The Silence of War Page 4

  We wore civilian clothes while inside the wire at Camp Fallujah. I wore cargo pocket khaki pants and a khaki-colored shirt and my tricolored woodland camouflage Marine cover (hat). Since that particular cover had long since gone out of date as a uniform item in the Marine Corps, it was not inappropriate for a “civilian” to wear it. It was particularly useful as a conversation starter, since it identified me as a former Marine. It felt good to be with Marines again.

  While there, at Camp Fallujah, the “it’s a small world” phenomenon kicked in as I walked down a street and a former law school buddy, now a Marine captain, jogged toward me from the opposite direction. We both asked at the same time, “What are you doing here!?” We had been friends back at law school. Being so far from home, it was really great to meet someone from home. As an old friend, I was relaxed with him. I never did feel completely relaxed with the group I was traveling with. They were way above my level, I felt.

  At Camp Fallujah we were finally issued pistols. Frankly, I would have much preferred a rifle, but at least a pistol was something. I had spent twenty years in law enforcement, often doing dangerous things, but I was never unarmed. The prospect of being weaponless in Iraq did not sit well with me. I probably overstepped the bounds of propriety in making my feelings known about it. In retrospect, I should have trusted that no one would have sent us forward unprotected. But in my life’s work up to that point, there was all too often only myself and my personal “persuader” between me and harm. I had come to value self-reliance above all else. And in Iraq that meant being armed.

  Always a proponent of the “you can never have too much ammo” theory, I hit my Marine buddy up for more. I didn’t want to seem like a hot dog in front of the group I was with, but neither did I want to be in a position where I wished I had more. I borrowed as much ammo as I could get from him and kept that fact between us. In addition to pistols, we were issued tan flight suits, which were worn by all Marines at that time because they were made of fire-retardant material. No one was allowed outside the wire without one. Improvised explosive devices (IEDs) were ever-present dangers, and they often caused horrible burns. The flight suits were meant to alleviate that particular threat.

  Before we left the relative safety of Camp Fallujah, I had another encounter with incoming indirect fire. This time I was awake. I was sitting at a computer in a large recreation room filled to overflowing with Marines when a rocket exploded nearby. The building was surrounded on all four sides with high, thick concrete as protection from just such an occurrence, but this round landed so close that our computers rattled. Had the projectile hit the roof, the casualty count would have made national news. I would have been one of them. The young Marine sitting to my immediate left shot a nervous glance in my direction. It had made me anxious also, but Marine leadership training is impervious to time. I put on a brave face and calmly said, “Well, they missed.” The Marine smiled and went back to his email.

  Our next stop was a Marine position in downtown, bullet-riddled Fallujah proper. To get there we went in a vehicle convoy. As we left Camp Fallujah I keenly felt the IED threat. Every bridge, every culvert, every pile of junk by the side of the road was a potential IED site. I will candidly admit I was anxious. I also freely admit I felt the same way every time we convoyed anywhere. I never did get used to it.

  The city of Fallujah had been the scene of some of the toughest fighting in the Iraq war. In 2004, Marines had fought house to house, block by block, to clear the city of insurgents. The scars of that battle were apparent everywhere. I doubt I saw a single building that wasn’t riddled with bullet holes or partially blown away by something more forceful.

  We arrived at a place commanded by a Marine major. All the windows had been sandbagged to protect the occupants from sniper fire. As if to drive the point home, the windows in the head (bathroom) had bullet holes in them. Shrapnel from an incoming mortar round had pretty much torn up the courtyard outside. The signs of war were everywhere evident in the defenses that had been set up. Marines in full gear were on guard around the clock.

