The Comfort Inn, in Lorton, Virginia, was where we all met for the first time. It was October of 2004 and there were 20 of us ‘contractors’ going over to Iraq together to serve as International Police Trainers for the Iraqi police. Our travel to Virginia was the initial step in the process we all had to complete as part of our eventual movement over to Iraq. The contracting agency had arranged for our lodging at a small hotel in Lorton. We had joined the program for a variety of reasons, and we all possessed a law-enforcement background, either as commissioned police officers or, in some cases, as corrections officers. Supposedly, this was a prerequisite for acceptance into the program, but we would find out later that wasn’t necessarily the truth. Sometimes it was who you knew at the contracting company that mattered, and this policy ultimately made for some interesting relationships and situations at the academy.
Lots of people were interested in the high salaries being paid and if they could finagle their way into the program, they would. That’s more or less the origin of the ‘window or aisle’ threat. By this time word had gotten out about the money and there were many people interested in taking your place in the program.
We came from small towns, larger ones, municipal police departments from big cities, or county sheriff positions. There were even some people from federal agencies like the FBI, DEA, U.S. Customs, and Border Patrol. At least initially for most of us, the lure of big money had brought us to this point. In order to get law-enforcement professionals to join the project and take the risks of going to a war zone in Iraq, the Department of Justice had to offer high salaries, much higher than any of us would have dreamed of making as a police officer back in the United States. Police work has never been noted for making one wealthy—at least not honestly anyway! The pay came out to just over $13,000 per month, plus a per diem. Not bad at all, as someone from a small-town police department may have earned just $15,000 per year.
Some had come to help pay for their kids’ college fees, to pay off a mortgage, or to buy a vacation property or retirement home somewhere. The big money was definitely the lure that attracted many, if not most, to the program. Others came because, as is not uncommon among cops, they had found themselves with huge debts and money problems from multiple divorces and child support. And in many cases it was simply the boredom of retirement. After being a cop for many years, some people find it difficult to retire and do nothing. I’ve worked with officers who retired after spending 25 or 30 years with one department, then took another cop job on a college campus or something like that. Oftentimes it was a matter of finances—a cop’s pension doesn’t always cover the bills, much like military veterans who retire and then go to work for the federal government in order to ‘double dip’.
Each of us had accepted the challenges of going to Iraq in the hopes that the payoff would outweigh the risks. None of us had a death wish, but we all knew in the back of our minds that there was a chance we might not come back home, at least not in one piece. I mean, after all, it was a freaking war zone. People were getting blown up, shot, and having their heads cut off for cripe’s sake! It was a much more intense environment than most of us had ever experienced during our careers as police officers. As law-enforcement professionals, we faced the reality every day that we might not come home at the end of our shift, as did our families and loved ones. Each day that you left your home, you knew in the back of your mind that there was a chance you might get killed by some crazed lunatic or criminal. It was a reality each officer faced in different ways. But working in the war zone of Iraq was different.
Truthfully, most police officers go through their whole career never drawing their weapon or engaging in a shoot-out with a bad guy, let alone getting wounded or killed in the line of duty. What you see on television is fantasy, just make-believe. Yes, it is potentially a dangerous profession, but the shoot-outs depicted in the movies are a rarity. Police are trained to deescalate situations before they reach the need for deadly force, and most of the time they’re pretty successful at bringing some difficult, even dangerous situation to a conclusion without the need for gunplay.
Certainly we all hoped we wouldn’t get blown up in Iraq. We all hoped that we would return home after a year or so, healthy, wealthy, and wiser for the experience. Some of us did, and some of us didn’t. One of our group actually returned home more in debt than when he left! His wife—now ex-wife—emptied out their joint bank account, maxed out the credit cards, and disappeared with all the money he made in Iraq. For the most part, though, we enhanced our financial situation, and I certainly left a wiser man than I was when I first went over to Baghdad. My feelings about the Iraqi people had changed, as well as my feelings about my government’s involvement in their country.
