101 Days With The 101st Airborne Division: The Sequel (A follow up 2 yrs later Defend America News)

Bravo By Day, Bravo By Night January 17, 2008 It’s hard to remember when the day went from routine, almost boring, to unpredictable, even exciting. It’s hard to remember when we went from chatting up the locals in town to staring at piles of dirt in the desert. I know we got back to the base at about 11:00 pm. I know I hadn’t peed since 8:30 am. I had eaten an Otis Spunkmeyer muffin around lunchtime, figuring that would hold me until dinner. But then dinner turned out to be goldfish crackers and the hard candy that is kept in the humvee to hand out to the local kids. The Day We left FOB (Forward Operating Base) Summerall, home of the 1st Battalion of the 101st Airborne Division’s 1st Brigade, at about 10:00 am. Captain Aaron Billingsley, commanding officer of the 1st Battalion’s Bravo Company, had a number of stops he wanted to make. First up: an Iraqi-manned checkpoint. Everyone who passes through has to show an identification card, which is checked against a list of bad people. Suspicious vehicles are searched. The checkpoint is as effective as the Iraqis who run it, which is why the American soldiers continue to make stops here. Or maybe they stop to visit with three puppies who live at the checkpoint in a small tent the soldiers set up for them. Next we visited an area where snipers targeting the checkpoint we had just left were rumored to be located. Residents were questioned. Children gathered. A herd of sheep wandered past the parked humvees. Garbage and raw sewage had collected at the end of the street, and whenever the wind picked up conversation became difficult. More difficult. No one knew anything about any snipers; there were no bad people living among them. Everyone begins to seem as though he or she knows something but has made the choice to remain silent, not just in this neighborhood, but wherever the soldiers get out of their trucks in this country. The people may be afraid or they may be working with the enemy; either way, the silence works against us. We got back in the trucks, and I was hungry but didn’t want to eat my muffin with the smell of waste still hanging in the air. We made our way to another neighborhood, this time to scout out locations for a future Iraqi police station. One house seemed perfectly situated, but the woman who owned the property said she wasn’t interested in selling it. She said her husband had died and she wanted to hold onto the property for her children and as a way to remember him. It’s possible she was telling the truth, but one of our interpreters said she didn’t want to sell the property to the Americans because that would get her killed. The day was not shaping up to be one rich in rewards, but the sun was still high in the sky. We pulled into a large vacant field where a CLC (Concerned Local Citizen) guard perched on a ridge with his AK-47. The field seemed free of waste, so I pulled out my muffin, which had been crushed under the weight of my protective vest, and tried get the majority of the crumbs into my mouth. We had not been there long when the sound of an explosion turned our heads. Over the radio, the soldiers were notified that two men were seen fleeing a distant location. The timing made it look like they might be responsible for the round fired in our direction. The convoy sped off in pursuit of the men. We arrived in an area that was mostly desert, and mostly deserted. A truck containing two men approached us, and it was immediately stopped, the men searched. There was nothing to tie them to the attempted attack, but they were detained for the time being. Meanwhile, there was activity in a small cluster of mud houses nearby, so some of the soldiers were dispatched to investigate. At a glance, the dry, dusty landscape revealed nothing but old irrigation ditches, occasionally marked by tire tracks. There appeared to be no means of sustaining life, and yet there was life. There were people in at least some of the mud huts scattered randomly along the makeshift roads, and there was traffic. Most of the country is desert, and increasingly the desert is becoming an area of interest to the soldiers, an area where things can be hidden, an area so vast, a needle in a haystack doesn’t begin to describe it. Undaunted, the soldiers began searching outlying huts, mounds of dirt, dug out ruts, and their efforts began to pay off. A triggering device, two lengths of pipe and a few sandbags--equipment that could be used to set off rockets--rested on top of the sand as if recently abandoned. Outside an empty hut, our interpreter, George, stumbled upon two IEDs made out of oil cans. As if possessed with a magical talent, George discovered three large bags of explosive materials, possibly wired to explode, in a second hut. And later he sniffed out what appeared to be a mine in a defunct well. We came upon another CLC guard, presiding over an expanse of dirt much like the first one, and shortly thereafter other CLC members arrived in a small white pick-up truck. Originally organized by local sheiks as an additional layer of security for their communities, CLC groups are now under contract with the United States, but still managed by the sheiks who have taken it upon themselves to curb the violence, theoretically. As with any other group in charge of security in an area where the stakes are high, there is room for corruption. But the men who got out of the truck seemed friendly and happy to talk with us. They got back in their truck to manage traffic while our search continued, and as soon as they were out of sight, we heard an explosion. It seemed certain their truck had been hit. Braced for the worst, we piled into our vehicles and raced toward the little white truck. Miraculously, they were okay. Standing by the truck smiling, they gestured toward the damage. Large holes had been punched in the door, but amazingly the shrapnel had gone no further. Did they have any idea how lucky they were? A remote control device was retrieved from the dirt, which meant someone had been there to set off the IED; someone had targeted the CLC truck. The triggerman was nowhere in sight, but a couple of vehicles were heading out of the area, so we loaded up again and went to stop them. Hitting speeds perhaps not recommended for armored vehicles in a desert landscape, at one point our humvee lurched forward and everything went black for a second. We recovered and managed to catch the vehicles before they reached the main road, but once again, the soldiers could find nothing to connect the people in either car to the IED that hit the truck. It was difficult to keep track of what had happened where. Every pile of dirt looked the same. Footsteps and tire tracks, like the men responsible for the explosives, could vanish in the wind. But at least we had uncovered some of the tools of their dark trade before they had done any damage.

