Ghost Riders of Baghdad

Soldiers, Civilians, and the Myth of the Surge

Daniel A. Sjursen

• Publisher: ForeEdge
• Year: 2015
• Print ISBN: 9781611687811
• eBook ISBN: 9781611688276
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Military Biographies
• Index: History

From October 2006 to December 2007, Daniel A. Sjursen—then a U.S. Army lieutenant—led a light scout platoon across Baghdad. The experiences of Ghost Rider platoon provide a soldier's-eye view of the incredible complexities of warfare, peacekeeping, and counterinsurgency in one of the world's most ancient cities. Sjursen reflects broadly and critically on the prevailing narrative of the surge as savior of America's longest war, on the overall military strategy in Iraq, and on U.S. relations with ordinary Iraqis. At a time when just a handful of U.S. senators and representatives have a family member in combat, Sjursen also writes movingly on questions of America's patterns of national service. Who now serves and why? What connection does America's professional army have to the broader society and culture? What is the price we pay for abandoning the model of the citizen soldier? With the bloody emergence of ISIS in 2014, Iraq and its beleaguered, battle-scarred people are again much in the news. Unlike other books on the U.S. war in Iraq, Ghost Riders of Baghdad is part battlefield chronicle, part critique of American military strategy and policy, and part appreciation of Iraq and its people. At once a military memoir, history, and cultural commentary, Ghost Riders of Bahdad delivers a compelling story and a deep appreciation of both those who serve and the civilians they strive to protect. Sjursen provides a riveting addition to our understanding of modern warfare and its human costs.

1

Enter the “Ghost Riders”
2nd Platoon, B/3-61 CAV

FORT CARSON, COLORADO : MARCH 2006

That though I loved them for their faults

As much as for their good.

—DYLAN THOMAS, “To others than you”

I was an accidental soldier. Admittedly, I played with GI Joes as a kid, read plenty of military history, and had considered enlisting since childhood. But as for a career, no thanks. Mostly, I think, I’d wanted to prove I was just as tough as my firefighter uncles and street-wise father. Exotic travel sounded pretty good, too. In hindsight it’s easy to forget this, but back in early 2001, I assumed that a stint in the army would involve little more than tough training and an occasional trip to Bosnia or Kosovo. I counted on plenty of photo ops of cool Balkan landscapes and a few interesting stories along the way. Anything like 9/11 was beyond the scope of my imagination.

A soft kid, who liked hanging out with his mother more than most, I’d been posturing my whole life. Always scared around the rough boys in the neighborhood, I’d learned to act hard and fit in pretty early on. My dad—Bob “Butchie” Sjursen—grew up in Brooklyn’s Sunset Park during the turbulent 1960s, when the Irish and Italian boys clashed with assorted Puerto Rican gangs for control of the streets. He taught me to stand firm, swing first, and hold my ground. I did my best. Raised in a house with no car or telephone, Dad was shot at and stabbed before his seventeenth birthday. With grit and natural intelligence, the guy managed to graduate from City College and worked two or three jobs at a time to wrench us into the lower middle class.

My parents divorced when I was seven, and unfortunately the split dropped us a few steps on the economic ladder. But my father dedicated himself—with every ounce of his soul—to being a full-time dad. My sister Amy and I bounced between my mom’s small apartment, our grandparents’ bungalow, and my father’s condo. When I first started talking about enlisting in the army or marines, it was my dad who pushed me toward West Point. He’d done his research, too—in a pre-Google era, mind you—and explained how academy cadets were actually active-duty soldiers and college students. I promised to apply. Here’s the thing: I thought you had to be either a blue-blood rich boy or some congressman’s kid to get into the place. That might have been true fifty years earlier, but times had changed. The thick green packet, replete with a congratulatory letter from Congressman Vito Fossella and a keepsake plaque, arrived while I was at work in a local hardware store. That night, climbing the steep stairs to my mom’s apartment, I heard her and some friends whispering over their wine and sensed something was up. They already knew—clapping broke out—and my mother cried. As close as we were, I don’t think anyone was more proud than she was. You can’t say no to that.

In May 2005 I graduated, took two months’ leave, and attended the Officer Basic Course (OBC) at Fort Knox, Kentucky. After OBC I stayed on at Knox for a month-long Scout Leader’s Course (SLC), preparatory training for platoon leaders in light reconnaissance units (Humvee rather than tank). I’d received orders to the 3rd Squadron, 61st Cavalry Regiment—“The Destroyers”—a recon unit in the 2nd Brigade of the 2nd Infantry Division. I showed up in March 2006 and on day one took command of a scout platoon. A lucky break—some guys waited months for an opening while toiling away in menial administrative staff jobs. The unit had only gotten back from their last tour in August 2005 but were already set to head back to Iraq in October. That’s how it worked: the army ran on a conveyor belt. You were either at war, just getting home, or training to go back. Period. I was in for months of field training, punctuated by occasional booze-soaked holiday weekends, and plenty of stress. The countdown to Iraq began right then and there. It’s how we lived. But first I had a platoon to meet.

