23-hours from Kuwait to Iraq

[thedrifter]

23-hours from Kuwait to Iraq


Staff Sgt. Jason Huffine
Combat Correspondent

According to French Army commander Napoleon Boneparte, "An army marches on its stomach." The logistics used to sustain a fighting force, both in rear echelons and forward areas, remains crucial to any military campaign. The following concludes a two-part perspective (see related in May 1 edition) of the trials of Marines tasked to protect a supply convoy in Iraq.

Manning the Turret
Meet Raetheon Mitchell; a Marine corporal from Philadelphia. His normally dark skin has a ghost like quality from the time manning a .50 caliber machine gun. He stands the whole way, looking out of the hardback humvee like a turtle from its shell. The winds crack his hands; the sand grinds his teeth; and the powdery white dust covers his face.

“It feels like you’re being poked with a thousand needles,” he says. “When the sand hits you in the face, all you can do is stand there, and make sure you continue doing your job.”
The 22-year-old constantly turns the gun. A locking mechanism clicks each time the turret moves. Mitchell yells to Devlin, about a checkpoint ahead.

Slowly the vehicle approaches the Kuwaiti police. Devlin drives over a bump and Mitchell’s looses his balance in the turret. Everyone in the vehicle asks him if he’s OK. All that is heard is a sarcastic “Err!”

Mitchell says his motivation comes from his father and grandfather before him. He explains that both are former Marine staff sergeants. He credits them for him joining the Corps after graduating from Philadelphia’s Bartram Business Annex in 2001.

Mitchell doesn’t say a word for another forty minutes. His eyes lock on the Kuwaiti highway; his cracked hands squeeze the machine gun’s handgrips.

A car passes cheering the Marines. Everyone jumps when a British truck honks.

The Public Works Company
“This is an Army convoy” said Devlin’s “A” driver, Cpl. Earl Rancifer as the humvees pass through the gates of what the locals call “PWC.”
“There’s a McDonalds,” one Marine screamed.

Turns out, the area is where local businesses store supplies. So instead of there actually being a place to get a burger and fries, the Marines follow the directions to an area where they wait for a forklift to load the convoy’s tractor trailers.

Ryals tells everyone it’s going to be at least a two-hour wait. The Marines break out a baseball and a couple of gloves. Back and fourth they throw the ball, until the reality sets in that no one has eaten afternoon “chow.” Someone jokes about ordering pizza. Ryals says there’s a “Pizza Hut” in Kuwait that delivers. Between the Marines, they gather $43. The BBC producer steps in and says his crew will pick up lunch. The Marines agree and order eight large pies on a cell phone that Ryals carries as the convoy commander. Some pepperoni and the others “Meat Lovers.”

The producer then asks if there’s anyone who hasn’t called home. He offers his phone to the Marines. One-by-one, they call.

Devlin calls his girlfriend Jennifer in Wilmington, N.C. She attends the University of North Carolina there. Rancifer calls his pregnant girlfriend. He shakes his head when he hangs up. He says he’s been here more than two months. The phone calls continue. Ninety-minutes, later the last Marine hands the phone to the producer. He tells him to pass to the BBC a “Thank you.”

Four hours pass. Some Marines sleep, others listen to music. Rancifer, with headphones on, shouts the words to one of ‘Mystical’s’ latest.
“You’re flirting with this pimp, ain’t ya,” he raps.
The other Marines laugh and poke fun at him. Ryals gives the word to pack up. The trucks are finally loaded.

On the road, Lance Corporal takes Charge
When the Marines leave PWC there is confusion. Now, instead of having three humvees and two BBC vehicles to worry about, there are 16 tractor-trailers. Ryals briefs the drivers on what to expect. Most of the drivers in this convoy are retired military working for the Brown and Root Corporation.

About thirty minutes pass on the road before anything exciting takes place. The sun sets. The winds die down, and the stars shine. A lady and her child pass the convoy. The child’s dark, wide-open eyes stare at Mitchell in the turret. The child’s mom quickly glances at Devlin and returns to driving. The child points at the .50 cal. His mother brushes his arm down, as everyone brakes for another checkpoint ahead. The convoy stops. The BBC crew is out of their vehicles. Something is wrong.

Meet Lance Cpl. Casey Zawadzi. Some of the Marines call him “Fat Boy.” His stocky build is hard to miss as he stands on the side of the road arguing with a local Kuwaiti police officer. Talking with his hands, the officer explains that some of the BBC crew’s media credentials are not correct. He says he’s not allowing the BBC crew continue up the highway. Ryals checks the credentials, and everything appears in order. Zawadzi and the officer continue to argue. The officer makes a comment about “crazy Americans.”

