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The thought of working with the Special Forces snipers was appealing. While the Hollywood appeal of Special Forces personnel had lessened since I had been working with them, I still thought it might be cool to have Special Forces snipers on our patrol. In fact, I knew this mission would be amazing. I would be the leading tactical adviser on a foreign military patrol in a war zone, speaking a foreign language and fighting alongside Iraqi soldiers as an equal. On top of that we were going to clandestinely move to a hill in the desert overlooking Route Boardwalk under the cover of darkness and hunt insurgents with help from a couple of Green Beret snipers. If this is not living the adventure, what is? I wondered.

The Special Forces snipers showed up at the west gate of the WTF. I sat them down with Hussein and had Hussein explain his plan to occupy the OP. It was a relief to work with the Special Forces. I knew I did not have to explain to the snipers why I was letting the Iraqis lead the show. They understand more than anyone that the role of being a military adviser is to
advise, teach, and support—not to command.

Once the plan was in place we moved quickly and quietly into the desert under the cover of darkness. I felt a sense of peace in the silence. The footsteps of warriors walking in the desert broke the quietness. The
jundi
were not as graceful as I had hoped. On our way to the assembly area I counted five loud crashes caused by
jundi
who tripped in ditches and small holes in the barren landscape. Despite the racket we continued to push forward without notice. Route Boardwalk was a good six hundred meters away. If anyone had heard our commotion, the people would write it off as feral dogs thrashing around in the open desert.

We approached our tentative assembly area at the base of a small hill from which we would observe Route Boardwalk. From our position, we were not going to get close enough to the enemy to cut his throat, but we would have visibility on the road. At the assembly area the snipers and I had a U.S.-only meeting. We were carrying out a complicated operation and the last thing we wanted was the
jundi
to mess it up.

I addressed the Special Force snipers. “Listen, you guys know we are dealing with
jundi
here. I can guarantee that one of them is going to light up a cigarette while we are out here observing.” Both the men nodded in agreement and I continued. “I'm going to have these guys sit at the base of this hill and get into a security posture beneath the hill. They can be the security element for the mission while you guys go up on the hill and observe with your thermal scopes and infrared optics. I'll be the middleman on the hill. If you guys need support or extra firepower let me know and I will signal to Hussein to rally the
jundi
cavalry.” The snipers liked my plan. The plan allowed them to observe Boardwalk for enemy activity without having to worry about the
jundi
compromising our position and ruining the mission.

After explaining this plan to Hussein, we were set to execute. Hussein, a former Iraqi Special Forces soldier with vast experience conducting reconnaissance missions, was the perfect guy to have as the Iraqi squad leader. He set his men into a security posture and prepared them for their duties.

It became apparent that twenty-five years of service in the old Iraqi army was not helping Hussein. Marines know that while in a security position, weapons point outward, sectors of fire are assigned, silence is maintained, and movements are minimized. The Iraqi security posture is different. Their security involves small groups of three soldiers who sit in a circle talking about life and smoking cigarettes while one of the soldiers
in the squad keeps a general eye out to see if anything dangerous is on the horizon. Suffice it to say I was glad I let the snipers push to the top of the hill alone. Sending the
jundi
would have compromised their position and ruined the mission.

Once the
jundi
were set in their “gaggle” (Marine term for something that isn't very organized), I crawled on my hands and knees up the hill to check on the snipers through my night vision goggles. I watched their left flank and marked the route back to the assembly area with infrared chemlights so they knew how to get back to the
jundi
without getting lost.

We sat, sat, and sat some more. I was annoyed that my first chance to live in a Hollywood movie scene was going to end so anticlimactically. All I wanted was to light up insurgents emplacing IEDs along Boardwalk, and we were in the perfect position to do just that. We sat for three hours and watched the villagers carry out their nightly rituals: evening tea with the neighbors, prayer at the local mosque, more tea with the neighbors, and then off to bed.

