Task Force Denali

NMCB 133 Task Force Denali

The year was 2007, and the Iraq Surge was in full swing. My name is William Jameson, and at just 18 years old, I was deployed as a Navy Seabee Equipment Operator (EO), but on our first dangerous push across the border, my job was not driving a dozer; it was providing the heavy steel—the sustained fire—as the M240B Gunner for our convoy. Our mission was critical: clear the routes and build the infrastructure necessary for the push, a task often forgotten in the main effort.

Our small, essential unit, Task Force Denali, was an unconventional collection of people forced to rely on each other absolutely. We were primarily Seabees (mostly EOs like myself), two Navy Corpsmen, and our Air Force Master Sergeant leader from a RED HORSE detachment. Most vital of all was our local Iraqi interpreter, Willie, who spoke fluent Arabic. Willie was our voice, our shield against misunderstanding, handling all critical communications with the local populace. Isolated and detached, we genuinely felt as though our main command had forgotten we existed.

The environment was a combatant in itself. We lived life "on the side of the road" in the most punishing conditions imaginable. Home was a military tent with a sand floor, where temperatures routinely soared past 120 to 130° daily. We were constantly exhausted and battled the complete breakdown of sanitation: we never showered, used bottled water sparingly, and were forced to bury our waste in a bag outside under the sand. The ever-present threat of camel spiders and scorpions in our living quarters only compounded the physical and mental grind.

Our work was performed under relentless operational and direct combat threat. We dealt with constant small arms fire, and as we moved earth to clear routes, we discovered thousands of pieces of Unexploded Ordnance (UXO). The memory of a small local boy, pointing out UXO he had spotted, highlights the complex reality of our mission and the lives saved by local knowledge. EOD teams became temporary, attached specialists, routinely coming out to blow up the UXO we found just so we could continue working. For our own security, we tracked our machinery everywhere and, because we lacked reliable external protection (due in part to the "horrible" security from the Alaskan National Guard), we moved our entire tent camp every few days so hostile forces couldn't catch on to our location.

This lack of support was terrifyingly brought home by a near-fatal friendly fire incident. Despite the existence of Blue Force Tracker (BFT), the technology was not reliably integrated into our specialized construction and convoy vehicles. This communication failure meant that the very forces meant to protect us nearly took us out. Our survival came down to the absolute trust built on the shared necessity of skill between the Corpsmen, the Master Sergeant, and the Seabee EOs, all relying on Willie's critical local link.

Yet, we endured. We were a team of young construction Sailors—the Runnin' Roos—operating at the highest level of risk, surviving based on the bonds forged under intense pressure. We were Fighting Seabees, and half of us didn't even know what the hell we were doing, but we survived. We were badass. This grueling six-month tour defined what it meant to overcome impossible logistical and combat challenges to complete our mission.