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Camp Fallujah

After training we left Camp Taji and arrived at Camp Fallujah. I was glad we were back in Marine country and had left the grips of the U.S. Army's culture of bureaucracy and back rubs for everyone. The main event in Fallujah was to attend the IED training site.

When it comes to training, the Marine Corps has mastered the process. The IED training site at Camp Fallujah was a perfect excellent example of doing things right. The training site covered three acres on the outskirts of camp and was set up to represent as many real-life IED situations as possible in a small space. The one aspect of the training site that stood out was its realism. The EOD (explosive ordnance disposal) Marine in charge of the training brought actual IED material he had found in live scenarios and placed it on the training site in the exact scenario in which he had found it.

Staff Sergeant Wilkenson, our motivated instructor and an outstanding Marine, led our team through the course. Wilkenson was a poster boy Marine—a chiseled jaw, strong build, and the ability to slay dragons—but what really stood out about him was his positive attitude. He had been the victim of IED attacks many times, and a majority of his EOD teammates had been killed during his deployment. And yet he was upbeat and ready to train.

At the beginning of the IED course Wilkenson announced, “Marines, I want you to get prepared for the most fucked up Easter egg hunt in the world.” This was a great analogy. Even so, we walked through the course in the 130-degree heat without a complaint. Everyone on the team was so concerned with finding the IEDs and learning the enemy's tactics that we forgot about the heat.

Throughout the course an eerie theme played out multiple times. First, the springbutts (Marine Corps term for someone who is always answering the instructor's questions) on the team, Captain McShane and Staff Sergeant Donaldson, would inevitably stop and gaze at what looked like an IED in the side of the road a hundred meters ahead of us. Wilkenson would sarcastically reply, “Wow, great eyes gentlemen. Now, how about you look below your feet . . . the insurgents left a surprise for you.” As we would look to the earth, Wilkenson would explain how the IED up ahead was a decoy to get unsuspecting victims to stop in their tracks right on top of a live IED. Sure enough, we would be standing on a couple of double-stacked propane tanks filled with five hundred pounds of PE-4 high-explosive material that had been buried beneath our feet (PE-4 is a cheap Russian knock-off of what American service members know as C-4). Fortunately, we were in training.

After reaching our certain death at least five times over the next five hundred meters of the IED course, we were able to recognize an IED before it “exploded.” Donaldson picked up the radio-controlled IED ignition device off the ground to see how the device functioned.

Wilkenson lunged at Donaldson and yelled, “Boom! Congratulations, you all became chop suey and made the same mistake my EOD robot made the other week. He is now chilling in the scrap yard with R2-D2 and C-3PO.” Donaldson protested. “What are you talking about?” he said. “We found the IED. How did we die?” Wilkenson retorted, “Well, you're right, you guys did find the IED; however, that didn't blow you up. Look under the ignition device you just picked up.” We all peered underneath the ignition device, which was a Sanyo cordless telephone base station. Sure enough the base station had been rigged with some electric tape and a short piece of copper wire that led to a 155-mm artillery shell buried beneath the base station. The artillery shell was waiting to blow up whoever got curious and decided to pick up the ignition device. Whoops.

At the conclusion of the course Wilkenson told us his favorite IED
story. Some time ago he had taken a cell phone from a discovered IED site that was attached to the ignition device on an IED. By some wicked twist of fate, when his EOD team was traveling back to base, it started ringing. Wondering what the hell was going on, he answered the phone call. It was the insurgents. Wilkenson said that he and the insurgents cursed each other out and told each other to rot in hell, Wilkenson in broken Arabic and the insurgents in broken English. I am sure Wilkenson wished he could have somehow traveled through the phone, showed up on the other end, and opened a Costco-sized can of whup-ass on the insurgents.

Lieutenant Adams summed up the team's collective thoughts at the conclusion of the course: “Damn, this is gonna suck.” We left the training site with little confidence and a high awareness of our mortality. Tomorrow we would arrive in Haditha. Let the adventure begin.