  The major offered to show me the city as seen at night from the roof. I took him up on his offer. That this was no mere sightseeing tour became real when he first put on his body armor and helmet. What was called a “helmet” in my day is called today by the bullet-stopping stuff it’s made of: Kevlar. I followed suit. He crouched as low as he could to get behind the sandbagged bunker on the roof, and I mimicked him. I was starting to learn—albeit slowly. Snipers were still a real threat. The major pointed out various parts of the city for their battle history and tactical significance. I don’t know whether he added that last part out of deference to my Marine officer past, or whether it hadn’t occurred to him that not everyone would be able to follow what he had to say; I understood.

  At the Marine intelligence officer’s insistence, we all had drawn gas masks while at Ali al Salem. The major explained why. He pointed out the place where a suicide truck loaded with deadly chlorine gas had gone off at the entrance to our position. The major believed his Marines were the intended target, but the suicide driver couldn’t negotiate the obstacles placed at the access point. Therefore he chose to detonate himself prematurely. No one was hurt, except the driver, of course. Chlorine gas was used extensively in World War I; it was deadly. Anywhere we went while in Fallujah, we carried gas masks. I thought I had seen the last of those ungainly creations during the Cold War. I never dreamed I might actually need one, and I was glad we had trained to don them so often that even decades later, I could slip mine on in an instant.

  Meanwhile, Colonel Thompson was not at all happy with me. He explained later that he felt I had placed the major at risk by accepting that officer’s gentlemanly offer to show me the sights from the roof. The colonel believed that I should have declined. Given the donning of armor and Kevlar, and crouching against possible sniper fire, I saw his point—in retrospect. At the time, I was desperately seeking the experience of war that I had prepared for years prior. I felt it was necessary to experience danger. There was something ineffable and possibly insane about that feeling.

  I didn’t even try to make myself understood. The teacher had reprimanded the student, and I flushed with embarrassment. I was still a neophyte. Looking back now, I think he did understand, and the teaching point was: unnecessary risks are to be avoided. I still had a lot to learn. The next morning—early—I awoke to the sound of an IED going off at a not-too-distant location. At least I didn’t sleep through that explosion.

  We went on foot to another site where our mission required us to be. We walked as if we were a squad on patrol, in staggered formation on either side of an alleyway. Still feeling ashamed after Colonel Thompson’s warranted reprimand the night before, I took slight comfort that at least I remembered enough of my active duty training to get my part of the patrol right.

  It was an eerie feeling walking past bullet-riddled buildings in an urban sniper’s paradise. I tried to keep a sharp eye open for any sign of them, but there were so many potential hiding places, I knew we were really trusting to luck. No amount of skill could keep us safe. We walked through open raw sewage containing human excrement and didn’t bat an eye.

  It was life on patrol in Fallujah.

  We arrived at the office of a local Iraqi functionary. He had things to tell us about the insurgency in Fallujah. I noticed that our interpreter translated three different Arabic words into the English word “terrorist.” After the meeting I dug deeper into the meaning of those words with the interpreter. He was referring to three different groups. A better translation would have been “organized crime”—whose members would attack Americans for a bounty paid by Sunni nationalists and al-Qaeda itself.

  The distinction was stunning news in my eyes. If an investigation in, say, New York City was pursuing three different drug gangs but thought it was tracking only one, that investigation would surely falter. I spoke up. The group ignored me. I
was beginning to wonder why I had been included on this mission. I was beginning to think that my résumé, particularly the part about being a lawyer, was the reason. I wondered if I was window dressing. The thought did not make me happy.

  Naturally, while there I made friends with the Marines. One evening they invited me into their barracks room, where music blared loudly and I was offered access to a computer with an Internet connection. I so thoroughly enjoyed myself that I had no idea that a Marine lieutenant colonel, who was responsible for our safety, was anxiously looking for me. And, owing to the music, I didn’t hear him calling my name. It even crossed his mind that I might have wandered outside. This caused him no little anxiety.

