AUGUST


BACKGROUND



In August world news concerning Iraq was dominated by car bombs. The most spectacular of these targeted civilians. On 7 August a car bomb killed eleven people outside the Jordanian embassy in Baghdad. Jordan numbered among the Arab nations attempting to be significantly helpful in the reconstruction. On 19 August suicide bombers destroyed the United Nations Headquarters in Baghdad, killing UN envoy Sergio Viera de Mellis and twenty-four others while injuring over a hundred. On 24 Augusta car bomb killed three security guards at Ayatollah Mohammed Baqir al-Hakim's office, and on 29 August another killed al-Hakim himself and eighty others outside a mosque in the holy city of Najaf. The insurgents seemed to be turning their attention from U.S. soldiers, who were proving difficult and dangerous to kill, to the process of reconstruction and reconciliation itself. The choice of technique suggested foreign assistance and involvement, and from this point a Jordanian al Qaeda affiliate named Abu Musab al-Zarqawi would increasingly gain infamy as a terrorist leader.

Analysts surmised that the car-bomb attacks were intended to derail the reconstruction, push the Iraqis into despair, and exacerbate tensions among the ethnicities and allies in Iraq. In this they had at least partial success initially. Believing that the security situation was beyond control, the United Nations and humanitarian agencies began evacuating Baghdad. The mass mourning of al-Hakim transformed into a Shia anti-occupation protest as well.


1 August: "Cunningham, we're taking off once I finish with this FM [radio] update," I said.

"All right Sir," Cunningham drawls back.

"Remember to use common sense, take care of soldiers, and always do the right thing-this is fighting. Eagle Six out," Sassaman concludes as he does every night. I grab an ice-cold water from the cooler and head out to the track. I sit on the semi-padded bench seats in the cramped, dusty dwelling in the back of the Bradley mixing my pink lemonade. My efforts to capture all the sugar granules in the bottle prove fruitless as my makeshift funnel falls apart. Add lemonade mix to the plethora of moon dust in
the cavern. I crawl through the turret hole and pop out up top. The pink


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lemonade slides into the antennae housing group off to my right side-a perfect fit. I grab my CVC and plug in the spaghetti cord. It's the communications umbilical cord that connects me to the rest of the company and battalion. The helmet is worn out. The padding lumps up in spots that I smooth out to no avail. These lumps will smash on my head for the next six hours. It's an ever-losing battle. I key the mike, and we start rolling out the front gate of our compound. Once on the highway we race toward the logistical support area. We pass through it onto the north side of our sector. We roll down the south edge of the airfield; the guard towers snap pictures of our little parade as it passes. I wonder what they think of us. "You're going outside the wire?" Yeah, we live outside the wire. Two very different wars.

As we drive in the relative security of LSA Anaconda, I pull out my Garmin global positioning system and plug in the grids for tonight's patrolling. We're heading back into the orchards and farm fields along the Tigris River.

"Red One, Machine Six," the radio squawks.

"This is Red One," he replies.

"Roger, the Assault CP is going to do some dismounted patrolling vicinity MC 39226234 [reference map coordinates]," I inform him.

"Roger," Red One replies.

"Yeah, so don't shoot at us," I say jokingly.

"Wilco," he laughs back.

The Bradley finally comes to rest next to the ever-present tomato field. My body continues to rattle even after getting off the track. Our suspension systems and track in general is shot. Of course, we won't see any more parts until September, according to the ADC-S [assistant division commander for support] visit today. Yeah, so my question is, if our mission is so important that we stay here a year, then why don't they fix our broken equipment? Or do you just need to say: "We currently have 150,000 troops in Iraq ... 500 of them are actually outside their bases doing something." I think this negativity stems from the soreness in my lower back. Man, this body armor kills my back ... between all the protective plates and gear strapped to the


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front, I feel like a pregnant woman at the end of a long day-everything pulling forward on my lower back.

We get everyone together and give a little on-site brief as to where we are going and then head off into the undulating, overgrown orchard. The Iraqis have dug up this entire area with irrigation canals to water their various trees. Unfortunately, the grass covers most of these canals, so you constantly fall down, especially at night. The first step into the orchard area is actually a leap from one bank to the other. Then you place your weapon at port arms in front of you to break through the initial external barrier of the orchard. Once inside the orchard, you can hobbit-crawl along the various orchard lines-picking the poison of the muddy ditch or the overgrown high-grass thicket. We alternate back and forth, depending on our desired direction. After about 200 meters of breaking through some Jurassic Park-type brush, we can see a main trail. To get to the trail requires a very delicate maneuver called the turn and bounce. You back-ass through the really thick briar brush until you are just free of the brambles-you are going down into an irrigation ditch, so this maneuver requires delicate timing. Once you reach the delicate juncture of breaking free from the brambles and falling into the ditch, you turn and bounce with all your gear across the ditch. Many a man has back-assed straight into the ditch or jumped too early, thereby landing in the ditch. The maneuver requires a degree of skill and precision learned through countless nights of orchard navigation. I flawlessly execute the turn and bounce. I am safe on the farmer's trail.

Once out on the trail, we spread out and look for telltale signs of the mortarmen. We come upon one of the thousand pump houses in the region. It's always interesting how these things work. The water table in the region lies four feet below the surface, so they pump the water from the ground to feed their crops. The pump ends in a tube approximately 120 millimeters in diameter that sticks up at a 45-degree angle, the exact specifications of the Iraqi mortar we seek. I have chased after more than my fair share of these pump tubes. The pump houses normally straddle the irrigation ditches, so we experience minor victories when we find one. We no longer have to perform the turn and bounce maneuver-we can walk across the pump. We cross the pump and hop onto the east-west farmer's trail. We walk about 100 meters down the trail when it comes to a "T." I stop the patrol, and we all take a knee. Just then, an Iraqi comes running up to the pump house. I level my weapon and take aim. As he gets closer, I whistle to him ... facial expressions prove priceless. He nearly jumped out of his skin. I signal him


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to come over. He's unarmed ... Charlie Company probably would have shot him at this point.

"Ayna Howen?" I demand.

