Traveling with the US Military Police in Iraq

Reflections from my May 2008 month with the troops

Doubt is a corrosive emotion. It began to assail my mind long before I departed this spring for my embed with American military police units in Iraq. And doubt catches you when you're weakest, most tired, or under stress. By the time I dragged body armor, Kevlar helmet, a knapsack, and a roller bag through JFK, Dulles, and Kuwait International Airports I was already physically worn out and jet-lagged. The next day, landing in Baghdad International Airport, I was exhausted. And the great adventure had just begun!

There was probably not one day during my month-long trip that as some time I didn't question my purpose for being there. Oh, I knew by rote all of the quick replies: that I was there to research a book on the military police and their new roles and mission, that I was there to see for myself what was really happening on the ground, or that I was visiting to demonstrate support for our soldiers and their efforts. All sounded good, and all were true. But the answer wasn't complete.

One driving reason for me to make this trip was the same reason that impelled me into the Vietnam War 37 years ago: America was at war and I wanted to be a part of it.

At my core I'm a soldier, a warrior, and now at 63 years old had questioned my ability to be able to be part of the fight. If I went to Iraq could I cut it? Would I have the strength and endurance to hang in there for the long hours, could I stand the blistering heat, am I smart enough to learn the new tactics and weapons?

There was no way that I was going to get into the fight as a soldier any more. Sadly, I had to accept the fact that those days had passed. But there was still the opportunity to be there by the sides of the fighting men and women. It wasn't ideal but it sure beat sitting back in the States wondering if I could hack it.

So after consultation with my editor who grudgingly admitted that a book might be possible out of the visit, I began to make serious arrangements for the embed. Fortunately I had become friends with an MP, Colonel Mike Bumgarner, who was now advising the Iraqi Police College. He helped me arrange the embed by running some of the action required and introducing me to many of the key players in country, including Colonel Mark Spindler, commander of the 18th MP Brigade with which I would ultimately be embedded.

While plodding through bureaucratic requirements back home I began to assemble my kit. First purchase was a pair of desert books. I began to wear them up and down the beach at my St. Augustine, Florida home, plodding along for a few miles daily and wondering when boots had become so heavy. In memory they seemed lighter. Now it was like wearing ankle weights.

It was not until my interceptor body armor (IBA) arrived on loan from the generous people at Pinnacle Armor that it began to dawn on me that this was a different military and a different time. Weighing in at about 25 pounds, the Dragon Skin set was comparatively lighter than and considerably more flexible than standard military issue IBA. But for me it seemed to weigh a ton.

Previously when I walked on the beach in my shorts and boots I'd get occasional looks, but usually a friendly wave, from passers-by. Now, striding (or stumbling) along in boots topped by IBA most beachgoers averted their eyes. They may have thought I was a refugee from Bike Week down in Daytona or just a run-of-the-mill nut, but in any case nobody wanted to get too close. Quick, run, it might be catching!

While the popular reaction was amusing, what struck me was how tired I was getting after only an hour or two of wearing this stuff on the beach. What was going to happen when I had to drag this gear around all day? In the boiling hot sun? The prospect that I really might not be able to perform this kind of task any longer began to prey on my mind. How embarrassing would it be, I worried, if I got over there, got all set up with the soldiers, and then collapsed because I wasn't strong enough?

The whole idea of failure began to drive me. I increased my workout to the point that I was cranking out between 300 and 400 pushups of various kinds during a day, was knocking down more than 100 situps, and spent an hour in other stretching and strengthening exercises. But was that going to be enough? I was not entirely confident that it would be.

I did worry about my chronically weak right leg. Originally injured by a nasty twist when I was in Vietnam, I had subsequently had three major surgeries on it including two total joint replacements. I was told by my orthopedic surgeon that it would need a third replacement, probably no later than next year. Over the years I had broken the ankle once and the femur twice.

I have a ton of metal in that leg. Every time I pass through airport security I set off lights and bells like a pinball machine. I had never really been able to re-hab the leg to the point that it ever had anything close to original strength, and it was weak now. If anything is going to let me down, I worried, it will probably be the knee.

While I was genuinely worried about embarrassing myself and disappointing my hosts by failing physically, I was not concerned about mental preparation. When people back home heard about my plans the first question asked was "Aren't you afraid?" While I would usually reply with something standard and normal, the fact was that I really did not fear for my life. After 20 years in the Army, a great deal of it in Special Forces, risking my life was acceptable if I was convinced that the goal was worthwhile.

