“Owww!” The older detainee screamed in agony. I saw that his wrists were bleeding. Ahmed had decided to use the flexi-cuffs as a vice grip on the detainee’s wrists. He had tightened them so snuggly they were cutting into the detainee’s wrists, causing blood to spill on the ground. Captain Mawfood immediately yanked Ahmed from the scene to council him.
“Fuckin’-a, man,” I said in a defeated tone, “now we gotta get these damn things off of this guy.” I grabbed my Gerber all-purpose tool and went to work. I systematically tried to pry a knife under the cuffs, but because they were so tight, I only worsened the man’s pain. He yelled again. I peered into his eyes and in California English said, “Dude… shut up!”
After five minutes of getting nowhere I came to an unfortunate conclusion: This Iraqi would have to endure some pain if he wanted to be free. The detained gasped, “Wallahhh” (Oh, God). As surgically as I possibly could, I got the knife blade under the flexi-cuff and ripped upward, cutting the plastic cuffs in half. The detainee cringed in agony but was relieved to have the cuffs removed. Espi reapplied the flexi-cuffs appropriately and we began the GPR tests.
The GPR tests were overwhelmingly positive. These kids had been playing in daddy’s gun closet. The GPR was by no means a foolproof test, but given the circumstances, it was likely that these men had tried to kill me. After explaining to Captain Mawfood the GPR results, he ordered a group of jundi to take the detainees to the new U.S. COC, inside the security hut near the gate.
Major Gaines had us gather around. “Gentlemen,” he said, “Nuts is taking out the next patrol, everyone involved in that group get ready. Jamal, you are the intel dude. Watch over these detainees and see if the Iraqis can get any information. Everyone else get some sleep.” Everyone understood the order and went their respective ways. I stayed behind, wishing I could get some sleep too.
The makeshift guard shack that held the detainees was small, with a main room just big enough to hold a cot, a refrigerator, a bookshelf, and a side compartment room that acted as a sleeping post for the reserve guard on duty during Saddam’s reign. The Iraqis liked the idea of taking the detainees into the compartment room. I waited in the main room on the cot and took the opportunity to take off my heavy load and rest after a hectic twenty-four hours of combat.
Thud, thud. A dense pounding sound came from the interrogation room. “Damn, I told them to play it cool with the detainees!” I said under my breath. I busted into the room and witnessed Martin, one of our terps, head butting the detainee and pounding him in the center of the back with his fist. “Martin, what are you doing man? You know if the detainee facility sees this all of our asses are gonna fry!” He looked up with a grin. “Jamal, this is how we always do it. Do you really want the Marines getting information from these guys? Gimme a break. The Marines suck at getting info! Plus the detention center never looks in the center of their back. The bruises in the areas where I am hitting these guys won’t show up for weeks. Relax!”
I knew Martin. Any attempt to persuade him that torture was wrong would go nowhere. I addressed him anyway. “Listen dude, I don’t care if you rough this guy up a bit and need to scare him to get some information, but you can’t be pounding him in the back. That may be how you do it in Iraq and I understand Iraqis respond to this treatment, but I will be the one who goes to jail if they find out you guys beat the shit out of this guy and I knew about it.”
Resgar, a Kurdish jundi and one of the few Iraqis I trusted, took me out of the room to explain the situation. “Jamal, I understand your concern. We do not want to hurt this young guy. We know he has a mother and a father who love him. But if we want usable intelligence, this kid needs to have a sense of fear and a sense that we are in complete control or he will not tell us anything.” Resgar explained that he had done interrogations in the Iraqi army and for the U.S. government in the Kurdish regions for ten years before he became a communications expert. I believed him. The guy knew what he was talking about. Who was I to disagree?
I nodded in agreement and explained to Resgar that I agreed with his logic but felt for the young man’s safety. I came up with a compromise. I knew it would be impossible for me to shield the prisoners from the Iraqis; there were many of them and only one of me. Yet if I could convince the Iraqis this guy had given us all the information he knew, maybe the jundi would be less likely to be violent with him. “Listen Resgar, I have an idea, let me go in and talk to the prisoner.” Surprised, he responded, “You want to talk to him?” I said, “Yes, bring your electrocution prop and AK-47 into the room with me and follow my lead.”
I barged into the detainee’s room and yelled at the Iraqis to leave. I took the young man’s blindfold off, looked him in the eyes, and said, “As salama aleikum.” He responded in kind and swore he did not have any information. We continued to talk. He was surprised to see an American speaking Arabic. Through our conversation I learned the young man was in graduate school and had a family in the neighborhood. He even attempted to speak English in order to gain favor with me. As we talked Resgar fiddled with a small battery with exposed wires in the corner. He acted as though he was preparing an electrocution device. It was the ultimate “good cop-bad cop” interrogation routine.
I said to the detainee, “Listen man, I think you are an innocent man and I hope you have told me everything you know… but I am not sure. I am going to give you five minutes to tell me what you know. If you don’t I will let the Iraqis in here to do with you as they please. Please don’t let this happen. I need you to tell me everything you know—please.” The young man’s eyes widened and he screamed in English, “Mister, no! Please, mister!” He continued in Arabic, “Rah agullek kullshi, wallah!” (I will tell you everything, I swear to God!) I smiled and reengaged the frantic detainee. “Listen kid, I am going to leave the room for one minute to grab a glass of water for you. You look thirsty.”
In the one minute I stepped out to get a glass of water for the young man, Resgar played the bad guy. He blindfolded the detainee and said to him, “You better fuckin’ tell the American everything you know.” Resgar charged his AK-47 and pointed it at the kid’s chest. The detainee screeched, “Jamal, he is going to kill me. Help!” I knew Resgar was trying to scare the shit out of the kid and had no plans to kill him. We understood each other’s tactics without explaining them to each other. I sprinted into the room and yelled, “Get out of here, Resgar. If this kid doesn’t speak, I’ll let you have at him, but wait your turn.” I took the blindfold off the detainee and handed him a glass of water. “Are you ready to talk?” He was ready. Tears gushed from the poor kid’s eyes.
The detainee poured his guts out to me and Martin, whom I brought in for backup interpreter support. The guy told us everything he knew. He claimed to not be involved in the attack, knew those who were involved, and knew the location of an IED along Route Boardwalk one kilometer to the south of the WTF. His final piece of intelligence was a detailed description of one of the IED masterminds in Haditha who was responsible for numerous attacks.