Being thrown in together as strangers, we all had at least one thing in common—our experiences in law enforcement, which helped to break the ice during our first gathering at the hotel in Lorton. Cops always have ‘war stories’ to tell each other, only in this case we would eventually all have real war stories from our experiences in Iraq. As the old joke goes, ‘Do you know the difference between a fairy tale and a war story? A fairy tale starts out “Once upon a time”, and a war story starts out “This ain’t no shit”.’ Most police war stories are at least based on an element of truth, but oftentimes there is also some level of embellishment involved, and usually a great deal of humor, that gallows humor I’ve already mentioned and that you hear about often among the police. What might be a life-and-death situation, or something very tragic, often becomes a funny story that officers can laugh about later. It’s part of the coping mechanism cops use to deal with those types of things. It helps them keep their sanity. That first evening, as we stood around and chatted, there were more than a few war stories shared among us newfound friends, friends who eventually would become a band of brothers.
One of the first people I got to know among my new group of colleagues was Roy, who had served as a homicide detective for a large police department in Arizona. He seemed to be a genuinely decent guy, a real family man. He was friendly and outgoing and spoke a lot about his two sons back home. He was already missing them and we hadn’t even left the United States yet. Another, named Dalma, had risen to a senior level with the U.S. Border Patrol prior to retiring. And then there was Jimmy (later renamed ‘Two Dogs’) who was retired from the U.S. Customs Service. His eventual roommate at the academy, Bob (later renamed ‘Baghdad Boob’) was a retired IRS Special Agent. We also had Stan and Ruby, a husband-and-wife team who had signed on together from a county sheriff’s department in Georgia, along with Kenny, a colleague of theirs from their earlier lives as Georgia police officers. I had signed on following a dozen years of service as a police officer and detective in the St. Louis area. The sheer breadth of experience among us was pretty amazing. The program had former DEA and FBI special agents, county sheriff deputies, senior level corrections officers, major metropolitan police officers, and small-town cops.
I had served in uniform patrol as a police officer, where I had been involved in one shooting scrape (where I came out on top), and plenty of other wrestling matches with bad guys. This was followed by a stint as an under-cover detective with a narcotics unit, and my last few years were spent as an investigator with the major case squad, where I worked on a number of high-profile homicide investigations. I received about a dozen commendations over the years and was fairly proud of the job I had done in my career up to that point.
Oftentimes, police officers can become jaded by their exposure to the seamier side of society, as well as the tragedies they see every day, but I have to say that one of the highlights of my career happened one sunny weekend, when something occurred that made everything I had done as a police officer worthwhile. I had stopped at a 7-11 to grab a cup of coffee and was headed back out to my squad car. Next to my car was a large white SUV, and seated in the front passenger seat was a little white-haired old lady, to whom I’d paid little notice as I started to enter my car.
It was a really nice day outside and she had the window of her vehicle open. All of a sudden I heard, “Excuse me, officer.” Right away, I expected to be asked for directions to some place or whatever, as often happens to police officers. People also sometimes want to talk to you to complain, or to just make a connection. I put my coffee down on top of my car and turned around to see what the lady wanted. I got my first real glimpse of this sweet little old lady, who proceeded to say, “I know you all have a really tough job, and you don’t hear much praise, mostly complaints from people. I just wanted to tell you, thank you, I appreciate what you do for us.” I was stunned, it was not at all what I expected to hear. I looked at the lady—probably with disbelief on my face—and I thanked her for her kind words. I told her that I was going to share her comments with my co-workers, and that she had made my day.
I then got into my squad car and drove off, determined to take as many bad guys off the streets as I could to make the world a little bit safer for that little old white-haired lady. And I did go back to the police station and share her comments with all of the officers I was working with that day. I don’t know if it meant anything to them, but it sure did to me, and after all these years and miles I still get misty-eyed when I think of that sweet little lady’s kindness. As far as I’m concerned, that was the highlight of my police career.
During our first evening together in Virginia, we all gathered in the hotel lobby waiting for an orientation meeting that was set to begin around six o’clock. A representative from the contracting company (his name long since forgotten), began our first meeting in a small room off from the lobby.
