Ka Boom!

Sadr's Spring Jam

Day 1: The Gravediggers and I are out in sector conducting security sweeps of a route my soldiers now refer to as IED Alley. A net call from CPT Whiteback informs us that Muqtadah al-Sadr has lifted the freeze of attacks on Coalition Forces for his ever-loyal lackey militia, Jaish al-Mahdi. Half of my men say fuck. Half of my men say fuck yeah. We spend the day patrolling the Shi’a havens of Anu al-Verona, but all is normal until the moon relieves the sun for guard duty. Inattentive, lazy bastard, that moon.

Night 1: The rhythmic purring of distant automatic fire stirs me out of a sleep an hour after I collapsed into it. A second passes, and then my entire room shakes with inevitability while a M240B machine gun on the roof of the combat outpost returns fire directly above us. I roll out of my bed, getting my legs wrapped up in my poncho liner, and land gracelessly onto my face. SSG Bulldog barrels through our door like a runaway freight train. “It on now, oh yeah, it be on now!” he booms. We all start throwing on our gear in great haste with the notable exception of SFC Big Country, who is yawning from his bed, scratching his head. “You probably have time to put on pants Sir,” he advises, causing me to look down at a pair of yellow boxer shorts decorated with shamrocks and beer bottles contrasting sharply with the combat boots, body armor, and helmet I did manage to get on my body. I peek my head out the doorway, and not seeing any terrorist hordes coming for my scalp, agree with my platoon sergeant’s assessment. The gunfire above us continues while I find my pants.

Five minutes later, the Gravediggers and Billy the Kid are sprinting out of the combat outpost to the dark shadows in the motor pool we trust are still our Strykers. Red direct as soon as we leave the front door, I tell them, locking and loading on the run. The gunfire that originated at our location has spread across the city almost instantaneously. Tracer rounds to the west, LT. Flares to our east. Audible contact with shots to our south, Sir. A bright flash and then a resounding BOOM. Umm. You probably heard it LT, and saw it, but that was an explosion to our north. The firing from the roof has stopped altogether by this point, until we hear a burst of rounds strike the outside wall of the outpost directly to our front. The hissing of M4 bullets spraying above us reminds us that one of our sister platoons is still up there, and they are still out there. “Get into the fucking vehicles!” It is my NCOs, all yelling simultaneously, stirring my Joes out of a confused, statuesque awe. Not soon after, I listen to myself on the net. “Get Redcon 1 and prepare for … well, prepare for anything. Gravedigger 1 out.”

Day 2: I stand in the streets, looking at a building with a sloping roof and two cannonball-sized holes in the middle of it. We have spent many hours zigzagging through the various Shi’a neighborhood cores in Anu al-Verona, but it is only now, with the light of the morning, that the full scope of JAM’s resurgent spectacle is comprehended. The aforementioned holes are the gift of an Iraqi Army’s BMP (armored personnel carrier) main gun, and the aforementioned building is the local Sawha headquarters. The one Son of Iraq who bothered to show up for work today expresses his displeasure with the situation. I thank him for his devotion to duty and ask him where his coworkers are. He looks at me like I have a dick growing out of my forehead and says, “they are at home, of course. It is not safe here.” I ask him why he isn’t home then. “Because my father kicked me out and told me to go to work and I have nowhere else to go.” Billy the Kid laughs and asks if we can go visit one of his girlfriends. It depends Billy, I tell him. Can her mom make good chai?

Night 2: Long duration counter-IED OP on the southern end of our Troop AO. Many hours in my vehicle are spent discussing the finer intricacies of deer hunting, a pastime both PFC Boomhauer and PV2 Hot Wheels consider themselves experts in. I can’t tell if they are more horrified or shocked to find out that the first time their lieutenant fired a gun of any sort was in a military uniform. I, in turn, explain to them that Biggie Smalls is an interpreter, not an interpolater.

The next ten minutes are spent debating which one of SSG Boondock’s designated call-signs for our soldiers is the most offensive. SSG Boondock – ironically, the Troop’s Equal Opportunity Representative – chortles with pride when PFC Das Boot identifies himself as Gravedigger 3-Kraut. I point out that SPC Doc’s nickname for himself, Twinkie (yellow on the outside, white on the inside) would have the greatest possibility of offending an outsider. The argument ends in great hysterics when SSG Bulldog calls PFC Van Wilder Snack Pack, and PFC Van Wilder responds that he’d love to eat himself, if given the chance, due to the cream filling.

The evening wraps up with no significant events. While the armchair Marines of the blogosphere might have stormed a nearby mud hut and shot a few elderly women to get their rocks off and remind themselves they were in combat, we don’t feel that compulsion, since we’re actually the ones away at war. Funny how that works. As we roll back into the combat outpost, CPT Whiteback relays the latest Frago, concerning the next morning’s mission. Embrace the Suck, Gravediggers, don’t let it embrace you. And sleep in your vehicles for two hours, it’ll make getting up easier.

