Embedded (34 page)

The old man continued. “The following week the gentlemen I originally met came to my offices at the prescribed time, this time dressed in civilian clothes. Everything seemed perfectly normal. However, the lead U.S. Army soldier had an odd request. He asked me to bring all of my
employees outside and put them in a line so they could search them for weapons. I thought this was a fair request, since these men were U.S. Army soldiers. I followed the request and marched all of my employees outside the building and had them form a line.”

Qutaiba looked down and shook his head, obviously saddened by where the story was heading. He raised his head and continued. “Well, Jamal, my fourteen employees and I stood in a single-file line. We felt like we were being set up for an execution. We stood still for five minutes, trying to figure out why the men would not search any of us. Then the lead man commanded, ‘Turn around and face away from us.' We obliged.” I was stunned by what I was hearing. “We waited for another five minutes,” Qutaiba continued. “I turned around, and to my horror there were five men dressed in U.S. Army fatigues pointing AK-47s and RPK machine guns in our direction. The men transitioned from speaking fluent English and began chanting in fluent Arabic with a Persian accent, ‘Allah akbhar, Allah akbhar.' [God is great, God is great.] They opened fire on us, mowing us down like weeds. This was not a meeting for business, it was an execution mission set up by sophisticated Iranian terrorists.”

I gasped. “Whoa! How did you survive?” Qutaiba replied, “I am not sure how I survived, Jamal. I felt rounds entering my body multiple times and blood was everywhere. I thought for sure we would all die. The terrorists finally left the scene, assuming everyone was killed. I was the only one still alive. Me, the oldest person in my firm. I crawled back to my office to call for help. Luckily the commotion roused the suspicion of people in the area and people came running to see what had happened. Il hamdu il Allah [Thanks be to God].”

He paused before continuing. “They told my family that I would die, but somehow I made it. I now have twelve bullet holes in my body and for the next two years of my life, I must wear this metal contraption so my arm can function in the future. Pretty wild story, isn't it?” I was in shock, but was able to respond, “Yes, you could say that.”

Qutaiba scooted his chair closer to mine and came within six inches of my face, just close enough so I could feel his warm breath on my cheeks. “Jamal, my entire company staff was murdered, my business was shutdown, I had both hip bones replaced, and I underwent ten surgeries on my chest and arms. The terrorists took everything from me. But do you know what they did not take, Jamal? My fighting spirit. They can never take that from me. I will never give in to the terrorists.”

Chapter 21

Wayn Jundi
? (Where Are the Soldiers?)

November–December 2006

I
finally got a grasp on the numbers coming back from the leave run. The situation was truly dismal. We had a grand total of 197 soldiers on hand, and I wasn't even sure that number was correct. More important, our battalion was left with a total of five officers, which meant that Iraqi leadership was nonexistent. Additionally, half of the 3rd Company
jundi
who operated out of Camp Ali were AWOL (absent without leave). We barely had enough people to run a platoon-sized patrol operation, yet we were still considered an Iraqi battalion on all official records.

The Battalion Comes Apart at the Seams

The reason for the complete lack of personnel was very simple: The Iraqis had decided to go on “extended” vacation, probably because of the recent violence in Baghdad and the spike in sectarian warring that had curbed the
jundi
's desire to fight in Al Anbar when they had plenty of fighting to do near their homes. Of course, the Iraqis had been taking extra vacation throughout our deployment, so I wasn't sure this was the complete answer.

There was nothing we could do about the extended leave except report the issue up the MiTT chain of command and hope disciplinary action was eventually taken at the MOD level. But I was highly skeptical MOD would do anything about the situation. They were on their knees begging for more soldiers and couldn't afford to lose any more. Any sort of crack-down on the current
jundi
who decided to take extended leave would only have worsened the personnel crunch. The MOD had already had to rehire
every soldier who had been fired due to disciplinary actions.

