thedrifter
09-22-05, 06:26 AM
A Daily Dance With Death
'Do they think we're fighting a war?' On patrol with the U.S. Marines near Fallujah
WEB EXCLUSIVE
By Michael Hastings
Newsweek
Updated: 11:12 a.m. ET Sept. 21, 2005
Sept. 20, 2005 - "Zigzag, zigzag," yells Corporal Khalid Aziz, 24, to the Iraqi soldiers in front of him. Aziz, a U.S. Marine born in Morocco and fluent in Arabic, bounces up beside the Iraqi sergeant. "You got to tell them to zigzag," he says. The sergeant, wearing dark sunglasses, nods. The foot patrol—made up of five Marines and six soldiers from the new Iraqi Army—fans out, passing a chop shop of torn-up cars on the rough and tumble streets of Karmah, a one-market town near Fallujah. The locals stare, some smiling, most not. Aziz watches the street closely for the hints that will tell him if he's about to have a bad day: an old car with brand new tires, a strategically placed plastic container, deserted streets, closed up stores. "Most of the times it's the looks people give," he says as we move up the road. "Sometimes, it's like they want to jump up and kill you."
Welcome to a typical day in Iraq for 1st Platoon, Fox Company. Their unit: the 2nd Battalion, 2nd Marine regiment. The 2-2 operates in what passes for the suburbs of Fallujah, the city that saw the heaviest fighting of the war in April and November of 2004. It's calmed down a little since the last time Aziz was in town—like most of the other Marines in his platoon, he's on his second tour in Iraq—but in the largely Sunni town insurgent activity is still high. Daily bomb attacks, mortars, suicide bombers, and the occasional ambush are the norm. And F irst Platoon spends a good chunk of its time patrolling the area on foot.
The math works out this way: tours for Marine infantry are about seven months, or 210 days. About three quarters of the time, it's three patrols a day. That means some 472 extremely dangerous missions in less than a year—invariably carried out while sleep deprived and drenched in sweat. The other daily challenge is to train the new Iraqi Army, or the "IA." The patrols are usually stacked with more Iraqis than Marines. It's considered the key to Washington's plans to ultimately hand security over to Baghdad. Fox Company commander Captain Michael Estes wants most to get the Iraqis up and ready to take his area before his Marines head home in January. Estes wants his men to see "the tangible benefits of their sweat."
Aziz's patrol continues on past one of the two main mosques in Karmah. Over the past few days, the Iraqi soldiers have told the Marines what the imams have blasted over loudspeakers—calls to rise up and attack the Americans. But, under strict orders, the Marines may not enter mosques or schools. They don't like it. "What I'd give to be able to look in there," says Aziz. "You know they're hiding something."
At the "Lollipop," named for the large circular sign in the middle of a roundabout for traffic, Aziz pulls out a "flashbang" canister. It's used to make the drivers who haven't paid attention to the hand signals stop driving. He tosses the flashbang-WHA-WHOOM. The traffic comes to standstill. The patrol trucks up Market Street, Karmah's busy shopping district.
Next stop: "Yellow Pages." The patrol searches a household, taking away the names of men of military age and a digital photo. Then the patrol heads back to Observation Post 2(OP2), their temporary home. (Technically, it's OP2A. The original OP2, a couple hundred meters away, was hit by a VBIED (vehicle-borne improvised explosive device) in early September. It was driven by suicide car bomber in a gasoline truck, causing a big fireball that blew out the wall and destroyed where the Marines would have been sleeping. There were only four injuries.)
At OP2, a two-story house, the Iraqis and the Marines live side by side. The IA soldier are a mixed bag, a work in progress, but "night and day" better from the group of Iraqi soldiers the troops worked with on their previous tour, the Marines say. "The last time we were here, they were lazy, and all they wanted to do was sleep," says Corporal Josh Franklin, 20, from Ripley, Ohio. "These guys have got balls." But logistical problems still plague this unit. Motorola walkie-talkies they use usually don't reach back to their base, and they rely on Marines for most logistical support, like supplying them their food. They also can abuse the locals, and the Marines occasionally have to hold them in check. Most of the IA soldiers are Shia Muslims, brought in from places like Najaf and Basra in the south. That's made them the main targets for the local insurgents—primarily Sunnis. "The [insurgents] try to kill the [Iraqis], not us," says Aziz. Some IA soldiers are well trained, while others "sleep, complain, sleep, complain," says Aziz. It can take convincing to get them out on patrol; there are some parts of Karmah where they won't go alone, says Staff Sergeant Angel Figueroatablas, 29, from Woodlake, California. "They're scared, that's the big thing."
At 4 p.m., it's time for another stroll through town. Figueroatablas asks for seven Iraqis soldiers, but the Iraqi lieutenant and s taff sergeant argue the number down to five for this patrol. Lance Corporal Jim Chappell, 21, from York, Penn., takes point; Lance Corporal Andrew Gladue, 20, from Savannah, Georgia, and Nicholas "Doc" Benjamin, 23 from Superior, Wis., bring up the rear. It's their third time out that day. Chappell and Gladue are part of the same fire team; Chappell has 18 tattoos, Gladue nine. Baker is the Navy corpsman assigned to the platoon.
