The Midnight Hour

Corporal Church and I riding in a 7-ton.

We loitered at the south end of Camp Fallujah waiting to start our convoy brief, which would cover our route of travel, contingency plans, and a plethora of other information essential to the conduct of a convoy. However, on this particular day we would begin to face challenges even before the convoy began. It appeared that some type of inclement weather was moving in. On the distant horizon I could make out a dark brown blob, presumably a cloud, that grew increasingly larger with time. As it approached the blob revealed itself to be more of a large wall extending as far as the eye could see in both directions. It even appeared to have terrain features in the form of fingers and draw extending towards us, giving it the appearance more of a living animal than that of a cloud. I watched as it moved ever closer, eventually engulfing a building about 400 meters distant from us. It was at that point my suspicions were confirmed.

The sand storm is approaching…

Still coming…

Getting closer…

Almost here. It just swallowed that building!

It’s here! Get inside! Ahh..my eyes!

The sand storm reached us about 90 seconds later, turning the sky and sunlight an eerie shade of orange. Sand, not blown up from the ground, but carried inside the storm, assaulted our clothes and skin. I can’t be sure at what speed the sand was traveling as it swirled about, but I can profess that it was fast enough to be annoying and blind you if it got into your eyes, but not fast enough to cause any real pain. It was a bona fide sand storm, no doubt, but it paled in comparison to ones I had seen in the movies, whether they be fact or fiction. I then understood why we were issued full-sized goggles, as even sunglasses were not enough to totally protect you. Unfortunately for me, even my sunglasses were inaccessible at the moment, laid atop my gear about 100 meters away.

We scurried inside the nearest building to receive our convoy brief there instead of the hostile environment outside. Upon conclusion of the brief we made our way to the vehicles. Luckily, the brunt of the storm had passed, but there was still plenty of sand to obscure our vision and sting our eyes. I finally got to my glasses, blew the sand off the lenses, and received some shelter. We loaded into the back of an armored 7-ton and departed for our destination.

Two of my Marines, Cpl Marcus and Cpl Church.

SSgt Anderson and myself

At our first stop we were to pick up 36 Iraqis that had arrived yesterday with a group of over 90 to be screened for joining the Iraqi Army (IA). These 36 had failed. I am sure their reasons for failure were varied. There are no real physical requirements for the IA past having all of one’s limbs, and even that may be negotiable. I was told that many of them did not understand they could be sent anywhere in Iraq, and thought they were joining a national-guard type unit. We piled the men into our truck and continued on our journey. They were very polite. I utilized the linguist on my team, Corporal Church, to strike up a conversation. The first question I was curious about was why they wanted to join the IA.

Answers were strange, to say the least. One man said he was illiterate and wanted to learn to read and write. Unfortunately, this is a disqualifier for the IA screening, which is why he failed. Another man showed us a torn identification card and replied that he needed a new ID. I just smiled and nodded. It was apparent that many of the men wanted to join the IA to improve their station in life rather than patriotic reasons. I hardly blamed them. After all, it’s quite common for Americans to join the military (albeit, not the Marine Corps) just to get job training, or simply because they have nothing else to do. If I were a poor, single Iraqi I might do the same thing. Out of the blue, one of the men told me “thank you,” presumably for my service. I replied that he was welcome, and thanked him as well for his willingness to join the IA. Perhaps there were some true Iraqi patriots on the truck with us.

These men, while brave for volunteering for the Iraqi Army, failed
their initial screening (which is run by the IA, not us). There are no
real physical requirements, but some of the men were illiterate
(a requirement) and some did not understand they could be sent
anywhere in Iraq upon entry.

After talking for a few minutes I asked the men if I could take their picture. They replied that I could, but one of the men, Jalal, hid his face. I am unsure why, since he had just told me a few seconds earlier that I could photograph him. After taking the photo Jalal asked to see it on my camera’s LCD screen. I showed him, and then he asked to show the other men. I handed him my camera and he passed it around as the men laughed and chattered about the photo. He then asked to photograph Church and I. We complied, showing him how to operate the camera. After that he went on to photograph many of the men in the truck, and even tried to photograph himself as one of the other Iraqis watched the LCD screen and called out directions for Jalal to center it on his face. After each photo they would all look at the screen and chatter enthusiastically as they reviewed the photos. Jalal then asked how much I had paid for my camera. I replied $200. He then offered to buy it for “$100,” but I believe the units of currency were lost in translation and he was actually offering 100 Dinar. I politely declined. He asked once again, offering some bills from his wallet. At this point I decided to invoke a common Arab custom, lying to refrain from insulting an acquaintance. I had Church tell him it was a gift from a friend and I could not sell it. He seemed to understand.

I am confused why Jalal covered his face after he had just told me I
could photograph him (I asked). He later became very interested in the
camera and took some photographs of me as well as his friends.

Seeing the human side of these Iraqi men was amazing. My involvement with Iraqis usually occurs in one of three contexts: them watching as I walk or drive by, them answering our pointed questions through an interpreter, or them face-down on the deck getting blind-folded and flex-cuffed with one or more rifles pointed at them. It was refreshing to see this side of Iraq. I was glad I didn’t have any intel-driven questions for them, and that they were comfortable conversing with us.

Jalal continues to photograph his cohorts.

We made a stop at an observation post about half-way through the trip. Our purpose there was two-fold: drop off hot chow and pick up a Marine going to Taqaddum. After a working-party offloaded the chow a lone Marine climbed into the back of the truck with us. One of my Marines, Staff Sergeant Anderson, asked him why he didn’t have a weapon. He informed us he was going to TQ for ten days of directed rest and relaxation. His command had taken his weapon and other serialized gear for the trip. It turns out he had been hit by five IEDs during his tour so far and had yet to be injured by any of them. However, his fellow Marines inside the vehicles with him had not been so lucky. This had weighed heavily on his mind, and he was being directed to take ten days of rest to restore his mental stability. I thought it good his command was being receptive to the mental needs of its Marines. However, I didn’t know whether to feel sympathy or happiness for this young Marine.

Our last stop was to drop off the IA recruits where they had been recruited from. Before leaving I introduced myself to Jalal, which is when I learned his name. I initially had trouble understanding his pronunciation of it, so he used my pen to write it on his hand. I told him I was happy to have met him, and that my name is Jeff. He then asked me to write my name on his hand so he could try to read it. I did so, first in English characters and then in Arabic characters. The men departed the truck as I bid them each goodbye individually and began their walk back to their daily lives.

We continued to our destination and arrived without incident. From the difficult beginnings of a sand storm, to our new Iraqi friends, to a hurting young Marine destined for some well-deserved rest, it was the most eventful convoy I had experienced thus far. Sometimes it is not the execution of the mission that teaches you the most, but the trip there.