It was 2200—drop-dead time. I signaled to the snipers that it was time to move back to camp. We approached the Iraqi security circle at the base of the hill, praying they did not shoot us. Our worries were unfounded. Half of the
jundi
were fast asleep and the other half were smoking cigarettes and telling stories. Any hopes that this would be a clandestine mission were lost. The
jundi
still awake shouted to me, “Jamal, are we heading back to camp yet? We're tired and hungry.” My only response was to laugh. These men were not military men, they were children. I found Hussein. He awakened his men and we went back to the WTF. The insurgents would live another day and we would go home empty-handed once again.

Who's Defending the Patrol Base?

We arrived back at the WTF at 0100 in the morning after patrolling for seven hours. I was beat. I went to sleep on the floor of the guard shack, which had become our makeshift COC. I was unable to sleep; bed bugs and mites crawled over my body and devoured my flesh. “Fuckin' fuck fuck, I'm going to kill these bugs,” I complained. Unable to sleep, I did some rounds on the defensive perimeter.

In addition to continuous patrols in the town, the
jundi
maintain the defensive perimeter of the facility. Marine advisers are stuck in a “shit sandwich.” Their problem is that they need to let the Iraqis lead operations so they can improve their tactics, gain leadership experience, and become a better army.
But in certain duties, such as establishing and maintaining defensive perimeters, how the Iraqis carry out their mission has a direct effect on Marines' chances of seeing their families again.

The Iraqi idea of a defensive perimeter means placing a few
jundi
at the corners of the WTF with their sleeping bags. These
jundi
stay up for a few hours, and when they get tired, they sleep and hope the insurgents do not attack. This is not defense. While the MiTT is selflessly willing to accept risks to our lives so the Iraqis can learn lessons the hard way and adapt, at some level we also need to look out for our own asses and step in. The last thing we need is an orange jumpsuit and a machete at our throats because the
jundi
failed to maintain a defense.

It was 0300, but I decided to snatch Captain Mawfood and show him how horrific his defense perimeter was on the WTF. He had promised Major Gaines that things were airtight. I didn't believe it. I went into the local residence where Captain Mawfood was sleeping. He was snoring on the floor in deep slumber. I had slept three hours in the past three days and the sight of him all cozy on the ground infuriated me. I nudged him with my hand and said, “Mawfood, we need to exercise some leadership and see how your men are doing on post.” I was Mawfood's worst nightmare. After sucking down a glass of sugar-filled tea, Mawfood strapped on his boots and was ready to go.

The first position we examined, which guarded the entire west entrance into the WTF, was a perfect example of what not to do in a defensive position. I walked up to the abandoned PKC machine gun overlooking the western entrance. I questioned Mawfood in jest. “Captain Mawfood, is there a ghost operating this?” Mawfood smiled in embarrassment. I did not even have to add additional comments to get the point across to Mawfood. Instead, I pointed toward the ground where six sleeping bags were filled with Iraqis, dreaming about pork chops and unveiled women. If I wanted to, I could cut each of their throats before any of them even woke up. It was pathetic. The scene could have been yet another funny story about Iraqis being lazy, undisciplined, and selfish, but in this case the Iraqis' behavior was lessening the probability that I would come home to my wife. I was pissed.

Captain Mawfood, who was generally lethargic and slothful in everything I had seen him do, rushed to rectify the problem. He was professionally embarrassed. Mawfood roared, “
Jundi
, what the hell are you doing? Why are you sleeping on the job? In the old Iraqi army you would be beaten. What battalion are you from?” The single
jundi
who had the balls to speak up
said, “Sir, we are from 3rd Battalion. We fell asleep. We are sorry.” Mawfood was enraged. “Do you expect a ghost to fire this PKC? I expect more from men who want to call themselves Iraqi soldiers. You are an embarrassment!” Mawfood's tirade lit a fire under the
jundi
's asses. They scurried like cockroaches. I was impressed. An Iraqi leader was actually solving problems and making things happen—absolutely, positively amazing.

Saved by a Six-Year-Old

Following a night of fixing the defensive perimeter of the WTF, it was time for yet another patrol. Thankfully, I was able to catch a few hours of sleep. The patrol would not leave until 1100. Our mission was to push south into the palm groves, clandestinely occupy a home along Route Boardwalk, and perform overwatch of the road in order to look for insurgents emplacing IEDs.

