seruriermarshal
07-05-2004, 01:18 AM
Marines seal bonds of trust Special unit wants to win hearts, minds
http://www.sfgate.com/chronicle/pictures/2004/07/04/mn_danner01.jpg
Haditha, Iraq -- It's 2 p.m. at the Iraqi police station in Haditha. Captain Matt is holding court.
Two men have come to inquire about a relative arrested in a raid the day before. Captain Matt greets them with a few words in Arabic, then turns to his interpreter.
"Tell them it's out of my hands," he says. "They will be questioned by coalition authorities and treated well. They'll have medicine and they can pray. After that, it's up to the Iraqi authorities. Inshallah."
The interpreter interprets. The men nod, stand and shake hands.
They leave without getting what they wanted. Some Iraqis who come to talk to the big Marine officer don't get much help. Others do. Sometimes, it's a small thing -- a new identification card. Sometimes, it's much bigger, like springing a relative from jail.
Captain Matt's full name is Capt. Matt Danner, attached to a Marine infantry battalion stationed nearby.
He's been living at the Iraqi police station in Haditha for about six months, ever since his unit, 3rd Battalion, 4th Marine Regiment out of Twentynine Palms (San Bernardino County), arrived here to maintain security in the area west of Fallujah.
The strategy is called Combined Action Platoon, or CAP in military jargon. It was last used on a wide scale in Vietnam. The point was to put military units in local towns and villages so they could put a human face on the American military. So they could answer questions and fix problems. Not in the manner of regular fighting Marines.
This is about hearts and minds.
Captain Matt has captured both in Haditha.
He taught himself Arabic, which he says he speaks at a 4-year-old's level. Still, it's enough for him to joke with the Iraqis and make a more personal connection.
He has improved the police station and the department, equipped them with guns and body armor. And become a member of the family.
Captain Matt was formally made a member of the Jerafi tribe, the biggest, most powerful in the region.
"They wanted me to marry one of their daughters," he said. "I had to tell them my parents had already found a wife for me."
Danner has an easygoing style that suits the Iraqis. He is not of them, nor does he pretend to be. But he shows them respect and loyalty. And they admire that greatly.
He's a little bit "Lawrence of Arabia." If he wanted to, he could become Kurtz, from "Heart of Darkness."
His radio call sign: Viking. Tall, blond and blue-eyed, he looks like one.
Meetings are held in the police chief's office. It's nothing fancy. About 30 by 15 feet. Chief Hassan, who like many Iraqis uses only one name, sits at an oak desk at one end. Chairs line the walls. The doorway faces the chief's desk. Captain Matt sits along one wall. His interpreter, Sgt. Mohamad Akhtar, an Egyptian-born Marine who was raised in Sacramento, sits on the opposite side.
Sometimes three or four other Iraqi police are in the office. Sometimes it's a crowd of 15 police officers and local residents, all talking, cajoling, negotiating and greeting.
An officer with the security force around the nearby hydroelectric dam stops to say hello to Captain Matt.
"Did you get the new radios?" Danner asks.
The man beams. Yes. Yes. He hugs the Marine, patting his arm and thanking him. A radio is such a small thing but can mean a lot to a security guard out on patrol.
Another police officer comes to see about getting a badge. Hassan wants to talk about hiring security officers. Akhtar tells the chief that he's got to hire good, brave men. Not just someone he knows, or a family member. The chief nods. Tribalism is huge in Iraq. And business is all about family. Even in this station, almost everyone is related to someone else.
"The chief talks a good game, but we'll see," Danner says.
Danner, 30, is the son of a Marine pilot, a retired lieutenant colonel. He grew up all over the place, but generally calls Boston home.
He's a former enlisted man who rose to the rank of sergeant and then decided to become an officer. He just got promoted from first lieutenant to captain on Thursday, but even before that, he was called Captain Matt to give added authority to his position.
An Iraqi police sergeant, well known and respected among the Marines for his toughness, walks into the room. A glum look on his face.
