There were lots of interesting personalities who made up the academy instructor staff, and some of them had no business being there at all. Carly apparently possessed no real prior law-enforcement experience, and had only been a school teacher back in the States. The one thing she apparently did have was a friendship with someone senior at the contracting company that provided instructors for the program. It appears her lack of experience as a police officer was overlooked and she was hired based on her experience as a teacher, and being a friend of somebody in a position of power. It was all about who she knew, not what she knew. Since the actual classroom curriculum and training material was already prepared, all she really had to do was follow the course material. She would be teamed up with another instructor anyway, who presumably had actual police experience, so I guess they figured that would take care of any deficiencies she had on the law-enforcement side. I’m sure that the military and the Iraqis never knew that she was not an experienced police officer, or she would not have been allowed to participate, and she would have missed out on all the big money. But I have to say that watching her walk around with a 9mm pistol strapped to her hip was a little disconcerting, to say the least. Her behavior also called into question her being part of the program. She reminded me of a young girl in high school, immature and subject to playing little games—certainly not what is needed in the middle of a war zone.
Katherine was an older women who apparently had served in a corrections position back in America. Though not really a police officer, at the time they were accepting corrections officers to teach at the police academy. In the early stages of the war and the reconstruction efforts, they had difficulty getting experienced police officers to come over to Iraq, so they made exceptions. Katherine apparently was one of those exceptions. She and Carly were buddies, and even though Katherine was older, she also played the little games right along with Carly. Arnie I have already talked about, so suffice it to say that he fit in really well with Carly and Katherine’s little clique. Then there was LaDonna, who had been home on leave when I arrived. Apparently she had been originally selected to fill the ‘HR’ position that I would eventually take over, but she had really made no effort to get it up and running before departing for her visit to the States. That’s why the academy director and assistant director decided to look elsewhere, which led to me eventually being selected. That decision ruffled some feathers in the Carly, Katherine, Arnie, and LaDonna clique, as they all viewed me as a usurper.
Then there was ‘Surfer Boy’. The senior firearms instructor was called Surfer Boy due to his full wavy hair and well-cultivated tan. He looked like he was right off of Venice Beach in California. He was also what we would call a ‘major league cock hound’, chasing any ‘skirt’ that happened to show up at the academy. We received visitors often from the Green Zone, and many of the visits included females, either military or civilian, as part of the group. Surfer Boy could always be found nearby, offering his services as a guide whenever one of these visits occurred. He was also known as ‘missing in action’ at all other times, when there were no visitors that included females. He was a senior firearms instructor, though the instructors working with the students rarely saw him. In fact, he was really difficult to locate at any time. As with many of the other ‘Triple C’ instructors (Train the Trainer), Surfer Boy disappeared for days on end. He simply couldn’t be located unless you happened to see him at the chow hall.
Sarah and Sandy were two older sisters who had been police officers back in America for a few years. They were a couple of nice ladies, and although I wasn’t sure when I first met them that they belonged in the middle of Baghdad, they would prove me wrong. Sarah approached me one day after I had been ‘promoted’, just after she arrived at the academy, asking if I could help get her sister Sandy out there. Sarah had gotten to Iraq first and Sandy was going to follow her once she took care of some personal business back home. I remember Sarah coming to me and asking, “Del, is there anything you can do to get my sister assigned here to the Baghdad Academy? We’d like to be together if we can, but they wouldn’t make any promises over in the Green Zone.” I told her that I also couldn’t make any promises, but I would see what I could do. I made a couple of calls and ultimately was able to arrange for Sandy to get assigned to Baghdad instead of one of the outlying academies. They were both very appreciative. It was kind of fun watching them bicker back and forth at each other, as sisters often do. Sarah and Sandy would also be part of our wiffle ball team when we took on the military, and they performed admirably. They were more than willing to pitch in and help whenever asked.
Bryan LeFave was an interesting individual. A ‘snake in the grass’ would be a more apt description of him—he was definitely someone not to turn your back on. While he smiled all the time, and acted as though he was your good friend, he was always out to curry favor with the bosses and would knife you in the back in a heartbeat if it played to his benefit. He lived with the Blue Lagoon crowd and put on the appearance of being everyone’s friend, but he was never one to trust. You could never be sure if his smile was sincere, or if he was contemplating your demise.
One of the things he liked to do was greet all new instructors when they arrived and prank them about bringing alcohol to the academy in violation of the military’s General Order No. 1. He would meet the new arrivals and immediately go into his shtick, asking them in a very official and stern voice, “Have any of you brought any alcohol along with you from the Green Zone? You need to understand that it is against General Order No. 1. No alcohol is allowed on Iraqi military installations.” Bryan would then offer them amnesty if they stepped forward and turned their alcohol over to him. Usually the convoys would be full of alcohol because they had been forewarned to stock up. The new arrivals would all sheepishly admit to having alcohol and reluctantly start to gather it up from the pile of luggage on the ground behind them. Bryan would play the joke for a few minutes and then let them know he was just kidding. He pulled the same scam on every group.
