Death or Glory IV of IV

Few things are as reliably deceptive as appearance. If one of our jet pilots must eject, he might land out here among someone’s camels. I recall an officer talking about one of our helicopters crashing in Mosul, where local Iraqis were the first to the scene, and tried to help our people. Of course, sometimes the opposite occurs. The point is these people who live different lives and have different religions are not all out here plotting ways to kill us.

In journeys I made before the war, to places like India, Nepal, Tibet and China, most of the people I encountered seemed to think about us just as often as we think about them: practically never. Most of the peoples of the world are living simply, and simply living. Or trying to. They do not aspire to map and explore the depths of the seas, or to tease the secrets out of quarks and quasars. Most people in the world cannot read. Many languages have no alphabets. No dictionaries. Many peoples have no access to libraries, museums or cultural institutions. Most haven’t time to care about geo-politics.

But when war begins, usually caused by big people for big reasons—be it money, power, religious crusade or jihad—native peoples such as the Kampas in Tibet suddenly become important to big people.  Most don’t appreciate the new status and the disruption and danger it brings.

Take the Bedouin. Suddenly, what they think of us is important. Even very important.
Arbitrary borders of Iran and Iraq mean nothing to many of these people. But rest assured that collectively, in their wanderings, they know everything that goes on here.

There is no way for our people to just “melt into the desert” unnoticed. The battle here, as General Petraeus keeps saying, is for the people. Whoever wins the people will hold the greater influence Iraq, and therefore the region. Soldiers, be they from Scotland or Scottsdale, come out here and battle for the sentiments or business sense of the people.  Soldiers, who only months ago were perhaps drinking beers in London pubs, and who speak only English,  who’ve been taught to shoot straight and to blow things up, now are learning to win battles without firing shots.

It is being done, at least to some degree, because it has to be done.  Over the course of the past couple of years, our own military has had to quickly adjust its mindset. 

Bedouin.

The Brits I ran with down in Maysan Province were good at stopping to talk with locals. These British soldiers had just lost two buddies in an ambush almost exactly 72 hours ago, yet they had treated the locals, even at the ambush site, with respect. Some Iraqis have told me that we treat them too well—that we should wipe out a village after such an ambush—and truly that must be tempting at times. But we didn’t come to Iraq to wipe out villages, and should it come down to that, it’s time to go home.

When we saw this Bedouin family, the British officer ordered the vehicles to be parked far away from the house, weapons pointing away from their home. He didn’t approach with a platoon of soldiers, but only with his interpreter. He left his helmet and rifle back at the truck, and carried only a pistol on his leg. As he walked up, the Bedouin man walked out to greet him.

Greetings done, the British officer introduced me, saying I am a photographer, and asked if it was okay for me to be there. The Bedouin man welcomed us all in. I asked if I could photograph, and he answered through the interpreter that I could photograph the children but not the women.  The women stayed hidden; I have no idea how many wives there were.

The Bedouin welcomed us into the tent. He owned a great herd of camels. Though he seemed poor to us, the interpreter said the Bedouin was very rich, and could sell his camels and buy a big house and a car and live the big time. According to Iraqis, in addition to their simple toughness and great fighting spirit, this is part of the mysterious allure of Bedouins. Many of them are fantastically wealthy compared to others in the region, yet they wander the desert, following the grass, breaking down their tents and moving in the desert sea. What I would give to know the stories they tell!

The Bedouin said he didn’t need anything. He said he had never met British or Americans before, but that he heard the British were good to the people. I sensed he was telling the truth. As the conversation wandered, I wanted to make many photos, but did not want to insult the Bedouin. He was not the camera hound that so many Iraqi police and soldiers are.  When I showed him one of the photos, he said he looked old, and he smiled and held it up for the women to see.  I never heard their voices or saw the women. They were behind a screen. 

Though he had declined any candies or other types of items, he mentioned the tire on his motorcycle was flat. It seemed like perfectly fine desert etiquette to ask for help if you have an honest need, so he came right out and asked of the Brits had anything that could fix the tire. They searched the vehicles but had nothing to repair the flat.

When we left, the Bedouin walked us away from his home, saying it was not polite for him to say goodbye to guests without walking them out.

As we walked away, the Iraqi interpreter kept shaking his head, saying he cannot understand the Bedouins, saying that man was probably a millionaire even in American dollars, yet he lives out in the desert, in a tent, wandering around.  The interpreter kept on the subject for several minutes, unable to reconcile or understand what was going on inside that Bedouin head.

Eventually coming to another man. This man was less manly than the Bedouin and seemed almost effete. He didn’t hide his women and didn’t care if I photographed them. He was a shepherd, but not with camels. He had a great herd of sheep, but he seemed primarily interested in money.

The man tried to sell the officer a sheep, and they began to haggle the price. The officer said he had been to India and would haggle with rickshaw drivers over a few rupees, and he enjoyed the sport of the haggle. I said I’d been to India and still think about that place every day, even while on combat missions. Nothing I’ve seen in Iraq compares to the great adventure of India, but I did not haggle hard with rickshaw drivers.  It’s a common sight to see travelers haggling ten minutes for the equivalent of ten cents with a man who might make a dollar a day. For most it’s not about the money, but about the “principle” of being charged more as a traveler.  For this officer, it was about the art and the sport, which Indians and Iraqis alike seem to enjoy.  But it was ironic to be standing so close to the imaginary border with Iran with a British officer who’d also haggled in India. 