"What's up with Sergeant Mohammed?" Captain Matt asks.
"He's unhappy because he hasn't dismantled a roadside bomb lately," Akhtar says. "He wants to blow something up."
Akhtar translates. The sergeant nods, but doesn't break a smile. When Mohammed leaves, he and Danner exchange goodbyes in the traditional Iraqi way, kissing cheeks and then bending down to kiss shoulders.
Danner was an officer in the Weapons Company during the invasion of Iraq last year. The battalion stayed in Iraq until June of last year and then returned to the United States. They came back to Iraq in February.
Before the deployment, the battalion commander, Lt. Col. Bryan McCoy, decided he would institute a hearts-and-minds program in his area of operation. Danner volunteered. He and his 15-Marine team were given four days of training on how to work such a program, and he got about three weeks of Arab language instruction.
Neither was enough.
When the Marines got to Iraq, Danner's team brought their gear to the police station. It was rough going at first. The Iraqi police were disorganized and dispirited. They had few weapons, no body armor, poor communication and zero morale.
But what they did have was Captain Samir, a lean, tough former intelligence officer who speaks adequate English. The two men became fast friends. They would work together and eat together. When the Iraqi police were reluctant to do what Danner wanted, Samir would kick them into action. When Samir needed something from the Marines, Danner would make it happen.
"I consider Captain Matt my brother," Samir said. "He is a leader."
The day that cemented the relationship came when Captain Samir and Captain Matt went out on a patrol together. They got back and went to the office. Exhausted, they fell into chairs and dropped off to sleep next to each other. That is how the Iraqis found them the next morning.
"It really showed that the lieutenant trusted them," Akhtar said. "He had his weapon out -- anyone could have taken it. And he was in a vulnerable position. After that, they would do anything for him."
Marine Cpl. Richard Amador said Danner has fixed many problems for the Haditha police force. But none meant as much as their pay. When the unit arrived, the Iraqis hadn't been paid for two months. Danner went to work, made the calls, harangued those who needed haranguing and got the money.
"We came back from Al Asad (air base) with a box full of money," Amador said. "That really opened the door."
Danner works long days. Everything revolves around him. He's got to approve security measures for the Marines, he coordinates with the Iraqi police, he fields countless calls on everything from Iraqi citizens complaining about damage done during military raids to planning foot patrols.
A man comes in to say a Marine threw a water bottle from a humvee in a convoy. It hit his windshield and destroyed it.
"This is exactly the kind of thing we're trying to avoid," Danner fumes. "I just can't understand this. And it takes so long to get a resolution for this guy. What am I going to do, send him to Mosul without a windshield?
"I gave him 200 bucks. I ought to strap that Marine onto the car and let him be a wind break."
He keeps the same hours as Iraqis. Stays up late. Gets up early. Takes a break during the midday heat. He eats their food and drinks their sugary tea.
He started smoking just because almost every Iraqi man smokes. It was just good form to light up when they did.
Danner's boss, McCoy, has high praise for Danner's program. "This is a real success story out here," he said. "The CAP team has given us access and allowed us to provide security much more effectively than we could do without them."
But such teams are rare in Iraq. It's unclear how many there are or where they are located throughout the country. Some individual unit commanders no doubt develop relationships as Danner has done, but they're not well known.
To make matters worse, Captain Matt is leaving. The 3rd Battalion is nearing the end of its seven-month tour. In another week, he'll return home.
"It's tough," he said. "It's real tough. If the division asked me to stay, I'd have a hard time saying no."
But his family worries about him, naturally, and he's engaged to be married. So he has a lot to look forward to when he gets home.
He'll turn over the station to a lieutenant from the battalion replacing McCoy's Marines: 1st Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment out of Camp Lejeune, N.C. First Lt. John Kenneley, 32, of Chestertownship, Ohio, arrived last week and is trying to learn the ropes.
