The Ground Offensive in Iraq sucked. To be fair, every deployment to Iraq sucked, but the Ground Offensive of Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF 1) was a special kind of misery which can easily be summed up in a single phrase – we had to burn our shit using diesel fuel.
Iraq Rolls out the Red Carpet
There were no places to shower, poop, wash laundry, or touch myself inappropriately. As an additional perk, we had to wear Mission-Oriented Protective Posture (MOPP) Gear, which was meant to save us when Saddam inevitably launched chemical and biological weapons at us. In total, the Ground Offensive lasted 21 days before the Saddam regime collapsed, culminating with the huge statue of Saddam being toppled in Baghdad. 21 days later, George W. Bush stood on a Navy ship with a banner stating “Mission Accomplished” announcing the end of major combat operations. Those forty-two days showed the US military is an exceptional fighting force in the face of chaos.
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I sat on a red cargo net bench seat across from a forklift and a stack of caskets as the C-17 flew us from Kuwait to Tallil Air Base in Iraq. Our mission was to turn the newly captured base into an active airport to start the first airdrop supply route into Iraq. My job was to provide security. The intelligence brief prior to departure consisted of “be ready to be shot down, but if you land, there may be active fighting happening, so try not to shoot each other.” The plane flew accordingly, changing altitude constantly. Apparently, the pilots had a lot to live for.
The bombs over Nasiriyah were still going off when I exited the C-17 at the airbase 14 miles to its south. It was around midnight and exceptionally dark, which was odd given that planes were landing. We operated in dark, out conditions. It was impressive to see the forklift driver hop in the seat, put on his Night Vision Goggles (NVGs), and unload the plane in complete darkness.
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First Impressions
The plane took off, and it was silent except for my coughing. I’d made the executive decision to buy a Cuban cigar in Kuwait and smoke it the day prior, knowing we were going, which gave me a miserable cold. There were thirteen of us Air Force Security Forces members tasked with protecting the people who would start landing planes. We paired up to set a 360 perimeter. Mike and I had 12 0-clock (north) and made our way toward a beat-up backhoe parked on some dirt, which provided great cover and concealment.
I was four steps into the talcum powder dirt when Mike took his first step. He whisper-shouted, “Fuck this. I’m not walking on that. It could be land mined.” That thought hadn’t occurred to me until, but it sure as hell did as I tried to retrace my steps back to pavement. We decided to move into a fallout bunker that looked like a decapitated pyramid and settled in. It was cold. We unpacked our sleeping bags, snuggled into them with our arms hanging out the top, clutching our M16’s. Then we watched the fireworks exploding in Nasiriyah until the sun rose.
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To Your Battle Stations
Daylight meant it was time to work. We set up a huge tent while members of the Tanker Airlift Control Element (TALCE) established a mobile air traffic control center. It was impressive. More impressive were the tents they brought, which had air conditioning units, so we knew we’d be comfy on our cots when not working. Initially, we started to set up the tent next to an unexploded bomb, which I was fine with, but someone, apparently with a lot to live for, mentioned we should move away from it and mark it for Explosive Ordinance Disposal (EOD) to look at. EOD wasn’t there yet, so we used it as a direction marker – if you need to get to the command shack, go to the bomb, take a left, and it’s the small building to the south.
Everything calmed down after a couple of days. We built Defensive Fighting Positions around the TARMAC (the place where the trucks park to offload) to control traffic. You’d think people wouldn’t drive where a plane was landing, but you’d be wrong. On the 4th night, an Army convoy full of Iraqi Army prisoners tried to take a shortcut. I stopped them and gently explained that their truck was no match for the plane taxiing. They, rather rudely, explained they needed to get the prisoners to an EPW (Enemy Prisoner of War) camp.
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Babysitting the Enemy
We were at an impasse, so they unloaded the EPWs, set them down six feet apart, gave them a bottle of water, and left. These were my prisoners now, and I wasn’t sure what to do. I called it in and got some assistance, so there were three of us babysitting 20 EPW who had sandbags on their heads with duct tape over their eyes and zip-cuffed at the wrists and ankles. One of the EPW’s was making sounds like he was dying.
When the sun came up, someone arrived to pick up these gentlemen and drove them away. I entered our air-conditioned tent, took off my MoPP gear, and realized how bad I smelled. Chem gear is packed with charcoal, which absorbs chemical and biological weapons, but it also absorbs the smell of not showering for days. I took off my socks and undershirt and hung them to dry on a piece of 550 cord hanging over my cot. No washing machine meant we had to try to get a week out of every piece of clothing. When I woke, I grabbed my socks and shirt, which were folded over. Putting them on felt like putting on a newspaper. The sweat and stench clung to them like a remora, but once I put on my MoPP gear, it was gone. I was ready to go back to work.