The geo-political irony of an American writer standing with a British officer haggling with an Iraqi shepherd just near the Iranian border which borders Afghanistan—where Brits and Americans are fighting, and opium is involved and there is a border with China—which borders Pakistan which borders India which borders Burma . . . that’s enough . . . and that British people see this as an American war they got sucked into, was nearly traumatically humorous.  Our tracks just keep overlapping and following us.  A slight smile was nearly unavoidable. 

The man said he knew where our camp was and would walk it over. The officer said it was much too far, but the man said (through the interpreter), “No, it’s just over there,” and said everyone knew where it was, and that if we loaded into the trucks and drove back to camp, he could beat us to camp on foot by taking shortcuts.

While we waited, one of the young British soldiers dug a hole, and then they partially buried another soldier in the hole, and then several of the young soldiers began making fun of each other’s accents, which turned into a sand-throwing contest, and then some rough, full-contact wrestling as young soldiers duked it out on the ground, and finally got up laughing, dusting each other off, waiting for the helicopter.

Whereupon the writer discovers that all helicopters are not alike.

When the Merlin landed, I tried to get a good photo, and that’s when I made the unfortunate discovery that Merlins have a LOT more down blast than Blackhawks. Luckily I was wearing body armor or I might have (seriously) been a casualty from the rocks. I couldn’t believe how hard they were hitting my armor as I hit the ground, but at least I got a photo. The pilots must have thought I was dense.  (I will never do that again.)

Aboard were some of the Aegis contractors. They seemed appalled by the camera.

And that was how my final mission with the British ended.  An excellent and professional group of soldiers, doing their best under bad circumstances. They were every bit as good as I had heard.

As these words go to print, I am entering into major combat along with U.S. forces against Al Qaeda.

Death or Glory III of IV

Queen’s Royal Lancers

American soldiers think our press is bad to them, but we get off light compared to the Brits. One British soldier told me that when he made a journey of several hours across London, in uniform, not a single person acknowledged him. I said he should go to America where British soldiers are always welcome.

The Brits are in for a scorching summer in the deserts of Maysan Province. By the time I left, the sleeping bags weren’t necessary, though nights were cool. The soldiers are living out there on cots under mosquito nets, and their outhouse is a shovel. This past winter, the rains and cold created an opponent in the form of mud. The Iraqi mud—I know it well—is a special kind that sticks to boots and adds about five pounds to each foot.

I’d seen miles and miles of minefields up north along the Iran/Iraq border when I was running with the Tennessee National Guard (278th). The shepherds know every rock and cranny out there, and they know where the explosives are. Treat those shepherds bad, and soldiers get blown up. Treat them with humanity and respect, and they can be business partners. The 278th was good to the shepherds, who were paid to collect large amounts of explosives that the 278th would then destroy, sometimes in massive explosions.

One day the 278th accidentally ran over a sheep. On a different patrol, they spent hours trying to find that shepherd to pay him for that sheep. Because the 278th took the smart approach, despite all the people who have died from IEDs, I’m sure that number is vastly less than it could have been. Moral leadership: treating people with respect goes a long way.

Up with the 278th, I sat out on the Iran/Iraq border and watched with ground surveillance radar. We saw smugglers. Most of the “smuggling” was of no account: not guns or bombs, but simple commodities like carpets and whiskey, just people doing business. One Iraqi commander, a Kurdish general, got a tattoo on his arm to match the tattoo of LTC Jeff Holmes, who commanded one of the 278th battalions at that time. The tattoo said (I believe) “Freedom Isn’t Free.”

We went on several picnics with that same Iraqi general and his soldiers, and I can remember him offering cases of captured whiskey. Of course, the Americans couldn’t accept the whiskey, but the smuggling was a different story. In any country where a desired commodity is restricted or scarce, the smuggler becomes a commodity.

British and American commanders increasingly report a huge problem with the porous Iraqi borders, and sure enough, mostly they are as unguarded as the Florida/Georgia border. Just a line on a map. So we have been building border forts around Iraq, and part of the job of the Queen’s Royal Lancers is to keep an eye on that border.

Down with the Brits, the soldiers were driving along the border, passing herds of camels, and I was sitting up front watching for land mines or whatever, when the British soldier who was driving started talking about how tough the Bedouins really are. He related how Bedouins had just ambushed some smugglers and killed a bunch of them. “Really?” I asked. When he confirmed they’d ambushed a whole slew and just wiped them out, it sounded like another one of those stories you hear every day in the war, that are probably mostly true, or mostly wrong, but interesting nonetheless.

I told the soldier that many Arabs look at the Bedouins sort of like how Americans look at cowboys. John Wayne. Clint Eastwood. Almost iconic, semi-mythical. Not totally real, but not really fake either. Like special forces or SAS dudes: not really Supermen, but definitely super men. That’s how Arabs see the Bedouins.