I have more than 150 parachute jumps, most at night, under my belt, and have climbed in and out of helicopters on aluminum ladders, and rappelled from hovering choppers and down cliff faces. I SCUBA dived in waters from the Atlantic to the South China Sea, and have locked out of submarines, been tossed around paddling rubber boats in a stormy ocean, and waded across leech-infested streams higher than my chest holding a rifle over my head.

After more than a year in Vietnam and repeated exposure to danger in Central America, I had learned one firm lesson. Combat is unpredictable. At times when you ought to have been killed or seriously wounded you would walk out without a mark. Other instances someone sitting beside you might suddenly be hit. Out of the blue, with no explanation or discrimination. I have long accepted the premise that everything in life - or death - has a purpose and a meaning.

Just because we are not bright enough to figure out what that is doesn't mean that it's not there. It just means that humans aren't very bright. If you need to test that hypothesis, I suggest you surf through entertainment television or peruse the new releases rack at the video rental store. Regardless, after a lifetime of near misses, I accept the fact that when my time is due, it is due, whether a meteor falls out of the sky and catches me at the beach or an IED blows me up in Iraq.

So while that aspect of the trip clearly worried friends and relatives, I was less concerned about death than about failure. Throughout the embed I continually prayed the Shepherd's prayer attributed to first American astronaut Alan Shepherd: "Please, Lord, don't let me screw this up."

In some ways the prospect of keeping up with soldiers who might have been my kids (or even grandkids, ouch!) was a challenge. Could I hang in there with this generation of soldier? More important, maybe, how would they accept me with my grey hair and stiff joints? While I didn't want to be anyone's mascot, nor did I want to hold them back, to be an impediment to them accomplishing their mission. And most of all, I did not want my presence to be a liability to them or to endanger their lives. That would be awful.

By the time I reached Baghdad I was already exhausted, but had made a commitment: I was going to make it through this embed successfully or die in harness. Never in the past had I quit something I started. I was going to do this.

I'm not sure what I expected in the way of reception. I was mentally prepared for outright rejection, amused tolerance, and even open hostility. What stunned me was the degree of acceptance, respect, and admiration I received from these soldiers. It is said that nothing pleases an old soldier more than for young soldiers to ask him about his experiences.

Make no mistake; the soldiers' attitude was not toward me as an individual, but as a representative of a generation that they realized had been largely scorned and disparaged by American society. Every unit I rolled with introduced me as a Vietnam vet, as a former Special Forces officer, and they embraced me as one of their own. They took me in more as a legacy than a relic. And I am most appreciative of them for treating me that way.

It is easy to admire these soldiers. And - warts and all, for none of us is perfect - admiration quickly turns to love. What other reaction can you have when you're hanging around with them into the night, sharing a cigar and stories, and you are approached by a soldier who ought to be in bed asleep, resting for tomorrow's mission, and he asks if he can talk with you? Sure, I reply, we can do an interview.

"No, sir," he says, eager and bright eyed. "I'm not important enough for you to interview. I just want to talk to you for a few minutes. It would mean a lot to me."

Or when a specialist gunner, already on his second combat tour, asks how this is different from Vietnam. "Are we as good as you guys were?" he asks, and I am momentarily stunned for a reply. Because they are so much better than we were.

They are smarter, stronger, and more technologically savvy that we were. They are all volunteers, most post-911. They are committed to the mission, incredibly courageous, and fully cognizant of the role they are playing in keeping our country safe and secure.

These soldiers are indeed the best of the best. My commitment to them - and I stated this to them at every opportunity - is to tell my fellow Americans to the best of my ability how wonderful they are and what sacrifices they are making on our behalf.

And most of all I promised them that I will work as hard as I can to make sure that what happened to my generation - the slander, libel, and outright hatred - never, ever comes down on their heads. This was my pledge to them.

That's why I'm asking you for your assistance and participation. Let's make sure that no soldier ever again sits in an airport, bus terminal, or train station feeling alone, unappreciated, and friendless. Let's take a small step of kindness, let them know how much we love and appreciate them, and make them feel welcome.

We need to bring these soldiers back home with their heads high and pride intact. And if buying them a meal or a cup of coffee helps accomplish that task then what a huge outcome we can have from such a small gesture of thanks!

Please join me, and the rest of America, in this effort.

— Gordon Cucullu
May 2008