Team Infidel
Forum Spin Doctor
Wall Street Journal
May 3, 2007
Pg. 1
U.S. Soldiers Persevere Despite Snipers, Ambush
By Greg Jaffe
TARMIYAH, Iraq -- For U.S. troops, just walking a simple foot patrol through this small, trash-strewn city 30 miles north of Baghdad has become unthinkable.
If the Americans spend longer than 10 minutes in one place, a sniper will track them down and begin shooting.
"It is getting to the point where we really can't interact with the people," says Lt. Cody Wallace, executive officer of the unit that patrols the city. Even the local police chief who oversees the area that includes Tarmiyah refuses to set foot in the town.
As U.S. and Iraqi troops have surged into Baghdad in a quest to bring stability there, enemy fighters have moved into the surrounding towns. U.S. commanders in these areas lack the manpower to defeat insurgents or protect the locals. On most days there are fewer than 50 U.S. troops in Tarmiyah, a city of about 30,000, many of them angry and disenfranchised Sunnis. Their goal is to keep the enemy off-balance, with periodic raids. It's the best they can hope for under the new U.S. "surge strategy," which some U.S. officers in Iraq say does little more than chase insurgents from one part of the country to another.
The experience of the soldiers from the Second Battalion, Eighth Cavalry Regiment's Demon Company here is a window into what motivates troops in a war that an increasing number of Americans have concluded is a lost cause. Few of the soldiers in Tarmiyah expect to change the city, where support for the insurgency is strong and hostility to the U.S. presence is often overt. Instead they persevere for each other.
In mid-February a massive truck bomb sheared off the front of the soldiers' base in Tarmiyah, sending concrete and glass flying through the air like daggers. The soldiers at the small outpost spent the next four hours fighting for their lives against a force of 70 to 80 insurgents.
After the battle, the troops got a few weeks to heal. Those healthy enough to fight returned to a new patrol base that is so close to the ruins of their old building that soldiers on roof guard duty can look down on the spot where they faced down death. Today most still have glass and shrapnel embedded in their skin from the February ambush.
None of the soldiers in Tarmiyah talk about winning anymore. But even some of the most severely wounded soldiers from that attack argued with their commanders and doctors to return to the patrol base with their fellow troops. "Is what we lost worth it? Not even a little bit," says Staff Sgt. Chad Stallings. But like many of those badly wounded in the blast, he has returned to the base.
"I am not ever going to change the world, but at least I can be there for my soldiers," says the lanky 25-year-old sergeant from Dexter, Mo.
In spring 2006 Tarmiyah, on the surface at least, was a much more peaceful place. U.S. and Iraqi troops surrounded the city with razor wire, set up the patrol base in the city, and began a $16 million campaign to rebuild the city's schools, clinics and sewer system. Soldiers often referred to the city, located 30 miles north of Baghdad, as the "petting zoo," a nod to the number of top generals who came to see what U.S. commanders considered a success story.
Last summer Tarmiyah began to fall apart. A battalion of about 300 to 400 Iraqi army soldiers that had been based in the city was transferred to Baghdad to support the new U.S.-Iraqi effort to stabilize the capital. At the same time, some 6,000 to 10,000 angry Sunnis, driven from their homes in Baghdad by Shiite militia forces, began streaming into this largely Sunni city. Sunni insurgents, affiliated with al Qaeda in Iraq, joined them.
Insurgents began extorting money from Iraqi contractors working for the Americans. And in December, the 150-man Tarmiyah police force, which shared the patrol base with American troops, drew their weapons, saying they were going out on a patrol, and never returned.
The three dozen soldiers from Demon Company were the only security forces left in the city. The soldiers typically spent four days at the patrol base, a spartan outpost without running water or hot food, and then rotated back to Camp Taji, a big U.S. base about 15 miles away, for four days. In February, Staff Sgt. James Copeland -- a broad-shouldered 30-year-old who has a tattoo of a skeletal Uncle Sam flashing his middle fingers snaking up his right arm -- was named acting platoon sergeant of one of Demon Company's four platoons.