Halleluiah Mack’s true character came out on one occasion. A fairly large group of 15 or 20 new instructors arrived, including two who were African American. The new group seemed to be fairly decent guys and we welcomed them to our nightly gathering around the fire pit, to help them feel at home. Since there were no cadets for them to teach at that moment, there really wasn’t much for them to do but kill time any way they could. They were billeted in some very old barracks buildings on the 1st Cav side of the FOB, some of which didn’t even have windows or doors. I don’t believe there was even electricity hooked up to the building—austere doesn’t even come close to describing these living conditions. It was intended that these would be short-term, temporary lodgings, only for a day or two at the most. Even at that I thought it was pretty poor treatment to send these new people over the academy when we didn’t have a proper place for them to stay, but it was typical of ICITAP in Iraq—not a lot of planning or coordination. The goal was to just get people somewhere so they weren’t hanging around the Adnan Palace and getting in the way.
One day, Halleluiah Mack approached me as I was walking across the compound and he seemed agitated. As he got near me he said, “You know those two new black instructors?” I responded, “Yeah, what about them?” I didn’t really know them as they had just gotten to the academy and I hadn’t had the chance to get better acquainted with them, or really any of the new group as of yet. But Mack went on to say “Well, they’re not doing anything. Just sitting around.” This struck me as a pretty curious comment since there was nothing for them to be doing. Everybody was ‘just sitting around’. There was no class to teach, nor were there any other duties they were assigned to do. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but that was the way it was at that moment. Mack kind of shook his head and then walked away muttering to himself, pulling a small notebook from his shirt pocket and scribbling away. It was pretty apparent to me from his comments and actions that there was a tinge of racism involved in the exchange. It didn’t seem to occur to him that there was a bunch of white instructors who also were just sitting around. At least he didn’t mention ‘slapping leather’ this time.
Anyway, I never had the occasion to mention it to the two new officers. It wouldn’t have served any purpose anyway, other than to cause disruption or bad feelings, which we simply didn’t need at the time. I did mention it to Baghdad Boob when we were sitting around the fire pit one evening and he kind of shrugged, just acknowledging it. He knew as well as I did that Halleluiah Mack was a strange individual.
Tackleberry was also unique. As my roommate, I got to know him fairly well. he was polite and friendly, but just a little squirrelly. Everywhere he went on the academy grounds he looked like he was ready for battle to break out at any minute. As I mentioned previously, he was always super polite when talking with people, in the kind of way that often made you feel a little bit uncomfortable, but I never thought there was any ulterior motive on his part. He was just that way.
Baghdad Boob was a great guy. I was always reminded of the character Oddball from the movie Kelly’s Heroes. And I mean that as a compliment. Bob was just easygoing and cool. He sat around the fire pit at night and rarely said much, but when he did it was usually hilarious. He’d just sip on a Jack and Coke and take everything in. The unofficial ‘camp philosopher’, Bob never got upset about anything, he just went with the flow, wherever it took him. I guess living near the beach back home in South Carolina had instilled something of a free-spirit outlook in him.
Wallie was a good guy as well, very responsible and dedicated. He, along with most of the others of our group, was great to work with. Wallie also is the only one of us who got wounded in Iraq. Most everyone, in fact, with the exceptions noted, were pretty decent people. Our group worked well together and got along very well most of the time.
Stan and Ruby were pretty nice people. The best description I can give for Stan is that he was steady and unflappable. Like Baghdad Boob, he also pretty much took things in his stride. He had a good sense of humor and was very easy to get along with. Ruby, Stan’s wife, was a nice gal as well and came across as a good team player. Unfortunately for her, she was approached early on by the Carly-Arnie-Katherine clique, who were looking for a new recruit to their little gang. When Ruby showed no interest in joining in their little schemes then she too became immediately ostracized by them.
Dudley, the ‘Pillsbury Dough Boy’, was a rather curious individual. Chubby and pudgy, he really did resemble the character you saw in the TV ads selling biscuits. And from the looks of him, he had consumed his fair share of biscuits over the years. He was also a rather timid individual, and it was difficult to picture him as a police officer back in the States. Certainly not in the ghetto, where I had spent much of my career—he would have gotten chewed up and spit out very quickly. Every night, his roommate Mitch told us that he would put little booties on his feet as he settled in for the evening. Then he would lay there on his bed and just jabber away as Mitch was trying to get to sleep. He would also pry into Mitch’s business, including hovering over Mitch’s shoulder as he opened a care package, filled with goodies that had been sent from loved ones back home.
The academy director, Malcolm, was a pretty decent guy, though it was really hard to tell for sure since he spoke with a very heavy Scottish accent. I almost felt like I needed a translator to understand him as much as I needed one to understand the Iraqis. His No. 2, Hitchins, was also easy to get along with, and Jane, a third member of the Scottish police who had been sent to the academy, was also nice, although I never had much contact with her. At least, not as much as most of us men would have liked. Her sweaters fit her really, really well, if you get my drift. In fact the guys in our group would sit around our campfire at night and concoct schemes on how we might get her to take her shirt off.