Bravo By Day, Bravo By Night

January 17, 2008

It’s hard to remember when the day went from routine, almost boring, to unpredictable, even exciting. It’s hard to remember when we went from chatting up the locals in town to staring at piles of dirt in the desert. I know we got back to the base at about 11:00 pm. I know I hadn’t peed since 8:30 am. I had eaten an Otis Spunkmeyer muffin around lunchtime, figuring that would hold me until dinner. But then dinner turned out to be goldfish crackers and the hard candy that is kept in the humvee to hand out to the local kids.

The Day

We left FOB (Forward Operating Base) Summerall, home of the 1st Battalion of the 101st Airborne Division’s 1st Brigade, at about 10:00 am. Captain Aaron Billingsley, commanding officer of the 1st Battalion’s Bravo Company, had a number of stops he wanted to make. First up: an Iraqi-manned checkpoint. Everyone who passes through has to show an identification card, which is checked against a list of bad people. Suspicious vehicles are searched. The checkpoint is as effective as the Iraqis who run it, which is why the American soldiers continue to make stops here. Or maybe they stop to visit with three puppies who live at the checkpoint in a small tent the soldiers set up for them.

Next we visited an area where snipers targeting the checkpoint we had just left were rumored to be located.

Residents were questioned. Children gathered. A herd of sheep wandered past the parked humvees. Garbage and raw sewage had collected at the end of the street, and whenever the wind picked up conversation became difficult. More difficult. No one knew anything about any snipers; there were no bad people living among them.

Everyone begins to seem as though he or she knows something but has made the choice to remain silent, not just in this neighborhood, but wherever the soldiers get out of their trucks in this country. The people may be afraid or they may be working with the enemy; either way, the silence works against us.

We got back in the trucks, and I was hungry but didn’t want to eat my muffin with the smell of waste still hanging in the air. We made our way to another neighborhood, this time to scout out locations for a future Iraqi police station. One house seemed perfectly situated, but the woman who owned the property said she wasn’t interested in selling it. She said her husband had died and she wanted to hold onto the property for her children and as a way to remember him. It’s possible she was telling the truth, but one of our interpreters said she didn’t want to sell the property to the Americans because that would get her killed.

The day was not shaping up to be one rich in rewards, but the sun was still high in the sky. We pulled into a large vacant field where a CLC (Concerned Local Citizen) guard perched on a ridge with his AK-47. The field seemed free of waste, so I pulled out my muffin, which had been crushed under the weight of my protective vest, and tried get the majority of the crumbs into my mouth. We had not been there long when the sound of an explosion turned our heads. Over the radio, the soldiers were notified that two men were seen fleeing a distant location. The timing made it look like they might be responsible for the round fired in our direction.

The convoy sped off in pursuit of the men. We arrived in an area that was mostly desert, and mostly deserted. A truck containing two men approached us, and it was immediately stopped, the men searched. There was nothing to tie them to the attempted attack, but they were detained for the time being. Meanwhile, there was activity in a small cluster of mud houses nearby, so some of the soldiers were dispatched to investigate.

At a glance, the dry, dusty landscape revealed nothing but old irrigation ditches, occasionally marked by tire tracks. There appeared to be no means of sustaining life, and yet there was life. There were people in at least some of the mud huts scattered randomly along the makeshift roads, and there was traffic. Most of the country is desert, and increasingly the desert is becoming an area of interest to the soldiers, an area where things can be hidden, an area so vast, a needle in a haystack doesn’t begin to describe it.

Undaunted, the soldiers began searching outlying huts, mounds of dirt, dug out ruts, and their efforts began to pay off. A triggering device, two lengths of pipe and a few sandbags—equipment that could be used to set off rockets—rested on top of the sand as if recently abandoned.

Outside an empty hut, our interpreter, George, stumbled upon two IEDs made out of oil cans. As if possessed with a magical talent, George discovered three large bags of explosive materials, possibly wired to explode, in a second hut. And later he sniffed out what appeared to be a mine in a defunct well.

We came upon another CLC guard, presiding over an expanse of dirt much like the first one, and shortly thereafter other CLC members arrived in a small white pick-up truck. Originally organized by local sheiks as an additional layer of security for their communities, CLC groups are now under contract with the United States, but still managed by the sheiks who have taken it upon themselves to curb the violence, theoretically.