Iraqi guards. Or smugglers. Or maybe they were Persians. Who knows? They were said to be Iraqi guards, though. They offered cigarettes, and in return asked for things like radios and knives, or my camera.

“Death or Glory” is the motto of the Queen’s Royal Lancers. An adventurous soul could buy a camel from one of the Bedouins for two or three thousand dollars (that’s the going price, they say) and wander around deserts like Lawrence, maybe conquer and unite some querulous tribes, assemble thousands of camels and a thousand men with knives, take a harem, then attack the Persians. But the British soldiers apparently do not care to conquer the region, and most seem satisfied with confronting only those who shoot at them first.

I found the British rations were good, but truth be known, our guys do eat a little better. Some American soldiers actually tell me that the Brits get all the good “kit” (gear), which is interesting because the Brits say the Americans get all the good kit. The Brits also think we level a city block in Baghdad every time someone shoots a mortar at us, but that’s not true. Meanwhile, the Americans think the Brits aren’t doing any fighting in Basra, and that’s definitely not true.

Just ahead, Iran.

On the next and final dispatch, we meet up with a true Bedouin, and another man who tries to sell us a sheep.

{loadposition user8} 

Death or Glory Part II of IV:

Into the Desert With the Queen’s Royal Lancers

Sunrise.

The intended target in an ambush never knows when it’s over. Yesterday’s ambush, which killed two soldiers and wounded three others, is a case in point. Once the Brits had dealt with the immediate aftermath of the ambush—setting up security, calling in air support, tending to the wounded and getting EOD in to deal with the remaining dozens of bombs—our convoy still had its mission objective. So we put the disabled vehicles in tow and continued our journey deeper into the desert.

This location was ideal for an area ambush, in which the enemy predicts or tries to shape your movements after the first attack, so that you move into other attacks. If the enemy does a good job, your force should be increasingly damaged and disorganized with each new ambush. If they do a very good job, they might wipe you out completely leaving nothing but burning vehicles, dead bodies, and maybe some prisoners.

We were naturally canalized, and could be attacked repeatedly on the way out. Knowing that another attack could be imminent, those of us positioned in front as a small recon element in unarmored Land Rovers also knew we were the trip wire. We’d probably get whatever was coming first and that would be the end of it even though we’d driven through the first ambush without a scratch.

I wondered how the soldiers back in the convoy were doing. After an attack that killed two of their friends, they spent hours in the hot sun cleaning up the wreckage and then hauling it into the night. They had to be exhausted; since we hadn’t had time to stop for a meal, they must have been hungry to boot. Their spirits showed no sign of wavering. The worse it got, the better they got.

Ash had been standing at that machine gun in the back of the Land Rover since 8:30 the morning before, and except for normal nature breaks, he’d been nearly continuously manning that weapon as we drove in the sun on dusty, bumpy roads, or he was standing in the sun (and later under starlight) for what must have been 16 or 18 hours straight. I’d gone mostly numb on my seating parts, but at least once an hour, like clockwork, Ash would manage to check in on me.

“How ya doin’ Michael?” he’d say. “Need any wata?” (Ash didn’t use the letter “r” much.) “Drink lots of wata Michael. We got plenty o’ wata and ya bein’ a civvy an all, I gotta look afta ya.”

I wasn’t always sure if he was still joking, but I liked him better by the hour. Along the way, he asked about American soldiers, those in Baghdad in particular.

“How ya mates doin’ in Baghdad?” he asked. “Heard they gotta rough time in Baghdad.”

“Our guys are doing great,” I would say.

“Yeah, but lots ’o ca bombs and that, yeah? And what do they think about spendin’ 15 months in Iraq?” (British tours of duty are six months in duration.)
“They ain’t gonna be happy,” I said, “But they can handle it.” (Big words from a writer unless he can handle it too.)

It must have been around midnight when road suddenly gave way, trapping a vehicle. Apparently, severe water erosion caused micro-canyons that were simple for man or camel to traverse, but impassable for large convoys. Driving heavy vehicles in this treacherous terrain without lights was begging for disaster, and now the road collapse had effectively split the convoy. But fatigue was becoming by far our biggest threat. So the Battle Group Commander, LTC Richard Nixon-Eckersall made a wise call that we’d stop here and move out again before daybreak. Unit commanders put out security and set out to get their soldiers some rest in the form of a few hours of sleep.

There isn’t much room in a Land Rover for extra baggage, so my sleeping bag had been placed on another vehicle. No matter, I was going to just fall asleep on the ground like I normally do in such situations, but several British soldiers would have none of that. A medic named Kate, God bless her, went to find me a sleeping bag. Meanwhile, the officers and NCOs kept working, checking on their soldiers and gear. Several, including LTC Richard Nixon-Eckersall actually apologized to me for being ambushed the day before, and for things not going so well on my first mission with the Queen’s Royal Lancers.

After Kate found a spare one, I was ready to slip into both the sleeping bag and some deep sleep, when another soldier said something like, “What ya doin’ mate? Our guests don’t sleep on tha flooa.” The soldiers had cots and I was going to sleep on the ground and I was not in the least disturbed at the notion. I have no idea who the soldier was, but he walked down the line and found me a place to sleep in the back of one of the Land Rovers. After telling me not to wander off into the desert, he disappeared into the darkness.

