It has been much too long since my last entry, I know. I apologize to everybody who keeps track of our adventures through the journal. After my last entry I just needed a few days to get my thoughts in order, and quite frankly, I didn’t know what to write about it. I still don’t. After that, though, we started headlong into an operation that has been getting some significant media attention lately. The hours are ridiculous. We are working constantly. Today is Blue Platoon’s refit day, though, so I have a chance to jot down our recent activities.
As for the last entry, I’ve had some conflicting emotions. The brief summary is that we were engaged, returned fire, and killed our first enemies for this tour. All this time we’ve been getting shot at, blown up, and generally harassed, and this time we got to give some back. After all the frustration, my first emotion was elation. We got you. Get some. Hooah. But there’s always another side when you take lives. We turned a man inside out with multiple low and high-caliber rounds, blew his legs off, opened his stomach and poured out his intestines, ripped his arms in half, and I still watched him die for fifteen minutes. Unable to help him, unable to finish him, unsure if I even wanted to. He was a farmer from out of town. Why did he engage us? What drove him to fight us? Was he an ideological fanatic, or was he just trying to make a few extra Dinar for his next tractor payment by chucking grenades at us?
I said it before, and I reiterate it now: no man is evil. Not purely evil. A man can engage in evil acts, and some will be more evil than good, but you can’t help but wonder what motivated him, what he believed, and how he justified his actions. Did he have a wife? Children? Did they know about his part in the war? Did he believe he was trying to save his countrymen from occupation? Infidels? Was this revenge for something Coalition Forces did years ago? Who mourned his death, who suffers from his loss, whose lives will be forever changed for what we did? I’ve seen more bodies and body parts than I can count out here, but it’s different when you did it, you caused it, and you’re watching him gasp his life away as his insides pour out, observing his face move from pain, to despair, to resignation, to peaceful serenity. May God grace our enemies with peace and understanding of our cause here, and may He extend mercy to the souls of those we kill.
It is not a pretty thing to die for your beliefs. However noble you may believe your cause to be, the end of your sacrifice will be brutal, ugly, and painful. My father sent me a copy of “Dolce et Decorum Est” after I talked to him about the experience. I didn’t even tell him that I had muttered the last line to the body as we wrapped him up. Funny how a father and son grow to think so similarly. How sweet and beautiful it is to die for your country. The carnage of war has not changed so much since the Great War, when the poem was written, and while this conflict is so much less intense, the sordidness of it all and the sick irony of those sentiments remain very much the same.
I’m now spending my last three weeks with Blue Platoon before I hand control over to my replacement. The time has come for me to move on, and while I’m frustrated to leave my men on a personal level, I understand on a professional level that it is time for a new officer to have his chance to command a platoon. I was incredibly lucky to get a platoon so quickly, and no matter how much I selfishly want to stay by their sides and bring them all home by my own hand, I trust my colleague and his abilities. They’ll be in good hands.
These last and next few weeks we’ve been engulfed in a massive clearing operation. I can’t go into the particulars or specifics, but the media has been with us for some of it and you can get the public details from them. We’ve had some terrifying moments, but mostly the mission has thus far passed without major incident for Blue Platoon. A number of our comrades, attached to our battalion for the operation, were tragically killed a few weeks ago, but Blue has maintained the aura of unrealistically good luck throughout the process. I remember a moment vividly when we pursued the enemy from house to house, manpower stretched thin by circumstance and haste, and I led a small team into a house, kicking open the door and clearing the rooms, when I found myself alone in a room full of women and children. Their terror was painful in its clarity, the mother wailing as a small boy looked stupidly down my barrel. I don’t even know why the image stuck with me. We didn’t catch the insurgent, and nothing of significance happened in the house, but the moment imprinted itself in my mind. And another image of a family crying desperately while we dragged their father away into custody and probable execution for his crimes with the insurgency. And another image of an alley being ripped apart with bullets and grenades as we willed ourselves to charge through it and into the enemy position. And another of a rooftop, me directing fire through my binoculars and my men unleashing Hell on men across the road. I wonder if that’s why so many veterans have trouble talking about what they did during their war; maybe all any of us walk away with is a collection of mismatched images, moments of fear and adrenaline and rage and sheer willpower, compiled into a bizarre menagerie of memory.
We saw an advisor, a civilian engineer working with us that day, have a panic attack during a firefight. I remember thinking very harsh things about him at the time, but in retrospect I’ve come to realize that he’s the normal one. We’ve changed. It was a moment straight out of Hollywood:
“Get up, shithead, and get yourself together! They’re not even shooting at us!”
Zing-thwack, zing-thwack, zing-zing-zing-thwack-thwack-thwack!
“Alright, jack-ass, now they ARE shooting at us, and you need to get the hell out of the way!”
How can I think less of a man who panics when his life is in danger? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? We’ve been trained—indoctrinated—to charge towards the enemy and the fire. He’s normal, we’re not. What we do, on a primordial level of individual survival, is madness. It is contrary to every basic instinct we have. Willing yourself to run into the street, bullets flying everywhere, and chase after your enemy is a special kind of insanity that only the military (and especially the infantry) can inculcate in you. The men of Blue have performed admirably, courageously, and tirelessly in the course of this operation. They are my kind of crazy. The stress has forced one of our number from Blue, while on leave in the States, to go AWOL and check himself into a mental hospital, but I can’t think too much less of him for it. One form of insanity may lend itself to others. My poor driver, PFC Unlucky, was attacked and blown up three times in one week last month. I can’t blame anyone who finds that a bit too much. Thankfully he’s back home for leave right now as well, and his wife just gave birth to their first child. I only hope he’s finding time to decompress and find joy in fatherhood before circumstances push him back into the fight.
Anyway, in brief, we’ve been very busy in Blue Platoon for the last month. The conflict may have started slow for us, but it’s in full swing now. These are the weeks that will stay with us when we come home. The men are doing well, and I’m proud to say that I have seen them commit far more acts of selflessness and courage than of fear and cowardice. I’m going to miss them. Common experience in crisis lends itself to the creation of an unspoken bond. It creates a small community of those who have felt the indescribable and those who haven’t. I always wondered why so many veterans start their friendships with a period of interrogation and one-upmanship; they’re testing the waters. When one talks about the experience, he wants to know if his new friend really understands what he means. Not the words, but the compilations of emotions that the words convey. If he can, then the two are bound to be fast friends. If he can’t, then no amount of explanation can reconcile the two diverse experiences. I’ve also learned why writing is so cathartic for these experiences. When I say that it’s hard to talk about, I don’t mean that what I’ve seen is too horrific to express. That’s not the case. But writing is able to regulate, compartmentalize, and express the myriad of emotions and images in a way that conversation cannot. Talking is too fast and confusing to compile everything into understandable concepts. Writing requires time, thought, and structure. The flashes of self-reflection and introspection that would destroy a conversation are actually helpful in this forum. The journal has been, in my opinion, a very good idea.
SSG Lark is reminding me that it’s getting late, and we have another early morning ahead of us. My last three weeks with Blue are going to stay very busy. I’ll try to write again during the course of the operation, but if the lapse in contact from my last entry is any indication, the chances are slim. As I said, writing takes time. And we don’t have too much of that right now. Keep Blue Platoon in your thoughts and prayers. Take a moment to share in the joy of a new father and the two other soldiers who are soon to see their new babies as well. And as always, take time to support our wives. They have had to suffer too many lapses in contact, too many anxious moments by the television as the casualty reports filter in, and too much time separated from their loved ones. I’m sorry, Hope. I’ll make it up to you soon.
25 April 2009
08 April 2009
05 April 2009
MOSUL 05APR09
After receiving considerable resistance from my subordinate leadership lately, it was recommended that I conduct a little study. I pulled up all the records for the past two months of how long each platoon in the company has been outside the wire conducting operations, hour by hour, and I discovered something: apparently, I'm some kind of taskmaster/workaholic. Blue Platoon is out two hours for every one of our colleagues. And this has been chafing my guys. They live around the men from the other platoons and they know the disparity. I was, unfortunately, unaware of it. I kept them out longer and longer, trying to accomplish my goals, and every night they would come back and discover that the other platoons had been out--maybe--and only for about half the time.
In an attempt to assuage their concerns, I approached the commander about this discrepancy, not with an eye towards increasing their time out, but with the intent to have some of our more menial tasks pushed to them. The commander agreed. This, in turn, has now made me a bit unpopular with the other platoons. So my platoon continues to moan, as the other platoons are still out considerably less, and the other platoons moan because they now have extra work that my platoon would otherwise have done. You can't please anyone. My leadership wants a complete victory. They want Red and White (mostly Red) out as long as we are, and no matter how many times I explain that this really isn't the intent, and that Red has a much smaller and compact battle space that requires less time to patrol, they aren't satisfied.
