The Wait in Kuwait

[thedrifter]

The Wait in Kuwait
Part 1 of a frontline account of Iraq's liberation.

BY BRIAN TAYLOR
Monday, January 26, 2004 12:01 a.m. EST

(Editor's note: Mr. Taylor joined the Marine Corps Reserves in 1996 and was called up for service in February 2002. His enlistment expired in November 2003. He kept this journal while deployed with the Fox Company, Second Battalion, 23rd Marines in Kuwait and Iraq. Comments in italics were added after his return to clarify and expand his account and to define military terminology for the benefit of civilian readers. This is the first of five parts.)

23 Feb 03--Camp Coyote (Marine Corps camp in northern Kuwait where I spent approximately three weeks. Before the invasion began it was home to as many as 4,000 Marines.)

We arrived last night to a tent city erected by Kuwaiti money and imported labor. Accommodations come complete with oak plywood floors. The atmosphere is friendly but focused.

The battalion intelligence chief told us to be ready for operations by 1 March. He told us that 2/23 is the only reserve battalion with a combat assignment (Regimental Combat Team 1) and that 2/6 (an active duty battalion) got passed over for this job. The battalion commander spoke, but his words were carried away by the wind. It was brief in any event.

Shari is due to deliver in two days. Current communications assets likely won't permit phone contact. What to say about it? She will be disappointed. God keep her.

Tomorrow we will stow our sea bags (the big green tube-shaped bag Marines carry their gear in; not for tactical use) in shipping containers. We won't be likely to see them again until the end of the war. Decisions must be made about what gear to carry and what to leave. Even the lightest of us will be carrying an absurd amount of weight.

As it turned out, we did not turn over our sea bags the next day. Senior Marines from several companies in the battalion argued against this plan. It seemed likely that weeks might pass before our departure, and having use of that extra gear, mainly extra uniforms and comfort items, would make life in camp much easier. Keeping our sea bags another 20 days meant starting the invasion with a fresh uniform and a supply of clean shorts and socks.

Our prep time is short. There are very few combat veterans here so the unknown looms large. There is no openly expressed or detectable undercurrent of fear in camp. But I feel some anxiety about how I will perform after we get started.




25 Feb 03

We spent yesterday repacking our gear and trying to come to grips with the battalion gear list. The thought of carrying tents and PT (physical training) gear into combat was odious and immediately drew comments like "whoever wrote this list obviously never humped a pack in his life." Eventually battalion got the message that non-mission-essential gear might need to remain behind.

We also played hearts. Garrard can't win and Smith can't lose. But still being jet-lagged we went to sleep in mid-afternoon and woke up around midnight again. It's not a bad sleep cycle for an infantryman. Lance Cpl. Garrard wrote this letter to the U.S. Smokeless Tobacco Co. today:

Dear U.S. Smokeless Tobacco Co.,

My name is Lance Corporal John Garrard. My friends and I are running desperately low on Skoal Wintergreen Long Cut. Being a part of a forward deployed infantry unit, we are cut off from any opportunity to purchase your products. The Marine Corps prides itself on tradition. It wouldn't seem right for us to lay the hammer down on Iraq without a nice fat chew. Grunts and chew are like peanut butter and jelly. They just don't work without one another. If you could be so kind to send us some chew, we would be forever indebted for your generosity. Please send us some tobacco in an unmarked box so the losers in the rear don't steal it.

Thank you,
LCpl John Garrard
USMC

John has a can-a-day habit but strangely forgot to bring any tobacco. At my suggestion he drafted his letter on the back of an MRE (meal ready to eat; modern single-serving combat ration) box to maximize its front line effect.

This afternoon Sgt. McMullen delivered the first real warning order I've ever received--or rather, the first warning order for a genuine combat operation. Thirty miles north of the border is a disused ammo dump. We are to clear it so follow-on forces may build an EPW (enemy prisoner of war) processing center. It is believed to be unoccupied but light resistance is expected en route.




26 Feb 03

Immediately after the company finished an MRE breakfast, the first hot meal of this deployment rolled in on the back of a five-ton truck. So we ate again. Skipped the MRE lunch though.

Platoon conducted PT this morning. We did the "daily seven" and wind sprints. As we concluded the signal "GAS! GAS! GAS!" rang out so we ran the five paces or so to where our masks were staged and donned and cleared. We spent 40 minutes in masks buttoned in our tents against the possibility of chemical attack. In a nearby area 11th Marines was conducting a drill--false alarm. A few minutes ago the signal rang out again so we are in masks again. In fact I'm writing by flashlight in a closed sweltering tent.

I woke last night at 12:40 feeling that Sharlene had just given birth. No word arrives from the Red Cross and I am anxious for news. I want to know that the baby is well and well formed and healthy, and that Shari is recovering.

And I want to take this mask off.

Unmasked now. It occurred to Cpl. Broberg that all this gas masking has begun on the very day that the First Marine Regimental HQ arrived on scene. And that it has the flavor of unannounced drill. There is a persuasive wisdom there.

27 Feb 03

Capt. Schoenfeld handed me a printed message from the Red Cross informing me of the birth of my son at 12:55 p.m., date not mentioned, presumably on the 25th. It was a fine moment, though not what I would have preferred for the occasion.

Handshakes all around. Eight pounds, 15 ounces. Lots of remarks on the size and well wishing.

Then I walked over to the battalion aid station and received treatment for what appears to be a case of conjunctivitis. The treating officer, Cmdr. Krushka, asked me to return the unused eye drops when I am done because medicine is scarce.

There goes another gas alert. Perhaps there is a causal relationship between journal writing and gas alerts. I should leave off for now.

All clear and unmasked now.

Fragmentary info about our upcoming operation is beginning to filter down. The Fifth Marines are hitting an objective on our left and the Brits are way out on our right flank. The Second LAR (Light Armored Reconnaissance battalion) is attached in support of us and Fox Company will be the main effort in the battalion assault on the objective. Aerial recon shows no activity at the site but there are forces between here and there. One hundred fifty meters beyond our objective is an MSR (main supply route) through which enemy may flee the Fifth Marines. Still no date yet.

Camp life is becoming routine. Marines generally get along and go about their business, but tent walls are thin and sometimes the drama spills out. But what sounds deadly serious to Marines trapped within sounds hilarious to Marines listening without. Fights between young Marines, or the hollering of thoughtless NCOs (noncommissioned officers) at luckless subordinates, are all audible in the lanes between tents. And the predictable futility of that kind of troop management is almost funny when heard from the tents of Marines in other platoons and companies.

Sgt. McMullen is the ranking Marine in my tent and is about the most amiable, happy squad leader I've known. With mock seriousness he narrates his way through MRE mealtime, weighing the comparative merits of different preparation techniques for the dry peach cobbler, or any other mundane gibberish he can enhance with purposeful hand gesturing.

At Garrard's suggestion I replaced Cpl. Taneja with Cpl. Siggard as the assistant automatic rifleman. Taneja assures me that everything is fine, but clearly struggles to find his place in the platoon. Siggard takes some ribbing about being a Marine Corps cook, but is fitting in. He also expresses interest in the weapons systems and team functions, which pleases Garrard.

I learned how to start an IV this afternoon. I stuck Cpl. Biggers in the arm and even managed to hit his notoriously difficult vein. Broberg stuck Arnold and removed the cap on the needle before he had the hose ready and blood jetted out of his arm down his trouser leg and boot. Everyone seemed pleased by the spectacle and they probably learned enough to do it themselves in a pinch.

continued.....

[thedrifter]

28 Feb 03

The Fourth Army Infantry Division arrived yesterday. On their first day here they opened a PX, a social club and who knows what else. But their war-fighting gear is still a great way off. Imagine the convoluted set of military priorities that allows such things to happen. It is as if war fighting is incidental to the Army's existence and not its reason for being.

Sgt. McMullen brought a backpacker's multi-fuel stove and all the required gear for percolating coffee in the morning. The company staff is positively abusive in the way they lean on him to "hook up" the CO (commanding officer) or themselves. And his coffee and fuel are running short. It annoys me to see him exploited that way, but he is too decent to consider it exploitation.

At 0900 Staff Sgt. Ivers told me to get my gear and my weapon and jump on Maj. Liddy's humvee to Camp Commando, which is operational headquarters. Commando is half of an old Kuwaiti base situated near Kuwait City. It is a busy purposeful place--a Marine Corps installation but full of Army personnel, Seabees, Brits and reporters. There, unlike here, people shower regularly and shave daily without fail. There are women in uniform, and women with guns. There are mess facilities, barbershops, an exchange and phones. It has nearly all the amenities of an American base.

I went to Commando to use the DSN (Defense Secure Network) line to call Shari. I reached her at about 2:00 a.m. Utah time, but she was awake to feed John Byron. She told me that she had had to undergo an emergency C-section when the baby pinched off his umbilical, but although in the process of asphyxiating himself, he snapped back admirably when they had him out in less than two minutes. She had to endure the incision sans anesthetic due to time constraints, but it went well enough for her. She held the phone to his head and I thought I could hear his eager sucking and nasal breathing. I wish I could just look through a glass on that scene.

I assured Shari that all is fine and fun here. Relayed a message from First Sgt. Lopez to his wife via Shari that he has arrived, is well, and loves her. He made me promise to keep it secret.

During the ride to and from Commando, I sat in the back of an open humvee on security with my rifle in condition 3 (magazine loaded, no round in the chamber, safety on) pointed outboard on the Kuwaiti freeways. Kuwaitis would speed by and smile, wave and give a thumbs-up. Feb. 26-28 are Kuwaiti Liberation Days, a memorial of the short ground operation during which U.S. led coalition forces drove Iraqi invaders out of Kuwait. Apparently the locals haven't forgotten the favor. The drive-by interactions brought me a great deal of gratification and real sense of military pride and adventure.

Now we are the invaders, come to rout out tyranny from its nest. Confusion to the enemy.




1 Mar 03

After the return ride last night from Camp Commando I found Fox Company gone from tactical assembly area Inchon, this area, by bus to Matilda. There are showers at Camp Matilda. I caught the next ride over with Weapons Company and took my first shower in a week. After living on a dust-swept desert plain for even so short a time it felt wonderful. Frankly, I expected not to shower at all, but to wash out of a canteen cup until the war is over. The canteen cup, out of which I bathe and shave, is not for drinking.

Today our platoon has camp guard duty. For four hours during the day and four hours later tonight we gear up, load weapons and stand posts. I guarded a couple of electricians while they installed electric service to the tents (they're not done yet). One was a Pakistani, one an Indian, and we are required to escort them wherever they go, and presumably shoot them if they try anything funny.

At one point while guarding three workers during their lunch, I breeched guard protocol just and little and asked if any of them spoke English. The Pakistani did. From him I learned their nationalities. They ate canned curried meat on flat bread with some kind of yogurt or cheese sauce. It looked and smelled far better than MREs.

When not on guard duty, or otherwise occupied, we rest in the tent (a 20-by-40-foot) take care of our gear, read or play cards, or write letters.




