My Iraq

by Joe Linhart
November/December 2007 , Page 86

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From the day I signed my contract with the Army, I knew that I would deploy. It was March 20, 2003, the very first day U.S. troops crossed the berm into Iraq. As I sat at the in-processing station watching the news, I knew I too would be heading to Iraq.

I began my Army career that October, only months after graduating from Harvard. I completed my basic training at Fort Knox, Ky., and Officer Candidate School (OCS) at Fort Benning, Ga. In April 2004, I was sent to Fort Sill, Okla., for the Field Artillery Officer Basic Course. After finishing my training at Camp Shelby, Miss., I was assigned as a Fire Support Officer (FSO) for E Troop, 2nd Squadron, 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment. By January 16, 2005, I was on a plane leaving Gulfport, Miss., headed to Kuwait and ultimately Iraq.

On Deployment

The initial invasion was a sprint to Baghdad; my deployment was more of a marathon. I was in Iraq for a year, from January 16 to December 29, 2005. I spent the entire time in an area approximately 35 miles south of Baghdad, east of the Euphrates, and north of Hilla (present-day Babylon).

Iraq is a divided country, with the south predominantly Shia, the middle Sunni, and the north Kurdish. We operated on the fault line where Shia mixed with Sunni, a volatile region dubbed the “Triangle of Death” by the media. Over the course of the year, we saw terrorist activity aimed at coalition forces, criminal activity, and sectarian violence—all happening simultaneously, all difficult to distinguish.

The media call the people we fight “insurgents,” while the Army commonly labels them AIF—anti-Iraqi forces—as they don’t hurt the United States as much as they hurt their own country. Like most soldiers, I call them terrorists. People who blow themselves up and kill innocents are not “freedom fighters throwing off the yoke of American occupation,” as they like to claim.

On a 12-month deployment in Iraq, you have four months to learn the area, four months to effect change, and four months to transition from one unit to the next. I spent the first four months in a city called Haswah, the last eight in a small town called Diyara. With a year-long stay, the best I could hope for was to finish the projects and initiatives I started and hand off the rest to the next unit. I also had to realize that not everyone makes it to the end. Some of the soldiers in my unit were injured or killed. Two were sent home because they could not find someone to take care of their children. Another had drug issues. One accidentally shot himself in the stomach.

In more ways than one, the Echo Troop that left Kuwait was very different from that which returned to Kuwait.

On Operations

Most of what frontline soldiers in Iraq do every day is patrol. They drive around establishing a presence, trying to learn what “right” looks like and what looks wrong. They talk with people to learn what they’re thinking, what they might have seen or heard about, what problems they may have with their water or electricity. At all hours of the day and night, soldiers are patrolling, watching roads, sitting, waiting.

I regarded operations as two-tiered. Lower-order operations are basic, security-driven measures such as cordons and searches, raids, patrols, sniper sets. These operations create the conditions for higher-order operations such as humanitarian aid, medical care, electricity or infrastructure-building, and, most important, government and army/police-building. The operations are synchronized through a process called targeting.

On Targeting

I was a fire support officer (FSO). To understand what an FSO does, you need a general understanding of how artillery supports basic maneuver warfare. Artillery is essentially cannons and rockets—sending very large “bullets” across long distances. Artillerymen are broken down into three parts: the eyes, the brain, and the brawn. The eyes are your observers: people who have eyes on the target and formulate the call for fire. The brain consists of the fire-direction specialists, who take that call for fire and translate it into data for the gun line. The brawn is made up of the gun line: people who load and fire the artillery pieces. When a round is sent downrange, the observers figure out how close steel came to target and generate a new call for fire based on the necessary corrections.

In conventional warfare, where there are good guys, a line, and bad guys, traditional artillery is very effective and very necessary. But in stability and support operations, artillery can be too destructive a weapon to employ.

My job was to sync all our targeting in our area of operations. This meant lethal targets, such as raids to detain terrorists and criminal persons, or actual fire missions using artillery or mortars to destroy buildings or create a show of force. This also meant non-lethal targeting, including trying to establish a town government, carry out civil affairs projects, and provide humanitarian assistance.

Non-lethal targeting was my specialty. I was to influence Diyara using all methods at my disposal, from psychological operations (PSYOPs) and civil affairs units to job programs and flat-out starting a town government. It was like playing the video game SimCity; at age 23, I was given a town and told to make it work. My only guides were creativity and maybe a course I took my sophomore year, Government 20: Introduction to Comparative Politics, with Professor Steve Levitsky.

