First Contact

March 20, 2003. I established my blocking position as ordered along the main road west of An Nasiriyah. My mission was simple- no one is allowed to pass. I had not slept in the past seventy-two hours. I lost my voice screaming during my first night of actual combat. I was embarrassed by my actions-I had lost control. My ankles had doubled in size as the blood flowed down from the endless vibrations of the march north. I struggled to walk. I was a shell of my former self. The year in the desert had taken its toll, and I lost forty pounds. I was thoroughly exhausted both physically and mentally-further than any football, rugby, or wrestling match had ever taken me. I finally learned my lesson. If I was to lead my men, then I must rest and take care of myself. I would never again lose my wits under fire. The ghost of the Long Grey Line whispered in my ear ringing tales of “duty, honor, and country.” I could not fail lest they haunt me for the rest of my days.
I calmed myself reverting back to the breathing techniques taught to me long ago in scuba school. I found my happy place. I had to control my mind in order to control the chaos naturally embedded in war. Anything extraneous was rejected, and everything else was compartmentalized. I am stubborn man, so I was learning through blunt trauma instead of mindless repetition. My thoughts drifted to the future. Would we face a nuclear, chemical, or biological attack in the Karbala Gap? The odds seemed likely. Would the resistance increase? Surely it would; in retrospect, last night had been a joke. I understood that I would probably die in combat, and I accepted it. I vowed that I would do my best to take care of my boys. I became focused. I became emotionally numb.

That morning, Haji conferred with four of his neighbors who worked downtown with him and were stuck as well. A temporary pause in the fighting occurred, and they decided to attempt to venture home. Hopefully, the Americans would grant them safe passage. They crammed into the tiny sedan and began to travel west.

I was taking a short nap when the radio traffic picked up. A car was approaching from the east travelling at a high rate of speed. Since I was hoarse, I whispered to my loader to send instructions to acquire the car and tell the gunners to proceed with caution. If the car attempted to breach the concertina wire that we had placed one hundred meters in front of our position, then the gunners would engage and destroy it.

Haji and company stopped approximately fifty meters shy of the wire. They got out of the car, threw their hands high in the air, and began walking towards our position. I instructed two soldiers and an NCO to dismount the tanks and conduct an assessment. My loader alerted the company commander. Since none of us spoke Arabic, my boys used hand signals to instruct the men to disrobe and lay on the ground. The car and men were thoroughly searched, and my boys reported that this situation was not a threat; however, they did not know how to proceed.

I climbed off my tank and went to greet Haji. We allowed the men to put their clothes on, and we gathered for conversation. This engagement would be simple. We had rehearsed this scenario in Kuwait. Psychological Operations invested millions of dollars to produce pamphlets with pictures and Arabic that explained that we did not want to harm civilians, and they should remain in their homes. I shook Haji’s hand and gave him a big smile. He nervously smiled back. I showed him the picture of the Iraqis staying in their homes, and I pointed for him to head back east towards Nasiriyah. As he read the document, his eyes sparked in recognition; however, when I pointed east, he started shaking his head furiously. He pointed west through my position. His home was past my blocking position.

Now, we had a problem. My orders were not to allow anyone to pass, but he simply wanted to get back to his home. I decided to ask my commander for permission. On the radio, I pleaded Haji’s case. My commander denied it. Haji could be an operator trying to penetrate our lines for intelligence purposes. I followed my orders, and through a blundering series of hand signals, I forced Haji to head back to Nasiriyah. I suppose that my commander could have been right; however, I will never forget Haji’s reaction.

He burst into tears simultaneously pointing at the picture of the Iraqi family and west past my position. He was simply a broken man that only wanted to see his family. Finally, Haji and his friends got back in their car, turned around, and headed back to the office. In that moment, less than thirty-six hours into the invasion, I honestly believe the insurgency began. We did not have the answers. After many years of suffering, the Marshland Shia had great expectations for the American Invasion, and we were not prepared. We were wrong. I don’t know what happened to Haji. I never saw him again, but I think about him and his family often.

We continued our march north.