2 Mar 03

I attended an LDS (Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints) service today in one of the newly erected regimental tents. Forty or 50 LDS Marines from various elements of RCT 1 (Regimental Combat Team; the entire regiment and attachments). We took the sacrament and shared testimonies. The finest moments were the singing of hymns, which make worship so easy and free. And doing it all in such an improbable place as this, and with a rifle at hand and a gas mask on the leg makes one even more mindful of the goodness of God.

Rumors about when we may cross the LOD (line of departure; where the invasion begins) and initiate this effort circulate daily. But the general consensus is that we will be fighting in Iraq by the second or third week of March.

The desert camps are rapidly filling and multiplying. The amount of men and material massed here is so large that any pretense of a mere show of force must surely be gone. We are here to fight, not threaten.

The lights came on last night. The whole camp cheered when electric service was finally established and the previously dormant fixtures flickered on in our tents. Now we can cease tripping over one another in the dark and burning our scarce batteries.

There are 20 people in this tent and it is crowded. The desert creeps in under the flaps and follows us in on our boots.

At 1300 Capt. Gougen came to the tent and offered to take my fire team and me down to the battalion command operations center tent to see digital photos of the baby. Maj. Kundith took a photo of us to send home and then we crowded into the COC. They were going over aerial imagery of our first objective and making plans. But they happily turned all that off, inserted a new disk in the computer, fumbled to find the right application for picture viewing. My whole team moved into the seats formerly held by most of the command staff and then everyone in the COC looked at baby pictures. It was an incongruous moment when desert warriors paused to stare at a new baby and congratulate his father. Whoever ran the slide show promised to print the pictures off and pass them along later.

4 Mar 03

No one here knows when we will cross into Iraq. And I suppose it is possible that we might not go at all, if the radio reports of diplomatic efforts are to be believed. But it seems inconceivable that so much force should be massed here just to allow it to be dissipated by international diplomats a world away, people who, for the most part, take no notice of U.S. security imperatives. Here in the camps the feeling is that this is a military task that must be accomplished.

And the sooner the better. I've got other things to do. A marine from H&S Company, a clerk, brought the pictures of John by my tent last night. The pictures capture that startled look newborns wear while they are trying to gauge the size of their new space. It must be disconcerting to be unable to touch the very edges of your world at any moment and instantly know your place in it.

The USNS (U.S. Navy Ship; civilian-manned) Greenlake, the ship on which our battalion's heavy gear and vehicles are embarked, has arrived at a Kuwaiti port. Now it waits for dock space and unloading service.

Yesterday we practiced loading and unloading the seven-ton trucks on which we will probably ride into Iraq. The beds will be lined with sandbags to insulate troops against the effects of anti-vehicle mines. Some marines complained that the sides will not be similarly fortified against small arms fire. But it's not our call. That decision was made by someone who won't be riding in the back of a truck.

We had classes about how to breach a minefield with a grapnel (a small anchor used for grappling) on a line and bangalore torpedoes. We had a refresher course on M240G machine-gun employment.

And we played a mort of cards. We play hearts like we were giving it up for Lent. I have a strategy of thinning out my diamonds or clubs by initial trade, and then sloughing off everything else. I can usually avoid taking a point that way, and it drives Broberg and Garrard mad when I almost immediately start sloughing hearts or the queen of spades right away.

This morning I got up at 0500 and went to chow, the only one in my platoon who bothered. Then I lined an MRE box with a black trash bag and did my laundry. Laundry day was actually two days ago for our company, but there was a sandstorm that caked every wet thing with a crust of mud. Most of us wisely waited. But Capt. Schoenfeld, our platoon commander, saw Cpl. Giles doing his socks yesterday and ordered him to stop as it was not our day for washing. So this morning I took my wash behind the truck farm and washed several sets of underwear and socks. I hung it to dry inside the tent. I can scarcely fathom why a captain of Marines would trouble himself with a matter so trivial as when Marines wash socks, particularly three days before we go to war.

Word came down yesterday that the 9th is the day we go. In three days my seven-year focus on training will change into application. It is time for doing.


continued.....

[thedrifter]

8 Mar 03

OK, it isn't quite time for doing. Yesterday's intelligence brief revealed that our battalion's armored vehicles have been given to First Regiments other battalions. Now we are waiting for other vehicles and probably not crossing the LOD with RCT 1.

I washed my hair this morning with some shampoo donated by the Salvation Army. I just knelt on the ground and poured water out of my canteen. I feel great.

The storm yesterday kept us inside our tents. Someone in headquarters shared a computer with Second Platoon and we watched a movie. We made a makeshift theater out of MRE boxes and watched "Austin Powers 3."

I wish I had new news of Shari and the children. How is John's jaundice? How does Jane progress through kindergarten? And what is Keith's occupation?

Cpl. Broberg and Sgt. McMullen decided that we should all grow mustaches. Sgt. Rogers, the Third Squad leader, sports a notoriously scrubby and thin mustache, which he clings to despite all our mockery. So Broberg instituted one last mockery--we will all have mustaches in a few days superior to his humble "dirt lip."




9 Mar 03

An Echo Company Marine negligently discharged his SAW (squad automatic weapon) in the next tent this morning. No one was hurt. He is now facing a court-martial at the hands of the division CG (commanding general) with a likely reduction of rank and possible brig time. Poor devil. His punishment for negligently discharging his SAW into the floor of his tent was deferred until after the invasion, when the battalion wisely elected to take no formal action.

Today we rolled our watches back three hours from local to Zulu time (Greenwich Mean Time). This is done for operational reasons.

The MEF (Marine expeditionary force) commander, Lt. Gen. Conway, spoke to RCT 1. He stood on an amtrac (a flat-bottomed military vehicle that moves on tracks on land or water) and spoke into a microphone so the 4,000 or so Marines could hear. He talked about how Marines fight, how to master fear, and how to behave once in Iraq. As he was finishing a point about the advantages of operating in a Marine Air-Ground Task Force with organic air assets, two AV8-B Harriers flew over at about 200 feet. One looped and they arched upward. As we watched them fly away four Cobra attack helicopters abreast of each other came in at 100 feet on a low attack run to let us see what our enemies might see. The Cobras approached so low and fast that there was almost no warning. Our enemies won't see much.

Gen. Conway said that the Iraqi 51st Mechanized Division near Basra just learned that they are facing the Marines. He said, "Imagine what Hajji said when he learned that he will be facing the Marines in a few days time. He probably said, 'Abuba Belushi!' Which is Arabic for 'Ain't that a *****! The Marines.' " It was all fine and motivating.




13 Mar 03

Two days ago Gen. Mattis spoke to the battalion. He gave operational details about the allied advance on Baghdad. And he gave very frank answers to questions on any topic. He told us we will be given priority status when units queue up for rotation home after the war ends.

Mail still arrives only slowly, but I have been more fortunate than most receiving several pieces so far while others have received none.

The platoon walked the mile over to the Fifth Marines LSA (Logistics Support Area) yesterday to use their showers. That, and a clean shift of underwear and uniform, restored a degree of civilization. But tonight another stumble-around-and lie-in-the-dirt exercise is scheduled so the shower effect will be quite destroyed.




14 Mar 03

Delays could keep us in this camp for some time. The U.N., that cesspool of anti-U.S. sentiment, is doing its utmost to foil the U.S. Their primary objective or strategy is apparently to maroon Cpl. Taylor in this desert until the sun kills him or Gen. Conway takes the First Marine Division back to California.

Today Staff Sgt. Ivers burst into the chow tent and boomed, "Second Platoon you're done eating breakfast. Go back to the house!" Chief Warrant Officer Tomka was in a rage because he had mismanaged the Regimental Guard schedule and there was no one queued up to relieve Echo Company. So Fox Company Second Platoon got whipped into its gear and hustled out to the perimeter posts. And that's how things go in the Marines. Someone shows his ass on the job and covers it up by blasting someone else.

It is all one though. We were scheduled to stand those posts tomorrow anyway. I sat at pillbox six, a pile of sandbags covered with a camo net, for six hours. I sat with Garrard and we chatted each other up for the whole time about wives, kids, boats, motorcycles, war, officers, promotion, demobilization and other Marines. Garrard is a rare gem.




16 Mar 03

It is Sunday and there is no significant training scheduled. The SAW gunners and their assistants may go out this evening and burn off some rounds.

Yesterday Fox Company had a fire team competition. We ran from station to station in the heat of the afternoon with assault gear on, performing infantry tasks at each stop. At one station we had to disassemble and reassemble weapons, at another treat a simulated casualty and call for medevac. At another we were tested on vehicle recognition and weapons recognition. We gave NBC (nuclear, biological and chemical weapons) flash reports and performed prisoner searches. There were others.

Final results are not in but I hear we did not win. We topped all the Second Platoon teams though and placed highly in the company.

Last night we marched out as a company for night movement exercises. Coordinating the movement of a company formation in the night is difficult. The exercise was primarily for the platoon commanders who need practice controlling 40 men dispersed across the sand.




17 Mar 03

The time is 11:15 Zulu and Sgt. McMullen just passed word that at 1500 we will be loading our sea bags into the Conex boxes (for storage in Kuwait). Presumably this is in preparation for crossing the line of departure. I will enclose this journal in my bag at that time and take a blank one with me. There is a chance that we won't get our bags back--ever. I hope that isn't the case, as I want my journal and all the other contents of my bag.

The battalion is getting ready to publish its frag order (short for "fragmentary"; an update to a standing operations order). Our initial mission is changed.

I love my family. I long to see my wife. I long to play with my children. I am positively desperate to see and hold John Byron. God keep each of them.




(Next week: Part 2--Into Iraq.)


http://www.opinionjournal.com/columnists/btaylor/?id=110004602


Sempers,

Roger
:marine:

[thedrifter]

Into Iraq
Part 2 of a frontline account of the liberation.

BY BRIAN TAYLOR
Monday, February 2, 2004 12:01 a.m. EST


(Editor's note: Mr. Taylor joined the Marine Corps Reserves in 1996 and was called up for service in February 2002. His enlistment expired in November 2003. He kept this journal while deployed with Fox Company, Second Battalion, 23rd Marines in Kuwait and Iraq. Comments in italics were added after his return to clarify and expand his account and to define military terminology for the benefit of civilian readers. Four-digit numbers followed by "Z" are time codes in Greenwich Mean Time; codes of the format "38RQU 29141756" are 8-digit MGRS grid coordinates indicating his location at the time. This is the second of five parts; click to read Part 1.)

20 Mar 03

Two days ago convoy left Logistics Support Area 1. We moved to a dispersal area to the North in empty desert. Last night GWB announced war. We are waiting to cross phase line Arnold into our AO (area of operations). Radio reports mass surrender. Mixed feelings, mostly relief.

Today we started malaria pills. They made some Marines nauseous. Garrard voided his stomach off the side of our truck.