The Iraqis treat Kenneley respectfully. But he's new. He'll have to earn their trust, learn customs and language. Kenneley said he will more than double the number of Marines involved in the program, and try to bring in a civil affairs team to help out with a lot of issues that have previously gone to Danner.
"I lobbied hard for this job," he said. "As a Marine, you want to win the fight. But the fight is here now: building up local forces so they can fight for themselves."
When Danner first showed up, the team came under fire. A foot patrol walked past a roadside bomb. Three Marines and a Navy medical corpsman were injured. They've been hit by rocket-propelled grenades and regular sniper fire on the police compound.
That tapered off after a time. There's still the occasional attack; someone tossed a homemade bomb over the outer wall a couple of days ago, but it didn't injure anyone.
It's not entirely clear if the peace and tranquility the station now enjoys is because of Captain Matt's efforts. People in the community know him and apparently tell the police when they know about a possible attack. The police have been much more effective in rounding people up and keeping them in the station's holding cell before they appear before a local judge.
The relationship that Danner created with the Iraqi police infected his squad. The Marines occupy several offices in the upstairs level of the station. Conditions are austere and the Marines sleep on the stone floor. Iraqi officers come in and out. They bring the Marines food, or watch them play poker.
Iraqis kiss each other, hug, hold hands. Marines, typically, do none of those things, at least not with each other.
But they became culturally sensitive over time. And now these tough guys kiss and hug their Iraqi counterparts all the time. You'll see an Iraqi cop come upstairs, and greet a young lance corporal. They'll do the cheek and shoulder kissing thing.
It works the other way, too.
Upstairs, Amador walks through the hallway and encounters Ahmed, a teenage boy who's technically incarcerated with his father and brother, awaiting trial. But the family is not held in the main jail downstairs. They're more like trustees, and allowed to roam freely as long as they don't leave.
"Salaam," Amador says to Ahmed.
The young Iraqi responds with one of the few phrases he knows, taught by U.S. Marines:
"Wassup, bitch?"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From (http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2004/07/04/MNG4T7GMRL1.DTL)
http://www.sfgate.com/chronicle/pictures/2004/07/04/mn_danner01.jpg
Haditha, Iraq -- It's 2 p.m. at the Iraqi police station in Haditha. Captain Matt is holding court.
Two men have come to inquire about a relative arrested in a raid the day before. Captain Matt greets them with a few words in Arabic, then turns to his interpreter.
"Tell them it's out of my hands," he says. "They will be questioned by coalition authorities and treated well. They'll have medicine and they can pray. After that, it's up to the Iraqi authorities. Inshallah."
The interpreter interprets. The men nod, stand and shake hands.
They leave without getting what they wanted. Some Iraqis who come to talk to the big Marine officer don't get much help. Others do. Sometimes, it's a small thing -- a new identification card. Sometimes, it's much bigger, like springing a relative from jail.
Captain Matt's full name is Capt. Matt Danner, attached to a Marine infantry battalion stationed nearby.
He's been living at the Iraqi police station in Haditha for about six months, ever since his unit, 3rd Battalion, 4th Marine Regiment out of Twentynine Palms (San Bernardino County), arrived here to maintain security in the area west of Fallujah.
The strategy is called Combined Action Platoon, or CAP in military jargon. It was last used on a wide scale in Vietnam. The point was to put military units in local towns and villages so they could put a human face on the American military. So they could answer questions and fix problems. Not in the manner of regular fighting Marines.
This is about hearts and minds.
Captain Matt has captured both in Haditha.
He taught himself Arabic, which he says he speaks at a 4-year-old's level. Still, it's enough for him to joke with the Iraqis and make a more personal connection.
He has improved the police station and the department, equipped them with guns and body armor. And become a member of the family.
Captain Matt was formally made a member of the Jerafi tribe, the biggest, most powerful in the region.
"They wanted me to marry one of their daughters," he said. "I had to tell them my parents had already found a wife for me."