So, in short, I have discovered that I am the bad guy in the platoon. When I come around, they hide or close their doors to avoid another eight-twelve hours out patrolling. They complain bitterly about the disparity of workloads. I have always tried to be a nice, likable guy, but I'm finding myself in an uncomfortable role. I'm the evil taskmaster. After some initial resistance, I find myself warming to it. This is war. People are getting killed out here all the time. We have an obligation to perform our duties to the utmost of our abilities, and we work until completion. Not until some kind of arbitrary time limit established by the other platoons. We have the largest space, the poorest space, and one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the city. This means that we have an obligation to perform accordingly. Civil projects must be coordinated. Meetings must be arranged. People need to be persuaded, groups formed, defenses solidified. Some people have accused me of looking for a fight. To this I respond: of course I'm looking for a fight! There are insurgents in our AO who are actively trying to destroy what we create. They must be found, fixed in position, and finished with every asset at our disposal. What's the point of bringing in generators, repairing roads, and rebuilding schools and medical clinics if the enemy comes behind us and destroys them again? We have a two part operation. We build, and then we secure. This place won't resume any form of normalcy until we eliminate the enemy, and the enemy will keep coming until we make efforts to incorporate potential foes into a prosperous and stable city. Tired? Oh, Blue Platoon, you have no idea how tired we SHOULD be. Sleeping at all is a crime. We have a monumental task ahead of us. Coalition Forces are leaving soon enough, and this is our last chance to make a positive impression on this city. The clock is ticking. Too many lives have been lost to allow failure through complacency.
How can I even communicate this to my men? We're on two entirely different worlds. I have a platoon of infantry here, ready to maneuver and engage the enemy in combat, and they're being led by an engineer/civil affairs/propagandist/foreign military liaison/civic coordinator compilation. They all want to know why I bother. AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO READ THE DAMNED COUNTER-INSURGENCY MANUAL??!!!
Captain Yossarian of Catch-22 had a memorable conversation with an Italian pimp in the book. The pimp boasted of how Italy was winning the war, which our American protagonist found confusing. How can that be, he enquired, since I'm occupying your country right now, clearly winning the war? Well, came the retort, the Italian losses thus far have been minimal. Once we submit, the United States will come and rebuild everything. Streets cobbled in the 16th century will finally move to the 20th. How can we be losing, when the most profitable industry in the world is losing a war with the United States of America?
Well, I want the Iraqis to win this war. The Iraqi people that WE helped put into power. The Iraqi government that WE have supported through crisis after crisis. They need to win. If they don't, we leave a bloodbath in our wake. People who dared trust our word, people who risked their lives to support the democratic process, people who place their faith in us when they cut their beards, wear Western clothing, drink alcohol, send their daughters to university, people who believed in us will be slaughtered without mercy. You already see the beginnings. Sunni Awakening exchange fire with Shia Government. The Kurds solidify their political power over the northern provinces, pushing non-Kurds out by force. We are at a tipping point in this conflict. If we can't get the stability and conditions required for peace in place NOW, we lose forever. And this means that we WORK HARDER. LONGER. Am I out to win this war by myself? No. That's just silliness. I'm here to do my share. But the shares of responsibility right now are massive, and even working two hours for every one, we are not meeting our obligations. So. Complain again. I dare you. I can take a liking to my new role as the bad guy. Don't worry, Blue, I'll bring you all back home safely. Or at least keep you safe until I change jobs in mid-May. Your well-being is always on my mind. But my obligation as an officer is not to you first, but to accomplishing the mission. Sacrificing some sleep and some R&R is perfectly acceptable to accomplish a mission where others have sacrificed their lives.
Enough ranting. You can probably imagine that this madness has hit a nerve. I'm doing my best to mitigate the madness from the menial taskings, to spare a few hours for the men, but I'm not going to allow anyone to overlook our very reason for being here. I have until mid-May to convince myself that this was even worth the effort. After that I have to watch from the sidelines. I'm going to hate it.
So. No news worth telling at this point. The last few days have included more humanitarian aid drops, a lot of meetings, and a desperate attempt to salvage the coherency of our partnered battalion. They're suffering a lot of changes. The hiring freeze on National Police (Iraqi government losing funds due to falling oil prices) has hurt them severely. Men die and are not replaced. The holes in their formations are becoming critical gaps. Their position is becoming untenable. We have to hold the ground for them while they consolidate and reorganize. Our days ahead will be very busy (to the great chagrin of some of my soldiers), but we can do it. We still haven't seen the breaking point. I'll tell you if we do. Until then, keep Blue in your thoughts. They'll be slaving under the lash for the next few weeks.
In an attempt to assuage their concerns, I approached the commander about this discrepancy, not with an eye towards increasing their time out, but with the intent to have some of our more menial tasks pushed to them. The commander agreed. This, in turn, has now made me a bit unpopular with the other platoons. So my platoon continues to moan, as the other platoons are still out considerably less, and the other platoons moan because they now have extra work that my platoon would otherwise have done. You can't please anyone. My leadership wants a complete victory. They want Red and White (mostly Red) out as long as we are, and no matter how many times I explain that this really isn't the intent, and that Red has a much smaller and compact battle space that requires less time to patrol, they aren't satisfied.
So, in short, I have discovered that I am the bad guy in the platoon. When I come around, they hide or close their doors to avoid another eight-twelve hours out patrolling. They complain bitterly about the disparity of workloads. I have always tried to be a nice, likable guy, but I'm finding myself in an uncomfortable role. I'm the evil taskmaster. After some initial resistance, I find myself warming to it. This is war. People are getting killed out here all the time. We have an obligation to perform our duties to the utmost of our abilities, and we work until completion. Not until some kind of arbitrary time limit established by the other platoons. We have the largest space, the poorest space, and one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the city. This means that we have an obligation to perform accordingly. Civil projects must be coordinated. Meetings must be arranged. People need to be persuaded, groups formed, defenses solidified. Some people have accused me of looking for a fight. To this I respond: of course I'm looking for a fight! There are insurgents in our AO who are actively trying to destroy what we create. They must be found, fixed in position, and finished with every asset at our disposal. What's the point of bringing in generators, repairing roads, and rebuilding schools and medical clinics if the enemy comes behind us and destroys them again? We have a two part operation. We build, and then we secure. This place won't resume any form of normalcy until we eliminate the enemy, and the enemy will keep coming until we make efforts to incorporate potential foes into a prosperous and stable city. Tired? Oh, Blue Platoon, you have no idea how tired we SHOULD be. Sleeping at all is a crime. We have a monumental task ahead of us. Coalition Forces are leaving soon enough, and this is our last chance to make a positive impression on this city. The clock is ticking. Too many lives have been lost to allow failure through complacency.
How can I even communicate this to my men? We're on two entirely different worlds. I have a platoon of infantry here, ready to maneuver and engage the enemy in combat, and they're being led by an engineer/civil affairs/propagandist/foreign military liaison/civic coordinator compilation. They all want to know why I bother. AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO READ THE DAMNED COUNTER-INSURGENCY MANUAL??!!!
Captain Yossarian of Catch-22 had a memorable conversation with an Italian pimp in the book. The pimp boasted of how Italy was winning the war, which our American protagonist found confusing. How can that be, he enquired, since I'm occupying your country right now, clearly winning the war? Well, came the retort, the Italian losses thus far have been minimal. Once we submit, the United States will come and rebuild everything. Streets cobbled in the 16th century will finally move to the 20th. How can we be losing, when the most profitable industry in the world is losing a war with the United States of America?
Well, I want the Iraqis to win this war. The Iraqi people that WE helped put into power. The Iraqi government that WE have supported through crisis after crisis. They need to win. If they don't, we leave a bloodbath in our wake. People who dared trust our word, people who risked their lives to support the democratic process, people who place their faith in us when they cut their beards, wear Western clothing, drink alcohol, send their daughters to university, people who believed in us will be slaughtered without mercy. You already see the beginnings. Sunni Awakening exchange fire with Shia Government. The Kurds solidify their political power over the northern provinces, pushing non-Kurds out by force. We are at a tipping point in this conflict. If we can't get the stability and conditions required for peace in place NOW, we lose forever. And this means that we WORK HARDER. LONGER. Am I out to win this war by myself? No. That's just silliness. I'm here to do my share. But the shares of responsibility right now are massive, and even working two hours for every one, we are not meeting our obligations. So. Complain again. I dare you. I can take a liking to my new role as the bad guy. Don't worry, Blue, I'll bring you all back home safely. Or at least keep you safe until I change jobs in mid-May. Your well-being is always on my mind. But my obligation as an officer is not to you first, but to accomplishing the mission. Sacrificing some sleep and some R&R is perfectly acceptable to accomplish a mission where others have sacrificed their lives.
Enough ranting. You can probably imagine that this madness has hit a nerve. I'm doing my best to mitigate the madness from the menial taskings, to spare a few hours for the men, but I'm not going to allow anyone to overlook our very reason for being here. I have until mid-May to convince myself that this was even worth the effort. After that I have to watch from the sidelines. I'm going to hate it.
So. No news worth telling at this point. The last few days have included more humanitarian aid drops, a lot of meetings, and a desperate attempt to salvage the coherency of our partnered battalion. They're suffering a lot of changes. The hiring freeze on National Police (Iraqi government losing funds due to falling oil prices) has hurt them severely. Men die and are not replaced. The holes in their formations are becoming critical gaps. Their position is becoming untenable. We have to hold the ground for them while they consolidate and reorganize. Our days ahead will be very busy (to the great chagrin of some of my soldiers), but we can do it. We still haven't seen the breaking point. I'll tell you if we do. Until then, keep Blue in your thoughts. They'll be slaving under the lash for the next few weeks.