“Don’t even think about having your family use me as a point of contact,” he started off. He provided us a business card with his name, title, and contact information printed on the front, and then informed us that he didn’t want to be receiving phone calls from our family members with messages to pass on, emergencies to notify us about, or for any other reason. There would be other avenues to do that. During a break in the briefing, while he took a phone call, the consensus among our group was that he was a huge pompous ass. Following the meeting, in conversations among ourselves, many of us decided then and there to pass his information to our families and have them put his name at the top of their list of contacts in the event of an emergency, or even if a question came up. He was a real dickhead.
During the meeting, he also tried to regale us with stories of his previous overseas experiences as part of the ICITAP program in Haiti, where he had served for a short period of time in some capacity. Just based on his attitude alone we were all mightily unimpressed. It was later determined that the company he represented was being replaced in the near future and was no longer going to be involved in the ICITAP program, which I guess is what prompted his poor attitude, but he was still a real jerk about it. At least that was the consensus of everyone in our group after the briefing, and even though his company would be leaving the program, I still gave his contact information to my family, encouraging them to call him with any questions, as did most of the others from our group.
Our agenda for the next few days was also laid out during this meeting. The representative told us that it would start the next morning with a trip to downtown Washington, D.C., where we would spend the day with the Justice Department for briefings and paperwork. The following day there would be a trip into the Virginia countryside to ‘the Crucible’, a weapons and tactics training area run by another government contractor, where we would receive some weapons familiarization and get issued with equipment. On the next day we would be sent to Fort Belvoir, Virginia, for medical processing and to obtain our official government ID card, which would give us access to U.S. military facilities in Iraq. Following that, we would be booked on a commercial flight and depart the United States on the first leg of our trip to Iraq, by way of Kuwait City. While I can remember very little else from this initial meeting, I do recall that all of us walked out of there with the same feeling. What in the hell did we get ourselves into?
After adjourning from the meeting with the forgettable contracting representative, some of our group, whose wives had accompanied them to Virginia, headed out to dinner. Others went back to their hotel rooms to relax, and some just lingered around the lobby area and engaged in casual conversation with their new friends. After briefly chatting in the lobby, and never once saying ‘this ain’t no shit’ to anyone, I walked over to the elevator and took it up one floor to my room. As I exited the elevator and began to walk down the hallway, I noticed a guest room door propped wide open. Inside, I recognized one of my new colleagues, Jimmy, who was smoking a cigar and drinking a can of beer.
Jimmy was drinking a can of Miller Light from a six-pack he had sitting on ice in the sink of his bathroom. Being a St. Louis boy, the home of Anheuser Busch, I decided to overlook his poor taste in beer and stepped in to formally introduce myself.
“How’s it going, I’m Del,” I said.
Jimmy was busy fiddling with his laptop computer, trying to tap into a nearby wireless signal, which he had discovered emanating from some nearby residence. The hotel had a wireless service available but charged for it, and Jimmy was looking for a way to avoid paying the fee. I pulled up a chair and sat down and we began to chat.
“Piece of crap computer,” Jimmy cursed as I sat down. I discovered during our conversation that Jimmy was a retired U.S. Customs Agent and had worked narcotics cases over the last several years of his career. He was also fluent in Spanish. I also found out that he loved to smoke those nasty cigars that looked like a piece of a branch or twig from a tree—all twisted and gnarled. They smelled really, really bad, too. I had quit smoking cigarettes quite a few years earlier, but occasionally still enjoyed toying with a fine cigar. I made a mental note to work on improving Jimmy’s taste in cigars as well as beer.
Jimmy and I exchanged biographies while we sat together and drank a few beers. I had also put a six-pack on ice (I had opted for an Anheuser Busch product, naturally), and since my room was nearby I walked down and retrieved one, and then returned to visit more with Jimmy.
“So what did you think of the orientation?” Jimmy asked.
I responded, “I thought the asshole running the meeting was a dickhead.”
Jimmy made it clear that he was inclined to agree, adding, “I’m going to make sure my wife gets his name and phone number, with instructions to call him at least once a day just to screw with him.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,’ I said. “I’m going to do the same.”
We had a pleasant conversation and it was obvious that Jimmy was an easy-going, good-natured guy. He certainly wasn’t a stick in the mud, nor all caught up with himself as some police officers have been known to be (unfortunately we would find that tendency was common within the Iraqi police program once we reached Baghdad).