Sgt. Copeland couldn't believe how far he had come. When he enlisted in 1997, he was working at a McDonald's in Hutchinson, Kan. He was then 20 years old, newly married and the father of an infant daughter. "Wow. Who would have thought that I would be a platoon sergeant," he wrote in early February in the journal he kept under his bunk. "If I stay out of trouble maybe someday I will make sergeant major. I have so much to learn."
On Feb. 16, Sgt. Copeland's platoon rolled out to Tarmiyah for a four-day rotation. The soldiers noticed that something seemed wrong in the city. On the roof of one house near the patrol base, they spotted a man tossing homing pigeons and waving a blue flag. Pigeons are often used by insurgents to send signals about the location of U.S. troops. A pickup truck rolled past with two children in the back, banging on metal propane canisters with sticks. The soldiers assumed the clanging was another signal.
The following day, the markets were empty. As U.S. troops walked through the city, fellow soldiers watched over them from a rooftop. One was Pfc. Justin Paton, a big, gregarious soldier from rural Michigan, who the troops nicknamed "Cornfed." Out of nowhere, the soldiers heard the crack of an enemy sniper rifle. "Paton's down!" screamed a soldier.
Sgt. Copeland, the second-in-command of the platoon, sprinted to the roof. The 24-year-old private's chest had collapsed and blood was spilling into his lungs, suffocating him. The troops loaded Pfc. Paton into a Humvee, and sped off with the doors still open and Pfc. Paton's 6-foot-3 frame dangling part of the way out of the truck. He died an hour later.
Sgt. Copeland told one of his soldiers to wash the blood out of the Humvee and collect Pfc. Paton's personal items -- a few letters, a Timex watch and an iPod. He then retreated to the empty detainee-holding area to get away from everyone and cry. "I can't believe this happened," he scribbled in red ink in his journal. "I wish it was me and not him."
Commanders at Camp Taji asked the platoon if they wanted to cut short their stay and come back to the big base. Pfc. Paton was the unit's first fatality and his death shattered the feeling of invincibility many of the young soldiers felt.
Sgt. Copeland discussed the offer with Lt. Shawn Jokinen, the platoon's 27-year-old leader. They decided to finish their four-day stint.
The events that followed were pieced together in interviews with some two dozen Demon Company soldiers and U.S. Army records.
The following day, the soldiers got a tip telling them where the sniper who shot Pfc. Paton lived. At 2 a.m. on Feb. 19, they raided the house and two others, arresting seven men. The soldiers returned to the patrol base around 5 a.m. elated and exhausted.
Most of the soldiers went to sleep. Sgt. Copeland wrote a note to himself to buy a phone card when he got back to Camp Taji and call his 10-year-old daughter. At 6:50 a.m., he checked the time on Pfc. Paton's watch, which had been placed under his cot for safekeeping.
A few minutes later the soldiers woke to the sound of bullets pinging off the patrol base, followed by a frantic scream. "Get your s -- on!" Sgt. Copeland yelled. "They've breached the compound!"
A truck loaded with more than 1,000 pounds of explosives had, seconds earlier, smashed through the front gate of the patrol base. Sgt. Copeland, the laces still flapping on his untied boots, started to wake the troops. Lt. Jokinen fired a couple of shots at the driver.
The truck exploded and everything went black.
The blast killed Sgt. Pedro Colon, a 26-year-old soldier from the Bronx. Spc. Montrel McArn, who a few minutes earlier had been playing video games, was hit by shrapnel that sliced off half of his face and part of his skull, say soldiers.
Sgt. Copeland, his back and neck peppered with glass, quickly told his troops to search the compound for insurgents. Troops who were too hurt to fight were led over to a small one-story command-post building next to the patrol base.
At the command post a 20-year-old soldier was working feverishly to get the base's radios, which had been knocked out by the blast, running so the soldiers could call for help. A piece of glass was sticking out of his ear.