Our Day Labor Program paid Iraqis $7 a day plus food and water to work on projects such as garbage removal, canal-cleaning, and pothole repair. The Medical Assistance Program paired our doctors and medics with Iraqi counterparts to provide free health care. The Humanitarian Aid Program filtered food through the local mosque to provide for needy families. We also built or refurbished an Iraqi army base, water filtration station, food distribution center, and bridge. Over the course of the summer, attacks declined, shops opened, and people felt safe to walk the streets.

While other soldiers in my troop trained the Iraqi Army, I tried to train local leaders. I had to gather men, educate them about what a government could do, and then empower the government to execute programs. The first two, we did well. The third was a work in progress. Then, in late October, a two-VBIED (vehicle-borne IED) attack halted much of the work we had done. Afterward, the children stopped going to school. Shops closed. Families began moving out of Diyara.

With only a month-and-a-half left before going home, I did as much as I could to stop the hemorrhaging, but the town was never the same as during that summer of hope.

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My Iraq (cont.)

On the Things We Carry

Kevlar helmet with NVGs (night-vision goggles) mount and IR (infrared) strobe; ballistic-rated shades; IBA (Interceptor Body Armor) with 15 pounds of plates, front and back; M4 carbine with one 30-round magazine; ACOG (Advanced Combat Optical Gunsight) scope; gangster grip; assault pack with 10-pound SINCGARS (Single Channel Ground and Airborne Radio System) RT-1523E radio; water; MRE (meal, ready-to-eat) rations; candy to hand out to kids; flares; spray paint to cover terrorist graffiti; 100-mph tape (duct tape); tactical MOLLE (modular lightweight load carrying equipment) vest with NVGs; civilian GPS; lensatic compass; 15 30-round magazines of 5.56mm ammunition; map, map protractor; English-Iraqi phrasebook; cheat sheets for call for fire (artillery)/MEDEVAC (medical evacuation)/weapons ranges/close air support; chemical lights; extra AA batteries; 550 cord (parachute cord); first aid kit; KA-BAR knife; ASP tactical retractable baton; DCUs (desert camouflage uniform), t-shirt, pants, desert combat boots, no underwear (too hot!). In pants: pens, markers, highlighters, wallet, dog tags, New Testament, notepad, more candy for kids.

Total: 75 pounds + 100-degree heat = hot, sweaty, and tired.

On Killing Time

A deployment isn’t all shoot, move, and communicate. There is a boredom associated with being away from home for a year, compounded by the fear and disorientation that comes with being surrounded by the unfamiliar. How to pass the time?

Perhaps the number-one time-killer is movies; bootlegs mostly. You would think that, in a combat zone, the favored genre would be comedy, but everyone watched war movies—Black Hawk Down or Saving Private Ryan—probably for the same reason that mobsters watch The Godfather or The Sopranos; we relish the characters’ glory and wish it our own.

The second-most-watched movies are romantic comedies. If we can’t be around women, we can watch movies about them. I remember spending Christmas Eve, the night before I left Iraq, watching What Women Want with a bunch of the lieutenants and platoon sergeants. It was one of my more depressing moments.

Some people lift weights to kill time. Some people write home. I had a guitar. We also had a dog named Maxine. Staff Sergeant Lombardy found her on one of our patrols. Officially, we weren’t supposed to have animals, and usually soldiers will kill dogs, because they can be diseased. Iraqis consider dogs the equivalent of crows—disease-ridden pests that feed on garbage and carrion.

Maxine was different, though. She followed us on our patrols, and everyone on the street knew she was our dog. She was the most tactically sound dog ever. She knew how to take point, keep noise discipline, check on all the soldiers. I am ashamed to say that one of our guys shot her. Not everyone liked dogs. I know Maxine wasn’t a soldier, but I hated losing her. Still, I had to remember my priorities: an Iraqi over a dog, an American over an Iraqi.

On Bathrooms

From using baby wipes down to burning refuse, relieving oneself in the field is an art that takes perfecting. I always enjoyed reading the Port-o-Potties, though, because it was there that I really got to understand what other soldiers were thinking.

Our sergeant major forbid anyone from writing on the Port-o-Potties on our forward operating base (FOB), but, in Kuwait, there was a veritable encyclopedia written on the walls. If I’d had a camera, I could have made a coffee-table photo book with everything I saw written, from politics to religion to sex and everything in between.

Marines suck. U.S. ARMY: Uncle Sam Ain’t Release Me Yet. Jesus Saves. God is dead. Bush is a terrorist. National Guards is a bunch of nasty girls. If you don’t like the Army, no one forced you to sign up. Heil Hitler. You are a racist. Chuck Norris’ tears cure cancer; too bad he never cries.

The language was generally more colorful, and, while sex was discussed, it was largely relegated to even more colorful drawings.