While Jimmy and I were chatting, some of the others of our group wandered by the open door, some stopping by briefly to chat, others just waving at us as they walked by. Across the hallway from Jimmy was another member of our group named Ted. Ted would later be tagged with the nickname of ‘Tackleberry’, taken from the Police Academy series of movies. Ted came with three duffle bags full of his own ‘tactical’ gear. This was in addition to his regular luggage, and I found out later that he possessed by far the largest collection of pornography of any one person I have ever known.
I recall Roy from Arizona telling me the story of his first meeting with Ted while we were at the hotel in Lorton. Roy is a fairly religious person, a good family man, and pretty much what you would call a ‘straight arrow’. According to Roy, he was walking past the open door of Ted’s room when Ted recognized him and called out, “Hey you gotta see this!”, sounding all excited. Recognizing Ted as part of our group, Roy stepped into his room, only to be ‘treated’ to some form of disgusting pornography that Ted was playing on the TV in his room. Being a decent guy and not one to cause confrontations, Roy didn’t make a scene, but quickly excused himself and stepped back outside. As he related the story he kind of chuckled about the fact that Ted didn’t know him in the slightest, yet invited him right into his room to partake of his pornographic offering. Roy seemed more amused than offended, saying, “I’m not really sure about that guy,” as he walked away.
Ted also decided to break away from his entertainment and stop by to chat briefly with Jimmy and I. He had noticed that Jimmy had located a strong wireless internet signal and was trying to tap into it to check his e-mail.
“Any luck with the wireless?” he asked. In addition to his bags of tactical gear, Ted brought with him a kind of ‘Jack-of-all-trades’ ability, which came in handy once we reached Baghdad. We would later joke that Ted knew just enough about all types of subjects to make himself somewhat dangerous.
Ted joined our attempts to tap into the signal, but I don’t think we were ever were able to get it to work. It was probably password-protected anyway, but it did help to kill some time and gave Jimmy and me a reason to drink a couple of beers together as we worked diligently on the problem. Eventually Jimmy said “fuck it,” and we decided to call it a night.
When I returned to my room, I had a sense that this might not be such a bad gig after all, as long as I stayed alive. Jimmy seemed like someone I would be able to get along with, and Roy was also a decent guy, so it looked like there would be at least a couple of people that I could hang with once we got over to Iraq.
The next morning our group loaded into vans provided by the contracting company and left our hotel to attend the briefings at the Department of Justice in downtown Washington, D.C. Most of our group had never been to D.C. before, and they looked out the windows at the monuments and museums as we cut our path through the traffic to get to our destination. I had lived in the area for two years during an earlier life and had seen it all, so I tried to catch up on some of the sleep I’d missed out on the night before, since I don’t do well sleeping in hotel rooms.
Upon arrival at the Department of Justice, where our orientation was to take place, we entered through a security checkpoint and were ushered up several floors to a medium-sized classroom. Once there, we were introduced to some representatives from the department, and after completing some paperwork and reviewing some documents, our briefing sessions began.
The fact that I remember very little from this full day of briefings testifies to the impact the disseminated information had on all of us. I’m pretty confident that none of our group derived much of value or anything really memorable from this day. The briefings were dry and not very informative, and the briefers weren’t stellar performers.
I was not the only one who expressed the opinion that what we had just endured was pretty much a waste of all our time. We would have done better to partake of the cultural offerings of downtown D.C., enjoying the museums and monuments (or strip clubs), rather than sitting in a classroom being lectured by some nameless government bureaucrat.
One thing I do recall from that day was that a professor from American University gave us a lecture about Arab culture and sensibilities. But it certainly didn’t register with most of us and the majority of his comments were quickly forgotten or dismissed. One comment of note, though, was a warning to avoid any romantic relationships with Iraqi women. That was apparently frowned upon by Iraqi men and could get both you and her killed. The day fortunately came to an end and we were once again loaded into the vans for our drive through the D.C. rush-hour traffic.
Back at the hotel, my evening shaped up pretty much like the one before—sitting in Jimmy’s room, having a beer or two, smelling his nasty cigars, and trying to tap into the wireless internet signal for a couple of hours. I recall nothing of earth-shattering significance occurring during the evening and once again, after the beer ran out and I could stand no more of Jimmy’s cigars, I eventually made my way back to my own room and to bed. And once again I had a fitful night of sleep. I’m not sure whether it was the excitement of what lay ahead that kept me awake, or whether it was apprehension, knowing that within another couple of days we all would be on our way to Iraq.