May 3, 2007
Pg. 1
U.S. Soldiers Persevere Despite Snipers, Ambush
By Greg Jaffe
TARMIYAH, Iraq -- For U.S. troops, just walking a simple foot patrol through this small, trash-strewn city 30 miles north of Baghdad has become unthinkable.
If the Americans spend longer than 10 minutes in one place, a sniper will track them down and begin shooting.
"It is getting to the point where we really can't interact with the people," says Lt. Cody Wallace, executive officer of the unit that patrols the city. Even the local police chief who oversees the area that includes Tarmiyah refuses to set foot in the town.
As U.S. and Iraqi troops have surged into Baghdad in a quest to bring stability there, enemy fighters have moved into the surrounding towns. U.S. commanders in these areas lack the manpower to defeat insurgents or protect the locals. On most days there are fewer than 50 U.S. troops in Tarmiyah, a city of about 30,000, many of them angry and disenfranchised Sunnis. Their goal is to keep the enemy off-balance, with periodic raids. It's the best they can hope for under the new U.S. "surge strategy," which some U.S. officers in Iraq say does little more than chase insurgents from one part of the country to another.
The experience of the soldiers from the Second Battalion, Eighth Cavalry Regiment's Demon Company here is a window into what motivates troops in a war that an increasing number of Americans have concluded is a lost cause. Few of the soldiers in Tarmiyah expect to change the city, where support for the insurgency is strong and hostility to the U.S. presence is often overt. Instead they persevere for each other.
In mid-February a massive truck bomb sheared off the front of the soldiers' base in Tarmiyah, sending concrete and glass flying through the air like daggers. The soldiers at the small outpost spent the next four hours fighting for their lives against a force of 70 to 80 insurgents.
After the battle, the troops got a few weeks to heal. Those healthy enough to fight returned to a new patrol base that is so close to the ruins of their old building that soldiers on roof guard duty can look down on the spot where they faced down death. Today most still have glass and shrapnel embedded in their skin from the February ambush.
None of the soldiers in Tarmiyah talk about winning anymore. But even some of the most severely wounded soldiers from that attack argued with their commanders and doctors to return to the patrol base with their fellow troops. "Is what we lost worth it? Not even a little bit," says Staff Sgt. Chad Stallings. But like many of those badly wounded in the blast, he has returned to the base.
"I am not ever going to change the world, but at least I can be there for my soldiers," says the lanky 25-year-old sergeant from Dexter, Mo.
In spring 2006 Tarmiyah, on the surface at least, was a much more peaceful place. U.S. and Iraqi troops surrounded the city with razor wire, set up the patrol base in the city, and began a $16 million campaign to rebuild the city's schools, clinics and sewer system. Soldiers often referred to the city, located 30 miles north of Baghdad, as the "petting zoo," a nod to the number of top generals who came to see what U.S. commanders considered a success story.
Last summer Tarmiyah began to fall apart. A battalion of about 300 to 400 Iraqi army soldiers that had been based in the city was transferred to Baghdad to support the new U.S.-Iraqi effort to stabilize the capital. At the same time, some 6,000 to 10,000 angry Sunnis, driven from their homes in Baghdad by Shiite militia forces, began streaming into this largely Sunni city. Sunni insurgents, affiliated with al Qaeda in Iraq, joined them.
Insurgents began extorting money from Iraqi contractors working for the Americans. And in December, the 150-man Tarmiyah police force, which shared the patrol base with American troops, drew their weapons, saying they were going out on a patrol, and never returned.
The three dozen soldiers from Demon Company were the only security forces left in the city. The soldiers typically spent four days at the patrol base, a spartan outpost without running water or hot food, and then rotated back to Camp Taji, a big U.S. base about 15 miles away, for four days. In February, Staff Sgt. James Copeland -- a broad-shouldered 30-year-old who has a tattoo of a skeletal Uncle Sam flashing his middle fingers snaking up his right arm -- was named acting platoon sergeant of one of Demon Company's four platoons.