  The lieutenant colonel let me know that he disapproved of his not knowing where I had been. The look on Colonel Thompson’s face conveyed unmistakable agreement. Once again I felt thoroughly shamed. I wasn’t used to being kept on a short leash. Nor was I used to having my judgment questioned. In fact, I preferred working alone. I had taken care of myself in tough situations for twenty years, and I was not unmindful of my ignorance of Iraq—or how dangerous wandering around outside the wire could be. This mission was not turning out to be a self-esteem booster for me. Nor was I enhancing my reputation in the group’s eyes.

  We did what we had come to do at Fallujah, and convoyed back to the major base, Camp Fallujah. En route we narrowly missed being targeted by an IED. A convoy that left twenty minutes before us was hit. I have no idea regarding casualties. It probably should have been us. We would have left twenty minutes sooner, but one of the young Marines had forgotten the time of departure and was late. Given the VIP nature of the “cargo” on that convoy, his squad leader was extremely embarrassed and verbally dressed him down in front of everybody. Still, that Marine’s error might have saved some of our lives.

  Luck, or Divine Providence, plays a large role what happens in a war zone.

  Back at Camp Fallujah, we engaged in never-ending rounds of brainstorming meetings with high-ranking Marine officers. I said almost nothing. My self-esteem had taken a real beating by this point, and rightly or wrongly, I felt I had nothing to offer. Perhaps I was correct in remaining silent. The others in the group had real-war fighting experience, while I had not.

  Once the meetings were completed at Camp Fallujah we made another night flight, this time to the huge American base at Al Asad. At Al Asad the living was good. We were each assigned to our own personal trailer-like rooms. The rooms were called “cans” by those who were permanently billeted there. Since they were very small and made entirely of metal, I could see why they were so named. It was the first time since we left the hotel in Kuwait City that I had any privacy, and I realized how much I had missed it.

  Each “can” had individual thermostats, which was a great pleasure to me. I found the air-conditioning everywhere else to be near freezing and, especially at night, I was uncomfortably cold. It struck me as slightly bizarre that I needed to sleep inside a sleeping bag and wear a jacket at all times indoors, when the temperature outside was so extremely hot. Also at Al Asad, we were conveniently located near showers and personal washing machines with dryers. I was getting tired of crusty socks. Being a total tenderfoot, I brought too much of what I didn’t need, and not enough of what I did.

  But I learned hard lessons, which set me up for success later in Afghanistan.

  The base was colossal. I actually had to wait for a bus to get to the post exchange, which reminded me of a large department store back in the States. I eagerly searched for socks and underwear, which I needed badly. I could find nothing between extra small and triple extra large; no “human” sizes were left on the shelves. So I bought presents for my brother’s kids instead—mostly T-shirts and ball caps that said “Property of the USMC, Al Asad Iraq.” Al Asad seemed like a minivacation to me. I was learning to appreciate the “little things” in life that we take for granted in the States, such as privacy, thermostats, washing machines—and clean socks and underwear.

  All too soon, it was time to leave and move forward once more. When we pushed out from Al Asad we went by convoy to a battalion FOB at a place in the Euphrates River valley. I was enthralled to actually see the Euphrates River, which I had been hearing about since grade school. I thought it was badly overrated as “the birthplace of civilization.” The rest of the world must have been a real mess when “civilization” got around to being born. On one side of the road—where the river flowed—the area was green. It wasn’t an impressively large strip of green, but it was green at least. On the other side of the road was the ever-present brown windblown desert.

  The FOB was the battalion command post for the 2nd Battalion, 1st Marines (2/1). I was billeted in the “guest quarters,” which was a wooden bed—I mean wooden bed; there was no mattress, just wood. One eighth of an inch of plywood separated my “bed” from the operations center. It was a bedlam of activity day and night. The noise didn’t matter—I used my rock-hard body armor as a pillow and slept like a baby. Between the energy-sucking heat and too few hours of sleep, I was continuously exhausted.

