in-law. Tom and Alicia, thank you. The packages are great. The photos are great. The oatmeal is in hilarious quantities, and thank you for it... but extra credit for the jerky, the fruit/nut mix, and the CHILI SAUCE. Whoever told you about that (I imagine either Hope or the Marine in Alicia's family) was spot on. This is not a request for more chili sauce. I now have more than enough. But I am SO HAPPY about it. I've tried putting it on everything. Additionally, a big thank you to my own in-laws. Hope hates summer sausage, but as she grudgingly admits, I kind of like it. A lot. A guilty pleasure. And now I have the whole collection: cheese, condiments, sausage, and crackers. Let's face it. My life is actually pretty good right now. Minus the exploding and shooting stuff. But hey, what existence doesn't have its drawbacks?

I'll have more updates on the situation here once we are cleared to communicate. Everything else remains classified until further notice. Just know that everyone in Blue is safe and sound. Keep the families of the deceased in your prayers; they will need your support tonight. The tragic loss of life can only be answered by unwavering support for the poor souls who will be awakened in the dead of night and informed that their loved one made the ultimate sacrifice for the freedom of our country. May God watch over those families and may the dead find peace in His infinite Grace. May the country they died for know of their character, their bravery, and their final sacrifice. And may we never have another day like this.

MOSUL 04FEB09

Red Platoon got hit again today with another grenade attack. This accident from yesterday is really hurting our efforts at developing a positive relationship in our battle space; little wonder, really. They took no casualties. We immediately jumped to the site to see if we could locate anything to chase after, but we were unable to capture anyone even with the assistance of a (severely delayed) report from our drone assets about suspicious activity on a neighboring rooftop. We cleared that rooftop with a quickness and saw… absolutely no one and nothing. Again. We just stood around the attack site for a while, chatting people up and trying to get a grasp on what happened, hoping the enemy would try their luck a second time with us; nothing happened. Nothing seems to happen to us. We go to the same place Red Platoon gets hit, and they just don’t make an effort to kill us. We rolled over an IED yesterday and didn’t even know it; the enemy didn’t detonate it until the National Police drove over it. Nice buried sucker, too.

Today we rolled with Combat Camera. What this means is that two sergeants, both female, got in our trucks with their cameras and followed us around all day. And while my ego eagerly awaits all this footage of me being undeniably awesome (what a wonderful world I build for myself), what this effectively meant was that two soldiers without any weapons of consequence were in the middle of all the action today, making us very, very nervous. Fortunately, the only casualty was our mission: I had to return to base (RTB) sooner than I anticipated because one of them needed to tinkle around hour 3.5.

Did you know that female soldiers aren’t allowed to urinate in sector?

Neither did I.

The conversation went a little like this:

All Blue elements, this is Blue 1. We will proceed south along route…

Blue 1, this is Blue 5. Before you put out any more crazy schemes of maneuver, be aware that one of my camera sergeants needs to tinkle.

Huh. I hadn’t really made a plan for that one, 5. All right, we’ll pull over here and secure an alley for her.

1, this is 5. I don’t think you get it. They aren’t allowed to urinate in sector.

Really?! I mean, really? All right, I guess we can work with it. COP (blank) isn’t too far away. We’ll push over there.

No, 1. COP (blank) is in sector. They can’t piss in sector, AT ALL.

(Pause)

(Pause)

Blue 1, this is Blue 5. Did you copy last?

(Pause)

ARE YOU SAYING I HAVE TO RTB SO SOMEONE CAN URINATE?

(Pause)

Roger, Blue 1. That’s what that means.

(Pause)

Blue 1, Blue 5… what are we going to do?

(subdued whisper of defeat): This is Blue 1. We are prep to RTB time now. Blue 1 out.

I don’t get it. Who made that rule? I can’t really blame the camera crew, since you gotta go when you gotta go, but who made that rule? Ridiculous! That essentially means that women cannot be outside the wire. They must stay in the FOB or be returned to the FOB once every two hours. I almost asked if they were allowed to piss themselves in sector and whether they could just go ahead and do that for me. But I want to keep my job. So we just returned to base.

I also don’t understand the appeal of Army-owned latrines. Some of the worst atrocities committed by mankind have been in or around Army latrines. I remember a period at the Infantry Officer Basic Course where I stumbled one morning, drowsy and naïve, into a port-a-john in the field. There were ten of these port-a-johns standing side by side in the middle of a clearing where we mustered and ate chow. I opened the door and stepped inside, still not opening my eyes from sleep… and then, as I blinked myself awake, I beheld the apparition. The most monstrous mountain ever made by man (go team alliteration!). I didn’t move. I didn’t blink. I just stared—not shocked, not disgusted, but in deep contemplation. How had this come to happen? Obviously the last few people to utilize this particular latrine had been forced to squat or stand in order to allow the mountain to actually peak above the seat. By a good foot. I contemplated the intent of my predecessors. I contemplated gravity and how it had been defeated once more. I turned and saw the warning written in small font on a poster by the door: This unit is intended to maintain ten people for twelve days or twelve people for ten days. Exceeding the intended use may result in unsatisfactory conditions. I contemplated the meaning of “unsatisfactory” and whether or not, in a morally objective sense, I could judge Poop Peak to be “unsatisfactory.” Then I turned back to the warning and began counting the number of people in the field and how many days we had been out here. I then contemplated the mathematics of human tragedy. We had 120 people and 10 latrines… so ten days should be optimal. We had been out for twenty. Apparently we either exceed standardized expectations (validating all of you who always said that officers were full of shit) or optimal intent for a latrine is a bit over half-full. After a moment my silent ruminations were interrupted by a dismayed scream from a new neighbor.

“Someone shat on the floor!” he yelled, to no one in particular, just to help himself come to terms with the unfathomable. “How can you even shit on the floor in here? How can you even position your body to shit on the floor?”

Good question, I conceded. How would one even go about that? You’d have to lift one leg here, brace your arms up there… I think I spent another ten minutes contemplating that before I decided to just go out and try my luck in the woods.

The point I am making here is that sometimes the wide open public is preferable to Army latrines. So don’t make your host unit RTB in order to rush you to one of them. COP (blank) has a perfectly functional toilet. Well, kind of. Really it’s just a hole in the ground… but isn’t that effectively the same as a port-a-john? I mean, in the end, aren’t they basically the same?

I’ve begun to find porcelain latrines a wanton extravagance. When I get back Stateside, I will have to make a conscious effort not to just stop my car in public, get out, and urinate on my tires. I don’t know how more people don’t talk about this. I mean, it isn’t as if we’re going to knock on neighborhood doors and ask if Coalition Forces can borrow their restroom. So we just get out, have someone pull guard on us, and piss. It works. It’s normal. And I’ll believe this until the Arkansas State Police arrest me for indecent exposure. The difference, I feel, between this and the man we observed urinating that night, is that we know everyone can see us. We aren’t hiding anything. That feels normal. He thought he was being secretive. That just makes it feel somehow naughty. Thus, the crime is in the intent and not the action, Officer.

That was basically my whole day. I had meetings, did random administrative nonsense, and now I’m going to sleep early. I’m getting promoted to 1st Lieutenant tomorrow, and I’m hoping to be coherent and well-rested. So good night to you all.

MOSUL 02FEB09

Our first company casualties today. First, nobody was killed. All four are stable; two are already returned to duty, a little worse for wear, and two are still under the knife but will be fine. Second, none from Blue Platoon. Red Platoon took the hit today and took it bad. A grenade attack hit their leadership while they were dismounted. Their platoon sergeant, a section sergeant, and a squad leader were hit. The fourth was, most unfortunately, their medic. So Red took the hit and immediately jumped to CASEVAC.

The elections were surprisingly calm. Nothing serious happened in our sector; my platoon only had to deal with one IED. White Platoon had a good dozen in their sector, but they were able to find practically all of them. The remaining detonations wounded some local nationals and National Police, but no Coalition casualties. The following day was completely quiet. In fact, everything was very calm until the Incident.

The Incident is a tragedy which probably has reached the news. You’ve probably read about it before I post this. One of our other companies took some small arms fire, had one soldier wounded, and rushed to get him to the medical unit. They put him in a Bradley. Traffic was congested, going was slow, and I can imagine in my mind the decision that their platoon leader made. He’s dying, we can’t wait, we have to push through. So they pushed through. And crushed a car with the Bradley, killing a father and son that they trapped beneath. Then, for the first time since we arrived, Coalition Forces were fair game. Every insurgent in the city was on us. Suicide vests, bombs, a dozen grenade attacks, small arms fire, you name it. We were being hit everywhere. Blue Platoon was far enough away from the incident that it didn’t directly affect us. The Incident did occur on the border of our battle space, but more in Red Platoon’s side, so they went out to check it out and try to smooth over the disaster. So they got hit. I sat in the headquarters beside 1LT Freddy, both of us in full gear and ready to go in an instant, mesmerized by the situation and waiting with sick anticipation for orders to roll out. Our guys were hit. All we knew at the time was that four of ours were wounded. We were hungry for blood. Things were going to hell, and we wanted to get out there and let them know that we weren’t going to back down. But higher headquarters vacillated, titillated, ruminated, cross-coordinated, un-coordinated, re-coordinated, and then vacillated again for a good two hours. When I finally got clearance to move my platoon into the sector, we got called back a mere ten minutes later. The battalion commander had decided that he didn’t want to further agitate the local populace with our presence.