As with any other group in charge of security in an area where the stakes are high, there is room for corruption. But the men who got out of the truck seemed friendly and happy to talk with us. They got back in their truck to manage traffic while our search continued, and as soon as they were out of sight, we heard an explosion. It seemed certain their truck had been hit.

Braced for the worst, we piled into our vehicles and raced toward the little white truck. Miraculously, they were okay. Standing by the truck smiling, they gestured toward the damage. Large holes had been punched in the door, but amazingly the shrapnel had gone no further. Did they have any idea how lucky they were?

A remote control device was retrieved from the dirt, which meant someone had been there to set off the IED; someone had targeted the CLC truck. The triggerman was nowhere in sight, but a couple of vehicles were heading out of the area, so we loaded up again and went to stop them. Hitting speeds perhaps not recommended for armored vehicles in a desert landscape, at one point our humvee lurched forward and everything went black for a second. We recovered and managed to catch the vehicles before they reached the main road, but once again, the soldiers could find nothing to connect the people in either car to the IED that hit the truck.

It was difficult to keep track of what had happened where. Every pile of dirt looked the same. Footsteps and tire tracks, like the men responsible for the explosives, could vanish in the wind. But at least we had uncovered some of the tools of their dark trade before they had done any damage.

The Night

Aaron had called in the discoveries made in the desert. Any explosive material is usually detonated by the EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) team in the area where it is found. Under the circumstances, Aaron thought the mud huts, which were obviously used for making or storing bombs and nothing else, should be destroyed also. He made his recommendation to the 1st Battalion headquarters, and we sat patiently in the trucks awaiting their response.

Everyone was hungry but it did no good to dwell on it because we knew we had a long night ahead of us.
The EOD team was being sent out with a convoy from Delta Company, and if any or all of the huts were to be destroyed, that meant waiting for F-16s too, which would drop the bombs.

Finally the EOD team arrived, and sent out a robot to investigate the IEDs made out of oil cans. Once the team had confirmed that they were in fact IEDs, they proceeded to the next step, the fun part: the explosion. We had a front row seat, and there is something satisfying about a controlled blast.

Meanwhile, we were losing daylight and patience. The fate of the huts was debated. The EOD team made its way to the building that contained the bags of wired explosives. The men back at the Battalion explained over the radio that while they thought it made sense to blow up the handful of empty huts, the Brigade thought it might be better to wait.

Oblivious to this discussion, the robot went about his business of inspection. The EOD team thought rather than setting off this batch of explosives, it would be better to just blow up the hut, so that was one more vote for dropping bombs. All the while, we sat in the trucks as if at a drive-in movie that had plenty of action but also many frustrating lulls. And no refreshments except hard candy and goldfish crackers.

The F-16s had been summoned, but had not arrived yet, so the EOD team went to take care of the mine George had found. With all of their housekeeping done, all that was left to do was watch a bomb drop.

Hours had managed to pass since Aaron first reported the situation to the Battalion. The trucks huddled in the darkness, full of cranky soldiers who had run out of cigarettes and snacks, and a reporter who was glad she hadn’t drunk a lot of water during the day. Finally, the air above our heads pounded with the sound of the F-16s.

The F-16s had been given the location of the hut to be bombed, but in the darkness, in an area where everything looks like everything else, they couldn’t find it. We watched and waited, the soldiers flashing every sort of light they had in the direction of the hut, but nothing was working. The driver of my vehicle, Mike Fuemmeler, couldn’t take it anymore, and got out of the humvee, ran to the hut, and threw two chem-lites (small, glowing sticks) on the roof of the building. Moments later, the F-16s signaled that they had spotted the target. Everyone following the action rolled their eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.

We had been granted permission to bomb a second hut, the one where the two IEDs had been found, so it appeared the evening would be ending with a bang, and then another bang. After several minutes, the first bomb made contact, and it resulted in a nice explosion, but not as big as we had hoped or expected. We left the viewing area and drove down to the site expecting to see a pile of rubble where the hut had been. But somehow only part of the hut had destroyed, so we went back to the viewing area and waited for the sequel.

The second explosion was louder, more convincing, and did enough damage that we didn’t have to worry about the hut or the explosives it contained anymore. The second hut proved somewhat challenging to the F-16s too. One bomb landed on the ground behind the hut, but the second reached its target, and we enjoyed another satisfying explosion.

Nevertheless, the show had gone on long enough, and we were anxious to get home.

It had been a day longer than most. But the soldiers don’t receive a special medal for working fourteen hours plus. They don’t get time and a half. And they don’t get to sleep in the next day like I did. Most days are not so eventful or so long, but it is gratifying to see the soldiers’ persistence pay off. Maybe the people they spoke with throughout the day did nothing but delay their progress, but when faced with the desolate desert landscape, the soldiers of Bravo Company dug their heels in and found things when it looked like there was nothing to find. The show we were treated to at the end of the night was a Bravo Company production. With a little help from an interpreter named George.

shelbymonroe@gmail.com

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