Written by Tom Davis – In 1996 I had the opportunity to command a Joint Special Operations Task Force ( JOTF).  The JSOTF’s mission was to provide a recovery/extraction force for military (members of the MCC– Military Coordination Center. More on that later) and “civilian,” read that CIA, personnel who were deployed in Northern Iraq as part of Operation Provide Comfort II. OPC II enforced the no-fly zone over Northern Iraq via Air Force F-4 Phantom attack aircraft. This mission had been ongoing since the end of the first Gulf War. An Air Force one star commanded OPC II. It was a Joint and Combined operation incorporating US Army, Navy, and Air Force personnel as well as military representatives from Turkey, England, and France. Ultimate command and control fell under U.S. European Command (EUCOM), headquartered in Vaihingen, Germany. Special Operations Command Europe (SOCEUR), commanded by a one-star general headquartered in Stuttgart, served as my higher headquarters.

The JSOTF consisted of an Air Force Major serving as my J1, a Navy Lieutenant (equivalent to Army Captain) serving as my J2, an Army Captain serving as my J4, and an Army Special Forces Major serving as my J3. All had senior NCOs from the different Armed Services within their sections. We worked out of a large bunker near the air strip. The 10^th SFGA supplied the J3 Major and a company of Special Forces soldiers commanded by another major. This company served as my quick reaction force, and rotated back to the 10^th Group at Fort Carson, Colorado, every three months.

I quickly decided that going to war with the Air Force was the only way to go to war. I had my own apartment with a small kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom that also served as the living room. I even had a TV that brought in the Armed Forces Network. The 10^th Group guys lived in air-conditioned tents. The Air Force provided a double tent that housed all kinds of weight and exercise equipment. They even supplied a large tent full of paperback books we could check out.

Incirlik Air Base sat a mere eight kilometers from Adana, Turkey. This was my second assignment to Incirlik. When I served with the 1^st Battalion of the 10^th Group in Bad Tolz, Germany, the American Red Cross sent me there to set up and run a three-week Aquatic School. I trained Air Force personnel from all over Europe as Water Safety Instructors.

Like most combat zones, days and weeks of waiting with little to do were interrupted by minutes or hours of crises. OPC II proved no exception. In fact, there was so little to do the company commander of the SF company asked if his guys could set up a mountain training course and offer it to any of the base personnel who wanted to take it. I readily agreed. The Air Force BG in charge of the base jumped on the opportunity.

I was ecstatic to find that the Air Force still maintained the Olympic size pool where I had conducted the Aquatic School several years ago. I’d done this at the end of my tour with the 1^st Battalion of the 10^th Group in Bad Tolz.

I signed out a bicycle from Recreation Services and kept up my Triathlon training schedule with daily double workouts, combining biking, running, and swimming. Should I jump in with the extraction force and move to or from an objective, I would not be holding them back.  In fact, one of the SF company commanders whose company fell under my command for operations in Northern Iraq told me just that.

After introducing myself to the soldiers, sailors, and airmen of the JSOTF, my J3 and I set up a visit/recon to Zakhu (on some maps spelled Zakho), Iraq. From there we would visit Kani Bot, Iraq, a small Kurdish village located at the far eastern edge of the security zone in northern Iraq. We flew from Incirlik Air Base in a C-12 (small twin-engine fixed wing) to Diyarbakir, a transfer point in eastern Turkey. Here we went through Turkish customs, then on to Zakhu, Iraq, by a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter.

When we reached Zakhu, we landed inside the Command Post (CP), an area about the size of two football fields enclosed by an eight-foot high concrete wall. From there, we moved by yellow Toyota Land Cruisers outfitted with M-60 machine guns and secured by armed Peshmurga guards to the Military Coordination Center (MCC) located at a place called the Zakhu house, also called Z-house.

The MCC’s mission was to show a presence and monitor activities in the security zone, an area in northern Iraq that bordered Turkey well above the 36th parallel. The MCC was under co-command of a US Colonel and a Turkish Colonel. (Some of you older Special Forces guys may recall that COL Jerry Thompson, Special Forces, was killed by friendly air-to-air fire when he was in command of the MCC) There were also French and British officers and NCOs along with a split (six-man) Special Forces Team that was detached from the Special Forces Company I had Operational Control (OPCON) of. This mixture of multi-national armed forces constituted a Combined Command. Each day the MCC folks visited different Kurdish villages throughout the security zone. The visits were conducted alternately by air or ground.