This puts me in a situation. Part of me, however small, sympathizes a bit with our enemy today. What happened was a terrible tragedy. And yes, further Coalition presence (especially as we were ordered to roll out with Bradleys) would have possibly sent the wrong message. We’re in a business where stupid decisions cost lives on a regular basis, but it is especially tragic when the lives lost are those of innocents. On the other hand, we left the field in the hands of the enemy tonight. Coalition Forces were hit… and did not respond. In fact, we withdrew. We abandoned the field to the enemy. To hell with that. Tomorrow morning they’ll wake up, see that we still haven’t responded, and realize that they can strike with impunity. That enough grenades will actually force us into inactivity. That all they have to do is coordinate, hit hard, and watch us flee. To hell with that. Coalition Forces were hit, Coalition Forces should respond. We should be in there, in their neighborhoods right now, grenades be damned, making it clear that we are not to be trifled with. We’re soldiers. We should not be gun shy. We cannot afford to be gun shy. We need to let all of them know that, although the tragedy was deeply regrettable, we WILL accomplish the mission. And if the people of the neighborhoods do not assist us in securing themselves, if they provide shelter and support to the enemy, we’ll be back the next day. And the next. We will be in their streets, ready to fight, until we finish our job. If they can’t help us secure the neighborhood in a way that is amenable to them, we’ll secure them in whatever way we have to. Like it or not, your streets will be peaceful. Our way or yours. You pick.

Part of me recognizes the wisdom in the battalion commander’s decision, but part of me thinks that this will only hurt us in the long term. Part of me wants to go smooth things over with the local populace, but part of me wants blood. I’m torn. Regardless, I should have been ordered one way or the other IMMEDIATELY. That should not have been a hard decision. We can’t spend two hours debating the points while the enemy runs rampant. Blue and White Platoons should have been there, at the exact site where Red was hit, within minutes. We would have locked that place down. Maybe even saved a few lives out there tonight. Tomorrow I’ll have to roll out and eat a large helping of humble pie in front of my Iraqi National Police partners, thanks to what happened today, and we’ll have nothing to stand on. We killed two innocent people (whoops) for questionable reasons (we look out for our own, you look out for incoming treads on your hood), took some serious punishment, and turned tail back to the FOB.

I’m increasingly bitter since I wrote the last paragraph, since five hours have passed and I’m on QRF again. Out of rotation. By some fluke or (hopefully not) conscious decision from our leadership, Blue has now been on QRF for something like five of the last eight days. This means sleep is minimal and patrols are frequent. But this is not the problem that makes me angry. No, I’m angry because my platoon leadership is being downright petulant about it. Like spoiled kids. For the love of God, we are AT WAR. The platoon who was supposed to have QRF had all of their leadership blown up today. Should we go grab them from the ER and put them on guard, guys? Maybe that would be more equitable, right? SHUT UP. This is not about you. This is not about fair. This is about what WORKS. Right now, we can work. Man up. Just do it. If we’re all doing it, if I’m doing it, I don’t want to hear anybody complain about it. Or pout. Or “forget” to relieve me on QRF guard after four hours because they didn’t want to do it. Fine. You know what? I’ll just do it all tonight. I’ll do it all every night. Not to shame you, because I know SSG Crunchberry and SSG Chase will just throw a party that they don’t have to pull shifts anymore. I’m going do it because it needs to be done. And I cannot abide by that kind of childlike petulance. Here’s the catch, guys: you still have to follow my orders out there. So on day three, when I’m starting to see magical leprechauns frolicking on the major routes, you’re going to have to dismount on my command and try to detain them. Think about it for a minute. Just ponder the consequences. And I will rip the spleen out of the next one of you who asks for a day off. I. WILL. RIP. OUT. YOUR. SPLEEN. Do we understand each other? Do we?

Men bled out there today, and I’ve got NCOs complaining that our platoon spends a disproportionate amount of time on QRF. This is not the breaking point. You are not falling apart. You do not have shrapnel wounds all over your body. You do not have a bullet in you. When the company asks you to cover down on your buddies, you jump to it. Because you are in the ARMY, damn it, and that is WHAT YOU DO. I do not care that we don’t sleep enough. I do not care that you haven’t had a day off in the last two weeks. I won’t have a day off all year, you clowns, and you aren’t allowed to break until I do. Deal with it. And for the love of God, DO NOT COMPLAIN TO THE MEN. You are their leaders. The soldiers of Blue have been real troopers through all of this; tonight, they were racked out, happily asleep, when we had to rouse them from their beds and send them back out to the line. And they jumped to it. If they complained, they at least had the presence of mind not to do it in front of me. And they at least waited until after we had prepared everything and staged ourselves. That kind of motivation and tenacity deserves the best out of its leadership, and right now they’re getting childish petulance. It’s sad to watch. No, it’s infuriating to watch. As platoon leader I don’t do the screaming thing. SSG Lark is more than happy to do all the screaming for me. I try to mentor, foster, develop, and guide people in the right direction. And I’ve had a few isolated guiding discussions with some of the leadership about this, but quite frankly, I don’t think they’re getting it. My primary screamer is also acting badly so I can’t look to him tonight. If this madness does not resolve itself in a moment, I will be forced into an uncharacteristic bout of righteous fury.

I’m sorry. This venue should not be where I vent my own frustrations. I want this journal to carry the story of Blue Platoon through our part in the close of this war. I want this journal to show some of the lighter moments of deployment and some of the more subtle aspects of modern war. I don’t want it to be a gigantic whining session, especially since I’m using it to rail on about whiners. It’s just that today struck home, in a way, and I have difficulty finding anything of interest—let alone great drama—in the trivial when life and death decisions are being made all around us. I’m just a little shocked that anyone would have the audacity to complain about a little nonsense when there’s so much at stake. It’s like complaining about the trash in the HMMWVs while the IED is blowing it up. Maybe, in a way, it’s how NCOs cope with their surroundings. They’re raised to be fascinated in the smallest detail. They have to occupy their time with the minute details so I have the time to grasp the bigger picture. So, maybe, I should expect this kind of thing. Perhaps I should accept it as part of the difference between my job and theirs. Fair and equitable distribution of work is exactly what they have to think about. I, however, have to think about what the unit needs as opposed to what my leaders want. If that means we have to patrol when someone would rather sleep, so be it. If we have to dismount when someone would rather ride, we have to do it. Because it is Mission, Men, Me. In that order. That’s the rule. So if we have to pull yet another night of QRF because our company needs us to step up, then we step up. That’s the mission. End of story.

Anyway, we’re on communications blackout because of the casualties today, so I can’t call Hope. So I get to vent here. My apologies. But I have to get back to staring at the map and hoping things don’t explode tonight. We’ve got a mission in about five hours and I should get that planned. So, have a good night, and take a moment for the soldiers in Blue. It is they, and most certainly not their leadership (self included), that deserve any prayers or gratitude tonight. And drop an extra prayer for the guys in Red. May they recover quickly. Finally, spare a thought for the two innocent people who were killed today. There is nothing we can do or say that will alleviate the suffering of their loved ones. They’ll just be forgotten in the ever-growing tally of unfortunate victims in a place defined by tragedy and carnage. But for tonight, please remember them and pray for their family.

MOSUL 27JAN09

We’ve started establishing a rhythm here. When lucky, we have up to two days warning about future patrols; this gives me time to plan the missions and figure out exactly what I want to do in my sector. Additionally, we’ve started picking up a workable system inside the platoon: SSG Lark keeps the platoon straight, I keep the sector straight. An ideal scenario for me is I come from a brief, tell him I need five trucks by 0900 and one squad of dismounts, he makes it happen, and I take over on the patrol. It works.

Activity yesterday was pretty substantial. We had three IEDs, one VBIED (car bomb), and some small arms fire in the city. None directed against Coalition Forces, but the National Police had a bad time yesterday. I was rolling out the wire just as it happened. This meant that I was tasked and retasked to go play pick-up-sticks all over the city. When something exploded, I had to stop my regularly-scheduled mission and go run over and assess the damage. The car bomb was pretty vicious. We found a second car, heavily damaged from shrapnel, a good three hundred meters away on the road. The driver had been badly wounded and the car had just kept on rolling down the road until the tires finally gave out and it slowed to a halt.

