Most faithful readers! This week I'll be going back home to Dallas for a few days and then I'm off to Nebraska to celebrate Christmas. Being away from my computer means there won't be Photo Stories for awhile, but don't fret! After the new year I'll be back to tell more stories, and I have a few ideas about how to keep this blog fresh. Until then, enjoy my recollection of Christmas in Baghdad, 2006. Happy holidays!
Your favorite phony soldier,
Alex
Monday, December 17, 2007
Monday, December 10, 2007
Photo Story Monday - New Beginnings
Sometime in mid November 2006, we started to hear rumors about moving to Baghdad from Mosul, to relieve the 172nd Stryker Brigade, the same brigade we had already relieved when we got to Iraq in July before they were extended four months. Quickly the brass called a meeting with everyone about the subject to stop the ever present rumor mill from spitting out those little nuggets of gossip. Standing before the battalion, our commander told us there were no plans to move to Baghdad, but if there were any in the future, we'd get a notice of a few weeks prior at the very least.
A few days later, we were Baghdad bound. Or rumored to be, I can't be sure.
A Kiowa flew with our convoy, watching out for IEDs ahead of us
Before daybreak we took a straight shot down Tampa, the main road running through Mosul down to Baghdad and beyond. We had already been given our first mission: looking for the pilot of a crashed F-16 in the Anbar desert, and recovering the wreckage. He crashed after losing control while setting up for a gun run.
The convoy never went faster than 45 miles an hour, which made the approximately 200 mile drive a little long. We switched off in the back hatch, watching the huts and houses go by in the crisp winter wind. We had a megaphone in the back for warning cars that got too close, but we found a more practical application: hooking it up to our MP3 players. Nothing was more fitting at the time than Pink Floyd.
Before we would begin our search, we made it to our new home: Taji, twelve miles away from Baghdad. There we stripped down non-essential stuff for the mission (which happened to be a lot, imagine that) and got briefed on the time and location. We would spend about a week in the desert, going from house to house asking if the Iraqi civilians had seen or heard anything about pilots, planes or if they had considered switching to the Mormon faith. After a night in Taji, we headed for that big, empty splotch on the map.
We quickly found that the desert was a sprawling, open, arid piece of land with few inhabitants and scattered houses. We'd load up on Strykers and drive until we saw a cluster of houses, then get out and look through them. These people seemed to be the poorest we'd seen until we patrolled the slums of Baghdad. As always, my life became secondary to the possibility of stepping into a shit stream, so I watched the ground closely as we approached a farm. Speaking to the farmers, we found that there were several mortars that fell in his field. Not knowing the difference between a mortar crater and a hole in the ground, we decided to check them out, spread out far from the farmhouse. Circling back around, we came to a small pond with about two dozen oxen drinking and waddling in the water. They were startled and began to rush toward me. I spelled out my own obituary in my head. "Alex Horton, killed in a shit hole by a stampeding ox." Luckily they ran right past me. We stood around, talking about how much it would take for someone to jump in the hole. After a thousand dollar dare, no one jumped in.
The beautiful scenery of the Anbar desert
After we stalked around the deserts for a day, we found a suitable house to sleep in. Coming into it, we heard gunfire erupt from somewhere near us. We made it back inside to figure out the commotion and to make sure everyone was still there. It quieted down a bit, and we began to sleep in shifts, two guys up at a time. I'd have two shifts before the night was over, starting the day at sunrise.
Out of nowhere, the Snack Master™ manages to conjure a Mountain Dew in the house we stayed in
Another day of trekking through the desert sands, up and down hills and across tilled farm land. No sign of wreckage. He could be anywhere. Occasionally, we came upon tracks from a truck and spent heavy machine gun casings along the path. Finishing up, we took shelter in a big house owned by one of the local big shots. He quickly put on tea for us and later brought out huge trays of flat bread, rice and tomatoes for us to eat. The kids were making us paper airplanes and they soon were zipping across the room as everyone talked, laughed and took pictures.
Apparently I was the only cold one
After three or four days, the mission was called complete. The wreckage was found and remains were identified as the pilot. As a result of our visit in the open deserts, one man in our battalion, Billy Farris, was killed by an IED. A man from our company lost a leg the night before we left, also from an IED. Pulling into Taji for the second time, we got the complete story. This wasn't like Mosul, they're playing for keeps down south. We all took a deep breath and prepared to take on Baghdad.
AH
A few days later, we were Baghdad bound. Or rumored to be, I can't be sure.
A Kiowa flew with our convoy, watching out for IEDs ahead of us
Before daybreak we took a straight shot down Tampa, the main road running through Mosul down to Baghdad and beyond. We had already been given our first mission: looking for the pilot of a crashed F-16 in the Anbar desert, and recovering the wreckage. He crashed after losing control while setting up for a gun run.
The convoy never went faster than 45 miles an hour, which made the approximately 200 mile drive a little long. We switched off in the back hatch, watching the huts and houses go by in the crisp winter wind. We had a megaphone in the back for warning cars that got too close, but we found a more practical application: hooking it up to our MP3 players. Nothing was more fitting at the time than Pink Floyd.
Before we would begin our search, we made it to our new home: Taji, twelve miles away from Baghdad. There we stripped down non-essential stuff for the mission (which happened to be a lot, imagine that) and got briefed on the time and location. We would spend about a week in the desert, going from house to house asking if the Iraqi civilians had seen or heard anything about pilots, planes or if they had considered switching to the Mormon faith. After a night in Taji, we headed for that big, empty splotch on the map.
We quickly found that the desert was a sprawling, open, arid piece of land with few inhabitants and scattered houses. We'd load up on Strykers and drive until we saw a cluster of houses, then get out and look through them. These people seemed to be the poorest we'd seen until we patrolled the slums of Baghdad. As always, my life became secondary to the possibility of stepping into a shit stream, so I watched the ground closely as we approached a farm. Speaking to the farmers, we found that there were several mortars that fell in his field. Not knowing the difference between a mortar crater and a hole in the ground, we decided to check them out, spread out far from the farmhouse. Circling back around, we came to a small pond with about two dozen oxen drinking and waddling in the water. They were startled and began to rush toward me. I spelled out my own obituary in my head. "Alex Horton, killed in a shit hole by a stampeding ox." Luckily they ran right past me. We stood around, talking about how much it would take for someone to jump in the hole. After a thousand dollar dare, no one jumped in.
The beautiful scenery of the Anbar desert
After we stalked around the deserts for a day, we found a suitable house to sleep in. Coming into it, we heard gunfire erupt from somewhere near us. We made it back inside to figure out the commotion and to make sure everyone was still there. It quieted down a bit, and we began to sleep in shifts, two guys up at a time. I'd have two shifts before the night was over, starting the day at sunrise.
Out of nowhere, the Snack Master™ manages to conjure a Mountain Dew in the house we stayed in
Another day of trekking through the desert sands, up and down hills and across tilled farm land. No sign of wreckage. He could be anywhere. Occasionally, we came upon tracks from a truck and spent heavy machine gun casings along the path. Finishing up, we took shelter in a big house owned by one of the local big shots. He quickly put on tea for us and later brought out huge trays of flat bread, rice and tomatoes for us to eat. The kids were making us paper airplanes and they soon were zipping across the room as everyone talked, laughed and took pictures.
Apparently I was the only cold one
After three or four days, the mission was called complete. The wreckage was found and remains were identified as the pilot. As a result of our visit in the open deserts, one man in our battalion, Billy Farris, was killed by an IED. A man from our company lost a leg the night before we left, also from an IED. Pulling into Taji for the second time, we got the complete story. This wasn't like Mosul, they're playing for keeps down south. We all took a deep breath and prepared to take on Baghdad.