I took only one boot off to dry my feet at a time, in case of attack. Just before I fell asleep, two guards came up in the darkness (again I have no idea who they were) to check. “You the American writa?” one of them asked, “Just checkin’ that you all okay. You good mate?” the other one asked. Again, “Yes, thanks.” I’m not sure which one asked if I “needed a wata?” but I barely lifted my head to answer: “I’m good bro, just need some shut-eye and I’m good for another hundred miles.” They both chuckled and disappeared as I nodded off.

Sleep came quickly. Morning came even more quickly.

“Les’ go, mate!” said one of the soldiers, “Up an’ at ’em!”

The convoy now was split because of the road cave-in, but the commander wanted to establish a proper base camp and security.

Suddenly—and it seemed to happen all at once—we must have gotten half a dozen vehicles stuck. And I mean they were properly stuck up to the axles.

It looked like we might be stuck for hours, but the soldiers knew this drill. Even the larger vehicles were extracted within minutes and we just kept rolling into the desert.

Despite the British press reports that make their own soldiers out to be cowering on bases in Basra, truck after truck of them here were in high spirits. News flash: Those reports are false. Derelict media coverage is another aspect of this war British and American soldiers share, and it rankles here in the southern part of Iraq as deeply as it does everywhere else. Practically no one writes about the Brits down here. Important pages in history remain unwritten, while policy decisions are based on the public perception that all is lost here. That this public perception is based on what I have called “The Green Gator Phenomenon” is an irony that is noted, but not appreciated.

When we rolled into a base camp, these soldiers didn’t need to be told what to do. First they dug holes in case we came under mortar or rocket attack, which can happen sometimes even out in the desert. The pit above would be used for the generator. Putting it in a hole not only protects the generator; it also muffles the sound.

Where are they going?

After security was set, soldiers were given a short break and called to a meeting, which I thought was for the normal dissemination of information. So I grabbed my camera and headed off with them.

But I was mistaken. The soldiers were filing into the sand dunes amphitheater, and since I was sitting there with the camera, I made this photo before realizing that LTC Richard Nixon-Eckersall and the priest had just begun a battlefield memorial for the two soldiers lost the day before. Suddenly, the camera weighed a hundred pounds and I saw that soldiers who had smiled at me before would glance at the camera and glance away, but it was far too late for me to leave or bury the camera in the sand. Although a few soldiers took note of it, nobody said a word. But no one had to; this was not my first memorial by far and it was like bringing a camera to someone’s funeral. I had been to many memorials and now mostly stopped taking photographs unless someone requested it, such as when CSM James Pippin and LTC Eric Welsh had requested it in Mosul earlier this year.

The Queen’s Royal Lancers is the third unit that I have embedded with to lose soldiers on my very first mission with them. The American 1-24 Infantry Regiment (“Deuce Four”) lost 3 on April 2005 to a suicide car-bomb in Mosul. One of the rescuers that day, Victor Quinonez, got shot in Baghdad about 10 days ago in May 2007.

[An aside: I just talked with “Q” on the phone last night and he is fine. He said Vice President Cheney had just stopped by to say hello and give him a Purple Heart, but what really made “Q” happiest was when his old commander, who also got shot three times in front me, heard that Q had been shot and called him up in the hospital, and then tried to recruit Q for Rangers!]

In that same city this past January, I embedded with the 2/7 CAV and on our first mission, they lost 5 to a massive IED. Both these experiences taught me that when a writer is new to a unit which suffers KIA the first day, some soldiers can have a tendency to turn against the writer. It is bad timing that can easily be amplified by bad manners, so I strive to be sensitive.

During one mission, when we hit an ambush, I was making video. Soldiers burned to death during that attack, and although I did not realize it at the time, their screams can be heard on the video. I never released the video, but still it left a hard impression on my own soul. The presence of the video camera understandably caused some soldiers to become very angry with me but the dispatch about the attack resolved most of that. Like a good soldier who doesn’t need to be told what to do, this writer knows when to turn off the recorders, internal and external, and when that turns out to be impossible, what to keep off the record, though I have little doubt that I will be shooting photos or videos again, and it could be as early as days from now, and soldiers will die. Or maybe I will die and my video will be running as I lay there burned or shot or missing my arms or legs, blinded and bleeding to death and saying things I don’t want the world to hear. And I hope that the soldiers or Marines who find my camera are as sensitive to my family as I am with theirs.

With the Queen’s Royal Lancers, although most noticed my faux pas, all continued to treat me very well and I was not made to feel unwelcome at the memorial. Every combat soldier has a bond with his fellow soldiers that is deep and abiding. Shakespeare first coined the phrase “band of brothers” to describe it. And that day, heads bowed in reverence, the soldiers seated in a canyon that seemed carved for such a solemn purpose, they remembered with honor the service and sacrifice of their fallen brothers. There were some tears for the lost men, and even more for the families now left behind.

During the ceremony, a Bedouin riding a camel popped up—just his head and the camel’s head—like dual periscopes from behind a sand dune. The Bedouin dropped back down like a submarine, disappearing into the desert sea.