On a typical village visit, the US and Turkish co-commanders, along with the French and British Lieutenant Colonels, would meet with the Mukhtar (mayor) and the village elders. They would typically discuss village history, water source, medical coverage, schools, access to village, security, agriculture, Non-governmental Organizations (NGO) reconstruction, and other topics as they arose.

Our convoy from the CP to the Z-house brought us down “gasoline alley,” a four-lane paved road where the Turks dropped off large red sacks of potatoes and picked up Iraqi diesel fuel for the return trip to Turkey. These “food shipments” of potatoes were allowed under the United Nation (UN) sanctions (food for oil), but guess what? Nobody wanted potatoes, so red bags of potatoes lay stacked and rotting along the highway. The sole purpose for this delivery was to get the vehicles into Iraq under the UN’s humanitarian umbrella. The Turks could then fill their trucks with cheap Iraqi fuel that they sold for a huge profit in Turkey. This was no secret as everyone involved with OPC II and those above that level knew what was going on. Typical UN operation.

We reached the entrance to the Z-house, zigzagged our way through several barriers (large concrete culverts filled with sand), and stopped in the parking area. We arrived too late to go on a “road trip,” so we unpacked and received a tour of the Z-house.

The Z-house was a three-story building divided into three parts, each identical to the other. The construction was typical of the area: square with a flat roof. The walls and roof consisted of thick concrete. Blue and white tile covered the floors. Stairs accessed the three segments of the house and zigzagged to each level, opening onto the roof. The inside consisted of sleeping quarters, mess area, lounge areas, and operations and communication areas. Guards with M-60 machine guns and RPG rockets stood watch 24/7 at strategic points on the roof.

To its rear, the Z-house had a covered veranda that housed a ping-pong table and lounge chairs. White metal ceiling fans continually chopped the air, keeping the flies down to a minimum. A small swimming pool (about 20’ X 30’) sat to the left of the veranda.

Because we missed that day’s village ground trip, we decided to go into Zakhu. Since half the townspeople carry AK47s, the MCC provided us with an armed escort. The MCC security folks assigned us three Kurdish guards, a French NCO named Terry who spoke fluent Arabic and English, and a Special Forces Captain, all armed with AKs. The people here, all Kurds, were extremely friendly toward us, but the MCC took no chances. Kids there were like kids anywhere. They loved to have their pictures taken, especially with US military soldiers.

It was a religious holiday, so the streets were not as crowded as usual. What can I say about Zakhu? I suppose it, too, was typical of the region. Small shops lined the streets, selling everything from gold to vegetables to cigarettes to rugs. Down the middle of each alleyway ran a stream of sewage. The market street was crammed with all manner of vegetables and meats and was abuzz with flies and with people trying to sell you something. Barter was the name of the game, and we let Terry negotiate for us. I bought a few post cards and an Iraqi bayonet, which I would have to sneak back through Turkish customs. We visited the older part of the city and saw an old Roman bridge built well before the time of Christ. The bridge crossed the river that ran through Zakhu and into the Tigris.

That evening I received a briefing on the operations of the MCC, and we had dinner. Assigned to the MCC was a British Army “chef” (he was quite adamant about the term “chef” as opposed to “cook.”). After I ate one of his meals, I knew why.

The next day after lunch, we received a briefing on our ground movement from the Z-house to the Command Center where two Black Hawk choppers would pick us up for our air mission.

We left the Z-house and a few minutes later arrived at the Command Center. From there we proceeded on a 45-minute flight to the far eastern end of the security zone. Northern Iraq looked exactly like much of our American West. We lifted off and, once clear of Zakhu, dropped to about 60 feet and flew nap-of-the-earth, racing toward the mountains. Sitting in the chopper with the doors open and sandwiched between two M-60 door gunners, I flashed back to Vietnam.

We soon reached the mountains. Large outcroppings of a rock–similar to granite but a much lighter color–dotted the ground. We wove and bobbed our way through mountain valleys, following streams and dirt paths the Kurds call roads. The number of trees that covered the mountain’s slopes amazed me. All grew round and no higher than a basketball goal. As we snaked our way higher into the mountains, the temperature dropped, making me uncomfortably cold. Finally, the village of Kani Bot appeared in front of us.