AH
Monday, December 03, 2007
Photo Story Monday - Peace Out
On August 4, 2004, I turned my back on my family. They dropped me off at a hotel in Dallas so I could begin my Army career. As I walked toward the door, my dad said to me, "You're a man now, Alex." They didn't see that as I checked in, I had tears in my eyes. I had a few jobs before then, but it would be the first time leaving home. Needless to say, my environment was going to change a little.
I signed up for three years and sixteen weeks. The sixteen weeks accounted for basic training and infantry school. The three year countdown started when I graduated on November 24, 2004. I got my orders to go to Ft. Lewis, Washington to be in the "Stryker brigade." Well, what in the hell was a Stryker?
Pulling into Seattle for the first time, I was a little startled. I never saw trees so green and water so blue. I figured I'd like this place.
It took only a few months to find out the Army wasn't for me. I was among a group of new guys that was integrated into a unit that had just gotten back from Iraq. That meant hazing, and a lot of it! Since we hadn't been to Iraq, they had a free pass to do whatever they wanted. They laughed and joked while we crawled down hallways with our faces dragging on the floor, grinding the dirt and dust that came off our boots. I made it a point to stay in my room, even abstaining from using the bathroom.
It was from this treatment that the new guys formed a bond that we would carry throughout the years. Some moved up in the ranks and became one of 'those guys,' others couldn't get past the paradoxical Army life.
To kill time during that first year, we would go out into a field and lay down white tape on the grass to simulate rooms of a building. They would show us how to clear a room and then have us try. Finishing up for the day, one of them said to me, "By the way, that isn't how we clear houses in Iraq, at all."
"Then why don't we train in the real way?" I asked. "Isn't this just a waste of time?"
"Shut the fuck up."
For those of us who couldn't stop ourselves from asking the ever important "Why?", we counted the days until we fulfilled our obligation, resisting the calls to reenlist before, during and after our tour in Iraq. Some fell for the not so subtle coercion and blackmail, sadly. The rest banded together to wait it out.
Personifying 'Army of Dude': Long hair and hands in the pockets. From left to right: Steve, Dozer and me in Yakima, 2005
Everyone has heard the saying that war is boring with short bursts of intensity. Imagine how exciting it is to train for one! Making two trips to eastern Washington, we would find out. There were a few intense, realistic missions spread out among two weeks of freezing weather and sitting around.
Attention taxpayers: This is how we spend your money. Ta da!
It was in these moments that made all the unbearable times a little easier to take. Inside jokes were born. Arguments and debates went on without end. Friendships flourished. We were together all the time in cramped quarters, getting to know each other better than our own friends and families back home. Our speech patterns and slang words were interchangeable. We'd be going to Iraq as a family.
Before the loss of innocence. Kuwait 2006
More of those boring moments crept up throughout the deployment with a certain element of danger. We'd stay at an outpost for a couple days at a time away from decent bathrooms, internet and phones. We'd complain the whole time but managed to keep up the jokes and friendly arguments. Chessboards would come out and crowds formed around heated matches.
Our platoon once drew a mission to escort some guys north of Mosul to an open desert. They would be looking in abandoned bunkers for signs of WMDs and weapons material. After a while we decided to get out and walk up a hill overlooking a village in the distance. Realizing we were dozens of miles from anyone important, we took off our helmets.
Dudes on break from left to right: Me, Dozer, Matt and Jesse
The rest of the deployment after Mosul wasn't all fun and posing. In Baghdad and Baqubah, our men lost limbs and minds. Chevy was killed in March, and Jesse (pictured above) was killed in April by a sniper. We spent days shoved into tiny rooms of the outposts we created, carrying on the friendships we had left.
On September 12, 2007, Bravo company returned to the states without two of our own. The guys getting out by the end of November would start the process of paperwork and mandatory briefs. As always, we did this together. On November 30, we would say our final goodbyes.
I spent three years, three months and twenty five days in the Army. I saw the best and the worst of the men this country has to offer. I have seen and experienced every extreme of the human condition. I saw and did things I'm proud of, and other things I would only tell the guys I was with. Fifty years of life experience were crammed into 173 weeks.
I'm often asked if I would ever do it again with the hindsight I have now. I would, only for the people I've met. The other parts of Army life made me leave. I'm just another vet now, full of memories and a shorter temper. However you take the contents of this blog, I'm satisfied with how my short career went down. I just miss my friends, alive and dead.
AH
I signed up for three years and sixteen weeks. The sixteen weeks accounted for basic training and infantry school. The three year countdown started when I graduated on November 24, 2004. I got my orders to go to Ft. Lewis, Washington to be in the "Stryker brigade." Well, what in the hell was a Stryker?
Pulling into Seattle for the first time, I was a little startled. I never saw trees so green and water so blue. I figured I'd like this place.
It took only a few months to find out the Army wasn't for me. I was among a group of new guys that was integrated into a unit that had just gotten back from Iraq. That meant hazing, and a lot of it! Since we hadn't been to Iraq, they had a free pass to do whatever they wanted. They laughed and joked while we crawled down hallways with our faces dragging on the floor, grinding the dirt and dust that came off our boots. I made it a point to stay in my room, even abstaining from using the bathroom.
It was from this treatment that the new guys formed a bond that we would carry throughout the years. Some moved up in the ranks and became one of 'those guys,' others couldn't get past the paradoxical Army life.
To kill time during that first year, we would go out into a field and lay down white tape on the grass to simulate rooms of a building. They would show us how to clear a room and then have us try. Finishing up for the day, one of them said to me, "By the way, that isn't how we clear houses in Iraq, at all."
"Then why don't we train in the real way?" I asked. "Isn't this just a waste of time?"
"Shut the fuck up."
For those of us who couldn't stop ourselves from asking the ever important "Why?", we counted the days until we fulfilled our obligation, resisting the calls to reenlist before, during and after our tour in Iraq. Some fell for the not so subtle coercion and blackmail, sadly. The rest banded together to wait it out.
Personifying 'Army of Dude': Long hair and hands in the pockets. From left to right: Steve, Dozer and me in Yakima, 2005
Everyone has heard the saying that war is boring with short bursts of intensity. Imagine how exciting it is to train for one! Making two trips to eastern Washington, we would find out. There were a few intense, realistic missions spread out among two weeks of freezing weather and sitting around.
Attention taxpayers: This is how we spend your money. Ta da!
It was in these moments that made all the unbearable times a little easier to take. Inside jokes were born. Arguments and debates went on without end. Friendships flourished. We were together all the time in cramped quarters, getting to know each other better than our own friends and families back home. Our speech patterns and slang words were interchangeable. We'd be going to Iraq as a family.
Before the loss of innocence. Kuwait 2006
More of those boring moments crept up throughout the deployment with a certain element of danger. We'd stay at an outpost for a couple days at a time away from decent bathrooms, internet and phones. We'd complain the whole time but managed to keep up the jokes and friendly arguments. Chessboards would come out and crowds formed around heated matches.
Our platoon once drew a mission to escort some guys north of Mosul to an open desert. They would be looking in abandoned bunkers for signs of WMDs and weapons material. After a while we decided to get out and walk up a hill overlooking a village in the distance. Realizing we were dozens of miles from anyone important, we took off our helmets.
Dudes on break from left to right: Me, Dozer, Matt and Jesse
The rest of the deployment after Mosul wasn't all fun and posing. In Baghdad and Baqubah, our men lost limbs and minds. Chevy was killed in March, and Jesse (pictured above) was killed in April by a sniper. We spent days shoved into tiny rooms of the outposts we created, carrying on the friendships we had left.
On September 12, 2007, Bravo company returned to the states without two of our own. The guys getting out by the end of November would start the process of paperwork and mandatory briefs. As always, we did this together. On November 30, we would say our final goodbyes.