My initial partner in the classroom, Kenny, had come over to Iraq with Stan and Ruby. They had all worked in the same department back in the States and had decided to go on this great adventure together. Kenny was also a decent guy, and we worked together in the classroom very well, following each other’s lead with ease. He was very easy to get along with.
On one occasion, after I had taken on the HR manager role at the academy, I decided to apply for one of the many titled positions with ICITAP that were spread around Baghdad and the rest of the country. It wasn’t so much that I wanted one of those positions, I was pretty content with staying at the Baghdad Academy working with a good group of people, and if you made a change you never knew what you might end up with. The grass isn’t always greener, as they say. But applying for a new position would offer an opportunity to go over to the Green Zone, where I could visit the PX and make a tactical beer run to the Napoli Café. I would take orders from everyone else and help them stock up their supply of adult beverages for the long days ahead.
On the day I was scheduled to head over to the Green Zone, the PSD showed up and I geared up with my body armor, Kevlar helmet, and M-4. I loaded up into the SUV for the trip, bringing only a small bag with the bare essentials for the overnight stay at the tent at the Adnan Palace. Our trip through the streets of Baghdad over to the Green Zone was uneventful, and after arriving at the palace I went into the visitor tent, found a cot, and dropped my gear off.
I noticed right away that the tent was nearly full. There was a bunch of new instructors staying in the tent, awaiting assignment. Most of them likely would be going to the Baghdad Police Academy. I greeted the few who were seated around the table in the center of the tent, next to where the TV and refrigerator were located. When they found out where I had come from, they started to ask questions, and it was clear the BPA was where most of them had been told they were headed. I tried to answer whatever questions they threw my way.
My interview wasn’t scheduled until the next morning, so I relaxed for a bit and then grabbed a vehicle to head over to the PX and see if there was anything new worth buying. At Café Napoli I filled out all the orders that had been given to me by colleagues before I left. It was not a major order this time, and the visit was short and completed without incident. I decided to stop by one of the military chow halls to grab some lunch before heading back to the Adnan Palace. Once again I had a fitful night in the tent. With so many people around, half of them snoring like a freight train, it certainly wasn’t an environment conducive to a good night’s sleep.
The next morning I got up and showered and then went to meet the person conducting the interview at the palace. The interview itself was short, with the interviewer seeming to be pretty distracted, as though he was just going through the motions. I got the distinct impression that someone had already been selected for the position, since it was a Green Zone job, and that was fine with me since I wasn’t really interested in leaving the Baghdad Police Academy anyway. The job had probably been promised to one of the Green Zone clique, but HR rules insisted it had to be officially posted and interviews conducted.
After my interview, I made my way back to the Adnan Palace in order to await my PSD that afternoon to take me back to the academy. While I was killing time in the tent, I noticed that a case of Corona Beer, which I had purchased at Café’ Napoli, was missing. It had either walked off on its own, or been spirited away by one of my new ‘roommates’ in the tent. Since it made no sense to try to figure out who stole it (no one was ever going to admit to it), I just decided to let it drop. There had never been an issue with things ‘walking off’ with our group, so the thought never occurred to me that anything I left in the tent might disappear. Oh well, lesson learned.
The ride back to the academy that afternoon went smoothly, with no real issues along the way. As we approached one of the notorious roundabouts, I did hear a couple of gunshots that sounded pretty close, but I couldn’t tell if they were directed at us or if they were just ‘happy fire’. It always got your attention though, since you couldn’t be sure whether or not the first shot or two that you heard was going to be followed up by a full-fledged ambush.
Arriving at the academy, our PSD made it through the serpentine barriers and obstacles and entered the compound, where it came to a stop at the usual place. I saw my buddies seated around the fire pit, already gathered for the nightly pre-chow ritual of chatting, talking about the day’s events, sharing news from home or just good-natured ribbing, which would be repeated that evening after chow. After unloading my gear and the supplies from Café Napoli, and once again thanking the PSD guys for getting me back home safely, I walked up to the group at the fire pit.
“So how’d your interview go?” said Jimmy Two Dogs.
“Turned down again,” I replied. “There’s no justice.”
This was greeted by laughter from the group. I pointed over to the cases of beer and a couple of bottles of booze, piled up on the parking lot where I had been dropped off by the PSD, and said, “Need some help here.” Everyone jumped up and headed over to help with the supplies. There were looks of approval as they walked away with their arms full, content to know that they’d be able to have a drink or two in the evenings for as long as this load of supplies held out—hopefully at least until the next trip to the Green Zone. I like to think that everyone was just a little relieved that I hadn’t taken a job and abandoned them to their fate at the academy. At least while I was there with them, they knew they had someone in management who gave a damn about them and would look out for their interests.
There were many other instructors who passed through the academy, some staying longer than others, and some much less memorable than the ones I have mentioned. The ones I’ve highlighted either had a significant impact on me personally, or they were typical of the kind of individuals who were working at the Baghdad Police Academy. For being willing to put their lives at risk and accept the challenge, they all deserve some thanks, especially from the U.S. government.