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A Fast Paced War
The war moved so fast to Baghdad that it got really boring really fast at Tallil. A C-5 landed with an Army unit, which promptly jumped off the plane and set up a 360 perimeter. They set up artillery stakes where we’d been sitting for a week. I almost felt bad for them until I realized all they had to do was ask where to set up. We would’ve told them, “Hey, the base is secure. You don’t have to come in and take it over. By the way, stay away from where we’ve been shitting.” They left the next day, ready to fight the enemy with shit-stained uniforms. Total boss move.
On March 30th, a plane landed, and some huge dudes walked out of it. Then a small helicopter was unloaded. A random guy put the rotors on the helicopter during the day near my DFP. I talked to a husky guy for a couple of minutes who had no rank on his uniform, but he had an anchor tattoo on the inside of his wrist. I asked, “Navy, huh? You here to do a Village People concert for the troops?’ He refused to entertain my joke. The small helicopters took off that night and rescued Jessica Lynch. Not that I knew that. We didn’t get much news while stopping trucks from colliding with planes.
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Finish Your Chores
By April 1st, it was stifling hot during the day and cold at night, and we were restricted to drinking two liters of water per day. Eating MRE’s for two weeks made me wish for a real toilet. Alas, all we had was a make-shift out house with a fifty-gallon drum cut in half to accept our donations. The lowest-ranking man (me) got the unenviable task of moving and burning the remnants. Thankfully, one of the low-ranking airmen with the TALCE offered to do the poo burning for $20. Best money I ever spent paying that man to add diesel fuel to that swamp, don a chemical mask, and stir it with a post.
The lack of water and added “protection” of the MOPP gear – camo green in color to blend into our desert surroundings – made everyone edgy after a couple of days. Mike looked at me and said, “Save as much water as you can for the next day and stash it away.” After three days, Mike pulled me aside and had me bring the water to the bomb. I met him there, and he pulled out a bottle of Pert Plus. It was like an Herbal Essences commercial – we moaned as the shampoo bubbles ran down our faces, taking dirt and grime with them. Nothing to see here. Just a couple of bare-chested dudes washing their hair next to an unexploded ordinance (UXO), making orgasm sounds.
We walked into the tent, and everyone stopped and looked at us. SSG Potts said, “Who smells good?” I blushed a little and, with a wry smile, said: “We washed our hair.” I felt like the nerdy girl who turns hot in a teen rom-com. It was all anyone could talk about until we went to sleep.
The Iraq War Goes On
The night, smelling like fresh flowers, a plane unloaded a crate of M-16 rifles. Someone was going to pick them up, but no one knew who. I was so bored and agitated at this point that if Saddam had shown up asking for them, I wouldn’t have asked questions. My commander came over, noticed the huge crate, and sternly stated he wanted to see the person who had come to pick it up, as leaving weapons and ammo at a random location was a no-no. I sat on the crate until my ass fell asleep and my mind started racing. Thankfully, the sun rose, which was the highlight of my day; watching it engulf the horizon and slowly get smaller was majestic… until it got hot. I took a picture of it, hoping to capture the beauty.
The field next to me called me like a Siren called Odysseus. There was trash and clothes strewn about to explore. I kicked an old shirt around, which reminded me of my childhood, until I saw a handmade backpack. I kicked it, but it barely moved. My first thought was, ‘that’s a bomb, you idiot,’ so I had to look inside. I peeled back the top looking for wires, knowing it could blow up in my face. No wires, just a shit-ton of Iraq cash; purple with Saddam’s face on it. I was rich! I’d bring it home with me, cash it in, and buy an Audi TT Roadster I couldn’t fit in. I tucked it away and sat back on the crate. I was relieved when no one showed up to grab the guns and handed off that sweet obligation to the next guy.
The Long Flight Home
I don’t know how long I was in Iraq, but the Air Force has set up an air traffic control center, and we were going back to Germany – not sure if we’d be refitted and sent back or would be headed home. As we waited for our freedom bird, a casket, likely one we’d brought in with us, showed up. A fallen US service member would be going home with us.
The flight to Germany was long and sullen. We didn’t speak. I fell asleep on the flight next to the casket. After a refuel in Germany, we flew to Dover Air Force Base, where we were dropped off. The plane had one more stop after Dover Air Force Base, where the casket would be draped with a flag, and the service member would get a dignified transfer.
The Aftermath of War
The Iraq Ground Offensive was a shit show. I developed my film when I got home and tried to cash in my Iraqi cash. Much like the war, neither turned out the way I thought.
Like all wars, it was filled with boredom, hilarity, and somberness. I’m glad I got to experience it, but I wouldn’t want anyone else to. That’s the paradox of war – you can enjoy the hell out of it knowing the human toll isn’t worth it.