I spent three years, three months and twenty five days in the Army. I saw the best and the worst of the men this country has to offer. I have seen and experienced every extreme of the human condition. I saw and did things I'm proud of, and other things I would only tell the guys I was with. Fifty years of life experience were crammed into 173 weeks.
I'm often asked if I would ever do it again with the hindsight I have now. I would, only for the people I've met. The other parts of Army life made me leave. I'm just another vet now, full of memories and a shorter temper. However you take the contents of this blog, I'm satisfied with how my short career went down. I just miss my friends, alive and dead.
AH
Monday, November 26, 2007
Photo Story Monday - Groundhog Year
After a year, the days began to melt together. Notable firefights, deaths and strange happenings were the only vivid memories used to recall particular dates. June 12 was symbolic throughout winter and early spring. It was the day the worn and battered would escape. The day that would mark a new beginning of our lives. The day we would return home.
With a clear conscience, Secretary Gates had us extended for three months. June 12 went from a daydream to the Tuesday between June 11 and June 13.
We set out in the early morning toward Chibernot, a small neighborhood in northern Baqubah bristling with mud huts and dense palms. We arrived a little past dawn and already felt the terrible strain of the weight we carried. Instead of driving on roads crammed with IEDs, we walked a good ways through the night, tripping in holes and stepping into streams tainted with septic waste. At one in particular, I heard the guy in front of me miss the jump across a tiny creek, sliding his foot deep into the mud. I put my night vision goggles up and leapt with all my might. With a thud I landed off-balance, my backpack pushing me forward almost onto my face. You know you're miserable when falling knee deep into diluted human shit is marginally worse than the morning you spent walking across open fields in the dark, twisting your ankle and reflecting on how your early 20s were working out.
At nearly seven in the morning we walked down a neighborhood street flanked by the occasional house. Someone spotted spent shell casings from an AK47 along the road. We spread out in the ruins of a destroyed building, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Walking along the wall, I noticed a groove cut out with bright splatters of blood covered on both sides and running down the back into the grass. It looked as if someone was bent over the groove and executed. A few more shell casings were cluttered next to the bricks.
Not a good day for some of us
After this find, we decided to look at the area more thoroughly. We headed for the one room cinderblock house across the street. Nothing seemed suspicious until Dozer began to kick around the dirt floor. Sending a cloud of rocks and soil into the air, he exposed a flap of buried plastic. He dropped down on his hands and knees and began to shovel dirt. We quickly realized it was a huge bag full of homemade explosives, a simple powder mix used to amplify air tanks and landmines in the deep-buried IEDs that had been destroying our Strykers with ease. More digging found another bag, at least twenty pounds. Then another. Then some landmines wired together to form a daisy chain explosion. Bags just kept on coming out of the ground. Binoculars. RPG sights. Grenade fuzes. Even more bags of homemade explosives. Hundreds of feet of wire. Batteries. AK magazines. Ammo boxes. A Motorola radio. An American 40mm grenade. Mortars. Dishwashing machine timers. Every insurgent weapon under the sun.
Showing off my organizational skills
From left to right: Cache gumshoe, a lot of boom, sweaty Dude
After destroying the stockpile we moved on, searching for others like it. We had with us a source from the 1920s Brigade, attempting to find Al Qaeda safehouses in the neighborhood. We stopped at a house while another cache was being sorted through and prepared for detonation. Slumping on the floor of the living room, we made jokes and laughed, waiting for the explosion to rock the house. I was sitting to the left of the window with four or five people in between. We got the call: one minute until controlled detonation, everyone inside. We put our fingers in our ears. 30 seconds. 10. 5. Then, BOOM! A sliver of glass burst from the window, taking a magic bullet route past the other dudes, completely missing my right arm and striking me in the left wrist. Once I saw blood I said with a laugh, "Man, I'm fucked up!" My medic gave me a routine bandage after I dripped a bit of blood onto the ground. I pointed to the red spots on the floor in the house and said "sorry" to the owner of the house, with a shrug of my shoulders. While we waited for the extraction plan, I sat down and watched the 1920s dude pore over the documents belonging to the people in the house. They weren't supposed to carry weapons, but if we don't arm Sunni insurgents, who will?
Not pictured: Bloody wound
After more than ten hours on the scene, we decided to skedaddle. We were told the trucks were closer than the drop off point, a relief after walking all day in the June desert heat. Helicopters buzzed above us as we snaked through the outskirts of the town.
The heat proved to be a formidable enemy and we had to halt in a house for a moment. I finished the last drops of water and tossed my bottle into a garbage pile. Walking into the courtyard I quickly found a few friends gathered around a car in the shade. We talked about how far the Strykers were in actuality. The Apaches continued to fly low above us, close enough to see the pilots and their hand gestures. Several people came to the same conclusion at the same time: we have to moon them.
In a straight line in the yard, the guys dropped their pants with their asses facing the approaching helicopter, waving and hollering. The pilots waved back and shot flares up into the air in acknowledgment.
Fun in combat is a fleeting moment, and quickly the mooners buttoned their pants to continue on the path, about to trade a summer breeze grazing their asses for a hard Stryker bench. After walking nearly a mile down the road, we heard the distinct whine of the trucks. Getting in, sweaty, dirty, dehydrated and exhausted, we did some good by taking bomb making material off the streets. But for what was supposed to be a special day, it ended like the hundreds before and after it: speeding toward our base, our enemies watching our every move.
AH
With a clear conscience, Secretary Gates had us extended for three months. June 12 went from a daydream to the Tuesday between June 11 and June 13.
We set out in the early morning toward Chibernot, a small neighborhood in northern Baqubah bristling with mud huts and dense palms. We arrived a little past dawn and already felt the terrible strain of the weight we carried. Instead of driving on roads crammed with IEDs, we walked a good ways through the night, tripping in holes and stepping into streams tainted with septic waste. At one in particular, I heard the guy in front of me miss the jump across a tiny creek, sliding his foot deep into the mud. I put my night vision goggles up and leapt with all my might. With a thud I landed off-balance, my backpack pushing me forward almost onto my face. You know you're miserable when falling knee deep into diluted human shit is marginally worse than the morning you spent walking across open fields in the dark, twisting your ankle and reflecting on how your early 20s were working out.
At nearly seven in the morning we walked down a neighborhood street flanked by the occasional house. Someone spotted spent shell casings from an AK47 along the road. We spread out in the ruins of a destroyed building, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Walking along the wall, I noticed a groove cut out with bright splatters of blood covered on both sides and running down the back into the grass. It looked as if someone was bent over the groove and executed. A few more shell casings were cluttered next to the bricks.
Not a good day for some of us
After this find, we decided to look at the area more thoroughly. We headed for the one room cinderblock house across the street. Nothing seemed suspicious until Dozer began to kick around the dirt floor. Sending a cloud of rocks and soil into the air, he exposed a flap of buried plastic. He dropped down on his hands and knees and began to shovel dirt. We quickly realized it was a huge bag full of homemade explosives, a simple powder mix used to amplify air tanks and landmines in the deep-buried IEDs that had been destroying our Strykers with ease. More digging found another bag, at least twenty pounds. Then another. Then some landmines wired together to form a daisy chain explosion. Bags just kept on coming out of the ground. Binoculars. RPG sights. Grenade fuzes. Even more bags of homemade explosives. Hundreds of feet of wire. Batteries. AK magazines. Ammo boxes. A Motorola radio. An American 40mm grenade. Mortars. Dishwashing machine timers. Every insurgent weapon under the sun.