We pushed south through the palm groves. As we approached the location I had been sniped at the other day, my heart rate spiked. I suggested to the
jundi
we move toward the Euphrates edge and push past the position. Being fired upon for a second time was not my cup of tea. We moved into the thickest section of the palm groves. Ayad, a
jundi
from the battalion scouts and the Iraqi squad leader at the time, and I pushed forward of the patrol to determine which home we wanted to occupy. It was obvious none of the homes offered a clandestine approach. I told Ayad, “Pick your favorite.”

“Clear.” A
jundi
gave me the green light to cross an intersection adjacent to the home we were occupying. I darted across the intersection, jumped over a gate, and landed in a sheep pen where everyone else in the patrol had congregated. After a quick accountability check we knocked on the back door of the home. A young boy came to the door. Ayad explained the situation and the boy let us in. Once inside the boy introduced us to his father and four brothers. In accordance with the high standards of Arab hospitality, the father ordered his younger sons to bring us cold water and tea. Ayad ordered two
jundi
to the roof to establish overwatch on the road.

Mesmerized by the sight of an Arabic-speaking Marine, the boys attacked me with a barrage of questions. The eldest son greeted me and said, “Please, Jamal, come outside to the patio and we must talk. I want to learn.” The four brothers escorted me to the front porch for a chat. I signaled to PFC Lynch to act as my bodyguard in case something happened.

One of the youngest boys was confused. “Jamal, are you Iraqi?” I laughed and told him I was from America, but that I would have been proud to be
from Iraq. I pulled out my propaganda packet and showed them pictures of my family and my childhood. One of the other brothers asked me, “Can I see your rifle scope?” The sophisticated rifle scope on my M-4 assault rifle wowed the boy. I obliged and let the young boy look through the scope. He was bewildered. “Can we take a picture?” he asked. I replied, “Why not?” I gathered all the boys and gave the youngest boy my weapon so he could pretend he was Rambo. Ayad and Ali joined in as a
jundi
snapped the photograph. The kids clamored around me. “Jamal, you have to get us that picture. Whenever you come back, please bring us a copy.” I told them I would do my best to get them the picture (see
photo 15
).

Perhaps in ten or twenty years, when Iraq is safe, I will stop by this home and drop them a picture.
Insha'allah
.

The young Iraqis realized I was a person with whom they could speak freely. The eldest boy asked a provocative question: “Why are the Marines going to stay in Haditha?” Puzzled, I responded, “How long do you think we will be staying in the area?” He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Thirty years maybe?” I laughed, praying to God that his estimate was inaccurate. I explained to the boys America's new strategy of helping the Iraqi Army stand up, so we could stand down. I reiterated my point and told him that the one thing the military wants is for Iraqis to solve Iraqi problems so Marines can go home to their families. I felt like the ultimate diplomat.

After bouncing between serious discussions of politics and local area security, the boys asked me about famous American cities, the Rocky Mountains, and Michael Jackson—their favorite performer. I spared them the details on Michael Jackson and told them we had to be on our way. Before we left Ayad asked one of the young boys, “Brother, can you run across the street and buy me a pack of cigarettes in the market?” The boy took the dinar bill from Ayad's hand and sprinted through the front gate. He was more than happy to help us. He opened the front gate, peeked for danger, and zoomed across Boardwalk to the neighboring market.

The boy returned dripping with sweat, obviously distraught. He sprinted to his eldest brother and whispered something into his ear. The eldest brother clutched my arm and pointed to Ayad to come closer. His younger brother had told him something important. He whispered, “Jamal, my little brother says the insurgents have an ambush awaiting you on the other side of the market. They are planning to ambush you when you cross the street!” Ayad looked at me. He hoped I would say there was no need to confront the ambush. I pointed toward the palm groves and said, “Ayad, La. Rah nrooh
hinak” (Ayad, no. We will go there.) Ayad was relieved. As my brother, he was ready and willing to follow me into combat if I thought it was a good idea, but he did not want to die today. I agreed, today was not a good day to die.