Ghost Riders of Baghdad

  GHOST RIDERS OF

  BAGHDAD

  SOLDIERS, CIVILIANS, AND THE MYTH OF THE SURGE

  DANIEL A. SJURSEN

  ForeEdge

  ForeEdge

  An imprint of University Press of New England

  www.upne.com

  © 2015 Daniel A. Sjursen

  All rights reserved

  The views expressed are those of the author alone, and do not reflect the official policy or position of the U.S. Army, Department of Defense, or the U.S. Government.

  For permission to reproduce any of the material in this book, contact Permissions, University Press of New England, One Court Street, Suite 250, Lebanon NH 03766; or visit www.upne.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Sjursen, Daniel A.

  Ghost riders of Baghdad : soldiers, civilians, and the myth of the surge / Daniel A. Sjursen.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-61168-781-1 (cloth : alk. paper)—

  ISBN 978-1-61168-827-6 (ebook)

  1. Sjursen, Daniel A. 2. Iraq War, 2003–2011—Campaigns—Iraq—Baghdad. 3. United States. Army—Officers—Biography. 4. United States. Army. Cavalry Regiment, 61st. Squadron, 3rd. 5. Iraq—Politics and government—21st century. 6. Iraq War, 2003–2011—Personal narratives, American. I. Title. II. Title: Soldiers, civilians, and the myth of the surge.

  DS79.764.B35S58 2015

  956.7044′342—dc23 2015012184

  For my son,

  ALEXANDER JAMES MICHAEL SJURSEN (AJ)

  Life, to be sure,

  Is nothing much to lose;

  But young men think it is,

  And we were young.

  — A. E. HOUSMAN

  I know we’re not saints or virgins or lunatics; we know all the lust and lavatory jokes, and most of the dirty people; we can catch buses and count our change and cross the roads and talk real sentences. But our innocence goes awfully deep, and our discreditable secret is that we don’t know anything at all, and our horrid inner secret is that we don’t care that we don’t.

  — DYLAN THOMAS

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  PREFACE: “No Shit, There We Were”: Salman Pak Backstory

  1ENTER THE “GHOST RIDERS”: 2nd Platoon, B/3-61 CAV

  2CITIZENSHIP AND SACRIFICE: Reflections on Military Service

  3LIFE AS A COUNTDOWN: Drinking, Training, and Otherwise Getting By

  4DOING MORE WITH LESS

  5“THESE DUDES ARE TRYING TO Kill US”

  6INDISPENSABLE FRIENDS: Mark and the Interpreters

  7BREAKING POINT: Fear, Loss, and Defeat

  8SUNNI VERSUS SHIA: The Anatomy of Sectarian Civil War

  9USHERING IN THE “SURGE”: Farewell Mada’in, Hello Baghdad

  10TROOP SHORTAGE, TROOP SURGE: Good People, Bad Advice

  11A NIGHT TO REMEMBER

  12SHOUTING AT LINDSEY GRAHAM

  13STAGGERING TO THE FINISH LINE: Aftermath in a Shattered Platoon

  14DISAPPOINTING PATHS: Iraq, Seven Years On

  15WAR IN THE REARVIEW: On Life after Iraq

  CODA: The Power of Memory

  List of Acronyms and Abbreviations

  Notes

  Index

  Illustrations

  Acknowledgments

  The very concept of an acknowledgments section makes me uncomfortable. It just seems an exercise in self-promotion and a recipe for trouble. Inevitably I will leave someone very important out, and for that I apologize up front. With that said, first off, I’d like to thank Marlboro brand cigarettes and Skoal Mint Dip, without which none of what follows would have been remotely tolerable. I’m skeptical of the idea that the important people in our lives “make us the men we are today,” or whatever. Self-awareness of my own deep flaws and inconsistency—a trait I did not possess a decade ago—makes such rhetoric at best meaningless and at worst an insult to friends and family. Either way, this book and my life wouldn’t have shaken out as it did without the following people:

  I’ll start with the pros. My literary agent (the possession of which is a ludicrous notion for a person with my utter lack of discernible talent) Gina Panettieri of Talcott Notch—for taking a chance on an amateur like me. Your sarcasm, wit, and straight shooting won me over from the start. Steve Hull, my editor at UPNE. Our shared vision and your patient advice made the decision to go with ForeEdge Books a no-brainer. And to my unofficial, but absolutely vital, editor—my wife, Kate. I’ll thank her more later, but she belongs with the professionals. Kate read all my work before I’d dare show another human being, and gave me the time and space to lock myself away and write endlessly.