Chapter 4

Meeting the Iraqi Army

August 2006

F
lying a few hundred meters above the ground aboard a CH-53 Super Stallion helicopter, I could see the villages' lights flickering off the Euphrates River, spinning off beautiful blue and purple colors. An eerie darkness engulfed each settlement, as if these villages were little islands in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Swack! Maj. Travis Gaines hollered, “Whoa, shit! What's going on?” I snapped out of my dreamy gaze on the landscape, wondering what had happened. Were we crashing? Had the pilot fallen asleep and run into something? We were still a good 150 meters in the air. The commotion felt as though we were landing the bird, but this was impossible at this height.

In Iraq, I discovered, anything is possible. It turned out we were landing, and we were 150 meters off the ground. The commotion was the helicopter landing on top of the Haditha Dam. Surprised that we seemed to be landing in midair at 0330 in the morning, each of us clutched our three hundred pounds of gear and waddled like penguins out the back of the bird. Members of the outgoing MiTT rushed to our aid with energy and excitement. Each of them grabbed at our gear like hungry hyenas, helping in every way they could.

But I was suspicious. Our hosts' generosity was in doubt. My suspicions were born out by SSgt. John Wear, who said, “Gentlemen, you don't know how excited we are to see you. We cannot wait for you to take over for us so we can get the hell out of here. Oorah!”

Once the chaos of the CH-53 engines and rotors subsided, I took a deep breath. I had arrived. From this day forward we would be making history. Here I was standing atop the famous Haditha Dam, the second largest electricity production plant in all of Iraq. To my north was beautiful Lake Qadisiyah and to the south were the magnificent Euphrates River and the civilizations that make up the Triad: South Dam Village, Barwana, Haditha, Haqliniya, Bani Dahir, and Abu Hyatt.

Once the trucks were loaded we made our way to the Iraqi camp. I fell asleep in the truck and awoke to see an armed Marine opening a steel gate. With a sarcastic tone in his voice he said, “You must be the new guys . . . that sucks. Enjoy the Iraqi side of the camp.” As we entered the camp I realized we were leaving the relative safety of six hundred U.S. Marines and were now entering the Wild West. Here our neighbors would be a small group of U.S. Army Special Forces and three hundred IA soldiers.

We entered the MiTT camp, which was a small, square area about the size of a baseball diamond (see
photo 2
). Bulletproof Hesco barriers barricaded the camp on all sides (Hesco barriers are seven-foot-tall and six-foot-wide containers wrapped in a wire mesh that is filled with dirt and sand). Upon our arrival the boss said, “It's 0445 now. Drop your gear in your rooms and be ready for action tomorrow morning by 0830.” He paused before continuing. “Tomorrow we will observe the Iraqi mission planning briefs and conduct a liaison meeting with the 3rd Battalion, 3rd Marines (3/3) battalion commander in the dam. Go to your rooms and have a nice night.”

I approached my room. The dual-occupancy rooms on the camp were modified shipping containers about eight feet wide, twenty-five feet long, and eight feet tall. Each of the living spaces was outfitted with electricity and the all-important air-conditioner. I wasn't sure what to think about the accommodations. It wasn't luxury, but it was a place to sleep.

Camp Ali

I sprang up the next morning at 0800. I use the term “sprang” loosely; my mind was ready to spring, but my body was moving at an anemic pace owing to a lack of sleep. I poked my head outside and realized I had opened an oven door. I slammed the door closed, chugged a bottle of water, and took my last gulp of air-conditioned air before cracking the oven again. Now I was ready to go. Our team gathered inside the camp and took in the moment. This was our first chance to explore the area.

The MiTT camp is a Marine's paradise. Small and austere? Maybe. Filled
with makeshift capabilities and livable? Heck, yeah. The camp was lacking some essentials, but thankfully, we had access to the resources of our next-door neighbors on camp, the Special Force's ODA (Operational Detachment Alpha) team. The ODA had everything the MiTT camp didn't have, including showers and a makeshift weight room. Within the MiTT camp we had a washer, a dryer that sometimes worked, and a rack on which to hang clothes. We also had a basic kitchen with a George Foreman grill, a microwave, and a deep-fat fryer. Seriously, what else could a Marine ask for?

After some exploration of the MiTT camp, it was time to move to the Iraqi Command Operations Center (COC) and watch the Iraqi mission planning briefs. Along the way Staff Sergeant Wear gave us a tour of the Iraqi camp.

