365 and a Wakeup

Operation Clean Sweep

     Our day started long before the sun creased the horizon, in the quiet stillness of a Baghdad morning our barracks awoke and slowly snapped the shadowy bonds of sleep.  The dark narrow hallways sparked to life under the dull artificial glow of fluorescent bulbs, and under those pale lights soldiers started their final preparations for Operation Clean Sweep. In those first few minutes the atmosphere seemed to swell and heave with the nervous anticipation unique to large combat operations. There is no analogue for the naked rush of endorphins that presages these operations, they flood your system and keen your spirit until both carry a fine and bright edge.

     Everything had already been prepared and checked the evening prior, but NCOs still flashed back and forth between their soldier’s rooms to double check weapons and equipment. As they completed the last of their inspections troops started filing out of the barracks, and with their departure the sense of purpose and drive seemed to leech out of the atmosphere. As SSG Spite, my Fire Support NCO and I left the barracks I felt an intangible light click out behind us. The cord was cut, for the first time since taking command I was leading the soldiers of Killer Company into harms way.

     When I arrived at the airfield the platoons were already formed in their chalks and preparing for the arrival of the Blackhawk helicopters. This would be an unusually large air assault; six different airframes were dedicated towards transporting the company to our blocking positions. Soldiers banded together in their chalks, some reviewing the mission, others sipping steaming cups of coffee from Styrofoam cups, and others just retelling their favorite joke for the 10^th or 11^th time.

     The plan was briefed, the soldiers were prepared, and the equipment stood ready… all that was left was the actual execution. A few minutes after we completed staging for the air assault the voice of my tank platoon leader filtered over the tinny headphone, giving us a confirmation that his tanks were inbound to the link up point. I sent acknowledgement back over the net, relayed the mission to Battalion and then said a silent prayer. The die was cast. Operation Clean Sweep had started.

     The first hint that the Blackhawks were arriving was the dull thump of the Apache helicopters providing escort, their rotor whipping through the air with the angry buzz peculiar to those angular flying tanks. As they passed overhead soldiers tightened their gear one last time, lofted their weapons and prepared to load the helicopters. A few seconds later a string of dark pearls coalesced out of the morning sky, accompanied by the familiar bass of their powerful engines. The points of black shadow came from the east, their spry silhouettes backlit by the fiery birth of another day. As they approached their forms settled into familiar shapes, and the rumble of their engines became a roar. As soon as each bird touched down the soldiers assigned to that specific chalk started approaching those cavernous doors. By time the last bird had settled into the pillar of sand it whipped up the first Blackhawk had been loaded.

     I watched Southern Baghdad slip by, every detail clear and sharp in the glimmer of a new morning. For a moment the air almost seemed preternaturally clear, as if I were looking into a fresh spring and seeing the stony bottom magnified through a watery lens. Scattered home flitted by, and then stands of old date palms clustered together like old friends. Everything looked clear and bright… and beautiful. But before I became too entranced with the scenery I reminded myself that all too often in this world exterior beauty hides malicious and ugly things. And with that rejoinder I refocused on just how lethal the area we were flying into really was.      Inside the Blackhawk soldiers were busily snapping their four point harnesses over their body armor, each soldier giving their NCO a thumbs up or scowling wink to confirm they were locked in. Once everyone was strapped in the Blackhawk started to spool up to full power, and second later we were cutting through the cool air of morning on a column of growling thunder. As I looked out the gaping doors I watched

     Five seconds after we landed in a vacant field that lesson was hammered back into my skull by a crushing blast wave that spilled over our landing site like a phantom wave. My first thought was that our landing zone was under mortar attack, but when I turned to look at the blast site all I could see was the black deaths head of a mushroom cloud burn a path into the sky. The molten cloud was too large to be indirect fire but I still wasn’t sure what had caused it. I traced the boiling black trunk to its root and suddenly realized two things. The first was that the explosion was on a road. The second was that one of my platoons was headed directly into the maelstrom.

     By time 1LT Eve answered my radio call he was approaching the site of the blast, and when he did arrive his voice was bleached out by the supersonic crack of rifle fire. The IED we had witnessed launched an ambush, and before the blast wave had even hit us several insurgents were raking the ground convoy with their AK-47s. They were answered with a hellstorm of fire from the Iraqi Army and Nightstalkers alike. As the armored fist of the Battalion pinned down the AIF, elements from Killer Company secured the IED site and started evacuating the wounded. At some point the AIF attack blunted and broke, and those that were able slunk away like wretched curs.

