‘Don’t be surprised if the
soldiers use no compassion at all’
Anatomy of a night raid on Balad, Iraq
By Ben Granby
Feb. 22 — Mohammed offered me a cigarette. I wasn’t
about to refuse. I don’t normally smoke, and a choked a little
after inhaling. Then the nicotine seared through my veins. I Relaxed.
I was suited up to join Alpha “Attack” company on a night
time mission in a neighborhood just outside of Balad, and beyond. Ranger-trained
Capt. Matthew Cunningham, 29, had insisted that I don camouflage grease
paint so that I might join him and his squad in infiltrating a farm
community from the rear. The captain looked the part of a ranger: lean,
stern, determined, and focused, yet I had found him to be quite congenial
when things weren’t so serious. The objective this night of Feb.
11 was the capture of one man, Fawzi Younis (nicknamed “Fuzzy Anus”
by the troops), deemed responsible for funding and or directing mortar
attacks on the 1-8th’s Tactical Operation Center.
Lt. Goldman led me in to the Bradley. He called out to the driver, “I
only printed up three detainee forms, so if we get any others I guess
we’ll have to shoot them.” He waited a bit and then remembered
that I was standing behind him. “I was only joking, of course!”
The Bradley’s loading door sealed shut with myself, the sergeant
and Mohammed the translator in the rear. As we rumbled on, tossing us
about inside, Lt. Goldman explained a few things. “These sorts
of missions are always hard. Don’t be surprised if the soldiers
use no compassion at all,” he explained. “I’ve only been
with the unit for a couple weeks, so it’s still hard on me to watch.
Women and children will be crying, and hey, we are waking them up at
midnight and taking their husbands and sons away. I don’t even
know how to explain it to my wife.”
Some thirty soldiers were to participate. I would hang by the commanding
officer, Capt. Cunningham with an infiltration squad. Another squad
would circle around to the front of the homes as we cut off any rear
escape. The Bradleys would then circle around and position the front
for a quick extraction. The plan was to detain all males in and around
the Younis home to find the suspect.
We dismounted as a whole and split up in the darkness. I followed the
soldiers down a few main roads. The only light came from a few homes
and garages. Yet again the dogs howled and barked as we passed by. We
moved in relative silence, the soldiers relying on their night vision
to scope out routes through dirt and gravel. Finally we came upon a
large fenced orchard and slid off the road.
We trudged for a good half-mile through twists and turns of bramble,
trees and irrigation ditches. At times the captain would pause to check
his Global Positioning Satellite unit for a precise location fix. After
an arduous journey, we finally settled into a ditch about 200 meters
in front of the first target home amid a large orchard. Then it was
a waiting game.
The dogs throughout the area continued to bark loudly. As they abated
the other sounds of the night picked up. Eerie screams and yowls broke
through the air.
They turned into a cacophony of banshee cries. I took them to be stray
cats, caterwauling in choruses, but it was of a pitch and degree I had
never heard before. Then some of the dogs began to howl. The three-quarters
moon broke through the cloud cover and cast dancing lights through the
trees. It felt like the perfect Halloween setting. I looked to my left
at Capt. Cunningham in full camouflage gear, laying in the irrigation
ditch with his M-4 at the ready and his eyes focused through his night-goggles.
It was a heavily armed Halloween.
After almost 45 minutes of waiting in total silence (and having been
awake for 16 hours with only 4 hours of sleep the day before, myself
drifting in and out of sleep), we finally heard loud bangs of metal.
The captain turned to me. “The first objective,” he whispered.
“They’re breaching the first objective.” Soon enough
the heavy roar of the Bradleys broke through the night as the vehicles
moved into position outside the neighborhood’s homes. Then we moved
in. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I began running through the
field and towards the homes. I had seen recordings of raids done in
urban areas and I didn’t think I would ever have the heart to participate.
But as the soldiers began entering the homes, I just followed, running
behind. I let my camera do my thinking (which wasn’t doing to much
in the total darkness).
Bam! Bam! “Go, go, go!” We poured through a gate and ran across
a short courtyard. Bam! The double metal doors of the house were smashed
open. Immediately women began crying. We passed a small foyer and found
two elderly women and one old man startled as the lights were flicked
on. The soldiers poured through the house, fanning out to all rooms
and looking for other people. “Friendly going upstairs!” “Upstairs
clear!” “Friendly coming out!” The old man was taken
from his home as the women followed, crying out. The soldiers moved
on. “What about the house across the street?” “Blue 6
has it.” “We’ve still got this big one over here.”
“Let’s go!”
Again I followed the unit, this time around a large brick wall and over
to the front of the farmhouse. A few swift kicks to the gate. A dash
to the front of the house. Splitting up to enter all visible doors simultaneously.
Running into the home amid cries.
As I entered a darkened hallway I came across seven young girls and
boys. One young girl, no older than 10, with large glasses and a tan
hejab, kept her hands raised in the air. I had never before seen a child
do such a thing. They all wore fear deep on their faces. The males,
children and adults alike, were brought outside in a line up. The youngest
two were released, but all others from about fourteen and up were cuffed
and brought out to the Bradleys down the road. Running out the back,
the women tried to follow, sobbing. I looked back briefly. I couldn’t
stare long. I began to well up myself, realizing that these people had
no clue what was going on. Even though the men would likely be released
in a matter of minutes, it was still a terror for the women and children
to see their fathers, sons and husbands torn from them by a legion of
masked men.
Here, in front of a home, some twenty-five men, all bound by flex-cuffs,
were lined up for identification as Mohammed took down their names.
Once it was determined that Fawzi Younis was not among the detainees,
the captain ordered the restraints to be cut. He then addressed them,
with Mohammed translating. The detainees voluntarily moved to their
knees with their hands in their laps. They still looked bewildered and
frightened.
“Thank you for participating in tonight’s roundup,” he
began. “You know who we are looking for and we will not have to
do this anymore if you help us. We know you know who is attacking Americans,
and we need you to come forward.” The fluorescent light glistened
against the grease paint on his face.
One man stood up and asked the Captain what the people of the village
could do if they didn’t know who was firing the mortars. Capt.
Cunningham was curt. “They are firing from your fields. You cannot
sit inside and let it happen. I want you to be proactive. I want you
to go out and find out who these people are and come tell us. Otherwise
we will continue to come at night and ask.” There was nothing more
he could do here. “Ok, you are going to stay sitting here until
we have left the area.”
And with that, in a matter of seconds all thirty soldiers had boarded
the APC’s and we were off.
As our Bradley lurched forward and we headed back to the base, Lt. Goldman
broke the silence. “Well, that was fucking worthless.”
Ben Granby is a freelance reporter in Iraq.
Source: Counterpunch