I flew in the lead chopper. It circled to find a landing zone that was flat enough and large enough to accommodate it and the other chopper that accompanied us. On our first landing attempt, the chopper slid backwards as the rear wheel touched down. The pilot immediately lifted off. Our second attempt was no better. Finally, on the third try, we landed, immediately followed by the second bird.

We presented quite a show as we disembarked from the choppers. Surrounded by our Peshmurga guards, we moved toward the village. All the children, dressed in colorful clothing, followed us, smiling, waving, and shaking our hands. The villagers seemed, and in fact were, glad to see us.

The Mukhtar, Salim Saleh, was not there, so we met with his number-two man and all the village elders. Kani Bot consisted of about ninety families. No one could give us an exact or even an approximate number of how many people lived there. The Iraqi army had destroyed this village five times (Saddam was intent on “cleansing” his country of its Kurds), the last time being in 1988. All villagers had fled to Iran, where they lived in a camp called Zewa. About half of them returned to Kani Bot in 1991.

Sixty or so houses now spotted the area, all self-built, mostly of cut-stone with mud-based mortar. Large poles supported a mud roof. After a rain, the owner used a large stone–shaped like a roll of paper towels but about three times its size–to roll across the roof. This procedure squeezed out the water and further packed the mud. The houses’ floors were also packed mud. Since there was not enough housing to go around, families shared.

The village got its water from three springs. Unfortunately, they had no water distribution system, so the villagers had to go to the different springs and draw the water there. Their drinking water was separate from the washing area. The water supply was insufficient, especially during the summer. The quality of the spring water was good. We all took tea with the village elders during our visit. Not to do so would have been a supreme insult. I would pay dearly for this tea after I got back to Incirlik. Once again, I’d have severe diarrhea in yet another far corner of the world.

The village had only minimum medical support. In the event of a major medical problem, the patient would be carried either on foot or by mule to the nearest hospital miles away. Their major medical concern was malaria, especially in the summer when up to 50% were affected.

They had one teacher who taught up to grade three. After that, the children either went to school at another village or ended their education.

Farming presented a challenge since the village sat high in the mountains. Because of the natural slopes, lack of oxygen, and few mules, they could only farm a small part of the area. They mainly grew wheat, tomatoes, and okra. They ate most of what they grew. For the life of me, I could not see how these people survived the harsh winters and blistering summers, but they had for several thousand years.

When we entered the village, the Mukhtar’s representative escorted us to a house. We removed our boots and entered a small room. Worn but colorful carpets blanketed the floor and walls. Here, with about fifteen of the village elders sitting with their backs to the wall, we discussed the state of the village. Children peered into the room through the bars that covered the larger of two windows. They served our tea in glasses about the size of a double shot glass. The tea tasted very sweet and very good. Everywhere you visited around Iraq or Turkey, the people offered you tea. They served it in grand style, presenting it in a little glass that sat on a small colorful saucer. A tiny spoon rested in the glass. You’d vigorously stir the liquid to get the half inch of sugar sitting on the bottom mixed in with the tea. I became quite fond of these occasions. Of course, the villagers offered to feed us supper, but we were pressed for time and couldn’t accept. How they could offer us something that they had so little of amazed me.

We concluded our visit in about an hour and had our pictures taken with the village elders. We provided them Polaroid photos before we left. I have rarely met a more generous group of people than the Kurds. I have also rarely met a more warlike race either. They have been fighting between themselves and with the surrounding countries for thousands of years, and I suspect this will continue for thousands of more years. I will say that Operation Provide Comfort II provided stability to this region rarely experienced. I can’t help but think that our presence in the area between the wars led to the success Special Forces experienced in Northern Iraq when the second Gulf War started.

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TOM DAVIS’ publishing credits include Poets Forum, The Carolina Runner, Triathlon Today, Georgia Athlete, Proud to Be: Writings by American Warriors Vol. 3, A Loving Voice Vol. I and II, Special Warfare., and Winston-Salem Writers’ POETRY IN PLAIN SIGHT program for May 2013 (poetry month).

He’s authored the following books: The Life and Times of Rip Jackson, The Most Fun I Ever Had With My Clothes On, The Patrol Order; and The R-complex.

Tom lives in Webster, NC.

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Available to Order: Tom Davis’ Memoir, The Most Fun I Ever Had With My Clothes On: A March from Private to Colonel. http://www.oldmp.com/davismemoirs