     About the 1LT Eves platoon arrived at the seat of the blast, elements from the other line platoons moved into their final blocking positions, effectively sealing the entire region for Operation Clean Sweep. As I ran up to the blocking position I heard the hushed scream of the M1 Abrams platoon attached to my company. The enormous, angular bodies of the tanks seemed to cut through the fields like predators on the hunt. As they approached the link up point they peeled off one by one and moved into their planned blocking positions. As they arrived on the company line they seemed to transform the blocking positions into something altogether different by their presence alone. As I looked down my lines I was surprised how much the tanks looked like hulking parapets on a castle wall.

     Back on the IED site soldiers were securing the area and treating the wounded expertly wielding their hard won skills. The medevac helicopter settled down within minutes to start evacuating the wounded, and as it did the entire region was swallowed in a manmade sandstorm. Once the medevac choppers left the scene the air cleared, and by time I finished checking the blocking positions the air had already cleared. Once again I am going to refrain from describing the actual IED site, suffice it to say it was difficult to witness. The vehicle that had been hit was towing a trailer piled high with pencils, school notebooks, dates, backpacks and all types of school supplies. When I arrived they were scattered across a large swath, as if some freighter had run aground and spilled its cargo over a broken shore.  Rather then see the material go to waste I motioned over the Iraqi Army troops, telling them to take all that they could carry on their vehicles. They eagerly complied, and within a few minutes the trailer and environs had been stripped bare. With that work complete I left the recovery team to their work,   and started back to 1LT Eve’s platoon. The platoon was set up in defensive positions in support of the recovery and had the situation well in hand, so I returned back to the rest of the company. A couple hundred meters away from our position the Nightstalker Battalion and the Iraqi Public Order Brigade were conducting methodical sweeps through this AIF plagued region. Occasionally AIF elements would try to flee the approaching tide of men and material, but when they tried they just stumbled into Killer Company. We spent most of the morning playing the anvil to the Battalion’s great hammer. The AIF remained between the two, and those that chose to fight… lost.

     Late in the morning 1LT Irish, one of my platoon leaders, called over the net and reported he was taking enemy fire. From his hasty sitrep it appeared a collection of AIF elements were firing at the platoon from the shadowy recesses of a date palm grove. The weapons fire was wildly inaccurate, but the AIF element was set too far into the palm grove to visually identify. All I needed to do was glance at SSG Spite and cock an eyebrow, we had worked together long enough to fluidly understand each others thoughts. Sure enough SSG Spite called up the Apache element in aerial overwatch giving them the grid coordinates of the enemy fire and pushing them down to the platoon radio frequency for direct coordination. The next sound we heard was the long booming crackle of the Apaches making a gun run on the hidden element. Before the sound even finished echoing there was the angry roar of an Infantry platoon laying down thick carpets of fire. The sonic scenario repeated itself a second time, the booming blast of the Apache’s cannon followed by the focused wrath of an Infantry platoon opening fire. On the third run the sound of cannon fire was eclipsed by an sound that cut through the sky like a sharpened blade… a sound followed by an thunderous blossom of shrieking air. And then there was silence.

     Once the din had faded 1LT Irish gave me a quick update. Once the Apaches started their gun runs on the AIF elements the surviving elements opened fire at the armored dragonflies pinwheeling over their heads. The muzzle blasts of the AK47s firing into the sky was enough to provide a target, and once the Apaches had competed each gun run the platoon unleashed a torrent of fire on the AIF position.  After each pass the number of muzzle blasts diminished, but by the third pass it was obvious to the Apaches that the AIF elements were dug in.  The blossom of acrid fire that resulted was the aftermath of a Hellfire missile burning into the AIF position. After the blast my platoon stopped firing… there was no point dumping rounds into a smoking crater.

     The rest of the mission progressed smoothly, the silence of Southern Baghdad broken by spurts of gunfire and the occasional AIF rocket launch. By noon the sound of gunfire finally faded. Once the Iraqi and American forces had completed their sweeps my platoons started gathering onto their respective Pickup Zones (PZs) with the M1 tanks providing overwatch. As the Blackhawks shuttled in each element threw a smoke grenade to mark the landing site, and before the smoke settled we were loaded up and heading back to the FOB.

