A Recentralized War

There is the war I trained for. Studied. And sweated over. The powers-that-be call it decentralized warfare. It is a theory that has succeeded before in practice; the most cited modern example being the involvement of the British in Malaysia. This is where small units like platoons function as nigh-independent entities, operating free of bureaucratic restraints and traditional military sluggishness. It’s the counterinsurgency’s version of a cell. Here, in this malleable, flexible world, creativity and ingenuity replace buzz words and reactionary constrictions as the central pillars of a military’s output. You are not simply marking time in this kind of war, you are making it. This type of war is a Lieutenant’s dream and a General’s nightmare – where power is dispersed and control is scattered to the thousand corners. Traditionally, the order of war dissolves into anarchy as time yields more and more blood. This theory, this dream, this purported historical success – it is the inverse of conventional battle, because it is through the anarchy of bloodshed that order is established. This is the war I trained for and studied and sweated over.

Then there is the war I fight.

The Gravediggers were conducting a vehicle maintenance refit back at the FOB when I got the word from CPT Whiteback to prepare for an impromptu mission. Frago-licious. We think we have one of our top targets isolated, he said. Abu Mustafa, a high-ranking member of an extreme JAM cell network. He’s visiting his family in another village, but that doesn’t matter. He’s our priority since he operates in Anu al-Verona. Get the target packet from the intel geeks, and start planning. They’ll let you know when it’s time to execute. You’ll have to keep the landowning unit involved, so coordinate that through the Squadron TOC.

Although few and far between, these are the moments that many of my soldiers now live for. Any alteration to the anesthetizing mechanics of routine breathes new life into their respective existences; it’s too easy to recognize such in their eyes during my ramp briefs. This is especially the case when said alterations involve the war being turned back on. The young ones, especially, love that shit. On top of that, we had legitimate, actionable intel, not information for the sake of information. It seemed too good to be true, and I should have known better – but alas, hope-dope spring eternal.

I recognized most of the details of Abu Mustafa’s target packet from conversations I’ve had with various Sheiks, Sons of Iraq, and locals. He had worked his way up through this wing of the Mahdi Army from the ground level, rising from IED-emplacer to street thug to street king to bomb-maker to financier to network operator. He bounced around constantly, always on the run, rarely returning home to the village where his wife and children lived. He wielded power by evoking fear, and had been known to brutally kill other JAM members who did not follow his orders quickly enough or thoroughly enough – something that, through process of elimination, had also propelled his rise through the ranks. I recalled a muggy night back in February, when a cooperative Son of Iraq refused to utter his name above a whisper, his words drowned in absolute terror. Bagging this mother fucker might make our month, I thought. And there was always the chance that he was stupid enough to try and fight back with gunfire …

I walked over to the TOC, and briefed Major Y on the basics of my plan. Vehicle cordon sets here, dismounts kick out here, if all goes well, target is acquired here. Looks good, he said, and then added a few constructive tweaks. We’ll let the landowners know, he continued. You conduct your rehearsals and stand by for confirmation of the target’s location from the intelligence gurus.

Check … and … check. Continuing with this bizarre foray into the planned and deliberate, barely an hour passed before we received the word. Location confirmed. Go ahead and make your move. Our Strykers ripped towards the FOB’s gates, as if the sheer act of motion could somehow prevent the inevitable gorilla-wrench.
Remember, red direct as soon as the ramps begin to drop. Remember cordon, crew serve weapons oriented out. Remember dismounts, slow is smooth and smooth is fast. Remember –

Gravedigger 1, we need you to turn around and report to the TOC, time NOW.

Uhh, roger, over. I’m halfway out the front gate, heading towards the drums of war. Another time, perhaps?

Negative. Return to the TOC, time NOW.

Roger, over. Doing my best to convey WHAT THE FUCK. Over.

Alright guys, stay staged and ready to roll at Redcon 1. I’m sure whatever it is, it won’t last too long. They know we have a raid to conduct.

And … roger.

Sixty precious minutes later, I staggered back to my Strykers, confounded but slightly amused at what I had just witnessed. It would’ve been maddening to a true believer. As it was, I was considering referring myself to mental health on the grounds of too much sanity. It would have taken less time than sorting through this clusterfuck, and that’s with the mandatory follow-up appointment.

Time to round up my NCOs. Yeah, I know I said I would be right back. Yeah, I know it has been an hour. What happened? Oh Lord, what didn’t happen. I’ll tell you as we walk over to another brief, and yes, we all have to go. Time? Yeah, I know the target is time sensitive, but our time is not ours to manage anymore. Let me explain. Apparently, this TOC told that TOC we were going into their area, but that TOC did not tell that Major, they only told that other Major. That Major was talking to this Major in passing, and happened to find out about what was going on, and freaked out, calling this Lieutenant Colonel. This Lieutenant Colonel didn’t know either, so he called that Lieutenant Colonel. And so on and so up. Basically, we were moving too fast for the rest of the Army, even though that’s exactly what we were supposed to do. Gotta keep everyone in the loop, even if that loop swells into a black hole. Straight up - imaginary lines drawn on a map doomed our platoon mission. Yes, of course I pleaded with them to let us go handle this ourselves, and that we were already briefed and Redcon 1. Over and over again. And yes, I was told again that nobody appreciates a Lieutenant who thinks he knows everything. I’ll spare you anymore gory details and simply state that we are now conducting a joint mission with the landowners. Do I think Abu Mustafa will still be there when we finally get to roll? Trust me, Sergeant. You don’t want to know what I think right now.

The landowning Captain’s plan wasn’t bad. More complex than mine, certainly, but it had more moving parts, and was involving units that had never worked together before. Whereas my plan was like crashing lightning, in and out of there just long enough to nab JAM-Master Flex, this was like rolling thunder, a methodical cordon steeped more in book tactics than situational intelligence. His brief was better than mine, though. Very fluid, no crutch words. And his maps were in color, and had all kinds of cool demographical breakdowns. Shiny is fun, and keeps those of us with the attention span of gerbils entertained.

As SSG Boondock is fond of saying, plans are great, but instinct and clear heads are what rule once the first boot hits the ground. So by the time we finally kicked open the front door to Abu Mustafa’s family home – some two-and-a-half hours after we got the initial confirmation of his whereabouts - he was long gone, with no sign of his family, either. Maybe the presence of so many Coalition Forces tipped him off; anything larger than a roving platoon is out of the ordinary for any village in this part of Iraq. Maybe he had guards posted on the outside of town, and it wouldn’t have mattered if we had low-crawled in a fire team or air-assaulted in the Division. Or maybe we just took too fucking long. Whatever the case, Abu Mustafa had ghosted yet again. I can’t help but wonder if he coordinated with his terrorist brethren upon moving into their AOs during his exfiltration.

This is the war I fight. You don’t really have a choice with these kinds of things. You just work with what you got.