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.