Our agenda for the next day included a trip to the Crucible, where we would receive some hands-on familiarization and training with weapons. Since all of us came from a law-enforcement background, this would be viewed as a ‘mental health day’, where we would get some good trigger-time in on the government’s nickel. Cops love to shoot, and this day would be no exception—we would receive familiarization with an AK-47, which many of us had never handled or fired before. That proved to be a treat, and anytime you get cops and guns together for some shooting at someone else’s expense, it’s a great day.
The next morning we again loaded into the vans for an hour’s drive to the Crucible, which was in the countryside outside of town. None of us really knew what to expect, as our briefings from the first evening at the hotel hadn’t gone into much detail. When we arrived we were greeted by some instructors and led into a building, where there was a large classroom. We took seats at the tables that were laid out in rows.
On the tables were AK-47 rifles, M-4 carbines (which are carried by the U.S. military in Iraq), and 9mm semi-automatic pistols, which most of us were familiar with from our law-enforcement careers. The lead instructor, who (we were told) was a former Chilean commando and whose physical presence was imposing, oversaw our classroom briefings and training.
During the morning we were given some basic weapon-safety briefings and some hands-on handling of the M-4 Carbine, the Beretta 9mm pistol, and the Kalishnikov AK-47 assault rifle. While I had some experience with an AK-47, most of my colleagues had never seen one up close before. We spent some time breaking down the weapons and putting them back together, which most of us were able to do with little difficulty since we had handled weapons for most of our lives.
Following lunch, we walked a short distance from the classroom to a nearby outdoor firing range. Being out in the Virginia countryside, we were surrounded by hills and forests and there were no visible structures anywhere around, other than the classroom building and a couple of other small buildings associated with this facility. We were instructed to pre-load magazines for each weapon to be fired. After getting all the magazines loaded, we were broken down into small groups and instructed to move up to the firing line.
As a part of our familiarization with the weapons, we were allowed to fire one magazine of ammunition from each one, aiming at paper targets approximately 25 yards away. Throughout the morning we could hear small-arms fire and even small explosions a short distance away, in the wooded areas surrounding the classroom buildings. We were told that some other unidentified groups were at the facility, receiving some advanced tactical and other weapon and combat-related training. It was never confirmed but we suspected it was some kind of ‘spook’ training that was going on around us. A number of small explosions also occurred while we were at the range so it was obvious that our small-arms training wasn’t the only thing going on in the Virginia countryside that day.
Some of us shot much better than others, and some were downright scary handling a weapon, especially Dudley, who came to be known as ‘the Pillsbury Dough Boy’. His handling of weapons didn’t engender any peace of mind for those who stood around him on the firing line.
After we finished, we all gathered around a table to clean and service the weapons we had just fired. Everyone had thoroughly enjoyed themselves, as would be expected of a bunch of cops. It’s always fun shooting up someone else’s ammunition, and the only downside was that we didn’t get to shoot more than one magazine for each weapon. Most of us would have been content to spend the whole day shooting.
Following this, we proceeded to another building, where we were to receive a supply of clothing and equipment that would accompany us along with our personal luggage to Iraq. Body armor vests, helmets, tactical web-gear, cold-weather clothes, boots, sleeping bags, and some nice khaki cargo pants and shirts were issued to us. It could have easily filled four duffle bags, but we had to stuff it all into two. The gear we received was all top-dollar stuff, and while I don’t know the exact amount Uncle Sam paid for all of it, suffice it to say that we were each outfitted with probably a couple of thousand dollars’ worth of gear, at least (our boy ‘Tackleberry’ was on cloud nine). I couldn’t help but think of the scene from the movie Stripes, when Bill Murray was getting issued all of his military uniforms and made the comment that, “Chicks in New York are paying top dollar for this crap.”