Over the past few days, Blue Platoon has been running around the neighborhoods conducting more SWEAT-MS assessments (Security-Water-Electricity-Academics-Trash-Medical-Sewage). We’re basically glorified utility patrollers with guns on these operations. The electrical situation here is the real problem; most households receive 1-4 hours of power for every 24 hour period. Everybody complains about electricity first. They don’t even complain about anything else, usually, as if to emphasize how bad the situation is.

MOSUL 30JAN09

A little break in journal contact, there. Sorry. I had to stop in mid-entry and go out to watch a tower move from one traffic circle to another; exciting stuff, I promise. At least it helped us build a little “wasta,” which is apparently the term here for the reputation of a relationship. If you promise something and then deliver on time, you build wasta. If you fail to deliver, you lose wasta. I guess it isn’t too different from gaining or losing face. The commander of my partnered battalion was very appreciative of our efforts; the fact that we also drove like madmen around the city for the past three days delivering truckloads of barbed wire to polling sites hasn’t hurt us, either. It was like Iraqi Christmas. We would drive up in our big tan sleds and dump spools of jagged metal on their doorsteps, and the National Police practically cried with joy. They have an unhealthy obsession with barbed wire, I suspect. They went pretty nuts out there. After doing a pretty good job of fortifying the polling sites with the wire, they took the extra and started hitting targets of opportunity. They put wire on top of barriers, wire on top of sandbags, wire on top of wire, wire surrounding cars, wire on the outside of walls, wire on the inside of walls, wire on the walls—all with this maniacal grin of utter and perverse glee. They are happy tonight.

Probably not, really. We’re all a little on edge. Tomorrow is Election Day, and we’ve been prepping for this operation for the past three weeks. We’ve reconnoitered the polling sites, prepped the security, established a permanent presence, re-prepped the security, established a no-vehicle curfew for the city, placed panels on the rooftops for the helicopters and drones to identify, and then prepped the security a little more. But tomorrow we see what our efforts are worth. I expect and predict some serious violence in a few target neighborhoods where dominant ethnic groups are going to try to influence the election by intimidating/slaughtering their political/ethnic enemies en route to the polls. Then again, maybe everything will go smoothly. As my translator Sam (the nickname is goes by in the platoon) taught me: insh’allah, la hatha she bacher. May it be the Will of God that nothing happens tomorrow. If it does, though, Blue is ready. We’ve prepped for this for weeks. Let’s see how our plan stacks up with theirs.

I suppose I should probably introduce Sam at this point. Sam is my translator, an Iraqi university student in his senior year majoring in nursing. He’s a nice, quiet guy who has only one problem: he doesn’t speak English. I don’t know how nobody noticed this during the interview process. But here he is, and learning quickly—and here I am, learning Arabic quickly. So I guess it works out for both of us. If he was a perfect translator I would have a much harder time forcing myself to learn the words and phrases in Arabic. He’s generally hilarious, as are our attempts to come to a mutual understanding of whatever someone said to us. “Fire station no move through traffic the system.” (I cock my head slightly to the side, raising one eyebrow in consternation. This is the first step in the little dance we have choreographed.) “He say, fire station in traffic the system no go.” (At this point I give my first attempt to translate. This is dangerous, as he will agree with my translation if it sounds even remotely like what he meant to say. This can cause some misunderstandings among the finer details of the conversation.) “The fire station is in the traffic circle?” Good start, I think. “No, the fire station no go through the traffic… the circle traffic… traffic circle the system.” (This leads to my second attempt at translation, which is usually right… not because I actually got it right, I suspect, but because I was close enough or Sam considered it a hopeless case.) “The fire truck can’t get through the traffic circle?” “Yes! Yes. No go fire station through traffic the system circle.”

I think you get the idea. He’s a great guy, and he has a good temperament and patience for our patrols. He comes out every time I do, which is to say every patrol. He goes without complaint. My men don’t go without complaint, so that’s a point for Sam. Last night on a dismount patrol Sam stayed up and kept moving beside me even after a few hours. Some of the men were starting to drag behind. Point for Sam. When the bullets started whizzing around last night, Sam even tried to grab me and push us both into an alley. I had to extract myself with a little urgency, explaining that my job was to run towards the gunfire, but it was perfectly all right if he decided not to join. I didn’t think we would be exchanging pleasantries with the bullets.

Unfortunately, last night revealed itself to be a terrible accident. Fortunately there were no casualties on either side, thank God (al hamd’allah—see how we learn?). We had fired upon a National Police vehicle in the dead of night. He had approached from the rear of our patrol, without sirens, flashers, or other identifying police markers, and my rear fire team initiated their Escalation of Force procedures. They shouted at him to stop, showed their weapons, and then flashed the vehicle with their tac lights and lasers. The vehicle stopped. A moment later the lights came back on, the engine gunned, and the truck sped forward. My rear fire team repeated procedure (very quickly, as they were already too close for comfort) and then popped off a warning shot. The truck sped up—probably out of panic—and my rear team fired a couple of controlled pairs into the hood. He stopped then. I ran to the perimeter and screamed at him to open the doors and get out of the vehicle immediately or be fired upon, at which point he identified himself as a (terrified) lieutenant of the National Police. He had come up to visit a neighboring checkpoint. We then learned something that I imagine should have been rectified a long time ago: their near recognition signal, the method by which they pass through friendly lines and identify themselves as friendly and find the friendly forces around them, is to flash lights at each other. Our Escalation of Force (EOF) doctrine is to shine lights at the target. So in the light conversation that occurred last night, one party said STOP and the other party heard COME ON IN, BUDDY. How we haven’t solved this would have boggled my mind before, but now that I understand how the Iraqi Army and National Police plan operations and signals I’m not surprised at all. Maybe this incident will force a solution. Meanwhile, I made a point of checking up on him today and discreetly having Sam inquire as to the cost of fixing the truck. Yes, it wasn’t our fault—we followed doctrine to the letter—but it would demonstrate an act of good faith with our allies.

So, to tally, I’ve now experienced Blue on Red (enemy contact), Blue on Blue (friendly fire), and Blue on Green (allied friendly fire). Now all I need to get the whole spectrum covered is a contractor to pop a few shots at me. That’ll bring us a Blue on Gold. At which point I might as well come home, because what else is there to see? Blue Platoon has now been shot at by every possible group!

Anyway, it’s past midnight and I have about four hours of sleep to get before the operation tomorrow. Wish us luck. Tomorrow will be a bit crazy, I suspect, but I know we’re ready. I’ll update as soon as possible with the results of our operations tomorrow.

MOSUL 20JAN09

1230: First contact with enemy forces.

I was inside an Iraqi National Police company headquarters speaking with their commander when the room was rocked with a resounding explosion. It came from right outside the building. My first thoughts were of the disposition of my humvees pulling security outside; where they had all been stationed, where I had placed my dismounts, where the alleys were and the neighboring buildings. Then, as I bolted out the door to assume direct control of my element, all I could think about was what I would see when I opened the door. The explosion was very loud and very close. All I could imagine was one of my trucks on fire with Blue Platoon corpses scattered across the street. Then, as I threw the door open, the firing started. The street was hot. We had a firefight on our hands.

Never did I imagine that my first thought in a firefight would be of immense relief, but when I finally got eyes on my element all I could feel was the pressure draining as I witnessed all of my vehicles, perfectly fine and operational, and all of my men—excited and returning fire, but all very much alive and well. Thank God for that. A quick scan of the bodies in the alley to our southwest confirmed that none of my men were down. No time for giving thanks, though; we were still engaged in a firefight with at least one insurgent and I wanted that bastard dead. My blood was up. He needed to die.

He had thrown a grenade at a National Police truck neighboring my position from a large rooftop to my immediate southwest. One National Police soldier was lying on the ground with a partially amputated leg, surprisingly quiet given his condition. Or maybe it was just too loud to hear the screaming. Two local nationals had been wounded: one older man had taken shrapnel to his leg, and one child had lost an ear to shrapnel and had taken some metal in the abdomen. I grabbed a dismount fire team, commanded by SGT Skizz (thank God I got our best for our first contact), and pushed all of us forward into the alley. My first thought was to get SSG Lark’s truck to push in first and cover our movement, but once he informed me that the attack was grenades thrown from rooftops that plan was scrapped. He’d just be an easy target. So we pushed up, six of us with minimal cover, and started clearing the building to get access to the rooftop. My first room clearing in combat. Fortunately we were met only by five very surprised office workers, all of whom quickly complied with our instructions to get down on the floor and stay there. No weapons, no ammo, and regrettably, no access to the roof from their office. So we got them all on their knees and handed them off to the National Police following us. Then we shot down to the next door, breached, and found ourselves staring right at the stairwell up. How fortuitous was that? Made my life easy, certainly. So up we went. By the time we got to the top, of course, our insurgent friend was gone. He had doubtless fled by one of the dozens of stairwells leading to every corner of what we quickly ascertained was a ridiculously large complex of individual apartments all housed under one roof. And he was gone. SGT Skizz was pretty sure he winged him, but I regret to announce that I found no blood, weapons, ammunition, or trace of the enemy when I searched the roof. And we were unable to identify him out of the dozen or so local national we rounded up inside the complex. So he got away clean. Final tally was one National Police seriously wounded, one child moderately wounded, and one civilian male lightly wounded. And our attacker was gone. Air assets pushed up too late to be of any assistance, which is a great pity because I have been so pleased with their assistance and performance to date. I wish they could have been on station or at least around when we took contact. I wish we could at least have flown a drone over ourselves during the patrol. If we had kept our eyes in the sky we could have tracked him down. There is nothing more frustrating and demoralizing than getting your blood up, having the men under your charge attacked, watching innocent bystanders bleed in an alley, and be unable to close with and destroy the enemy. But try us again, asshole. We’ll get you next time.