Yesterday we drew full loads of ammo. I have 20 HEDP (high explosive, dual purpose; in this case 40mm grenades fired from my M203 grenade launcher) rounds and a few smoke and pyro. We have one AT4 (84mm antitank shoulder-fire rocket, single shot, disposable) per team. I also carried eight 30-round magazines of 5.56mm rifle rounds, and several hundred more rounds in bandoliers in my pack. Marines are eager to get into Iraq and get on to the next thing.

0929Z--Gas alert. Reportedly Iraq launched two missiles at British camps in Kuwait. They missed, but we MOPPed up (Mission Oriented Protective Posture; to "MOPP" up is to put all the chemical gear on, including suit, boots, gloves and masks). Garrard and Jensen were selected for unmasking. It was a heavy thing watching them take their masks off and waiting for signs of chemical sickness. But the "all clear" sounded.

Speckled Jim, the company NBC pigeon (a caged pigeon for chemical detection. If the bird died, then there might be chemical contaminants in the area. Ours was named Speckled Jim) was "non-recced" for promotion yesterday. There are NCOs who allege that he was disrespectful so his fast track to staff has been put on hold.

1128Z--The scud attacks have begun. Three times now the words "Gas! Gas! Gas!" or "Incoming!" have rung out and sent Marines into the swelter of MOPP suits and masks. We have dug hasty holes in the desert to protect us against the improbable bull's eye that sends shrapnel flying. One time we heard a distant thud, presumably a scud slapping the desert. It is unknown to us whether these are chemical attacks. But it is all great fun so far; Marines are happy to be busy.

1700Z--H hour (the time the invasion begins) was 1500. We will be rolling by 1815. Some miles to the north the sound of terrible bombardment can be heard. It is unending, rolling thudding bass. The flashes can be seen on the horizon through night-vision goggles.

Saddam has reportedly ignited the oil fires. The RCT (Regimental Combat Team) will be thrusting north through the night to prevent such destruction where it can and neutralize units that elect to fight. I only ever saw one distant jet of flame that looked like an oil fire. We never encountered any others in our sector.

All the team and individual gear has been checked. Everything is ready. I said a fervent prayer for my fire team and my family. May it be granted.




21 Mar 03 0515Z

Mounted hardened trucks and rode through the night. Very cramped and cold. We are nearing the border. The sound of artillery is getting closer. The convoy of vehicles moves at a snail's pace. We should join the fight today. 38RQU 29141756

22 Mar 03 0830Z

We are waiting for permission to cross phase line Arnold into 1st Marines AO. It has been two nights and a day of continuous convoy ops. Slow going. We passed through miles and miles of scattered Iraqi tanks, tanks shattered during the last war. The Kuwaitis cleaned up their side of the border. The Iraqis did not.

BBC reports massive surrender and pockets of intense fighting at Basra and in the oil felds in the north. We are waiting to see what's in store for us.

1306Z, dug in at 38RPU 73268567--The convoy is momentarily out of gas so we are paused. At this rate we may never get to the fight. The Army has beaten us to Nasiriyah. How will Col. Dowdy sleep at night? The snail pace of this RCT convoy is mystifying.

Weather is cooler in Iraq. The desert has a film of green on it.

I know Shari and my family are watching the war and worrying about me. If they knew what a lackluster show RCT 1 is putting on, they might rest easy. Perhaps there is a reason for this, but I can't imagine one myself.

23 Mar 03 1408Z

We are 27 kilometers south of Nasiriyah. The BBC reports 50 Marine casualties from small arms there. I believe that alone will qualify it as the bloodiest single engagement since Vietnam. The battalion commander halted the convoy and left to consult with the regimental commander about new routes, and how to secure bridges for allied use. Understandable.

But allowing any passing civilian to halt the convoy for an hour or more just because he approaches with hands high is incomprehensible. We have CAAT teams (combined anti-armor teams) patrolling the convoy. They could pin these folks while we pass. But instead we all halt while vehicles and persons are searched, then we shoo them away with an HDR (humanitarian daily ration; MRE lite). Meanwhile there is fighting in Nasiriyah, 27 kilometers away.




24 Mar 03 0755Z

We are still stopped in the same place. My team stood a couple of watches during the night. We tracked a steady procession of pedestrians crossing a bridge to surrender. Some were even in the military. Sheep herders surrender to us. Bedouins surrender. Passing bicyclists who apparently hadn't considered it until they saw us, they surrender.

A larger ambush in Nasiriyah has forced the RCT to adjust its plan. The city evidently belongs to the Second Marine Expeditionary Force. They will escort us through so we can get to our places around Al Kut.

There was some small-arms fire to be heard to the east of here this morning. I reported it. By the time the word reached the battalion net, the word had been changed to "We are being fired upon." A CAAT team and a confused, angry first sergeant sped up demanding to know where the firefight was. We said, "Somewhere east of here." And they sped off.




26 Mar 03 0737Z

Yesterday was the day the war really began for Fox Company. We rolled into Nasiriyah at first light, past the burnt hulks of T62s (Soviet-built tanks) entrenched in groves of date palms and into Task Force Tarawa's firefight. The truck in which I was riding stopped right in the main intersection of town under fire. Twenty Marines were lying down in rank blasting away at enemy guns. The eye can follow a burst of machinegun fire and I watched a 240G (machine gun) send a burst clattering into a vehicle, and another pinging off high-tension lines. We just hunkered down and watched until someone cleared us through the intersection. Broberg opened up with his SAW (squad automatic weapon) in the next vehicle back from the top of the cab and his firing pin broke. Third Platoon's truck took two rounds but no injuries.

Once through to the other side of town we saw evidence of hard fighting. Two AAVs (amphibious assault vehicles) burned up, all Marines inside reportedly dead. And we saw numerous enemy lying about machine-gunned, blasted apart, smashed flat by a tank, etc. Serious business.

Then 12 kilometers or so north of Nasiriyah we came to a town called Al Garraf, from which the lead element of the convoy (Alpha battery 1/11) had just been ambushed. Fox got the order to attack with Second Platoon as its main effort. We trucked up (to the objective) and immediately started hearing shots and initiated our attack. Jensen, on orders from Sgt. McMullen, leaned out the side of the truck and sent SAW bursts into a nearby bunker. We scrambled out of the truck and behind a berm toward our position looking across the highway straight into town. Iraqi machine-gun fire was zinging and snapping overhead, but we were covered by the crest of the road.

continued.....

[thedrifter]

While moving the 40 meters or so from our covered assembly area up to where we could see and shoot down the main street, I saw Staff Sgt. Cawley of First Platoon coming back the other way. He had run up there to get a quick view of things. He was moving south as I glanced up at him and he gave me a friendly smile. This was before the Iraqi machine gun and AK-47's had been suppressed. Rounds were snapping overhead and he had the composure to smile at me. A minute earlier I had emphasized the importance of calm thinking to my fire team, but Staff Sgt. Cawley galvanized that feeling in me with that smile. He made me feel better.

My squad crawled on line right up to the road and started suppressing enemy fires with M203s (grenade launchers), M16s (rifles) and SAWs. This allowed Sgt. Biemer to bring his assault team with rockets and smash holes in buildings and bunkers. They fired about six rockets.

Then we moved across the highway to get a better view into town. Men were still shooting at us, so we returned fire for a time. First Squad reported seeing the most fighters and shooting them. In Third Squad, Biggers and his team entered the first building across the road and found it empty. They moved to the next smaller structure to the east and entered. Once all four of them were inside, the room began to explode with enemy machine-gun fire from without. Bauer sprayed the room to the east with his SAW and the team ran out. But Pvt. Donnely fell down in the doorway.

Outside a confused sergeant (not Sgt. McMullen, who seemed immune to confusion) thought Donnely must be hit since he didn't come out, and he ran to throw a grenade into the room where Donnely remained. Biggers stopped him and the sergeant panicked, saying, "What do I do with this thing?!" He thrust the pinless grenade into Lance Cpl. Brent Bauer's hands. Bauer successfully contained the spoon long enough to throw the grenade down Main Street toward our attackers.

Our company commander, a well-liked man named Maj. Kirkpatrick, was doing what COs do, coordinating things by radio or runner. He had air assets at his disposal but he gave us a few extra minutes to complete the mission rather than calling in an air strike. He was concerned about bombs dropping so close to us and into the village where there were civilians. Within four minutes of our counterattack beginning down the main street, the volume of enemy fires sharply fell off and the convoy was moving again as we crossed the road. Maj. Kirkpatrick waved off the bombers.

The resistance melted away. Echo Company swept through town from south to north (we were attacking to the east). We became the base of fire for Echo's maneuver, but it quickly ended. The whole shootout had lasted about 40 minutes.

Afterward, Broberg described a moment when an Iraqi in a white robe, perhaps a hundred meters away, mounted a roof with a rifle and began throwing grenades. There were no Marines within his throwing range. Broberg opened up with his SAW, and his team with him. He said the man just stood in a hail of fire for several seconds and then slumped. Wade said later, "I've hunted all my life and killed all kinds of things, but my mind just kept saying, 'Hey, that's a dude.' "

During the initial skirmish I suppressed a shooter behind a one-story building 180 meters down the main street. He kept stepping out from behind a building with a green flag on the roof and loosing bursts of AK fire. I sent an HEDP grenade down there with a bang. Long. Two more with proper range and he didn't come out anymore. Staff Sgt. Ivers congratulated me, saying, "Good job suppressing those targets." But for me there was just that one.

There were a couple of nightmarish scenes of Iraqis waving white flags and using the lull in the firing this created to move to better firing positions. But far worse was the way they herded women and children into the street and then shot from behind them. We didn't have to go into town after the fight, but it is generally supposed that several of those innocents were killed in the crossfire.

I talked to a battalion sniper who operated in support of Fox Company that day. He said he saw an Iraqi emerging from behind a building to take quick shots with an AK-47. He emerged twice while the sniper was making ready to shoot. The sniper loosed a round as the target appeared for the third time, but the man thrust a child out by the arm instead. The sniper was very upset at the scene and at the thought that he had shot at a child. The incident reminded me of Saddam's promise not to use unconventional weapons, but unconventional tactics. Saddam's unconventional tactic was to make collateral victims of his own people.

After the attack was over, Fox Company returned to its vehicles and performed some quick weapons maintenance. We talked about what we had seen and done and marveled that no one had been hurt. But I learned that Staff Sgt. Ivers had in fact been hit. His job as platoon sergeant had required him to cross the highway under fire more than once. While making his way back to the safe side, a round struck his bayonet and flak vest. It bent the blade irretrievably inside its scabbard and bruised his kidney. He got checked out and cleared, but for the rest of the invasion he grimaced every time he pulled himself into the cab of his truck. That guy is tough.

28 Mar 03, 0315Z, 38RNA 92893306

Yesterday we were tasked with defending a road junction so the convoy could safely pass. First Platoon searched a couple buildings and found some AK-47's, a Mauser 98, a pistol belt and a Baath Party certificate. The certificate had Saddam's smiling face and a picture of the member.