One of the more interesting things I read was in Kuwait, before I crossed the border. The commentary read: “Live it up females, because when you go back you will still be ugly.” In Al Taqaddum, on my way home, I saw another posting: “How does it feel to be ugly again?”

You have to understand: On our FOB, there were 1,000-plus men and approximately 70 females. With such a ratio, even the homeliest of women can seem desirable.

On Serious Things

There is a certain futility to being a soldier or a cop or a firefighter: Essentially, you are only needed when things go wrong. More often than not, you encounter the bad side of human nature.

On one patrol, we saw someone digging on the side of the road. Seeing someone digging was a bad sign; it usually meant that he was trying to implant an IED. We pulled over and drew our weapons. The man looked up with the scariest look I have ever seen a human face produce. We instructed him to show his hands. He just stared and started approaching us slowly. He was surrounded on all sides, so we weren’t worried he’d run. We were worried that he would blow himself up and us along with him.

Finally Sergeant Threatt tackled the man and cuffed his hands behind his back. We then went house-to-house to find out who he was. One lady identified him as her son. She said that he got arrested all the time because he was always digging, but that was all he was doing—digging. She explained that he was mentally handicapped and more trouble than she could handle. We told the lady to keep a closer eye on her son, for his sake. She replied that, for her sake, she wished we had shot him.

There are almost no services to treat the mentally challenged in Iraq. The problem for us is that these people can also be combatants. There was, in Haswah, a “village idiot” whom we saw in the area, first after a raid and then after an IED incident. Both times he was released. We thought that he was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.

During a subsequent cordon and search operation, my team was set atop a school to monitor a nearby mosque. About a half hour in, we saw someone trying to compromise our cordon. My team took a shot and hit the man; soldiers on the ground came by to sweep him up and give medical aid. Lo and behold, it was our village idiot. Then it dawned on me: The terrorists were using him as a lookout. He wouldn’t know better than to help them and, if we found him, we wouldn’t pay him too much mind. In the end, it was a good shot.

Other shots weren’t so easily justified. One of the harder things that I had to do was explain to a family that their father had been killed, and oh, by the way, we were the ones who shot him. To be fair to my soldiers, the man did point a weapon at them. But try explaining that to the man’s family, and then ensuring that the town didn’t turn against us.

We learned to expect the unexpected. Once a woman came to our patrol base to ask for medical care for her three-year-old son. He had burns over 30 percent of his body from spilled hot cooking oil, yet she didn’t want to go to the FOB, where medical care was available, with our soldiers. Never mind that her child might die—she was too scared to be seen in a Humvee. Another time, a man reported that 20 people had been kidnapped and buried alive. We investigated and found nothing, then sent the Iraqi police, who found the bodies. On the drive back, they were ambushed by terrorists and fought an hour-and-a-half gun battle.

I can’t say that I was particularly surprised. People in any country have the same capacity for good and evil. It’s what makes us human. When the average Iraqi doesn’t provide information about the terrorists, it is frustrating. Then again, who reports a gang-related shooting in Los Angeles or Newark or Detroit?

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My Iraq (cont.)

On Soldiers

I’ve known many soldiers who made all kinds of mistakes, not just on the battlefield, but in life. But by and large, there are no people on earth I would rather hang out with than soldiers. I say this because there are very few people who have a profession that is selfless and outward-looking. Even if that soldier only served the minimum commitment, for at least one period in his life, he was a part of something bigger than himself. Soldiers are a funny breed, though. They generally like the Army, yet every single one has an idea that will make him a million dollars so he doesn’t need to be in the Army anymore. Soldiers also love the rumor mill. I could put something out and it would go around and come back almost instantly. Rumor favorites: We are going home by Christmas; we are never going home.

Soldiers love tobacco—cigarettes or smokeless. They love to drink. They love their women. Yet for all these vices, the soldiers I’ve served with have always been sincere, loyal, hardworking, and willing to accept even the worst of conditions. We embrace “the suck” and feel that our lot is the worst, and we like it.

On the Media

Despite what CNN shows—stock footage of gun battles from the initial invasion and car bombs that explode in Baghdad—much that is positive has happened since 2004. Soldiers are doing amazing things to effect change in people’s lives, and most of it is not through the barrel of a gun. The average Iraqi enjoys having American soldiers around. In general, we provide security, food, money—things that Saddam never provided and the terrorists will never provide.

The people who truly are interested in continuing this war—the terrorists—are playing by different rules. Our scout once sent back pictures that showed the body of a man covered with bruises. His face was skinned and his heart cut out. Apparently the terrorists in our area were holding a kangaroo court and convicting people of colluding with the Americans. While I do believe it is imperative that we maintain the moral high ground, realize that Abu Ghraib didn’t really earn us any derision amongst the terrorists. To them, warfare is skinned faces and cut-out hearts. A bag over the head is a joke.

