Chapter Two: DRV Initial Entry (Sept-Oct 2006)
Just a start...
Halloween 2006. The rumors started to spread like wildfire amoungst the local Iraqi populace. We were demons; we were ghosts. We were everywhere. My paratroopers were omnipotent and omnipresent. My boys were immortal. Even the darkest Al-Qaeda martyr thought twice before facing us. The plan worked better than I ever dreamed.
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Barney led point. Working our way through the worn, ancient farmer's trails, our five-man team navigated through the grape vineyards and palm groves traversing back and forth through the maze towards our observation point. The full-moon waned a terminal glow as it entered into final descent preparing to give way to a new morning's light. After sixty days of gathering intel, night after night of sneaking in and out of these farmlands, patiently watching to develop the situation, recording every enemy action, playing football on a rugby pitch, we were all dressed up in full kit for this trick-or-treat adventure waiting to give the enemy an American surprise. It was time to take charge.
The last team tapped out on us in frustration, overwhelmed with their additional responsibilities of controlling the suburbs of Baqubah. At the time, we were all overwhelmed. Higher command sent nine battalions to tame Anbar Province, and we were stuck trying to manage Diyala Plus with a brigade of three battalions. As a supporting effort to a supporting effort, our operations were deemed expendable. I sought this losing venture as an opportunity to come from behind. We were far removed from LTC Poppas and the rest of the squadron. We would not fail our mission.
I was tired of losing. Ever since we assumed control of the Abarra Nahiya, eventually dubbed the Diyala River Valley (DRV), we were losing the battle. The loss was a slow fade that began a few months after LT Nate Ficks's Recon platoon and the Marines assumed control of the Diyala Province following the Thunder Runs that toppled Baghdad back in 2003. American units cycled in and out, and we refused to occupy in the hopes of giving way to a utopian transformation of democracy, something so far outside the bounds of what the people were prepared to receive. As we neglected to occupy, sectarian, tribal, and religious divides exploded towards a full-blown civil war of competing interests struggling for absolute power.
Chaos consumed the area. The Shia factions, ranging from the neighborhood policemen of JAM to the Iranian-backed BADR movement, consolidated efforts and gained control assuming the the government after a no-fault election, and they absorbed the reconstruction money pouring in from the Americans. The Sunnis, ranging from the Ba'athist to Al-Qaeda, armed from the past regime, merged to defend themselves from the coalition. Everything was a mess.
We were losing fast. I needed a game changer. Zaganiyah was the final stronghold in my small part of the bigger fight. It was time to go to work. The only advantage that I had was that both sides were conditioned to American units conducting daily drive-by meaningless patrols on the main roads. They had no idea that the Airborne Recon had arrived. They had no idea who we were. I knew my boys were stronger than this problem. I just had to determine how to effectively deploy them.
Most certainly, this fight was not a game, or maybe, it was the most important of games. In the most simplest terms, my boys just needed to take a walk around and see what's going on. We acted as cops trying to resolve a domestic dispute- the husband holding a gun, the wife a rambling, the children in shock, and all the crazy sisters rambling about who's right and wrong. We sought to regain the peace.
I exploited my enemy's weakness. After I accepted this reality, I was quick to understand that we were headed into the fourth quarter facing a huge deficit. It was time to shake it up a bit in order to change the game towards our favor. We would start by regaining control of the night using our core competencies of recon- walking through the woods not driving to watch our prey when they weren't expecting. It was time to put some points on the board and level the playing field. I was tired of allowing the enemy to control the game through sporadic IED attacks and ambushes. Our reconnaisance efforts would pay off; it was time to attack the enemy and regain control of our own destiny. Simply put, it was time to kill. Operation Shaku-Maku (arabaic for "what's up" was in full effect).
In the past two weeks, shots rang out, thirteen insurgents were killed, and four of my boys were wounded prior to this effort. We entered determined to settle this conflict through force assuming the role of the arbitrator and negotiator between the factions. As the government evaporated, we aimed to assume and administer some calm to the chaos.
As we continued to march to our objective, branches scraped across my arms as we moved quickly and stealthily through the night. The moon's remaining glimmer sparkled enough reflected light from the sun, and my night vision goggles to project a clear picture; however, as we walked, my Revision ballistic googles, the protective eyewear designed to shelter my eyes from any attack, began to fog consumed by the reaction of my body heat to the ambient temperature. Despite all the protection, I could not see so I removed my glasses. The command sergeant major would be appaled in my lack of discipline, but I determined the need to see far outweighed any obligation for uniform standard.
We continued our maneuver working along the Diyala River. Finally, Bernie stopped the column.
"Sir, we're here. Take a look. Where do you want us?"
It was my time to take charge. I selected this Omega team from the best of my company. Barney, SGT Barnes, was a ranger school graduate. Paddy, SGT. Justin Patterson, was my school trained sniper. Bernie, SGT Joshua Bernthall, was a shining junior leader with excellent marksmenship skills. Timmy, SGT Timothy Tolliver, was my head medic. He followed me everywhere. Timmy considered his primary job to care for the commander
(your's truly). On any patrol, we often competed with carrying the most loads as he would hump an emergency room on his back while I attempted to step with every radio known to man for communications.
I took a peek, and I emplaced my sniper team. Typically, this role would be served by one of my lead scouts. One of the hardest decisions a commander must face in combat is to determine where to be. In this case, my lead scouts felt that I did not trust them because I took their position. In actuality, it was exactly where I needed to best see the fight and control my indirect fires, rotary wing aviation, predator UAV's, and my ground troops.
