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Fighting A "ghost War" MP unit in combat zone. very detailed.

#1 User is offline   jessefan 

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Posted 04 June 2004 - 11:43 AM

It gives background on the death of MP Rachael Bosveld.

http://www.ctnow.com/news/nationworld/hc-1...hc-utility-home


Fighting A `Ghost War'
The MPs of Connecticut's 143rd Went To Iraq To Restore Order After The War Seemed Won. But The Struggle Had Just Begun.

May 23, 2004


At his machine-gun turret, the youth counselor from New Milford turned toward the flashes across the Baghdad highway.

From 100 yards away, narrow streams of red slashed through the night, lighting up the two National Guard Humvees.

"They're shooting at us!"

Below, a cable TV technician from Norwich was slamming down the gas pedal and shoving a pistol out his window toward the darkened brush beyond the far guardrail.

The sergeant in the passenger seat yelled to the turret gunner, Pfc. Matt Hayes: "Shoot back!"

From a spot in the darkness, tracer bullets snapped past the Humvees like enraged fireflies.

The order to shoot ignited Hayes. As if slipping into a real-life video game, he let his turret-mounted machine gun roar - short bursts aimed wherever he saw a gun flash.

Spec. Dan Petsa kept the gas pedal to the floor, sending the Humvee hurtling through the dark as he fired 9mm rounds from his handgun. In the second Humvee, the soldier in the turret dropped low as bullets whizzed around his head. He pulled his sidearm and fired over the turret's rim.

The whole thing lasted forever - or maybe 15 seconds.

Later that night, the squad found a man's body in the area. Residents said there had been four attackers. The surviving three had disappeared, two of them wounded by the American guns. But there was also talk of a home robbery, with shots fired before the soldiers drove by.

Was this man sprawled out dead from a shot in the head by a well-armed homeowner? Or was he, as would later be put in the military record, an official kill by Hayes, the machine gunner? In this bewildering country, the truth could be either or neither.

From the turret, Hayes looked down at the body of the man, maybe in his 30s. Hayes hoped he hadn't killed him. But he felt relief, too. He and the others from Hartford's 143rd Military Police Company were still alive.

It wouldn't be the last time members of the 143rd traded bullets with the enemy, though bullets ultimately wouldn't top their list of worries.

The 150 military police officers, or MPs, from the Connecticut National Guard had entered a war in Iraq whose rules and conditions were as hard to pin down as the enemy. For the reservists of the 143rd, there were many months still to come that would bring enough danger to make this firefight a footnote.

Over the course of a year in Iraq, the 143rd would come to know fear under enemy fire. They'd be shot at, cursed, bombed and shelled. They'd do their best to help the Iraqi people, and understand, too, that not all Iraqis welcomed their presence. Some would find love. And though it might be a defining time for their generation, they couldn't wait to have it all done with.

But this night went quiet again. The young men from the company's 4th Platoon were excited. After six weeks in Baghdad, this was the first time the unit had found itself in something like a genuine fight. Hayes had chalked up a combat kill and hadn't suffered a scratch. This time.

Living In A Sandbox

The year started April 16, 2003, in the dust of a different country, a place called Camp Pennsylvania in Kuwait, where the only thing more oppressive than the boredom was the heat.

The 143rd came from the ice of Fort Drum in upstate New York to wait for its gear and orders. For almost all of them, except for a handful of Desert Storm vets and a few who had fought in Vietnam, this was the eve of their first war. For many, Kuwait was the first foreign place they had ever known. And it was a miserable one.

Camp Pennsylvania was more than 100 degrees hotter than what they had been used to at Fort Drum. In a day, they went from training in deep snow to being in one of the hottest places on earth.

They had arrived in time for a cheerless spring in the chessboard-flat desert. The only features rising from its straight horizon were sandstorms, churning in and turning the world orange, making it easy to get lost walking from one tent to the next.

There were long lines for everything. There were wild dogs, fast-moving camel spiders 6 inches across and tents so crowded that soldiers slept almost shoulder-to-shoulder.

The border with Iraq was just to their north. There were guessing games about their mission. Would it be a guard detail at an airport? Patrolling a small town? Would they stay in Kuwait?

By the start of May, most of the soldiers from Connecticut were ready to get moving, ready for anywhere but this sandbox.

The residents of Camp Pennsylvania learned they had apparently sat out the last of the real action. President Bush stood in a flight suit in front of a "Mission Accomplished" banner on an aircraft carrier in the Pacific. "Major combat operations in Iraq have ended," he said. "In the battle of Iraq, the United States and our allies have prevailed."

The war seemed won. It looked like a time for military police to restore some order to the country. It was what the company from Hartford had come to do.

Still, desolate as the current home was, Staff Sgt. Andrea Cloutier wasn't really joking when she told Capt. Gregory Samuels, leader of the 143rd, that they should stay in Kuwait for their tour of duty. No matter how awful it might be, she figured, at least it was familiar.

