A Captain at War: Stories of an American Advisor in Fallujah, Iraq

Crash Makes Lance Corporal

         “I think it came from 2 o’clock!” the Sergeant shouts over the sound of AK-47 fire. “Not a hundred percent but … yeah, I’ve got a muzzle flash third deck. Farthest right window.” 

The Iraqi soldiers continue to fire in apparently random directions. The Marine Sergeant’s keen eyes have done a trick that most times is impossible: Find the enemy. In this combination of the two worst case scenarios, an insurgency in a city, it’s a rarity.

Oftentimes the only motivation behind an attack is money. A foreign-born Islamic extremist supplies a local boy with a rifle and promises him five American dollars to go shoot at Americans. The boy dutifully goes out and finds some Americans, empties the magazine as fast as he can and runs away to return the rifle and collect his five bucks. Sometimes a similar scenario plays out not because of money, but threats to the boy's family.

Not many residents of Fallujah want to fight anymore, especially in this goddamn heat. The last few months, most of the enemy soldiers captured are Somali, Egyptian, Libyan, Saudi. Regardless of who, what, when, where, or why it happens, the Iraqi Army soldier’s response is the same. Ninety percent of them will just start shooting. Randomly. Sporadically. Dangerously. The Captain and his team call it “The Iraqi Death Blossom.” To be fair, it does make you feel better to do something, anything, when the shooting starts.

Today, while moving with a foot patrol, the Captain’s unit takes fire. The Captain and the Sergeant take cover and try to identify the direction of fire in this concrete canyon of a street. Two- and three-story concrete houses line the east-west street, every one surrounded by a wall of seven feet or more. The firing started when the patrol approached a ninety-degree northward curve. A three story with a lengthwise view of the street is the source of the shots.

The two Marines do not fire because they cannot identify a good target yet. The interpreter does not fire because he really wants to be a Marine. Even though he is from Basra, Iraq, he models his behavior and speech after the U.S. Marines he lives and works with. His name is Crash and he carries a folding stock Kalashnikov rifle with a laser pointer taped to the side.

“Ok, good shit,” the Captain replies to the Sergeant’s info. “Crash, get on the IA (Iraqi Army) freq and tell the mulazim to set security and get me a clearance team. Tell him, over there in the alley to the left.”

Crash follows the Captain as he translates the Captain’s order into the radio. The Sergeant brings up the rear. Together they make their way to the corner of the building the Captain indicated, using as much cover as they can find as sporadic firing continues. Two Iraqi soldiers and a sergeant meet them there moments later.

“Crash, get these three to follow us and help clear the building. Sergeant, you stay with the Iraqi Sergeant no matter what and try to keep them moving. Alright, Crash, are they good? Yes? Okay, let’s go.” 

The Captain moves toward the door of the three-story building. As usual in this type of situation, the words “kill zone” repeat over and over in his mind. This happens every time he clears a building. In training exercises, the words were used over and over. “Stay out of the kill zone! Get inside!” the one-eyed Gunnery Sergeant would bark. The exterior of the building is a kill zone. The doorway is a kill zone. Hallways are kill zones. Stairs are kill zones. Everywhere is a fucking kill zone in these buildings.

The Captain’s body ramps up. Senses on high alert. Totally focused on the task at hand. His nervousness falls away.

Pausing at the doorway, he tries the latch. The door opens silently. His left hand comes up with three fingers extended. A hand comes down on his shoulder indicating the man behind him is set. Breathe. Fingers drop in sequence three, two, one. The rifle’s light comes on with a squeeze of the front grip. Front kick the door. Go! Buttonhook to the left. Weapon sweeps, “Left side clear.” The bottom floor looks to be abandoned

“Right side clear” comes the reply.

“Overhead, clear,” says the Captain. “I have a small room and stairs far corner. Stack on me.” He notices only Crash has followed him in. There’s no time to waste in these situations because speed and unpredictability are slim advantages that must be exploited, and the Captain has no intention of losing them. 

He moves into the next room and to the base of the stairs that climb in one stretch to the next floor and raises his left hand again. A hand comes down on his shoulder. Fingers start dropping three, two ... “Grenade!” he shouts and dives back into the first room. Crash lands next to him just as the Whump! of the explosion pummels their ears. The Captain doesn’t wait. Metal shards still clatter as he’s up and running toward the stairs.

Someone is there at the top of the stairs. They’re either on their way down to check on the grenade results or stunned and blinded. A thick cloud of dust from the explosive force obscures the entire stairwell. This is the Captain’s best chance. Up the stairs he goes, weapon in his shoulder.

As he turns the corner at the top of the flight, a shape appears in the dust cloud. He knows he should see a weapon before he shoots. He sees something that looks like a rifle held sloppily. A shot and then two more ring out. It isn’t until he feels his own thumb on the safety lever that he realizes he has fired. No time to stop now. The shape is gone and he steps smoothly and steadily into a wide hallway.

The second-floor hallway runs back to the base of the next flight of stairs and has two open doors. Dust still hasn’t settled. The Captain pauses with his rifle pointed down the hallway. He sees a body sprawled with a rifle at the head of the stairs. He gets no response when he grabs the AK-47 and slings it around his body.  “Set,” he calls. Quickly pivoting between the hallway and the next set of rising stairs, he waits.

A hand lands on his shoulder and Crash says, “Set.”

The two of them ascend to the next level. Crash knows this business after a year with the Marines and they work their way from top to bottom, clearing the house. In a top room they find a small pile of brass. This looks like the room the shots came from. On the second floor they find the gunman but nothing else. On the first floor they find the Marine Sergeant. He peeks out the front window and grumbles.

“So, they didn’t come in?” the Captain asks, referring to the IA soldiers.

“Fuck no, sir. I have no idea why.”

Crash gets on his radio tuned to the Iraqi Army station and begins to ask questions in a loud authoritative voice. After a minute, he launches into an explanation about the wrong IA sergeant coming to the building and the soldiers wanting to wait for their own sergeant. The Captain stops listening. His mind is back in Camp Lejeune thinking about his house-to-house fighting training. He remembers being told that one should never assault a building with less than three four-man fire teams. Well, he thinks, I guess one Marine and a 'terp is good enough this time. As long as the 'terp is like Crash.

On his next trip to Camp Fallujah, the Captain goes to the PX and buys some Lance Corporal chevrons. Later, in a small ceremony, reciting the promotion warrant from memory, he promotes Crash the 'terp to honorary Lance Corporal, USMC. He’s earned it and would uphold the proud tradition many times after that.

In 2009, Crash would come to the United States sponsored by one of the Marines he served with. He would later become a Marine at the age of 26 and is stationed in Camp Lejeune at last report. He’s a Lance Corporal for real now.

Click the cover to check out the entire book.