Day 3: Somehow analogous for the Gravediggers’ current mission, Iraq, and life in general, a scrawny, dirty rooster begins to crow an hour after the sun’s rise, but quits in a coughing cackle halfway through the attempt. My Stryker is parked in the driveway of a very prominent local Sheik’s sprawling compound. A very fat man with a very bushy moustache and a very annoying superiority complex, my soldiers refer to him openly as Sheik Jabba. For some reason that is in no way coincidental, Sheik Jabba has decided to push up the dates for his out of country vacation to right now, and we have been tasked to ensure he makes it to the airport without exploding into bloody guts of Mahdi Army propaganda. He waddles up to the back of my vehicle’s ramp, while his entourage rolls up three pieces of vintage leather luggage. He stares expectantly at SGT Cheech, who gives Sheik Jabba the wild-eyed "you must be fucking crazy this is my third deployment to this hellhole of a country and I’ve missed the birth of two of my children for you and your people I was sent here to seek out and destroy I am not fucking carrying your damn luggage” look. PFC Boomhauer and I quickly load up the suitcases instead; I have done far more embarrassing things in life than this, albeit usually under the influence of a frosty beverage. Our route is diverted before we depart, due to multiple IED attacks in the hours previous. Thankfully, the ride passes uneventfully, and the Sheik spends the majority of it perusing SPC Flashback’s Playboy College Girls’ Edition.

Night 3: Another counter-IED mission. Highlights include SPC Big Ern’s rendition of Alicia Keys’ greatest hits, an infared chem light rave competition between SGT Axel and SPC Prime, and fifteen minutes before the scheduled end of mission, an IED exploding 400 meters to our south, out of our AO, on a convoy of friendly forces. My Bravo section races down there, only to find the only damage done was a broken rear view mirror and a few rattled souls. Despite the fact that this IED was out of our AO, had obviously been emplaced before our OP had started, and was out of our OP’s scan due to a series of canal rises, we can’t help but see the irony of the situation. “I’d keep this one out of the blog LT,” SSG Boondock tells me over the net. “Nothing like a counter-IED mission that has an IED explode just to our south. People are gonna start getting the wrong idea about our heroics, you know?”

Day 4: Nothing like spending a productive day on the job ensuring that others are being productive with their job. We roll up watching IAs and IPs not searching vehicles at a key checkpoint in Anu al-Verona. See IAs and IPs immediately begin searching vehicles when they spot our Strykers. See IAs and IPs lie straight to our faces and claim that they always search vehicles. See LT G redefine the word berserk and yell at grown-ass men like they’ve been caught stealing candy bars from the grocery store for the first time. “This is your country and your people, we can’t hold your hand all the time!” See IAs and IPs subsequently do their jobs, with a precision that shows they already know what right is.

I yawn noisily, and try to ignore the soreness underneath my body armor and the buzzing at the base of my brain that demands rest. “Tired Sir?” asks SGT Chico.

“Nope,” I lie. “You?”

“Hell, no. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

Six hours later, we pause for fifteen minutes and observe them from a distance. They continue to search all vehicles and all pedestrians, shocking each and every Gravedigger. An hour later, when another platoon passes through the checkpoint, they report that the Iraqis are no longer searching any vehicles moving into or out of town. They stop to remedy the situation.

Night 4: Finally. A combat mission. A raid in the deep countryside, far beyond even the dimmest of Anu al-Verona’s checkpoint lights. A key member of a renegade JAM group has been targeted, wanted for bomb-making, IED-emplacing, and general mischief and mayhem. We own the night, he owns a wanted poster. We are motivated. They are fucked.

I brief that this will be a snatch-and-grab mission, quicker than your standard modern romantic comedy. Home before breakfast, get ready for some bacon action, and maybe even that scrumptious blueberry pancake on a stick thing. Stellar. Until then, PFC Boomhauer hands me another Rip-It. Adrenaline pumps through my body, raping the fatigue into temporary submission.

The cordon is set. Time to move in, dismounts. SSG Boondock and his team in the lead, followed by me and Billy the Kid, followed by SSG Bulldog and his boys. Adjust to the night vision green on the move, no time for anything else. We haven’t even stacked on the first building yet when we hear a burst of AK-47 fire ripple across the dark still, somewhere close, somewhere too close. To the east. The radio ripples in response. Two individuals spotted. They have their hands up. Scared farmers, maybe. Maybe not. They’re both detained without further incident. No one was hit. Charlie mike.

We creep up to the target house. Hand and arm signals front to back. It’s as black and as quiet as everything else is around us. No need for flashbangs, I whisper. This time. The teams will leapfrog through the house. Separate the males. Don’t let them talk to each other. No time to match stories. The radio ripples again. Two individuals have hopped out of a window in a house to our north and are running. Straight into the cordon. Like quails in the brush, rustled right into the hunter’s sights. Yep, it’s confirmed. It is our guy. Perfect match with his mug shot. Must’ve spotted the Strykers in the distance. Or someone tipped him off on our move up here. That’s far more likely.

