Green light, go....
“Green light, Go”
January 2006. The brisk southeastern wind zipped into the unpressured cabin of the C-130 as the Air Force Loadmaster turned control over to the Jumpmaster, “Army- your door.” Through the eerie green candescent light, I watched First Sergeant (1Sgt) Royce Manis begin the intricate task of inspecting the door for any imperfections or obstacles that could impede the jumpers exit. During his twenty years in the elite Army Ranger Regiment, Royce perfected this task through endless repetition, and his body swept the door gracefully in calm, fluid precision as delicate and accurate as the San Francisco symphony conducting Beethoven’s Fifth. Later, in my darkest hour, Royce would assist me in fighting through Dante’s seventh level of hell with the quiet professionalism that embodies the best mantra of the non-commissioned officer corps.
Next, Royce thrust his upper body into the night to inspect the outside of the aircraft ensuring that nothing protruded to obstruct our descent. Satisfied that the right door was kosher, he pulled himself back into the bird, spun 180 degrees clockwise, extended a thumbs up, and waited for Sergeant First Class (SFC) John Coomer to finish checking the left door. John is another mild mannered quiet professional: a father, brother, husband, and leader. John is a guy you want to follow in any situation. His calm demeanor would later prevail in the worst of circumstances. Ten seconds later, Coomer and Manis gave a silent nod, turned towards the jumpers, extending their arms parallel with index and middle fingers pointing forward, arched an imaginary ‘M’, and sounded off in unison, “Stand-by.” With all inspections complete, the Air Force pilots navigated towards the drop zone (DZ) slowing to 130 knots preparing to unload 64 paratroopers into the darkness of this calm North Carolina night.
As the plane approached the DZ, 1Sgt Andrew Coy walked towards me. For this JFEX (Joint Forcible Entry exercise), Andy served as a safety. He would not jump. Working in conjunction with the Air Force loadmaster, his tasks were to inspect the safety of the aircraft prior to take-off, accept all static lines as jumpers exit the door, and retrieve the discarded static lines and parachute straps back into the aircraft. Then, he returned with the crew to the corresponding airfield. It is an important job, but outside of about three minutes of high adventure, it is rather boring and mundane.
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Andy was one of the few multiple tour Iraq and Afghanistan veterans in my new unit. He and I quickly hit things off when I transferred to Fort Bragg in June 2006. We transcended past the “Old” 1990’s Army of parades, inspections, cutting grass that didn’t grow, and superficial training exercises against a Russian Army dismantled sixteen years prior. We focused on real combat learned through years of blunt trauma, burning bodies, and costly mistakes. We did not have any answers, but we clearly understood that business as usual was not working.
Andy would say, “Sir, if it looks like ####, smells like ####, and taste like ####, then it is probably ####.”
I preferred to take a more tempered approach. I chose the word absurd to describe the current predicament. 2005 was a horrible year in Iraq, and 2006 was not looking brighter. Three weeks after this jump, the mosque in Samarra would explode igniting a full-out civil war. In 2005, during my previous Iraq tour, I served a brief stint on the Multi National Corps- Iraq (MNC-I) staff. Fortunately, my boss selected me to moonlight as a liaison officer for CJSOTF-AP (Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force- Arabian Peninsula), the resident Special Forces command in Iraq, so I was not required to spend too much time in Saddam’s Al-Fawah palace, more commonly known as the puzzle palace.
I learned a great deal during that tour. Special Forces command took me in as family, and I learned the science of guerilla warfare. They allowed me to work in their J2 (Intelligence) and J3 (Operations) sections. At night, I poured through volumes of doctrine on why men rebel against the government, how to organize resistance organizations, clandestine activity, deception operations, and other devious means of conducting small wars. In effect, I attended a mini-graduate course in counter-insurgency.
Previously, my study of warfare consisted of the Army’s Armor Captain Career Course instructions on determining the most effective means to defeat the Russians in the Fulda Gap. When I probed my instructors on Iraq and Afghanistan, I was told that I must not get too focused on fighting the past wars. That was 2004. Considering we were still engaged in both wars, I could not relate.