02 April 2009
MOSUL 02APR09
Yesterday we were awakened by an explosion that rocked the CHUs on base. A beautiful train/bus station, built in 1937 by the British, got demolished by a massive car bomb. It was what is referred to in military parlance as a BFB: a Big F-ing Bomb. Huge. No Coalition Forces were out there at the time, so we're all right, but it was not so good for our partners who had a base at the location. We were the first Coalition Forces on site, and I can't even describe the havoc this bomb caused. Every window was shattered in a kilometer radius. That evening, while on patrol, an IED detonated right after our rear vehicle passed the blast radius. A near miss. This morning, a grenade slammed into my rear MRAP. My guys are all at the Aid Station right now being assessed. They're all fine on the exterior; we're just checking for concussions and shock damage. The gunner may have a concussion. I grabbed a team and continued my standard operating procedure of chasing the enemy down the streets for a good hour. And as we leave, empty-handed and frustrated, what do we find? Another IED. A pipe bomb that failed to explode, right by my vehicles.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that it's been a busy few days.
When the Doc told me to stay on base on light duty for this week after my little adventure, this probably wasn't what he had in mind. But what he advised was not an order, it was a recommendation. And we are in an operating environment where the mission comes first and recommendations can be ignored. I'm needed out here with my platoon, and I'm not regreting it at all. Things are picking up too quickly. Our AO is getting pretty savage. If we don't land hard and fast in the middle of it and squash this now before it gets out of hand, we look at losing many more lives in the long run. Sweat now saves blood later. In the meantime, my headaches have basically stopped and the ringing in my ears has dissipated. I'm back to normal. The pace of constant operations (coupled with meetings spaced between operations) has me irritable and quick to anger, I've noticed, but otherwise I'm fine.
SGT Ladies' Man is leaving Blue Platoon, regrettably, and moving to his coveted position in the Brigade Personal Security Detachment. Honestly, I'll miss him. The two of us share a very similar sense of humor. We have, in his stead, received SGT Ranger (formerly from the Ranger Battalion, hence the name). He just arrived in country and is getting acclimated. This means that SSG Regulator will be returning to the vehicles, SGT Skizz will go back to commanding a team of dismounts, and SGT Ranger will take a squad. More moves ahead. Right now we're all busy pushing through combat paperwork; after every engagement, we have to send up the information regarding who got hit, when, how, and do they deserve an award for their actions. My Father mentioned how much he regreted not submitting his men for awards when he had to leave them, so I'm making an effort to get all of that paperwork completed now. Additionally, I've been moved in my future job from Night to Day Battle Commander. Joy? I don't know. Probably the same as before, but busier, and I'm still leaving Blue Platoon. We expect a change in early June.
I'm worried that I'll be leaving this sector more violent than I found it. The fact that the violence levels are historically higher in the warmer months does not negate my concerns; I said I would leave my part of the city better than I found it. Yes, we've arranged for multiple trash pick-ups, street repairs, electrical generators, etc., but what's the point if they're exploding even more often than before? We'll be cracking down hard on security over the next few weeks. We expect to be ridiculously busy.
Hope, Mark, Parents, stop worrying about my head. I appreciate the concern, but I'm already at the point where I could have returned to patrols anyway, and nothing happened to aggrevate the situation. I have a clean bill of health. I'm grateful that you all expressed so much concern for my well-being. I walked off without a scratch. I am, however, getting some information on the Captain who was walking beside me and shielded me from the blast with his body. He's not from my AO (I was tasked out to work far from my home neighborhoods that day), so I'm having difficulty getting in contact with him, but I can coordinate with the unit that usually works in that AO. I'll have some information for interested parties in a few days. I'm unsure as to the protocol here, though; what do you do for someone who took a blast for you? A thank-you note? A Hall-Mark card with adorable stuffed animals and bad "Bear with it!" puns? I wish I had spent more time asking about his home life, family, interests, etc. We spent our whole time discussing troop movements and inspecting the teams. I know very little about him, except that he is intelligent, friendly, and now sporting a few extra holes in his limbs. I'll see what information I can provide.
Blue Platoon reports all secure. We are alive and mostly well. Some concussions, some exhaustion, some damaged vehicles, but all in all we've come out of the last few days without any disasters. Keep the guys in your prayers, please, and may our enemies find grace and understanding with the world around them. Too many innocent people have been killed because of their blind hatred over the last week. I'll stay in touch and keep the journal updated as the month progresses. Maybe April will come in like a Lion but leave like a Lamb.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that it's been a busy few days.
When the Doc told me to stay on base on light duty for this week after my little adventure, this probably wasn't what he had in mind. But what he advised was not an order, it was a recommendation. And we are in an operating environment where the mission comes first and recommendations can be ignored. I'm needed out here with my platoon, and I'm not regreting it at all. Things are picking up too quickly. Our AO is getting pretty savage. If we don't land hard and fast in the middle of it and squash this now before it gets out of hand, we look at losing many more lives in the long run. Sweat now saves blood later. In the meantime, my headaches have basically stopped and the ringing in my ears has dissipated. I'm back to normal. The pace of constant operations (coupled with meetings spaced between operations) has me irritable and quick to anger, I've noticed, but otherwise I'm fine.
SGT Ladies' Man is leaving Blue Platoon, regrettably, and moving to his coveted position in the Brigade Personal Security Detachment. Honestly, I'll miss him. The two of us share a very similar sense of humor. We have, in his stead, received SGT Ranger (formerly from the Ranger Battalion, hence the name). He just arrived in country and is getting acclimated. This means that SSG Regulator will be returning to the vehicles, SGT Skizz will go back to commanding a team of dismounts, and SGT Ranger will take a squad. More moves ahead. Right now we're all busy pushing through combat paperwork; after every engagement, we have to send up the information regarding who got hit, when, how, and do they deserve an award for their actions. My Father mentioned how much he regreted not submitting his men for awards when he had to leave them, so I'm making an effort to get all of that paperwork completed now. Additionally, I've been moved in my future job from Night to Day Battle Commander. Joy? I don't know. Probably the same as before, but busier, and I'm still leaving Blue Platoon. We expect a change in early June.
I'm worried that I'll be leaving this sector more violent than I found it. The fact that the violence levels are historically higher in the warmer months does not negate my concerns; I said I would leave my part of the city better than I found it. Yes, we've arranged for multiple trash pick-ups, street repairs, electrical generators, etc., but what's the point if they're exploding even more often than before? We'll be cracking down hard on security over the next few weeks. We expect to be ridiculously busy.
Hope, Mark, Parents, stop worrying about my head. I appreciate the concern, but I'm already at the point where I could have returned to patrols anyway, and nothing happened to aggrevate the situation. I have a clean bill of health. I'm grateful that you all expressed so much concern for my well-being. I walked off without a scratch. I am, however, getting some information on the Captain who was walking beside me and shielded me from the blast with his body. He's not from my AO (I was tasked out to work far from my home neighborhoods that day), so I'm having difficulty getting in contact with him, but I can coordinate with the unit that usually works in that AO. I'll have some information for interested parties in a few days. I'm unsure as to the protocol here, though; what do you do for someone who took a blast for you? A thank-you note? A Hall-Mark card with adorable stuffed animals and bad "Bear with it!" puns? I wish I had spent more time asking about his home life, family, interests, etc. We spent our whole time discussing troop movements and inspecting the teams. I know very little about him, except that he is intelligent, friendly, and now sporting a few extra holes in his limbs. I'll see what information I can provide.
Blue Platoon reports all secure. We are alive and mostly well. Some concussions, some exhaustion, some damaged vehicles, but all in all we've come out of the last few days without any disasters. Keep the guys in your prayers, please, and may our enemies find grace and understanding with the world around them. Too many innocent people have been killed because of their blind hatred over the last week. I'll stay in touch and keep the journal updated as the month progresses. Maybe April will come in like a Lion but leave like a Lamb.
29 March 2009
MOSUL 29MAR09
On 1040 29MAR09, during an extensive cordon and search operation, my world went white. Bright shining light everywhere. I didn't even hear the explosion; my ears just went out immediately. Then the ringing started. It still hasn't stopped.
I should preface by announcing that everyone in Blue Platoon is alive and nobody is seriously wounded. In fact, the only Coalition Forces injured in the incident was me. I was walking down the road to one of my vehicles, accompanied by an Iraqi Army Captain (a great guy, easy smile, intelligent, speaks very good English), when everything went into slow motion. I remember walking, I remember everything flashing, and then I don't remember anything for about five to ten minutes. I'm told by my gunner (watching as I walked towards the vehicle) that the IED detonated no more than five meters from me. The IA Captain was standing in such a way that his body blocked any shrapnel from hitting me. In brief, despite all odds, I didn't get a scratch on my body. Not one. My friend was not so lucky. He's alive, and last I heard he's in stable condition. The shrapnel ripped into his arms and legs, tearing open some lacerations all the way down to the bone.
I can't remember what I did for the first five or so minutes after the blast, so what I report is what others observed me doing. Apparently I sprinted to cover, took cover, left cover immediately, and sprinted back towards the blast site, yelling at my gunner to "cover me." He screamed at me to turn around and head for a humvee, convinced I was hit and bleeding. I took his advice and dove into the seat and started calling up orders to the platoon. I'm told most of it was gibberish. Somehow I managed to establish a cordon around a mosque where someone thought they had seen a trigger man flee.
I resumed full consciousness in the middle of a conversation with the Commander. And when I did wake back up, I had no idea what I had been saying when I was still at some other level of consciousness. And I looked like a complete idiot.