After a great deal of struggle—packing, un-packing, and then re-packing the gear we had just been issued—most of us were able to stuff the duffle bags full and actually get them closed. It took me two tries to get everything to fit inside my bags, but I was finally able to get it all inside. Some of the others of our group never did get all their gear jammed in. They ended up carrying their helmets or other pieces of gear loose, outside the duffle bags, until they got back to the hotel, where they could try again.
All of the clothing and equipment that we received was top quality—511 cargo pants and shirts, as well as cold-weather clothing, and all of it we got to keep, with the exception of the protective gear like the Kevlar helmets and body armor with strike plates. That gear we had to turn back in when we left Iraq.
Once back at the hotel, my first thoughts were that I was going to have to get rid of some of the stuff I had brought with me from Missouri, or I would never be able to carry everything to Iraq. I was in a quandary. Having been to Iraq previously, on a different job, I had a pretty good idea of what was needed and what was wanted over there, and I had packed my personal luggage accordingly. Now I had two more duffle bags to lug around once I made it to Baghdad. I certainly didn’t want to give up any of my personal belongings, but I knew I had to accommodate this new load and figure out a way to get it all over there. There weren’t going to be any airport Sky Caps over in Baghdad to help with the luggage, so a few of us decided to look for some sort of luggage cart to bring with us.
Several of us loaded up into a van and went to a nearby Walmart on a cart-buying mission. I found a nice, sturdy luggage cart for $25 and purchased it right away. It looked as though it would handle my duffle bags and the other ‘drag bag’ I had brought from home. I’d have to carry my laptop and wear a backpack separately. The others were also able to find something comparable, so we all checked out and headed back to the hotel.
Once back, the evening shaped up as a replay of the previous ones— meeting in Jimmy’s room, having a couple beers, trying to tap into a wireless signal, and then going to bed. Since the next day brought our medical processing, I decided to take it easy on the beer. I didn’t want my blood to appear yellow in the vial when they took a sample.
The next morning we again loaded into vans and drove to Fort Belvoir, where we obtained our Department of Defense CAC cards. The CAC (Common Access Card) is the identification used to gain access to military and government facilities in Iraq and elsewhere. The civilian government rank that was put on the cards identified us all as a GS-15 (equivalent), which equated in the military to something along the lines of a full colonel or brigadier general. Apparently, after numerous complaints from real generals and real GS-15s, the practice of assigning a high government rank to CAC cards for contractors was later abolished. I heard there were some abuses mixed in there somewhere, by civilian contractors who tried to use the GS-15 rank for extra perks over in Iraq or during travel on military flights. That seemed likely—if you give anyone a chance, they’ll try to game the system for their benefit.
Our medical processing was also completed at the same location. The males of our group had the distinct pleasure of being examined by a young and very attractive female doctor. She was a doll and I know that all of us fell in love with her on the spot. There was much conversation among the men and hopes were high that she would check us all for hernias. Unfortunately, none of us were asked to drop trousers, turn our head to the side and cough. It would have been the highlight of the day for most of us—for some it would likely have been the closest we’d come to a sexual encounter in a long time.
A number of us had to receive additional vaccinations required for travel to Iraq. The worst of which, for me at least, was the tetanus vaccine. My entire upper arm and shoulder hurt for two weeks afterwards. Fortunately, most of my vaccinations were up to date, since I had been to Iraq before and had received a full round of shots at that time. Others of our group were not so lucky and had to get a full range of shots for the trip. They walked around for days afterwards with their arms hanging limp by their sides and grim looks on their faces.
Once everything was completed, we left Fort Belvoir and returned to the hotel for the remainder of the day, to make final preparations and pack for our flights—we had been advised that our departures would be staggered over a couple of days. That afternoon, I worked on packing my bags and decided that I needed to mail some items home. At the same time, I reflected, as I knew many others were doing, on what we were all about to embark upon.
I had been notified that I would be flying out of Dulles Airport the next day, along with Stan and Ruby, the husband-and-wife team from Georgia. Our final night in the United States was much like the previous evenings, though mixed with a little restlessness and, perhaps, just a touch of apprehension on all our parts.
My memory is pretty vague about that final night, so it’s quite possible that I ended up in Jimmy’s room once again. If it was like the previous evenings we spent together, that would account for my loss of memory, but my sleep was definitely restless.