Second Platoon slogged through a kilometer of mud to search two more buildings to the west. My team was tasked with the first one. A CAAT team spotted some movement on the roof and people hiding objects in the tall grass. We patrolled up in a wide wedge formation and then I initiated verbal contact with the family I found in the courtyard. "Irfa ya dayeka!" I yelled ("Hands up!"). Everyone's hands went up. "Enta lan toodar!" ("You will not be harmed!") They seemed to sigh and relax a little. I said, "You will not be harmed." We found Iraqi army uniforms they had thrown out and searched the house--nothing.

We asked, by the aid of our translation cards, if anyone had medical problems. Doc Parks gave Motrin to a three-year-old girl with a fever. And we left. "Asalam walecum." Peace be unto you.

The discarded uniforms didn't concern us. There were a few shabby men of military age in the group who probably owned the items, but the men seemed to belong to the household and had no weapons. If they belonged to the army at all, they were most probably discharged or deserters.

While searching this home I found a suitcase suspended from the ceiling by a strip of cloth in the upper bedroom. It hung down at eye level in the middle of a bare room. Lance Cpl. Garrard and Sgt. McMullen were there too. We didn't know what to make of it. I volunteered to search the bag, so they stepped out of the room. I stuck my hand into the open flap and felt only loose cloth. I pulled it down from the ceiling; the cloth strip parted easily. I opened the old soft-sided bag and found only civilian men's clothes, shirts and pants. I felt foolish about treating someone's old clothes like a bomb threat, but the hanging bag had confused us and somehow alarmed me. I searched a stack of bedding in the corner, declared, "All clear," and left.

Using the Arabic phrases from my translation card was gratifying to me. However bad I must have sounded to the locals, it always seemed to soothe people who were confronted by armed American invaders and scared.

Now it is morning. We slept in a freezing ditch. My feet are cold and I am running a serious sleep deficit. Fifty percent alert is considered a gift. I average two to three hours of sleep a night, and sometimes I get none. I don't feel the effects yet, but surely they will come.

"Fifty percent alert" refers to the watch rotation, meaning half of the platoon was awake and keeping watch at all times. For the first three weeks of the invasion the watch was usually 50%, sometimes 100% (no one sleeps, everyone watches), occasionally 25%. I could rarely correlate the figure with my assessment of the tactical situation. Someone between the company commander and me made those decisions, and we just stood the required watches. The watch was generally reduced during the day and Marines could nap.

0630Z--Two nights ago at dusk, and as we had completed a security operation on a section of road, an Iraqi voice sounded out in the distance in English. "Please! Somebody help me! Help, please!"--this continuously. We had just loaded ourselves into our trucks and the sound, some 250 meters away, rang out clearly. Staff Sgt. Ivers called out, "F--- No! We're not falling for that old trick!" But a few Marines from H&S Company (Headquarters and Services; it contains all the odd jobbers that support the rifle companies, clerks, cooks, armorers, snipers, drivers, etc.) worked their way around toward the voice and found the man all shot up on the ground. He had an AK-47 and an RPG (rocket-propelled grenade). The story goes that they secured the weapons, gave him something for his pain, and watched him die.

continued.....

[thedrifter]

Staff Sgt. Ivers was referring to that old John Wayne movie, "The Sands of Iwo Jima," in which Japanese fighters lured Marines to their deaths by feigning agony. The Iraqi had very probably sustained his wounds in action against Marines at the head of our convoy. His weapons were in the trunk of his car behind which he laid on the ground. I was unaware of the severity of his wounds, but no great concern or effort was expended on his behalf.

This morning at 0530Z shouting along the line woke us from our comfortable nap in the morning sun. An old Toyota truck was rolling up on our position. Our job here is to deny access to the main north-south highway immediately behind us. The truck was moving slowly. No weapons had been seen. But when the truck got within 150 meters Third Platoon opened up with small arms, shattering the windshield and killing the driver. Sgt. Biemer loosed a SMAW (shoulder-launched multipurpose assault weapon) rocket and incredibly missed. The rocket flew to the right and exploded in the dirt 50 meters beyond.

Now there is a crowd of angry locals on the road. I think they want the body. They produced an English speaker and are negotiating on the road. There are 40 white flag waving locals out there and more on the way.

Third Platoon did not open fire on that truck until it had failed to stop at our wire roadblock. The driver also ignored warnings to stop shouted in Arabic.




29 Mar 03, same place

Last night we suffered our first serious casualty. Staff Sgt. James Cawley, formerly of the Salt Lake City Police Department, died instantly when a Humvee rolled over his head in the night. Capt. Porter was injured in the same incident. His jaw was broken. They are First Platoon's senior leadership. Who knows how this will impact First Platoon?

I've known Staff Sgt. Cawley for about three years. He was my own platoon sergeant when we were both in headquarters platoon. He has a wife and children. God bless them.

About yesterday's shooting: Intel reports to us that he was a Baath Party official in the town one mile southwest of here. He had a large amount of cash in the truck and had been paid by the Iraqi army to probe our lines. The crowd that gathered on the road actually cheered when they learned the identity of the victim, Baath officials being unpopular in Shiite towns. That has eased some of the trepidation about the shooting, but not all.

A rumor eventually filtered back to us that Donald Rumsfeld reviewed the shooting and said approximately, "That's what you get when you ignore a Marine Corps roadblock."

This morning two tanks and two CAAT Humvees raced into town under the cover of tank shelling to do a quick recon of conditions at the bridge. The Iraqis are up to something over there, but facts are scarce when you live in a dirt hole.




(Next week: Part 3--The March to Baghdad)
http://www.opinionjournal.com/columnists/btaylor/?id=110004619


Sempers,

Roger
:marine:

[thedrifter]

The March to Baghdad
Part 3 of a frontline account of Iraq's liberation.

BY BRIAN TAYLOR
Monday, February 9, 2004 12:01 a.m. EST

Editor's note: Mr. Taylor joined the Marine Corps Reserves in 1996 and was called up for service in February 2002. His enlistment expired in November 2003. He kept this journal while deployed with Fox Company, Second Battalion, 23rd Marines in Kuwait and Iraq. Comments in italics were added after his return to clarify and expand his account and to define military terminology for the benefit of civilian readers. Four-digit numbers followed by "Z" are time codes in Greenwich Mean Time; codes of the format "38RQU 29141756" are 8-digit MGRS grid coordinates indicating his location at the time. This is the second of five parts; click to read Part 1 or Part 2.)

30 Mar 03, 0470Z, 38RNA 90442992

Yesterday afternoon the whole battalion moved into town. Echo Company secured the bridge so Fox could push through and secure a block of sixteen houses. There were four rows of homes and Second Platoon secured rows one and three. We kicked in doors and scared some people pretty badly. But local intelligence sources had indicated that this neighborhood housed most of this town's Baath officials. I found and escorted out a guy who turned out to be the third-highest-ranking party official found in southern Iraq. At least that's what they told me.

These things aren't hard distinctions to make. You pick the guy who looks at you with hate not fear, and you have your man. Baath Party officials also live better, are better fed, better educated, better dressed. And it all shows. Still, it gave me no joy to see women and children pried out of their homes so we could conduct our search. One black-robed woman was so old that I wondered she could move down the alley at all. Another fellow stood about 6-foot-4, thin and bearded, in a white robe and a gray sport coat. He was a worn-out old fellow. He communicated by gesture and shout that he had no ties with Saddam, and said in English, "I love you, and you!" I was alone in the room with him. I had my rifle at the ready and told him "In baht ih!" (lie down), which he did. From the floor he pointed up at me and said, "You No. 1!" With my free hand I gestured back at him with my index finger, "I love you too. You're No. 1 in my book." I was smiling by then. He came back with another "You No. 1!" I said the same thing back to him, and it went back and forth for a moment.

We escorted all the women and children out of that house, then my new fan. We did some damage to door frames kicking in locked doors. Garrard shot a lock off. But when the searching was done, all but those few who were taken away were free to filter through us back to their homes. It was strange passing among them after such an invasion, but they seemed happy and grateful. A couple of men approached me and somehow indicated their gratitude, or pretended to. I believe by their gestures they were happy to be rid of Baath Party overlords and hopeful to be shut of Saddam.

We rolled through town and dug in on the other side.




1 Apr 03

We've moved back to the east side of town. We're approximately where we were on 28 Mar. The other day members of the Army's 65th Engineers came around with a backhoe and dug Garrard and me a deluxe position not 1,200 meters from here, so we knew a move was coming. We get whipsawed about every time we move. They put us down and tell us to "dig here." Then some busy beaver decides we should move again and start digging all over again 20 meters away. Stupid.

The usual rationale for this was that one of our officers liked the look of the ground better "over there." But it was all the same flat, muddy bog.

And Capt. Schoenfeld is making himself look positively ridiculous. He rages about garbage on the roadside (there is a lot of MRE trash strewn about, to be sure). He demands to know whose it is. Convoy vehicles come and go all day and throw their garbage out their windows. It could be anyone's. He has us form up on line and police call. Then he howls that we're all bunched up, "Spread out, you're still in combat, you know." I have to wonder which is the case, do we line up and pick up trash, or are we in combat?

The complaining tone of the April 1 entries reflects the frustration we felt at being stopped for days at a time in the same place. The concept of the invasion as explained to us was a "race to Baghdad," a race we felt we could lose only by standing still. Also, as we had outrun our supply lines, we were living on one meal a day and feeling the effects. I reserved these complaints for my journal.

We were to secure this road junction for a month. The Army requested a 30-day "operational pause" so it could catch up its lagging "log trains." But the Marine Corps balked at the idea of giving away the initiative by standing still for a month, and told the Army that there will be no monthlong pauses. Five to seven days until the log trains are caught up, then the RCTs (Regimental Combat Teams) will be maneuvering toward Baghdad and wherever else the Republican Guard is to be found.


2 April 03

Today we had a memorial service for Staff Sgt. Cawley. A flag was erected on the roadside near where he died and a rifle upended on the point of its bayonet in the ground with his helmet on its butt. Cpls. Giles, Christensen, Carpenter and Lee sang "Abide With Me Tis Eventide." The chaplain spoke. We sang "Rock of Ages." Staff Sgt. Ivers said a few words about his best friend. There was a 21-gun salute. Taps.

Two days ago the Mormon contingent gathered for a worship service. We sang the songs of the faith:

Why should we mourn, or think our lot is hard?
Tis not so, all is right.
Why should we think to earn a great reward,
If we now shun the fight?
Gird up your loins, fresh courage take,
Our God will never us forsake.
And soon we'll have this tale to tell,
All is well, all is well.

I said to Garrard last night, "Garrard, I am a happy person, even here." And we agreed that cold nights, long watches, occasional combat operations don't make fundamentally happy people unhappy. In fact, adversity underscores true happiness.

About James E. Cawley's memorial service: It was a brief, dusty, manly affair, a ceremony for a fallen warrior. It was the kind of service that men who die of old age or sickness wish they could have.

We're still defending the same junction on Route 7. We move our position once or twice a day to keep the enemy from getting us zeroed in with artillery. I don't believe they have that capability here or are that organized. But we move and dig, move and dig.




