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Hussein and I agreed on a basic patrol plan. It was sophisticated enough to accomplish the mission, but simple enough to ensure everyone's survival. We would sweep south through the palm groves for two kilometers and move west across Boardwalk into the villages. From that point we would push north back to the WTF through the villages, look for suspicious material, and ask the locals for information. While moving through the palm groves, we would split into two groups, one of four and one of six. Sergeant Kelley's group of four would trail closest to the Euphrates, looking for car batteries, generators, and triggermen who could be initiating IEDs. My group of six would travel along the western edge of the palm groves searching for the copper command wires along the ground.

We gingerly traversed the palm groves. As we commenced the movement south, I became furious. Daylight had revealed that if we had shifted our patrol from last night another hundred meters west, we could have completely dodged the reeds, jungle thicket, and mud pits that had caused us so much anguish. My resentment wore off quickly as I realized it was an amazing day to be in Iraq. The sun was shining, the temperature was hovering
around seventy degrees, and we were on a long walk (okay, a combat patrol, but close enough). We came across farmers tilling their lands, sheepherders attending to their flocks, and kids playing games. I stopped to talk with everyone who would listen.

Suddenly the ignition of a single AK-47 round screamed in my ears. A symphony of gunfire followed. “Holy shit, how many fuckin' dudes are shooting at us?” I muttered to myself. My primal sensory abilities rose to a level I had never experienced. It was exhilarating. This shit was for real.

In the midst of the chaos it took me a moment to realize what was happening. It was likely that one sniper round had been fired in our direction and the remainder of the rounds were from the infamous “Iraqi fire blossom,” a colloquial term for the phenomenon that occurs when Iraqi army soldiers are attacked. When under fire every
jundi
in the immediate vicinity starts firing all their rounds in all directions. The event creates a cloud of firepower that resembles a blooming flower. In many cases the biggest danger in Iraq is not the insurgents but the Iraqi fire blossom.

I took cover when the fire started and began to scan through my rifle scope for the attacker. I was staring into a palm grove thicket and could barely see thirty feet in front of me. Revenge was not probable, and it seemed the gunfight was over. I radioed to Sergeant Kelley, “We are gonna take cover here and lay down covering fire; you guys push south and try to flank this bastard.” Kelley was excited to get in the action, as he knew we were in a perfect formation to catch the insurgents for once. He radioed back, “Roger, we are pushing south. Make sure the Iraqis don't shoot our asses.” I replied, “Good to go. For your information, it sounded as though the fire was close range, maybe two hundred meters away. Don't push farther than five hundred meters if you can help it.”

After my radio transmission with Kelley, I concentrated on the fight. I quickly realized a round aimed for my head had instead wasted the
jundi
who was patrolling ten feet in front of me. He cried in agony, flailing around as though he was on fire. Time to use some of Doc McGinnis's combat lifesaver knowledge, I thought, as my adrenaline kicked in and everything started to slow down.

Espi and I rushed to help the fallen
jundi
while everyone else posted security. This Iraqi was the luckiest bastard on the planet. The round had penetrated his leather gloves hanging from his flak jacket, and his two magazines and had gone through his entire SAPI (small-arms protective insert) plate. The round had stopped at the inside edge of his flak jacket, causing
a small scratch and a silver dollar-sized burn on his chest directly over his heart. The pressure from the round had cracked his ribs, but he was going to live to tell the tale.

I radioed back to Major Gaines, “Shadow One, this is Shadow Two, we have one friendly routine casualty. Request QRF. Stand by for details.” Following the transmission Sergeant Kelley radioed, “We are heading back to your position. We can't get through the brush up ahead—too fucking thick.”

Within minutes Kelley and his crew had linked up with our force. We had a powwow with Hussein and decided that the best course of action would be to move back in pairs to a berm that was 150 meters behind us. Kelley's crew would go back first and we would follow. From there we would bound to the nearest home, where we could find and wait for the QRF. Once everyone got word of the plan, Kelley's Iraqi fire team began bounding back to the berm as we provided covering fire.