Sgt. Copeland couldn't believe how far he had come. When he enlisted in 1997, he was working at a McDonald's in Hutchinson, Kan. He was then 20 years old, newly married and the father of an infant daughter. "Wow. Who would have thought that I would be a platoon sergeant," he wrote in early February in the journal he kept under his bunk. "If I stay out of trouble maybe someday I will make sergeant major. I have so much to learn."
On Feb. 16, Sgt. Copeland's platoon rolled out to Tarmiyah for a four-day rotation. The soldiers noticed that something seemed wrong in the city. On the roof of one house near the patrol base, they spotted a man tossing homing pigeons and waving a blue flag. Pigeons are often used by insurgents to send signals about the location of U.S. troops. A pickup truck rolled past with two children in the back, banging on metal propane canisters with sticks. The soldiers assumed the clanging was another signal.
The following day, the markets were empty. As U.S. troops walked through the city, fellow soldiers watched over them from a rooftop. One was Pfc. Justin Paton, a big, gregarious soldier from rural Michigan, who the troops nicknamed "Cornfed." Out of nowhere, the soldiers heard the crack of an enemy sniper rifle. "Paton's down!" screamed a soldier.
Sgt. Copeland, the second-in-command of the platoon, sprinted to the roof. The 24-year-old private's chest had collapsed and blood was spilling into his lungs, suffocating him. The troops loaded Pfc. Paton into a Humvee, and sped off with the doors still open and Pfc. Paton's 6-foot-3 frame dangling part of the way out of the truck. He died an hour later.
Sgt. Copeland told one of his soldiers to wash the blood out of the Humvee and collect Pfc. Paton's personal items -- a few letters, a Timex watch and an iPod. He then retreated to the empty detainee-holding area to get away from everyone and cry. "I can't believe this happened," he scribbled in red ink in his journal. "I wish it was me and not him."
Commanders at Camp Taji asked the platoon if they wanted to cut short their stay and come back to the big base. Pfc. Paton was the unit's first fatality and his death shattered the feeling of invincibility many of the young soldiers felt.
Sgt. Copeland discussed the offer with Lt. Shawn Jokinen, the platoon's 27-year-old leader. They decided to finish their four-day stint.
The events that followed were pieced together in interviews with some two dozen Demon Company soldiers and U.S. Army records.
The following day, the soldiers got a tip telling them where the sniper who shot Pfc. Paton lived. At 2 a.m. on Feb. 19, they raided the house and two others, arresting seven men. The soldiers returned to the patrol base around 5 a.m. elated and exhausted.
Most of the soldiers went to sleep. Sgt. Copeland wrote a note to himself to buy a phone card when he got back to Camp Taji and call his 10-year-old daughter. At 6:50 a.m., he checked the time on Pfc. Paton's watch, which had been placed under his cot for safekeeping.
A few minutes later the soldiers woke to the sound of bullets pinging off the patrol base, followed by a frantic scream. "Get your s -- on!" Sgt. Copeland yelled. "They've breached the compound!"
A truck loaded with more than 1,000 pounds of explosives had, seconds earlier, smashed through the front gate of the patrol base. Sgt. Copeland, the laces still flapping on his untied boots, started to wake the troops. Lt. Jokinen fired a couple of shots at the driver.
The truck exploded and everything went black.
The blast killed Sgt. Pedro Colon, a 26-year-old soldier from the Bronx. Spc. Montrel McArn, who a few minutes earlier had been playing video games, was hit by shrapnel that sliced off half of his face and part of his skull, say soldiers.
Sgt. Copeland, his back and neck peppered with glass, quickly told his troops to search the compound for insurgents. Troops who were too hurt to fight were led over to a small one-story command-post building next to the patrol base.
At the command post a 20-year-old soldier was working feverishly to get the base's radios, which had been knocked out by the blast, running so the soldiers could call for help. A piece of glass was sticking out of his ear.