After my radio transmission with Kelley, I concentrated on the fight. I quickly realized a round aimed for my head had instead wasted the jundi who was patrolling ten feet in front of me. He cried in agony, flailing around as though he was on fire. Time to use some of Doc McGinnis’s combat lifesaver knowledge, I thought, as my adrenaline kicked in and everything started to slow down.
Espi and I rushed to help the fallen jundi while everyone else posted security. This Iraqi was the luckiest bastard on the planet. The round had penetrated his leather gloves hanging from his flak jacket, and his two magazines and had gone through his entire SAPI (small-arms protective insert) plate. The round had stopped at the inside edge of his flak jacket, causing a small scratch and a silver dollar-sized burn on his chest directly over his heart. The pressure from the round had cracked his ribs, but he was going to live to tell the tale.
I radioed back to Major Gaines, “Shadow One, this is Shadow Two, we have one friendly routine casualty. Request QRF. Stand by for details.” Following the transmission Sergeant Kelley radioed, “We are heading back to your position. We can’t get through the brush up ahead—too fucking thick.”
Within minutes Kelley and his crew had linked up with our force. We had a powwow with Hussein and decided that the best course of action would be to move back in pairs to a berm that was 150 meters behind us. Kelley’s crew would go back first and we would follow. From there we would bound to the nearest home, where we could find and wait for the QRF. Once everyone got word of the plan, Kelley’s Iraqi fire team began bounding back to the berm as we provided covering fire.
Kelley and his jundi sprinted to the earthen berm. I looked back to be certain everyone was okay and we had our sectors of fire covered. I gazed on the battlefield. All the jundi were hugging the ground, like cheese melted into a hamburger. These guys were scared shitless. In the midst of this, I saw Espi, snuggled up to a tree, trying to light a cigarette, seemingly oblivious to the immediate threat we had encountered. Perplexed, I hollered to Espi, “Dude, are you fuckin’ Dirty Harry, man?” He replied, “Sir, I have seen this happen hundreds of time and it makes me go crazy. I have a new SOP—to light up a cigarette first thing after a firefight or I end up doing something stupid. I can put it out if you really want.” I smirked and said, “Naw man, it’s all good. Just keep your fucking head down. You can be my bounding buddy to the berm.”
I wanted to hug Espi after his cigarette incident. His actions calmed me down and had me laughing aloud. My mind was thinking clearly again. “Espi, you ready to move out?” He responded, “Roger, Sir, I’m moving.” I covered Espi as he bounded back to the berm where everyone else was taking cover. We continued to cover each other and move until we were the final ones to reach the berm.
Once at the berm Kelley grabbed four of the jundi and hauled ass to a large Iraqi home a hundred meters from the edge of the berm. After they established a foothold in the home, they waved the rest of us to move the casualty into it. Hussein and a couple of jundi grabbed the injured soldier. Hussein yelled to me, “Jamal, cover us.” In response we provided cover fire while Hussein and his men moved the casualty to the home.
Another sniper round went flying over our heads, coming from the direction of Boardwalk. “Aw fuck, here we go again,” yelled Moody in his thick Arab accent. We were facing fire from multiple snipers and they almost had us surrounded. Everyone took cover. I looked up and down the berm and everyone was clean. Before I could blink the Iraqis did what they do best under fire—get out of the area. The old saying “When in Rome, do as the Romans do” became immediately relevant. Bounding was a tactically sound idea, but we needed to get out of the kill zone—in a hurry. Everyone crouched under the berm and ran as fast as they could into the courtyard of the home Kelley and his men had under control.
Exhausted, Moody rushed to give me the bad news. “Jamal, my fuckin’ radio is back at the berm!” I did the calculations in my head: a one-hundred-dollar UHF commercial Motorola radio or risk people’s lives. The solution to that problem was easy—to hell with the radio!
Inside the home the family was courteous and understanding of our situation. Moody served as the “calm the locals” man, Kelley and Hussein set up security, and I coordinated for a QRF. Once things were settled I visited the casualty. A young boy had brought Ali, the wounded soldier, a large glass of water. I approached Ali and said, “Il hamdu Allah is salama!” (Thank God you are safe!) He grinned at me, blew a large cloud of smoke from his cigarette, and said, “Jamal, I am in fuckin’ serious pain!” I laughed uncontrollably. Ali proceeded to show me the hole in his flak and his magazines. All of the jundi rotated through to see how he was doing and to hear his war story. Ali was now a living legend among mere men.
After speaking with Ali I went into the main room of the home. It was stunning. I am always impressed with what Iraqis can do with little means. I have a hard time keeping a film of dust out of my hooch back at the camp, yet these people can keep an entire home spotless. Moreover, the home had a spiral staircase with beautiful marble footings. At the foot of the staircase sat a two-person rocking chair. I walked up to the man of the house, who was sitting peacefully in the rocking chair, chatting with Moody. I introduced myself and told him he had a wonderful home. I apologized for our uninvited entrance. I think he understood our predicament; having a jundi with a bullet hole in his SAPI plate was more than enough to convince them we were in need of their help.
The QRF flew at sixty miles per hour down Boardwalk to our position, scaring every man, veiled women, and begging child in the area. It was obvious the jundi were at the helm. When they arrived in a fury of dust, we mounted the casualty into one of the Humvees and the QRF scurried out of the area and back to the WTF without incident. We were left to our own devices to get back to camp.
Without the burden of a casualty we cautiously left the home and headed across Boardwalk and into the village. The squad was uneasy. We rushed north with a focus on returning to base. We had seen enough action for the day. Our beautiful day in Haditha had turned into a game of Duck Hunt for the insurgents. To make matters worse, temperatures decided to rise past 100 degrees. The squad walked through the front gate of the WTF ready to relax. This was my first serious combat incident and I hoped it would be the last. Insha’allah.
Iraqi Interrogation 101
At the compound we had two new guests. The Iraqi QRF had managed to spot the two individuals running across the street at the time we were taking sniper fire. They detained them and brought them back to our patrol base for questioning. An Iraqi captain swiftly backhanded one of the detainees in the face as I approached. The bitch slap was followed by a rain of death threats and accusations. The scene was getting ugly. I sprinted to the scene, looking for hidden CNN reporters along the way. Dealing with a detainee abuse case was the last thing I wanted at this point.
Puzzled by what was happening, I said, “Captain Ahmed, let’s first GPR [gunpowder residue test] these guys before you get too wild with your interrogation.” He fired back in an emotional state, “Jamal, these men fired at you. They are insurgents. I know it. Let me take care of this the Iraqi way!” I replied calmly, “That might be the case, but let me test them first.” I reached into my grab pouch and grabbed some flexi-cuffs. “Here; take these cuffs and secure their hands behind their backs.” Ahmed snatched the flexi-cuffs from my hands while Espi went to grab the GPR kit.