     As we landed back at the FOB I said a silent prayer of thanks, and then started moving back to the company. There was still work to be done.

Best of...

     As many of you already know Blackfive is collecting postings from several milblogs to compile into a book published by Simon and Schuster.  I have agreed to contribute to the project, but I need a little help from my readers.  Once I hit the publish button I don't reread through my postings, so I can't say with any authority which ones are worth submitting.  If you've read through my electonic scribblings please take a second and post a reply telling me which one (or ones) you want to see in print.  The deadline is looming, so speed is of the essence.

Helping Hand

     Home is a sacred word to every soldier, the unwavering pole that forever tugs at the heart's compass. After three combat deployments and 15 years of service to our nation a fellow soldier bought his first home, only to lose it in the hellstorm that was Hurricane Katrina.  To add insult to injury, his insurance claims were denied - leaving his family scattered and his finances in shambles. His mother created a web site to help her son in his time of need - it is worth a few minutes of your time.

http://www.helpmysoninmississippi.com/

"Over There"

     Yesterday I received a care package with DVDs of the FX show “Over There”, a series loosely based on the experiences of soldiers here in Iraq.  As the day wound down my XO and 2LT Lucky drifted over to my room, both eager to watch this new series and how they depicted life here in Iraq.  We sat down and spent the next hour in utter and complete awe.  It was the most riveting hour of television I have ever seen, and by the end of the show I had tears in my eyes.     

     They were tears of laughter.     

     I don’t have the words to express how tragically flawed the show really is.  There are bad shows, and there are terrible shows.  There are even shows so singularly awful they come full circle and almost seem interesting.  This show is much, much worse then even those campy train wrecks.  The episode was so abominable that I couldn’t even get angry at it’s hollow depictions of combat, all I could do was laugh until my sides ached.     

     My unit has spent the better part of a year here in Iraq attached to the 3rd Infantry Division (the unit highlighted in the show) and there wasn’t a single scene that seemed even remotely plausible.  I don’t have the time or energy to express what a catastrophe the show really is, that would take days upon days.  But I will say that the show did an excellent job of showing the audience one thing.  That Hollywood has no clue what our experience on the ground is really like. 

Another Step Forward

     I consider Michael Yon both a friend and an inspiration. His most recent post is a perfect example -  score one for the away team! 

                                                     http://michaelyon.blogspot.com

Resolve

     There are many fronts on the war on terror – and the most lethal aren’t always our engagements with the insurgents.  Our troops are patrolling the grinding crucible of Iraq on a day to day basis – but we have never taken losses as severe as the attacks on London this past week.  And our total losses here in Iraq still pale in comparison to the loss in life we incurred in the attacks of 9-11. 

     After losing so many innocent lives there is a natural tendency to view the terrorists as little more then blind and bitter zealots – but doing so would discount the true depth of their depravity. If you take a glance into their merciless ideology two things become readily apparent.  The first is that they are in this for the long game.  The second is that they have grasped an ancient truth – that the key to any fight is mercilessly hammering your enemy’s weak point.

     A perfect example is the mission here in Iraq. The insurgents arrayed against us aren’t brave fighters or great warriors.  In fact every time we fight toe to toe in a direct fire engagement they limp away like scared dogs.  But the insurgents aren’t dumb, they have learned to hide their weakness by relying on IEDs, the modern equivalent of a bear trap.  In the dead of night they skulk out of the shadows and lay their volatile traps, then lay in wait for one of our vehicles to roll into the blast radius.      

     When those brutal devices blossom into roaring, rending splinters they gouge men and machine alike. When those white hot pieces of metal find flesh to chew into they strike America's sole the gift of prescience; I don’t know what Iraq will look like when we do decide to pull out. But I do know that if we let the insurgents plan the timeline then we will have lost a key battle in this war without borders.  My heart aches for the losses in London, but those horrible losses have only strengthened my resolve to help cut out this cancer. 

     If I could take the average citizen along with us on a combat patrol I have no doubt they would feel the same way. But I can’t.  All I can do is hope that America will continue to support this mission and let us win this war. Is it costly?  Very. Is it painful? Even more so. But in the end it comes down to this – in the entire history of the human race, from the dark avenues of prehistory up to this modern “enlightened” age, there are precious few instances where bowing to an enemy seeking your annihilation did anything but lead to a much uglier world. And I for one don’t plan on letting that come to pass.