The only Coalition casualty, I announce with the utmost regret, was my pants. I ripped the crotch completely open when I dove for cover. This is a long-standing problem with ACU pants. I didn’t notice until the issue was brought to my attention a good half-hour later. The boxers I was wearing at the time did not have a button on the flap, so—yes, you guessed it—I spent the entire engagement exposing myself to the people of Mosul. I tactically questioned (can’t say interrogate, as we aren’t qualified to doctrinally interrogate anyone) families inside that complex in an attempt to find our attacker, and didn’t even realize that I was showing a bit more of the “vestiges of humanity” than was normally allowed. For heaven’s sake, there were children in those groups I questioned. I can’t believe nobody mentioned it. But what would you say? Your home was just the site of a grenade attack and a firefight and your living room was just breached and cleared by a fire team of American soldiers all hungry for blood. You probably aren’t going to list public indecency very high on your priority of concerns. Still. Could my life get any more ridiculous? Probably not. My commander was the one who finally pointed out that I was pointing out. How embarrassing.

Reactions after the fact were unanimous; the platoon has experienced catharsis. PFC Bourbon (a young and surprisingly gentle Kentucky soldier who serves as my RTO [carries my radio] and got married a month before we deployed to a woman he had met the month before) was downright excitable. He showed some particularly fierce killer instincts for a man who is generally so mild. PFC Devil happened to be my driver today, as we decided to give my usual team some time off to recover, and he was overjoyed that he was there when it happened. I know I shouldn’t show any favoritism to any of my soldiers, but I’ll come out and say it here. PFC Devil is my favorite soldier. He’s a tall, lanky older twenties soldier who spent time in prison for assault and spent most of his youth addicted to some of our society’s nastier drugs. His brother is still in prison leading a band of the Aryan Nation. Despite all of this, he is one of the most calm, composed, resourceful, and competent soldiers it has ever been my pleasure to work with. He would have a great career ahead of him in the Army were it not for his felony record. As it stands, though, he will most likely never rise above Staff Sergeant. He can’t get the security clearance to be a Platoon Sergeant. But from here on out, whenever I hear someone complain that the quality of soldiers dropped when the Army decided to fill the gaps by accepting convicted felons, I’ll use PFC Devil as a counterexample. I’m grateful he was there today, too. Our real hero of the day, though, was Doc. I recognized this guy as an invaluable asset when I first arrived to the platoon. Of all the medics in the company, and probably the battalion, we got the best. Doc is absolutely stellar. He’s a quiet, friendly, and very intelligent soldier who has yet to demonstrate fear, frustration, or exhaustion in my presence. And we’ve been in some pretty strange spots. Through it all, though, he’s been constant. He can perform combat medicine without even thinking about it. He slapped tourniquets on that NP’s legs before we had even pushed our fire team forward of his position. Just dove right out and started assisting the casualties. We couldn’t complete our job out there today because the enemy escaped, but Doc definitely completed his. I came back from the rooftops to find him calm, composed, and coated in blood. Jovial, even. Looked right at my pants, looked at his shirt, and announced with a wry smile that we were both out new uniforms. Speculated that, had we been the same size, we could have combined my top with his pants and at least salvaged one. Maybe he’s just naturally like this. I would conjecture that part of this is because Doc is the only man in our platoon who has ever been shot… but he was shot in a bar fight when he was a civilian. This baffles me. I can’t imagine anyone ever wanting to fight Doc. He’s just too good natured. I have an even harder time imagining someone wanting to shoot him.

The rest of my day, after having my heart launched into my esophagus, was an endless series of mind-numbing debriefs. This misery was compounded by the fact that my body was just about ready to crash once my blood rush ended. Fight or flight takes it out of you. Nevertheless, there I was: eyes barely open, fingers clutched in a death-grip around my coffee, reciting my debrief narrative by some method of rerouting my subconscious/unconscious directly to my mouth. It was downright impossible to bring myself to recall all the little details the Iraqi commander and I had discussed before the explosion. I couldn’t bring myself to care. There was my life before the explosion and my life after the explosion, and right now I really didn’t feel like thinking about my life before. This was big. This was life-changing. This was first contact under hostile fire. This was the first time I took a fire team into a building, tearing our way up the stairs as I waited for the other shoe to drop—would the house explode, was there an ambush waiting on the roof, would a car bomb detonate around my security, is one of these local nationals wearing a suicide vest, is the enemy waiting around this corner, is another grenade ticking off seconds even now?

We took another mortar on the FOB today. I was walking outside when I heard it impact. I was surprised at how little I cared. There was life before first contact and life after first contact. I can understand how some people could become addicted to the adrenaline rush of combat, but quite frankly, I’m just tired. Tired and relieved. I wished for something just like this to keep my men from getting complacent, and I got it. But all I can think about is that similar acts took place against Coalition Forces all over the city today. Maybe it was in honor of our new President. Maybe their elections are just looming close. Maybe they’ve decided that the observation period is over. Whatever the cause, I get the feeling that we’ll be seeing a lot more of this in the next few weeks.

ADDENDUM FROM 21JAN09

Couldn’t even finish this entry last night. We got the call to respond to a Task Force (Special Forces) QRF mission, so we put on the gear, turned on the trucks, and moved out. On the way out, just before midnight—meaning that both major incidents did manage to fall on the same day—my lead vehicle was shot at by Coalition Forces. Some lunatic gunner on a convoy security MRAP looked over, saw our trucks trying to pass, and somehow convinced himself that the insurgents had stolen five HMMWVs, packed them with explosives, and were trying to integrate themselves into his convoy. No, you idiot. You were going two miles an hour and we had to respond to a QRF call from a unit in sector. We were trying to pass you. Anyway, long story short, he tossed a warning shot at us. A very close warning shot. SSG Chase was in the lead vehicle—and immediately he was out of it, correcting malfunctions on this idiot in a way we can all wish we’ll never see firsthand. I had to stop him from physically assaulting the man, get him back in the truck, and push us out on our mission.

What does this mean? Well, at a basic level it means that I’ve had two firsts today: enemy small arms fire and friendly small arms fire. Exciting day to be in Blue Platoon. At a punitive level, it means some unit out there committed a Blue-on-Blue (friendly on friendly) hostile act. And that means that after I spent all night out with Task Force, doing nothing, I spent the early hours of morning doing paperwork on the “incident.” Then, just as I finished with that, Blue Platoon was called out to another QRF call. When we returned from that we were instructed to stay in our vehicles at RedCon 1.5 (5 minutes out the gate from time of order) until further notice as an operation was currently underway. Remember how I said I was tired last night and hadn’t slept in a long while? Well, the situation has not improved. I’m running entirely on coffee fumes by now. That’s all right; tomorrow is our first maintenance day. Our vehicles are getting absolutely torn apart by the constant pace of our operations (naturally we’re more concerned about vehicular than personnel breakdown) and we need to get them into the mechanics. I’m going to go ahead and designate a block of that time as Human Maintenance. I’m going to shower. I’m going to eat. And then I’m going to sleep.

I can’t stand it when anyone here complains of exhaustion, since we’re all undergoing some form of sleep deprivation and nobody wants to be subjected to constant whining, but today I’ll make an exception. I’ve started walking funny and stumbling everywhere. I blink and blank out for whole minutes. It’s been at least three days since I caught more than two hours of sleep a night. The worst part is that it isn’t for any good reason: I’m awake because the infernal inhuman machine at headquarters wants me to give them more paper so they can justify their existence. I’m doing nonsense work. Mandatory nonsense work. I have a list of dozens of things I need to be doing, but command forces me to waste my time on trivial paperwork instead. They interrupt my patrols with orders to investigate shadows. They send me out at night so I can observe Task Force and make sure they don’t abuse anyone or damage any property during their operations (surreal moment last night as I’m calmly discussing the finer details of property accountability with an operative in the middle of a room of screaming and wailing women at 0200). They send me out to escort VIPs suffering from delusions of tactical competence. And then they complain that I spend too little time patrolling my neighborhoods… and where was that paperwork we needed last night, LT?

