Consequence (12 page)

CACI leadership decides it's best to opt out of the Army convoy and send us to Abu Ghraib on our own. We'll have a better chance of just blending in with other Iraqi drivers. It's early January 2004. The impression is that there is no war in Iraq, just some remaining pockets of resistance. Still, bad decisions seem to keep piling up. Though we're no longer in uniform, we still think of ourselves as part of the military operation. But now the military wants no part of us. Asking us to drive the streets of Iraq on our own without weapons, radios, or first-aid kits is a recipe for disaster. But I don't want to be the type of employee who can't handle this sort of thing. I don't want to be the kind of person who isn't doing his part. This may not be for everyone, but I want it to be for me.

The one CACI employee among us who has been to Abu Ghraib drives the first vehicle. He tells us to keep up; then he distributes foreign-made machine guns. He says U.S. soldiers confiscate these weapons during searches and raids on the streets of Iraq. He tells us we're not allowed to have weapons, but that “no one in their right mind drives to Abu Ghraib without a weapon.” He doesn't tell us how he acquired the weapons. No one asks. Kutcher shows us how to operate the safety on an AK-47. He commandeers a vehicle and assigns us seats.

We depart Camp Victory and head out to the main highway. A large group of Iraqi pedestrians crowd the on-ramp in an effort to slow us down and sell us Coca-Cola. We drive over the curb and weave our way past the crowd. As we make our way back onto the road, a group of children throw rocks at the vehicles. We roll up the windows.

It is a thirty-minute drive to Abu Ghraib from Camp Victory. Halfway there, we encounter an Army convoy idling on the side of the road. We are directed to the command vehicle, where we find the Army liaison who wouldn't let his soldiers ride in our vehicles. He says there is something on the road up ahead. They are waiting for an ordnance-disposal team to come and clear the route. The liaison says to just seek cover in our vehicles and wait it out. We remind him our vehicles have no armor. He says, “Good luck.”

There is an argument about what to do. The Land Cruiser with the CACI employee who has been to Abu Ghraib pulls onto the road and departs. We stop arguing and follow him. The soldiers at the front of the convoy sit in the safety of their armored vehicles and wave us through.

We arrive at the prison without further incident. As we pass through the front gate, we store the foreign weapons under the seats. We follow the lead vehicle to a prison building with a large mural of Saddam Hussein wearing a fedora and waving a rifle above his head. The CACI supervisor who has accompanied us on the trip gathers us together and makes brief introductions. Henson and I consolidate our bags while the others scout out living arrangements. Three CACI personnel return to the vehicles and prepare to head back to Baghdad. One says, “No way I'm spending the night here.”

Abu Ghraib prison is an extensive network of concrete and cinder-block buildings separated by large empty expanses of dirt and mud. A matrix of walls and enclosed compounds limits the field of view, making it difficult to perceive just how large the prison is. The addition of concertina wire, HESCO barriers, and enormous piles of sandbags creates a dusty labyrinth with myriad openings into large undefined spaces. The complex, like every other part of Iraq I've seen, is flat. There is almost no vegetation. There are no views or overlooks. All you see is prison.

The site manager at Abu Ghraib assigns us bunks inside one of the many empty prison cells. We are cramped but glad to be together. Outside our room, near the head of the hallway, there is a whiteboard with messages for personnel working at the prison.

The Following is available at Supply: (Milatary Personel)

*Interceptor Vest Plates are available for
MEDIUM
vest
ONLY

MORTAR WARNING

Possible attack 2200 and 2300 hours tonight

Stay inside

I take a photo of the board and send it home in an email. I write something about the spelling mistakes.

We spend our first night at Abu Ghraib getting oriented to the prison. We follow other employees to an old cafeteria, where CACI personnel brief us on our assignments. Local workers have been painting over the murals of Saddam Hussein in this room. They must not have had a stepladder. The paint only covers the lower portion of the mural, leaving Saddam's head untouched. His head stares down at us as we squeeze into concrete benches and dining tables where Iraqi prisoners once ate their meals. There is a television in the corner, where soldiers are watching the Baltimore Ravens. They're asked to turn down the volume for our meeting.