Camp Ali is small, rugged, and relaxes across a flat piece of desert earth. The total area of the camp is perhaps three hundred meters across west to east and eight hundred meters from north to south. Scattered along the grounds are various guard towers, and there are berms (large mounds of dirt) across the southern and western boundaries to keep out the boogieman. The camp snuggles up to the west bank of the Euphrates about half a mile south of Haditha Dam.

It is apparent you are within Camp Ali the minute you pass through the main gate. The number of Marines, contractors, dam employees, and random coalition forces immediately goes from a ton down to one—the armed Marine at the gate leading to the Iraqi camp. This devil dog's mission is to operate and secure the gates to Camp Ali while standing in full combat gear in 130-degree heat. His life sucks.

When you exit the Marine side of camp and enter through the main gate to Camp Ali, to your immediate right you see the Special Forces camp. In many ways their camp reminded me of a grungy trailer park. Despite its rugged look this small area of earth is where the Special Forces make plans to take over small nations, find Osama bin Laden, and plan for nightly ninja raids. Or at least that was their reputation. Their real mission was the same as ours: advise and support the Iraqi battalion during combat operations. Neighboring the Special Forces camp is the MiTT camp and another hundred meters beyond the MiTT camp are fifty swahuts.

The swahuts house the Iraqi soldiers, known to U.S. military personnel as
jundi
, the Arabic term for “soldier.” Swahuts are unlike any housing I have ever seen. They are simple dwellings—a square slab of concrete about twenty feet wide, thin plywood walls, and a tin roof. Scatter six to
eight bunk beds throughout a small room, set up a satellite receiver to get the latest Arab news and Egyptian comedies, add fifteen to twenty
jundi
, and hang posters of Ali (a Shia Muslim hero) on the walls—now you have an idea of where the
jundi
live. It's not the Ritz-Carlton, but it's not bad considering the poverty with which most Iraqis are accustomed.

The
jundi
kept their motor transportation lot a hundred meters east of the swahuts. In many ways the lot reminded me of a Third World village. It consisted of twenty to thirty vehicles, three of which worked. In place of Oldsmobile, Cadillac, and Chevy cars, the lot had Iraqi-operated American Humvees, Leyland transport trucks (flimsy flatbed pickups), Krazes (a large and powerful Russian troop transport vehicle akin to the U.S. military's seven-ton), Wazes (Russian jeep that never works), and small Toyota pickups. In the southern end of the motor transportation area sat the “random crap” area of the camp, which consisted of rusted concertina razor wire, barbed wire, metal rods and poles, old unfilled Hesco barriers, tires, and about everything else one would find in a junkyard. Finally, and most loved by the Iraqis, was the austere soccer field, complete with no grass, thick sticker bushes, and goals made of two-by-four boards nailed together.

Fifty meters south of the swahuts were the
jundi
's prized possessions: the shower area and Iraqi chow hall. Considering the circumstances and the civilian living conditions in the Triad area, the
jundi
had a nice shower area. It consisted of a white trailer about twenty-five feet long that was propped off the ground on a few cinder blocks.

Inside the Iraqi shower trailer were four operational showers and an amazing stench that could only be created in a confined facility that provided services to over two hundred Iraqi men on any given day. Unfortunately the only alternative for cleanliness-conscious
jundi
was to swim in the Euphrates, which contains E. coli and other wicked parasites. According to the
jundi
swimming in the Euphrates is
kullish mu zien
, (very bad).

Next to the shower facility was the holiest building on Camp Ali—the chow hall. Not unlike American service members,
jundi
love to eat. Like all the buildings in the camp, the chow hall was encased in an array of Hesco barriers to keep mortar fragments out of the food. Inside the chow hall was a small assembly line where the soldiers lined up to a large bin of rice, a large bin of beans, a stack of khubbis (homemade bread), and a small container of chicken. Aligned throughout the interior were white plastic tables and chairs of the sort one could purchase at a summer sale at Wal-Mart. It's not luxury dining, but the poor decor was complemented with
engaging conversation and Iraqis wrestling each other for the last Pepsi (see
photo 3
).