5 Apr 03, 38SNB 44260785

We are a couple miles east of An Numiniyah. Two days ago we left our position on Route 7 and sped most of the way to Al Kut. Reportedly, this was a ruse de guerre designed to draw a Republican Guard division out of Kut to engage our "soft" unarmored battalion. And reportedly it worked. When we closed within 10 kilometers of Al Kut our convoy turned around and sped back the way it came. Any Iraqi forces that moved out of Kut to engage us were destroyed from the air. Maneuver warfare.

We cut over to Highway 8 and surged up to Numiniyah to seize a bridge there. When we arrived the bridge had already been taken and secured. A few smoldering T-62s, trucks, and antiair pieces were all that remained of the "light resistance" we had been promised.

We moved into a schoolyard in the city and occupied the abandoned schoolhouse for the night. But before an hour passed someone realized we might be vulnerable to attack there, so we left.

Now we are blocking the road between Kut and Baghdad to prevent Iraqi reinforcements from getting to the capital. Last night my team manned the wire-and-sandbag gate on the road. We stopped and searched every person who came through. One lone Iraqi man, short and plump, tried to drive around our Arabic stop sign and our sandbags. We yelled "Qif! Qif!" (Stop! Stop!) and waved our arms, but he kept coming. Three Marines were killed yesterday at a similar gate (not Marines in our group, but elsewhere). I ordered Garrard to fire. He let four rounds burp out of his SAW (squad automatic weapon). All the rusty radiator fluid immediately fell out of the man's truck and a very startled Iraqi popped out. I surged forward over the barricade with my rifle ready. I seized the man by the shirt and yelled at him, "Do you have any [expletive deleted] idea how close you came to getting yourself killed?" I said other things too, but the immediate attitude was one of intense relief that we had not killed another motorist. The company staff seemed delighted too, but all the thanks go to Garrard who knew he could disable a truck with one burst.

When I gave the order for John to shoot, I intended that he kill that man before he could get any closer. The reasoning was that anyone who ignored our signs, our roadblock and our verbal warnings was probably an attacker. We could not afford to let people just drive up on us. But John said, "I'm going for the tires." He instantly changed his mind about the tires and put four rounds into the radiator in a group the size of an orange. Our training urges us to shoot to kill, but John used some judgment instead and saved a man's life.

continued....

[thedrifter]

This man's only crime, it turned out, was stupidity, which shouldn't be a capital offense. The commanding officer came running up, listened to the story, and was pleased that we had stopped the vehicle without killing an innocent. No one was happier about it than I was, though. We searched the truck and found nothing but empty chicken crates. In spite of his protests about the engine, we convinced the man to drive his truck out of the way. He made it 200 meters beyond our area and then the engine seized. I watched him walk away.

RCT 1 is scheduled to move through here today en route to Baghdad. When they pass, we expect to follow to Baghdad.

6 Apr 03 0234Z 38SNB 89344663

We bivouacked by the road last night in some town 60 kilometers from Baghdad. There were several spectacular explosions five or six kilometers north of here during the night, slow billowing fiery explosions that spewed fire and sparks into the dark. And, of course, we heard the sound of artillery bombardment.

U.S. Forces can be detected by GPS satellite tracking rolling around freely in Baghdad. Although we have no reports of hard fighting in the city, Saddam has promised to make Baghdad our graveyard. The main effect of that rhetoric is to impel a stream of refugees out of the city along this road.

At our check post near Numiniyah yesterday, hundreds of people streamed through, many of them young men no doubt fleeing their posts. I captured an Iraqi general on his way north when he tried to pass through our checkpoint in civilian clothes. I found an FN Hi-Power 9mm pistol under his seat bearing the stamp of the Iraqi Army. It was inscribed with the words, "A gift of our grateful leader, Saddam" in Arabic of course. A translator from the HET team (Human Exploitation Team) gave us the translation.

When I first spotted the pistol under the driver's seat I called out, "I've got a gun!" Lance Cpl. Jeremy Walker, Second Platoon's resident martial-arts pro, put the general on the deck with an expertly applied arm-bar takedown. Walker then proceeded to immobilize him by manipulating his arms and wrists into uncomfortable knots behind his back. The man cried out loud as Walker escorted him with a standing wrist manipulation all the way back to the command post. The S2 found papers on him compelling Baath forces in the north to continue the fight.

The general told Capt. Robertson, the S2 or battalion intelligence chief, that he was not in the military, that he was, in fact, a farmer. Capt. Roberston, a reservist, is himself a farmer. He has coarse, powerful farmer's hands. He seized the already shaken Iraqi by the wrist and raised the man's hand to his face yelling, "These are not farmer's hands!" And then showing his own bear paws, "These are farmer's hands!" Capt. Robertson reported to me that the man broke down and wept again.

Garrard pushed his white Nissan truck off the road into the mud. He had aimed for the small pond beyond the mud flat beside the road, but it bogged down. Later in the afternoon, feeling large, I gave the truck to a couple of southbound teenage pedestrians, the key still being in the switch. But they couldn't get it out of the mud without the aid of 10 other passersby. Twelve young Iraqis pushed it out of the mud. They all cheered and piled in the back as it sped off, each one suddenly feeling he had a 1/12th interest in the general's truck.

I gave the truck away because it was a nuisance and potential hazard. Every pedestrian who walked by stopped and petitioned for it. I said no to the first few hundred, but I eventually wanted it gone.

At the gate on the north side of our position Broberg seized an Iraqi major. The man had his uniform with him and was foolish enough to attempt to conceal an AK-47 as well.

We only spent two days screening refugees and searching vehicles at that position. It was a busy time. It was the time when we had the most direct contact with Iraqis. For the most part they were cooperative and friendly. We had fun talking to people and practicing our meager Arabic. Fox Company generated some important intelligence from the seizures we made. We were relieved there by a company from a recon battalion. It was galling to them to be relieving a company of infantry reservists at an ECP operation (entry control point; the roadblock/checkpoint operations we regularly conducted during the invasion). They said, "We're Recon. This is not what we do." First Sgt. Lopez pointed out that we had had some intelligence successes, and that intelligence was the point of recon. For some reason this didn't soothe their feelings.

0902Z 38SMBB 62597705

We are stopped 21 kilometers south of Baghdad. We are shuffling the convoy and linking up with Fifth Marines for the move north.

Col. Dowdy, the regimental commander of RCT 1, was reportedly relieved yesterday. This journal recalls my frustration with our pace through southern Iraq. Evidently I wasn't alone. He was relieved for going too slow.

Yesterday the temperature was 102 degrees, way too hot to be wearing a MOPP suit. It's equally hot today, so on my own authority I shed my coat. I dug my hygiene kit out of my pack and had a roadside shave. I bathed my head with a sponge to dissolve the film of dirt I earn by riding the tailgate everyday. Marines can wash or not wash, but I see it as an excuse to rub water on my head and cool off.

MOPP stands for Mission Oriented Protective Posture, a particularly tortured-sounding military acronym describing the nuclear, biological and chemical threat level. MOPP suits are charcoal-lined chemical-protective overgarments. They are about as comfortable as a layer of thick denim. The upshot is that a MOPP suit can save your life if you are exposed to chemical or biological weapons in gas, powder or liquid form. They can even protect a body from some nuclear contaminants.

RCT 1 is assigned to secure Saddam City, a sector of Baghdad on the north side of town. It is said to be a slum. Let us get there and do it before we dehydrate.




7 Apr 03 0433Z 38SMB 65638514

We occupied some rich Iraqi's house last night. We're guarding a massive enemy ammo dump, and the house offers the best observation on several avenues of approach. The owner complained and left asking that we not pillage the place, a reasonable request. But while clearing the house, Cpl. Hall (First Platoon) was menaced by one of the canine inhabitants. Hall shot the dog at a two-meter range and sprayed blood all over. Hall was pretty upset by this. When the owner heard about it an hour later he was upset too.

Second Platoon dug in around the structure while machine guns set up on top.

When we woke this morning the word was passed to go to MOPP level zero--take off the stifling chemical suit and don cammies again. We feel great. I shifted to clean underwear as well and burned the old. I washed my body as well as I could with wet-wipes and a degree of civilization was restored.

Marines are gossiping about what the change to MOPP zero could mean. Has there been a surrender? Or is a cease-fire imminent? Have all commanders with authority to release chemical weapons been neutralized? To be sure, the U.S. has not ceased firing on Baghdad. The thunder of bombardment continues. Artillery units must be the busiest killers on the ground. All day and night the bang of the cannons and the clapping boom of their distant impacts can be heard.

This ammo dump we guard is reportedly filled with 10,000 armor-piercing artillery shells sold to Iraq by France. The damnable French and their haughty Old World contempt for American leadership in this war. Their objection was not one of conscience, but of complicity.

I don't know how anyone really knew those munitions were French. Maybe they had French markings, but I didn't see them myself. It was just rumor.

EOD (Explosives Ordnance Disposal) is supposed to blow this whole place to hell later today. Many more dogs will die.

0809Z--ECP ops today. We are denying access to the city to all traffic: vehicles and pedestrians. The refugees approach us and we search them and send them south, east or west. These people are poor and thin. They almost uniformly carry a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and a wad of cash--probably their net worth. Sometimes when searching vehicles we'll find bags of cash best measured by the gallon, as in, "I found a four-gallon bag of cash on this one!" Response: "No weapons? Then let him go." We guess their currency is of little value. Most of the Iraqis I search are surprised when I inspect their money and then return it all. I believe they are used to being shaken down.




(Friday: Part 4--Liberation Day.)

http://www.opinionjournal.com/columnists/btaylor/?id=110004644


Sempers,

Roger
:marine:

[thedrifter]

Liberation Day
Part 4 of a frontline account of Iraq's liberation.

BY BRIAN TAYLOR
Friday, February 13, 2004 12:01 a.m. EST


(Editor's note: Mr. Taylor joined the Marine Corps Reserves in 1996 and was called up for service in February 2002. His enlistment expired in November 2003. He kept this journal while deployed with Fox Company, Second Battalion, 23rd Marines in Kuwait and Iraq. Comments in italics were added after his return to clarify and expand his account and to define military terminology for the benefit of civilian readers. Four-digit numbers followed by "Z" are time codes in Greenwich Mean Time; codes of the format "38RQU 29141756" are 8-digit MGRS grid coordinates indicating his location at the time. This is the fourth of five parts; click to read Part 1, Part 2 or Part 3.)

9 Apr 03 0354Z

Spent the night on the roof of some house in the Al Mathana neighborhood of Baghdad. We stopped our foot patrol around 1300Z yesterday afternoon and began looking for a building to stay in. My team was on the third floor of a shell of a structure when the fight began. I stood up and looked out the window across an intersection and a dirt field to the northwest.

I monitored radio traffic on the individual squad radio between Sgt. Ewert, First squad's leader, and Cpl. Houschouer, one of his team leaders. The sergeant was irate because it wasn't immediately obvious to Houschouer how to control a large five-way intersection with only four Marines. I thought to myself that it wasn't at all obvious to me either.