Showing off my organizational skills
From left to right: Cache gumshoe, a lot of boom, sweaty Dude
After destroying the stockpile we moved on, searching for others like it. We had with us a source from the 1920s Brigade, attempting to find Al Qaeda safehouses in the neighborhood. We stopped at a house while another cache was being sorted through and prepared for detonation. Slumping on the floor of the living room, we made jokes and laughed, waiting for the explosion to rock the house. I was sitting to the left of the window with four or five people in between. We got the call: one minute until controlled detonation, everyone inside. We put our fingers in our ears. 30 seconds. 10. 5. Then, BOOM! A sliver of glass burst from the window, taking a magic bullet route past the other dudes, completely missing my right arm and striking me in the left wrist. Once I saw blood I said with a laugh, "Man, I'm fucked up!" My medic gave me a routine bandage after I dripped a bit of blood onto the ground. I pointed to the red spots on the floor in the house and said "sorry" to the owner of the house, with a shrug of my shoulders. While we waited for the extraction plan, I sat down and watched the 1920s dude pore over the documents belonging to the people in the house. They weren't supposed to carry weapons, but if we don't arm Sunni insurgents, who will?
Not pictured: Bloody wound
After more than ten hours on the scene, we decided to skedaddle. We were told the trucks were closer than the drop off point, a relief after walking all day in the June desert heat. Helicopters buzzed above us as we snaked through the outskirts of the town.
The heat proved to be a formidable enemy and we had to halt in a house for a moment. I finished the last drops of water and tossed my bottle into a garbage pile. Walking into the courtyard I quickly found a few friends gathered around a car in the shade. We talked about how far the Strykers were in actuality. The Apaches continued to fly low above us, close enough to see the pilots and their hand gestures. Several people came to the same conclusion at the same time: we have to moon them.
In a straight line in the yard, the guys dropped their pants with their asses facing the approaching helicopter, waving and hollering. The pilots waved back and shot flares up into the air in acknowledgment.
Fun in combat is a fleeting moment, and quickly the mooners buttoned their pants to continue on the path, about to trade a summer breeze grazing their asses for a hard Stryker bench. After walking nearly a mile down the road, we heard the distinct whine of the trucks. Getting in, sweaty, dirty, dehydrated and exhausted, we did some good by taking bomb making material off the streets. But for what was supposed to be a special day, it ended like the hundreds before and after it: speeding toward our base, our enemies watching our every move.
AH
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Would You Like To Know More?
Today is the official launch of Vet Voice, a community blog of Afghanistan and Iraq vets, as well as Active Duty, Reserve and National Guard members and their families. Policies that shape the future of our military and the lives of our warriors are at the forefront of discussion, and this should be the epicenter of news and opinion concerning not only the wars, but the fight going on at home for sensible foreign policy and veteran's care.
Below are the entries from several presidential candidates talking about the issues our veterans and country face in the coming months and years. This was a bipartisan offer for both conservative and liberal presidential candidates. Below are the ones who took up the offer to speak on issues that affect veterans. Keep in mind I don't endorse any of these campaigns.
- Senator John Edwards
- Congressman Ron Paul
- Senator Chris Dodd
- Senator Hillary Clinton
- Senator Barack Obama
- Senator Joe Biden
- Governor Bill Richardson
The best way to support the troops is to arm yourself with information. Sign up with Vet Voice today to return the favor to the countless veterans wanting their voices to be heard.
AH
Below are the entries from several presidential candidates talking about the issues our veterans and country face in the coming months and years. This was a bipartisan offer for both conservative and liberal presidential candidates. Below are the ones who took up the offer to speak on issues that affect veterans. Keep in mind I don't endorse any of these campaigns.
- Senator John Edwards
- Congressman Ron Paul
- Senator Chris Dodd
- Senator Hillary Clinton
- Senator Barack Obama
- Senator Joe Biden
- Governor Bill Richardson
The best way to support the troops is to arm yourself with information. Sign up with Vet Voice today to return the favor to the countless veterans wanting their voices to be heard.
AH
Monday, November 19, 2007
Photo Story Monday - Whoops!
It was a week into February of 2007 and a little over a month into the surge, which began with a unit from the 82nd Airborne coming into Baghdad. Since November we had no clear goal in the capital. We were the scoundrels and tramps of the city: we went from slum to slum, clearing and securing it from Sadr's Mahdi Army and handing it over to American and Iraqi forces. We had no area of our own.
Petraeus' main focus of the surge was to get us out of the big bases and into the neighborhoods of Baghdad, rubbing elbows with the locals and giving them enough confidence to assist us in rooting out the bad guys. Given that, we had to find a building big enough for a company of both Americans and Iraqis, a parking lot able to hold many vehicles, and enough standoff from major roads to prevent someone from driving a bomb right through the gate. It was decided that an abandoned shopping mall would do.
When we arrived, all there was to prevent a full on attack was a couple strands of wire around the building. The cement walls would be going up during the night but it would take a few days. We were scheduled to be out there for nearly a week. Luckily, outhouses were being constructed outside. Unluckily, they were in plain view of passing cars and high buildings. Anyone could toss a grenade or shoot an AK out the window as they drove past. I decided to hold it in.
The outpost being built up was called Callahan, hopefully named after my favorite hard-boiled cop.
The clearing missions were routine for the most part. We walked into houses and searched them, dug through courtyards and trash piles and looked into sewage drains for any signs of weapons and bombs.
And we looked on top of houses, too.
For a few days it was going well. We were going into neighborhoods that held dangerous reputations, wondering what all the commotion was about. Patrolling through the streets and not a peep from the enemy!
One evening we were freezing our asses off inside the outpost, getting by with no heat or electricity. I had just returned to my cot after taking out the garbage when I heard a commotion coming from third platoon's area. My former squad leader was rousing everyone awake. I gathered from his hurried speech that he was walking through the parking lot when a round struck by his feet. We were under attack!
Immediately, several men threw on their gear and took positions in the windows, hoping to catch a muzzle flash or RPG streak. The 82nd guys were particularly excited, this being among their first chances of action. Machine guns opened up on a house, starting a fire. Following the tracers, everyone fired in that direction, assuming it was an enemy position. Grenades were dropping in front and in back of the house. In the parking lot, guns were firing toward the same house. All of a sudden, a fuel tanker inside the wire started to burn.
My best Robert Capa imitation
Making a mad dash for the Strykers, I find mine in a huddle of vehicles. It's too dangerous to lower the ramp, so I open the door in the back and climb in. I caught a glimpse of David, the AFP photographer with us for the duration of our Callahan adventure, snapping shots of people running to and from cover. Our vehicle is a little close to the burning fuel tanker, making me a bit uneasy.
Later we would learn that it wasn't ignited by enemy fire, but from a grenade thrown by one of our lieutenants. He didn't make it over the wire to hit the imaginary bad guy.
After everyone made it back to the Strykers, we tore off for the buildings being ravaged by flames. We dismounted and started up the street, nearing the flames and feeling the heat of the fire in the February night. Across the street was a man carrying furniture from the building. He was shouting in very good English, "Thank you for your security! Thank you for your security! This is what you call security?" We had fired on this man's house as he was taking a bath.
Pressing on, we looked all around for enemy shell casings, weapons, anything. We left with a smoldering building to our backs.
Later that night we received a mission to raid a few suspected insurgent houses. Crawling through the grass, we heard the rumblings of tanks out in the distance. We got down low in the weeds so they wouldn't open fire on a group of strange men hiding in the bushes holding guns. We held our breath until they passed.
We stood up and moved toward the small collection of buildings surrounded by palm trees and knocked the door down to find...an old man with information. About mortars that fell. A month prior. Waiting for this valuable information to filter down to the appropriate level, I leaned up against a desk in the house and dozed off. Standing in the moonlight shining through the open door, I didn't care if a tank shot me in the face. I just wanted a nap.