Goodbye Col Hackworth

     Being an Infantryman can be a pretty thankless job at times.  Outside our cloistered hallways we are often called "grunts", "bullet catchers", "ground pounders" and other less charitable terms.  COL David Hackworth was the epitome of an infantryman and long after he fell out of favor with the US Army he continued to look out for the troops at the pointy end of the spear.  He will be missed.  Sleep well Hack.

VBIEDs

LS sent me a link to a picture that left me speechless.  Even the most carefully crafted words can't capture the poignancy of this image so I won't even try - see for yourself.

VBIED Aftermath

The Pulitzer

     I don’t get a chance to read a lot of articles online – the days are already overfull with the controlled chaos we loosely term a “workday”. Since most of my waking hours are filled absorbing the acres of data that flows through my shop when I do get a chance to jump online my first stop is usually something that will make me laugh. My favorite is Chris Muir’s cartoon Day by Day, a incisive little strip that always adds a little levity to life here in the sandbox. It was through his comic strip that I stumbled into the ethical questions swirling around the AP’s Pulitzer Prize award for photojournalism and Will Bunch’s resounding defense of their merit. Before I delved into why people might have seen them as biased I decided to have a look for myself. As I scanned through the thumbnail images splayed across my screen like a book of grim postage stamps one leaped out from the pack. It stood out from the rest for both its composition and its insight into the moral vacuum that can masquerade as unbiased coverage here in Iraq. The picture depicts three insurgents murdering Iraqi election workers in the middle of a busy Baghdad thoroughfare. This is hardly a unique event here in Iraq, these tactics practically define the insurgency. What made this execution unique was that it was captured by an AP “stringer”. Before I get too far ahead let me back up first and give you a little background that might help put the picture in context. Baghdad isn’t a homogenous metropolitan hub, it’s composed of muhollahs (which roughly translate to neighborhoods) that each have a unique ethnic and religious makeup. While most, if not all of the muhollahs had an insurgent presence in the period leading up to the elections, in those days the dark heart of the insurgency in Baghdad throbbed in Haifa Street. Haifa Street was an ugly warren of tightly bundled buildings occupied by a motley mix of Sunni extremists and Jihadists from all corners of the Islamic world. And it was here on Haifa Street that the cameras pitiless eye caught the last moments of the Iraqi election workers. The AP would have you believe that their stringer was told that a “rally” was going to occur and the photographer showed up because reporting the news was their solemn duty. Anybody who has spent a few minutes here in Iraq can see through that garish lie. Any other proof you need is in the pictures themselves - the only reason the AP’s stringer walked away from the scene of that grisly murder with pictures of the killers was because the insurgents let him leave. Now I don’t want to paint with too broad a brush – there are some hardworking journalists and photographers here in Iraq trying to show the folks back home what is really going on here. I still don't agree with Will Bunch though - you don't need to be in Baghdad to make an informed analysis of whether or not the photographs crossed an ethical line. Geography and exposure to risk have little bearing on an informed analysis based on factually supportable conclusions. If location and risk were the sliding scale on which truth was measured then the "truest" opinions would be soldiers - not only are we here longer but we accept much greater risks. I don't have some special insight into the controversy, but in my humble opinion the unnamed photographer who took the snapshot isn’t an keen eyed photojournalist. He isn’t a Pulitzer Prize winner. He isn’t a AP stringer. He isn’t even a man. He’s a ghoul. A wretched fool who makes his money chronicling the misery his insurgent contacts inflict on their countrymen. I wonder what the going price on a soul is these days? Maybe I should ask the AP.

Hope as Deep as the Sky

     The storm passed and the dingy ceiling that cast a pallor over the FOB was replaced with a sapphire blue sky.  It was the very first thing I noticed today.  As soon as I stepped outside I looked up into that heart breakingly blue sky and felt free of the mire.  I probably spent a full minute there - just balancing on a bridge of cannibalized wood transfixed by the raw beauty before me.  I watched whisper thin tracings of gauzey white slip across the highest reaches of the sky and fat lumbering cumulus serenely move like fat, happy little children.  It was as close as I have come to feeling like home.

