thedrifter
08-06-07, 09:07 AM
Marines in the Desert and Switching Saddles
[W. Thomas Smith Jr.]
BETWEEN AL QAIM AND SYRIA - Moved with the snipers back out to Battle Position Tarawa prior to launching a "sweep," which has since been temporarily - perhaps intentionally for security reasons - delayed.
Still, mounted (Humvee) and foot patrols move in-and-out of Tarawa and other BPs along the Euphrates constantly: Keeping the tempo high, denying the guerrillas the opportunity to "surge" back in, which they are trying to do. Our "denying the enemy" efforts here are part of Operation Mawtini in Al Anbar.
Yesterday, an anti-tank mine was found just up the road from Tarawa. One of the guys I bunk with was on the patrol that discovered it.
This morning, I sat down with 1st Lt. Alejandro "Alex" Ramos, Alpha Company's executive officer and the ranking officer at BP Tarawa. "We have intelligence that there is to be an insurgent spike," he tells me.
"There are enemy cells here, including AQI [Al Qaeda in Iraq], Jayesh Mujahideen, and others. But we are not allowing them freedom of movement: We are saturating the area with Marine patrols. But we like to let the Iraqi Army work its piece first … give them the opportunity and legitimacy they need."
Ramos, a 30-year-old, mellifluous-speaking Marine officer, who - even in this sand and heat - always looks as if he just stepped out of a recruiting poster, has only been here since April. But he exudes the same command presence that might be found in any more-seasoned combat veteran.
In fact, all the Marines out here are a reflection of commanders like Ramos. They remind me of my nephew's high school wrestling team, only a few years older and a bit more severe.
War, the Anbar desert, and simply being a Marine makes you that way.
These men - no women out here (except the Iraqi terp I saw today) - are enduring elements that will make me never again complain about hot South Carolina summers. The Marines are constantly moving, functioning on small four-hour packages of sleep (sometimes less), and subsisting on Pop Tarts, Cheerios, and MREs. Sometimes, they eat steaks and ribs cooked by other Marines on the grill inside the BPs, the highlight of life out here.
They sleep in huge plywood and canvas "hootches," basically giant tents. They relieve themselves in plastic "wag bags" or tubes sticking out of the ground. Cammie netting shields their battle positions from the searing sun. Razor wire, sandbag berms, and machine-guns mounted in towers protect them from enemy sappers and suicide bombers.
They unwind by reading books and watching DVDs from portable players. There is a single community computer at BP Tarawa with Internet access, but it's very slow, the Internet signal is hit or miss; and somebody is always waiting in line to use it … even at 2:00 in the morning. Lots of time is spent sharing stories under the stars or in the hootches or outside of the combat operations center - real and imagined - of their greatest sexual conquests, and dreams of girls back home.
They converse in simple sentences with clauses linked by all manner of profanity, but - like their battalion commander, Lt. Col. Bohm - most of them pray openly and unashamedly. They constantly rib each other and boast - a lot of broad chests and big egos out here - but no one is ever offended by the other. They love each other like brothers, but expect a lot out of the same. Here there is no room for weakness, and one who exhibits fear, laziness, or untrustworthiness is quickly isolated and dealt with.
They are all ready to fight: I've yet to find one who isn't. Most of them have experienced some form of combat action. Some of the younger ones have only heard shots fired.
Following my conversation with Ramos, I strolled out toward the wire where I found Lance Corporal Andrew Casey, a tall, smiling, 20-year-old red-haired Marine from Langdon, New Hampshire who was busy positioning and sighting his 81mm mortar. Casey is typical of Marines in Iraq, cheerful despite hardship, always eager for action.
He asked me to help him reposition his mortar, which I did.
"I hope I get to fire off a few rounds tonight," he says, as we lift up the baseplate and mortar tube and move the weapon-system a few feet away.
This afternoon, before making a highway run back to the battalion command post, the vehicle commander of the Humvee I was riding in put me in the seat behind the driver (usually I'm sitting behind the front passenger seat). In this case - because, as he said, I'm a "former Marine" and the other passenger was an Iraqi terp - I was positioned behind the driver with special instructions: If we were ambushed and the driver killed, I was to leap forward grab the wheel and the throttle and "punch us out of the kill zone." Fortunately, I didn't have to act on my instructions.
In a few days, I'll be switching saddles - helicoptering out to a position north of Fallujah.