There's no thermometer to check, but it's hotter than before. This time, when the patrol stops traffic to move down Market Street, a yellow sedan creeps forward. Chappell fires two M-16 rounds in front of the car. It stops. A few minutes later, a call comes over the radio. An improvised bomb has hit Third Platoon's convoy, a few kilometers away: four casualties. Chappell points out gray mist on the horizon. "That's from the IED."
The 150-minute patrol returns to OP2. SSgt. "Fig" begins to set up the last patrol of the night, scheduled for three-and-a- half hours. The Iraqi soldiers remonstrate, saying it's too many patrols, and too long. FigueroaTABLAS radios headquarters at Camp Delta. If they aren't coming out "it defeats the purpose," Figueroatablas says over the radio. The voice on the other end responds: "This is coming from higher than me." Figueroatablas turns to the Iraqi officer and NCO. "I'm not going to be here next time," he says. "You have to do this for yourself." The joint unit strikes a compromise. The patrol will be 90 minutes, down by more than half.
The long day is winding down. Dusk falls and the temperature drops. A half dozen Marines pull up chairs outside the house, in the fluorescent glow of "chem" lights—civilian campers call them glow sticks. These young Americans don't want to get blown up, they want to go home. And they don't want to kill civilians. They talk about the rules of engagement, stricter than when they fought in Iraq in 2004. That was "the Wild West," says Aziz. A recent shooting left a nasty impression, he recalls. A car carrying two women, two men and two kids failed to stop at the extensive barriers before the checkpoint at OP2. The driver ignored both warning signs and the multiple concrete blocks. The car came forward even after the tires were shot out. Eventually, a Marine opened fire. The two women were killed. The bullets blew the back of one woman's head off, says Franklin, adding: "It was even worse than the s—- I saw last time I was here." But the enemy knows the Marines can't fire first. Lately, the Marines say, cars probe the defenses, driving up to the post to see how far they can get before being shot at. "You're supposed to wave, throw a flash bang, say hi, make a baloney and cheese sandwich, shoot in front, shoot the tire, shoot the other tire, have some tea, shoot the engine, then shoot the windshield," says Aziz.
Now the Marines get a chance to ask an embedded U.S. reporter what's going on back home. "Do they think we're fighting a war?" Gladue asks. "We think we're fighting a war." The other Marines nod. Their next patrol moves out in an hour.
Ellie
'Do they think we're fighting a war?' On patrol with the U.S. Marines near Fallujah
WEB EXCLUSIVE
By Michael Hastings
Newsweek
Updated: 11:12 a.m. ET Sept. 21, 2005
Sept. 20, 2005 - "Zigzag, zigzag," yells Corporal Khalid Aziz, 24, to the Iraqi soldiers in front of him. Aziz, a U.S. Marine born in Morocco and fluent in Arabic, bounces up beside the Iraqi sergeant. "You got to tell them to zigzag," he says. The sergeant, wearing dark sunglasses, nods. The foot patrol—made up of five Marines and six soldiers from the new Iraqi Army—fans out, passing a chop shop of torn-up cars on the rough and tumble streets of Karmah, a one-market town near Fallujah. The locals stare, some smiling, most not. Aziz watches the street closely for the hints that will tell him if he's about to have a bad day: an old car with brand new tires, a strategically placed plastic container, deserted streets, closed up stores. "Most of the times it's the looks people give," he says as we move up the road. "Sometimes, it's like they want to jump up and kill you."
Welcome to a typical day in Iraq for 1st Platoon, Fox Company. Their unit: the 2nd Battalion, 2nd Marine regiment. The 2-2 operates in what passes for the suburbs of Fallujah, the city that saw the heaviest fighting of the war in April and November of 2004. It's calmed down a little since the last time Aziz was in town—like most of the other Marines in his platoon, he's on his second tour in Iraq—but in the largely Sunni town insurgent activity is still high. Daily bomb attacks, mortars, suicide bombers, and the occasional ambush are the norm. And F irst Platoon spends a good chunk of its time patrolling the area on foot.
The math works out this way: tours for Marine infantry are about seven months, or 210 days. About three quarters of the time, it's three patrols a day. That means some 472 extremely dangerous missions in less than a year—invariably carried out while sleep deprived and drenched in sweat. The other daily challenge is to train the new Iraqi Army, or the "IA." The patrols are usually stacked with more Iraqis than Marines. It's considered the key to Washington's plans to ultimately hand security over to Baghdad. Fox Company commander Captain Michael Estes wants most to get the Iraqis up and ready to take his area before his Marines head home in January. Estes wants his men to see "the tangible benefits of their sweat."
Aziz's patrol continues on past one of the two main mosques in Karmah. Over the past few days, the Iraqi soldiers have told the Marines what the imams have blasted over loudspeakers—calls to rise up and attack the Americans. But, under strict orders, the Marines may not enter mosques or schools. They don't like it. "What I'd give to be able to look in there," says Aziz. "You know they're hiding something."