The excellent American organization Soldiers’ Angels helps British and American soldiers. Those bags of mail “to any soldier” get posted around British Army walls same as they do on American walls. Soldiers tack up cards all over the place from kindergarten classes, and I love reading those things.

Kids ask funny questions. Sometimes I wonder how many get censored by teachers and never make the mailing. I’ve seen cards asking things like, “How many times have you been shot?” More often, there are questions like, “Do you get to eat sometimes? How do you go to the bathroom?” Not surprisingly, soldiers love those unfiltered cards. Usually, about the time I’m feeling down because soldiers just got killed or wounded or I’m at a hospital where they are being treating, I’ll see those cards up on a wall and start reading, my spirits lifting with each one, until it’s time to go.

Out here in the desert, there’s no place for cards on the tent walls, but they have Iridium satellite phones, and can send text emails, and messages from home are hugely welcomed by the troops.

Resupply.

That night’s resupply was a scheduled air drop. On uncommon occasions, a parachute might fail, sending a package that weighs a ton or more rocketing down to earth. But even if the parachutes all open, if one of those crates lands on someone, it’s goodbye. This stuff happens, especially in wars. People get crushed to death.

As the C-130 approached overhead in the darkness, I held a PVS-14 night-vision monocular (an expensive gadget bought by reader support) up to the video camera (also by readers), and watched as maybe 18 parachutes popped out. As the video captured the luminous green sky and the puffs of deploying white parachutes, the rumble of the blacked-out airplane blocked out the sounds of soldiers around me yelling, “Where’s- Michael-Where’s-Michael-Where’s-Michael-Where’s-Michael!”

One of the parachutes had not opened. Like normal—e.g. the times when I’ve gotten into firefights—somehow I managed to turn off the video camera! The initial jolt seems to make my thumb jump. So now this package is rumbling through the sky and part of it can now be heard loudly as it barrels toward us. Something was about to be crushed and I was in a Land Rover gun turret trying to video the stupid thing, but was startled by all frantic shouting: “Where’s-Michael-Where’s-Michael-Where’s-Michael!”

The soldiers were scrambling to save me, as if they were all going to get fired if I got crushed. In the confusion, I cracked my head on the Land Cruiser (that’s right . . . I had taken off my helmet to film the impending crash). And then— phuuuupp!!! The pallet splatted onto the earth hundreds of yards away and nobody got killed. The others floated down and landed safely. I thought it best not to gripe about the bump on my head. I told the soldiers I had not been afraid and they clearly knew I was lying.

The gas fires along the horizon were creating amazing light effects and while I should have helped the soldiers unload the pallets I started taking photos instead. Normally I would help, but there seemed limited time and the photos might be spectacular. Knowing the decision not to help was probably a bad one—a writer needs to show he is pulling his weight—the payoff was that readers would get the photos. Now it can be revealed that even the soldiers got some payoff, because when I lay down to get the best angle for a still picture, there I smelled . . . camels. Nasty, smelly creatures one and all. But off in the distance was the orange of Iran. Good grief.

The gas fire in Iran that looked like a giant candle. There was zero moonlight, yet the giant candle burning off the gas from the wells, apparently, glistened off the sand dunes. The soldiers quickly unloaded the food and water and packed it onto trucks.

British soldiers often make fun of each other’s accents, saying people from such-and-such area are inbred, or that others are wimps or dolts. These observations, offered as scientific fact, are then followed up with strings of jokes that leave everyone rolling. But the jokes are often just foreplay for the hardcore wrestling matches, which invariably end up with one guy taking on two or more and getting pummeled. And then, they brush each other off and go back to work as if nothing untoward happened.

Young American soldiers wrestle like this, too. But not nearly as often, and never with quite the same ferocity. American soldiers don’t usually beat each other as hard during the wrestling matches. The Brits actually punch each other in the body, while American soldiers sometimes choke each other into unconsciousness. It’s the young soldiers’ way of saying they love each other.

Later that morning, the explosives experts blew up the wrecked armored vehicle wherein the two soldiers had been lost.

I had been with the Queen’s Royal Lancers for about 36 hours. In a few hours, we would head out on a mission to the Iranian border, and barely miss running over a land mine. And that would be only the start of a long strange day, the subject of Death or Glory Part 3.

Read Death or Glory Part 1 now.

{loadposition user8}

Part I of IV

A Special Dispatch
for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II

The Queen’s Royal Lancers: at War

In Iraq, I was allowed to accompany a British Army unit called “The Queen’s Royal Lancers,” whose motto is “Death or Glory.” It seems appropriate to tribute this dispatch to Her Majesty. And so I will take special care in the writing, on the chance that Her Majesty might read about her soldiers at war, as viewed through the eyes of an American.

British soldiers truly are fighting in Iraq. On three consecutive missions with three different British units, their soldiers killed roughly 40 enemy in combat action that also saw two British soldiers killed in action, and three wounded. The enemy apparently is attempting to paint a perception that the long-planned draw down of British soldiers in southern Iraq is actually the result of a successful “rout,” and they are stepping up the tempo of attacks.

Out in the desert with the Queen’s Royal Lancers.

