Prison Riot and a Death Wish

By Greg Chabot

                The following took place during easter weekend in 2004. The day after Baqubah had gone insane. My platoon lived on the second deck of the Police HQ above the city jail. During this time period, a blind eye was turned to using civilian vehicles and local weapons. It truly was the wild west in the early days of GWOT. Then politics ruined the fun.

The next morning, after a fitful two hours of sleep, I ate a cold MRE and cleaned my weapon to prepare myself mentally for more combat. Mosques around the city began to give sermons indicating it was a religious holiday and day of peace. Our ODA brothers pulled in with a couple of 60mm Mortars for us, if needed, to even the odds if we got hit again. 1/6 FA sent over an M113 ambulance with a doctor as a precaution. Combat is unpredictable and one’s luck could change in a nanosecond.

It turned out to be a quiet day. The main problem was prisoners still causing trouble at the jail. It was decided to transfer the troublemakers to the detention facility at FOB Warhorse, in the hopes that would bring order. Being a National Guard Unit, we had a few current and former corrections officers on hand, myself included. Sgt. Rick asked me if I wanted to help with separating the troublemakers by force if necessary. I replied with a big grin “Be my pleasure, Sergeant”.

The jail was trashed with water pipes broken and fires still smoldering, the stench of so many men crammed in a small space was overwhelming. The plan was simple; the Iraqis had a list of names. They would be called out and then escorted to the yard. If they refused, we would roll in and remove them by force.

 I felt like a viking warrior all armored up with a riot shield. I had no weapons, only a riot shield, handcuffs, and baton. If the prisoners rushed us, we would try to lock the cell door. If they managed to get by us, the roof and exits were covered by our guys with orders to kill anyone trying to escape.

The testosterone and adrenaline are flowing as the first name is called. He cooperates and is escorted out peacefully, so far, so good. The next guy gets froggy and starts to argue. As he is waving his arms, Rick grabs him by the throat and drags him out of the cell. I deck him with my shield and pin him to the floor. He’s cuffed and dragged out; it goes smooth after that for a while.

I get rotated in to escort; I’ll describe how it is done: You hold the cuffs, if the prisoner resists, you lift the cuffs, which will force the prisoner to lean forward. Then you bend your arm under with your elbow on their spine. If they really fought you could dislocate their shoulders with little effort or sweep their legs and drop them face first to the concrete. It was an effective technique that ensured compliance. We move on to the next cell, and one guy refuses to come out. He and a few of his pals are armed with pipes and he is getting his 60 cellmates riled up.

We step out of the block to give a sit-rep and plan. It is decided we will roll in with me leading with a shield and baton to clear the way. The rest of the team are also armed with batons. Rick is the designated snatch man and team leader. The Iraqi police would come behind us to keep the egress clear. With the goal of getting this clown and getting out, there would be a fire team on standby to come get us if things go south with them, shooting first and asking questions later. No matter what happens, no one gets left behind.

This is strictly voluntary for anyone inside the jail. We all get asked if we want out, no one backs out. We take a few minutes to drink water and have a smoke; while doing this, I have my baton behind my neck stretching out and limbering up. I look over and see a female soldier looking at me with awe. While getting mentally prepared, guys are taking off wedding bands, watches, and dog tags. This is done so prisoners can’t grab on to you, I walk over to her and hand her my wallet and other stuff with a nod.

We put on elbow and knee pads, and I threw on a do-rag and hide it under my helmet. In all honesty, I would have just preferred my rag, and yes, the tension was high. Our Iraqi counterparts are waiting, they have everything from batons to squeegees and thick electric wire as melee weapons.

We get into a diamond formation and march in, not sure if this was our last minutes on this earth. As my left foot hits the ground, I strike my shield with the baton. It is loud inside with the Iraqis shouting back and forth, the outer doors close behind us and the sunlight disappears as we make our way to the cell. We are all in, as there is no going back now.

Rick keeps a firm grip on my shoulder and directs me to stop. As a precaution, our Platoon Sgt will control the door to the cell. Smoke fills the air, and it is hard to breathe, all I can see are Iraqis crowding the cell door. I just stare at them with hatred as I tap the shield with my baton waiting to unleash the pent-up violence flowing through me. Rick leans in and shouts: “You ready?” I nod; the door is opened. I hit my shield and yell out: “Yaaaaah!!!!” The dudes crowding the door move away, their eyes as big as plates. Now you’re probably thinking I charged in like a Berserker. Hate to disappoint you but no, a diamond formation needs to be tight for control and strength.

The smell in the cell was worse than the outside, the stench of backed up sewage and unwashed bodies could make a maggot gag. The heat was worse than outside; I could feel the sweat pouring off me as we pushed in. There wasn’t much resistance, I backhanded one guy with my shield and kept moving forward. Prisoners are on their knees crying or trying to get out of our way. I could hear the sounds of flesh being struck with melee weapons behind us. I’m in my element and focused on our objective.