"The white building that's on fire right there"
The view of Callahan - from one of the buildings we shot up the day prior. We pulled .50 cal rounds out of the walls with pliers
AH
Petraeus' main focus of the surge was to get us out of the big bases and into the neighborhoods of Baghdad, rubbing elbows with the locals and giving them enough confidence to assist us in rooting out the bad guys. Given that, we had to find a building big enough for a company of both Americans and Iraqis, a parking lot able to hold many vehicles, and enough standoff from major roads to prevent someone from driving a bomb right through the gate. It was decided that an abandoned shopping mall would do.
When we arrived, all there was to prevent a full on attack was a couple strands of wire around the building. The cement walls would be going up during the night but it would take a few days. We were scheduled to be out there for nearly a week. Luckily, outhouses were being constructed outside. Unluckily, they were in plain view of passing cars and high buildings. Anyone could toss a grenade or shoot an AK out the window as they drove past. I decided to hold it in.
The outpost being built up was called Callahan, hopefully named after my favorite hard-boiled cop.
The clearing missions were routine for the most part. We walked into houses and searched them, dug through courtyards and trash piles and looked into sewage drains for any signs of weapons and bombs.
And we looked on top of houses, too.
For a few days it was going well. We were going into neighborhoods that held dangerous reputations, wondering what all the commotion was about. Patrolling through the streets and not a peep from the enemy!
One evening we were freezing our asses off inside the outpost, getting by with no heat or electricity. I had just returned to my cot after taking out the garbage when I heard a commotion coming from third platoon's area. My former squad leader was rousing everyone awake. I gathered from his hurried speech that he was walking through the parking lot when a round struck by his feet. We were under attack!
Immediately, several men threw on their gear and took positions in the windows, hoping to catch a muzzle flash or RPG streak. The 82nd guys were particularly excited, this being among their first chances of action. Machine guns opened up on a house, starting a fire. Following the tracers, everyone fired in that direction, assuming it was an enemy position. Grenades were dropping in front and in back of the house. In the parking lot, guns were firing toward the same house. All of a sudden, a fuel tanker inside the wire started to burn.
My best Robert Capa imitation
Making a mad dash for the Strykers, I find mine in a huddle of vehicles. It's too dangerous to lower the ramp, so I open the door in the back and climb in. I caught a glimpse of David, the AFP photographer with us for the duration of our Callahan adventure, snapping shots of people running to and from cover. Our vehicle is a little close to the burning fuel tanker, making me a bit uneasy.
Later we would learn that it wasn't ignited by enemy fire, but from a grenade thrown by one of our lieutenants. He didn't make it over the wire to hit the imaginary bad guy.
After everyone made it back to the Strykers, we tore off for the buildings being ravaged by flames. We dismounted and started up the street, nearing the flames and feeling the heat of the fire in the February night. Across the street was a man carrying furniture from the building. He was shouting in very good English, "Thank you for your security! Thank you for your security! This is what you call security?" We had fired on this man's house as he was taking a bath.
Pressing on, we looked all around for enemy shell casings, weapons, anything. We left with a smoldering building to our backs.
Later that night we received a mission to raid a few suspected insurgent houses. Crawling through the grass, we heard the rumblings of tanks out in the distance. We got down low in the weeds so they wouldn't open fire on a group of strange men hiding in the bushes holding guns. We held our breath until they passed.
We stood up and moved toward the small collection of buildings surrounded by palm trees and knocked the door down to find...an old man with information. About mortars that fell. A month prior. Waiting for this valuable information to filter down to the appropriate level, I leaned up against a desk in the house and dozed off. Standing in the moonlight shining through the open door, I didn't care if a tank shot me in the face. I just wanted a nap.
"The white building that's on fire right there"
The view of Callahan - from one of the buildings we shot up the day prior. We pulled .50 cal rounds out of the walls with pliers
AH
Monday, November 12, 2007
Photo Story Monday - Goodbyes
On May 30, nineteen days before the start of Arrowhead Ripper, we were well into a groove of regular patrols and the occasional raid. Our relationship with the Sunni insurgent group 1920 Revolution Brigade was improving. They identified potential Al Qaeda and Islamic State of Iraq members and pointed us in the direction of cache sites, which going to always felt like buying a Powerball ticket: you could win, but not likely, stupid.
The beginning of our work with theseAmerican soldier killers concerned citizens was spotty at first. They'd walk or drive around with AK-47s, and we'd kill them inadvertently (I use that term loosely). There really wasn't a way for them to identify themselves as our ally. A uniform could easily be copied by the bad(der) guys and defeat the purpose. It was finally decided that they would wear brown t-shirts with a certain letter combination after they kept on dying by our hand.
We got a couple of calls one day: one, an Apache laid waste to a carload full of gunmen, and they were all killed. Shortly afterward, the 1920s let us know it was their members that the helicopter killed. The second call was about a mass grave out in the boondocks of the city, in a big field. We had the approximate area, but we had no idea how many bodies were buried under the ground, or why.
We set out from our outpost for quite a walk across town, taking a lot of side streets and avoiding the main ones. On a long stretch, we spotted the car that was destroyed by the Apache helicopter. The passenger door was open, but the bodies were gone. Closer to it, the only thing left of the men in the car was blood and one pair of shoes with the heels shot off. The wall showed the signs of automatic cannon fire, as did the windshield and the seats.
The destroyed car. Note the bullet holes on the wall next to it
If he survived, I'm willing to bet his shoe size is a tad smaller
Walking a little past the car, I noticed a small Motorola radio on the ground. I picked it up,
wanting to hear the chatter on the other side of the radio. I decided it was a bad idea, since
it could have been the trigger for an IED somewhere. I really didn't believe the 1920s stopped
their insurgent operations against us. We often wondered if the "Al Qaeda" members they pointed
out were simply victims of in-house cleaning.
We continued on the road, reaching an intersection with the purported mass grave field. Looking down to the right, I recalled a day when half our platoon was pinned down by dueling enemy machine guns (but that's a story for another Monday). My squad was sent up to a roof overlooking the field where the supposed bodies were to provide cover for the other squads meandering in the open, kicking over rocks and looking under weeds. The hour slowly dripped away as the squads below turned up nothing. We decided to call it a day and headed back to our outpost. Apparently I didn't get the word that was a deep buried IED in the middle of the road on the way back. We halted our movement and Josh said "How many times in your life have you stood on top of an IED?" I looked down at my feet and saw a groove cut into the road with a fresh patch of concrete. I said, "One more." On the way back we passed the car again. A few kids were hanging around the corner, watching us pass by.
The next afternoon we had more reliable information. Not only did we have the exact area, but someone was going to point it out to us. Hoping it wasn't going to be an ambush, we set out again. This time we had a military camera crew with us to take pictures of the scene. Winding through a power station, we entered the large open field from the left side, some of us using a trail, the others stepping on huge dirt clumps and cussing the tall grass. We reached a tiny collection of buildings some distance from the road we were on the previous day. They were simple one-room mud huts. Almost immediately you could smell the decay. We took off our helmets and vests, set our guns down and began digging. Near a wall, a body was quickly found. It was not buried very deep. Bill began to dig deeper and found the skull, split in half from a bullet wound. Though not experts on the matter, we determined she was executed by gunshot at a very close range. Bill tried to lift up the remains, but the skin slid right off the flesh. He had to stop often because the smell was so great, so we traded off.
To the left of the woman we found more bodies, but of two children. The man who pointed out the grave was the husband of the woman, and the father of the two daughters. He explained they were taken 42 days prior and that the dudes had threatened him too. As he told his story, the Iraqi Army soldiers laughed and smoked, watching Americans dig up the bodies of their slain people.