On Harvard Many of my soldiers had a hard time believing that someone with a degree from Harvard would look for happiness in the military. I don’t really have an answer as to why I joined. I just felt this compulsion: This is what I was supposed to do.

I can attest that my degree made me a better officer for my soldiers. And as much as some people feel that the Army is only a bunch of “baby killers,” I know I did more to help people while serving in the Army than any of my classmates did through the Peace Corps.

On Death

I’m not sure if I am scared of death. In Iraq, I learned to accept death as a given, not worth trying to explain or understand. It simply happens, with no connotations, either positive or negative. I hate to think that I’m callous, but I’ve learned to guard my emotions.

My company lost four men and had five severely wounded. My squadron lost about the same times five. There was a story behind each one. My troop’s first KIA was Corporal Prince. CPL Prince died at around 9 a.m. on Saturday, April 23, 2005. An IED exploded underneath his Humvee. He was blown out of the vehicle, but that didn’t kill him; the Humvee landing on him killed him. Captain Harting, our commanding officer, and I walked over that ground that day and the next, trying to find clues, evidence, anything. I should have valued that time. By Friday, April 29, Captain Harting was dead, too.

Sergeant Smith died on May 12 and Sergeant Maida died May 27. Those 30 or so days, from April 23 to May 27, were the hardest for our troop. IED here, IED there—it never ended. The last casualty in our squadron before we left the country died from a massive heart attack while keeping watch at a guard tower. I hope the last thing he saw was not the Iraqi countryside but his wife and kids. Probably he just saw his life slipping away from him.

No death affected me more than that of Captain Harting. The very next day, he was changing over his command with Captain Frank. They were on patrol together, Captain Frank following Captain Harting, learning what he needed to do to take command. About 800 meters outside our patrol base, they stopped a suspicious vehicle. Both men moved to inspect the vehicle and driver. The driver was clean, his car trunk was not. EOD (Explosive Ordinance Disposal) said that the vehicle had been carrying more than 100 pounds of gasoline and explosives.

I rode to the scene with three other soldiers. I had seen dead Iraqis, but this was different. Seeing two men that I had talked to five minutes before they were killed was almost unbearable. The smell of gas, burnt flesh … I will never forget that smell. Nor will I forget seeing both men lying prostrate. I helped recover Captain Harting’s body, his face frozen in a half-smile, his torso separated from his legs. His left hand, with its wedding ring, was clear across a nearby canal. I can’t describe what it feels like to hold a hand that does not have a body attached to it.

I only knew Captain Harting for four months before he died. I did not know him when he was born. Did not know him when he grew up, went to college, got married. I do know that he was the father of two, with his third child born just three days after he died. I wasn’t there for his beginning, but I was there for his end. I was there.

Admitting all this is as much as I’ll let myself acknowledge death’s hold over me. I don’t wrestle with questions of why did this happen, or why it wasn’t me that was killed, or what does it all mean. It happened, and at least I was there to see him to rest.

Yet with Harting, with everyone, I always have a lingering question: Did they know that they were about to die? Did they wake up thinking this was their last day?

On Coming Home

I came home for R & R once, in June 2005, to attend my girlfriend’s graduation. To go from Iraq to a Harvard graduation in the span of 24 hours … I don’t think I did too well. I was a little rough around the edges for the wine-and-cheese crowd. For my last six months, I told myself that, when I got home, I was going to take a good shower. It wasn’t so much that I was dirty. It was the same shower that I would take after every high-school football game I played, every college match I wrestled—leave it on the field.

When I left Iraq, I got on the helicopter, and, as the FOB got smaller in the distance, it immediately felt like a dream, like Iraq never happened. I eventually landed in Gulfport, Miss. I flew home to New York just in time for New Year’s Eve. I took a shower for a half-hour and just let that year wash down the drain.

My last day on active duty was May 5, 2007. I have a civilian job now, as a project manager at Kraft Foods; I also joined the National Guard. I have not been deployed again and may very well never deploy again. I feel a bit ashamed that I have not done what so many other soldiers are doing: two, three, even four deployments.

Still, I know that I am changed, enriched, by my experiences, and that Iraq will never leave me. I know that Iraq was a personal, intense experience that I like to talk about and don’t like to talk about. I know that a part of me feels that I will never do anything that important again and a part of me feels I lost something of myself there. I know that I am proud to be a soldier and American.

The views expressed herein are of the author only and do not represent any official viewpoints sanctioned by the United States Army.

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