I saw a man step out from behind the southwest corner of an Iraqi security compound. He was 180 meters away and looked like an unarmed civilian, although the sun made him just a silhouette. Then he fired a RPG, which streaked into the Marines standing near the intersection. Cpl. Scott Lee and Lance Cpl. Roger Anderson, members of my own squad, were hit and sustained minor head and arm wounds, a miracle since it hit right by them.

I began firing 5.56mm rifle rounds and 203 grenades at the man. The machine guns began. He did the strangest arms-flying-in-air jig when he realized he was being shot at. He ducked behind the wall and machine guns followed. I lobbed 203s over the wall, and they landed with great clapping noise.

Iraqi fighters began firing from within the compound itself. Capt. Schoenfeld had forbidden us from entering and clearing that place just a few minutes earlier.

The highway between the Iraqis and us was the "limit of advance," so we could go no farther. Staff Sgt. Ivers had presented Capt. Schoenfeld with some alternatives to establishing an entry control point (ECP). First we could clear the small compound, a dicey maneuver given the open avenue between it and us. Second, we could pull back a block and choose better defensive positions for the night. Both were rejected in favor of doing nothing to make our present tactical situation better.

Marines were ordered to set up another ECP at the intersection and begin controlling traffic. I believe this was the result of operational habit after doing ECP ops for days on end. Standing in the road and controlling traffic is a very bad idea if you don't control the immediate terrain, particularly in an urban environment.

Cpl. Vidaña, our company radio operator, took a round through the head. It passed through, we are told, but somehow he is living.

I later learned details of Cpl. Jesus Vidaña's injury. A bullet pierced his Kevlar helmet. He was initially presumed dead, but then showed life signs. He was evacuated to a battalion aid station. The gravity of his injury was obvious, but there was no neurosurgeon nearby to treat him. Additionally, air transport to a suitable facility was unavailable. CNN's medical correspondent, Sanjay Gupta, a neurosurgeon, was covering medical operations at the same facility to which Cpl. Vidaña had been taken. After stating that Cpl. Vidaña would not survive the night without surgery, he requested and received permission to perform the operation himself.

I've since seen Dr. Gupta on CNN. He states that he performed five operations during his time as a journalist in Iraq. A CNN reporter saved Cpl. Vidaña's life. Amazing.

First Squad displaced from their positions on the northeast corner of the intersection facing the near compound so mortars could shell it. They hit an apartment building 400 meters beyond. It burned and the mortars were ordered to quit.

Then two cars zoomed into the intersection and were destroyed by machine-gun fire. The machine-gun section began shooting every car that came within 300 meters. One car smashed through a sandbag bunker left by Iraqis on the southeast corner of the intersection sending Marines diving clear. Machine guns peppered the car. It was a taxi with a family in it. Soon there were six or so shot-up hulks with dead and wounded. Marines on the streets organized a rescue effort to save those we now recognized as innocents. A group of eight or so Marines ran across about 150 meters of open ground and began herding people back when they all came under AK fire from the compound. We (those of us in upper windows, or forward positions on the street) successfully returned and suppressed that fire. Then as the rescue party returned with howling wounded civilians, we shouted "Tabeeb!" (doctor) out the window and pointed to the corpsmen's position.

More RPGs came whizzing in and across our position from the much larger intelligence complex on the southwest corner of the intersection. By now battalion snipers were on the roof of the building I was in, and a machine-gun team had found my floor and was up and running. It was beginning to get dark.

We began to take fire from the mosque behind us and to the south, and from side streets. I left the building with my fire team and we consolidated in a side street with Second Squad and a few Marines from Third Platoon. We sheltered there and watched rooflines and windows like hawks. A couple of bursts of AK-47 fire flew by, but that was all.

For all the shooting I had done, and all the spectacle I had witnessed from the windows on the third story, I was suddenly aware of the comparative calamity of life on the street compared to life on the third story of my building. Where I felt I had seen more enemy activity and had a freer time returning fire, Marines who spent the first two hours on the street were certainly exposed to very much more hazard. In the weeks that followed this produced an irrational guilt in me.

My journal also omits the aerial bombardment of the larger compound on the southwest corner of the intersection. The compound actually sat 150 meters or so west of the road and behind an open dirt field. The fighting had nearly died as it became dark and we got the word that an air strike was incoming. Lance Cpl. Garrard, Cpl. Siggard, Cpl. Christensen and I were standing with our backs against the steel rolling overhead door of someone's small shop. We heard the terrific, screeching, decelerating noise of an unseen F-18 followed by two enormous concussive blasts in the heart of the compound 400 to 500 meters away. The shockwave of the 1,000-pound bombs moved through the buildings and our bodies. It pushed the air out of my lungs and caused the door to buck outward pushing us away from the building.

Iraqis fighters in those Republican Guard compounds had already been silenced before the arrival of the planes. The Marines were dealing with threats from the neighborhood all around them. But the blasts, or nightfall, seemed to discourage very much more fighting.

Later we learned that air support had been requested early that afternoon, but the only planes on station were equipped with 2,000-pound bombs. They returned to base, rearmed with 1,000-pound bombs, and delivered their ordnance several hours late. I reflected that getting air support four hours late is a lot like getting no air support at all.

During the fighting I remember four RPG impacts from three directions. Other Marines said the could recall six or more, but I always suspected they were compounding the number by duplicating each other's accounts.

By now it was dark. We kicked in some doors and found some flat rooftops for the whole company. We stood a fifty percent watch staring down the streets with NVGs (night vision goggles) and SAWs (squad automatic weapons). We decided that vehicles that got too close would get two or three tracer warning shots from an M16 and then a burst of SAW fire to stop them, but none came after dark. It is generally considered that Iraqi fighters don't operate at night, or at least elect not to operate against us at night.

When the morning came an artillery barrage began to reduce the compound. Then tanks began pounding it. I don't know if there was any return firing anymore. Golf Company swept through and cleared the buildings with apparent ease.

10 Apr 0250Z

We spent the night in the captured/shattered intelligence compound. The building I am in is a barracks of sorts. I swept the glass out of the demolished kitchen and slept like a log on the floor.

Yesterday we patrolled on foot some 800 meters down a main street into the city to set up another ECP at a main intersection. We began taking fire from a security tower to the southeast. Second Squad began to maneuver against it, but the RCT's (regimental combat team's) Sgt. Maj. Leal said 7th Marines were somewhere over there and we should leave it to them. Fine. We left.

continued....

[thedrifter]

I was surprised to see the sergeant major in our area. He was just watching Marines on the sidewalk. After we started taking sporadic fire, potshots really, we took cover and Sgt. McMullen began organizing our movement. We were preparing to move when the sergeant major strolled up and waved us off. He wasn't taking cover. He was just slowly ambling down the sidewalk saying hello to Marines.

When we entered the compound where we slept last night, I found a supply room and liberated a bag of Iraqi Army socks. We sorted through the mountains of weapons left behind. These people could have fired RPGs at us all night if we had not scrambled so hard to suppress them. There were RPK machine guns (a 7.62mm Soviet light machine gun), hundreds of AK-47s, stacks of RPG rounds and launchers, and all manner of supplies and equipment.


We cleaned ourselves and sat in the shade sharing stories and details of the previous day's fight. The battle had a completely different face to those who were on the street corner, or in the buildings like me, or on a side street.

We marveled that our conflict had made the BBC and MSNBC, and had been reported as the largest ground conflict in the battle for Baghdad. Yesterday the news also reported that Baghdad has been secured. We hope it is true and that April 9 will be remembered as Iraqi Liberation Day.

After my homecoming one of the most frequent questions I initially received was, "Did you see Saddam's statue get pulled down?" That did occur on April 9, but I didn't see or hear about it until I got home. Another common question was, "Did you see Saddam's palaces?" I tell people that the statues and palaces were in the swanky quarter of town, which the Army assigned to itself.

I did not time our engagement two days ago, but the company says it lasted four hours. Second Platoon was the only element engaged that long. Third fought for about 90 minutes. First showed up later.

I don't know how I felt confident enough about the actions of other platoons to time their involvement. I only knew when I first saw members of those groups, not when they first joined the fighting. First Platoon had a running battle for several blocks in which Cpl. Vidaña was injured. Third Platoon rapidly reinforced Second (my platoon), but I didn't see them where I was until later. That doesn't mean they weren't on the street level fighting earlier, which in fact they were. Second Platoon became critically low of ammunition. Without Third's help, Second Platoon would have run been hard pressed to mount a sufficiently strong counterattack.

By the time the battle on April 8 ended, 12 Fox Marines had been wounded. Vidaña received the worst injuries. Several received concussions from being shot in the head. Their helmets absorbed the rounds and kept the Marines alive. A larger number were wounded by rocket blasts or RPG fragments. And a few had taken nasty falls while running through buildings.

It is now known that the Iraqis forced those civilians into their vehicles under threat of death and ordered them to speed into our positions. One of them was a dentist who speaks English. He explained it all. Some of the cars were driven by Iraqis in uniform but filled with civilians, Palestinians civilians reportedly. One such vehicle was a four-door Nissan truck, tan, that shot past our forward line into our depth at about 50 miles an hour. I shot about 10 rounds into the cab with about eight other Marines. The vehicle slammed into a power pole without having braked, the driver already dead. He was the only occupant in that vehicle.

In fact, the civilian vehicles shot that day could be grouped into three categories. The first were vehicles driven by Iraqi fighters at Marine targets, with or without civilian hostages onboard. Second, there were vehicles driven by civilians who were compelled by threats against their hostage families to do the same. One survivor indicated this. And third, there were civilians who innocently drove themselves into the crossfire.

"Caught in the crossfire" is the euphemism I have most frequently applied to that third category of victims, but it is misleading. It suggests we were shooting at something else. Those vehicles were targeted because they were believed to be threats. At the height of the suicide attacks there was no way to positively discriminate between attackers in cars and innocents in cars. The rules of engagement obliged us to positively identify targets. The only caveat was that nothing in the rules could be construed to curtail our ability to defend ourselves, which we did. My worst recollections of the war are connected to the people in those cars.

This is the unconventional war Saddam promised--losing tactics designed to raise the PR costs of U.S. efforts.




11 Apr 03 1052Z--United Nations Compound
This morning we left the intelligence compound where we spent two nights and a day. We moved about two kilometers to the U.N. compound to provide security to the battalion, which is now headquartered here. On the backside of the complex is the Iraqi Ministry of Tourism, some looted buildings that allow us to observe our sectors north and west. We found here foam mattresses, plastic furniture and U.N. rations. We have a hose outside from which we can supply water for the washing of bodies and clothing. We are living large.

I think the facility we stayed in behind the U.N. Headquarters building was a U.N. hosting facility. Calling it the Ministry of Tourism was a joke that only I missed.