"The cordon is in place, LT. What's your plan of action?"
"Hold on... wait... cordon? Give me a second... holy shit my head... what cordon?"
"For the possible trigger man! You were just giving me the description they reported to you!"
"There's a trigger man? Who said there's a trigger man?"
I've never heard of something like this happening before, but apparently it can. I completely lost five or ten minutes of time.
Short of a minor concussion, inflamed and swelling eardrums, a constant obnoxious ringing sound in the back of my head, and some dizziness and nasuea, I'm doing just fine. Thank God for that. I have no rational explanation for how everything around me was perforated with shrapnel and I didn't get a scratch. I've been amazed at my luck before, but this is unprecedented. I can't get my mind around it (maybe because the constant headache has impaired my thinking). I'm fine. I'm good. My joints hurt, my teeth feel tingly and loose, my head is pounding and my eyes have trouble focusing, but I'm alive. Not a scratch. Amazing.
In other news, platoon life continues as normal. Which is to say hectic and busy. I find myself missing my wife and my home more and more than ever (especially today). We're starting to think this madness might never end. We've got to get out of here. There is nothing healthy and sane about a world where random things explode all the time. Some of the guys are starting to push out on mid-tour leave (a bit early, I think), but at least it gives us the illusion that we're half-way done.
I read a particularly inspirational piece of bathroom graffiti a bit ago that may summarize the sinking feeling of despair.
"Anyone ready for some hot man on man action?"
And written underneath, in a different hand:
"Not yet. But soon."
I should preface by announcing that everyone in Blue Platoon is alive and nobody is seriously wounded. In fact, the only Coalition Forces injured in the incident was me. I was walking down the road to one of my vehicles, accompanied by an Iraqi Army Captain (a great guy, easy smile, intelligent, speaks very good English), when everything went into slow motion. I remember walking, I remember everything flashing, and then I don't remember anything for about five to ten minutes. I'm told by my gunner (watching as I walked towards the vehicle) that the IED detonated no more than five meters from me. The IA Captain was standing in such a way that his body blocked any shrapnel from hitting me. In brief, despite all odds, I didn't get a scratch on my body. Not one. My friend was not so lucky. He's alive, and last I heard he's in stable condition. The shrapnel ripped into his arms and legs, tearing open some lacerations all the way down to the bone.
I can't remember what I did for the first five or so minutes after the blast, so what I report is what others observed me doing. Apparently I sprinted to cover, took cover, left cover immediately, and sprinted back towards the blast site, yelling at my gunner to "cover me." He screamed at me to turn around and head for a humvee, convinced I was hit and bleeding. I took his advice and dove into the seat and started calling up orders to the platoon. I'm told most of it was gibberish. Somehow I managed to establish a cordon around a mosque where someone thought they had seen a trigger man flee.
I resumed full consciousness in the middle of a conversation with the Commander. And when I did wake back up, I had no idea what I had been saying when I was still at some other level of consciousness. And I looked like a complete idiot.
"The cordon is in place, LT. What's your plan of action?"
"Hold on... wait... cordon? Give me a second... holy shit my head... what cordon?"
"For the possible trigger man! You were just giving me the description they reported to you!"
"There's a trigger man? Who said there's a trigger man?"
I've never heard of something like this happening before, but apparently it can. I completely lost five or ten minutes of time.
Short of a minor concussion, inflamed and swelling eardrums, a constant obnoxious ringing sound in the back of my head, and some dizziness and nasuea, I'm doing just fine. Thank God for that. I have no rational explanation for how everything around me was perforated with shrapnel and I didn't get a scratch. I've been amazed at my luck before, but this is unprecedented. I can't get my mind around it (maybe because the constant headache has impaired my thinking). I'm fine. I'm good. My joints hurt, my teeth feel tingly and loose, my head is pounding and my eyes have trouble focusing, but I'm alive. Not a scratch. Amazing.
In other news, platoon life continues as normal. Which is to say hectic and busy. I find myself missing my wife and my home more and more than ever (especially today). We're starting to think this madness might never end. We've got to get out of here. There is nothing healthy and sane about a world where random things explode all the time. Some of the guys are starting to push out on mid-tour leave (a bit early, I think), but at least it gives us the illusion that we're half-way done.
I read a particularly inspirational piece of bathroom graffiti a bit ago that may summarize the sinking feeling of despair.
"Anyone ready for some hot man on man action?"
And written underneath, in a different hand:
"Not yet. But soon."
24 March 2009
MOSUL 24MAR09
An eventful ten days since my last post.
We've conducted two humanitarian aid drops--or more specifically, handed all the materials over to the National Police, secured the site for them, and then watched as they informed the populace that this was a product of their good will and a symbol of increasing Iraqi stability (our food, our security... but I guess the illusion is better than nothing). The first drop, in my main problem neighborhood, almost ended in a food riot. When they ran out of food the crowd started rushing the truck. I almost smacked the National Policeman who did what we fully expected they would (but were still hoping they would not) do: started firing rounds off in the air. NOTE: This does NOT calm down a mob. This does NOT restore order. This is NOT a clever idea. All of a sudden, my platoon is pouring out of the woodwork on this crowd. Everyone quieted right down. Apparently the Americans have built a reputation around here for strict crowd control. I wonder if we're still authorized to use the tear gas grenades. Hope has a picture of me in Basic Training after being subjected to my first tear gas chamber. I had bronchitis at the time, so the entire front of my uniform was covered in green stuff. I vomited into the chinstrap of my helmet. It was miserable. But it is a hell of a way to drive off a crowd. Might have countered the good will we were trying to foster, though.
While we were leaving one of the aid drops, the National Police started going crazy about a possible IED in an old, rusted out car on the road. They were convinced there was a bomb. We glanced at it and did in fact see a strange object lying there, so we decided to humor them. Last time I didn't believe their assessment I almost got a face full of shrapnel. So as I'm driving my vehicle by to establish the far-side cordon, I take a good look at it.
Huh.
"Blue One, this is Blue Four," calls SSG Lark. "Do you have a visual? Can you give me a description of the IED?"
"Four, this is One. I have the IED in site time now. Visual description follows: Approximately seven to eight pounds, white exterior, orange markings, long tail, whiskers, and four *adorable* little paws. I'm calling him Mittens."
Mittens left shortly after we cordoned the area off, and we watched as he romped and frolicked around our trucks for the three hours we had to wait for EOD to arrive. Guess what? No bomb. SGT Ladies' Man is preparing a visual diagram to represent his revolutionary new concept: the Cat-Borne IED (CBIED). Could be ingenious.
Yesterday, Blue Platoon arrived on scene to assist our colleagues in Red after a suicide bomber detonated in the middle of their National Police partners. I have some general guidelines for all of you who intend suicide: first and foremost, I would advise against a suicide vest. It is fast, yes, but it is not clean. Not clean at all. We were finding stray body parts hundreds of feet away. We were identifying the victims and the bomber by who's legs were wearing what shoes. Watched a cat (Mittens?) eating pieces of human flesh. If this place weren't already completely surreal and screwed up, this kind of thing might mess with your sleep for the next few years. But I find myself sleeping like a baby. SSG Lark is sometimes confused by how unfazed I seem by all of this. He thinks it may be a mental disorder of some kind, or maybe some kind of delayed reaction coping mechanism. I call bullshit. "Don't you realize that this place isn't normal? That this kind of thing isn't normal?" he asks. No, I counter, this kind of thing IS normal for where we are. I actually expected worse. If you came here expecting to find small-town Arkansas, replete with Mom and Pop stores and the Friday night football game, you're probably having some trouble adjusting. But I had a year and a half of training just to pyschologically prepare me as an officer, and they told us to expect nothing short of Armageddon. This is not the End of the World. This is, as I mentioned earlier, just a ridiculous and absurdly violent camping trip.
The final issue today, and one which depresses me immensely but cannot be avoided, is that I'm going to lose Blue Platoon in June. We knew this would come eventually. I was hoping to keep my platoon through the entire deployment, but my time as a Platoon Leader is ending and I need to step aside for the new guys. I've come to love my men, and there's always a feeling of failure and betrayal when you have to abandon your battle buddies halfway through the fight, but this is the way it goes. "Officers are guests," says SSG Lark. "You come in, take control, make all these big decisions, but then, before you know it, you're gone." I have two more months before I shift out. I'll be assuming the position of Night Battle Captain. As Hope sagely pointed out, this is a position that requires no battling, or--as is apparent by my rank--even being a Captain. This position is in headquarters. I'll be coordinating units in the field while the leadership sleeps, basically acting as Battalion Commander during the slow parts. The moment something happens they'll reassume control, but they have to sleep sometimes, and this is where the Battle Captain comes in. I just track everybody's locations, missions, and dispositions, and then push assets like air support out to them as necessary. My life will be filled with screens and air footage. I'll carry a pistol and smell freshly bathed. I'll work in standard shifts of eight-to-twelve hours. I'll catch myself ruefully reminiscing on the glory days when "outside the wire" wasn't a theoretical concept. Dear God, what will become of me? Transitioning from constant combat operations to headquarters may be too much. My Mom is thrilled. I'm knocking my head against the walls.