THE FELLAS

On day one I had nineteen soldiers—eighteen Cav scouts and a medic. My second in command was a grizzled old (late thirties—ancient for the army) platoon sergeant—Malcolm Gass. Below that we organized into two sections of three trucks each. In addition to me and Sergeant Gass, we had four other truck commanders. The two most senior were the numbers three and four of the platoon—staff sergeants Damian South and Micah Rittel. Our junior sergeants were Ty Dejane and John Pushard. Then came the heart of the platoon: thirteen young troopers belonging to the undifferentiated yet proud mass we called “Joes.”

The first time I saw Specialist Alexander Fuller, simply “Fuller” within the platoon—first names are all but nonexistent among soldiers—he walked over, stood at stiff attention, and introduced himself. He was the only enlisted man to do so and was far more proper than any of the sergeants. My new platoon sergeant, essentially my second in command—and to most young soldiers the number one force in their lives—had given me a quick rundown of the guys in the platoon. He described Fuller with a few choice, military-speak adjectives: “high-speed,” “squared-away,” “motivated as hell,” and “NCO-material.” Fuller was young, just twenty then. He looked a bit older though. Medium height, medium build, dark hair cut close in an edged style. He had slightly olive toned skin that deviated just enough from his Anglo-sounding last name that some of the guys speculated he was part Puerto Rican, black, Asian, or something. He claimed not to know. Fuller would say he was American or “straight Boston, son.” That settled it. There was something about his bearing, the mix of confidence and anxiety, something in that nervous smile. It was captivating. He stood stiff with his shoulders pulled back in perfect military posture and introduced himself. It was like something out of a movie and reminded me of a training vignette about “meeting your new platoon” I’d seen at West Point. This didn’t happen in real life. In that moment I don’t think I had an inkling that Fuller would be forever with me, but I guess you could say I liked him from the start.

Private Edsel Ford was a pain in my ass from the day he showed up at the unit until the day we got to Iraq. His father had given him the strange first name as a tribute to the short-lived line of cars named for Henry Ford’s only son. A significant commercial failure, the Edsel division lasted only from 1957 to 1960. Private Ford started slow; it took the war for him to flourish. A late arrival to the unit, he looked about fifteen, though actually he was in his early twenties. Of medium height and slight, he appeared almost frail as his oversized uniform draped awkwardly over his skinny torso. Everyone said he looked like Justin Timberlake—and he did! Fashion conscious when off duty, he frequented clubs and bars nearly every night of the week and twice on weekends. He was a legit dancer; come to think of it, Ford kind of thought he was JT. The kid was seemingly late to every single formation. He’d sleep in, miss PT, and spend the rest of the day getting “smoked”—forced to do physical exercises to exhaustion—by the platoon’s sergeants. The thing is, he never seemed to sweat it. He’d stay quiet, take the punishment, smile at the end of the day and do it all over again. We thought he was hopeless. The one thing Ford did do well—besides break-dance—was medical training. It turned out he’d been a volunteer firefighter and a certified first responder back home. Looking at him, that was hard to believe, but years later one of the other soldiers told me that Ford had once said, “Hey, dude, if something bad ever happens when we get over there—I can no shit help you.” He was right.

Sergeant Ty Dejane was the junior NCO of the platoon, probably the least mature, but also the most popular with troops. DJ—as we called him—was from the town of Salem, Ohio, a hardscrabble district of abandoned factories and thwarted dreams. DJ was one of those young sergeants who could give two shits about getting some new lieutenant. He’d been to Iraq once before, was about my age, and exuded an air of “who gives a shit” when I first met him. DJ had had previous combat experience. He’d patrolled north of Baghdad in 2003 to 2004, assigned to the scout platoon of 1-12 Infantry in the 4th Infantry Division. That first tour started slow, but as the insurgency heated up in the late summer of ’03, his platoon started to see contact with IEDs and some firefights.

Sergeants, so goes the popular platitude, are the backbone of the army. And sure, that’s true. But here’s the thing: it’s a lot more complex than that. Sergeants are essential. They stay in a unit longer than most officers and provide vital continuity. They’ve risen up from the ranks and know the soldier’s life. Many are highly seasoned and their advice is invaluable. But some of them suck. They’re not all created equal. NCO worship is no more rational than that of any other deified human group. Some are solid, others dreadful. A select few are exceptional. Staff Sergeant Damian South of Panama City, Florida, was my finest. Damian—we were quickly on a first-name basis—was twenty-six, just three years older than me, and close enough in age to feel like a peer.

Damian had lived with his father, a diesel mechanic, after his parents split up and had moved all over the Southeast before settling in Panama City, Florida. In high school he played football, joined the Air Force ROTC, and always planned to enlist in the military. That’s just what the men in Damian’s family did. His father was a former marine and a Vietnam vet, his uncle an army Special Forces Green Beret, and his grandfather a twenty-three-year veteran of the U.S. Navy—including service in World War II. Damian had originally signed a contract with the air force, but after he shattered his ankle wrestling with some friends the military was put on hold. He kept trying to join the army but each time was rejected on account of the old injury. In the meantime, he worked as a bouncer in a local club and spent some time studying criminal justice at Gulf Coast State College. Exceptionally bright but never a focused student, Damian quickly tired of school. It was 9/11 that changed everything. Suddenly the army starting accepting nearly everyone, and almost overnight he received an injury waiver. By January 2002, he was on his way to basic training.