My days with the Queen’s Royal Lancers began on 18 April after a pass-and-review parade marking the handover of Maysan Province to Provincial Iraqi Control (PIC). Our enemies were about to make good on their promise to mark the occasion with some form of spectacular attack. Large Merlin helicopters and ground transport siphoned away the dozens of journalists who had come to cover the PIC ceremonies, although few major newspapers in the US or UK published anything about the handover.

After the PIC ceremonies, I waited on the landing zone at FOB Sparrowhawk with LTC Richard Nixon-Eckersall, the Battle Group Commander of the Queen’s Royal Lancers, who was returning to his soldiers living in the desert.

The Queen’s Royal Lancers have been living out in the desert for about six months, like nomads moving from place to place, sleeping under the stars, getting much of their resupply of food and water by nighttime parachute drop as they patrol the Iran/Iraq border. They were living out there, as some officers had told me, in true Lawrence of Arabia style, wearing shamals, sometimes taking camel rides when Bedouins would wonder through their camps with great herds of camels. Some soldiers would go for weeks without bathing, while others would wash-down with a bottle or two of water. Water is strictly rationed.

LTC Nixon-Eckersall would say that their job was to melt away into the desert, providing the eyes and ears that monitor the border. They’d apparently done their job well. I had been on many patrols with American forces along the Iranian border, but had no idea that Brits were out on desert safari. Although there had been some fighting, the Queen’s Royal Lancers had not lost a single soldier to combat during this tour.

I have learned to pay very close attention to the opinions of American battalion commanders. LTC Erik Kurilla’s battlefield instincts were so uncanny that they seemed bizarre; his own soldiers called it the “Deuce-Sixth-Sense.” Kurilla could practically smell a bullet from a hundred yards away before it was fired.

And this is why I pester battalion commanders with so many questions. Nobody seems to have a sense for the ground situation here like the good battalion commanders, and now here was British LTC Nixon-Eckersall, who after nearly half a year in Iraq had not lost a single soldier to combat, making plainly clear to me that his gut instinct was that something might happen very soon. He expected combat. In about 18 hours, the commander’s instincts would prove accurate.

We boarded a small Lynx helicopter and lifted away from FOB Sparrowhawk where the naked Danish soldier had nearly been kidnapped.

The British door-gunner seemed to wave at every farmer in Iraq—and we were flying low enough they could practically see the time on his watch. Flying low and fast while jinking around unpredictably is one of the best defenses against attack. A farmer literally could hit us with a rock if we flew right over top. The same sort of helicopter had been shot down in Basra with a surface-to-air missile, killing all five aboard.

Flying out into the desert.

There were fewer communities as we pushed deeper, but there was still habitation.

Further into the desert, fewer homes.

Spiderwebs are a serious danger when flying low, especially at night, and so each time pilots come to spiderwebs they climb sharply and then drop like a roller coaster.

Banking into base camp.

Home in the desert.

The Lynx dropped us off, and shortly after the Lynx dusted away, the desert quieted. Suddenly, a group of soldiers ran out and tackled another soldier, then tied him up on the ground. I asked what that was all about, and was told they were just [messing] with him. The soldiers untied their “mate” who brushed himself off and they walked off together, laughing, slapping backs, then disappeared under a camouflage net, still laughing.

Yes, I was back with real combat soldiers. One never knows what they will do next, and the British combat soldiers, in particular, play rough games. It’s amazing that just an hour before I was surrounded by dozens of journalists, but out here with combat soldiers is a world seldom documented.

The British call this a “desert rose.” It’s a urinal. For other business, there’s a shovel.

The kitchen.

During dinner the British soldiers said that they cherish the American MREs (Meals, Ready-to-Eat). Some even talked about how they got cases of MREs from American soldiers for Christmas! I told them that most American soldiers would never believe me if I told them British soldiers like MREs, because the Americans love to say they hate MREs.

The soldiers don’t stay in these desert camps long. They do get mortared and rocketed sometimes, but we didn’t get hit that night. We slept on cots under mosquito nets and I slept better that night than I had in months.

Next morning, the Brits woke up for tea and more army food, then headed off to what they call “Prayers.”

The subordinate commanders come for Prayers when important information gets disseminated, and where other officers share intelligence, weather reports, and any information that might affect battle readiness, and then the commander issues orders. In this case, the subordinate officers were squadron leaders (company commanders in American-speak), the Recce Troop commander and others.

LTC Richard Nixon-Eckersall described the plan to move about 40 miles to another base camp, farther out in the sand dunes, from which to patrol the Iranian border. The commander made clear that something had changed and he thought the likelihood of trouble was high.

That’s Major Edward Mack sitting with his back to the tires.

British combat forces work a lot like our own. An American infantry soldier would fit in well here. After getting adjusted to the accents and picking up a few new words, most would understand what is happening within the first day. I could understand nearly everyone, actually.

After Prayers, each subordinate commander goes back and disseminates the information for this mission. In this case, Major Edward Mack disseminated with fidelity what the battle group commander had just issued. Everyone took notes as Major Mack made it clear to expect combat, although there was consensus caution about one area in particular where the potential for ambush seemed higher.

The plan included using one reconnaissance element, traveling ahead of the main convoy in unarmored Land Rovers. Far behind the recon element—miles behind—would be the convoy of about 30 vehicles.