  Then there’s family. Thanks to my parents, Bob and Sue, who despite living separately made a pretty damn good team raising a pair of kids. To Amy—who is a far better sister and person than I deserve. To my uncles—Chris and Steve. I’ve spent the last thirty-one years trying to seem as tough as these New York firemen. My cousin and best friend—Kyle Killeen—AJ could have no better godfather. And dear cousin Krissy—the kindest, best listener in the world—an absolute joy to all who know her. I’d also like to extend special thanks to David and Susan Smith for trusting me enough to share their son’s story with me. I can hardly imagine how difficult it must be to discuss such private matters, and your confidence meant the world to me.

  To old friends. The fellas from Staten Island who shared neighborhoods and memories. Adam Pekor—to this day the smartest man I know and my longtime heterosexual life partner. Midland Beach boys: Peter Vadola, Anthony and Danny Rodriquez, Vinnie Whitaker, and company. The Port Richmond crew: Tom Loggins (RIP brother), Pete Salvione, and Rich Walsh—a bunch of guys who gave me enough stories to fill a lifetime. Assorted high school lunatics: John Palmer, Tony Holz, and Brad Resnikoff. My West Point brothers: great Americans who made the best of a shitty time—Danny Baringer, Al Trujillo, Logan Collins, Josh Banuelos, Josh Sik, Chris Kim, Marty Ellison, Gary Whidden, Ben Meyer, and Arg Nelson. Most of all to Ben Tolle—for the best of times shared over beers at NYC dive bars, stolen golf carts, rented Geo Metros, and discussions about the meaning of “Just to See You Smile.”

  To my brother lieutenants from Iraq—better men than me. Guys who’d likely tell a more effective story, but with the self-respect not to: Steve Migliore, Keith Marfione, Scott Maclaren, and BJ Laney. My platoon leaders and friends in Afghanistan. Blackhearts for Life—Alex Lamb, Jordan Rich, Pat Jones, and Scotty Boxler. Thanks for your sanity checks, courage, and for carrying an emotional wreck like me through a year in hell. Mostly, though, for your loyalty.

  And for my—dare I say—mentors: first and foremost, to Colonel Matt Vanwagenen—by far the finest officer and man I’ve met in this crazy business. A guy who taught more by example, truth-telling, and friendship than all the rest combined. A constant reminder that when it comes down to a choice between being a good soldier and a good human being—to always choose the latter. Lieutenant Colonel Dave Defelice—a true cavalryman, brother, and friend. Colonel Greg Daddis—a true scholar in his own right, whose intelligence is sometimes intimidating, but always approachable. Thanks for running a great team, giving the instructors freedom to experiment and having the courage to be yourself in this crazy profession. Brigadier General (ret.) Bob Doughty—my entrance to the history profession and the first person (besides my wife) to read this work.

  For my wife, Kate, and stepsons—Ryan and Brady. I often joke that I’m a great guy to have a beer with, but an awful person to be married to. While all jokes have a kernel of truth, this one is realer than most. Thanks for your patience, love, and care. You are more than I deserve, and for that I’m eternally lucky. Mostly, though, for being a partner—still.

  And finally, for my son, AJ—Alexander James Michael Sjursen. Though these stories will read like ancient history to you someday, it is my hope you’ll always remember that you carry a proud name. Though you never knew Al, James, or Mike, and while my own example is far from perfect—I wish you to learn kindness and empathy from their lives and sacrifices. Be gentle, live freely, and know I love you always.

  Prologue

  I started this book nine Decembers ago. It commenced on sleepless nights in Iraq during 2006 and resumed on long, lonely car rides moving from one army post to another. Swirling about in my head, the story hasn’t—until now—translated into words on a page. One of the many reasons it took me seven years to begin in earnest is that I couldn’t decide what I wanted it to be. Much to my chagrin, I’ve discovered I lack the literary skills to craft an effective novel. Nor do I possess the memory, documents, or will to write a comprehensive campaign history. Of course, I didn’t want to do that anyway. I was certain what I didn’t want this to be and what I most certainly hope it is not—that is, a self-referential memoir of challenges met, deeds done, and lessons learned. The bookshelves are full of those works, and I wish the authors well, professionally, and in life.