As an Infantry Officer, there is a progression of possible jobs I need "to get my ticket punched" for future success. After my time as Platoon Leader, I would ideally like a Scout Platoon, a Mortar Platoon, or to serve as Executive Officer in a company. These are the "next step" jobs. There are also the jobs you definitely don't want, such as serving at Brigade level in the shops. This is where Lieutenant careers go to die. Battle Captain is something towards the high end of the middle. It means my performance has been good but not great, and it means my future is probably not in the Infantry. Which we all know. My Commander told it to me straight: my strength is in the non-kinetic part of the war. Reconstruction, negotiation, public affairs, civil meetings. I enjoy the Infantry portion, but we both know that I'm looking to transfer out of the Infantry and into Civil Affairs. And he's done his best to facilitate this move. In return, though, he cannot in good conscience put me forward for the next-step Infantry positions over officers who actually need them for their careers. Battle Captain will not hinder my branch transfer. It may even help it, since my Commander is trying to push for me to also serve as Civil Projects Liaison. But my Infantry days are coming to a close. My Mom and Hope can throw a party somewhere, but right now I'm a little disappointed. I don't want to leave Blue.
What this means for the Journal will be more difficult. Come June, the focus will shift from Blue Platoon to little old me and my adventures (or lack thereof) in headquarters. Not exciting stuff. Also mostly classified, so the material will be limited. So I'll be trying to cram as many entries as possible into the next two months. After the transfer, we'll see what a normal entry consists of; right now, I can't even imagine. Until then, though, I'm still here with Blue. I'll write again soon.
We've conducted two humanitarian aid drops--or more specifically, handed all the materials over to the National Police, secured the site for them, and then watched as they informed the populace that this was a product of their good will and a symbol of increasing Iraqi stability (our food, our security... but I guess the illusion is better than nothing). The first drop, in my main problem neighborhood, almost ended in a food riot. When they ran out of food the crowd started rushing the truck. I almost smacked the National Policeman who did what we fully expected they would (but were still hoping they would not) do: started firing rounds off in the air. NOTE: This does NOT calm down a mob. This does NOT restore order. This is NOT a clever idea. All of a sudden, my platoon is pouring out of the woodwork on this crowd. Everyone quieted right down. Apparently the Americans have built a reputation around here for strict crowd control. I wonder if we're still authorized to use the tear gas grenades. Hope has a picture of me in Basic Training after being subjected to my first tear gas chamber. I had bronchitis at the time, so the entire front of my uniform was covered in green stuff. I vomited into the chinstrap of my helmet. It was miserable. But it is a hell of a way to drive off a crowd. Might have countered the good will we were trying to foster, though.
While we were leaving one of the aid drops, the National Police started going crazy about a possible IED in an old, rusted out car on the road. They were convinced there was a bomb. We glanced at it and did in fact see a strange object lying there, so we decided to humor them. Last time I didn't believe their assessment I almost got a face full of shrapnel. So as I'm driving my vehicle by to establish the far-side cordon, I take a good look at it.
Huh.
"Blue One, this is Blue Four," calls SSG Lark. "Do you have a visual? Can you give me a description of the IED?"
"Four, this is One. I have the IED in site time now. Visual description follows: Approximately seven to eight pounds, white exterior, orange markings, long tail, whiskers, and four *adorable* little paws. I'm calling him Mittens."
Mittens left shortly after we cordoned the area off, and we watched as he romped and frolicked around our trucks for the three hours we had to wait for EOD to arrive. Guess what? No bomb. SGT Ladies' Man is preparing a visual diagram to represent his revolutionary new concept: the Cat-Borne IED (CBIED). Could be ingenious.
Yesterday, Blue Platoon arrived on scene to assist our colleagues in Red after a suicide bomber detonated in the middle of their National Police partners. I have some general guidelines for all of you who intend suicide: first and foremost, I would advise against a suicide vest. It is fast, yes, but it is not clean. Not clean at all. We were finding stray body parts hundreds of feet away. We were identifying the victims and the bomber by who's legs were wearing what shoes. Watched a cat (Mittens?) eating pieces of human flesh. If this place weren't already completely surreal and screwed up, this kind of thing might mess with your sleep for the next few years. But I find myself sleeping like a baby. SSG Lark is sometimes confused by how unfazed I seem by all of this. He thinks it may be a mental disorder of some kind, or maybe some kind of delayed reaction coping mechanism. I call bullshit. "Don't you realize that this place isn't normal? That this kind of thing isn't normal?" he asks. No, I counter, this kind of thing IS normal for where we are. I actually expected worse. If you came here expecting to find small-town Arkansas, replete with Mom and Pop stores and the Friday night football game, you're probably having some trouble adjusting. But I had a year and a half of training just to pyschologically prepare me as an officer, and they told us to expect nothing short of Armageddon. This is not the End of the World. This is, as I mentioned earlier, just a ridiculous and absurdly violent camping trip.
The final issue today, and one which depresses me immensely but cannot be avoided, is that I'm going to lose Blue Platoon in June. We knew this would come eventually. I was hoping to keep my platoon through the entire deployment, but my time as a Platoon Leader is ending and I need to step aside for the new guys. I've come to love my men, and there's always a feeling of failure and betrayal when you have to abandon your battle buddies halfway through the fight, but this is the way it goes. "Officers are guests," says SSG Lark. "You come in, take control, make all these big decisions, but then, before you know it, you're gone." I have two more months before I shift out. I'll be assuming the position of Night Battle Captain. As Hope sagely pointed out, this is a position that requires no battling, or--as is apparent by my rank--even being a Captain. This position is in headquarters. I'll be coordinating units in the field while the leadership sleeps, basically acting as Battalion Commander during the slow parts. The moment something happens they'll reassume control, but they have to sleep sometimes, and this is where the Battle Captain comes in. I just track everybody's locations, missions, and dispositions, and then push assets like air support out to them as necessary. My life will be filled with screens and air footage. I'll carry a pistol and smell freshly bathed. I'll work in standard shifts of eight-to-twelve hours. I'll catch myself ruefully reminiscing on the glory days when "outside the wire" wasn't a theoretical concept. Dear God, what will become of me? Transitioning from constant combat operations to headquarters may be too much. My Mom is thrilled. I'm knocking my head against the walls.
As an Infantry Officer, there is a progression of possible jobs I need "to get my ticket punched" for future success. After my time as Platoon Leader, I would ideally like a Scout Platoon, a Mortar Platoon, or to serve as Executive Officer in a company. These are the "next step" jobs. There are also the jobs you definitely don't want, such as serving at Brigade level in the shops. This is where Lieutenant careers go to die. Battle Captain is something towards the high end of the middle. It means my performance has been good but not great, and it means my future is probably not in the Infantry. Which we all know. My Commander told it to me straight: my strength is in the non-kinetic part of the war. Reconstruction, negotiation, public affairs, civil meetings. I enjoy the Infantry portion, but we both know that I'm looking to transfer out of the Infantry and into Civil Affairs. And he's done his best to facilitate this move. In return, though, he cannot in good conscience put me forward for the next-step Infantry positions over officers who actually need them for their careers. Battle Captain will not hinder my branch transfer. It may even help it, since my Commander is trying to push for me to also serve as Civil Projects Liaison. But my Infantry days are coming to a close. My Mom and Hope can throw a party somewhere, but right now I'm a little disappointed. I don't want to leave Blue.
What this means for the Journal will be more difficult. Come June, the focus will shift from Blue Platoon to little old me and my adventures (or lack thereof) in headquarters. Not exciting stuff. Also mostly classified, so the material will be limited. So I'll be trying to cram as many entries as possible into the next two months. After the transfer, we'll see what a normal entry consists of; right now, I can't even imagine. Until then, though, I'm still here with Blue. I'll write again soon.
14 March 2009
MOSUL 14MAR09
Once again, Blue Platoon has experienced an incredible spate of good luck. They tried to kill SSG Lark two days ago... and they almost succeeded. I should probably mention that they tried to kill everyone in his truck, but as I work with SSG Lark more than anyone else, that struck closer to home. As we were completing a traffic checkpoint (searching pedestrians as they entered the neighborhood) and preparing to exfiltrate, an insurgent opened fire on his truck. With a pistol. The gunner swerved over to engage. Our .50 cal Browning Machine Gun vs. their pistol makes for very good odds, so we expected some serious results. But the diversion worked just as intended. A nearby pedestrian walked out of the crowd on the gunner's blind side, approached the truck, and rolled a hand grenade into the turret. The truck behind was baffled... the grenade was bright red, and they couldn't imagine why someone would toss a tomato at the vehicle. Another insurgent walked out of the crowd with a pistol, tried to open SSG Lark's door, found it was locked, and popped a shot into the window. Thank God for shatterproof glass. The driver, PFC Timidity (as we will call him as we introduce him for the first time), demonstrated innovation and quick thinking not usually seen in him (hence his name) and gunned the truck forward. The grenade rolled off onto the ground, detonating and disabling the vehicle, but injuring no one. Very lucky. The ensuing firefight and pursuit damaged a dozen civilian vehicles, but all three of them disappeared into the crowd and fled.
I grabbed a squad and pursued. Maybe not the best idea in the world, but it worked at the time, so we ran--literally ran--for an hour after them. They split up, but the choppers were able to get on station fast enough to identify one of them and walk us in to his location. It was quite a little pursuit. When we caught up, he had dropped all of his weapons and had linked up with his cousin who tried to cover for him. "He's been with me all day." Right. SSG Lark saw you up close and personal. He knows you. He recognizes you. You are ours now, buddy. I had both of them detained. I felt pretty bad about leaving the cousin's eight-year-old kid crying on the street by himself, but getting shot at and blown up can make you pretty callous. We dragged them both back to our vehicles and into our detention facility.