  On one of our trips outside the FOB I met my first sheik. He was an honest-to-God Arab nobleman, a hereditary leader of his tribe. He wore flowing robes right out of Lawrence of Arabia, and he gave me a warm embrace and kissed me on both cheeks. I’m sure I flushed at that, but in the Arab culture, he, a man of noble birth, was paying me a very great compliment.

  As dangerous as the country was, it was also enchanting. I was experiencing things I could only have watched on the silver screen at home. I engaged an Iraqi policeman in a conversation about our homes and families. He spoke very little English, and I spoke very little Arabic, but with a great deal of gesturing, we actually understood each other. He communicated to me his hope that one day I would be able to come back to Iraq with my family, but without a gun. I conveyed to him that I wished for the same thing and hoped our families could pose for typical tourist pictures together. It was a fascinating exchange. I was slowly becoming a citizen of a larger world than the one I had grown up in.

  We left that FOB and convoyed to another. It was a small Army outpost, and the commander, a lieutenant colonel, obviously had not been informed that we were coming. With professional civility, but with strained punctuation, he asked just who we were and what we were doing showing up at his command in the middle of the night. Lieutenant colonels do not, as a rule, like surprises. This one sure didn’t. Somebody had dropped the ball, and our Marine lieutenant colonel was professionally embarrassed. Although his face showed no emotion, his cheeks turned red. I had the distinct feeling that somebody was going to pay for this omission.

  The next day we were escorted to a war-torn city by a Marine captain and a composite Army/Marine Corps escort. The city was beginning to show signs of returning to life after years of strife. People were everywhere going about their business, shopping, talking, or walking. The women were conservatively but very colorfully dressed. As is the practice in Arab countries, they were covered from head to foot, but veils were not omnipresent, as they are in some places. Children played without apparent fear in the streets. Rubble was still in abundance everywhere. The war had taken its toll on the city.

  The men stopped what they were doing and sullenly stared at us as we passed. They did not seem disposed to be friendly to Americans. Their countenances had a chilling effect on me. I remembered the news showing the blackened corpses of American civilians hanging from a bridge with cheering, jeering Iraqis, just like these men dancing with joy at the carnage. I could feel their hatred emanating from their eyes like heat from a sunlamp. I was damn glad I at least had a pistol. I was also glad for the extra ammunition I had borrowed. I wished I had a rifle as well.

  We had come to see a certain Iraqi Army officer who made his headquarters in an abandoned public building. The outside façade was crumbling in places, and the usual raw sewage seeped up from the ground below. Inside, the buildi
ng was all but devoid of furnishings. His office, however, was as professionally appointed as one could expect in a country that had been torn by conflict for so many years.

  The officer, identified here only by the nom de guerre of “Colonel Ahmed,” comported himself with grace and dignity. He wore a uniform of the camouflage pattern of the Iraqi Army and sported a small pistol in a covered holster on his belt. He greeted us as if we were invited guests, although we had arrived unannounced. After tea, Colonel Thompson eased into the ostensible reason for our visit. The real reason can never be revealed.

  As was becoming my habit, I said nothing.

  Perhaps my silence, along with my gray hair, drew Colonel Ahmed’s attention. He struck me as a man who was trying to read what was behind my eyes—the hidden reason for our visit. During undercover assignments in my law enforcement days, I had learned not to allow my eyes to divulge anything. I projected to Colonel Ahmed that I was a person of no interest. Nevertheless, he continued to stare at me until we left.

  When we first arrived, our Marine captain escort—whom I will call “Captain Jones”—casually commented that Colonel Ahmed had said that he could stop the insurrection in his area within twenty-four hours without firing a shot. Moreover, he had done so. I asked the captain if he understood what that meant; the captain didn’t. I explained that only the commanding officer could do it so quickly—by ordering a cease-fire—and therefore Ahmed was the guy in charge of the local insurgency. A Marine officer from the intelligence specialty, Lieutenant Colonel Smith, overheard our conversation and looked at me strangely.