GUANTANAMO BAY, Cuba by JTF Guantanamo
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Each week we post a new part of his article, “Day at the Beach,” recounting the Sergeant’s first-hand stories and observations from GTMO. Read parts 1, 2, 3, & 4 of the series.
This week: Briefing and debriefing interrogators and demoting an outranking interrogator
Day one was fast and furious. In January of 2002 the Department of Defense was feverishly trying to move all detainees from detention centers in Afghanistan. We were receiving a flight of thirty to forty detainees every other day. More than once in those first two weeks we all slept in our uniforms. So much for sunbathing at Club GTMO.
We were up at 0500 each day, retrieved the flatbed from its hiding place, pick up the officers and report for duty by 0530. Our office turned out to be a 600 square-foot play room with newly installed bars on the windows. My desk was a kidney shaped reading table that would have hit me at about the knees if I hadn’t been working from chair made for an 8 year old. I ate my lunches every day on a swing set next to a intimidating looking satellite dish, or did until the Navy communication guy showed up one day to adjust it. I noticed he shut it off before even coming outside.
He saw me and said “Dude,” with a very serious look on his face. “You don’t sit there very often do you?”
I lied, “umm, no…why?”
He said,”Just never ever sit there again. You’ll probably be ok though.”
I didn’t have the stones to ask and I still have no idea if he was serious or joking.
Every day was the same and the hours flew by. By default I was named NCOIC of the Analyst cell, which at the time meant absolutely nothing. As the deployment progressed this would become more important. Each analyst spent an hour pouring through 3 files to brief the interrogators and linguists who would begin their sessions at 0700. The interview sessions lasted until between 1200 and 1300 depending upon how cooperative the subjects were and then we debriefed the interrogators; rinse and repeat. Second sessions usually ended by 18-1900 and we wandered home by 2200. It was a true Charlie Foxtrot.
The number 1 goal was to establish a baseline for all detainees. Where did you come from, why, and how did you get to Afghanistan, and whom did you meet on the way? It sounds simple I know, it turned out to be anything but. They were all innocent. All of the detainees captured in Afghanistan were Koran salesman, cloth distributors, carpenters, or missionaries. At least a few of them were telling the truth which made it all the more difficult.
As I’ve already explained, the interrogators we were assigned also fell subject to the 80/20 rule. Four of the original interrogators were truly fine representatives of what the world’s greatest military has to offer. One, however, had obviously spent several years pissing off someone at Southern Command.
SFC Setemphree was a 5’6” blond chick and from the looks of her struggling BDU pants hadn’t been on a run since basic training. I know that you could find her today behind a desk at some Social Services Department or one of those tax payer funded jobs where you can manage to be useless for a lifetime with full benefits. You’ll know it’s her because her car will 4 different types of hope and change stickers. Why people like that join the service or how on earth they’re able to stay in is completely beyond me. Every day she yawned her way through our initial briefing and returned for debriefing with a single sheet of paper for each detainee’s file. Her results were often only four words, “He didn’t know anything.” Unfortunately, like everyone else I was to work with for the next 6 months, she outranked me.
As NCOIC of the Analyst Cell; I was in a terrible situation. She was Marty Bear’s interrogator and as such he had to deal with her every day. He was looking to me to deal with her apathy, but I had very little ammo. I was certainly no expert on the Middle East. I had a decent grasp on the difference between Sunni and Shia and I’d read a couple of books on the Taliban, Al’Qeada, and Osama Bin Laden. By and large, however, I was woefully ignorant of the cultural strife that was taking place in the area of operations. After a week of her belligerent approach to any type of productivity, Marty Bear was threatening mutiny if I didn’t do something. I took it to the acting commanding officer.
Lt. Colonel Don J. Buckhammer was your standard issue Marine Corps officer. Well over 6 feet tall, buzzed haircut, and steely eyes. Not a pumped up steroid freak, but hard. I had not managed the courage to say anything to him since I’d arrived except my daily greeting, “Morning, Sir.” When he looked at me I was certain he knew that 90 days before I had been selling life insurance to suburbanites and that one false move and I’d be cleaning latrines for the duration of my stay. Swallowing my fear, I stepped into his office and said “Sir, we have a problem.”
He was right in the middle of a planning meeting with the brand new Executive Officer and one of the constantly fluttering butter bar 2nd Lieutenants that were worse than the dengue fever carrying mosquitoes that plagued the island. He informed me that they were busy and asked if it could wait. I told him I didn’t believe so. I explained to him the problem we were having with SFC Setemphree, including my belief that her obvious bias and was a detriment to the mission. He looked at me over the top of his spectacles and the stare he gave me almost sent me screaming from the room in search of a mop bucket and a toilet brush, but I decided to stand my ground for at least a couple more seconds.
“What do you propose I do about it, Sergeant?”
I have a terrible habit of verbalizing the repetitive thoughts that do hot-laps inside my skull, and I answered him without thinking.
“Sir, I’d bench her ass.”
“Very well, that will be all Sergeant”
“Aye aye, Sir” (I’d already learned that’s what they say in the Corps.)
I completed my finest about face to date and hot-footed it out of there. I didn’t even get halfway down the hall before I heard LTC Buckhammer’s booming voice, “Sergeant Setemphree, front and center.” I didn’t hear the conversation, but she was relieved of her interrogator duties that day and served out the remainder of her tour as a statistician for one of the myriad of alphabet agencies that were camping out in the day care with us. I do not believe she was invited to re-enlist.
I learned an important lesson about the way things ought to be that day. I didn’t know it at the time but LTC Buckhammer did not place a lot of emphasis on rank. Don’t misunderstand; if you saw an officer you better dog gone well salute and treat all superiors, NCO or otherwise with the respect their title deserves. His primary concern, however, was always the mission. In his eyes I had done the exact right thing that day by diagnosing a weakness and prescribing a remedy. To this day, I’ve never met a person I respect more than that man. I had at one time susptected that Major was the highest rank any officer could ascend in the military without any regard for politics, I learned that day that is was Lieutenant Colonel, and I was never to meet a full bird that proved me wrong.
More important than my lesson, LTC Buckhammer set a precedent for JTF-170. First, as long as he was in charge the mission came first. Second, don’t screw with the lower-enlisted drinking buddies from St. Louis.
Next week: Detainee processing and an influx of intelligence agencies.