As if the actual numbers weren't bad enough, to make matters worse, none of the S-1 administration section had returned from leave. Ironically, the people who were supposed to count the
jundi
weren't even here. It looked as though I was now the S-1 clerk for the Iraqi army. Of course, at this point I was not too concerned about the problem. I had given up hope on the Iraqi army being anything more than a bunch of thugs, beggars, thieves, and desperate men with uniforms and AK-47s. There was no use stressing over the reality of the Iraqi army.

Let me be perfectly clear and state up front that my morale at the time was sky high, even though I hadn't seen my wife in four months. If I hadn't had a wife and a mother who were losing sanity every minute I was in Iraq, I seriously would have contemplated taking some of the
jundi
up on their offer to provide me shelter, security, and an Arab wife. It might have been cool to hang out in Iraq for a few years to learn more about the fascinating culture.

Nevertheless, I was highly disappointed with the progress we were making with our Iraqi army unit. I knew that some of our battalion's failures were due to some foolish actions by advisers on our MiTT. Even so the vast majority of the failures were the fault of the Iraqis: they did not give a shit about anything the Iraqi army did and they put more effort into figuring out how to avoid work than they did into actually working. As the saying goes, “You can bring a horse to water, but you can't force him to drink.”

The biggest issue with the
jundi
was that they didn't show up for work. We had been on the brink of a personnel crisis the entire time we had been in Iraq. We had started with about 300 soldiers, which was less than 50 percent of what we were supposed to have in an Iraqi army battalion, and we now sat at fewer than 200 soldiers and had no key personnel or leadership resident to the battalion. We could have moved forward with 200 soldiers—if the leadership had been here. It would have been ugly, but we could have accomplished some basic objectives. But with 197 soldiers on hand, no leadership, and nobody willing to step up as a leader and make decisions, we effectively were left with 197 bums collecting a paycheck.

In Haditha the 4th Iraqi Company was representative of the crisis we faced. Out of the original 59
jundi
we had there at the beginning of the deployment, 16 were injured, 10 were AWOL, and 19 had quit—leaving us with a grand total of fourteen. Fourteen soldiers? Were the 250 Marines in
Haditha going to turn over security duties to these 14 derelicts with AK-47s? If that was the plan, we wouldn't be leaving Iraq for the next hundred years. The situation was ridiculous, and if Colonel Abass and the rest of the key officers didn't return from this next leave period, our MiTT would no longer have a job.

Every time I hear a speech by President Bush touting the progress of the Iraqi army, I wonder if he has looked at any of the data from Al Anbar Province.

Running for the Exits

Poor morale among the
jundi
had been growing and was finally reaching disastrous levels. One day the buses from 3rd Iraqi Brigade (based in Rawah, which is west of Haditha) stopped at our camp to rest and refit. A slew of our
jundi
saw the buses parked outside the camp and immediately packed their bags. In their minds this was their opportunity to quit the army and get out of the area as soon as possible.

The scene at the buses was straight from a comedy movie.
Jundi
were tripping over themselves trying to transition from their uniforms to their civilian attire so they could get on the bus. I asked Abdulrachman, the nefarious S-1, to determine how many people we would lose. “How many
jundi
are leaving?” He replied, “Jamal, I don't know. The number is changing as we speak.”

Although I knew the situation was futile, I called the boss to tell him the news. I knew he would be in a complete tizzy and want to come fix the situation himself. Predictably, Major Pyle came running to the Iraqi COC to get an update on the situation. When he arrived he noticed that the Iraqi leadership was doing nothing to stop the
jundi
who were trying to flee from Camp Ali. He walked up to my desk and began one of his heroic speeches. “We can't let this happen. I can't let this happen. I am going to go out there and stop the
jundi
from leaving.” He turned to Martin, the terp on duty, and said, “Martin, let's go. By God, we are going to stop this shit!” Within seconds he was waddling out the door in the direction of the buses. He looked like a puffed-up rooster on his way to a cockfight. I mumbled under my breath, “Good luck, dumbass.”