Go. To. Hell. Stop bothering me. I have things I need to do, you lunatics, and I’m on the verge of physically dragging some of you out into my sector so you’ll have a chance of seeing how incredibly ludicrous you all are being with your own eyes. Seriously. I’m tired, I’m angry, and you’re bickering at me that I didn’t give you a grid for my last front-line trace. It’s the Main Traffic Circle, you ass! It’s big, it’s on your map, and you DO NOT NEED ME TO TELL YOU EXACTLY WHERE I AM ON IT AT THIS GIVEN INSTANT. Because I’m STILL MOVING. By the time I finish giving you the grid it’ll be a distant memory. And next time someone gets into a fight out there? Don’t flood the net with three thousand requests for additional information. That Platoon Leader is trying to maneuver his element and develop the situation. He needs that frequency clear to arrange for air assets or CASEVAC. Do not bog it down because you just feel curious and have somehow convinced yourself that your need to know trumps their need to survive.

I’m sorry. I think I get a little grumpy when I’m tired. SSG Chase and Crunchbery have already discovered this; joking does not go over well with me at these points. I’m getting a bit abrasive around the edges. So I’ll stop bewailing my little problems and get around to sleeping. I’ll write as soon as I can—but go ahead and be jealous. It was a hell of a day to be in Blue Platoon.

MOSUL 19JAN09

I’ve been unable to find time to write any entries over the past few days. We have been very, very busy. But after finally catching a few hours of sleep (I actually couldn’t remember when I had last taken a full three-hour sleep cycle) I’m back up and even have a little spare time on my hands. Couldn’t be happier. Because of this recent spate of activity, I have quite a bit to report and comment on, but I’m honestly a little fuzzy on what happened on what day. The last few patrols have all blurred together in my mind. The key point remains, however, that we have yet to take (serious) contact, are still engaged in constant area reconnaissance in our AO, and are still working with the same National Police forces.

First, a brief letter to whom it may concern. Dear Iraqi Man in the vicinity of the traffic circle: I saw you pee last night. When you thought no one was looking, around midnight, and stepped outside to relieve yourself on the street corner, I was there. When you glanced furtively around you, checking to ensure that nobody witnessed your act of public urination, I was there. I observed you with casual interest from only a few dozen meters away. Your urine glowed bright green in my night vision. So, in short, you have been caught in the act. We know what you did. An entire platoon of American forces witnessed the act. Our surveillance drone witnessed the act. I would not be surprised if our satellites did not also peek in. When you approach street corners in the dead of night, we get apprehensive as to your intentions. We like to watch. And while countless insurgents all over the city were probably simultaneously laying IEDs at every other traffic circle in the city, all our assets were there with you. Watching. Judging. Evaluating your performance. Quietly whispering our suggestions as to how you should relax more, lengthen your stance, and in general stop urinating on traffic circles. Think on that for a while. Big Brother is watching everything… except for the important stuff, apparently.

As for yesterday, I am quite frankly amazed that I did not get shot. Or any of us, really. We did the most fantastically ridiculous thing. An Iraqi Army General, his staff, and about a fire team of American Colonels decided that they would like to conduct a market-walk in my AO. They wanted to dismount, go straight down the main avenue, and talk to everybody along the way. Get a feel for the area. And Blue Platoon was tasked to escort them on this walk. I would like to take this opportunity to make two points. First, while I appreciate that higher command has taken an interest in seeing how our operations affect the daily lives of the populace, I would presume to remind them that they would be better suited in their efforts if they coordinated their intents through the unit that actually owned that battle space and had conducted similar patrols a dozen times. This means that when we make tactical suggestions we should not be completely ignored. When we tell them that we can’t take Bradleys and MRAPS down certain routes, they should probably take heed. When we tell them that we need to minimize our vehicular presence in order to provide actual tight local security instead of just the illusion of security, we would appreciate it if they listened. The second point is that, while their confidence in my platoon’s ability to maintain their personal safety was encouraging, they should be more realistic in their expectations. And more sound in their own tactics. Just because a perimeter has been established doesn’t mean that the interior is secure. Not in an urban environment. Especially when they don’t want to disrupt the flow of individual or vehicular traffic. So when you see a six-lane intersection, please don’t stop and stand in the middle of it for half an hour while you tell the Iraqi private in the tower how to arrange his sandbags. Two sub points here: first, you are a general. He is a private. There is a chain of command for these things, and you do not need to concern yourself with—let alone personally supervise—the disposition of his six sandbags. Second, you may have noticed that I only have one fire team and myself deployed forward of your position. There are six lanes on this intersection and only five American soldiers securing them. The tower would have been able to cover down on the last lane, but as you may know you had completely diverted his attention to the crucial matter of the sandbags. Insurgents of Mosul, you may never have a chance like you had yesterday. I will never understand why you didn’t strike. We were a perfect target. One suicide vest would have knocked my entire battalion combat ineffective. Why? Because all of these colonels and majors were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, clustered together, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MARKET. I’m not angry, I’m stupefied. I’m stupefied that we would even do something like this, and I’m stupefied that the enemy didn’t take advantage of us. And I’m even more stupefied that we tried to do the same thing today. Thank God for last minute cancellations—not because they recognized it as a horrible idea, but because the official party of VIPs was late in arriving. So here’s to not getting shot while pursuing incredibly foolhardy and misguided schemes.

And on the subject of disrupting vehicular and individual traffic: I have nothing but awe for the patience that the people of this city have developed. Whenever a Coalition patrol approaches, all local nationals must stop their vehicles on the side of the road and turn on their hazard lights. And if we stop to check something out, they stay there. Until we leave. And sometimes we’re there for hours. We are a serious disruption in their lives. And it isn’t just the roads; the schools, the banks, the markets—everywhere we go, we stop business as usual. And we’re spread out all over the city. Granted, business as usual is marked with explosions, executions, theft, and extortion. So they have a choice to make between security and freedom. Most seem to have embraced (or at least resigned themselves to) security, but I wouldn’t be surprised if more than one donation to the insurgency was a result of a six-hour traffic jam.

I am amazed that they can see us as humans at all. They have developed patience, yes, but some have established a degree of human empathy with us as well. This is a recent surprise for me; while beforehand I would have expected it, a few days ago I so terrified a little girl that I came to realize what we must look like to them. Blue Platoon entered the school to check security and see how they were doing. Obviously no teaching was done during this time, as the students went into all forms of different reactions. The teachers were forthright, friendly, and easily answered our questions (which I feel my predecessors have asked them repeatedly for years). But the kids are all over the map. Some stand away cautiously, some rush for chocolate or pens or goodies of any kind, but some are straight up terrified. This little girl just hid behind her teacher while I talked to him, trembling and staring with wide eyes, and I couldn’t understand. How could you be terrified of me? I’m about the least terrifying person you’ll ever meet, in my estimation. I like to think I’m pretty friendly. My eyes are gigantic and blue, my dimples are embarrassingly noticeable. Then I realized how I looked from her perspective: an armed mechanical giant adorned in Kevlar, weaponry, and communications gear. Only my mouth is visible. I have trouble thinking of my guys as terrifying, since I know them personally, but I could see how someone could envision us as a bit intimidating. How have they ever learned to live with us? We’re a walking paradox. Thirty-two tons of folded steel and bristling guns purge an exhaust of Everlasting Gobstoppers to eager children. Mechanized contraptions in the form of humans smile at families from behind shatterproof black lenses and hand out pencils carefully stored beside their ammunition, stopping occasionally to excrete tobacco spit/motor oil on the street. Immaculately armed and trained killers lift their trigger hands to their Kevlar chests and wish peace upon elderly gentlemen. Machines are trying to win the hearts and minds of people. God help us when the next line of body armor is revealed. We’ll be covering the mouth, finally, and hiding the last vestiges of humanity behind dark bulletproof glass. Our communications will be received through external computers that translate Arabic to English, we’ll mutter our answers from behind our blast shields, and a computerized Arabic translation will issue from our robotic voice box. The warrior of the future. How could people do anything but love us at first sight?

This is not to say that we aren’t doing good things here. Iraq needs to find peace, and we’re helping them get there. Mechanized soldiers might be cold, sterile, and inhuman at times, but seeing how humans can behave, sometimes it doesn’t hurt to be a bit detached from them. A baker was executed in the middle of a crowded street this morning, in my AO, for having sold bread at discount to his friends in the National Police. Four pistol shots to the head. A woman and child were vaporized when an IED detonated in a crowded traffic circle yesterday. A National Police soldier was shot in the head, execution style, when he left his station off-duty to buy cigarettes. An innocent bystander was decapitated in an indiscriminant rocket attack the day before that. His face showed no recognition of his fate, no surprise—his eyes and mouth were contorted as they had been as he walked down the street, oblivious to his impending death. If this is human behavior, then maybe we should go ahead and get the new armor. Maybe we’ll be seen as more judicious and impartial when we have covered those last few inches of human flesh. Maybe the last thing the Iraqis need is more people acting like people.