I see the dude and his buddies in a corner as we get closer, two of them drop their pipes and get down. One tried to step in front, and I hit him with my baton between his neck and shoulder. I can hear the crack of bone breaking over the noise, I shove him aside as our target tries to flee to the bathroom. Rick grabs him by the throat and throws him against the wall cuffing him in record time. I pivoted to the left to cover. Rick smacks my shoulder and yells “GO, GO, GO!!!” we start to egress out.

Thankfully, our Iraqi allies have covered our six with brutal efficiency. There are bloodied, whimpering prisoners lying everywhere. I see Mort, the Iraqi that runs the jail clubbing a guy like a baby seal with a squeegee.

We get out and I turn to cover the door which proves to be unnecessary, as the fight has left that cell. I can’t wait to get outside with this dude as I’m soaked, and my eyes are watering from the smoke, along with my nose pissing mucous. My teammates’ faces are covered in sooty sweat; we look like demons just released from the gates of hell.

The idiot decides to resist, and he gets dropped. As he tries to get up, I thrash him with my shield. Seeing the light, he behaves himself and we drag him to the yard. As foul as the air was in Baqubah, those first breaths were like mountain air to me. It felt like we were in there for hours, but it was probably only two minutes. I pounded a liter of water and dumped one over my head to cool off. Word got around the jail about the “wrecking crew”, and the rest of the troublemakers cooperated. We joked later that what we did wouldn’t have worked in a US jail, but hey, Inshallah.

Bus Ambush.

To transport the troublemakers, we decided to use the “Magic Bus”, which was unarmored and blended in with the locals. I volunteered to drive as it seemed I was the only guy who could drive a stick shift. Though many of my platoon mates had CDLs, go figure. It wasn’t my first time driving it, we had used it on a previous mission in town, and it was quite a ride, reminded me of the action movie Swordfish.

 Sgt.Fouts and a  293^rd  soldier volunteered to go along with me to keep the passengers in line. As my unit did not have M4s I “borrowed” a folding stock AK and mags from the Police arms room. As a driver, I felt the AK would be easier to use in a confined space in case of trouble. My 1^st Sgt loaned me his M9 as backup. Before leaving, I warned the prisoners any bullshit and I would kill them all with extreme prejudice and leave them on the side of the road.

Thankfully, the trip to Warhorse was uneventful. At the detention facility we dropped off the “kids” and headed to the DFAC and post office. After loading up the bus with mail and hot chow for the platoon, we headed back, taking a different route down a road known as “RPG Alley”.

We had just crossed a bridge and were trucking at 50 mph when we started taking fire from a small village. Most of the fire was focused on the “Magic Bus” with the supersonic crack of rounds and red tracers reaching out for us. I was doing my best to keep shifting gears and returning fire one handed with my AK blasting out my window and my left ear. Fouts and the 293^rd soldier blast the windows out while returning fire.

An RPG was fired at us, I heard the whoosh and saw it pass! It was so close it had scratched the windshield. I literally could have reached out and grabbed it! If I was going a little faster, I would have caught it in my ribs, thankfully, the war god favored me. After pushing through the kill-zone, we continued down the MSR. My lower back was on fire. Fouts does a blood wipe to check me for wounds. I had just twisted wrong; my ears were numb and ringing from all the gunfire in a confined space. We then warned a Patrol of Bradleys’ about the ambush. As we drove off, we could hear them engaging the enemy and hopefully killing them.

After this incident, I gained a reputation as a hot shot driver with a death wish. Whenever there was a need for someone to drive a civilian, or unarmored vehicle, I was asked first. And I never turned the chance down to get my adrenaline fix and maybe a medal. Another time we needed to transport a high value prisoner to Warhorse it was decided to use a civilian vehicle. There was this older BMW E31 coupe with a V12 and a lot of bullet holes in the windshield and body that was just sitting at the police HQ. It was black and covered with a thick layer of dust. The sunroof was missing, as was the back window, it was trashed. Shame, as it was a nice car at one time. I got it started, and it seemed none of the rounds hit anything vital.  After cleaning up some dried blood off the seats, we load up the HVP and two other death wishers and off to Warhorse we go in style.

Just so you know, we were not alone, I was following our Logpac, if they got hit, I was to use the speed and mobility and go around to RV at Warhorse. If the vehicle was disabled, we were to prevent the HVP from escaping by any means necessary (kill him). I was having the time of my life going through the gears and driving like a complete jackass. We heard a gunshot, using that as an excuse I punch it and pass the Logpac. We are going at least 120 mph, and you could hear the wind whistling through the bullet holes.

We made it to Warhorse in record time, almost wrecking it at the Scunion circle from going too fast while cutting off local motorists. Now we have a problem, we can’t just roll up to the gate or we risk getting lit up.

 So, Rick, who’s in charge, gets out and walks to the gate with his hands up. After a minute, he waves me forward and we must have been quite the site with a hot rod BMW with bullet holes in it. Me being me, I ditched my helmet and was wearing my do-rag and a Cheshire grin with a lucky strike in the corner of my mouth. With two dudes in the back, one with a sandbag over his head and the other with a gun on him. As we roll through the gate, the soldiers manning it are giving us the “who the heck are you guys?” look. I just smile, lower my sunglasses, wink at a cute female private, and drive to the detention facility.