There were Nepali Gurkas among the soldiers, and they wanted to buy a sheep from a Bedouin. The Gurkas wanted to take the sheep out deeper into the desert for a feast, but one of the commanders nixed the proposal.

And so the information from Prayers goes down the chain of command. . . .

Until all the soldiers know exactly what we are doing, and what’s expected of them. The Iraqi interpreter on the right said he likes to drink whiskey every chance he gets. The desert might be dry, but Iraqis are not.

Instructions had been disseminated and digested, and everyone had been told to be extra cautious today. And that’s when Major Edward Mack asked me if I wanted to go with the recon element, the guys who’d be going first in the unarmored Land Rovers.

“Sure,” I answered. But what else was I supposed to say? I knew that Moqtada al Sadr, the crazy man, had been calling for violence, and M-JAM (militant JAM) had promised a spectacular attack. I knew the Iranians had exported their EFP technology to insurgents. They would certainly qualify as part of a spectacular attack, given that EFP bombs are devastatingly powerful, punching through one side of a tank and still blasting out the other side after ripping through the crew. I knew what all this meant, but being the only American there, I couldn’t exactly chicken out, could I? And so, I crawled into the back of the Land Rover and sat next to the tailgate.

There is furious debate about armored vehicles in Iraq. There was a time when our own forces were needlessly exposed and being killed by even small attacks. And so we armored up like turtles which greatly helped. But at a cost. Our vehicles break down more, and our humvees have gone from being super-agile to tortoise-like contraptions that get stuck every chance. In this environment, truly out in the boonies, agility, firepower and other qualities often far outweigh the heavy metal. Fact is, there is still a place for unarmored agility.

Drink lots of water.

I had been with the Queen’s Royal Lancers for only about 15 hours, but could already sense that this was an excellent unit. As with the 2 Rifles and the Duke of Lancaster regiment, one of the giveaways was that the leaders didn’t have to tell people what to do; the soldiers were already doing it. With good soldiers, the trick is to get them to the right place at the right time with the right resources, and some general guidance about the desired outcome, and then get out of their way.

One armored vehicle was going with us. Although the armor on a Scimitar will stop bullets, its armor will not stop an EFP any more than a turtle shell will stop a cannonball. There is no armor in the American or British military that can stop an EFP. The armor can actually worsen the EFP strike because the armor will fragment and slice flesh.

The first part of the journey was through sparsely inhabited desert, making the start relatively very safe.

But the moment our tires touched road, the danger increased enormously.

Large trucks were in the convoy, and there were forbidding water crossings and rough terrain. There was no way to cross the desert straight to our objective; part of the trip had to be by road. In the event of a serious attack, the recon element probably would get it, because (presumably) the enemy would not know it was just a recon element. The possibility of catastrophic attack or capture were real. Some people say they would never be captured alive here, but this fanciful idea factors out the reality that combat leaves many people unconscious from things like concussions and blood loss. Ambushes are dramatic surprises by design.

As we passed through small farming communities, most Iraqi people waved and the British soldiers waved back.

EFPs are often hard to spot. They are small—would easily fit in a backpack—and the enemy often sprays them with foam to look like rocks.

When the enemy detonates IEDs, there are often more IEDs waiting for rescuers, and often sharp firefights ensue.

Just some days ago (I was in Baghdad and Anbar while writing this dispatch), while visiting a hospital with CSM Jeff Mellinger, I met a wounded American soldier who told us how he tried to pull his buddy from a burning Bradley after it had been hit by a car bomb. While trying to rescue his buddy, they came under heavy direct attack. The young soldier thought the enemy had used chlorine in the bomb. He was still not able breathe well, but he kept telling CSM Mellinger that they used all the fire extinguishers trying to put their buddy out, but he was caught in the wreckage and they couldn’t pull him out fast enough. [This is something I have personally witnessed: all the fire extinguishers are used up, but someone is still trapped.] The soldier asked several times what happened to his buddy—who burned to death—and then he kept saying to CSM Mellinger that “They didn’t win nothin’. They didn’t win nothin’.” His breathing was labored, “We got fire superiority on ’em. We got fire superiority on ’em.”

We stopped at an intersection so the soldiers could dismount from their vehicles to check for bombs or other signs of an ambush. This way, even if the bombs explode or some other type of ambush is initiated, only one or two soldiers might get killed immediately, and the other soldiers still have the vehicles and larger weapons.

We loaded up and continued on the recon, and were making a “U” back toward the ambush site but we were actually on a different road. The convoy behind us was heading straight toward the 46 EFPs and two “ball-bearing bombs.”

We had taken off nearly three hours earlier at 0830. At about 1120, the convoy entered the ambush. Eight of the 46 bombs detonated. EFPs tore through metal, ball bearings puncturing the vehicles, peppering them with holes. Major Edward Mack, who was at least six vehicles behind detonation in the convoy, heard two distinct explosions. He was approximately 40 meters from the nearest blast, and he reckons there was about 8 to 10 meters between the two.