  You’ve probably seen the books. If not, I’ll summarize. The plot usually sticks to the following trajectory: boy receives classic Midwestern American upbringing. Boy attends West Point or some other military academy. Boy learns crucial lessons and becomes an officer. Officer applies these lessons to whip his new platoon into an elite fighting force. Officer takes platoon off to Iraq or Afghanistan, faces innumerable challenges, and stumbles. Eventually, of course, he applies his lessons, training, and gritty character to win in battle. In the process, the officer becomes a man.
br />   This is not that book. I should hope this is a story altogether more human, more relatable. Full disclosure: with only minor detail changes, and though I often hate to admit it, the above officer could easily have been me. I come from New York City—well, Staten Island—so not exactly the Midwest. But I did go to West Point. I graduated and was commissioned as a second lieutenant in the army. I trained and took a scout platoon to Iraq at the height of the troop concentration known as the Surge. But as for the rest—becoming a man, learning many lessons, and applying them to win—I make no such claims. Yet I felt the need, you could even call it a pull, to write all this down. Why? I wish the motivations were either noble or easily articulated. The only truly honest reason I can muster is that I’ve never been able to forget Iraq—especially the first few months. Even after all these years, and a deployment to Afghanistan—which in many ways held more intense combat—and after two years at a civilian graduate school trying hard to forget the army, there it remains. Salman Pak, Iraq, just south of Baghdad, 2006–7. And my platoon, the “Ghost Riders”—2nd Platoon, Black Knight Troop, 3rd Squadron, 61st Cavalry Regiment, 2nd Infantry Division. Maybe I don’t want to forget. Perhaps I’m holding on to something.

  I propose to tell a brief story. It is about one platoon in Iraq. It focuses primarily on only half a dozen soldiers in that platoon. This tale spans just a few months in any real detail. I don’t wish to be the main character. At least in my head, this is not a memoir (God forbid). That being said, I am the narrator. And truth be told, nearly all of this comes from memory, a few notes scribbled at the time, conversations with my soldiers and their families, plus a couple hundred photographs. Memory is a tricky thing. Were another soldier to write this, even someone within my own squadron, hell—my own platoon—it would be an entirely different story. Everything would change: the perspective, emphasis, recollection of sequences and events. So this is my version of the story—what has stayed with me.

  I also aim to tell a wider story—grander, I suppose, than one platoon’s trials and tribulations. The prevailing narrative about the Iraq War—when anyone bothers to think on it—seems to have developed along the following lines: the Surge worked, and we won. This might seem odd, given all the negative press during the campaign’s first three years, and considering that our current president was elected on a veritably antiwar platform. Nevertheless, many intellectuals, senior military officers, conservative politicians, right-of-center media pundits, and common American citizens seem to believe it. The war was going badly, they’ve been told, but an enlightened general—David Petraeus—empowered by a sturdy commander in chief—George W. Bush—doubled down, stayed the course, and snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. In the process, everyone, it seems—except Nancy Pelosi and the fading congressional Democrats—triumphed. Army officers hate to lose, and avoided defeat while salvaging their reputations and—they hoped—their budgets. The political right, although they carefully distanced themselves from Bush-era personalities, still found vindication for a war they’d supported and regarding the use of force more generally. And the American people—well, they could go on acting like the Iraq War never happened, download a new iPhone app, and ignore the tragedies and sacrifices wrought by more than eight years of war.

  The reality, examined in these pages, was far more thorny and complex. There were no simple resolutions or cookbook prescriptions for success.1 Mostly, we muddled through, treaded water, and exploited any short-term opportunities available to protect and extricate ourselves from an altogether problematic war. Ghost Riders of Baghdad tells that story, one of scared, well-intentioned, and often confused soldiers grasping for solutions within the tangle of disarray that was Baghdad in 2006 and 2007. This book, in addition to honoring the men of Ghost Rider platoon, is really an attempt to answer three questions: First, who really serves in the all-volunteer military of an ostensible democracy, and what do those men look, feel, and sound like? Second, what did the business of counterinsurgency and refereeing a sectarian civil war actually consist of? And, finally, if most often forgotten, what exactly did all this mean for the Iraqi people? Ghost Riders of Baghdad describes what we saw, and what I believe the invasion wrought for Iraq and the region—unqualified catastrophe. That said, you won’t find many unequivocal heroes or absolute villains in these pages. The war, I’m afraid, was never as clear as all that.