Kelley and his
jundi
sprinted to the earthen berm. I looked back to be certain everyone was okay and we had our sectors of fire covered. I gazed on the battlefield. All the
jundi
were hugging the ground, like cheese melted into a hamburger. These guys were scared shitless. In the midst of this, I saw Espi, snuggled up to a tree, trying to light a cigarette, seemingly oblivious to the immediate threat we had encountered. Perplexed, I hollered to Espi, “Dude, are you fuckin' Dirty Harry, man?” He replied, “Sir, I have seen this happen hundreds of time and it makes me go crazy. I have a new SOP—to light up a cigarette first thing after a firefight or I end up doing something stupid. I can put it out if you really want.” I smirked and said, “Naw man, it's all good. Just keep your fucking head down. You can be my bounding buddy to the berm.”

I wanted to hug Espi after his cigarette incident. His actions calmed me down and had me laughing aloud. My mind was thinking clearly again. “Espi, you ready to move out?” He responded, “Roger, Sir, I'm moving.” I covered Espi as he bounded back to the berm where everyone else was taking cover. We continued to cover each other and move until we were the final ones to reach the berm.

Once at the berm Kelley grabbed four of the
jundi
and hauled ass to a large Iraqi home a hundred meters from the edge of the berm. After they established a foothold in the home, they waved the rest of us to move the casualty into it. Hussein and a couple of
jundi
grabbed the injured soldier. Hussein yelled to me, “Jamal, cover us.” In response we provided cover fire
while Hussein and his men moved the casualty to the home.

Another sniper round went flying over our heads, coming from the direction of Boardwalk. “Aw fuck, here we go again,” yelled Moody in his thick Arab accent. We were facing fire from multiple snipers and they almost had us surrounded. Everyone took cover. I looked up and down the berm and everyone was clean. Before I could blink the Iraqis did what they do best under fire—get out of the area. The old saying “When in Rome, do as the Romans do” became immediately relevant. Bounding was a tactically sound idea, but we needed to get out of the kill zone—in a hurry. Everyone crouched under the berm and ran as fast as they could into the courtyard of the home Kelley and his men had under control.

Exhausted, Moody rushed to give me the bad news. “Jamal, my fuckin' radio is back at the berm!” I did the calculations in my head: a one-hundred-dollar UHF commercial Motorola radio or risk people's lives. The solution to that problem was easy—to hell with the radio!

Inside the home the family was courteous and understanding of our situation. Moody served as the “calm the locals” man, Kelley and Hussein set up security, and I coordinated for a QRF. Once things were settled I visited the casualty. A young boy had brought Ali, the wounded soldier, a large glass of water. I approached Ali and said, “Il hamdu Allah is salama!” (Thank God you are safe!) He grinned at me, blew a large cloud of smoke from his cigarette, and said, “Jamal, I am in fuckin' serious pain!” I laughed uncontrollably. Ali proceeded to show me the hole in his flak and his magazines. All of the
jundi
rotated through to see how he was doing and to hear his war story. Ali was now a living legend among mere men.

After speaking with Ali I went into the main room of the home. It was stunning. I am always impressed with what Iraqis can do with little means. I have a hard time keeping a film of dust out of my hooch back at the camp, yet these people can keep an entire home spotless. Moreover, the home had a spiral staircase with beautiful marble footings. At the foot of the staircase sat a two-person rocking chair. I walked up to the man of the house, who was sitting peacefully in the rocking chair, chatting with Moody. I introduced myself and told him he had a wonderful home. I apologized for our uninvited entrance. I think he understood our predicament; having a
jundi
with a bullet hole in his SAPI plate was more than enough to convince them we were in need of their help.

The QRF flew at sixty miles per hour down Boardwalk to our position,
scaring every man, veiled women, and begging child in the area. It was obvious the
jundi
were at the helm. When they arrived in a fury of dust, we mounted the casualty into one of the Humvees and the QRF scurried out of the area and back to the WTF without incident. We were left to our own devices to get back to camp.