At the "Lollipop," named for the large circular sign in the middle of a roundabout for traffic, Aziz pulls out a "flashbang" canister. It's used to make the drivers who haven't paid attention to the hand signals stop driving. He tosses the flashbang-WHA-WHOOM. The traffic comes to standstill. The patrol trucks up Market Street, Karmah's busy shopping district.
Next stop: "Yellow Pages." The patrol searches a household, taking away the names of men of military age and a digital photo. Then the patrol heads back to Observation Post 2(OP2), their temporary home. (Technically, it's OP2A. The original OP2, a couple hundred meters away, was hit by a VBIED (vehicle-borne improvised explosive device) in early September. It was driven by suicide car bomber in a gasoline truck, causing a big fireball that blew out the wall and destroyed where the Marines would have been sleeping. There were only four injuries.)
At OP2, a two-story house, the Iraqis and the Marines live side by side. The IA soldier are a mixed bag, a work in progress, but "night and day" better from the group of Iraqi soldiers the troops worked with on their previous tour, the Marines say. "The last time we were here, they were lazy, and all they wanted to do was sleep," says Corporal Josh Franklin, 20, from Ripley, Ohio. "These guys have got balls." But logistical problems still plague this unit. Motorola walkie-talkies they use usually don't reach back to their base, and they rely on Marines for most logistical support, like supplying them their food. They also can abuse the locals, and the Marines occasionally have to hold them in check. Most of the IA soldiers are Shia Muslims, brought in from places like Najaf and Basra in the south. That's made them the main targets for the local insurgents—primarily Sunnis. "The [insurgents] try to kill the [Iraqis], not us," says Aziz. Some IA soldiers are well trained, while others "sleep, complain, sleep, complain," says Aziz. It can take convincing to get them out on patrol; there are some parts of Karmah where they won't go alone, says Staff Sergeant Angel Figueroatablas, 29, from Woodlake, California. "They're scared, that's the big thing."
At 4 p.m., it's time for another stroll through town. Figueroatablas asks for seven Iraqis soldiers, but the Iraqi lieutenant and s taff sergeant argue the number down to five for this patrol. Lance Corporal Jim Chappell, 21, from York, Penn., takes point; Lance Corporal Andrew Gladue, 20, from Savannah, Georgia, and Nicholas "Doc" Benjamin, 23 from Superior, Wis., bring up the rear. It's their third time out that day. Chappell and Gladue are part of the same fire team; Chappell has 18 tattoos, Gladue nine. Baker is the Navy corpsman assigned to the platoon.
There's no thermometer to check, but it's hotter than before. This time, when the patrol stops traffic to move down Market Street, a yellow sedan creeps forward. Chappell fires two M-16 rounds in front of the car. It stops. A few minutes later, a call comes over the radio. An improvised bomb has hit Third Platoon's convoy, a few kilometers away: four casualties. Chappell points out gray mist on the horizon. "That's from the IED."
The 150-minute patrol returns to OP2. SSgt. "Fig" begins to set up the last patrol of the night, scheduled for three-and-a- half hours. The Iraqi soldiers remonstrate, saying it's too many patrols, and too long. FigueroaTABLAS radios headquarters at Camp Delta. If they aren't coming out "it defeats the purpose," Figueroatablas says over the radio. The voice on the other end responds: "This is coming from higher than me." Figueroatablas turns to the Iraqi officer and NCO. "I'm not going to be here next time," he says. "You have to do this for yourself." The joint unit strikes a compromise. The patrol will be 90 minutes, down by more than half.
The long day is winding down. Dusk falls and the temperature drops. A half dozen Marines pull up chairs outside the house, in the fluorescent glow of "chem" lights—civilian campers call them glow sticks. These young Americans don't want to get blown up, they want to go home. And they don't want to kill civilians. They talk about the rules of engagement, stricter than when they fought in Iraq in 2004. That was "the Wild West," says Aziz. A recent shooting left a nasty impression, he recalls. A car carrying two women, two men and two kids failed to stop at the extensive barriers before the checkpoint at OP2. The driver ignored both warning signs and the multiple concrete blocks. The car came forward even after the tires were shot out. Eventually, a Marine opened fire. The two women were killed. The bullets blew the back of one woman's head off, says Franklin, adding: "It was even worse than the s—- I saw last time I was here." But the enemy knows the Marines can't fire first. Lately, the Marines say, cars probe the defenses, driving up to the post to see how far they can get before being shot at. "You're supposed to wave, throw a flash bang, say hi, make a baloney and cheese sandwich, shoot in front, shoot the tire, shoot the other tire, have some tea, shoot the engine, then shoot the windshield," says Aziz.
Now the Marines get a chance to ask an embedded U.S. reporter what's going on back home. "Do they think we're fighting a war?" Gladue asks. "We think we're fighting a war." The other Marines nod. Their next patrol moves out in an hour.
Ellie