In more rooms, we found more bodies. We were there to merely confirm the graves being there and call in the proper local authorities to recover them. Instead we dug them as we waited, and the Iraqi Army watched on. Payday threw up after awhile. The man, stone-faced and emotionless so far, began to weep as he touched the skull of his wife. The blindfold she was wearing was matted to the skull but began to come off. Into the evening we waited until we got the word to head back for the night. We said goodbye to the man still standing there by the hole, and turned our backs to him as we slowly made our way through the field once again.
A man says his final goodbye to his wife. The Iraqi Army guy takes back the shovel he brought
AH
The beginning of our work with these
We got a couple of calls one day: one, an Apache laid waste to a carload full of gunmen, and they were all killed. Shortly afterward, the 1920s let us know it was their members that the helicopter killed. The second call was about a mass grave out in the boondocks of the city, in a big field. We had the approximate area, but we had no idea how many bodies were buried under the ground, or why.
We set out from our outpost for quite a walk across town, taking a lot of side streets and avoiding the main ones. On a long stretch, we spotted the car that was destroyed by the Apache helicopter. The passenger door was open, but the bodies were gone. Closer to it, the only thing left of the men in the car was blood and one pair of shoes with the heels shot off. The wall showed the signs of automatic cannon fire, as did the windshield and the seats.
The destroyed car. Note the bullet holes on the wall next to it
If he survived, I'm willing to bet his shoe size is a tad smaller
Walking a little past the car, I noticed a small Motorola radio on the ground. I picked it up,
wanting to hear the chatter on the other side of the radio. I decided it was a bad idea, since
it could have been the trigger for an IED somewhere. I really didn't believe the 1920s stopped
their insurgent operations against us. We often wondered if the "Al Qaeda" members they pointed
out were simply victims of in-house cleaning.
We continued on the road, reaching an intersection with the purported mass grave field. Looking down to the right, I recalled a day when half our platoon was pinned down by dueling enemy machine guns (but that's a story for another Monday). My squad was sent up to a roof overlooking the field where the supposed bodies were to provide cover for the other squads meandering in the open, kicking over rocks and looking under weeds. The hour slowly dripped away as the squads below turned up nothing. We decided to call it a day and headed back to our outpost. Apparently I didn't get the word that was a deep buried IED in the middle of the road on the way back. We halted our movement and Josh said "How many times in your life have you stood on top of an IED?" I looked down at my feet and saw a groove cut into the road with a fresh patch of concrete. I said, "One more." On the way back we passed the car again. A few kids were hanging around the corner, watching us pass by.
The next afternoon we had more reliable information. Not only did we have the exact area, but someone was going to point it out to us. Hoping it wasn't going to be an ambush, we set out again. This time we had a military camera crew with us to take pictures of the scene. Winding through a power station, we entered the large open field from the left side, some of us using a trail, the others stepping on huge dirt clumps and cussing the tall grass. We reached a tiny collection of buildings some distance from the road we were on the previous day. They were simple one-room mud huts. Almost immediately you could smell the decay. We took off our helmets and vests, set our guns down and began digging. Near a wall, a body was quickly found. It was not buried very deep. Bill began to dig deeper and found the skull, split in half from a bullet wound. Though not experts on the matter, we determined she was executed by gunshot at a very close range. Bill tried to lift up the remains, but the skin slid right off the flesh. He had to stop often because the smell was so great, so we traded off.
To the left of the woman we found more bodies, but of two children. The man who pointed out the grave was the husband of the woman, and the father of the two daughters. He explained they were taken 42 days prior and that the dudes had threatened him too. As he told his story, the Iraqi Army soldiers laughed and smoked, watching Americans dig up the bodies of their slain people.
In more rooms, we found more bodies. We were there to merely confirm the graves being there and call in the proper local authorities to recover them. Instead we dug them as we waited, and the Iraqi Army watched on. Payday threw up after awhile. The man, stone-faced and emotionless so far, began to weep as he touched the skull of his wife. The blindfold she was wearing was matted to the skull but began to come off. Into the evening we waited until we got the word to head back for the night. We said goodbye to the man still standing there by the hole, and turned our backs to him as we slowly made our way through the field once again.
A man says his final goodbye to his wife. The Iraqi Army guy takes back the shovel he brought
AH
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Savor This Day
Whether a brother or sister, father or mother, grandfather grandmother, friend or foe, go out there and thank a veteran today. Do your best to understand what they had to do for the country and the comparative ease in which you live. Ask about their good friends they still keep close to their hearts. Don't approach the subject of what they did and saw in combat. It is the ultimate insult to the memory of our fallen. I write about those things because people ought to know what is happening to our men and women in a far away land. I can't write or talk about such horror without shedding a few tears. So please don't ask about the gruesome details. Rather, ask them their most cherished memory during their time in the service.
I recall convoying on the highway through eastern Washington on our way to Yakima for training. Standing up in the back hatch, I watched as people drove by in their cars, honking and waving. Some even braved the wheel with one hand and took pictures with the other. Classic rock blared through the internal speakers, and we played air guitar for the confused passing motorists. When a Stryker broke down, Dozer and I sat on top of the hatches and lazily chatted for hours as the convoy was stopped on the side of the road. Like kids, we would make the motion for pulling the string for 18-wheelers as they went by. They gladly replied with long, thunderous honks of their horn.
While on leave from Iraq, I opted to go to Europe with my friend Steve instead of going home. We figured it would have been more bitter than sweet to see our family so briefly. We made our way through Holland to France, arriving in Caen after a brief stay in Paris. We decided to take a tour of the Normandy beaches and with it, the American Cemetery that lay next to one of the invasion beachheads. Everyone buried there was an American soldier killed during the invasion of June 6, 1944 and subsequent fighting to break Hitler's Atlantic Wall. It was moving to be in that place, at that time, while my friends were fighting for their lives and each other in Baqubah.
Despite what I think about the war, the administration, and the policies that shaped our lives, I can't help but feel incredibly lucky to serve with the finest men this country has ever produced. The memories and experiences we have will forever be seared into our memory for the rest of our lives. I am always grateful to have this ever growing forum to tell the world what happened in those fifteen months. So while I have your ears, go now. Tell a veteran you are proud of their commitment, service and sacrifice, and that you're forever in the debt of the men we couldn't bring back home alive, and the men who came back forever changed.
In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army
IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
If you're a veteran, leave a comment telling your favorite story of your service, in war or in peace.
AH
I recall convoying on the highway through eastern Washington on our way to Yakima for training. Standing up in the back hatch, I watched as people drove by in their cars, honking and waving. Some even braved the wheel with one hand and took pictures with the other. Classic rock blared through the internal speakers, and we played air guitar for the confused passing motorists. When a Stryker broke down, Dozer and I sat on top of the hatches and lazily chatted for hours as the convoy was stopped on the side of the road. Like kids, we would make the motion for pulling the string for 18-wheelers as they went by. They gladly replied with long, thunderous honks of their horn.
While on leave from Iraq, I opted to go to Europe with my friend Steve instead of going home. We figured it would have been more bitter than sweet to see our family so briefly. We made our way through Holland to France, arriving in Caen after a brief stay in Paris. We decided to take a tour of the Normandy beaches and with it, the American Cemetery that lay next to one of the invasion beachheads. Everyone buried there was an American soldier killed during the invasion of June 6, 1944 and subsequent fighting to break Hitler's Atlantic Wall. It was moving to be in that place, at that time, while my friends were fighting for their lives and each other in Baqubah.
Despite what I think about the war, the administration, and the policies that shaped our lives, I can't help but feel incredibly lucky to serve with the finest men this country has ever produced. The memories and experiences we have will forever be seared into our memory for the rest of our lives. I am always grateful to have this ever growing forum to tell the world what happened in those fifteen months. So while I have your ears, go now. Tell a veteran you are proud of their commitment, service and sacrifice, and that you're forever in the debt of the men we couldn't bring back home alive, and the men who came back forever changed.