  I began this book in the comfortable confines of my rented duplex during graduate school in the Midwest’s liberal oasis of Lawrence, Kansas. Back then, ISIS was a new and seemingly unsubstantial threat. By spring 2014, however, the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria had burst across the west and north of Iraq, overrunning prominent cities such as Fallujah, Ramadi, and Mosul. Baghdad itself seemed threatened. Suddenly Iraq—until recently all but forgotten—was once again plastered on the screens of every twenty-four-hour news network. Politicians, pundits, and professors all weighed in with their analyses on the meaning of this new, brutal, and supposedly unprecedented movement. I was surprised by the rapidity of ISIS conquest, but not, truth be told, by its birth.

  Should we be surprised that a generation of disaffected, nihilistic young men sprang from the chaos of America’s decade-long occupation? Fox News and company would have you believe that ISIS is the direct result of President Obama’s weakness and “retreat.” Would that it were so simple. Such talk is more dangerous than the usual rancor of partisan politics. It indicates the inherently American flaw of overestimating our own role and placing ourselves at the heart of causality in international affairs. This, ISIS, is not just about us. The problem, and the tragedy, is bigger than Obama, the Surge, and our own political calculations. The narrative that follows is about obtuse misunderstanding, an ill-advised invasion, and the artificial structure of an entire region. The real issue was never Obama’s decision to pull out U.S. troops in 2011, and the genuine tragedy belongs to the Iraqi people—the human beings living this horror, redux.

  If at any point in the story I get to sounding self-righteous (perhaps the most common sin of the military professional, especially the volunteer)—stop reading. If you like me during every part, then I have probably failed. This book means to tell the truth, but I am aware that perception, bias, and incomplete memories are inevitable. So I may take some limited, mainly unconscious, poetic license. As I mentioned, I wish this could be a novel. But it is not. What follows is the truth, at least as I remember and perceive it. Maybe that is all the truth any of us ever get anyway. Enclosed are the memories of an adequate soldier and leader—one who as it turns out was probably never suited for this business in the first place—in one small portion, at one time, of one war. As many qualifiers as I’ve lumped into that—it remains the most important story of my life.

  Baghdad’s nine administrative districts. We moved into the city during winter 2007. Map courtesy of the Institute for the Study of War.

  PREFACE

  “No Shit, There We Were”

  Salman Pak Backstory

  OCTOBER 2006

  Innocence is a kind of insanity.

  —GRAHAM GREENE, The Quiet American

  I left Iraq with the nagging suspicion that we never understood the things unfolding around us. In fact, most nights at the FOB (Forward Operating Base) when my head hit the pillow, I had the very same intuition. Patrols, combat, and daily interactions with Iraqis left me feeling empty. It was as though we operated in a constant haze. A dense fog of ignorance surrounded us troops, our each action, our every move. Sometimes I’d catch a smirk on a local’s face or a compassionate but patronizing smile. These nonverbal cues seemed to say, “Poor young American, you don’t have the slightest idea what’s really happening here, do you?” And we didn’t. I didn’t. Try as I might.

  Salman Pak was just one medium-size city. Prior to our arrival it probably counted 150,000 residents—about the size of Paterson, New Jersey. Estimates varied, but three years of war and the resultant refugee crisis likely halved that number. Fifteen miles southeast of Baghdad, “the Pak”—as the soldiers quickly christened it—was an urban/suburban hybrid, the same way Paterson is simultaneously part of and separate from the New York City metro area. It was only one of several areas we patrolled during the fifteen months from October 2006 to December 2007. More than half the tour, in fact, was spent within Baghdad’s city limits. The “Surge” strategy, announced in early 2007, led MND-B (Multi-National Division Baghdad—our higher headquarters) to shift the squadron into the heart of the city. Nonetheless, Salman Pak was our first sector, our first taste of combat, and for me it will always represent Iraq. Like every square inch of the populated earth, especially the old ones—and it was certainly one of those—Salman Pak has history, a unique backstory. Few of my soldiers, or the senior officers, for that matter, knew much about the place. But the context mattered. We never seem to get that.