Enough waxing philosophical. Sorry you had to endure that (assuming you read this far). It was just weighing on my mind, and this seemed like a reasonable venue to vent. But we have another patrol tomorrow, which means I have to get back to my maps and my paperwork. And I’ll have to enjoy a little heart-to-heart with SSG Crunchberry and SSG Chase, who are becoming downright moody as of late. The schedule of constant patrolling has wearied them. I would be sympathetic, but those two rotate on patrols. SSG Lark and I are on every patrol. My gunner and driver are on every patrol. This is a combat zone, we are soldiers, and I honestly feel that our own moodiness should not affect our performance. Mission first. Men second. Self last. That’s doctrine. That’s how the Army works. This is not the war of the past. We aren’t under fire for days at a time, we have chow available whenever we’re hungry, we have heat and air conditioning where we sleep, we can shower every few days, and we can even call home from time to time. Maybe my interest in military history has poisoned my expectations, but I simply can’t take any man seriously when he complains that our work is exhausting him. Just drink some coffee, find some intestinal fortitude, and drive on. We haven’t come close to finding our limitations. And with any luck we won’t have to. But enough on that; I’ve got to get to those maps. I’ll write again as soon as I’m able.

MOSUL 11JAN09

I heard that you would start hating being here after about a month. I figured that the tempo of operations, or the violence, or the smell that permeates so much of the city, or maybe even the constant interaction with a population that is sometimes downright hostile to your presence would be to blame for this. I had never imagined that the discontent would stem from within.

My company is driving me insane right now.

We have been on lockdown—grounded—for the past four days. We can’t leave the company area unless we’re on patrol. We can’t call home. We can’t pick up our laundry. We can’t buy supplies (the smokers were the first to lose composure). This kind of thing is necessary when someone is killed, as it allows us to notify the family of the deceased before the rumor mill reaches them. Fortunately, nobody died. We actually have yet to make contact. Violence keeps happening really close to us, but we’re always 200 meters or 10 minutes too late to be involved. Lucky? I guess. I’m starting to think that the insurgents have decided that it’s much easier to hit Iraqi forces than American forces and are hedging their bets. Not to question the bravery of our Iraqi allies—to the contrary, they’re probably too brave. Brazen. Occasionally foolhardy in their machismo.

No, we’re on lockdown because my leadership wants to prove a point of some kind about accountability of equipment. My platoon (yep, I’m afraid that I have a hand in this disaster) lost track of two handheld radios about three months ago. Fortunately these were outdated pieces of junk without cryptography, so they weren’t sensitive items—more like crappy walkie-talkies. But yes, we lost them. And we scoured the earth to find them. And then we scoured the other platoons to find them. In essence, no stone was left unturned for miles and miles around the company area in the vast effort to locate these radios. Lo and behold, however, we found one four days ago comfortably nestled between two boxes in the middle of our stuff. Are we incompetent? Maybe sometimes, but not in this case. Someone had apparently finally opened one of their personal bags, realized that they no longer needed that radio they had accidentally(?) taken, and had made an effort to blamelessly return it. The commander called thief. Probably right, all things considered. But the fallout was ridiculous. After all of the leadership stood at attention for a half hour being screamed at, we were told that we were to be cut off from the world. No contact. Daily details—lay out your property, inventory it, repack it, lay it out again, repeat procedure—until the thief came forward or the other radio was recovered. If the other radio is even here, the person who has it was obviously smart enough to dispose of it in a place where we’ll never find it. It would be suicide to present it now. And no one is going to identify himself as the thief.

So here we are. Our families probably think some of us got killed. Nope, we’re all sound of body. But we’re rapidly losing our minds. My squad leaders were the first to start rebelling, which is no surprise as SSG Crunchberry and SSG Chase can be pretty downright moody at times. Especially Crunchberry. They have been exceptionally surly and sullen as of late. Then PSG Lark started losing his cool this evening—not in an angry way, but in an advanced apathy that is much worse for me to deal with. Some of my team leaders, including SGT Mountain (who was signed for those two radios in the first place) decided to utilize the open door policy with the commander (despite my objections) in order to state their displeasure at this policy. I can understand. One just found out his wife is pregnant, another is going through a divorce, and another is a newlywed. They need to call home. But going to the CO via the open door policy, thereby bypassing and simultaneously dragging in their own chain of command, is a recipe for pain. There is no better way to get me in trouble, which in turn makes me a bit taciturn. So with torrents of abuse coming down from above and torrents of complaints surging up from above, I find my general good nature is beginning to rebel.

I’m QRF right now, which is the Quick Reaction Force. We stand by for a 24 hour period and provide immediate relief to any units under fire in our AO. We’re supposed to be battle-ready and rolling upon 15 minutes notice. This is doable unless you’re the guy planning the mission. I have to make a maneuver plan in route and try to brief it over the radio—very difficult—and just hope I’m fast on the draw. It’s an adventure every time. My shift ends at 0200, which is why I find myself with a rare moment of free time with which to write this entry. When I haven’t been patrolling I’ve been planning patrols, debriefing patrols, being briefed on new patrols, doing silly details as part of our mass punishment, and maintaining the paperwork on our platoon. Occasionally I sleep, but I’m starting to get a serious case of weltschmerz. I’m sure I’ll buck right up once I can talk to my wife again and eat a solid meal. Maybe we’ll even have a regular patrol schedule soon. And maybe they’ll stop sending me on fool’s errands across the city of Mosul.

Three days ago a helicopter team located a machine gun on a rooftop. They didn’t see any National Police or Iraqi Army manning it, so they called it up as a possible attack position. I was tasked to investigate. We found it on top of the roof, just as they said, and thoroughly confused the police officer manning it. He had just stepped down for a bit to use the latrine. This is common enough here; I had to physically wake up the guards at the last National Police outpost I visited. Still. This place was marked on the map as a checkpoint. I mean, good practice and all, but really? I had to cancel the mission I was on so that I could rapidly respond to this breaking intelligence.

And yesterday I had to stop my mission yet again and respond to a report of a possible IED on one of the main roads. They gave me a six-digit grid to the coordinates, which is a nice way of saying that it might be within a hundred meter radius of the point provided. This is a lot of ground to cover to find a bundle of buried explosives. Especially since you REALLY don’t want to walk up and find it right beneath your feet. There was no problem finding this one, though, because the Iraqi Police were everywhere around it. Or where it was, anyway. It had exploded three hours before I received my intel that there MAY be one there. You cannot pay for this kind of intel. It’s how we win wars. Of course, it took me about an hour to ascertain exactly where the IED was, when it had exploded, and what it had damaged because none of the police on the ground had the same story. So at least they’ve got it worse than we do.

On the upside, I got flipped off by an eight-year old child today. Little tyke. Adorable, really. Standing there by the road as I patrolled by with my men, innocent and curious. Straight up flipped me off. And not just my patrol, but me individually. Must have a solid sense for finding the officer. The neighborhood I patrolled today has not been visited by Coalition Forces in YEARS, I’m told. Somehow all my predecessors just kept passing it by. These guys were obviously not happy to see us in their streets, and the military-age males in the neighborhood were downright hostile. Nothing significant in the way of violence, fortunately, but they made it clear that we weren’t welcome. The kids stayed away and didn’t wave, the adults all just stared us down silently, and the dogs stopped frolicking and started baring teeth. Seriously. I think cats were hissing at us. Thank God we had air cover at the time. Some incredibly bored chopper pilots happened across our convoy, jumped to our frequency, and asked if we minded if they tagged along up above. I was more than happy to have the company. And they, with their itchy trigger fingers, were just thrilled to hear about the reception we were getting down there. I really do think they’ve started going insane with boredom. When guys started moving up on their rooftops, our chopper friends started buzzing them at low altitudes. They came back down in a hurry. Invaluable asset.

Then, strangely enough, things started changing. The patrol crossed some invisible line where people loved us. Adults held up small children to see our patrol and wave at us. I looked back at one point to find one of my soldiers completely surrounded by fascinated school children, all giggling and pointing at him. Strangest transition ever. I went from fully expecting to get shot to knee-deep in happy kids with practically no warning at all. I’m gonna have to check the demographics of my AO and figure out where and why things started looking rosy back there.