We move through the house anyways, as non-lethally as lethal soldiers can. It’s not just grandma this time; there’s dad, and mom, and wife one, and wife two, and the kids. All kinds of kids. Time to hit the switch guys. Calm down. Clear the house and search for bomb-making materials and fake IDs and any and all paperwork. And bring the family some bottles of water. Let’s go have a chat mistah man of the house, about your eldest son. You, me, and Billy the Kid.

Day 5: Why are we still here, LT? I can’t tell anymore if it’s one of my soldiers asking me that question or if I’m asking it to myself yet again. Because higher said so. Why? Because higher said so.

And no, it doesn’t matter that they said so from an air-conditioned TOC ten klicks away on an eight-hour shift while we sweat through hour 16 of this clusterfuck.

Higher wants more intel. We have already detained ten more military-aged males in the area to be brought in for tactical questioning. SGT Chico and I are now escorting an Iraqi woman and her grandchild to the other side of the village. The man detained with the original target needs positive identification; we may have inadvertently rounded up another top target, but lack confirmation. During the area sweeps though, we ran into a family whose names matched our records. They were more than happy to show us a family portrait with said other detainee. For some complex bureaucratic reason I don’t have the patience to fully listen to, the intel geeks tell me that that isn't enough confirmation. We need it on audio. We need it on paper. We need it on live action.

My men have him sitting in the shade on a small patch of grass, blindfolded, with a bottle of water next to him. Billy the Kid talks to the woman, who sighs, shaking her head, and turns to me. “Ali Baba?” she asks me. I nod my head. She clucks to herself, and tells Billy that the detained man is in fact her son, and her grandson’s father. The little boy runs over to the detainee. “Abu?” Billy asks him. The boy nods, and begins to cry. His grandmother yells coldly at him in Arabic, causing him to snap up and run back her way. He stops halfway, turns around, and runs back to his father and kisses him on the forehead.

A month ago, this scene would have caused me some sort of internal anguish. Now, it just brings me that much closer to getting out of my gear and out of the stifling rays. This detainee has a target packet as wide as PFC Romeo’s waistline, I remind myself.

“Hey, LT. They need you on the radio.” Of course they do. SGT Chico, grab PFC Cold-Nuts and walk the woman and the kid home. I reach into my Stryker, and grab a plastic bag. Give him a Beanie Baby, too. Momma G sent a bunch of them. It’s the least we can do. The kid smiles openly and picks out a giraffe.

Night 5: I can’t remember exactly how right now, but we made it off of the raid objective, with some semblance of sanity intact. We now patrol the streets of Anu al-Verona with the stony silence of men too exhausted to care anymore about being exhausted. Don’t worry about the soldiers who bitch, worry about the ones who don’t, so I worry about all 22 of them right now.

We search an ambulance. We distribute some fliers to various checkpoints. We identify ten armed men on a rooftop, and yell at them to come out to the street or die violently. They turn out to be a very skittish group of Sawha petrified that the Mahdi Army is coming for them. Get off the roof, you stupid fucks, or next time you won’t be alive to make it down the stairs to explain yourself. The Mahdi Army doesn’t have M4s. We do. Who do you think you have a better chance surviving?

Day 6: Another day spent at the main checkpoint in town, handing out pamphlets and overwatching the IAs and IPs. The kids take the pamphlet that shows masked men with RPG-launchers and reads “Violent Men Die Violent Deaths” and begin to arrest one another. “Ali Baba!” they scream. “Buca!” they cry, referencing the national prison. It is funny the first few times. Not so much the 820,973th time. I tell SSG Bulldog that my eyeballs hurt. He laughs, which causes me to laugh, which causes the entire platoon to laugh.

“It wasn’t even that funny,” I say, in between wheezes.

“Nope, sure wasn’t!” he says, and then continues to chuckle uncontrollably.

Night 6: The internet tells me that Sadr has called for a ceasefire on attacks against Coalition Forces and the Iraqi Government. It also uses the term “Mahdi Army Revolt.” I look this term up on Wikipedia, and it already has an entry. Huh, I think. I guess the last six days actually did happen then. So that's what they're calling it. History doesn't count unless it has a name.

I check in with CPT Whiteback. He’s talking on the radio with crazy eyes and looks frustrated. I’ll come back later, I decide. Back in my room, the NCOs are playing poker, bullshitting. SSG Boondock is munching on Milk Bones, dog treats Momma G sent me in the same care package as the Beanie Babies to distribute to the military sniffing dogs.

“These are delicious, LT!” he cackles, much to the acclaim of the others. "I wish I was a dog, cause then I'd eat Milk Bones all the damn time!"

I shake my head, completely speechless and yet not really surprised at these antics, and crawl into bed. As I close my eyes, I try to think of ways to describe the past week of my life. It’ll have to end with the Milk Bones, I decide. Nothing else would make sense.