There is a thump. Then more. Everyone scatters. There are more sounds. They are deep pounding noises, like someone slamming a door. These are mortars. Up above, something growls. These are rockets. They overshoot and detonate somewhere else. The CACI employee who said, “Just you wait,” now says, “I told you so.”

The briefing continues. CACI personnel tell us not to get too comfortable in our cells. They tell us we'll be moving a lot and to just get used to it. They tell those who have body armor to wear it in the chow hall. They assure the ones who don't have armor that it will be arriving soon. Be patient. They say the towelheads have every building in the complex ranged. They say no more hot meals for dinner. They say be prepared to have MREs for lunch. They say not to throw shit paper in the portable toilets. It takes up too much space and there is no telling when anyone will come to suck out the shit. They tell us no more showers. There's just not enough water right now. They tell us to stay off the roof. The snipers are back. They tell us to be careful about what we write in emails. They say not to take pictures of the detainees. They say, “We mean it this time.” They tell us to work hard in the booth. “That's the only place where we can make any of this better.”

My concerns are growing. The transition from Kuwait, to Baghdad, to Abu Ghraib was disorganized and unprofessional. It was also dangerous and irresponsible. As former soldiers and Marines, none of us were comfortable with the lack of planning, lack of support, and lack of proper supplies. No weapons, no communications equipment, no maps, and nothing for first aid. We all expect something to go wrong very soon.

But the longer each of us stays, the more tolerant we become. What seemed unreasonable at Fort Bliss seems acceptable in Iraq. All of us talk about quitting, but no one wants to be the first to do it.

5.3

In the morning, we are taken to the Interrogation Control Element (ICE). The ICE is a plywood structure adjacent to what soldiers call the hard site, the facility where the Army holds high-value prisoners. Throughout the complex there are auditoriums, cafeterias, offices, meeting rooms, and cells where Iraqi prisoners and guards worked and lived during the days of Saddam. There is ample space, but Army engineers are unsure about the buildings' structural integrity. They're not sure how they will stand up to the mortar fire and rocket fire. They're afraid the buildings may collapse if hit too many times, so they build temporary plywood structures instead.

The interrogation booths are part of a small plywood structure just outside the ICE. There is a central hallway with six interrogation booths on each side. A two-way mirror runs the length of the hallway. We walk down the hallway and observe our first interrogations. The two-way mirrors don't work. The detainees stare at us as we make our way down the hall. Mortars land outside and we scurry into one of Abu Ghraib's concrete buildings.

We are taken back to the ICE, where we receive our work assignments. Bagdasarov and I are put to work immediately. I am assigned to the team responsible for debriefing former regime elements. These are the men who worked closely with Saddam Hussein. Henson works with me as an analyst. It's never entirely clear how the Army determines whether any of us have the proper security clearance. Some employees are told they have “interim clearances.” Others are told they'll receive theirs soon. Others aren't told anything. No one from the Army ever asks. No one from the Army ever requests documentation. We let CACI handle it. I am handed a folder and told to be ready to get to work first thing tomorrow morning.

I walk back to the cell where we sleep. I pass by the dining facility, which isn't serving hot food. Loud pops. Some scurry for cover. Some don't. Those who don't seek cover laugh at those who do. They say, “That's outgoing, not incoming.” These are U.S. Army 120mm mortar teams. They are positioned in an open field not far from the dining facility. I watch and listen as they send mortars out into the neighborhoods surrounding Abu Ghraib.

I walk past Camp Ganci. Peter Ganci was a NYC firefighter killed on 9/11. The army has named a detention facility inside Abu Ghraib after him. Ganci holds four thousand prisoners. They live in tents. There are concrete bunkers near the edge of the camp where they can hide during mortar attacks. I stand near the barbed-wire fence. Prisoners gather and stare. The crowd grows. A young soldier in a guard tower says, “Careful sir, I only have a few rounds.” I walk away. There is a single incoming mortar round. The prisoners don't run to the concrete bunkers.