MTF
Mike
Patrol Base Otis- my first
Patrol Base OTIS
Sometimes I just take a look around...When you are all alone, that's just sometimes what you have to fight. Sometimes, one maybe, two years spent alone....I'm stuck inside my mind....Don't tell me who to love; Don't tell me who to hate.
She wishes it was different. She prays to God almost everynight....My prayers fall on deaf ears.
I'll go in this way and find my own way out. The way we used to play...
I was a warrior stepping down the last steps from the TF 1-68 AR TOC with the inherent confidence of any airborne recon commander Everything my troop touched was golden. When this mechanized unit needed to capture a VBIED maker defended deep within the confindes of the Diyala River Valley (DRV), my troop bypassed the main roads and conducted river crossings using indigenous boats for infiltration. When Al Qaeda hid amoungst the palm groves, my boys regained the night flushing out any sense of safety to the enemy. When they zigged, we zagged testing different to tactics to find an advantage to breakthrough the perceived mess. We wanted to win. We were everywhere all at once.
We changed the civil-war game; we refused to drive down the road waiting to get attacked by the enemy. Our recon and maneuver forced the enemy to play the game by our rules. We were Shadow Troop, and everyone in the DRV knew the game had changed. We were that good. Simply put, we were the answer to any question. I trained my boys well. I was proud.
Finishing up the evening briefs and final checks with LTC Fischer briefing him on my plan to establish our first patrol base, I stepped into the warm autumn Iraq night. No moonlight shined as I worked my way towards the truck. SGT Santapaulo (Paulo) and SGT Britton waited paitently for my return. I worked my way through the dusty night thinking about the first patrol base. Tonight, my 1SGT and a platoon held the ground; Tomorrow, I would occupy hoping that our presence would simmer the internal dispute between the Sunnis and Shias of Abu Sayda and Mukisa. There was always hope in tomorrow.
My stomach rumbled. I skipped dinner in anticipation of my final breakfast the following morning. I was going to devour the italian omelet, hashbrowns, and biscuit and gravy. One final meal before I left FOB Warhorse to establish my patrol base in the demilitarized zone between Al Qaeda and JAM, the civil war brewing under the current of the accepted reality. I wasn't planning on returning for a month.
"Boys, I'm back." I summoned to awaken them from a soldier's nap as I opened the door. Eminem echoed from the speakers of my truck. They sprung to life ready to execute.
"What's the situation with 1SGT at Abu Sayda?" I asked as they tried to act awake.
"Sir, we haven't heard from them," Paulo answered sheepishly.
"What the ####? Britton, get me back to the command post." I muttered as I worked my way into the HMMWV.
It was eight o'clock, twenty hundred hours in our world. The sun had long past, and we worked our way back through the intricate maze of housing units to the Shadow Command Post (CP). I stormed out of the truck bursting through my front door pausing only to drop my body armor and weapon. I demanded that the sergeant of the guard (SOG) to answer,
"What's the status of Patrol Base Otis?"
"Sir, we lost comms (communications) with them an hour ago.," he answered sheepishly.
"What the ####?" I threw my helmet against the wall as I rushed to my comms set.
"Patrol Base Otis, this is Shadow Six, over."
No response.
"Patrol Base Otis, this is Shadow Six, over."
No response. In my anger, I slammed my handmike down on the table breaking it.
"Get them on the ####ing net." I screamed walking to scan the map.
My instructions were simple. Occupy the house for one night. One simple night. The next morning, I would arrive with a platoon, a headquarters section, and engineers to fortify. I just needed my 1SGT to hold one night. Before they left, I briefed them on the dangers as they left for one of the worst places in Iraq- Al Qaeda training camps to the south and JAM/BADR strongholds to the north.
One ####ing night. That's all I asked. The worse possibiliities crossed my mind.
As I stared at the map, the SOG scrambled in between attempting to call the patrol base and explain to me the situation.
"Sir, the last I heard from them was 1800 hours (6pm). They called to confirm that they had occupied the house." he pleaded.
In the backgrounded, he continued to call,
"Patrol Base Otis, this is Shadow TOC, over."
No response. I began to pray asking the Lord to forgive all my sins and keep my boys safe. I assumed the worst. For three hours, we, attempted to establish communications. No dice. I accepted that the patrol base was overrun.
At 2300 hours (11 pm), I made my decision.
"Move Red Platoon to REDCON One. We're headed to Patrol Base Otis."
Thirty minutes later, the boys assembled, and we embarked on the hour and half drive north pleading every five minutes for someone to answer the radio.
We worked our way along the highway, maneuvered through the quiet of the the city of Abu Sayda finally venturing towards our house.
I looked down at my watch. It was 0100 (1 am). I had not slept in two days stuck in planning for this occupation. The night was smelt like the unusual calm that usually follows any attack. I called Mike Anderson.
"Red One, this is Shadow Six. Clear the compound. I'll follow behind."
Mike dismounted five men and breached the front gate expecting the worst.
Clearing the compound, we found twenty men asleep with one shocked private manning a radio on the wrong frequency.
Everyone was okay.
I told Mike to take his men back to the trucks.
I walked into the room where my 1SGT, platoon leader, and platoon sergeant slept soundly.
I fired off a round into the ceiling and kicked my 1SGT in the ribs to awaken them.
For only the second time in my command, I yelled as the startled out of their sleep. For thirty minutes, I spoke my mind. After I was certain that they were alert and awake, I walked back into my truck. Tonight was a false call for the dangers to come.
"Red One, this is Shadow Six. Take us home."
Tonight we messed up bad. Thankfully, the enemy didn't realize that we slipped. There was always tomorrow. Tomorrow morning, Red platoon and I would assume Patrol Base Otis.
Just another day in a long tour.