Without the burden of a casualty we cautiously left the home and headed across Boardwalk and into the village. The squad was uneasy. We rushed north with a focus on returning to base. We had seen enough action for the day. Our beautiful day in Haditha had turned into a game of Duck Hunt for the insurgents. To make matters worse, temperatures decided to rise past 100 degrees. The squad walked through the front gate of the WTF ready to relax. This was my first serious combat incident and I hoped it would be the last. Insha'allah.

Iraqi Interrogation 101

At the compound we had two new guests. The Iraqi QRF had managed to spot the two individuals running across the street at the time we were taking sniper fire. They detained them and brought them back to our patrol base for questioning. An Iraqi captain swiftly backhanded one of the detainees in the face as I approached. The bitch slap was followed by a rain of death threats and accusations. The scene was getting ugly. I sprinted to the scene, looking for hidden CNN reporters along the way. Dealing with a detainee abuse case was the last thing I wanted at this point.

Puzzled by what was happening, I said, “Captain Ahmed, let's first GPR [gunpowder residue test] these guys before you get too wild with your interrogation.” He fired back in an emotional state, “Jamal, these men fired at you. They are insurgents. I know it. Let me take care of this the Iraqi way!” I replied calmly, “That might be the case, but let me test them first.” I reached into my grab pouch and grabbed some flexi-cuffs. “Here; take these cuffs and secure their hands behind their backs.” Ahmed snatched the flexi-cuffs from my hands while Espi went to grab the GPR kit.

“Owww!” The older detainee screamed in agony. I saw that his wrists were bleeding. Ahmed had decided to use the flexi-cuffs as a vice grip on the detainee's wrists. He had tightened them so snuggly they were cutting into the detainee's wrists, causing blood to spill on the ground. Captain Mawfood immediately yanked Ahmed from the scene to council him.

“Fuckin'-a, man,” I said in a defeated tone, “now we gotta get these damn things off of this guy.” I grabbed my Gerber all-purpose tool and
went to work. I systematically tried to pry a knife under the cuffs, but because they were so tight, I only worsened the man's pain. He yelled again. I peered into his eyes and in California English said, “Dude . . . shut up!”

After five minutes of getting nowhere I came to an unfortunate conclusion: This Iraqi would have to endure some pain if he wanted to be free. The detained gasped, “Wallahhh” (Oh, God). As surgically as I possibly could, I got the knife blade under the flexi-cuff and ripped upward, cutting the plastic cuffs in half. The detainee cringed in agony but was relieved to have the cuffs removed. Espi reapplied the flexi-cuffs appropriately and we began the GPR tests.

The GPR tests were overwhelmingly positive. These kids had been playing in daddy's gun closet. The GPR was by no means a foolproof test, but given the circumstances, it was likely that these men had tried to kill me. After explaining to Captain Mawfood the GPR results, he ordered a group of
jundi
to take the detainees to the new U.S. COC, inside the security hut near the gate.

Major Gaines had us gather around. “Gentlemen,” he said, “Nuts is taking out the next patrol, everyone involved in that group get ready. Jamal, you are the intel dude. Watch over these detainees and see if the Iraqis can get any information. Everyone else get some sleep.” Everyone understood the order and went their respective ways. I stayed behind, wishing I could get some sleep too.

The makeshift guard shack that held the detainees was small, with a main room just big enough to hold a cot, a refrigerator, a bookshelf, and a side compartment room that acted as a sleeping post for the reserve guard on duty during Saddam's reign. The Iraqis liked the idea of taking the detainees into the compartment room. I waited in the main room on the cot and took the opportunity to take off my heavy load and rest after a hectic twenty-four hours of combat.

Thud, thud. A dense pounding sound came from the interrogation room. “Damn, I told them to play it cool with the detainees!” I said under my breath. I busted into the room and witnessed Martin, one of our terps, head butting the detainee and pounding him in the center of the back with his fist. “Martin, what are you doing man? You know if the detainee facility sees this all of our asses are gonna fry!” He looked up with a grin. “Jamal, this is how we always do it. Do you really want the Marines getting information from these guys? Gimme a break. The Marines suck at getting info! Plus the detention center never looks in the center of their back. The
bruises in the areas where I am hitting these guys won't show up for weeks. Relax!”