As our guys catch up, the NCO in charge is nagging me out about my driving, being one of the weaker NCO’s that rarely left the wire, I offered to let him drive in a low menacing voice. Like a coward, he declines.

We go get chow and head home by taking RPG alley. Rick tells Logpac we ain’t staying with them and we’ll meet them at the traffic circle near FOB Gabe. I can’t wait to punch it; RPG alley is a straight shot, and it would be a shame not to have fun on the death roads of Iraq. I use the advantage of speed and no consequences to push the Beemer to it’s max, flying along with no cares in this screwed up world I find myself in.

Knowing that if I wreck the car, we’re royally screwed if the locals find us first. The war god again smiles upon us, and we make it back without incident, ending the worst Easter weekend ever. It felt good to get my cherry busted, and overall, the unit performed well under fire. I felt a great sense of accomplishment surviving another combat mission and looked forward to more like the adrenaline junkie I had turned into.

Mass suicide attempt and getting speared.

The removal of the troublemakers helped, but did not solve all the problems in the jail. There were still flare ups and constant bullcrap from the prisoners. I was in the middle of a workout when our medic, Doc Watson, yelled at me to grab an aid bag and head to the jail. Donning my armor, I haul ass down to a riot in the making. There was a mass suicide attempt in a cell, and the rest of the shitheads felt we were not doing enough to help.

A little background: At that time, Iraq did not have capital punishment. The prisoners in that cell all had sentences totaling hundreds of years. They were being held until the coalition gave Iraq back their sovereignty. Then they planned to try and sentence them to death.

 I get it, you’re doing 400 years in a crappy city jail knowing your days are numbered, you get desperate. A bunch of them decided to cut their wrist in an attempt to cheat the hangman.

As I walk into the jail, we have prisoners laid out like cold cuts on the filthy concrete. We start to triage; I begin to work on a dude whose arm is spurting blood into the air. I slap a tourniquet on and stop the bleeding and try to start an IV. I’m sweating my ass off and the coppery smell of blood is thick in the air along with a swarm of flies.

While all this is going on, the rest of the idiots are yelling, and throwing things, and starting fires. Our guys are firing riot rounds into the cells trying to calm things. As I’m finishing up the IV and applying a pressure bandage, I feel a blow to the left side of my ribs. I lean to my left, and see a piece of pipe sticking out. One of the inmates must have thrown it like a spear. And when I leaned, it looked like it was sticking in me.

Being focused on treating the prisoner, I had no clue where it came from. Doc, with a look of horror checks me out as I had blood on me from the savage I was treating. Thankfully, my armor had stopped it from going into me. Yes, it hurt and left a bruise.

After telling him I’m good, I stand up and walk into the guard office and grab a fire axe that was stored there for some reason. I’m so mad I am beyond reason, or any human decency, and want payback. I ditched my armor and without a word walked to the cell that the spear was thrown from.

Everyone got out of my way, I stood at the door just staring at the prisoners, and you could hear a pin drop it got so quiet. Some dropped to the ground crying, I just stand there moving my fingers on the axe handle. I tell one of the Iraqi guards that spoke English to relay the following: “If you don’t stop. I’m coming in there to take heads and scalps!” The Iraqi relays my message and the prisoners finally calm down. I calmly walk back out, get into my armor and continue to assist in treating prisoners like nothing happened. No one said a word about what happened, and yeah, if I had got hit again, I would have made an alter to the war god out of their fucking heads. Consequences be damned, overwhelming force and violence are the only things savages understand.

Non-lethal isn’t always non-lethal.

After the spear incident, things stayed calm for a few hours. I was assigned to help keep order in the jail, and besides the axe, we had an M590A1 shotgun my pal Rob named “Brutus”, loaded with non-lethal rubber darts. For some reason, the Iraqis pull this kid out of a cell, and he gets loose and makes a break for the door. His one problem is “Brutus” and I are in his way. I lock and load and order him to halt, and trust me, a shotgun pointed at you is universal, regardless of language spoken. He hesitates and I butt stroke him knocking him on his ass. He still wants to play around and is kicking and screaming “freaking Americans!”. He spits and hits me, and I’m about done with his crap. He manages to get up and charges at me reaching for “Brutus.” I fire, he makes a stupid face and collapses to the ground with the dart sticking out of his chest, below his left nipple.

I said: “Knocked his ass out!”. Rob walks over and checks him out and says:“He’s dead!”, “What the heck Chabot?” Me, laughing: “Non-lethal isn’t always non-lethal dude, oops.” Luckily for all involved, it was legal use of force, as he did attempt to grab my weapon and attempt to escape. I was aiming for center mass, as rubber darts can kill if one is shot in the head.  My theory is, he was on drugs, which explained his strength and the shock of being hit with the dart stopped his heart, Inshallah. I got my balls broken hard after that, and my reply with a giggle was: “That’s how deadly of a soldier I am, and don’t cross me, ever”.