Danner has an easygoing style that suits the Iraqis. He is not of them, nor does he pretend to be. But he shows them respect and loyalty. And they admire that greatly.
He's a little bit "Lawrence of Arabia." If he wanted to, he could become Kurtz, from "Heart of Darkness."
His radio call sign: Viking. Tall, blond and blue-eyed, he looks like one.
Meetings are held in the police chief's office. It's nothing fancy. About 30 by 15 feet. Chief Hassan, who like many Iraqis uses only one name, sits at an oak desk at one end. Chairs line the walls. The doorway faces the chief's desk. Captain Matt sits along one wall. His interpreter, Sgt. Mohamad Akhtar, an Egyptian-born Marine who was raised in Sacramento, sits on the opposite side.
Sometimes three or four other Iraqi police are in the office. Sometimes it's a crowd of 15 police officers and local residents, all talking, cajoling, negotiating and greeting.
An officer with the security force around the nearby hydroelectric dam stops to say hello to Captain Matt.
"Did you get the new radios?" Danner asks.
The man beams. Yes. Yes. He hugs the Marine, patting his arm and thanking him. A radio is such a small thing but can mean a lot to a security guard out on patrol.
Another police officer comes to see about getting a badge. Hassan wants to talk about hiring security officers. Akhtar tells the chief that he's got to hire good, brave men. Not just someone he knows, or a family member. The chief nods. Tribalism is huge in Iraq. And business is all about family. Even in this station, almost everyone is related to someone else.
"The chief talks a good game, but we'll see," Danner says.
Danner, 30, is the son of a Marine pilot, a retired lieutenant colonel. He grew up all over the place, but generally calls Boston home.
He's a former enlisted man who rose to the rank of sergeant and then decided to become an officer. He just got promoted from first lieutenant to captain on Thursday, but even before that, he was called Captain Matt to give added authority to his position.
An Iraqi police sergeant, well known and respected among the Marines for his toughness, walks into the room. A glum look on his face.
"What's up with Sergeant Mohammed?" Captain Matt asks.
"He's unhappy because he hasn't dismantled a roadside bomb lately," Akhtar says. "He wants to blow something up."
Akhtar translates. The sergeant nods, but doesn't break a smile. When Mohammed leaves, he and Danner exchange goodbyes in the traditional Iraqi way, kissing cheeks and then bending down to kiss shoulders.
Danner was an officer in the Weapons Company during the invasion of Iraq last year. The battalion stayed in Iraq until June of last year and then returned to the United States. They came back to Iraq in February.
Before the deployment, the battalion commander, Lt. Col. Bryan McCoy, decided he would institute a hearts-and-minds program in his area of operation. Danner volunteered. He and his 15-Marine team were given four days of training on how to work such a program, and he got about three weeks of Arab language instruction.
Neither was enough.
When the Marines got to Iraq, Danner's team brought their gear to the police station. It was rough going at first. The Iraqi police were disorganized and dispirited. They had few weapons, no body armor, poor communication and zero morale.
But what they did have was Captain Samir, a lean, tough former intelligence officer who speaks adequate English. The two men became fast friends. They would work together and eat together. When the Iraqi police were reluctant to do what Danner wanted, Samir would kick them into action. When Samir needed something from the Marines, Danner would make it happen.
"I consider Captain Matt my brother," Samir said. "He is a leader."
The day that cemented the relationship came when Captain Samir and Captain Matt went out on a patrol together. They got back and went to the office. Exhausted, they fell into chairs and dropped off to sleep next to each other. That is how the Iraqis found them the next morning.
"It really showed that the lieutenant trusted them," Akhtar said. "He had his weapon out -- anyone could have taken it. And he was in a vulnerable position. After that, they would do anything for him."
Marine Cpl. Richard Amador said Danner has fixed many problems for the Haditha police force. But none meant as much as their pay. When the unit arrived, the Iraqis hadn't been paid for two months. Danner went to work, made the calls, harangued those who needed haranguing and got the money.
"We came back from Al Asad (air base) with a box full of money," Amador said. "That really opened the door."
Danner works long days. Everything revolves around him. He's got to approve security measures for the Marines, he coordinates with the Iraqi police, he fields countless calls on everything from Iraqi citizens complaining about damage done during military raids to planning foot patrols.
A man comes in to say a Marine threw a water bottle from a humvee in a convoy. It hit his windshield and destroyed it.
"This is exactly the kind of thing we're trying to avoid," Danner fumes. "I just can't understand this. And it takes so long to get a resolution for this guy. What am I going to do, send him to Mosul without a windshield?
"I gave him 200 bucks. I ought to strap that Marine onto the car and let him be a wind break."
He keeps the same hours as Iraqis. Stays up late. Gets up early. Takes a break during the midday heat. He eats their food and drinks their sugary tea.
He started smoking just because almost every Iraqi man smokes. It was just good form to light up when they did.
Danner's boss, McCoy, has high praise for Danner's program. "This is a real success story out here," he said. "The CAP team has given us access and allowed us to provide security much more effectively than we could do without them."
But such teams are rare in Iraq. It's unclear how many there are or where they are located throughout the country. Some individual unit commanders no doubt develop relationships as Danner has done, but they're not well known.
To make matters worse, Captain Matt is leaving. The 3rd Battalion is nearing the end of its seven-month tour. In another week, he'll return home.
"It's tough," he said. "It's real tough. If the division asked me to stay, I'd have a hard time saying no."
But his family worries about him, naturally, and he's engaged to be married. So he has a lot to look forward to when he gets home.
He'll turn over the station to a lieutenant from the battalion replacing McCoy's Marines: 1st Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment out of Camp Lejeune, N.C. First Lt. John Kenneley, 32, of Chestertownship, Ohio, arrived last week and is trying to learn the ropes.
The Iraqis treat Kenneley respectfully. But he's new. He'll have to earn their trust, learn customs and language. Kenneley said he will more than double the number of Marines involved in the program, and try to bring in a civil affairs team to help out with a lot of issues that have previously gone to Danner.
"I lobbied hard for this job," he said. "As a Marine, you want to win the fight. But the fight is here now: building up local forces so they can fight for themselves."
When Danner first showed up, the team came under fire. A foot patrol walked past a roadside bomb. Three Marines and a Navy medical corpsman were injured. They've been hit by rocket-propelled grenades and regular sniper fire on the police compound.
That tapered off after a time. There's still the occasional attack; someone tossed a homemade bomb over the outer wall a couple of days ago, but it didn't injure anyone.
It's not entirely clear if the peace and tranquility the station now enjoys is because of Captain Matt's efforts. People in the community know him and apparently tell the police when they know about a possible attack. The police have been much more effective in rounding people up and keeping them in the station's holding cell before they appear before a local judge.
The relationship that Danner created with the Iraqi police infected his squad. The Marines occupy several offices in the upstairs level of the station. Conditions are austere and the Marines sleep on the stone floor. Iraqi officers come in and out. They bring the Marines food, or watch them play poker.
Iraqis kiss each other, hug, hold hands. Marines, typically, do none of those things, at least not with each other.
But they became culturally sensitive over time. And now these tough guys kiss and hug their Iraqi counterparts all the time. You'll see an Iraqi cop come upstairs, and greet a young lance corporal. They'll do the cheek and shoulder kissing thing.
It works the other way, too.
Upstairs, Amador walks through the hallway and encounters Ahmed, a teenage boy who's technically incarcerated with his father and brother, awaiting trial. But the family is not held in the main jail downstairs. They're more like trustees, and allowed to roam freely as long as they don't leave.
"Salaam," Amador says to Ahmed.
The young Iraqi responds with one of the few phrases he knows, taught by U.S. Marines:
"Wassup, bitch?"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From (http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2004/07/04/MNG4T7GMRL1.DTL)