In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army
IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
If you're a veteran, leave a comment telling your favorite story of your service, in war or in peace.
AH
Thursday, November 08, 2007
You Can't Give Me Second Place, I Quit!
Dearest of readers! The 2007 Weblog Awards are now over, and Michael Yon has won the award for Best Military Blog! Congrats to him. If you're not familiar with Michael Yon, mosey on over to his site for an independent journalist's view on the war.
The top three:
Michael Yon - 4,932 - 42.2%
Army of Dude - 3,386 - 29.0%
Blackfive - 1,409 - 12.1%
Polls are subject to change after certification of votes, but I'm sure no fraud was committed for this particular category.
Thanks to everyone who voted for me, and thanks to the Weblog Awards volunteers for not only sifting through countless blogs, but for conducting the voting process. I'm happy with simply being a finalist, but second place is spectacular! Again, congrats to Michael Yon, Blackfive, and all the nominees. It was a good race.
AH
The top three:
Michael Yon - 4,932 - 42.2%
Army of Dude - 3,386 - 29.0%
Blackfive - 1,409 - 12.1%
Polls are subject to change after certification of votes, but I'm sure no fraud was committed for this particular category.
Thanks to everyone who voted for me, and thanks to the Weblog Awards volunteers for not only sifting through countless blogs, but for conducting the voting process. I'm happy with simply being a finalist, but second place is spectacular! Again, congrats to Michael Yon, Blackfive, and all the nominees. It was a good race.
AH
Monday, November 05, 2007
Photo Story Monday!
Today marks the beginning of a new weekly series. Every Monday I'll bring to you a riveting story from my tour in Iraq with pictures I've taken, unless otherwise noted.
This week's story: The Firefight of March 24, 2007
Ten days after arriving in Baqubah, we hadn't had a break in mission tempo. We went into Al Qaeda's Alamo without an understanding of the tactical importance of the city, but in the first hours we realized very quickly. We set out into the dense palm groves that blanket both sides of the Diyala River Valley without the support of our Stryker vehicles and a limited amount of visibility for Apache helicopters. We spent nearly five days walking through the groves, hopping over streams and slippery ditches. Given the large distance from our vehicles, we couldn't resupply food and water at whim. What we could carry is what we got, until we made our way back to an abandoned house on the edge of the groves every night. Carrying a backpack full of propaganda fliers, chemical detection spray, binoculars, signal panels, shotgun shells, extra ammo, grenades, 7-10 key locks (!), shotgun and disposable rocket launcher, I didn't have much room (or strength) to carry a lot of water. I opted for two quarts a day, one in my backpack, the other in my cargo pocket. I didn't even attempt to carry food rations. I'm pretty good at conserving water, but we'd start at daylight and I'd be sucking the last drops before noon. Our only option was to pick the oranges off the trees and eat them as we walked by. They tasted like a cross between sauerkraut, horseradish and evil, but biting into those oranges on the brink of heat exhaustion felt incredible.
After nearly a week of channeling Vietnam in the foliage, we got a break from the jungle and started regular patrols. On March 24, we ventured out into Mufrek, the little hamlet of doom on the west side of the river. Steve and I were the only ones in the platoon who hadn't been on leave since the tour started, and we were leaving the next day. Normally everyone got a few days off beforehand to get cleaned up and ready, but we were shorthanded. There was a chance to get out the 24th instead of the 25th, but it was only going to be a routine patrol beginning in the early morning and ending around 2PM, enemy action permitting. I would go, come back and get ready in a flash, hoping a helicopter would take me away to Baghdad that night.
Just past dawn our company was convoying down a road preparing to get out and start our foot patrol. A certain anxiety fills the air as you're about to dismount and spend your morning and afternoon with the mission of inciting an enemy reaction. You face IEDs in the vehicles but snipers and machine gunners on foot. The best of both worlds! The convoy continues on, heading toward an intersection down the road from where Chevy was killed when the all too familiar sound of a bomb hitting a Stryker fills the ears, minds and hearts of everyone behind the lead vehicle.
Instantly, shots ring out on the three sides of the intersection, hoping to hit the culprits in the abandoned neighborhood. All the vehicles stop and my squad dismounts, running into the immediate building on the corner of the intersection. Clearing from bottom to top, we reach the roof as rockets and machine guns shoot down the road. There are injured men in the Stryker that were hit: one with a missing leg, one missing a leg up to the knee, a dude with a shattered leg and pelvis and other guys with assorted minor injuries. We had no idea what platoon was hit at that point but figured it out to be our third platoon. We followed the lead of tracers shooting down the road in an effort to suppress while the injured were being carried out. I pulled out my camera and set it down on the edge of the rooftop, pointed in the general direction of the carnage.
Dozer set up his machine gun, a few feet from my delicate eardrums, and held down the trigger for all of eternity. After my hearing was reduced to a high pitched squeal, I did what I always do when everyone is shooting at nothing in particular: shoot at a fixed object to make sure my weapon sight is accurate. I was shooting at a water tank when Bill said "Get some HE out there!", which meant for me to shoot a high explosive grenade down the block. I saw lots of things exploding and impacting in the intersection down there, so I looked for a rooftop where a bad guy would most likely hide. Victor shot a grenade, sending it into the intersection. I launched another, impacting the roof I targeted. I didn't consider it then, but later I wondered if there was anybody on that rooftop, good or bad.
Shane searches for targets while Josh is monitoring the radio. Not pictured: Ken Jones fighting an epic battle with the Sandman
Not wanting to scare the hell out of anyone, I decide to go back to the field, where grenades and .50 cal rounds are destroying another building in the distance. Apaches begin strafing a building so close to us that we can see the brass falling from the helicopter. His wingman poises in the air and with a flash of light, sends a Hellfire missile into a building with suspected fighters. Everyone lets out a cheer. The roof collapses as the Apache circles back to shoot another missile. Sailing through the air, it completely misses the intended target and goes spiraling into the distance, never seen again. Oh, shit. It circles back again and delivers yet another missile, this time hitting the building, completing the hat trick.
Our attentions turn to a building with columns a little farther being shot up with every caliber weapon imaginable. I'm not sure why it was being targeted, but I didn't see the point of shooting at a building with a puny rifle and opted to record the action. With enough practice now, the Apache lets loose with another missile. With a flash and a puff of smoke, the missile crashes into the roof of the building.
Hopefully this guy had occupation insurance
In the foreground to the right, the building with the collapsed roof
My squad leader resting after the firefight. The next day, he would be shot in the arm by a sniper
After the barrage of Hellfire missiles, the action died down and we held our positions for several hours before we started to clear the buildings in the neighborhood. The injured dudes were evacuated and made it back, less a couple limbs. After sprinting down the road, we discovered a few houses set up with wire and batteries connected to IEDs, positions set up to ambush us. Luckily we didn't make it that far. Iraqi Police went into the house Victor and I shot with grenades and claimed there were about seventeen dead insurgents with weapons, which is likely an outright fabrication.
We set out to clear the neighborhood at about the time we were supposed to go back to the base. So much for routine.