Well, it is 0140, so I imagine it’s time for me to start wrapping up this entry so I can brief my replacement and then catch a few hours of sleep. It’ll be my first in a while. We have another full day tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. Some of my men complain of boredom, and I get positively livid with envy. They’re spared the planning process and the infinite debrief. Some people on the FOB work eight hour days. I actually find myself wanting to inflict bodily harm upon them. If anyone was foolish enough to invent a drug that would render sleep unnecessary for human functioning, only one organization would be cruel enough to force it upon their people. The US Army. Sleep is a crutch, a handicap, a weakness that must be purged from the body. I have so much caffeine and nicotine in my system that my hands shake. I have been awake for DAYS. I actually can’t remember when I last slept for more than thirty minutes. Every now and then I glance down and find a lit cigarette in my hands, half-way finished before I even remember that I don’t smoke. How did it even get there? I don’t know anymore.

Things will improve. We’re gaining stability, getting a long term schedule soon, and starting to get a grasp on the things we need to accomplish. Our vision as a unit is clearing. The lockdown will eventually stop. I will one day be able to call my wife. People will stop calling me in the middle of my mission because they saw a light flicker four miles away. I will meet all of my Iraqi National Police counterparts, we will banter and befriend each other, we will conduct perfectly executed joint patrols, and they will barrage me with their finest chai in gratitude. It will get better. But right now? This whole damned war can go to hell.

MOSUL 07JAN09

Blue Platoon has now conducted three patrols in the past three days. Well, not all of Blue Platoon, but I’ve been out for all three. The first two patrols were actually led by the unit we’re replacing and I just got to sit in the passenger seat and observe how they did business. They dismounted us at a few key locations to let us get a good view of the neighborhoods, discuss an area prone to serious attacks, or meet some of the principal characters we’ll be working with. It was a good introduction for me since I got to spend my time concentrating on the environment and their tactics rather than focusing entirely on my own maneuver elements and my own plans for reacting to enemy contact.

The crucial part of our first patrol was rolling out and meeting the key leaders of the Iraqi National Police in our area. These are not police as you know them at home. They’re light infantry who generally live in sparsely covered checkpoint shelters, guarding traffic circles, main highways, and government buildings. In many cases their living conditions are deplorable. The problem is that Mosul has become, for the Iraqi Government, the Waterloo of this war. If Mosul can be tamed the war will be won. So command of National Police units in the area has become a highly coveted position, as every Iraqi officer wants to claim that he led the big fight at the last days of the conflict. What this means, effectively, is that the commanders and units get cycled through this place at a ridiculous rate as different officers exploit different political connections to steal that position. And when the old ones go, they have the units strip every amenity from the bases. Light bulbs? Gone. Electrical wiring? Stripped away. They even take the water bottles. It’s a combination of petty vengeance and shameless profiteering.

We found out about the most recent change in command after we arrived at the headquarters of what was, until immediately after this discovery, Blue Platoon’s AO. (The change shifted my AO to the Main Effort, so Red Platoon moved to deal with that, and Blue has moved to handle the old Main Effort Area. Very, very violent.) The meeting started out simply enough with our commander greeting the Executive Officer, thanking him for his hospitality and continued cooperation with Coalition Forces, and asked if the Colonel was in. Oh no, comes the reply, I’m afraid the Colonel was ordered away a few days ago. I’m in command currently. Will he be coming back, we ask? Nope. Where is he now, we ask? Can’t tell us. Interesting. I tried to unobtrusively scan the room for missing light bulbs.

What proceeded from there was an introduction to the social customs of our Iraqi colleagues. Americans meeting traditional Iraqi families should know a few things before they accidentally spark a Jihad, so consider this a brief overview of Middle East Chai Survival Techniques.

1) They will offer you a tiny, tiny little glass filled with equal measures of piping hot brown stuff and sugar. This is called chai. You will accept it either with instant gratitude, or if you’re feeling a bit coy you can hold out to the third offer. But you WILL accept it, and your WILL drink it. And some chai is not as good as others. This isn’t Starbucks chai, people. This is a thick black tea leaf concoction ground with some kind of secret spices which should probably stay secret. But even if it’s bad, even if you’re meticulously planning your suicide with every gulp of noxious liquid, you have to drink at least one. Fortunately the chai I had at our first location was pretty darned tasty.

2) This culture has systematically learned to avoid saying anything in which you admit ignorance, acknowledge that something is impossible, or possibly and in any conceivable way insult the one who acts as your host. In case of chai this means that you cannot refuse a second cup of chai outright. Really you should drink at least two anyway. But if you just can’t take anymore, never say “No.” They’ve developed a culturally understood signal to convey the meaning without using that most odious word. Hold up the dregs and swirl it in the cup a few times, subtly and politely, and the person serving the chai will hopefully see this signal and understand that you would prefer not to be offered another drink. In case of planning and cross-force coordination, this philosophy of conversation can cause many incidents. The American military forces soldiers to admit, freely and without reservation, whenever they do not know the answer to a question. We’d rather not have somebody just pretend to know and then get us all killed with his ignorance. When we know we can’t accomplish a task, it’s true that we’ll still try, but first we inform our chain of command that our efforts will most likely result in failure. Just so they know. The Iraqis, however, are loath to ever admit that they don’t know or can’t do something. It’s just a cultural stigma. They have developed, as with the chai, a series of subtle codes meant to convey the meaning without directly admitting the ignorance. Was the car fully prepared before it left? “I will check for you.” Warning bells should now be going off in your head. While we consider this to be a promise in which the other person will immediately pursue this information, this is in fact another of those secret codes at work. They have acknowledged in the most obscure way that they do not know, by leaving the possibility open that they DO know and just need to verify or update their information and by letting you know that they do not want to terminate your friendship by openly leaving you in the lurch. But they will most likely be “checking” for the rest of human history. Don’t hold your breath for the answer.

3) Your Conversational Chai Opponent has another tool in his belt, or bullet in his chamber, or what have you—the deeply feared Insh-allah. “If God Wills It.” This phrase will be uttered with great repetition whenever you begin speaking of the future. As you speculate on a day when all of Mosul will be peaceful and secure, your partner will mutter Insh-allah practically the whole time. I’m amazed they can hear you at all when they do it, but somehow they know to transition out of it the moment you go to present tense. On the surface, this seems like a wonderfully humble acknowledgment of Man’s place in the divine purpose. Every conversation of the future should involve an Insh-allah. But on closer inspection it reveals yet another social code. Let’s try it with a few examples. “Will the Commander be able to meet us for dinner tonight?” If you answered Insh-allah, congratulations! You passed your first test in Passive-Aggressive Conversation. Your great piety has now resulted in great consternation. Was it a yes? Was it a no? In actuality, it’s nothing at all but a diversion. You have admitted that you don’t have control over the situation and cannot make a promise you cannot keep. This would be laudable if the culture didn’t also teach you to avoid ever taking responsibility. As such, it’s always going to be Insh-allah. But so far this is nothing but a minor social disruption, as the worst that could happen is you end up eating alone. More food for you. Let’s try another example. “You need to emplace these barriers around your outer defenses or you’ll be attacked by car bombs!” If you also answered this with Insh-allah, well done! You’ve advanced to Dangerously Ambivalent! Did you mean insh-allah for the part about placing the barriers, or the part about being attacked by a car bomb? Both! Neither! You have successfully detached your Will from playing any role in our world. This is, given the phobia of admitting failure, ignorance, or offending your host, the safest position for most men in the culture. You are now completely passive. There are two ways that Americans can react to this, as I see it: immense frustration or immense sarcasm. We like to push our Will onto everything. We’re an aggressive culture like that. We’ll tell you when we’re ignorant, but in return we want to be in control when we know we’re right. That’s two major faux-pas in your chai encounter. So we’re forced, upon hearing the dreaded Insh-allah, into our predetermined American responses. The first is to get frustrated and angry, as my XO does. “No, you asshole, it’s MY will! You get him to the meeting place on time, or you risk MY wrath! You don’t know if God is vengeful, but you better damned well know that I AM!” This, while cathartic, is not the most polite conversational gambit in a culture where you have to refuse beverages in secret code. My response is a touch of piety and sarcasm, with what I hope is a little lesson in the way I think. The moment they start muttering Insh-allah, I join in. We quickly meld into harmonious piety, deferring all to the will of the All-Mighty, and the conversation ceases while we wait to see who’s going to stop first. Theoretically this could continue until one of us spontaneously combusts, but usually (though I’ve only done it twice now) we both just go silent after about a minute. They stand there silently, at a loss, and I stand there hoping that I’ve subtly conveyed what I think about this kind of passivity. If it spreads, nothing will ever get done. I hope, Insh-allah, that I have been successful.