Fox relieved Echo at this security detail, and they told us that the compound takes occasional sniper fire from the north, but we haven't received any today. We are currently manning a couple of machine-gun posts on the roof but otherwise sleeping and eating French humanitarian rations. Menu No. 2 includes a thick bar of chocolate. The label proclaims in contains a minimum of 43% cocoa. The French are manic about chocolate, its bureaucratic definition and regulation. I recall they once tangled with the Hershey people in an effort to disallow the Hershey bar from being called chocolate.

On Tuesday the 8th, the day of our engagement here, we patrolled on foot for a few kilometers through town. We walked through residential and commercial streets. Crowds of people came out to see us. They were curious and happy. The areas were closely packed with two-story buildings on narrow streets.

I talked to several men who spoke a little English. I asked them where the men with weapons were hiding and if they could point out the houses of Saddam's men. One man named Moustafe was typical. He said that his neighborhood was clean but that we should be concerned about bad men who shoot at us from passing cars. Indeed the first RPG shots at our vehicles--one ripped the canvas off one of our 7-ton trucks, and another destroyed a CAAT (combined anti-armor team) vehicle--came from a passing yellow Volkswagen Passat. I later stopped and searched a yellow Passat at gunpoint before realizing that they were all over and belonged to the local cab company. Moustafe said he and his fellows (he had about 12 men with him) were all my friends. I asked him what he thought about Saddam Hussein. The men agreed that they were glad to be rid of him. I indicated that Saddam had most likely been blown to bits. They disagreed and said he had fled to Syria. It is one thing to be grateful for U.S. intervention, but perhaps another to accept that the U.S. had rubbed out his own sovereign leader. Fled to Syria is fine.

Of course, Moustafe and I were both wrong about Saddam the despot. He was neither in Syria nor blown to bits, as we had hoped. But I think the reaction in the Middle East to Saddam's eventual ignominious capture supports my speculation about Moustafe's thinking.

About searching the Passat: I severely scared three male occupants in that vehicle. As it rounded a nearby corner into view I charged at it with my rifle up and ordered everyone out. Then I made a turning key gesture and had the driver open the trunk--empty. I scanned the cabin, which was also empty. About the time I was finishing I saw another one and realized my mistake. All I can say is that urban operations are very difficult.

We moved on. While stopped in front of someone's house, I noticed a family looking at me and commenting on something. They had a scared but curious four-year-old boy. I moved across to them and gestured to his parents for permission to give the boy a Tootsie Roll. The father said "OK" and smiled. I took my ID case out and showed them the pictures of Jane and Keith with their shining blond hair. The father beamed and seized my hand. He kissed the pictures and gestured to heaven. Mother came out and took the pictures inside to show the other women and children who all gathered inside the house. I had just given, or had taken from me, my wallet with my military ID, $80 in U.S. currency and the pictures of my family to strangers, who took it inside. When I looked apprehensive the man laughed at me. The wallet came back complete. Smiles all around.

continued...

[thedrifter]

In another neighborhood we halted to listen to the sounds of First Platoon engaged two blocks away. Unknown to us they were taking heavy RPG fire. I assumed the explosions were our rockets being fired, not inbound RPGs. A gate opened and a girl Jane's age and a boy Keith's age came out. She herded her brother about, in the same way Jane would do Keith, while they delivered rose blossoms to Marines kneeling or prone. HM2 (Hospital Corpsman Second Class) Tony Parks got three for some reason. The children's parents stood in their courtyard smiling and waving.

We moved on again and within an hour were committed to battle.




12 Apr 03 38SMB 50568847 (U.N. Compound)

Yesterday I stood watch on the roof of this place for two hours between 1400 and 1600Z. I stared north at the highway and watched for trouble. I watched a squad from Echo Company on a westbound foot patrol. I was staring right at them when a blast occurred right in the middle of their tactical column. The Marine closest fell, rose again, hopped a few steps away and then went down. There was no sign of a nearby enemy and there had been no familiar screech of RPGs. It didn't look like a mortar blast. It was a landmine.

I radioed it in with a direction and a distance from my post. I used my GPS to project the grid of the incident and radioed that in too. Two civilians nearby threw up white flags and were detained but released. A few minutes went by while we watched from our roof and tried to get info about who, how bad, etc. A CAAT Humvee appeared with a .50-caliber rifle and provided security for the Humvee ambulance and the seven-ton that appeared. They carted off the wounded man and the foot patrol continued. The patrol moved northwest away from the road.

Last night we learned that the injured Marine had picked up the mine and handled it. It detonated when he tossed it down. Stupid. The extent of his injuries is still unknown to us.

I stood watch again from 2230 to 0015Z. A quiet watch. Afterward I went into the U.N. building and used the phones to call home. I talked to Shari, who cried a little. She told me about the kids. According to Keith, he is no longer my "Little Guy," John is. John is now "Little Guy." Keith is the "Big Guy," as I used to be, and Keith says to John, "You're the Little Guy, I'm the Big Guy, but there is this other Big Guy, but he's huge!" So I'm the Huge Guy. I miss that boy.

Jane cried a little too. She is very tender. I received a letter from Shari yesterday and she reports that Jane said, "My heart misses Daddy so much my tummy hurts." I know a little about how she feels.

I tried to call home two days ago but I couldn't raise Shari. I did connect with Dad though. I told him the story about nabbing that general at my checkpoint. This morning I took a shower for the first time since leaving Camp Coyote. There are showers in this building, but no running water. I filled a steel bucket of cold water from a basin outside and took it into a questionable shower stall. I used a plastic pitcher, a bar of Lava soap (the official soap of Nascar) and a sponge to clean away nearly a month of impacted grime. The occasional wet-wipe has not been sufficient, but the cold shower was a delight. I put on clean underwear, shook the dust off my uniform, and I feel great.

The current rumor has it that we will be leaving this compound around noon today for the barracks we left two days ago. Then in two days we will begin moving back to Kuwait. Units will "leapfrog" or "bound" back, securing the route for each other as they go. But rumors are what they are, and word continually changes.




(Feb. 23: Part 5--Mission Accomplished)

http://www.opinionjournal.com/columnists/btaylor/?id=110004677


Sempers,

Roger
:marine:

[thedrifter]

Mission Accomplished
Part 5 of a frontline account of Iraq's liberation.

BY BRIAN TAYLOR
Monday, February 23, 2004 12:01 a.m. EST

(Editor's note: Mr. Taylor joined the Marine Corps Reserves in 1996 and was called up for service in February 2002. His enlistment expired in November 2003. He kept this journal while deployed with Fox Company, Second Battalion, 23rd Marines in Kuwait and Iraq. Comments in italics were added after his return to clarify and expand his account and to define military terminology for the benefit of civilian readers. Four-digit numbers followed by "Z" are time codes in Greenwich Mean Time; codes of the format "38RQU 29141756" are 8-digit MGRS grid coordinates indicating his location at the time. This is the fifth of five parts; click to read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 or Part 4.)

14 Apr 03 0519Z 38SMB 54288753

I made a critical omission in this record a few days ago. On Thursday the 10th Staff Sgt. Ivers fell down a flight of steel stairs at the intelligence compound and broke his elbow. He was sent to the Regimental Aid Station, and then back to Camp Doha in Kuwait, the nearest large hospital. He was our platoon sergeant and we hated to lose him. He cried as he was being carried off because he felt he had failed us--a misplaced feeling but one entirely in keeping with his character and sense of responsibility for everything around him. We miss him. He cared for his Marines in the way an NCO should.

His replacement is Sgt. Ewert, who possesses few of the staff sergeant's virtues, and who has performed the platoon sergeant's job in Staff Sgt. Ivers's absence before with poor results. We hope Staff Sgt. Ivers returns, but it seems unlikely.

0757Z--Yesterday we secured a water treatment facility near where we entered the city. It was a suspected WMD site but we find no evidence. We also find no fighters here, just a few families and employees. We gave rations to the families to thank them for their cooperation while we figured out what it might take to restart this place.

And today we are back here again to guard it from looters.--38SMB 56278339

Another critical omission occurs to me. In every operation we've participated in, the sound of Islamic prayer has provided the soundtrack. Mosques are everywhere and five times daily, including dawn and sunset, the musical chant of Islamic prayer rings out from the towers. During our terrible fight on the 8th, the sound was there. And the next morning prayer noise provided an eerie melodic counterpoint to the artillery barrage that reduced the compounds. Marines listen to the prayers with suspicion. After all, it was Islamic fundamentalists that sparked the war on terror by smashing 767s into the Trade Towers. And I have never been convinced that those were the actions of "extremists" and not in character with the true teachings of Islam.

Some Marines have a far more specific suspicion about the wailing imam in their towers. They suggest that they are broadcasting our positions to Iraqi fighters. But the prayers sound recorded, and our translators would surely notice such a scheme.

While walking a roving post around this sewage treatment plant (it smells awful here) someone drove by and threw a white phosphorous grenade at some civilians who had been helping us resurrect this plant. The grenade ignited some mortar shells left strewn along the roadway. The resulting blast blew one man to bits and his companion into several pieces. The second fellow was blown into a water-filled ditch. There was some hope of saving him, an admitted long shot, but we were prevented from providing any kind of transport to a hospital. Probably the right decision, but one would like to make an effort, particularly for people who risk their lives to help us.

After putting out the fire and describing what I heard on my ISR (individual squad radio) in my journal, the story about people blown to bits began to unravel. Most telling, Doc Parks did not treat or see any injured persons. The commotion about the wounded was just confusion compounded by burning metal, grass fire and excited radio traffic. Medevac was denied because there was no casualty, a fact that neatly blunts my criticism about not being able to help those who help us. The only portion of the story that remained believable to me was that someone had thrown a grenade from the window of a passing car. The explosion detonated some mortar shells, scattered debris, and sparked a grass fire.

The blast ignited a grass fire, which immediately threatened a pumping station vital to this plant's operation. Marines mobilized a fire fighting effort and had it out in 20 minutes. This plant will probably be operational by tomorrow. The Seabees are on the job.




16 Apr 03 1123Z 38SMB 5568602

We left that sewage facility yesterday, but not before coordinating repairs to the freshwater pumping station with the local managing engineer. The freshwater reservoir had a 5-foot hole blasted through its heavy reinforced-concrete cover. The engineer and his staff were concerned that uranium had been introduced into the water supply and might taint the water for a million city dwellers. (Depleted uranium is used in some munitions.) We told him, "No uranium." We also told him we would request appropriate testing of the water by the Navy Seabees who were arriving on the scene.

Staff Sgt. Ivers returned last night. He connived his way back by C130 against all theater policy regarding open-wound casualties. He superglued his arm wound shut, did some pull-ups for a general at Camp Commando (in Kuwait) and found his way back. We are nearly overjoyed.

Staff Sgt. Ivers's elbow was not, in fact, broken.

Today we are at a power station. They complain of no looters and the systems seem intact. Our presence here has drawn some potshots; Pvt. Donnely returned fire without effect. We are waiting for permission to leave.

Last night we received a truckload of packages. I received two from Keith (my father) and one from Cathy Burton at HDR Architects, Keith's employer--generous people. Batteries, wipes, sundries, junk food.