"No Howen," he retorts ... I've had this conversation before. I signal that we have heard it back here. He points over in the general area where we found the huge cache three nights ago.

"Ayna Sila/RPG?" I demand again.

"No Sila/RPG," he replies.

I know he speaks the truth because he's terrified. He still has his hands raised in the air. I've had this conversation with a million Iraqis now. Everyone is just a farmer who has seen nothing. Our buddy starts jabbering about fixing the water pump and points at his wrist. The FSO asks me what he is saying ... like I know. I tell them that he said in fifteen minutes he would take us to every mortar in the Balad area-he has their locations memorized with a ten-digit pluggered grid [encrypted military GPS]. Everyone laughs. The farmer remains perplexed with hands raised high. I let him go, and we continue with our search. We head north to the river as the sun sets. I decide to start heading back since the orchard can prove murderous at night. We get back on the trail and head west. The canal continues to prove uncooperative. We can't find a place to cross, and it continues to lead us into the hinterlands. Finally, we find a suitable area to execute the turn and bounce. Unfortunately, we now have more distance to cover, and it's dark ... zero percent illumination. It's a new moon and all. Our circuitous route leads us back through some new crops. I think it's actually cotton. We break through to a clearing; a MIG-23 lies trashed off to the side. I'll never understand the haphazard placement of military equipment in this country. From the MIG, we head south across some freshly plowed ground. The darkness causes multiple spills, but we persevere. We reach the final ditch between us and our Bradley. We have the last opportunity to excel with the turn and bounce. As I approach the site, I slip and fall flat on my behind. Fortune smiled upon me tonight, and I didn't slide into the water. I just sat there and looked up at the sky.

"Hey sir, are you all right?" someone asked.


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"Yeah, I'm just enjoying another beautiful night in the central Tigris River Valley ... one of many left to come," I reply. They laugh and we all chill out for a minute. The most beautiful aspect of this country is the view, the view of objects far, far away. I guess that's irony. This country's beauty lies in the sunsets and the night sky, things far away that remind us of home. I finish up my internal pontifications, jump the canal, and get back on the Bradley. I'm covered in sweat. I can't think of anything quite like a nasty, sweaty Kevlar head band to wear for four months straight ... awesome. I check in with battalion and then drop down to the fires net. We are firing some intimidation illumination rounds over the city again tonight. I don't think it remains all that intimidating after three weeks of doing the same thing. I have actually grown bored of it. We start up the track and start heading back to the CP.

"Hey, Cunningham."

"Yeah, sir."

"Congratulations."

"On what?"

"It's 1 August, another tax-free month in this Middle Eastern paradise."

"Sh-."

"Cunningham, you're living the dream ... people would pay to switch places with you for a day."

"Yeah sir, but only for that day."

"True dat, True dat."

2 August: Headed up on patrol last night and decided to stop by the brigade HQ to get all the Q36 radar hits. Of course, the only person in was John Hancher. We talked for awhile. The primary focus for them right now remains gravel ... six inches to keep the dust down. So glad I am not spending my tenure over here tracking gravel drops. Hung out there for a little while and then headed north out the gate.

"White One, Machine Six."


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"White One."

"Yeah, did you find the weapons?" I joked as my open liner to every situation report.

"Yes," he replied, not joking.

"Really," I inquired, feeling the practical joke setup.

"Yeah, we uncovered a cache with 10 AK-47s, 2 shotguns, 1,000 rounds, 20 RPG rockets, and 27 electrically primed explosive devices," he said proudly.

"Sweet. That's the play of the day so far. I'll come down and check it out."

We rumbled through Tu-Pac Shakur annex, through a field, to a dead end. Great, turning the Bradleys around always proves high adventure. I got back out on the canal road and headed to a linkup point. I performed the hobbit crawl into the orchard and checked out the cache. Some pristine-looking weapons, if I do say so. They look better than ours-all freshly lubed and wrapped in plastic. I start heading back through the orchard to call battalion and instruct the platoon to clear the house next to the orchard.

"Yeah, go in soft. I'll be there in a minute," I tell the platoon leader.

I get on the radio and tell my Red Platoon to set up a flash checkpoint at L6 [Checkpoint 6 on Route Linda]. We then start moving the weapons into my Humvee and getting an accurate count. The house turns out to have four AKs ... well outside the Iraqi weapons policy, so we detain all the males and I call for an interpreter. Of course, none are available.

"Okay, send me the interpreter or I am just going to let these guys go," I tell battalion.

"Brigade has none," they reply.

"Brigade has none, or they are all out contracting for gravel?" I ask.

"Yeah, gravel and stuff," battalion replies.


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"Okay, well, these guys aren't shooting at the infantry, so I really have no reason to keep them. Their call if they want them. I don't have the transportation assets."

Someone hands me another microphone and tells me Red has contact. Great. An Iraqi ran their checkpoint, and they opened up on him with small arms. "Any of our guys hurt?" I ask.

"Negative," he replies.

"Did any of our weapons malfunction?"

"Negative."

"Did we shoot the Bradleys?"

"Negative."

"Any collateral damage?"

"Negative."

That conversation represents the prioritization of my thoughts on the subject. I go search the house that we just secured, ask a few questions, and then head back to my vehicle to go see the checkpoint.

"Machine Six, what do you want us to do with the guys in the car?"

"Oh yeah, what's their status?" I absentmindedly reply.

"Two slightly wounded in the arms and one shot twice in the chest and once in the cheek."

"You guys are doing CLS, right?"

"Yes sir."

"Are they cooperating?"

"Very much so."


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"Okay, I'll support a ground evacuation to the 21st CASH then."

"Roger."

"Hey, make sure someone pulls security on them in the back of the Bradley."

"Wilco."

I head out onto the road in time to see the section speeding off toward the CASH. We do the mandatory Texas lazy-hand wave and head up to the checkpoint. I get on the ground and walk through the whole scene with the platoon leader and all the shooters. We AAR every contact. Turns out the Iraqis had no brakes and nearly smashed into two soldiers. Luckily, the squad leader fired a shot and knocked out the front tire, causing the vehicle to exit stage right. They fired fewer than forty rounds, with twelve of them hitting the car. It had two flats, and the window was shot out; our marksmanship is definitely improving by leaps and bounds. A month ago we would have fired 7,000 rounds and missed the car. Precise, surgical, scientific application of force ... they are probably sick of hearing me on that but they are shooting better. I talk to them a bit about the CLS skills utilized tonight and our marksmanship program. It was an overt checkpoint with lights flashing ... Iraqis' fault, investigation complete. I relay everything to battalion and instruct the platoon leader to get a status on our daily Darwin award [semi-fictitious award given over the Internet for stupidity] winners. We then head back to the CP. Every night is an adventure. Fortunately, all the Iraqis will live and will be a little smarter next time. I wonder how they planned to stop if 1st Platoon hadn't been there to shoot out their tires? An object in motion will remain in motion unless acted upon by an opposing force ... it's all physics.

3 August: We had a pretty lazy day yesterday. No hot chow, no LOGPAC [logistical package], no mission-just had to perform a payday brief. It proved pretty harmless, and Lieutenant Colonel Sassaman really just wanted to come down here and hang out, do PT, shoot, and be away from the insanity. Today I'll work on our room-clearing SOP [standard operating procedure] and give an OPD. We try not to patrol on Sundays ... it's our focus day for training and self-sustainment. I still have not seen a priest since I deployed. I guess they really are short on Army priests.


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6 August: We've had a couple of fairly boring days. Found a weapons cache last night and searched a few houses. The people got confused about the mud hut we found the cache in, and they brought us the key ... no clue that we had found the cache already. We took them down there, and the key to the broken door worked ... we flex-cuffed those guys. Of course, they wouldn't send us an interpreter, so I just let them go. I guess they are all tied up with gravel contracts ... I am pretty bitter about the gravel.

I had a good run this morning and then got the morning crisis call: "Stop the war! The CENTCOM [Central Command] commander is coming to the LSA." Of course, that is not how it got reported to us. The TOC told me I had to have eight Bradleys up at the LSA for the COSCOM change of command. I told them to pound sand, I'll send four. We went round and round with that one until they finally provided a little better task and purpose. Every day you have to fight stupidity. However, this time I got left holding the bag since they all acted like I was denying the CENTCOM commander, when in reality I was denying their stupidity. It all worked out, and, of course, it's not happening until tomorrow. They expect everything to turn on a dime around here. It's good to make the battalion staff do a little homework before they start randomly tasking my whole company out. I don't know if I
have ever seen eight Bradleys in one spot yet. It's good that they act like we have nothing better to do than jump through hoops. Should be a party ... it's 125 degrees.

We held this car for a few days, until we could determine the rightful owner.
We held this car for a few days, until we could determine the rightful owner.



7 August: Time just rips by for me here in Iraq. I spent all day in the sun preparing to execute the two minutes of security operations inside a perimeter of 18,000 soldiers. They wanted to start rehearsing at 0700. I watched a


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lieutenant colonel from COSCOM sit in his AC office all day and then make hourly checks of my guys to make sure they were still in full battle rattle. Of course, he was just wearing a soft cap: no Kevlar, no vest, no weapon, no standards, no spine, and no brain. At about 1000 I basically told them to pound sand, we would be back one hour before show time.

I went over to brigade. Very nice living conditions over there. I actually like their building here more than I do the one at Carson. However, morale is absolutely rock bottom there. My guys live in a dirt field and eat MREs and still have twice the morale of the soldiers at brigade. There is just more for us to do. The NCOs are screaming to get out of brigade, and the officers are all dropping their paperwork to quit. Well, my guys proved pretty excited about the whole day, seeing as how the MWR tent AC broke down and the thermostat broke 130. They were all just trying to hide from the sun. We looked like a bunch of refugees compared to the rest of the LSA.

The visit went well. The general rolled in, waved to us, and went inside. We then waited until the end for them to walk back out. We did get to eat some of the leftover hors d'oeuvres. I linked up with Pat Connely from division staff, and we sat around drinking sodas. I told him my town was probably getting ready for a full-scale invasion of the LSA since I hadn't patrolled there in two nights due to all the preparations for the hand wave. He's a really good guy and super talented. He was the first captain [at the U.S. Military Academy] when General [John P.] Abizaid was the commandant, and I think that was why he attended. The ultimatum to the sheiks to fix the Sunni Triangle came and went, but they made us stay up there until the general landed in Baghdad. I left a platoon at the airfield, and everyone else went over to the MWR tent. It was R&B night there. It's a very, very strange subculture. They had the soul train going and were all getting freaky in their PT uniforms. It was like a really bad dance club in America, except you had all these E-6/E-7s getting freaky with these private first class/specialist females. I could take it only for about twenty minutes. Fascinating study in human dynamics and it really is a different kind of war. We rolled back to the CP and racked out ... and then the trial began.

9 August: "Hey sir, brigade says they have a mission for us at 1200," the RTO announces to me, as I sleep in.

"Yeah, that's a great time to execute it! I hope someone from Anaconda is going to leave their AC and come on this mission with us."


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I get up and go try to collect the details. They give us a six-digit grid, an Iraqi name, and a description of the house-it has grass in the front lawn. Okay, someone needs to leave the wire and go look at this town because you just described 200 houses within that six-digit grid. Of course, battalion is jumping through hoops to get us information that no one can provide. Dave Gray, our S-2, tells me he will put together a target folder for me to pick up at 1100. Sassaman tells brigade he ain't doing the raid unless brigade's informant comes with us. They tell him the informant is too fat to go on the raid without being conspicuous. We tell him he can go in the back of the Bradley; he still doesn't want to play. Thanks for protecting the informant.

I roll over to the TOC and go over the hit with the S-2. Guess what, the house is the same one I went into two nights ago when we dug up the orchard and confiscated four weapons. Wow, our bottom-up intelligence is great. Brigade is saying this guy has multiple weapons in his house and some buried in his orchard. I tell them everything is past tense ... they had a bunch of guns, now I have a bunch of guns. Okay, now they want to detain the guy that drives a sky-blue Mercedes-Yassin Taha Attalla. Where were you guys the other night when I demanded an interpreter but he was busy on the gravel contract? Turns out, this guy might be the head of the Wahabi group-some real bad fundamentalist guys coordinating the vast majority of the attacks in the Sunni Triangle. They want us to do a simultaneous takedown of his office in Baghdad and his house in Tu-Pac. Guess what, guys. We might have tipped our hand when I had them all out in the front yard and rifled through their house prior to letting them go since I couldn't get any interrogators pushed down to me to question them about the family's European vacation, rifles, and money. Now I have to go find Yassin and his nice Mercedes. I explain to them that the house they were after is still under construction and has nothing in it. They just want the guy. I decided to do a drive-by of the place en route back to the CP and see if the Mercedes was there. I had big doubts about that, though.

I rolled into the town and drove up to the house, and we had a black Mercedes across the street. I called it up. It's not sky blue, so they are skeptical.

"Listen, this town has one Mercedes in the whole thing ... and it's very nice. You want me to just let it go?" I asked.

"Well, they said it was sky blue."


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It's the only nice Mercedes I've seen lately. Why don't you send the interpreter."

"Okay, we'll work it."

I walk into the building under construction and start talking to the head engineer. He knows a little English, so I start working him.

"How much can I buy this house for?" I act very interested.

"We don't want to sell it," he replies a bit incredulously.

"Is it your house?" I take the angle.

"No, it belongs to a man named Yassin Taha Attalla." He sells out.

"Great! Where is Yassin? I have much money for this house," I lie.

"He is over at the mosque praying."

"Okay, we'll wait until he comes back in one hour."

I go down and instruct my guys to shoot out the tire of the Mercedes if it even attempts to move. I get on the radio and call battalion, telling them about my conversation and then call forward a platoon to help me out. The platoon shows up and surrounds the mosque, and we wait. At 1300 they come out of the mosque and we have them all sit out front in the scalding Iraqi sun. We then start looking for Yassin, who is of course in Baghdad. Pathological liars. I then tell them we need the keys to the Mercedes to check out some of the paperwork, or we will have to break the window. They tip their hand, and ten minutes later we have his two brothers ... and we are going to lunch at their house. We apologize to the mosque crowd, and I make them all come by and shake my hand to ensure they are not wealthy guys leaving. It was like a receiving line.

We walk down to the house across the street and go in. It's the house we raided the other night. Fortunately, we did not trash it. We went soft. I talk to all the guys that we had detained out on the front lawn because of the weapons cache. They have us in, and Sassaman shows up for our conversation with the interpreter. Turns out that Yassin really is in Baghdad, but he will come to


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lunch with us on Sunday at 1300. Wow, I've done all kinds of takedowns and building entries ... ballistic, demolitions, mechanical, and now the walk-up-and-invite-yourself-to-lunch. Hilarious. We eat a big meal and have a good conversation. They want their shotgun back, and I tell them I'll give it only to Yassin. They say on Sunday ... and, Roger, I'll bring it. We have some outstanding Iraqi tea and then head back to chill out. Of course, right after dinner we get the call that a mortar fired in another company's area. Guess who has to go look for it? We roll out to the grid and then get told not to go look for it. We were going to clear some houses, but I guess they thought we were too tired and let someone else in on the action. So, we head back again.

Wham! Sparks fly everywhere. I lose sight of the Bradley in front of me. We slam on the brakes and get out. We start pulling security and bring up the other Bradleys. The lead Brad is off the side of the road tilting at a slight angle ... facing the complete opposite direction. The entire right side track is lying in the road in front of me. I run up to the Bradley and ascertain that everyone is all right. They are terrified and a little banged up but all right. I go back and look at the track ... catastrophic failure of the shoe, bushings and all. We all take pictures of it because no one has seen it fail like this before. We call for some recovery assets, set up security, and wait. We pull the track back on the road and attempt to self-recover. We work on it for awhile until a bus shows up. It's 0200 and the curfew is 1100, so we clear the bus. It's packed full of people returning from Najaf ... way to the south. Once we get all the people off the bus, we clear the bus. They did not stop for anything. They just crapped and pissed right inside the bus for well over fifteen hours. It smelled horrific. I could not believe what I saw. I witnessed the nastiest bus in the world. What is wrong with these people? After some more questioning and checking for fedayeen tattoos, we let them go and I headed back to my Humvee.

"All stations this net, be advised that the Ace of Spades, Saddam Hussein, is traveling north through our sector on a bus with approximately fifty people," the TOC radios.

"Stop the bus, stop the bus," I yell as I run toward it.

It has taken off down the road. We all climb into the Humvee and race after the bus. We are in a high-speed pursuit of a bus full of crap. We race around to the front of it and slam on the brakes. We put a machine gun right in the front window and block off the road with a Bradley section. I run up to the


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door and have everyone get off the bus and look at their faces. We then thoroughly clear the bus and pull their luggage from underneath ... nasty. I call back to the TOC and inform them we don't have Ace of Spades on our bus. They tell me that it was actually a bogus tip. Still, it provided us a great Keystone Cops chase, and the track should almost be recovered by now. They are almost complete and heading back up to the UMCP, so I head back to the base and try to get some sleep. We got super lucky tonight with not flipping that track and killing someone. It went up on its side. Everyone did the rollover drill properly ... way too scary, and the condition of our tracks and operational tempo is no longer funny or something to scoff about.

I finally lie down and go into instant REM sleep. Fifteen minutes later the RTO wakes me up ... four mortars and fifteen rounds just hit the LSA. They must have my sleep schedule down. Nothing for two weeks and then wham, we have a coordinated attack. We get the attack helicopters on our net and start working the area. I go to the site down by the Tigris River ... wow, it's smoking hot. Two-and-a-half hours later we have an 82-mm. mortar. Battalion is stoked. We also uncover a weapons cache of AKs and ammunition. As the temperature breaks 120, we break contact and head back for some sleep and cool down time. I get about three hours and then head back out to the bush. I swing by the brigade TOC and pick up the Q36 printout as the platoons move into sector. They work the area for a little while, and then we link up.

"Hey, I want to stand on the grid from this printout," I say.

"Okay sir, we'll go around from the north side."

We drive up into the town and park in one of the fields ... incidentally, it's next to a house that we have watched for awhile. We get back there and beat the bush out toward the grid. It's getting dark, so I bust out my giant mag light.

"Okay, I'm five feet from the mortar ... 4, 3, 2, 1 ... there's a mortar at my feet," I say jokingly in the thick bush. The squad laughs at my sarcasm. Ten minutes later the mine detector picks something up; we dig and find a full-up 82-mm. mortar. Sweet! Everyone is stoked, and they don't know if I was joking or not.

We pull the mortar from the field and head to the house. We detain all the males and wait for Sassaman and the interpreter to show up. They had a


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couple of weapons but nothing of note. As we wait, the mayor and sheik of the town show up. I've never met them since I pretty much work the night operations and allow others to run the city council.

"Ismee Sadiki Bob." I tell them my name is Sadiki Bob.

We exchange amenities, and they ask me what's my rank.

"Captain."

"You Captain Brown?" they ask.

"Yeah, that's me."

"We love Mister Captain Brown."

"What?"

"Yes, you and your soldiers very good, very good."

"What do you mean?"

"Yes, you are very firm, but you help us and don't break our stuff."

"Yes, my men are very disciplined," I say, feeling pretty good about things but knowing they were just trying to butter me up.

We talk about the mortar and the mortarmen for awhile, and then they go home. Of course, they invite us to dinner at their house, and we will set up a date later ... because I still have to eat dinner with Yassin. Oh yes, they are coming to dinner with us. Maybe Yassin will show after all. All the higher-ups are very interested in hunting him down and snatching him ... and I have a lunch date with him tomorrow at 1300 ... my birthday.

10 August: I finally got to sleep in a little bit, seeing as how it was my birthday and all. We rolled up to the house at 1300. It proved another brutally hot day. We got to the house and put in the security force in some shaded areas. Roy and Sassaman showed up a little later. Yassin came out and shook my hand. I in turn gave him a shotgun and some candy for the children. We definitely need to use this form of takedown at NTC/JRTC. It works very


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nicely as a TTP. Eat lunch, distribute weapons, and exchange gifts. We go inside and proceed to violate the no-soda-during-combat-patrols-between-1100-and-1600-due-to-the-heat rule. The meal is awesome. They bring out a huge spread of kebabs, lamb, rice, garden products, and fruit. Sassaman has everyone sing me happy birthday in Arabic and English, and then I blow over a kebab stuck in the rice. Strangest birthday party I've had. We chow down and talk over matters with Yassin. Higher will not give us the informant, so battalion will not give them the HVT. No informant, no detainee. That is our rule since we have so many blood feuds going on in this country and a ton of Jerry Springer raids. We have a great meal, and then they bust out the tea. It's awesome tea. I present Yassin with a bottle of sparkling grape juice that Aunt Margy sent me. They are thrilled by the gesture. I told them in America it is a tradition to bring the host a bottle of wine, but since we were in a Muslim country I brought them a nonalcoholic bottle of sparkling grape juice.

They then ask me to give a little speech. I tell them we are growing in our friendship each day. The first time I visited them in the middle of the night; we rummaged through their entire house and took weapons from them. The next time we just talked in the street. Then we came to their house for a little meal, and now we are partaking in a large feast. I told them it was very symbolic of the growing relationship between Iraq and America. They ate that up and all came forward hugging and shaking hands. It's a very affectionate country. They all want me to come to dinner at their houses now. So funny. I tell them I can't relax until I find all the mortars and caches to make Iraq safe for Iraqis and Americans. They agree to help. They love a little diplomacy. Of course, right in the middle of our fruit desert the Q36 radar picks up on a mortar fired ... but no impact. Launch the QRF to the area ... it's 7,000 degrees and we are probably dealing with a false radar read.

Sassaman tells me that the brigade commander wants to meet all the guys that found the mortars at 1700, so we converge on the brigade headquarters. All the guys are amazed at the building ... better than at Fort Carson. I let them go into the ice-cold AC and tell them to pretend it's a library ... very quiet. "Hey sir, what's a library?" one of the smart alecks asks. The CG lands and hands out coins to the guys. He comes up a little short, so Chuck Armstrong, the aide, gets all in a huff. He owes me six coins now. The brigade commander hands out coins and gets pretty excited, yelling "Hooah" real loud. Sergeant First Class Berg looks over at me and says, "Sir, you told me to pretend it was a library." We all started laughing. We headed over to the nice mess hall after the little awards presentation prior to the night's patrol.


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11 August: The night proved moderately eventful. We found a small cache of demolitions- and IED-making materials. We found the guys who owned the field and detained them. Someone went over to Military City and got an interpreter ... one of the ex-pilots. We talked to them for awhile and then let them go. I told them about the weapons-buying program, and they very much wanted to cooperate with us. I told them I would cut them free if they followed my instructions. They agreed ... I sent them home to tell everyone they knew about my weapons buyback policy that I just made up. They proved very grateful. I sat out there and talked to the pilot for awhile, and then we headed home after we figured out how to carry the demolitions outside the Bradley. What a smoker of a couple of days.

12 August: I continue to chase phantom mortars around the countryside with no relief in sight. The LSA is such an easy target; they have these huge lights on at night, and all you have to do is haphazardly aim and shoot. Then just bury the mortar or run with it to the local tomato patch and throw it away. The people remain terrified of anticoalition forces, so they don't talk about anything. "No howen, mister," has become a cult classic with this town. Every policeman I see, I give him the case of finding the howen. I always promise them a promotion. They, of course, reiterate all their accomplishments and the success they have had digging up weapons ... most likely their own. I did have a little birthday party last night, courtesy of my mother's ingenuity ... the XO assembled the whole company for a surprise: chocolate cake.

Birthday cake and party courtesy of my mother
Birthday cake and party courtesy of my mother


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14 August: It's been a decent couple of days. The howen has fired only once. Of course, it went off at 1130 and it was an hour drive to get to the location. Striker 5 [the brigade XO] was on the scene offering his expertise after returning from a shopping trip. Thanks, is this your first time out of the wire? Of course, it was 1,000 degrees, so he took off pretty quick. The area he told me he cleared ... yeah, right. We didn't get back in there until later since it was already cleared ... and guess who finds twenty-seven recoilless rifle (RPG-size) rounds and sixteen 82-mm. mortar rounds? Thanks for clearing that for me, sir. Of course, he disparaged our reaction time, but I don't choose where I live or where the mortars shoot. Oh well, it gave Sassaman good, humorous information for the brigade update.

We came upon a kid out in the field. I started talking to him, and he gave us some information ... amazing. He told me the mortar was mounted on a gray truck. It makes it a little easier to search for. Of course, the kid proved terrified of the whole ordeal and made me walk him home ... holding hands. Hilarious. Everyone was laughing because the kid wanted to hold my hand and no one else's. I told one of the guys he acted the same way the kid did the first time we went on patrol together. We all got a good laugh out of that. The kid couldn't see at night very well, and he kept falling down whenever we turned off our flashlights. He dragged me to the ground one time. What a war. We dropped off the rounds with Lion TOC after our drive back.

The next day we had a meeting with [Lt. Gen. Ricardo] Sanchez [Coalition Ground Forces commander]. Kind of a downer. No coins for the guys, and he guaranteed that we would be here a year if not longer ... sad face. He did say they were working on mid-tour leaves but not everyone would get to participate. The 1-8 IN would get to send five guys on leave ... sweet. We'll see how well that works out. We came back to the CP and hung out for awhile before heading up to drive through the town. It proved pretty unadventurous, although I did work on my Arabic. I am inspired to learn since we will probably be here a very long time. The people love our efforts to learn the language, and before long they swarmed us with all kinds of random questions. I had them show me their houses, families, and cattle since that was the direction my daily lesson took me. They found it very entertaining, and they had some chant going when we left. Hopefully, it was a good chant ... it was a very loud chant, whatever it was.

15 August: Sometimes I feel like Iraq is not all that bad; the mission is good, and it is worth all the time, money, and energy that we daily invest.


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Sometimes we shake hands with the locals and play with the kids. However, sometimes you shoot the locals and become mentally mired down in all our efforts. I was leafing through the Army Times dated 11 August. I skimmed over the semi-morbid, semi-heroic picture article, "Human Toll."

Down in the right-hand corner stood a picture. It seemed out of place ... it was an officer and I knew him ... well. Josh Byers was killed in action 23 July outside Iraq. He was the deputy honor captain at West Point for our class. He roomed with Joel Newsom across the hall from me. We shared the same giant latrine. He was an armor officer who volunteered and went to Ranger School. He was in my squad. We had three officers in the squad: me, Mike Moon, and Josh Byers-all West Pointers. We all graduated together, quite a rarity. I ran into Josh later out at Fort Carson. He was the general's aide and waiting to get into command in 3d ACR. Whenever I had to deal with guys at 7th ID, I would always swing by to see him. He tells a hilarious story about this girl Melanie whom he wrote his entire plebe year. Turns out, he thought he was writing to Melanie when in actuality he wrote to a different girl, Melany. They had met at some leadership camp before he shipped off to West Point, and those letters carried him through the thick and the thin of plebe year. Turns out, Melany proved a lot thicker than thin Melanie whom he thought he wrote. His account of their long-planned five-star rendezvous and preparation/anticipation leading up to said event had us all rolling with laughter in the north Georgia rain. I've heard the story at least four times, and each time I crack up laughing.

The last time I talked to Josh, he was planning on getting out of the Army. The aide job had burned out him and his wife. We talked about exercise equipment for the basement and other mundane subjects. That was last December. I saw him out running a few more times for PT prior to coming to Iraq. I still don't believe it happened. I don't even know what happened ... just that he is dead. I think he is my first classmate killed in action, and it just doesn't feel real yet. The tragedy doesn't strike home because currently I was not interacting with him everyday. I hope someone writes to his relatives. He was a great guy. I think that news made Iraq time stand still for me. It begs the questions that all the papers are starting to ask: how much longer, how many more deaths, and for what end state? I feel terrible for the guys in Vietnam because they probably asked those questions every hour. I just can't believe he is dead. I never gave him his boots back from Ranger School-they are sitting in my garage.


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17 August: I had a couple of good, decent days. We had an OPD and were chilling out at Alpha Company's CP after playing a soccer game on a grass field. After their awards ceremony for their first sergeant, we went over to talk about officer moves. It proved pretty boring. I was going to roll back with Kevin Ryan, but he took off while I was talking to Tim Knoth about Josh Byers. I gave him a call.

"Hammer Six, Machine Six."

"Did you already leave?"

"Roger."

"Okay, I'll see you later then."

We got everyone in the Humvee and got the Bradley ready to roll. I started joking around with the driver.

"Hey, which way do you want to go home-Route Linda or Highway 1?"

"Which way is faster?"

"I don't know, but Lindais safer."

"Okay, we'll go Linda.

"We rolled out the TOC and started heading west. The S-3, scouts, and HHC [Headquarters and Headquarters Company] commander (Kevin Ryan) were about five minutes down the road. We were listening to them talk back and forth on the net as we rolled down the very familiar road.

"IED! IED!" Kevin Ryan yelled on the net.

Boom! The IED exploded, hitting one of the scout Humvees. The chaotic chatter of the net heats up as everyone attempts to gain situational awareness. Roy, the S-3, starts directing traffic, and they start firing H&I [harassing and interdicting] fires in the direction of the wires heading south. No real targets but the bad guys are over there, and they won't fight if we
are shooting.


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"Eagle 3, I'm two minutes away with a Bradley-friendlies on the road," I report.

"Roger. We are shooting coax [the vehicle's coaxially mounted machine gun] to the south," he excitedly reports.

"Anyone injured?"

"Scouts have two down, two down," he rapidly reports.

We get on the scene and establish security. They are calling for a medic; they'll just have to settle for my rudimentary EMT skills for now. The S-3 calls in the medevac bird. I get the CLS bag and start directing the buddy aide. The gunner on the scout Humvee has a dime-size hole deep into his lower back below the vest. I roll him onto his stomach and start treating him. His pants are blood soaked, but he is conscious. I put on surgical gloves, bandage him, and get someone over to keep talking to him, monitor his breathing, and check for bleeding. The guy is pissed, so I know that's good. He tells me that he can't feel his right leg. I grab it hard, and he curses.

"Yeah, you're gonna be okay," I reassure him.

"But I can't move my leg."

"Don't try to move them-so long as you can feel them, you're good. You're gonna be lying down for awhile anyways. Where are you from?"

"Tacoma."

"No kidding. Well, drink a beer at Jillian's (a popular Ranger hangout) for me when you get there," I say.

He laughs ... he just turned twenty-one. I move over to the other casualty. He is sitting in the Humvee. Conscious, but his face is full of glass and covered in blood and his eye is swollen shut.

"Give me a thumbs up," I say. He does, good. He can talk but it hurts him bad. I bandaged his face-just threw the bandage on there and then started secondary survey. He has small shrapnel wounds in both his legs. I bandage those and head back to the other patient and conduct a secondary survey


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on him. He has some other small shrapnel wounds that we start to bandage while they put the IV in. I yell to increase security and then go find the S-3 to argue to conduct ground evacuation. The helicopter is already in the air, so we go by air ... that's the rule. This is the part that sucks ... waiting for the helicopter to get there. There is really nothing more we can do besides treat for shock and manage the fluids, bleeding, and IV.

Our battalion physician's assistant arrives shortly on the scene. He was an SF [Special Forces] medic in Vietnam ... he's seen this before. He comes up to me and asks me my assessment. I give him the report of the injuries and what I did to treat them, and he just looks at me and says, "Good job." Nothing more we can do out in the dark. We pass the flashlight around and he looks at the wound and dressings. About that time, I hear the helicopter coming. I get over on the radio and have someone key the mike for me so I can talk without getting blood all over the hand mike. Pretty comical scenario. I directed the bird in, but, of course, they brown out [lose visibility because of dust listed by the rotor blades] ... twice.

Finally, they land 100 meters up the road from us. I launched one of the engineer tracks forward to help us with security. We have only one stretcher (all vehicles now carry stretchers), so we have to buddy-carry the guy with the face wound. I run down the road and talk to the medevac medics as they bring the guys forward. Total chaos loading the face guy onto the bird with the helicopter blades spinning and dust everywhere. Everyone was yelling too. The bird took off, and we recovered the Humvee to the engineer TOC. I put the Bradley up front and told him to run over anything in the road ... just flatten it with the track. You have to go Bradley up front these days. The ride back proved uneventful, but our paranoia and frustration proved high. I was pissed. Why don't these guys fight us straight up? I, of course, know the answer to that, but it still doesn't stop me from wanting to just tear this country apart some days. My mood toward these people is so sinusoidal. They are almost as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde as me.

Fortunately, I think those guys are going to be all right. Life expectancy was never an issue, but damage management will be. Funny, but I would have been in that convoy if I hadn't stayed to tell a story about Josh Byers-and yesterday was my first day with my new religious medallions. "Hey Holcomb, you screwed me ... we should have gone Highway 1."


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18 August: Time is flying by. I thought I would have a couple easy days following the IED. It turns out the facial injury was way more serious than I thought. He nearly died due to brain swelling. But he is doing well now and no real brain damage. I screwed that diagnosis up. I got into a decent routine with PT and all, and no one was lobbing rounds at Anaconda.

The only excitement we had was an ambush on the TAC along Route 1. They hit Roy's Bradley with an RPG; it must have been an improved one because it penetrated to the turret. Fortunately, the halon [fire extinguisher] bottles blew and contained the whole thing. The Brad drove away from the attack-with a hole in the side and some lucky guys on board. The insurgents opened up with AK-47s and injured two scouts in their Humvees (flesh wounds to the neck and through the leg). Yeah, I don't roll in the Humvee anymore. They got the attack helicopters up and blasted some insurgents. Unfortunately, you just don't know if you got them all. The S-3's Bradley lost internal commo, so the driver just floored it out of the kill zone. Unfortunately, if he had stayed they could have totally annihilated those jackasses. Better to err on the side of caution and luckily no one got killed ... Americans, that is. We just keep HE punched up nowadays, and we shoot at known and suspected enemy locations with 25-mm. It's easy to shoot once you've broken the seal. Recon by fire authorized and encouraged. If nothing else, they are in violation of the curfew. Fortunately, my sector already understands the heavy-handed tactics, and the sheik cooperates with old Sadiki Bob.

20 August: We got another Q36 hit-at 1130. Great, it's quite temperate at that time. We rolled up to check it out. Had to drive back down some Mogadishu-like streets, and we got stuck pulling an Austin Powers-type turnaround maneuver. The Bradley went into this small ditch, and the driver revved it to get out. Yeah, we smacked a tractor ... hard. The neighborhood erupted with screaming women and men. You would have thought we ran one of them over. I got down and implemented my mob-mitigation techniques. I gave them a claims ticket and told them to go to the base. That won't work, but it bought me some time to get some money from the commander's discretionary fund. I worked that issue with battalion as we continued to search at a dry hole for the mortar-so frustrating. I seem to communicate much better after my eleven-day Arabic crash course. They at least enjoy my efforts. Unfortunately, the only person that spoke English in the crowd was a Kurdish woman who did not speak Arabic. She looked like something straight out of Arabian Nights. Of course, we found no howen


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there. We rolled on back after near heat casualty status and returned at night to look some more. The Tigris terrain and heat proves absolutely brutal.

The next day we kind of chilled out and waited to go meet General [Peter J.] Schoomaker, the Army chief of staff. We are getting inundated with the big whigs as of late. I guess they like all our stories and ever-growing arsenal. The visit proved uneventful, and we did get steaks for dinner. Put on the show. No peas and carrots with potatoes au gratin like we had for the past ten days. So I did get a steak and a fully functioning MP3 player out of the deal. We patrolled the area with the IED en route back. They don't screw with a platoon of Bradleys ... especially since we are just waiting for an excuse to lob rounds down range. The engineers were patrolling that AO too (it belongs to them), but we always like working with them. "The Giant" (Eric Paliwoda) and I get along real well. We got back to the CP about 0100-no issues.