WO2 (SSM) Steve McMenamy was about seventh vehicle back, 50 meters or so from the initial explosion. He felt the detonations and saw a massive black cloud. McMenamy cocked his weapon, jumped off the vehicle and took a knee, trying to assess what was happening. As the dust cloud cleared, McMenamy saw an injured soldier sitting down, shuffling himself away from the vehicle. McMenamy ran forward to check for casualties, but realized he was also running into contact, so he veered to the right and ran into culvert. He found Sergeant Jenkin kneeling and still alive.

“Are you all right?” asked McMenamy.
Jenkin grinned and answered, “No.”
McMenamy said, “Jimmy, look at me: I need to know if you are all right because I need to move forward.”
“I’m okay,” Jenkins said.

Trooper Callum McDonald helped Trooper Thompson into a drainage ditch where he was laying and moaning. Other soldiers rushed to help the wounded or to set up security. McMenamy moved forward to the stricken Scimitar, shouting to the crew, asking if anyone could hear him. He climbed onto the vehicle and saw that Turton, the driver, was dead. Climbing onto the turret, he searched for Corporal Leaning, the commander. As McMenamy crossed into the top of turret and looked into gunner’s side, he saw that Corporal Leaning was also dead.

Meanwhile, the doctor, Major Taylor, assessed that Thompson’s injuries were T1 [needed immediate evacuation]. He radioed a sitrep back to the commander and American medevac crews were alerted in Al Kut and were quickly on their way.

A British soldier named Ash had been watching out for me, but now was intently pulling security. When he first saw the helicopters, he couldn’t believe how fast they got there.

“What kind of helicopters are those?” asked Ash.
“Brother, those are American Blackhawk helicopters with the best medical crews on the planet. Your buddies will have the best medical care in the world in less than a half-hour.” My humbleness on seeing the American medevacs must have been apparent.

I had seen those medevac crews working so many times, and I’d been to the combat support hospitals often enough to know that if the wounded British soldiers had any chance to survive, their best hope was in those hands. Those crews would risk getting shot down to get the wounded men out.

Follow-on attack could be imminent. Often the enemy will have these ambush zones pre-registered for mortar and rocket attacks. A car bomb might be on the way. Maybe two. Maybe three.

Major Taylor, the British doctor, later asked if I could find that aircrew so he could personally thank them. I contacted CSM Jeffrey Mellinger (whose own crew had just been hit by another IED) and he found them. Our medevac crews never seem to get proper credit for the risks they take—they’ll land in downtown anywhere to get our guys. The crews included Captain Richard Rogers, from C-company 1-111th Air Ambulance (from Florida and Arkansas), who piloted the first Blackhawk. His crew that day were PC CW3 Derek Horton, PI CPT Richard H. Rogers, CE SPC Cory Hornaday, MO SPC John Evans, MO SPC Jose Cruz. Crew members for the second Blackhawk included PC CW3 David Specht, CW3 David B. Russell, CE SPC Shawn Padgett, and MO John Fulbright.

Some American jets showed up, or at least that’s what someone told me. I could hear them. After some time, a British fighter jet roared down at what must have been 100 feet traveling what must have been about 400MPH. He roared over and popped some flares to let the enemy know we had a big brother on station. We truly were out in the boonies, and our forces can get outnumbered, so it’s good to know that means British and American pilots up there.

There were only two routes out. We were surrounded by drainage culverts and water ditches. We were canalized, but the soldiers kept changing their positions to make things harder for anyone who might be closing. They kept this vigilance up as hours passed by. Sitting out in the desert sun. Luckily the day was not hot. Ash started checking out his machine gun and then sent me to fetch more lubricant

No mortars or rockets came in, and no small-arms or “sniper” fire came in, but they were ready.

As the hours passed, hunger and thirst crept in and we ate all the garbage we’d bought from that little store. Ash gave me a candy bar from the British rations, then said, “Wait, stop. You can’t eat that. Read the package and give it back to me.” The red circle with the slash had a woman holding a purse, and the package said, “IT’S NOT FOR CIVVIES!”

“It’s not for Civvies,” said Ash, “You’ll have to give it back.” Then he laughed and said, “I’m just jokin’.” He was jokin’ all the time, keeping the mood up. But he also paid close attention to that machine gun.

The soldiers had lost two friends and others were wounded, but they continued to treat the local Iraqis with respect. I have seen Americans do the same thing, and every time I do it amazes me.

The wounded went out on the American helicopters, and the bodies of the fallen were later removed and British helicopters took them away. Two damaged vehicles were put in tow. But by then, the sun had set and darkness had fallen. We were still on point and I was expecting massive attack.

One of the British helicopters had brought in bomb experts, who suddenly found themselves on a mission they had not anticipated. That happened to several people who were needed for one reason or another, and got deposited with the Queen’s Royal Lancers, only to find themselves suddenly on a magic carpet ride, about to go camping in the desert.

We finally made it over the bridge, and now were on a four-lane highway, driving through miles and miles of darkness in those unarmored Land Rovers. We took a detour, passing by a semi that was ablaze, I held my breath as we drove through the hot smoke.

Finally, after some far distance, we departed the highway and headed out into the desert. It must have been around midnight when a desert road collapsed under the weight of one of the larger vehicles. Our convoy was cut in two. We pushed on a little farther, but soon found the route impassable.

And so we slept for a few hours.

[Part II of IV coming soon.]