(Cue the circus music.)
Now, ladies and gentlemen, behold the grand spectacle of the detention process in the new Iraq! With time ticking down before mandatory release, the lieutenant here must gather witnesses and documents in an uncooperative country or watch his culprit run free! It's a scavenger hunt of epic scale. Can our hero do it?
The first act is to round up the witnesses. But wait! In a country where everybody knows everybody's mother, suddenly no one wants to talk about the incident! A dozen people on the street, but each one of them is more terrified of the insurgents than of the Americans. Did you see anything? No? Are you sure? Here, if we blindfold these detainees so they can't see you, can you tell us if you've seen people matching this description on the scene? You can't? Oh, you were hiding at the time and completely oblivious? Of course you were. All of you? No? Great. Well, come with us anyway. We're taking your statements whether you want to give them or not.
Now quickly, as time ticks down to the twenty-four hour limit, process these guys into the detention facility! Tick tock tick tock.... and six hours are gone with paperwork and sworn statements. But wait! You can't hold them without a certificate from an Iraqi Colonel or above allowing Coalition Forces to detain Iraqi citizens. And here's the extra challenge in your scavenger hunt: all of the Colonels in your area are on leave! That's right, vacation! They're gone! With two hours left, you need to find a Colonel willing to sign away these citizens to our custody. Isn't there a Colonel at the Brigade Headquarters? Maybe, but he's new. So we speed over there, run out of the vehicles with the documents, and try to get him to sign it. Twenty minutes left now. What's that, Colonel? You haven't heard anything about this incident and want a full report, as well as a phone call to your command group? Uh... listen, we're a bit short on time here (ten minutes left). Could you just take this on faith? No? Got it. Here's the breakdown. And the phone call. Two minutes left. Documents in hand, we sprint back to the vehicles and drive back to the detention facility. A sergeant from headquarters is there causing a ruckus and trying to distract them to buy time (which is now out). Then, just as they are getting wise to our game, up rolls the convoy! Out we go, documents in hand, and sprint to the desk. Congratulations! You have now imprisoned two men for fourteen days. This gives you time to get witnesses (unlikely) and gather evidence.
The interrogator informed us that they started breaking their story. Separating them and trying to get the cousin to flip may be working. One says they took a cab here, the other says they walked, one says there were just two of them plus the kid, the other claims a whole group was with them. The stories start to crack. All the while, this guy has to be wondering how we caught him. Did he ever wonder why those helicopters kept hovering over his general area? Well, buddy, we caught you. And if we have to turn you over to the Iraqi authorities, while they will most likely eventually release you, we know that you'll at least have a very bad time of it. They don't follow the rules we follow. Why don't you just admit to everything now? They execute terrorists. We just lock you up.
Anyway, it's been an eventful few days. We caught one. Yes, we should have killed all three in the firefight. I know. We'll work on that. Embarrassed? Yes, a little. Our marksmanship is not what it should be, apparently. But we did get you. We're the first platoon to make contact, maintain contact, engage, close with, and detain the enemy. SSG Lark is still a bit shaken up, which is understandable, and PFC Timidity will be getting his Combat Infantryman Badge. Good work, crew. We've been very lucky. Couple this with the IED that detonated much too close to me the day before, and we have what can only be described as unreasonably good fortune. So keep the prayers coming. If you get a chance, say one for the little kid we left on the street without a father. He's innocent in all of this. But do I regret my actions? I surprise myself by finding I don't. He's a casualty in all of this, but that's the price you pay when your family supports the insurgency. Don't shoot at my men. It makes me a bit vengeful. So, I'm off to yet another meeting and another patrol. I'll write again when I get the chance.
I grabbed a squad and pursued. Maybe not the best idea in the world, but it worked at the time, so we ran--literally ran--for an hour after them. They split up, but the choppers were able to get on station fast enough to identify one of them and walk us in to his location. It was quite a little pursuit. When we caught up, he had dropped all of his weapons and had linked up with his cousin who tried to cover for him. "He's been with me all day." Right. SSG Lark saw you up close and personal. He knows you. He recognizes you. You are ours now, buddy. I had both of them detained. I felt pretty bad about leaving the cousin's eight-year-old kid crying on the street by himself, but getting shot at and blown up can make you pretty callous. We dragged them both back to our vehicles and into our detention facility.
(Cue the circus music.)
Now, ladies and gentlemen, behold the grand spectacle of the detention process in the new Iraq! With time ticking down before mandatory release, the lieutenant here must gather witnesses and documents in an uncooperative country or watch his culprit run free! It's a scavenger hunt of epic scale. Can our hero do it?
The first act is to round up the witnesses. But wait! In a country where everybody knows everybody's mother, suddenly no one wants to talk about the incident! A dozen people on the street, but each one of them is more terrified of the insurgents than of the Americans. Did you see anything? No? Are you sure? Here, if we blindfold these detainees so they can't see you, can you tell us if you've seen people matching this description on the scene? You can't? Oh, you were hiding at the time and completely oblivious? Of course you were. All of you? No? Great. Well, come with us anyway. We're taking your statements whether you want to give them or not.
Now quickly, as time ticks down to the twenty-four hour limit, process these guys into the detention facility! Tick tock tick tock.... and six hours are gone with paperwork and sworn statements. But wait! You can't hold them without a certificate from an Iraqi Colonel or above allowing Coalition Forces to detain Iraqi citizens. And here's the extra challenge in your scavenger hunt: all of the Colonels in your area are on leave! That's right, vacation! They're gone! With two hours left, you need to find a Colonel willing to sign away these citizens to our custody. Isn't there a Colonel at the Brigade Headquarters? Maybe, but he's new. So we speed over there, run out of the vehicles with the documents, and try to get him to sign it. Twenty minutes left now. What's that, Colonel? You haven't heard anything about this incident and want a full report, as well as a phone call to your command group? Uh... listen, we're a bit short on time here (ten minutes left). Could you just take this on faith? No? Got it. Here's the breakdown. And the phone call. Two minutes left. Documents in hand, we sprint back to the vehicles and drive back to the detention facility. A sergeant from headquarters is there causing a ruckus and trying to distract them to buy time (which is now out). Then, just as they are getting wise to our game, up rolls the convoy! Out we go, documents in hand, and sprint to the desk. Congratulations! You have now imprisoned two men for fourteen days. This gives you time to get witnesses (unlikely) and gather evidence.
The interrogator informed us that they started breaking their story. Separating them and trying to get the cousin to flip may be working. One says they took a cab here, the other says they walked, one says there were just two of them plus the kid, the other claims a whole group was with them. The stories start to crack. All the while, this guy has to be wondering how we caught him. Did he ever wonder why those helicopters kept hovering over his general area? Well, buddy, we caught you. And if we have to turn you over to the Iraqi authorities, while they will most likely eventually release you, we know that you'll at least have a very bad time of it. They don't follow the rules we follow. Why don't you just admit to everything now? They execute terrorists. We just lock you up.
Anyway, it's been an eventful few days. We caught one. Yes, we should have killed all three in the firefight. I know. We'll work on that. Embarrassed? Yes, a little. Our marksmanship is not what it should be, apparently. But we did get you. We're the first platoon to make contact, maintain contact, engage, close with, and detain the enemy. SSG Lark is still a bit shaken up, which is understandable, and PFC Timidity will be getting his Combat Infantryman Badge. Good work, crew. We've been very lucky. Couple this with the IED that detonated much too close to me the day before, and we have what can only be described as unreasonably good fortune. So keep the prayers coming. If you get a chance, say one for the little kid we left on the street without a father. He's innocent in all of this. But do I regret my actions? I surprise myself by finding I don't. He's a casualty in all of this, but that's the price you pay when your family supports the insurgency. Don't shoot at my men. It makes me a bit vengeful. So, I'm off to yet another meeting and another patrol. I'll write again when I get the chance.
09 March 2009
MOSUL 09MAR09
I have been remiss in writing for the last week. We've been ridiculously busy again, but now, between missions and with a new wireless internet service working, I'm able to post another entry. My life over the last week has been a series of missions, varied throughout morning and night, trying to reestablish control of our AO. The insurgents apparently weren't as shocked and awed by our intensive cordon and search as we hoped they would be. Grenade attacks and small arms fire are on the rise. On 07MAR09, Blue Platoon was present for two IED detonations. Nobody in our platoon was hurt. One of my colleagues, a lieutenant in the National Police, took shrapnel to the leg. He'll be fine. These are basically little surface explosives intended to kill dismounted troops; they do very little against vehicles. Might pop off a tire. They want us to stay in the vehicles, apparently, and they want to stretch the National Police thin so that they have insufficient manpower to continue offensive operations. You can't mount a patrol when all of your soldiers are guarding the roads. We've made serious efforts to incorporate the National Police into a real partnership. We pair each of them up with one of our soldiers. We inspect our men before patrols and watch them inspect theirs. We move together, my men paired with theirs, me with their commander, and proceed in tandem. The Blue AO is coming along very well in that department. My colleagues in Red and White are having trouble getting their partnered leadership to understand the importance of patrolling at all, let alone patrolling as partners, so they're essentially stuck far behind us. No lack of effort on their part. I have been fortunate to receive a unit that is comfortable with our presence and eager for our support. I'd like to think that some of this can be credited to our efforts at developing a rapport and friendly relationship with them, but maybe we were just lucky. Red One is having a bad time with his guys especially. Then again, he's also very American in his outlook. He is quick to judge and belittle them when they err, and this probably doesn't do much for the working relationship. It's a problem: we're working in a training/mentoring/partnered relationship, which is basically a Special Forces mission, but we're line infantry. Some of us just can't get out of the mindset.