4) Be prepared to change your views on hygiene. The left hand is never to be used for anything involving another person, as the culture hasn’t really taken a great liking to toilet paper. I’m reminded of a story from one of my drill sergeants who once held an Iraqi man at a vehicle checkpoint for a few hours until the man requested permission to use the restroom. The checkpoint didn’t have a restroom, so the sergeant just escorted him to the corner they had been using. The man proceeded to defecate, wipe himself with his left hand, and began to walk away. The sergeant, who had heard of but never directly seen this, was horrified and quickly moved to offer the man some baby wipes (we always carry those things around). Our Iraqi friend stared down at consternation, pondered this great mystery, and then stared up questioningly at the sergeant. The sergeant did his best to mimic wiping motions in pantomime. The man had an obvious Gestalt moment where his eyes lit up with recognition and understanding. He smiled, turned around, walked to the corner, and very carefully placed one baby wipe on top of his refuse. Then he glanced up triumphantly to see if the sergeant had acknowledged his success. The sergeant mastered his obvious frustration, smiled back, gave a thumbs-up, and just sent the guy back to his car. Good try, buddy. That kind of effort, however misguided, deserves at least a thumbs-up.

5) Never give an Iraqi man a thumbs-up. Or an OK sign with your fingers. These are obscene gestures, and while most of these guys have seen enough American movies that they understand what we mean when we use it, it can lead to misunderstandings about your intentions with the females of his family. Never shake hands with the left hand. Never stop someone by holding up your left palm to their face. This is difficult to avoid as my trigger finger is on my right hand and I’ll be damned if I’m going to make a stopping gesture AND take my finger off the trigger. Never cross one of your legs when sitting around a table with another person, and if you must, make sure your heel isn’t visible to him. That shows that you consider him to be lower than you. Do not relax back into your chair, as this demonstrates that you are not interested in the proceedings. You may, however, raise your voice and gesticulate wildly to convey a point. Hysteria is encouraged; comfort is not.

6) The end result is that chai is a carefully choreographed conversational gavotte (so close to some serious alliteration right there) more centered around what is not said than what is. This is a culture where you cannot admit fallacy or ignorance. You are obligated to show hospitality and are terrified of incorrectly receiving their hospitality. To complicate this, you are not allowed to drink alcohol. Or have pre-marital sex. Or masturbate. Freud would have some things to say about this, I think. Perhaps one day I’ll write the post-modern anthropological analysis of the sexually repressed chai drinking peoples of the great deserts. The Great American Novel, really.

From our adventures in chai we resumed the patrol and dismounted to conduct a movement through the marketplace by the river. This was, without reservation, the most nerve-wracking experience in my life thus far. I hope I don’t develop agoraphobia as a response. The market is composed of very narrow streets hedged by multi-storied shops (each of which is built on ancient foundations the Babylonians may have recognized), and is completely filled with people. Every nook and cranny has a person to go along with it. Sometimes two or three. The major risks along this route are small arms fire attacks (they shoot at us) or suicide vests (they blow everybody up). This is understandable seeing as you’d have a nigh impossible time trying to keep every possible suicide bomber out of detonation range in a place this crowded. After only three patrols I’ve already found myself scanning every car on the road to see if its suspensions are heavy-laden or reinforced, if the driver is the only occupant, and finally if he’s wearing white and is clean-shaven. Some of these bombers believe that they are transported to heaven immediately upon the blast, and that they arrive just as they were in the last moment of their lives, so they try to make themselves presentable to the All-Mighty. The same works dismounted: I’ve taken to scanning everyone for bulky clothing, hands inside pockets, inordinate interest in our patrol, and general nervousness. This makes one a wee bit twitchy, I find. Not to make light of the results… I almost shot a little kid on my first patrol. He started running up from behind to ask me for money. All I knew, until I had recognized him as a little kid wearing form-fitting clothes (and after I had already taken the safety off my weapon and was ready to let go a few rounds), was that someone was trying to get close to me from my blind side and that someone wasn’t one of my soldiers. I might never go to a shopping mall again after this.

About half-way down the road we heard semi-automatic rifle fire. About ten rounds, I’d guess, in quick succession. I was behind cover before you could blink. When I glanced behind me to locate the guys around me and try to get a fix on the source, all I saw was SSG Lark standing over me in the open, barely containing his laughter. “Sir, what the hell are you doing down there? Noise carries in the city, and that firing was at least a block away. Nobody was shooting at YOU.”

Crazy bastard. I think I’ll live longer my way.

Nothing came of the contact on our end, as it was directed against another of our patrols on a neighboring road. They got one of that patrols Humvees with a parachute grenade, another readily available and immensely frustrating Soviet weapon that has found its way to the Middle East, but inflicted no casualties. But you, dear American taxpayer, will be buying us another truck. So sorry.

The second patrol was even more uneventful. I just rolled around to the different National Police companies in my AO and got to meet their leadership, assessed their combat strength, determined where they had their checkpoints and who they had manning them, and what they needed to be more effective. I’m working on getting some earthworks for one of the COPs (Company OutPosts) as it was fairly vulnerable to car bombs in its current state. That being said, yesterday morning it was in fact hit with a car bomb. A little north of the most devastating point, but definitely close. I was in the American base at the time, working on my platoon equipment, when I heard the blast. (Not so strange, as everything JUST KEEPS EXPLODING IN THIS COUNTRY.) So last evening, around 1530, I received instructions that I was to conduct an escort for the engineers who would be filling the resulting hole in the ground. Brief was to be held at 1800, start point (SP) at 1900. What resulted was a flurry of activity that boggled the mind and dazzled the senses. We had no vehicles so we had to find a company able to give us some. Remember, we’re still transitioning into operations right now. This isn’t normal. So I signed for the vehicles and all of their basic issue items. That took a good 30 minutes. We had no radios, and once we did have them (more begging, scrounging, and time off the clock), we still had to encrypt them. We had no mounted weapons. Once we did, we had no ammo. Once we had ammo, we had no mounting brackets with which to mount the weapons on the vehicles. More scrounging. More begging. More time lost. We had to hook up the electronic equipment, which I assure you is mind-boggling in complexity but also classified so I can’t go into any further details… though I’m sure CNN has probably told you all about it already.

Throw in a little time for me to make a plan, brief the plan, coordinate with the engineers, and conduct final tests, and you’d have a two day effort on your hands. We did it in three hours. My CO let it be known that he was less than pleased with the fact that one of our machine guns was improperly headspaced and timed, which is (I concur) an embarrassing mistake, and that one computer system wasn’t completely plugged in, which would also be embarrassing under normal circumstances, but I think that we worked very well with what we had. Honestly, I’m angry that my leadership said anything negative at all about our progress (as I’m told they did at the nightly meeting, which I missed because I was on the patrol watching cement dry). We went from zero to combat ready in three hours. And I mean ZERO. We had NOTHING but our own personal weapons. And we didn’t even have ammo for them. We had to beg and borrow and scrounge for EVERYTHING on the vehicles, including the vehicles themselves. Let’s see the other platoons try that. Only Blue Platoon, the “Dirty Third,” is the right mix of clever and crazy to pull it together in time. White would have been unable to resource out all of the stuff, because they don’t have the begging/borrowing system down, and Red would have spent all their time inspecting the vehicles and equipment before signing for them. We just had to take some of our material on faith. Dangerous? Yes. But engineers, while great guys to have around, should never be trusted to defend themselves. So it was important that we get out there on time.

Of course, the convoy was delayed for a good half hour while my lead vehicle tried to figure out what was wrong with its gun. We sat and sat while I fumed at the gunner, who we initially blamed for being incompetent, then at his Truck Commander, who should have fixed the problem by now, and finally at the guy who conducted the headspace and timing in the first place. Ten minutes passed as I fumed, then twenty, and as we approached thirty my eccentric sense of humor got the better of me. “Good evening and welcome to Bulldog Convoy,” I shot onto the radio—disregarding decades of accepted radio protocol. “We know you have a choice in escorts, and we appreciate you choosing Bulldog. Unfortunately we’re having some minor technical difficulties at this time, so we ask for your patience and understanding, but once we square this away and receive clearance from the tower we’ll have you on your destination in no time. Thank you for flying Bulldog.” SSG Lark says I missed my calling. I always knew the Army was a bad idea.

The patrol was mind-numbingly boring. Attacks rarely happen at night, because the point of the insurgency is to terrify the local populace and show that we are powerless to stop them, and audiences are somewhat sparse around midnight in January. We arrived, established security, and waited. And waited. And waited. Cement, apparently, is not a fast process. Towards the end we were all playing celebrity name games just to stay awake and alert. When they were finished, we turned around and drove home. There. That’s it. My first patrol as commander inside a hostile zone. I watched cement dry in the dead of night. Then I drove home over a thousand potholes even bigger than the car bomb hole, so towards the end I wasn’t even feeling that useful. We’d need a whole division of engineers to fix the Baghdad Highway.

And that brings us to early morning today, where I finally got to call Hope for twenty minutes (one phone, 200+ people) and then rack out for four hours. I am starting to get tired. That’s all right, though. I passed another major milestone. I’ve conducted my first patrol, then my first patrol in command. Soon it’ll become a rhythm, and once that happens I’ll be just fine. But I’ve got some meetings to attend, so I’ll cut this short. That’s all the news from Mosul. Go practice your chai skills.