AH
This week's story: The Firefight of March 24, 2007
Ten days after arriving in Baqubah, we hadn't had a break in mission tempo. We went into Al Qaeda's Alamo without an understanding of the tactical importance of the city, but in the first hours we realized very quickly. We set out into the dense palm groves that blanket both sides of the Diyala River Valley without the support of our Stryker vehicles and a limited amount of visibility for Apache helicopters. We spent nearly five days walking through the groves, hopping over streams and slippery ditches. Given the large distance from our vehicles, we couldn't resupply food and water at whim. What we could carry is what we got, until we made our way back to an abandoned house on the edge of the groves every night. Carrying a backpack full of propaganda fliers, chemical detection spray, binoculars, signal panels, shotgun shells, extra ammo, grenades, 7-10 key locks (!), shotgun and disposable rocket launcher, I didn't have much room (or strength) to carry a lot of water. I opted for two quarts a day, one in my backpack, the other in my cargo pocket. I didn't even attempt to carry food rations. I'm pretty good at conserving water, but we'd start at daylight and I'd be sucking the last drops before noon. Our only option was to pick the oranges off the trees and eat them as we walked by. They tasted like a cross between sauerkraut, horseradish and evil, but biting into those oranges on the brink of heat exhaustion felt incredible.
Sweet, sweet hydration falling into septic waste
After nearly a week of channeling Vietnam in the foliage, we got a break from the jungle and started regular patrols. On March 24, we ventured out into Mufrek, the little hamlet of doom on the west side of the river. Steve and I were the only ones in the platoon who hadn't been on leave since the tour started, and we were leaving the next day. Normally everyone got a few days off beforehand to get cleaned up and ready, but we were shorthanded. There was a chance to get out the 24th instead of the 25th, but it was only going to be a routine patrol beginning in the early morning and ending around 2PM, enemy action permitting. I would go, come back and get ready in a flash, hoping a helicopter would take me away to Baghdad that night.
Just past dawn our company was convoying down a road preparing to get out and start our foot patrol. A certain anxiety fills the air as you're about to dismount and spend your morning and afternoon with the mission of inciting an enemy reaction. You face IEDs in the vehicles but snipers and machine gunners on foot. The best of both worlds! The convoy continues on, heading toward an intersection down the road from where Chevy was killed when the all too familiar sound of a bomb hitting a Stryker fills the ears, minds and hearts of everyone behind the lead vehicle.
Instantly, shots ring out on the three sides of the intersection, hoping to hit the culprits in the abandoned neighborhood. All the vehicles stop and my squad dismounts, running into the immediate building on the corner of the intersection. Clearing from bottom to top, we reach the roof as rockets and machine guns shoot down the road. There are injured men in the Stryker that were hit: one with a missing leg, one missing a leg up to the knee, a dude with a shattered leg and pelvis and other guys with assorted minor injuries. We had no idea what platoon was hit at that point but figured it out to be our third platoon. We followed the lead of tracers shooting down the road in an effort to suppress while the injured were being carried out. I pulled out my camera and set it down on the edge of the rooftop, pointed in the general direction of the carnage.
Dozer set up his machine gun, a few feet from my delicate eardrums, and held down the trigger for all of eternity. After my hearing was reduced to a high pitched squeal, I did what I always do when everyone is shooting at nothing in particular: shoot at a fixed object to make sure my weapon sight is accurate. I was shooting at a water tank when Bill said "Get some HE out there!", which meant for me to shoot a high explosive grenade down the block. I saw lots of things exploding and impacting in the intersection down there, so I looked for a rooftop where a bad guy would most likely hide. Victor shot a grenade, sending it into the intersection. I launched another, impacting the roof I targeted. I didn't consider it then, but later I wondered if there was anybody on that rooftop, good or bad.
From the rooftop. At -0:36, my grenade impacts on the roof in the distance.
We got the call to move across the street and take the building overlooking a large open field. Kicking through expended brass and pieces of concrete in the road, we make it into the gate and head for the flight of stairs leading to a landing. At the top, an Iraqi Army machine gunner with a helmet three sizes too small grins at us as we make our way up. We have to cross in front of his barrel, so I tell him, "no shoot, no shoot." He's practically empty on ammo as we make our way up to the roof.
I kick over pieces of scrap metal to reach the edge of the roof and set up for a look over the field. At some point the company snipers join us and begin to locate targets in the buildings about 200 yards from us. With dueling grenade launchers, Victor and I set our sights on the building that housed the insurgents and put grenades over the courtyard wall and into the back door. The roof saturated with dudes watching the field, I turn to look at our previous position and the road we were shooting toward, now covered in smoke. A squad from another platoon had the building now, though the building is not as tall as ours. Down the road I see a few guys running from one side to the other. Before this, the streets were completely empty of cars and people. The one in the front had something long in his hand but I couldn't shoot him before he disappeared out of view. He was making his away toward us, not away. His friend that was trailing him wasn't as fast. I shot twice, over the heads of the squad below, hitting him somewhere in the hip area. His body lurched forward into an awkward dive, and he vanished behind a wall like his nimble friend. I don't know what happened to him after that. The squad below yelled "What the fuck!" at me and I shouted back "There's fucking guys over there!" pointing over their heads. They didn't understand a word.
We got the call to move across the street and take the building overlooking a large open field. Kicking through expended brass and pieces of concrete in the road, we make it into the gate and head for the flight of stairs leading to a landing. At the top, an Iraqi Army machine gunner with a helmet three sizes too small grins at us as we make our way up. We have to cross in front of his barrel, so I tell him, "no shoot, no shoot." He's practically empty on ammo as we make our way up to the roof.
I kick over pieces of scrap metal to reach the edge of the roof and set up for a look over the field. At some point the company snipers join us and begin to locate targets in the buildings about 200 yards from us. With dueling grenade launchers, Victor and I set our sights on the building that housed the insurgents and put grenades over the courtyard wall and into the back door. The roof saturated with dudes watching the field, I turn to look at our previous position and the road we were shooting toward, now covered in smoke. A squad from another platoon had the building now, though the building is not as tall as ours. Down the road I see a few guys running from one side to the other. Before this, the streets were completely empty of cars and people. The one in the front had something long in his hand but I couldn't shoot him before he disappeared out of view. He was making his away toward us, not away. His friend that was trailing him wasn't as fast. I shot twice, over the heads of the squad below, hitting him somewhere in the hip area. His body lurched forward into an awkward dive, and he vanished behind a wall like his nimble friend. I don't know what happened to him after that. The squad below yelled "What the fuck!" at me and I shouted back "There's fucking guys over there!" pointing over their heads. They didn't understand a word.
Shane searches for targets while Josh is monitoring the radio. Not pictured: Ken Jones fighting an epic battle with the Sandman
Not wanting to scare the hell out of anyone, I decide to go back to the field, where grenades and .50 cal rounds are destroying another building in the distance. Apaches begin strafing a building so close to us that we can see the brass falling from the helicopter. His wingman poises in the air and with a flash of light, sends a Hellfire missile into a building with suspected fighters. Everyone lets out a cheer. The roof collapses as the Apache circles back to shoot another missile. Sailing through the air, it completely misses the intended target and goes spiraling into the distance, never seen again. Oh, shit. It circles back again and delivers yet another missile, this time hitting the building, completing the hat trick.
Our attentions turn to a building with columns a little farther being shot up with every caliber weapon imaginable. I'm not sure why it was being targeted, but I didn't see the point of shooting at a building with a puny rifle and opted to record the action. With enough practice now, the Apache lets loose with another missile. With a flash and a puff of smoke, the missile crashes into the roof of the building.
Hopefully this guy had occupation insurance
In the foreground to the right, the building with the collapsed roof
My squad leader resting after the firefight. The next day, he would be shot in the arm by a sniper
After the barrage of Hellfire missiles, the action died down and we held our positions for several hours before we started to clear the buildings in the neighborhood. The injured dudes were evacuated and made it back, less a couple limbs. After sprinting down the road, we discovered a few houses set up with wire and batteries connected to IEDs, positions set up to ambush us. Luckily we didn't make it that far. Iraqi Police went into the house Victor and I shot with grenades and claimed there were about seventeen dead insurgents with weapons, which is likely an outright fabrication.
We set out to clear the neighborhood at about the time we were supposed to go back to the base. So much for routine.
AH
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