The difference is palpable. A few nights ago, while on a dismount patrol, Blue was shot at by some National Police. Fortunately I had already recognized them as allies before they shot at us. Given the recent spate of insurgents disguising themselves as police so they can kill us up close, we had some doubts, but I knew these men and their checkpoint. It was dark, they were scared, and they made an idiotic decision. I had my men hold their fire. A tough decision, since that bullet definitely cracked right by me. I was a little angry. We stopped and shouted, with no response. I had some air support choppers buzz them up close, just to put the fear of the Red, White, and Blue into them. Then, with close air coverage, I approached them with a squad and a Bradley, blinding them with the Brad lights. They claimed they thought we were terrorists. Terrorists with helicopters and Bradleys. I have to admit that I held off for a second while SGT Skizz shook them around before I intervened. Usually I put a stop to that kind of thing immediately, but I wanted them to know that we were not happy. Not happy at all. Seriously. I get a little irate when you shoot at me and my men. I just can't help it.
Today is the Sunni celebration for the birth of the Prophet. It was marked by a sharp increase in attacks on National Police. Once again, the enemy pulled out the moment Coalition Forces arrived on scene. They just don't want to engage us anymore. The local populace was targeted as well, with one killed and two wounded, and this has done little to reduce the growing animosity the public has to these foreign fighters. I met a Sheik yesterday who had lost eleven members of his family to Coalition Forces during the course of the war, including his eldest son, and while he was hardly complimentary of our efforts at pacifying the area, he did volunteer that he had come to hate the insurgents even more than us. We at least try to put things right. Say what you will about our efforts here, our intent is honorable. We want to leave the country more secure and stable then when we arrived. The populace is growing to understand this. The insurgents depend on slaughter and chaos and have no honorable plan for the populace, and they are growing to understand this as well. They may not all like us, but they understand us. We're most certainly the lesser of two evils.
My crew is doing well. SPC Darkness is reveling in the fact that he gets to drive my truck, which means he is getting paid for a leadership position but is doing a private's work, and he is pleased to find that I don't scream at my crew when they make mistakes. Not my place. I just try to correct them and get the show on the road. I'm always a little frustrated when my leadership stops a patrol to punish a mistake. I understand it has to be done, but there are ways of getting the job done without stopping the whole process. SGT Lady's Man is also pretty ecstatic about the arrangement. He came to be my gunner when he almost crushed one of our HMMWVs with his Bradley. This is his punishment. He couldn't be happier. SGT Mountain is not faring so well, as the constant screaming from SSG Lark is weighing down on him. He tries so hard. I have never wanted someone to succeed so badly. I want him to do it right, but the little things always evade his attention. He's to the point of seeking counseling from the Chaplain. I've instructed SSG Lark to go a little easier on him, but this is outside of my lane, and I understand if that doesn't happen. SSG Lark is keeping the platoon straight inside so I can keep the sector straight outside. His efforts typically work, so I keep out of his hair. But he is definitely a taskmaster and can be pretty ruthless about it.
Blue Platoon is currently fighting a bell curve... and losing. Someone in headquarters had the brilliant observation that most of our patrols were occurring around the same time every day, so the company decided to change things up. Ideally this would mean shifting to one long mission in the early morning or late night, but we're trying to fight statistics, so my instructions are to stage multiple patrols in morning and night, and be ready to act during those peak times when we're typically out. In essence, we patrol ALL THE TIME. Sleep is sparse. Ulcers are plentiful. I had three men go to sick call for stress-related injuries... not the little ones. Heavy blood content in feces. I think I'm even losing hair. Dad, if you win the baldness gene, I'm going to be very upset. The sad thing is that we pushed those three men through sick call, gave them some medication, and then pushed them immediately out on our next patrol. We can't afford not to. We need everyone. In the Army, you can be punished for falling ill. You have by personal neglect inflicted damage to Army property. Conversely, can you be punished for mishandling Army property? Am I running them too hard? Are they running me too hard? Or are we like the vehicles, with expected periods of breakdown? The only problem is that the vehicles get time for maintenance. My men do not. They need sleep. They need time when they aren't constantly paranoid. They need a day when nothing explodes and nobody shoots at them. We're holding on, but at this rate, I'm going to be leading husks by summer. They're doing their jobs well, but that's all they're doing. They have no down time, no life outside of patrols. And no, we are not one of the brigades tasked for early redeployment. Things are much too hot here. We'll be here to the end.
Keep Blue Platoon in your prayers. We're still trucking, despite it all, and the men deserve great credit for their tenacity. I think that America might have pushed off some of its marginal population to the Army, but they will return as America's best. These men remain heroes in my eyes. I'll write again as soon as I can.
The difference is palpable. A few nights ago, while on a dismount patrol, Blue was shot at by some National Police. Fortunately I had already recognized them as allies before they shot at us. Given the recent spate of insurgents disguising themselves as police so they can kill us up close, we had some doubts, but I knew these men and their checkpoint. It was dark, they were scared, and they made an idiotic decision. I had my men hold their fire. A tough decision, since that bullet definitely cracked right by me. I was a little angry. We stopped and shouted, with no response. I had some air support choppers buzz them up close, just to put the fear of the Red, White, and Blue into them. Then, with close air coverage, I approached them with a squad and a Bradley, blinding them with the Brad lights. They claimed they thought we were terrorists. Terrorists with helicopters and Bradleys. I have to admit that I held off for a second while SGT Skizz shook them around before I intervened. Usually I put a stop to that kind of thing immediately, but I wanted them to know that we were not happy. Not happy at all. Seriously. I get a little irate when you shoot at me and my men. I just can't help it.
Today is the Sunni celebration for the birth of the Prophet. It was marked by a sharp increase in attacks on National Police. Once again, the enemy pulled out the moment Coalition Forces arrived on scene. They just don't want to engage us anymore. The local populace was targeted as well, with one killed and two wounded, and this has done little to reduce the growing animosity the public has to these foreign fighters. I met a Sheik yesterday who had lost eleven members of his family to Coalition Forces during the course of the war, including his eldest son, and while he was hardly complimentary of our efforts at pacifying the area, he did volunteer that he had come to hate the insurgents even more than us. We at least try to put things right. Say what you will about our efforts here, our intent is honorable. We want to leave the country more secure and stable then when we arrived. The populace is growing to understand this. The insurgents depend on slaughter and chaos and have no honorable plan for the populace, and they are growing to understand this as well. They may not all like us, but they understand us. We're most certainly the lesser of two evils.
My crew is doing well. SPC Darkness is reveling in the fact that he gets to drive my truck, which means he is getting paid for a leadership position but is doing a private's work, and he is pleased to find that I don't scream at my crew when they make mistakes. Not my place. I just try to correct them and get the show on the road. I'm always a little frustrated when my leadership stops a patrol to punish a mistake. I understand it has to be done, but there are ways of getting the job done without stopping the whole process. SGT Lady's Man is also pretty ecstatic about the arrangement. He came to be my gunner when he almost crushed one of our HMMWVs with his Bradley. This is his punishment. He couldn't be happier. SGT Mountain is not faring so well, as the constant screaming from SSG Lark is weighing down on him. He tries so hard. I have never wanted someone to succeed so badly. I want him to do it right, but the little things always evade his attention. He's to the point of seeking counseling from the Chaplain. I've instructed SSG Lark to go a little easier on him, but this is outside of my lane, and I understand if that doesn't happen. SSG Lark is keeping the platoon straight inside so I can keep the sector straight outside. His efforts typically work, so I keep out of his hair. But he is definitely a taskmaster and can be pretty ruthless about it.
Blue Platoon is currently fighting a bell curve... and losing. Someone in headquarters had the brilliant observation that most of our patrols were occurring around the same time every day, so the company decided to change things up. Ideally this would mean shifting to one long mission in the early morning or late night, but we're trying to fight statistics, so my instructions are to stage multiple patrols in morning and night, and be ready to act during those peak times when we're typically out. In essence, we patrol ALL THE TIME. Sleep is sparse. Ulcers are plentiful. I had three men go to sick call for stress-related injuries... not the little ones. Heavy blood content in feces. I think I'm even losing hair. Dad, if you win the baldness gene, I'm going to be very upset. The sad thing is that we pushed those three men through sick call, gave them some medication, and then pushed them immediately out on our next patrol. We can't afford not to. We need everyone. In the Army, you can be punished for falling ill. You have by personal neglect inflicted damage to Army property. Conversely, can you be punished for mishandling Army property? Am I running them too hard? Are they running me too hard? Or are we like the vehicles, with expected periods of breakdown? The only problem is that the vehicles get time for maintenance. My men do not. They need sleep. They need time when they aren't constantly paranoid. They need a day when nothing explodes and nobody shoots at them. We're holding on, but at this rate, I'm going to be leading husks by summer. They're doing their jobs well, but that's all they're doing. They have no down time, no life outside of patrols. And no, we are not one of the brigades tasked for early redeployment. Things are much too hot here. We'll be here to the end.