But by the second week of May, the 143rd got its invitation to war. The MPs loaded a convoy to head north.

The Way To Warrior

First Sgt. Chaun Jones, the senior enlisted man in the company, had a special reason not to get killed the day the 143rd headed into Iraq.

For the Connecticut state trooper from Rocky Hill, it was not just the day he was taking his company to war, it was also the birthday of his young son, who was already troubled enough by his dad's absence. Tyler certainly didn't need to think of his father's death every time his own birthday came around.

Jones had that on his mind. But he also had an eager bunch of soldiers anxious to do something. They were mostly young, with a few older guys mixed in, the noncommissioned officers that Jones knew the company and its four platoons would have to rely on.

The company sent 4th Platoon into Iraq days earlier. The platoon consisted mostly of former artillery troops who were used to fill out the short-staffed company. They had been hustled through MP training only weeks before. This first real mission was escorting a convoy. The rest of the company would meet 4th Platoon at their new home.

In the first minutes of the two-day trip, the soldiers saw their first Iraqis. Among a group of shabby buildings just across the border, Iraqis crowded the convoy and begged for handouts. Barefoot children stood on blistering hot pavement. The convoy slowed as it passed through some spots where wilted people gathered, trying to sell things. Children held up warm Pepsis.

The soldiers spent their first night in Iraq at Tallil Air Base near Nasiriyah, where they quickly realized they were in a war zone.

One of their vehicles broke down in a Nasiriyah market. Two Cobra helicopter gunships came from nowhere to hover over them and escort them through town. The soldiers, most of whom didn't even know where they were, couldn't have had a stronger clue that they were in a dangerous spot.

They continued north. Signs appeared: Baghdad in such-and-such miles. The mile totals dwindled until they arrived at their new home.

Almost every soldier in the 143rd was surprised by Baghdad. This was a real city. As Staff Sgt. David Rosati of New Hartford put it, the place was "pretty tore up" by the war, but it seemed more like cities they knew than the center of an ancient civilization. It had big highways and satellite dishes. It had landscaping and up-to-date architecture.

They were directed to a spot not far from the Tigris River, on the western side of downtown Baghdad. They would be living in part of a vice presidential palace. It was called Warrior Palace, set next to famous arches formed by giant crossed swords.

The country's war with Iran inspired the arches - the Hands of Victory monument - a stark tribute to rule by the sword. The swords are so enormous that an army can march under them, as Saddam Hussein proved. The soldiers from Connecticut would now be living beside them, living by the sword in every way.

The company moved into an outlying section of Warrior, half in its towers and half in tents in an area they called the "servants' quarters." Around them were walls and palm trees, and beyond was one of the nicest neighborhoods in the city.

They now had a home, under authority of the 709th MP Battalion, run by the 18th MP Brigade. And they had a job: Bring some law and order to the highways and neighborhoods west of the Tigris.

The leaders got together that night, under a fireworks show of tracer bullets, flares and rockets that lit the sky from time to time. First Sgt. Jones - he looked younger than his 38 years, but he had two decades in the Guard - was a little worried about his soldiers. He knew they wanted to get to work, but they looked nervous. The leaders talked about individuals, about expectations and about who might need what kind of guidance, even though most of the men running the company had never been anywhere like this themselves.

Their 5 a.m. wakeup call was a U.S. tank opening fire just outside the palace. Before the day was out, the company, known as the Wolfpack, would go to work.

Teaching The Police

In parts of western Baghdad, members of the 143rd were the only sign of order.

The soldiers were sent to the sites of former police stations to find former Iraqi police officers who might show up. They were supposed to follow the officers around and get to know the area. They had to make sure the Iraqi police didn't abuse the people they were supposed to protect. But for the first days, they mostly tried to avoid getting shot at.

The 143rd found itself in what one soldier said was a "ghost war," the time between the war that had been declared won and an insurgency that hadn't yet begun.

Gunfire was common, but judging by the dead Iraqis they found riddled with bullet holes on the streets in the mornings, much of the violence came from grudges predating the war. Americans were mostly ignored. When they were noticed, it was often positive. Children loved them. Some adults seemed happy to have them around. The Iraqi police were unsure of them, but it was clear the Americans were their new bosses.

When the Iraqi police wanted people to do something, they often would threaten them. They would beat prisoners and kidnap family members to persuade suspects to turn themselves in. They would demand bribes and set up checkpoints to steal from people.

The 143rd was supposed to change all that. Staff Sgt. Rosati in 1st Platoon, who, like many in the company, was a police officer back home, would stop the Iraqi police if they roughed up suspects: "It's not the way you do it anymore," he told them.

The Connecticut MPs were sometimes sent into the streets without a translator. With gestures and by example, they tried to change the habits of generations. Most of the soldiers were glad to be working. They were getting out, responding to fights, domestic disturbances, shootings and murders.