Gen. Mattis spoke to First Platoon yesterday. He said we are going home very soon. We should be driving back to Kuwait this week and we're second in line for airlift to the States. God send that it is true.




18 Apr 03 0806Z

Yesterday we trucked back to the power plant to have a look at an ammo dump there. There were about 60 artillery shells (122mm) and some fuses, some mortar rounds. We were told by Capt. Schoenfeld that it was safe to move it all across town in the bed of our truck. Staff Sgt. Ivers, an FBI-trained bomb tech, said it was not safe. Sgt. McMullen objected to the order on the grounds that we are not trained to handle or move the stuff, it being of unknown age and condition. But we followed the order. EOD (Explosives Ordnance Disposal) told Capt. Schoenfeld it was safe, therefore it must be safe. And indeed nothing went "boom." We piled the stuff in an Olympic training gymnasium where Uday Hussein (sadistic son of Saddam) no doubt tortured Iraqi athletes into Olympic readiness. And there we left it.

Our departure is now scheduled for the 21st.

Today we washed clothes. We lined MRE boxes with plastic bags, Arnold produced some tablets of detergent, and we lifted a month's worth of impacted grime out of our uniforms. They'll be dirty again tomorrow, but for an hour we'll feel great.

Staff Sgt. Ivers stopped me today to point my attention to Psalm 144, Gen. Robert E. Lee's reported favorite:

1
Blessed be the Lord my Rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle--
2
My lovingkindness and my fortress, my high tower and my deliverer, my shield and the One in whom I take refuge, who subdues my people under me.
3
Lord what is man, that you take knowledge of him? Or the son of man that you are mindful of him?
4
Man is like a breath; his days are like a passing shadow. . . .
7
Stretch out your hand from above; rescue me and deliver me out of great waters, from the hand of foreigners.
8
Whose mouth speaks lying words, and whose right hand is a hand of falsehood. . . .
12
That our sons may be as plants grown up in their youth; That our daughters may be as pillars, sculpted in a palace style.
I was struck by the words, and by the overwhelming knowledge that the Lord had delivered me to this place and this day in safety, that my children may be blessed and prosper.




23 Apr 03 0745Z 38SMA 65099432

The great tragedy of Marine Corps existence is that men who have fought and died together in honorable battle (or men ready to do so in the future) are immediately afterward abused with all manner of administrative and bureaucratic pettiness. We are in our "retrograde" toward Kuwait. This spot of desert is an assembly area for Marines getting ready to motor south.

continued.....

[thedrifter]

Yesterday Marines produced a Frisbee and shed their helmets and vests for an hour of Ultimate Frisbee. Others wrestled and returned to the formalized combat of Marine Corps Martial Arts. In short, Marines were returning to their normal ebullient selves--a happy sight. But this morning we are warned against such activities, not because we're still at war and need to wear the gear, but because they were unhappy with the sight of Marines playing in groups. No playing in groups. No wearing of trousers unbloused. No ****ing where we eat--OK, I'll give 'em that one. But give a battalion a four-hour operational pause and you'll have a sergeant major screaming about haircuts, a first sergeant howling about benign slogans written on vehicles, "Wear helmets here but not over there." Some Marines fight, and other Marines harass the fighters.

On the plus side, we are getting hot meals daily now. In order to eat one must appear in flak vest, soft cover, gas mask carrier, with weapon. All others will be turned away.

Tomorrow we lose our trucks. Barkovich, our driver, goes with the truck. We are going home and "Barky" is going to First Battalion, Fourth Marines, poor bastard. We will get amtracs (flat-bottomed military vehicles that move on tracks on land or water) and soon move back to Kuwait.

Cpl. Lee was called back to talk to the CO this evening because there is a rumor that his wife is leading an assault on Congress to get us home swiftly. God bless that impatient woman.




26 Apr 03 0235Z

A dust storm harassed us all day yesterday and last night. I slept on my mat under my blanket without my bag last night. I must have ingested a pound of dust. The wind blew our net shelters down on us. Doc Vanderbilt (First Squad's corpsman) was hit in the head by a falling pole and had to be evacuated. We hope for him.

We joked continuously about the luck of getting hit in the head with a tent pole. "Where's my pole injury?" "I'm going to go hang around tent poles for awhile and see what develops."

I learned yesterday that the pistol I captured at Numinyah was stolen from the S2 (administrative code for battalion intelligence) by an Army general who had been admiring it. Right now he's probably telling lies about how it was surrendered to him on the field of battle. I would certainly go to Leavenworth for such an act. But generals can evidently behave like dishonorable scrubs and have their acts sanitized by the power of the star. Shame on him.

If that story is false, then those words are probably too harsh on generals everywhere. If true, then it all stands. If that general is out there reading this and he has my pistol, he should give it back to the guy who captured it. I'll trade him his personal honor for it. Don't forget to send along the cool accessories with it, Mon General.

First Marine Division is trying to chop us back to Fourth Marine Division as fast as possible. Sgt. McMullen put it best, "Thanks for fightin' for us, Marines, but f--- you. Find your own way home."

It angers me how petty men can be to each other. (This after I just called some unknown general officer a dishonorable scrub on the merest evidence.) Fox Company is the only company in the battalion that rates a combat action ribbon as a unit, by the order. Selected members of Golf and Echo do, but most do not. As a result there is considerable jealousy and animosity toward Fox. Fox was supposed to provide one platoon to Golf for a foot patrol two days ago. We got ready to go. An hour later we stood down. Echo said, "We don't want their help." Poor guys. And we get called "cowboys," a name suggesting we are casual and hasty on the trigger. But they didn't see what we saw. Echo and Golf did get in a firefight--with each other. A few senior staff NCOs shot each other when they failed to positively ID targets. But we're the cowboys. Go figure.

Today we are supposed to mount amtracs and motor to the First Division assembly area. We'll wait there until the 28th and then bus to Kuwait. That's the rumor.

One of the amtracs is commanded by a Staff Sgt. Barbie. His vehicle took a direct hit on the right front nose from a well-aimed RPG. Minor scarring, no penetration. He told us about the burnt amtrac we saw in An Nasiriyah. It had lowered its hatch and taken a RPG right into the opened rear.

One of my brother Greg's law school friends, Patrick Daly, sent a very nice postcard. It arrived yesterday and features a picture of Wrigley Field. I also received a card from Greg with this poem, "Upon the War in Iraq" by Rob S. Rice (it was part of OpinionJournal.com's "A Day of Poetry for the War"):

Our carriers loom off his coast
Our bombers fill his skies
And brave, skilled men with stealthy tread
Prepare his grim surprise.
Grant and Sherman, Patton, Greene
Have taught us to make war.
We now pick up their legacy
And free the world once more.

Greg wrote, "Now that's some liberation poetry, Baby!"




27 Apr 03 0259Z 38RMA 90873389

We mounted our amtracs yesterday afternoon and motored south about 50 miles to the First Division assembly area near Ad Diwaniwah. Third Battalion, First Marines are here. They are first in line to fly home, then us.

This place is another Iraqi military compound. There is a shooting range right on the highway by which we slept. The corpsmen designated a latrine, which we called a "sh-- trench," out on the range, but after dark Marines feel like they can eliminate wherever they want. One amtracker in sandals and shorts with e-tool (folding shovel) and paper in hand marched over the berm just five meters from where I was lying. He began scratching on the ground, digging his cat hole. I called out, "There's a sh-- trench 30 meters out in front of you! Go over there." He grumbled and shuffled off in the dark.

I slept on my bag under my poncho liner until 2200Z (1 a.m. local time) when a fat raindrop landed on my forehead. It rained for just as long as it took me to scurry to my pack and retrieve my poncho. I moved my mat under the nose of the amtrac and slept there for the rest of the night. When I woke, Sgt. McMullen advised me to refrain from sleeping directly in front of tracked vehicles. Good advice.

I went to church services again today. We gathered under a pavilion that looked like a weapons cleaning station with concrete tables for cleaning rifles. Cpl. Hendrickson spoke about faith and hope, but once again I drew most of my enjoyment from the hymns. We sang, "How Firm a Foundation." Capt. Schoenfeld said to Cpl. Christensen, who leads the singing, that we have time for all seven verses. Verses four and five stood out:

4
When through the deep waters I call thee to go,
The rivers of sorrow shall not thee o'erflow.
For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless,
And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.

5
When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,
My grace all sufficient shall be thy supply.
The flame shall not hurt thee; I only design,
Thy dross to consume, thy gold to refine
And when the meeting closed, Cpl. Christensen asked what hymn we would like to sing. Cpl. Daniels called out, "The Babylon Song!" meaning "Ye Elders of Israel":

Chorus
Oh Babylon, Oh Babylon we bid thee farewell.
We're going to the mountains of Ephraim to dwell!

29 Apr 03

Today we had an impromptu Frisbee football tournament. We assembled five five-man teams. I played on a team called "Cpl. Tomczak Thinks He's Cool!" We made it to the final game but lost.

I interviewed Staff Sgt. Liles of Third Platoon regarding the death of Staff Sgt. Cawley, and Third's actions on the 8th of April. He was very happy to be heard. He opened his journal and let me read his account of Jim Cawley's death. I nearly wept again, but refrained, thank goodness.



The battalion stayed at Ad Diwaniwah for another three weeks waiting for transport back to Kuwait and the United States. We spent the time trying to keep cool and avoid the sickness that accompanied camp life. Marines played cards or, in the cool morning, sports. We talked to each other about our experiences or about anything but our experiences, according to preference. On May 21 we drove back to the greatly improved camps in Kuwait where we stayed for a week and then we flew home.

When we got off the plane at March Air Force Base near Camp Pendleton, Calif., there were two fire trucks on the flight line pumping great jets of water high in the air. I thought, "Don't they know there's a drought on?" But then I realized it was a tribute to us. We traveled by bus to Camp Pendleton, where our families waited. My brother Greg and my parents were there. My wife, Shari, and our three children were there. Fox Company marched down the road to where the cheering crowd waited and then the formation disintegrated as families found each other in the street.

Shari put three-month-old John in my arms. I held and kissed him for the first time while Jane and Keith climbed all over me. I kissed my wife. I held my mother for a time, and then my children pulled me down to the curb so they could have their turn.

continued......

[thedrifter]

Everyone should have a day like that. Parents should greet their children with undisguised affection as if they just returned from the war, the way I greeted Jane, Keith and John, and the way my mother and father greeted me. Husbands should regard their wives the way I regarded Shari, like a found treasure. The hardships my wife endured during my deployment transformed her into a stronger, lovelier woman.

I felt enormously rich, and I hoped all the Marines there felt as fortunate as I did. I suffered a flash of pain for Marines and families whose homecomings might be at all imperfect, and for those who would have no homecoming at all. But for the moment I was pressed on all sides by hugs and cameras, kisses and questions. It was a great day. It was my best day.

Semper Fidelis.

http://www.opinionjournal.com/columnists/btaylor/


Sempers,

Roger
:marine: