by Cliff Wade
It was the kind of place where a man earned his name on a bracelet for all eternity.
Iraq, September 2007
In an attempt to win over hearts and minds, we would sometimes be tasked with delivering humanitarian assistance (HA) to local villages or neighborhoods. We would load an up-armored cargo truck with large bags of rice and flour and head out in search of an elder or local sheik who would, in theory, take the goods and distribute them fairly to the local population, thus endearing the people to their occupiers. In all likelihood, they would horde the goods for themselves and their families, or sell them on the black market, but there wasn’t much we could do about that.
One day, 2nd platoon was tasked with an HA mission, and I was selected to ride along with them as a dismount in a Humvee. An Intel analyst from our S2 shop needed to head out into the wild to find a feasible location to set up some sort of sophisticated monitoring device that was camouflaged to blend into the surrounding terrain. Since I had an abundance of experience with our small kill teams, my PSG volunteered me to tag along and help the S2 guy identify a good spot. I helped him identify a reasonably sound location for his little contraption that was likely going to last a day, if not less, before some sheep herder saw the thing and let his cousins know all about it.
READ MORE from Cliff Wade, on The Mortar Team: Our Easy Day in Iraq Turned Suddenly Deadly
Afterwards, we headed to a village we’d never been to before. It was located somewhere on the edge of the breadbasket region where the urban outskirts of the city in our area of operations tapered off into the palm groves and farmlands. We knew it was a Sunni area and anticipated it to be unfriendly. It was the kind of place a man earned his name on a bracelet for all eternity.
We were rather surprised when we rolled into the village with no enemy fanfare. Normally, such a place would be ringed with defensive measures in the form of IEDs and booby traps. We could only assume that they hadn’t emplaced such obstacles since we had never bothered visiting there before.
Where are your men?
As we established security in the middle of the village, we noticed a distinct absence of military aged males amongst the population.
“Wayn zowigich?” we asked the women, inquiring as to the whereabouts of their husbands.
“Wayn abok?” we asked the children.
Through our interpreter, they informed us that they all fled into the palm groves when they saw us approaching.
“Leysh?” we asked.
Because they are part of the Islamic State, they told us in a matter-of-fact manner, and without hesitation. They fight you.
Not knowing how to proceed, we called up to our higher headquarters informing them of this development. What should we do now, we asked.
Continue your mission, they told us. Deliver the HA.
Say again?
Continue mission, they ordered.
We reiterated that these people were telling us that their men were members of the Islamic State, just to ensure our higher headquarters understood that important tidbit of information. They were our enemy. Could they please confirm that they still wanted us to deliver the HA?
Roger, they insisted. Drop it off. Leave it in the middle of the village if you can’t find someone to take it.
An image from a similar mission. DoD photo.
This both baffled and infuriated us.
A burly, no-nonsense sergeant in 2nd platoon, with his low tolerance for bullshit, got onto the higher headquarters net and announced: “If you can’t beat ‘em, feed ‘em!”
“Last calling station identify yourself!” the headquarters voice demanded, followed by a long silence over the net.
We did as we were told.
The villagers looked at us as if we were absolute morons as we downloaded the heavy bags, and we certainly felt that way too.
Cliff Wade writes frequently for Soldier of Fortune.