So the 143rd got started on its string of 12- to 18-hour shifts beside Iraqi police officers, trying to marry American-style policing to the ways of the Middle East. Along the way, they got rid of the hopelessly corrupt and violent, and tried to find the line between combat and policing.

In a country with an assault rifle in practically every living room, the Iraqi police were poorly equipped, having a motley collection of firearms, sometimes without bullets. They also were without police cars or uniforms.

The MPs had their own equipment worries. They were driving unarmored Humvees that were almost as old as many of the soldiers inside them. They had to wait for the improved body armor that many of the active-duty soldiers had, the Interceptor vests that could stop AK-47 rounds. Their radios were prehistoric compared with those used by active-duty MPs. It was a contrast they were starting to get used to: Active duty got first pick; reservists lived with hand-me-downs. But they were starting to get things done, collecting weapons at checkpoints and capturing suspected Fedayeen, the fanatical Hussein loyalists.

The members of the 143rd figured they'd serve maybe six months before going home. National Guard troops rarely did more than that. Staff Sgt. Steven Langlais of East Hartford told his people in 4th Platoon: "There's no way the Army's going to hold us past Thanksgiving."

Soldiers of the 1st Platoon got a different job: protecting a rebuilding project at a detention center in the Al Karkh section of Baghdad, which had a former torture room with blood-stained rope, electrical wires and a smell of charred flesh. For weeks, they guarded what would become the Karkh Juvenile Detention Facility, part of the U.S.-operated penal system run by the 800th MP Brigade. That unit would later spawn a prisoner abuse scandal.

In those first weeks, the 143rd settled in. Then new orders came. The company would be split up, each platoon sent to a different compound to work for field artillery or airborne or armored units. Headquarters became a brain without a body. Although Capt. Samuels would be responsible for keeping track of the platoons and their administrative needs, he wouldn't be giving them their daily orders.

The Boo

Staff Sgt. Rosati didn't hear the clink as it struck the pavement or the scraping roll as it passed under the Humvee.

Sitting in traffic on a highway that runs through a market whose stalls and crowds were a hair's breadth from passing cars, he and the others in the truck didn't know anything was wrong. They were laughing about something.

Then there was a bang.

Dust was everywhere, and their ears were ringing. Rosati couldn't hear anything except the driver, Pfc. Patrick Hackett, crying out.

"Oh, boy. This isn't good," Rosati said in a calm voice that didn't match the way he felt. "Hackett - you all right?" The driver's arm had been out the window and was struck by shrapnel.

They all got out of the Humvee. Something had exploded under it, some kind of grenade. A crowd was gathering. The gunner yelled at the Iraqis, "Get back! Get back!" Onlookers were laughing.

Rosati put word of the attack over the radio. Another Humvee was nearby and bashed through traffic to get there. Then somebody in the crowd threw a second grenade, which landed in front of Hackett and another soldier.

"Grenade!" Rosati yelled.

The soldiers leapt away. It didn't explode. Whoever threw it neglected to pull the pin that would have triggered it. Rosati decided they needed to get out of there. They piled back into the Humvee, holes punched through its undercarriage by the blast. The other Humvee arrived and provided cover. Somebody had thrown grenades at it, too, but the pins in those were also left in. The damaged Humvee left a smear of oil in the street on its way out.

Later, Rosati could hardly believe the restraint of his people, who hadn't fired a shot at the crowd even though it concealed the people trying to kill them.

Hackett was going to be OK. The soldier from Putnam would be the first from the unit's Iraq tour to get a Purple Heart, the medal given to wounded soldiers. He wouldn't be the last.

The June grenade attack was 1st Platoon's baptism for what would be a harrowing several months at the Abu Ghraib market and police station.

They called it The Boo. They learned early on that the market, filled with the stink of discarded sheep guts, fish, excrement and hostility, had to be treated with respect and restraint.

In The Boo on the Fourth of July, far from the backyard barbecues of Connecticut, Sgt. Santo "Sam" Defelice III of Bristol and Staff Sgt. Michael Hevey of Stafford were pushing a vendor's cart away from the busy highway.

This was a constant chore, keeping the market from creeping into the four-lane road. The Army had constructed better stalls for the marketplace, but as soldiers quickly learned, it's not easy to change Iraqi habits. The Iraqis ignored the new stalls and instead crowded the highway, walking its edges.

As Defelice and Hevey tried to move the cart, the vendor went after them, shoving Hevey. Defelice, enraged by the man, turned his cart over. The vendor reached for a bayonet. At that instant, Defelice considered killing the man. He could shoot him to death without breaking the rules. He might even earn praise.

But he didn't. He and Hevey wrestled the man to the ground, took the bayonet and held him for arrest. The man's family came by. They berated him, yelling and slapping him. But he was alive, and he had little idea that his fate had hung from the trigger finger of a young police officer from Bristol.


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