Why the boss wanted to stop the
jundi
from leaving on the buses is beyond me. We already knew there was going to be a huge number of
jundi
quitting after the next leave run, which would occur in seven days. I figured we should let the quitters go early so we could save on food and
supplies. More important, we would give the quitters less time to think up schemes to steal shit from the camp as their parting gift.

Not surprisingly Major Pyle was unable to stop the buses before they could leave. I just didn't think the guy got it. What was the point of wasting everyone's time to keep a few
jundi
from quitting when they were going to get on a leave bus in seven days and quit anyway? I guess common sense is not a common virtue in the Marine Corps.

With the runaways on the buses and the rumors of an additional thirty
jundi
quitting after the next leave run, we stood to lose an additional 30 percent of our battalion, bringing us to a grand total of 150 soldiers—for a battalion that was supposed to have 755. For all intents and purposes, our battalion no longer existed. There wasn't even a unit to advise. The concept of standing up what is effectively a “Shia militia” in Al Anbar had failed.

Chapter 22

Disaster Strikes

December 2006

J
ust as a game of poker started in the MiTT COC, Corporal Castro, an embedded Marine adviser who worked with 3rd Iraqi Company, came rushing into the COC. He addressed Doc with an odd request. “Doc, do you have a long plastic glove that goes up to your shoulder?” We all turned around and simultaneously said to Castro, “What did you just say?” I said, “Castro, I don't really care about what goes on over there in the swahut you guys live in, but what sort of kinky stuff are you guys doing these days?”

Castro, embarrassed and smiling, said, “Gentlemen, I lost the Surefire light that goes on the end of my rifle.” Doc said, “Ouch, those are like five hundred bucks. But why do you need one of my long plastic gloves?” Castro, hesitating, responded, “Uh . . . well . . . I was in the Port-a-John [outhouse] and I was using my light to find the toilet paper so I could wipe my ass. The light fell out of my hands, everything went pitch black, and I heard a loud splash.” We burst into laughter. Adams summarized the situation. “So you lost your Surefire in the shitter? Wow, now that is a shitty deal.” Castro responded, “Sir, that is probably the worst joke I've ever heard.” That night Castro went fishing for his Surefire light.

The Worst Day in Iraq

One day in December was definitely the worst day of the deployment. The first piece of bad news came from brigade. They reported that the leave convoy had been hit once again with an IED—in nearly the same
spot it had been hit the last time. Sixteen
jundi
were seriously wounded or injured. Thankfully, nobody had died this time around.

I was now very much on the side of the Iraqis. They had constantly bitched and complained that they shouldn't be taking the same route and traveling with the American convoy on the leave runs because it made them an obvious target for the insurgents. We needed to change the road or change the route—at a minimum. I did not want to see any more of my Iraqi friends die for no reason.

A second piece of bad news came by way of an email I received from Dan Ballard, a friend from Okinawa, Japan, whom I had worked with at 3rd Marine Division before going to Iraq. The e-mail subject was “Did you see the news on Nate Krissoff?” Oddly, there was no information in the body of the e-mail. Concerned, I immediately sent an e-mail to Krissoff, my roommate in Okinawa and my best friend in the Corps, to see what the news was all about. Unfortunately, the email to Krissoff was never answered.

Within minutes of receiving the e-mail from Dan Ballard, I got a phone call from Lt. Jeff Brewer, a good friend, and the assistant intelligence officer (S2-A) for 2/3. I knew something was not good the minute I heard Jeff's voice on the phone. He relayed the news. “Dude, Krissoff is dead, man. He died in an IED attack today.” The words sucked the life out of me. I responded calmly, “No fuckin' way, dude. How the hell did that happen? I was just talking to him yesterday and he said he rarely even got the chance to go outside the wire. Are you sure?” Jeff responded, “I don't know, man. I just got the information and figured you should know.” I hung up the COC wire-phone and sprinted to my SIPRNET computer to send another e-mail to Ballard. Ballard responded immediately with the details on what had happened to Nate.