5.4

It is Sunday. I'm scheduled to conduct my first interrogation. The Army has set up a room full of computers, adjacent to the dining facility, where soldiers can access email and the Internet. The Army calls this an Internet café, but it is nothing more than a bunch of dusty desks and old Dell computers. I stand in line for fifteen minutes of Internet time. It's just enough to download one email from my sister. My four-year-old nephew had to be taken to the emergency room. He stuck a bean up his nose and couldn't blow it out. Thirty miles away, in Baghdad, a suicide bomber detonates a vehicle and kills more than twenty Iraqis.

From the Internet café, I walk to the ICE. There is a large expanse of macadam where Army helicopters land to deliver prisoners. I watch a mushroom cloud rise above the walls of Abu Ghraib as ordnance-disposal teams detonate an IED. I pass by the makeshift chapel. I have time for the opening hymn. I sing “Blessed Be the Tie That Binds.” I place the hymnal under the folding chair and reach for my body armor. I work the Velcro straps on the armor as slowly as possible, so as not to disturb the other worshipers. The straps make a terrible tearing sound.

On my way to the ICE, I stop and rest near the HESCO barriers near Camp Ganci. I pray. I've not pursued prayer in some time. But as I sit in a prison in Iraq and prepare to interrogate prisoners of war, it seems appropriate to pray to God. Presbyterians are taught to pray with the Lord's Prayer in mind. We begin with praise, then move on to requests and confessions before closing with words of thanks. My prayer outside Camp Ganci ends quickly. As I move toward requests, I feel a terrible sense of shame. I cannot ask God to accompany me into the interrogation booth.

In Scripture, God often works in prisons, but he is never on the side of the jailer. He is always on the side of the prisoner. The realization brings on a physical reaction. My hands shake. My face warms. I feel nauseated. The sensation is terrifying. Prayer in Iraq is dangerous. I am beginning to realize I'm not on God's path. I'm on my own.

Henson walks by on his way to the ICE. He says “Let's go, Jesus, time for work.”

5.5

Henson and I sort through dozens of manila folders containing information on the men I've been assigned to interrogate. We know nothing about any of them. The screeners who conducted the initial intake interviews determined that these men were associated with Saddam's regime, but how, why, or at what level remains unclear. Henson says he'll spend the day reading up on the files and try to work out whom we should be spending the most time with. He closes his eyes, pulls a folder from the middle of the pile, and says, “In the meantime, good luck.”

There is no discussion of policy or procedure. As at the processing center at Fort Bliss, and the convoy briefing at Camp Victory, everyone is left to essentially carve out their own way forward. As a contractor, I'm expected to know how to do the job. But I don't.

I wait in a plywood interrogation booth while soldiers locate and deliver my first prisoner. In the booth are three plastic chairs and a plywood table. A steel hook is embedded in the floor. One of the chairs has plastic zip ties secured to the rear legs. My Arabic isn't yet strong enough to let me conduct interrogations on my own, so I work with a translator from Sudan. I struggle to understand his English.

A young soldier working as an MP escorts an old detainee into the room. Like all prisoners, he is handcuffed and hooded. I remove the hood from his head. The MP struggles with the lock on the handcuffs. He drops them and they fall to the floor. The detainee reaches down and picks them up for him. The young MP says, “I'll be right outside.”

The ICE has provided every interrogator with a list of critical questions that need answers. These are called priority intelligence requirements (PIRs). PIRs are written by different units and cover a variety of topics. Smaller units may want specific information on the threat level of a particular intersection. Larger units may want information on entire villages or towns, while the top-echelon groups look for trends and demographics.

The most important PIR in January 2004, however, is information on the location of chemical weapons. I prepare a list of questions based on the PIRs. I ask: Sunni or Shia? Baath party? What level? Occupation? Rank? Family? Sons? How many weapons in your house? How many weapons in your car? Why were you detained by Coalition forces? Did you fight during the invasion? What do you know about the regime's chemical weapons program?