21 August: "What time is it?" I ask.

"0500, sir."

"They really don't want me to sleep, do they?"

"No sir, I guess not-here go the grids."

Sergeant Smith hands me a piece of paper with five Q36 hits fired simultaneously on AanacConda. We roll out the gate fifteen minutes later. It's a 45-minute drive to the north side, so we give the grids and Frago over the radio. Fortunately, the BRT and engineers are working the AO as well; they are located much closer. We get down to the river, and I walk to the ten-digit grid. About five minutes later, the platoon I am with finds a mortar bipod. We go down by the river and see some broken reeds along the bank. Crazy Harrell tells me he thinks he sees the tube in the water.

"Well Harrell, you know either you or I have to swim for it."

"Yeah sir, that water is looking pretty nasty."

"Yeah Harrell, that's why I'm thinking it's gonna be you swimming for it."

Harrell laughs, and we move on looking for a stick or something to fish out the plastic-not believing that there is a tube in there. I come back a minute


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later and Harrell is soaking wet and covered in nasty mud, grinning ear to ear with an 82-mm. mortar tube. Sweet! The XO and I carry it out. That's the deal. If they find the tube, we have to carry the whole thing out. Fortunately, it isn't far. We load up triumphantly and head out to the other grid assigned to us. Red Platoon is working the area. We make a couple wisecracks about them taking too long to find the mortar. We get on the ground and head toward the search grid. It's starting to get hot, so we move fast. We are on the scene about ten minutes when Red Platoon strikes gold. We get the ever-elusive 120-mm. mortar, an 82-mm. mortar, and a cache of rounds-with the leftover casings from the fired rounds. Victory!

"Hey sir, you and the XO are still gonna carry all this stuff, right?" one of the privates asks.

The XO looks at me incredulously, and I shake my head. There is a reason they affectionately call that mortar the "big bitch." It's not really portable by man, especially in this terrain. We drag it out to a trail, but there is no way a Bradley could fit down that trail. I called for a security element, and we walked into the town.

"Ayna Abu?" I ask the kid for his dad.

"Abu fil Beit." He points to his house.

"Ed her lee Abu." I tell the kid to take me there.

The father and I go back and forth on the usage of his truck in Arabic, but finally he is convinced to let me borrow it to move the mortars-I had to threaten his chickens, though (limited conversational skills and all). The XO rides up front with the dad, and we ride in the bed with Abu driving. Of course, the thing has no brakes and the kids are all running behind us. Hilarious scene. We load the howens and move them out to Sadiki Bob's debaba (tank). We then move to the engineer CP and await the formation of the sheik council to talk about the mortar problem with the brigade commander. We found all of the mortars this morning-six in total. This is huge!

22 August: I have to go to all the sheik council meetings now ... colossal waste of time. The sheiks love teaching me Arabic and showering man-kisses upon us ... that's easier for them than rebuilding their country, I guess. The meeting ends with everyone in agreement to meet again and fully cooperate


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with coalition forces. We have a never-ending circle of cooperation that leads nowhere. I finally arrived at the TOC for the Annual Training Guidance and drink about twelve Fantas to stay awake. We are going to start doing platoon live-fires in October, so battalion laid out the glide path to get us there. Unfortunately, mission requirements will dictate the schedule. This war interferes with everything.

The meeting broke up, and we headed back to the CP. I had to drop off $100 in Tu-Pac for the smashed tractor. That represents about two years' worth of their gross national product. We speak for awhile with the locals and finally have them sign for the money. Of course, now they want $500 and are pissed off about the busted tractor that probably never worked to begin with. We argue for awhile and then he asks me to dinner and tea ... crazy. I decline, and we head out. I look back and they are stoked about all that money. Figures. They are such a society of bargainers. All the men in the town were scowling at us, so I used my new tactic of throwing candy to the kids. They go bonkers and love Americans. It causes the men to get pissed at the kids and smack them around; but candy outweighs the beatings, and the kids love us, which drives the Arab male ego wild. Pound sand. I finally get back to the CP and get to listen to my new MP3 player ... what a day. Now the battalion TOC is getting mortared-their first time. Can't believe those a-holes will shoot into their own city with such an indiscriminate weapons system. Hopefully, I'll get to stay in my bunker tonight.

25 August: Well, just when you thought you've seen it all ... someone does something even more incredibly stupid. Two nights ago the RTO woke me up and told me Datray and Cobb were safe (two of our chapter cases-soldiers kicked out of the Army for discipline problems). That's great; were they in danger? I don't know. Yeah, they are at Animal CP (A/1-68 AR). They were supposed to be on the CSM detail at the TOC for extra duty. How the hell did they get down to A/1-68 AR? Turns out, after they finished their detail, they walked out of the battalion TOC's wire, hijacked an Iraqi car at gunpoint, bought some whiskey, and started driving south. Driving through the Sunni Triangle with a tank of gas, one M16, a Caprice Classic (no brakes), and three bottles of whiskey is definitely worthy of the Darwin award.

Apparently, these geniuses decided to head south and catch the next plane to America. I guess the hamster upstairs stopped turning for a little while, and they thought they could just go AWOL ... something they had done


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before. No one informed them about the war going on in their vicinity or the difficulty of getting a plane ticket! They also forgot to get a map prior to heading out on their excursion. The battalion TOC had no idea they were gone until 1-68 AR called up. They fired warning shots at a car that tried to run their checkpoint ... since it didn't have fully functioning brakes. Luckily, they identified the DCUs as they came by. We got them back the next morning and detained them in our little jail cell. They spent a bad afternoon with us prior to shipping them up to brigade. I got to deal with the Iraqi whose car they had stolen the day before. Of course, he proved a pathological liar, and it made for a very interesting sworn statement. It should be a fascinating court-martial.