     Home.   It is the most precious word in a soldiers vocabulary - and at the same time an emotional H-Bomb.   I've avoided using the word, scared that once I give it physical substance by putting it in writing I will find myself awash in a tide of memories.   To some the word is little more then a string of syllables, a flash of sound off the lips.  But not to the soldier.  To a soldier the word "home" is an evergreen tree whose roots wind deeply around every fiber of their heart.  It is a place that exists outside of the boundaries of time, relying solely on favorite memories of days past.   The word "home" is pliable and it is easily bent around whatever it is a soldier cherishes most about his life outside Iraq.  To some that is a physical address, for others it might be clse family.  For me home isn't so much a place as it is a person - and that person is my wonderful wife.  Every night as I drift to sleep the psychic walls staving off the sense of loss melt away and I feel an odd sense of dislocation.  Almost like waking from a dream only to realize you are still dreaming and can't seem to snap out of it.

     After spending a few minutes looking at that scintillating sky I snapped out of my reverie and went to work.  The ground was a disgusting mass of liquified filth that seemed to do its level best to counterbalance the blue heavens.  I was sliding left and right through the bigger ponds but with my newly waterproofed boots the task wasn't as onerous as the days before. 

     I managed to slam out most of my inbox in the subsequent hours, then I started prepping my weapons and equipment for another trip to the International Zone.  Once again my PSD (Personal Security Detachment a well armed and uparmored detail of soldiers who provide an escort to key figures on missions outside the wire) was composed of recon soldiers who I had only recently turned over to another officer, and once again they surprised me with their cool professionalism.  We ran through the usual pre-mission cycle and loaded into our uparmored steeds.  As we left the parking lot SGT Jawa came up on the radio and in his best "Blackhawk Down" voice said "Ladies and gentleman my name is SGT Jawa and I'll be your driver this afternoon.  Federal regulations have designated this a non-smoking uparmored HMMWV. For those of you part of our Baghdad frequent driver program you will be earning 73 points today.  Enjoy."  We all chuckled at the reference and then coiled up and left the wire.

     Driving here in Iraq can be a lot like playing the game "Grand Theft Auto".  The point isn't to obey the nonexistent traffic laws, just to arrive quickly and safely.  Speed is life on these roads, one of the insurgents favorite tactics is to set their deadly packages in places where they think we will have to slow or stop.  Staying alert is only have the battle, the other half rests on a drivers ability to weave around any and all obstacles at a good rate of speed.  Red lights are little more then warnings to look both ways.   If traffic is at a dead standstill on one side of the median you can bet we won't be waiting behind it - not when you can jump the island and drive into traffic. 

     On this day it seemed like the closer we came to the IZ the worse the traffic would get until it finally coagulated into a thick knot of metal and fumes.  True to form the PSD found a way around the clot and we pushed on to the IZ.  I had planned our drive up to take significantly longer then it actually did, so when we passed into the IZ I gave the patrol leader the chance to head to the PX (post exchange) if he was so inclined.  When we pulled into the PX parking lot we lumbered around until we found a place to park our uparmored HMMWVs and dismounted.  As we started walking towards the PX one of the NCO's smirked at me with an odd look on his face.  Before I knew what he was up to he shouted to his soldiers to continue providing security.  In a flash our soldiers pulled up positions at my cardinal compass points and began suspiciously scanning the area.  It was an utterly ridiculous amount of security, like something you would see around a third world dictator in a bad movie.  I tried to get SGT Tick to standdown but by now he was having waaaay to much fun with it, and nonchalantly said something about "orders being orders".  As we approached the PX I could see soldiers shift uneasily, unsure whether they should duck around a corner to avoid what looked like a VIP or just stand and salute.  When a colonel walked by and saluted me none of us could take it any more and we all broke down in laughter. 

     The PX ended up being closed so I went off to my meeting with MAJ Momony a little early.  Having arrived with a few minutes to spare I had the chance to strike a conversation with one of the Iraqis in the lobby.  He spoke english with amazing fluency, and something about his accent seemed to be strangely familiar.  Finally I asked him if he had spent time in the US and he smiled and handed me his California's drivers license.  Here we were in a lobby in downtown Baghdad and the address on his license was a stones throw away from my childhood home!  I made the mistake of assuming he was Iraqi and started to ask him if he had been here prior to Saddams downfall, but he politely waved the question away, puffed out his chest and said "I am Lebanese".  Even a cursory glance would have conveyed the pride he felt in uttering those words.  I asked him what he thought about what was happening in his country and he smiled once again, replying "these are days I will tell my sons, and their sons about".  Sitting there in that small room nestled in the first outpost of democracy in the Middle East I had to smile.  I think these will be these days I tell my sons, and their sons about.