Damian was young, energetic, physically fit, and wildly popular with the troops. He led by example in every way—technically skilled, tactically aware, fastest runner, best athlete, and the most charismatic. About six-foot-three, he had the outsized personality to match. Ironically, he’d been a Cav scout for only about a year.¹ He’d first enlisted as an Air Defense Artillery (ADA) specialist—not generally considered among the elite combat branches. Nonetheless, he had been to Iraq before, with the 4th Infantry Division in 2003 to 2004. With the Iraqi Air Force all but nonexistent, most ADA units converted to armored infantrymen, and Damian’s platoon was no exception. He spent a year in the northern city of Tikrit, learned his trade, but saw little direct combat. Back in those early days large swaths of Iraq were relatively quiet, and it was fairly normal to serve a whole year without losing a man. Soon after, the army phased out Damian’s particular ADA specialty, and he had to switch jobs. He chose 19D—cavalry scout.

There was just something about the guy—I guess you could say we got along from the start. Damian was smart and witty, by far the brightest guy in the platoon. He was young and relatable but simultaneously mature. Damian hung out with the soldiers but stayed a step above their nonsense. He treated officers with respect and never acted better than me, despite his greater experience. Turned out we shared an acquaintance, too. During his last tour Damian’s platoon leader had been Lieutenant Ronald “Ronnie” Iammartino, a fellow West Pointer and Staten Island native. Ronnie was a senior during my freshman year, so our overlap was short. Nevertheless, he was good to me. Plebe year sucks, what with the hazing and lack of off-post privileges, and there weren’t very many New Yorkers around. Ronnie would always say, “Hey,” and talked to me like a normal person—something surprisingly refreshing back then. He’d once pulled me to the side and said that, when no one was around, I didn’t need to call him “sir,” because, “after all, I’m really just Ronnie from Rose Avenue, ya know?”² I did know. Damian’s and my shared affection for Ronnie built some key early trust between us.

By design, the closest relationship in a platoon is supposed to be between the lieutenant and his platoon sergeant. Mine, eighteen-year veteran Sergeant First Class Malcolm Gass, was in his late thirties. He knew the job, could acquire anything the platoon needed—we called him the scrounger³—and had a shortcut for everything. Gass was just what we needed from a senior sergeant, but he could have been my dad. Technically. As a result, Damian quickly became the guy to whom I’d go with a question or concern. He was my rock. He talked about getting out of the army after this stint, and, given that I was a brand new lieutenant without a clue, I spent an inappropriate amount of time trying to convince him to stay in. He didn’t. But that came later. Right then, we needed a “senior scout,” and Damian was it. Senior scout is not an official military rank, and it exists only in the cavalry. In our world, it’s the biggest honor and responsibility a sergeant can have. To simplify: the senior scout is the section sergeant in the lead vehicle on all patrols. He has immense influence on route selection and has the freedom to call an audible (make a last minute change) mid-mission. As the first set of eyes on everything the unit sees and eventually does, the senior scout is often the difference between success and failure, life or death. He’s a guy you better trust. Choosing Damian was a no-brainer. We took to hanging out off-duty and drinking beers at a local dive—the Hatch Cover. Trust is built on booze and bullshitting as much as it is on rank or training. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Richard “Ducks” Duzinskas put up with a lot of shit. Ducks was our most experienced young soldier. He’d been in the army for three years and had deployed to Iraq in 2004 to 2005. You’d think that’d earn him a ton of respect from the new guys. It didn’t. He’d been with our brigade on the last deployment but hadn’t seen much combat compared with some of the other scouts. During that tour, Ducks’s personality conflicts with a couple of serg...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Acknowledgments
• Prologue
• Preface: “No Shit, There We Were”: Salman Pak Backstory
• 1. Enter The “Ghost Riders”: 2nd Platoon, B/3-61 CAV
• 2. Citizenship and Sacrifice: Reflections on Military Service
• 3. Life as a Countdown: Drinking, Training, and Otherwise Getting By
• 4. Doing More With Less
• 5. “These Dudes are Trying To Kill Us”
• 6. Indispensable Friends: Mark and the Interpreters
• 7. Breaking Point: Fear, Loss, and Defeat
• 8. Sunni Versus Shia: The Anatomy of Sectarian Civil War
• 9. Ushering in the “Surge”: Farewell Mada’in, Hello Baghdad
• 10. Troop Shortage, Troop Surge: Good People, Bad Advice
• 11. A Night to Remember
• 12. Shouting at Lindsey Graham
• 13. Staggering to the Finish Line: Aftermath in a Shattered Platoon
• 14. Disappointing Paths: Iraq, Seven Years On
• 15. War in the Rearview: On Life after Iraq
• Coda: The Power of Memory
• List of Acronyms and Abbreviations
• Notes
• Index
• Back Cover