Iraqi forces and American forces operate along cultural lines. The Americans value precision, safety, speed, surprise and information disseminated to all levels. The Iraqis value secrecy at the highest levels, their own Soldiers and Policemen may very well be in Al Qaeda or Jaysh Al Mahdi, so they keep things quiet. They value the power or “Wasta” that comes from being the only one who can supply a unit, or know a secret, or change a schedule, or develop a plan. Americans on the other hand value the fact that no one should be irreplaceable.

All of this was further highlighted by a clearing mission in a treacherous area near the Iranian border where Al Qaeda has taken shelter with a tribe called OPSEC. The area is called OPSEC and all other Iraqis call them thieves, terrorists, and smugglers. They specialize in that last occupation. In fact, we even have caught OPSEC members harvesting land mines and selling them to Al Qaeda for use as bombs making materials.

On a given Day an Iraqi Brigade decides, usually because their source network hears rumors and the Americans usually have information gleaned from a technological source that corroborates these rumors, to go into an area and force contact or clear it completely. The BDE CDR tells his Battalion Commanders to have so many men at a certain time and place ready, to tell no one, and to bring radios. We have devoted a great deal of effort to teach their Battalion staffs how to plan, integrate intelligence into operations, and craft their logistical needs according to those plans. An order like this takes the initiative right out of the Iraqi officer corps. When this order was given the other day our Iraqi Battalion Commander didn’t even know the plan one hour before execution. I thought this was a surreal nightmare. One of my NCOs, a former Drill Sergeant, threw his helmet in frustration. We arrived at the designated rendezvous point where hundreds of Iraqis were gathered in large groups, perfect targets for rockets, mortars, or snipers. No one knew what was going on. The general pulled his Battalion Commanders in and gave them the plan. Pretty simple really! Walk that way down the canyon, look for bad guys or weapons caches, you guys take the left, you guys the right, you guys down the middle in the river bed. Of course my Battalion gets the low lying and dangerous river bottom. They have no say in the plan, no access to intelligence, and no real coordinations are made with other units.

My counterparts are happy to see me. We shake hands and man kiss. They know that my specialty is Artillery and Air Strikes. The Shurti, (policemen) act like teenage boys before a football game and slap each other on the rears and make fun of one another. It’s hard to get control of that. I begin asking the officers and the Sergeant Major if all the Shurtis have been prepared. “We don’t know where we are going yet,” they said. “No,” I said, “but you can check everyone’s gear …does everyone have water, ammunition, first aid pouches etc.?” Our guys snap into immediately, which even though they had to be prompted, they knew how to do it, and because of us they started doing pre-combat checks while the other battalions just stood around. They have not rehearsed battle drills or a CASEVAC Plan but they did bring an ambulance that would drive forward if someone was hurt. OK better than nothing, the ambulance also doubles as a mobile kitchen and is filled with food. I would walk with the Battalion Quick Reaction Force, a group of Shurtis that had been trained by my team. We would be leading the way on the southside of the valley floor. Immediately I told the platoon leader, Lt. Nouri, we have to establish sectors of fire so that we don’t fire on our own troops on the canyon wall. Nouri didn’t emplace this on his own account but immediately understood the necessity. The tension rises as the Shurtis realize that they are leading the way. Nouri tells me that it was in this river valley that their previous Battalion Commander had been killed by a roadside bomb. Everyone’s nervousness is palatable. The Iraqis brought no maps, after all they didn’t know where they were going. My boss stays with the Battalion Commander who also doesn’t have a map so my boss provides one. My Shurtis are armed with Ak-47s, 120 rounds each. Every US Soldier carries a minimum of 210 rounds. Some of them have RPG-7s, a scary but very ineffective weapon. They have light weight body armor, the kind that local cops use in the US weighing 15 pounds or so. My body armor is fully 40 pounds and I have grenades, extra ammunition, signaling devices, a radio, a GPS, a camel back with 3 liters of water, a helmet, a pistol with ammo, and my M4/M203 grenade launcher. Add in 116 degree heat by 11:00 and it was a recipe for heat stroke. It was a matter of personal pride that I keep up with the lighter Iraqis who started off at a really quick pace. My guys looked good. With a little prodding they all kept their weapons at the ready, scanned their sectors for contact, and kept good intervals to prevent multiple casualties in case of ambush. As I looked at the other forces moving in the valley like a giant swarm I felt a little pride in what we had done with our training. Our QRF was more disciplined than the other Iraqis. As I walked I kept my eye on the other advisor with me, a US Border Patrol Agent named OPSEC, who stayed about 50 meters away. In between us was our trusty interpreter/side kick codenamed OPSEC. I advised Nouri along the way. After twenty minutes the discipline of the QRF degenerates. Some of their weapons are on their shoulders or are held with one hand pointed at the ground as they walk. After 40 minutes, I really didn’t care about that anymore. We pressed on. With danger areas like river crossings or hills the Iraqis lost their tactical proficiency and gaggled into little groups and crossed together. This is dangerous, a perfect opportunity to take out numbers of troops at one time. I keep them going but they are getting more and more tired as the distance and time wear on. As I come to an open area I see the outline of a mortar round. I halt the whole platoon and make the Shurits get back. I look at the mortar round for a minute. There are no wires, the contact fuse is not on it, and it has decades of rust. I conclude it is unexploded ordinance left over from the Iran-Iraq war. Before I finish the thought an Iraqi Lieutenant, Sherkoo, picks it up, slaps it against his helmet and says “Makoo Shee” ‘nothing happened’. “You Idiot” I said. Within a second he came to me and put it beside my head then the Battalion intelligence officer snaps a quick picture of us with his cell phone. I continue my tirade, then OPSEC gets his picture with certain death avoided. Then the Iraqi intel guy gets a call on his cell phone and answers it. In Kurdish he says “Wow, I get service way out here.” By the way, that picture is my profile picture. Sherkoo grinning ear to ear and me in the middle of talking with an oblong brown mortar round about an inch from our faces almost like it’s a stuffed animal or something.

After seven miles the Battalion decides it will mount in its trucks, go to the OPSEC villages, and return to the start point. Iraqi vehicles are big NO-NOs for US forces. I remember at the OPSEC Academy they told us that if we rode in Iraqi vehicles and something happened the survivors would go to jail. Our several hundred Iraqis mounted up. There we were 4 US Soldiers and two terps about to be left behind in the OPSEC, the rest of our team was at the start point because our huge MRAPs would sink on the canyon floor and could not traverse the canyon walls on the flanks. In the interests of not getting our heads cut off, not offending our Iraqi counterparts, and not having to suffer the 7 miles back in 120 degree heat through the OPSEC we got onto those trucks with only a quick glance at each other, almost as if to say IT WAS A STUPID RULE ANYWAY. Another day on the Frontier I suppose.