-30-
To keep track of Smith's travels, click below:
tank.nationalreview.com/
Ellie
[W. Thomas Smith Jr.]
BETWEEN AL QAIM AND SYRIA - Moved with the snipers back out to Battle Position Tarawa prior to launching a "sweep," which has since been temporarily - perhaps intentionally for security reasons - delayed.
Still, mounted (Humvee) and foot patrols move in-and-out of Tarawa and other BPs along the Euphrates constantly: Keeping the tempo high, denying the guerrillas the opportunity to "surge" back in, which they are trying to do. Our "denying the enemy" efforts here are part of Operation Mawtini in Al Anbar.
Yesterday, an anti-tank mine was found just up the road from Tarawa. One of the guys I bunk with was on the patrol that discovered it.
This morning, I sat down with 1st Lt. Alejandro "Alex" Ramos, Alpha Company's executive officer and the ranking officer at BP Tarawa. "We have intelligence that there is to be an insurgent spike," he tells me.
"There are enemy cells here, including AQI [Al Qaeda in Iraq], Jayesh Mujahideen, and others. But we are not allowing them freedom of movement: We are saturating the area with Marine patrols. But we like to let the Iraqi Army work its piece first … give them the opportunity and legitimacy they need."
Ramos, a 30-year-old, mellifluous-speaking Marine officer, who - even in this sand and heat - always looks as if he just stepped out of a recruiting poster, has only been here since April. But he exudes the same command presence that might be found in any more-seasoned combat veteran.
In fact, all the Marines out here are a reflection of commanders like Ramos. They remind me of my nephew's high school wrestling team, only a few years older and a bit more severe.
War, the Anbar desert, and simply being a Marine makes you that way.
These men - no women out here (except the Iraqi terp I saw today) - are enduring elements that will make me never again complain about hot South Carolina summers. The Marines are constantly moving, functioning on small four-hour packages of sleep (sometimes less), and subsisting on Pop Tarts, Cheerios, and MREs. Sometimes, they eat steaks and ribs cooked by other Marines on the grill inside the BPs, the highlight of life out here.
They sleep in huge plywood and canvas "hootches," basically giant tents. They relieve themselves in plastic "wag bags" or tubes sticking out of the ground. Cammie netting shields their battle positions from the searing sun. Razor wire, sandbag berms, and machine-guns mounted in towers protect them from enemy sappers and suicide bombers.
They unwind by reading books and watching DVDs from portable players. There is a single community computer at BP Tarawa with Internet access, but it's very slow, the Internet signal is hit or miss; and somebody is always waiting in line to use it … even at 2:00 in the morning. Lots of time is spent sharing stories under the stars or in the hootches or outside of the combat operations center - real and imagined - of their greatest sexual conquests, and dreams of girls back home.
They converse in simple sentences with clauses linked by all manner of profanity, but - like their battalion commander, Lt. Col. Bohm - most of them pray openly and unashamedly. They constantly rib each other and boast - a lot of broad chests and big egos out here - but no one is ever offended by the other. They love each other like brothers, but expect a lot out of the same. Here there is no room for weakness, and one who exhibits fear, laziness, or untrustworthiness is quickly isolated and dealt with.
They are all ready to fight: I've yet to find one who isn't. Most of them have experienced some form of combat action. Some of the younger ones have only heard shots fired.
Following my conversation with Ramos, I strolled out toward the wire where I found Lance Corporal Andrew Casey, a tall, smiling, 20-year-old red-haired Marine from Langdon, New Hampshire who was busy positioning and sighting his 81mm mortar. Casey is typical of Marines in Iraq, cheerful despite hardship, always eager for action.
He asked me to help him reposition his mortar, which I did.
"I hope I get to fire off a few rounds tonight," he says, as we lift up the baseplate and mortar tube and move the weapon-system a few feet away.
This afternoon, before making a highway run back to the battalion command post, the vehicle commander of the Humvee I was riding in put me in the seat behind the driver (usually I'm sitting behind the front passenger seat). In this case - because, as he said, I'm a "former Marine" and the other passenger was an Iraqi terp - I was positioned behind the driver with special instructions: If we were ambushed and the driver killed, I was to leap forward grab the wheel and the throttle and "punch us out of the kill zone." Fortunately, I didn't have to act on my instructions.
In a few days, I'll be switching saddles - helicoptering out to a position north of Fallujah.
-30-
To keep track of Smith's travels, click below:
tank.nationalreview.com/
Ellie