“You see this convoy. I have orders,” the Orlando, Fla., native says about the trucks that stretch out for more than a mile. “If the BBC crew stays, so do the trucks.”
The officer stuck out his hand, and almost reluctantly apologizes for the delay. Zawadzi seems to win the battle. He laughs as Ryals tells everyone to get back in their vehicles.
“This is my eighth convoy,” he says. “I’ve seen this before. You just have to know what to say, and when to say it with these guys.”

UN Checkpoint
“Rules are rules,” Ryals says when the convoy finally arrives at the Iraqi border. It’s considered a demilitarized zone. The guards don’t allow vehicles to pass through at night, so the convoy is forced to stop there until sunrise.
Ryals gathers the drivers, and passes that the convoy will leave sharply at 0530.
“Get some sleep,” he adds.

Zawadzi has been there before. He tells everyone about a chow hall on the other side of the gate. The facility serves a late meal and cold sodas. Some eat, most wind down from driving.
Mitchell still in the turret snores. He’s exhausted. The Marines make fun of him, and try to wake him. It’s no use.

The BBC crew unloads its trucks looking for something to make tea with - “traditions,” they say.
Throughout the night it’s the sounds that tell the story of the makeshift truck stop. Dogs bark, trucks grind gears traveling back towards Kuwait. Voices get lost in the night air.

The Marines settle down and sleep; some on top of vehicles, others on the ground.

Morning Dust, Departure
When everyone wakes, the temperatures are cool. Zawadzi lights a cigarette and helps the turret gunners clean their weapons.
Everything is coated with dust. “Escort Marines are useless unless their weapons work,” Ryals says. He stresses the last thing he wants is a malfunction. The Marines break the guns down one-by-one. Mitchell checks the headspace on the .50 cal. Rancifer takes apart his M-16. He quickly wipes down each piece to clear the sand and dust. The weapons seem ready.

“Let the bodies hit the floor,” Zawadzi shouts. Wearing headphones and a “dew rag,” he dances around as he brushes his teeth. He says that the rock group “Drowning Pool,” is a good “wake-me-up.”

Ryals lets everyone know there’s going to be a delay with leaving. A couple of the truck drivers left in the middle of the night and now the convoy has to wait for their return. With that, food becomes the main topic. Everyone races towards the chow hall.

“One – nothing’s wrong with me,” Zawadski still sings. “Two - something’s got to give.”
He bounces around like a six-year-old.

On the road again, in Iraq
“Locked and cocked,” Devlin says, as the convoy passes through what is called Abdably Immigration Point. The only thing separating Kuwait and Iraq at this point is a dirt berm lined with razor wire. The convoy passes through a gap that’s covered from every direction with machine-gun nests. One-by-one, the vehicles pass through. On the radio, Ryals passes for everyone to go to “condition one weapons.” Bolts are forward, rounds chambered.

The sights and sounds of Southern Iraq are different from those the day prior in Kuwait. Within minutes, the convoy passes through Safwan, a city most Marines say they’ll never forget; a city that’s obviously seen hardships.

Children line the streets like little “gypsies.” Their parents watch, but do little to keep them out of the road. Four-year-olds weave in and out of vehicles. They ask the convoy for food and water. Mostly, they reach their hands out with the now worthless Iraqi Dinar to exchange the paper for U.S. currency. Devlin tosses some food out, trying to get them away from the hummer. It works for a few seconds, but instantly hands are back in the windows. Rancifer shouts that some of the kids have rocks. He’s nervous from the information passed in the intel brief. The convoy speeds up. People still reach for whatever they can get their hands on.

“Someone tried to grab my Kabar,” Rancifer shouts. He picks up his Marine Corps issued knife and secures it. By this time, the road opens up and little, and the kids become more scattered. The convoy loops onto Iraqi Highway 8.

continued.....

[thedrifter]

Final Stretch
Believe it or not, there are fields with greens along side the road. Nothing like the states, but the farmers seem to do well for an agricultural area that has seen the stress of the Hussein regime.

There’s a color palette. Dark and light browns shadow the horizon, while the foreground speckles the landscape with emerald greens and an occasion spot of red - tomatoes. Blue skies on this day cover it all. It all seems to pretty for an area that’s seen two wars in less than 12 years.
An occasional bystander stands on the road’s shoulder giving a thumbs up. A father and daughter stare motionless at the passing convoy.
The roads are good. No craters. There’s even areas that look like they may have been rest stops at one point.

There’s a blown out tank, a bus, even an overpass. By this time, the Marines are quiet. Mitchell yells down for some water. He says the suns beating down on him. In the distance there’s a turnoff – LSA (logistics, support activity) Viper is around the corner. “Condition four,” Ryals says over the radio. After almost 23 hours on the road, the first part of the trip is over for the group of Marines from 2d Military Police Battalion. The trucks pull into an area where a forklift is waiting to unload them.

Ryals tell the Marines to get ready for the return trip to Kuwait. Devlin lights another Newport.
“My ‘eye-opener,’” he says.

Sempers,

Roger