Keep Blue Platoon in your prayers. We're still trucking, despite it all, and the men deserve great credit for their tenacity. I think that America might have pushed off some of its marginal population to the Army, but they will return as America's best. These men remain heroes in my eyes. I'll write again as soon as I can.
MOSUL 01MAR09
We’ve completed our portion of Operation New Hope. What it effectively meant for us was a week of very long days and very little sleep. I also got a personal tour of just about every building in a two-neighborhood sector. Of course, by the end of the operation just about everyone knew that we were coming to search their houses. Some of the upper-class houses had chai and baked treats waiting for us when we entered. “Oh, what a pleasant surprise to see you! I suppose you’ll be wanting to search my house now. Please go ahead. We actually thought you were coming yesterday, so it isn’t as clean now as it was then. We apologize for any mess.”
Huh. So much for lightning speed, I guess. But we hit the problem areas first, so everything afterwards was just icing on the cake. The sinister one-eyed man has been captured. A few weapons caches were located and disposed of. I got shot at twice, got scared by a grenade once (as I mentioned earlier, it failed to detonate), and drank maybe fifty cups of chai. I see now why all the old people I meet here have diabetes. It’s the chai and the sweets. They cover everything in high quantities of sugar or salt, depending on the food.
We decided to enact a few personnel moves. SGT Crisis is no longer my gunner, which is fine by me, as he has been given a fire team of dismounts. Let’s see how he handles. My new gunner is SGT Lady’s Man, the only one I know with these standing orders: “If my penis is blown off, do not resuscitate.” Ah, priorities. At least he has some. My driver is SPC Darkness. He was doing well with a fire team of his own before he mouthed off at SSG Crunchberry. He’s set for some obligatory punishment. My RTO, Private Bourbon, had a negligent discharge on the FOB. This means he accidentally fired his weapon. Fortunately no one was hurt, but the penalties for this kind of accident are understandably strict. He has been docked a rank and is working extra duty. I had to intercede on his behalf, or more specifically his wife and two children’s behalf, in order to keep him from losing a week of pay as well. It’s hard enough to support one person on his salary, let alone four. Additionally, he is now serving as SSG Lark’s driver. A pity, since he was really starting to like being RTO. The RTO is a Radio Telephone Operator, my link to the company when I’m on the ground. He carries a radio on his back and walks with me, listening for whenever the commander calls to give orders or request a report. He is easily located by his large antenna. Nice target. I’ve been selfishly hoping that the insurgents never figured out that they should probably aim at the guy BESIDE the big radio, not the guy carrying it.
SSG Regulator is no longer allowed to command a Bradley because he made too much of a fuss in front of the commander that the vehicles weren’t properly configured for combat. When he announced that he would not use it in combat, as it was that unsafe, they removed him from the vehicles. So he is now a dismount squad leader, which is an adventure for everyone. This is maybe the first time in his ten year infantry career that he has been dedicated to the ground. He has two excellent team leaders, including SGT Skizz, so we know he’s in good hands. SSG Chase is now the mounted section leader. He hates it. He spent months trying to get onto the ground, and now circumstances have forced him right back to the vehicles. Of course, given the rate he complained whenever we dismounted, I’m all right with him in the vehicles. Now he won’t wear me down with his constant questioning. “Why are we getting out? We can see just as well from inside the vehicles.” No, we cannot. And when we’re out, we have twenty weapons oriented towards potential enemies. We have twenty individually moving pieces that they have to contend with. When we’re mounted we have only six, and they are unwieldy at best. Deal with it. Get out and walk.
So things in Blue Platoon are new all over again. This gives us a chance to find untapped potential in our soldiers and break up the monotony. The inherent risk, dealing with soldiers who aren’t entirely familiar with their new roles, is just something that comes with the territory. The Army is at its core an adaptable organization. We are supposed to learn quickly. Letting these guys get overly familiar with their jobs only breeds complacency and professional stagnation.
I got a great package from my brother and sister-in-law again, apparently because I issued a “shout out” to them in an earlier entry. So, to Tom and Alicia: extra shout outs to you. Tell your sister’s boyfriend that those were some delicious chocolates. Man, my life can be pretty darned nice sometimes. Hard to complain (mostly because it’s a punishable offense—but seriously, I’m doing just fine).
The platoon also states our appreciation to the Congregation of St. Stephens in
My church, St. Bartholomew’s Parish, continues to pray for the platoon every service. I am forever grateful for their concern. As I wrote to my Dad, though I’m hesitant to think the Almighty ever takes sides in the insanity of men, I can’t help but think that maybe the prayers have had a hand in the ridiculous spate of good luck we’ve enjoyed. Bullets that miss by inches, grenades that drop on us but don’t explode, IEDs narrowly avoided… well, in short, keep those prayers coming. They are deeply appreciated.
Hope has been sending me little letters, and from time to time I receive a lavishly decorated package. Cut-out hearts, pictures, my favorite comics, the whole deal. Yes, I picked the right one. I thought she had been perfuming her letters until she revealed that she had been using the stationary she accidentally dumped some kind of fruit juice on. Now she is faced with a dilemma: does she perfume the next letter, risking a little tender ridicule from me, or does she not perfume it, thus sending me into a confused and panicked state when I finally see her in person and realize that she does not smell like the woman who has been writing to me? Her schoolwork is going well, and she’s almost done with her Comps project, but the schedule is stressing her a bit. She’s also looking at a trip to
Anyway, we’re finally catching a little time to relax. I never thought a ten-hour work day would seem like a vacation. But it means I have time to sleep, to write, and to catch up on the little things I need like laundry and haircuts. I was getting a bit shaggy. I’ll have to post this entry at a later date since our current internet provider jumped town a few days ago and was last seen forging passports for their new lives in
I’ve taken to a little song that my Father once sang at a hospital party (he was administrator at the time). I seem to remember him saying that it made some appearances in
“If I had the wings of an angel,
Over these prison walls I would fly.
Back to the arms of my loved ones,
For I’m weary and too young to die.”
So melodramatic. It’s not that bad. It really isn’t. The worst part is being away from my wife and family. Next comes the constant paranoia. When the shooting does start, that part really isn’t all that bad. Your adrenaline pumps and you get pretty aggressive, but that’s it. The grenades and IEDs are quick and so far have yet to injure anyone in Blue. You don’t even have time to be nervous before it’s over. I’ve developed a severe mistrust of single-occupant vehicles and large windows. I hate standing in open places. I catch myself peeking around corners on the FOB before I turn them. Not healthy. Not normal. Maybe going a bit crazy. But barring these little eccentricities, it really isn’t that bad. I have food, climate-controlled sleeping quarters, my laptop, and occasionally internet. And I am able to communicate with my loved ones from time to time. Hardly a war at all, really. Just a really violent camping trip.
I’m off to my evening meeting. Best wishes to everyone, my sincerest thanks for the letters and packages, and keep the men in Blue in your thoughts and prayers. We are a quarter of the way done.
MOSUL 23FEB09
I finally found some time to type out another journal entry. We are in the midst of extensive clearing operations as part of Operation New Hope and Blue Platoon is getting pretty worn down. I myself have slept for an aggregate 6 of the last 72 hours. I can't believe I'm even coherent. Maybe I'm not. I'll look back on this and pass final judgment. The commander has had me clearing during the day and placing barriers at night. The problem is, it's just me. I'm tasked to go with the other patrols during barrier emplacement, even though another platoon is doing the actual work. So Blue Platoon is getting some sleep. I'm not. Today is now three days long, and I've been chasing smurfs and leprechauns across
SSG Lark is asking if I'm being punished for something. Nothing that I know of. Maybe the commander just hasn't realized that he's sending me out for days at a time? Maybe he's just failed to connect the dots? I doubt it. If I am being punished, the stubborn part of me has resolved not to even let on that I'm exhausted. I won't complain to him. Bring it on, buddy. My sleep-deprived leprechaun hallucinations give me strength.
Regardless, we've had the Devil's Own Luck for the past few days.
"Bulldog 6, this is Blue 1."
"Blue 1, Bulldog 6."
"Well, you see, there's this grenade under the truck beside you. I recommend you consider moving."
"Aha. (longer and more drawn out understanding:) Aaaaahhhhaaaa. (He slowly steps into his HMMWV:) Bulldog 6 out."
The major points go to the Iraqi National Policeman who, after a minute without explosion, ran into the truck the grenade rolled under and drove it away. We didn't know what was wrong with that grenade. Maybe the pin was partially in and just required a good jostle to blow. Maybe it was just waiting for the stars to align. Or maybe, joy of joys, the idiot who threw it forgot to pull the second safety. That was still an impressive act of courage, as I see it. You should have seen his eyes when he willed himself to do it. I couldn't even stop him. I didn't believe he was doing it until he dove into the truck.
Anyway, to make a long story short, we've been very busy and very, very lucky. The next stage of the operation remains classified, of course, but more will follow once we've finished the missions. I'm going to hit a brief now and see if I'm about to enjoy day five, night four without sleep. Bring it on. The smurfs and I can handle anything.
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
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.
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
“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
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.
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