Simultaneously, I got to pull back the curtain and observe the high command. I observed the senior level discussions of the Coalition’s perspective on the state of Iraq. I was allowed to sit in on the big meetings with generals and politicians as long as I kept my opinions to myself. God, that was nerve-racking. Most of the time, I feel that I have something relevant to add to almost any conversation! How could they ask such sacrifices from me? I never understood why the generals were not interested in my enlightened opinions. I persevered through. At least I did not have to make them coffee and iron their uniforms.
Semantics aside, I walked away feeling confused and unnerved. The generals were good, decent, and respectful men. They were not the raging, war-mongering lunatics depicted in many anti-war films. I often wondered what burdens they must carry at night. I wondered how they slept with the weight of the world on their shoulders. They wanted to do the right thing and win, but winning was ambivalent in the current state. In another form of irony, as a young captain, I pitied the generals much as I grieve for you today. I wanted to scream that the emperor had no clothes on. He was fooled by his mindless court jesters. Why could they not see????
The briefings in the puzzle palace required a woeful disregard for the truth as it pertained to the average Iraqi. Beautiful, masterful PowerPoint slides displayed measures of progress that could outshine an Enron annual report- measure of effectiveness ranging from the number of joint Iraqi-American patrols, traffic control points, raids, and numbers of enlistments obscured reality. Ignorant propaganda slogans proclaiming, “As they stand up, we will stand down,” “We’ll fight them here so we don’t have to fight them in the US,” and “You’re with us or against us” clouded judgment. Too black and white in a world of gray. One plus one equals three. If it is written, then it must be truth.
Contrastingly, Abu Massad Al-Zarqawi implemented the beginnings of his dream of an Islamic caliphate in Iraq. The self-proclaimed QJBR, al Qaeda of the Two Rivers, recruited Sunni resistance groups resisting the occupation. Zarqawi intended to fight a holy war against the West; the Sunnis simply wanted to regain their perceived birthright- control of Iraq. The two meshed in a fragile marriage of convenience.
Simultaneously, Muqtada al Sadr recruited his Mahdi Army (MA). They infiltrated the Iraqi Security Forces and Police. Special Police Units under the control of the Ministry of Interior began a “cleansing” of former Baath officials. The Shia wanted retribution and validation for years of suffering under Saddam.
We did not see. We had no excuse not to see. Temporary treaties between enemies are as old as Cain and Able- quid pro quo of balanced opposition. We were still waiting for our victory parade in Bagdad and flowers in the streets.
Prior to the invasion, British historian Toby Dodge argued that Iraq had been on the verge of a civil war ever since its independence from British rule following World War One. Benevolent dictator control squashed opposition and kept internal feuding minimized for ninety years. GEN Colin Powell’s Pottery Barn remark did not quite fit. We did not break Iraq; we simply open up the box. Following this line of thought, Saddam was not the problem or solution in Iraq; he was a symptom. By mid 2005, the bonfire of ethno-sectarian, religious, and tribal strife was stacked and well soaked in gasoline. All that remained was the spark. All we could see was the imaginary clothing of fictional notions of success.
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Andy continued to walk towards me in the bird. This was my first mission as a company commander. Conversely, this jump was his last as a first sergeant. Before he walked away, he wanted to impart one last piece of wisdom to his young friend.
“Mike, this is your first mission. I know you are nervous and scared. Let it go and have fun. Command goes by way too fast. Just enjoy it. I know you will do well. Now, go take care of your boys.”
I looked him straight in the eyes and nodded a knowing nod. Royce Manis and John Coomer sounded off with a thunderous boom,
“30 SECONDS!!!”
Andy walked back towards the door. Jumpers shook their static lines. It was time. The exit light flashed from red to green.
“GO!!!”
The jumpers rushed out the door. As the momentum of the line sped up, Andy smiled at me, and I began my march towards the exit. I handed my static line to Andy, turned 90 degrees, planted my left foot, and surged my right leg forward. My body followed. I was officially an airborne reconnaissance commander on his first mission.
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