Letter from Iraq

[Carl Harrod]

That video was excellent! I am going to send it to LTC Green to help show him that there are people here who believe in our service men and women. It also shows how to many of  our "elected" officials don't have a will of their own and only follow whichever the current wave of popularity is flowing.

[Carl Harrod]

Saturday, April 07, 2007 12:31:08 PM

I have been in a crabby mood this week, and feel the need to rant.

Apparently I fell asleep during one of the most important classes in all my military schooling.  It seems that it is possible to actually vote to end a war!  And to make matters worse, none of my peers in this army or in any of the others I have worked with bothered to let me in on the secret.  I kind of feel cheated.  We can vote to stop a war and all my buddies and I could come home. Hurray for us!  It's like the best of American Idol.  We get tired of the song we are hearing and we get to vote the singer off the show.

The early rounds of this war's competition were easy.  It was not at all difficult to vote the 9/11 hijackers off the island.  They were just plain evil.  Afghanistan? That's like voting that Andy Hung guy off the show...very easy to get on board with that vote.  Saddam, yup...he couldn't carry a tune.  Send him away.  Sectarian violence in Iraq....well....maybe we should let them stay for the next round.  That group is almost as good as the free and democratic Iraq. We need to hear more to be sure.  Only problem is, Simon and Puala don't get to make this cut.  It's been tossed out to the whole world for a vote.  Great big chunks of the world don't like the sounds coming from a free Iraq.  The discordant notes of radical Islam play much better in the ears of many.  The simple truth of the matter is that they too have a vote in this war, and for better or worse they have chosen to engage us in Iraq.

Starting a war may be a matter of legislation but ending one is not.  Once Pandora's box is open the forces must run their course, and that means that the terms victory and defeat have to enter wars vocabulary.  Ending a war involves only those two options.  A tie you ask?  Not in wars vocabulary...you might have a truce, a cease fire, a lull, but eventually the issues that led to war will resurface, and it will play itself out.  One side is going to get what they want and the other will eventually decide to either embrace the new ideas, or die.

Ultimately wars are fought over ideas.  Sometimes wars are fought over small ideas like who should own this chunk of land or that one.  But the real big ones are usually over really big ideas.  The Protestant Reformation, National Socialism, Communism; all major new theoretical constructs in their time, that required an enormous toll in blood to resolve.  Look at our own American Revolution and the ideas it hatched.  After a grueling few decades of conflict with the "insurgents" in the colonies, England "voted" to give up the fight and withdrawal.  But ending the fight in the colonies did not end the idea of Democracy that was gaining momentum. Nor did it save England from having to engage in further warfare.  Far from it, the ideas forged in our Thirteen Colonies jumped the pond to France, and by the end of that century, the French Revolution and subsequent Napoleonic Wars engulfed England and Europe in several more decades of warfare.  What if England had decided that crushing the idea of democracy was worth the price?

What evidence do we have to support the theory that if we stop fighting radical Islam in Iraq that radical Islam will decide to accept the outcome of the vote and stop fighting us?  They did after all start the conflict, why stop now if they can run up the score?  What pond will that dangerous idea jump? 

Unlike singing a duet, which requires two willing partners to participate, war does not.

Failing to show up to the war when the other side is willing and anxious does not signal a desire for peace, it declares loud and clear your desire to be a victim.  It signals that you are unwilling to put your ideals over the ideas of others.  It demonstrates that you would rather be left alone under their rules, than risk danger and suffering to thrive under your own.

There was a time not too long ago when our nation's warriors sang when they went into battle and they unabashedly sang about their beliefs and values.  And a nation sang behind them. On this Easter morning I am reminded of the lyrics of the third verse of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic", a very popular tune during our own Civil War.

"As he died to make men holy, let us live to make men free"

You know the tune!  Let it roll around in your head for a little while....glory, glory, Halleljah. 

Increasingly the warrior class of our Nation finds itself singing a cappella.  Our military is more than capable of carrying the tune in a strong clear voice.  And while a cappella can be a powerful form of music, I find it generally sad, haunting, and fleeting.  How much more powerful is a voice accompanied by the notes of even a single guitar?  Feel the energy and tempo build with the steady rhythm of a drum!  Let the power of the trumpet's call bring more voices to the song.  Feel the energy of a choir as the original note, carried by that single voice, now carries a message of triumph and hope and victory.

What songs do our enemies sing?  What ideas fill their hearts when the war drums beat?  We can vote to lay down arms, but we can not vote to make their music stop.  Turn off your TVs America.  Pick up an instrument

[Janet Harrington]

The fact is that the United States military answers to one commander in chief in the White House, not 535 commanders in chief on Capitol Hill." —Vice President Dick Cheney

From the Patriot Post.  You can join through this link


http://patriotpost.us/subscribe/

I get this in my e-mail about every other day.  It is a great web site for quotes and current information.

[Carl Harrod]

Update # 10

A narrow sidewalk extends for about fifteen meters from the street to the door of a small health clinic that is just beginning to show signs of life.  Either side is flanked by fruit trees providing welcome shade in what is shaping up to be one of the first hot days of the year.  Together with the front gate, the trees block the view to the neighborhood outside.  You could almost forget you were in the heart of the killing fields three short months ago.

Outside the gates, the street is packed with American HMMWVs and the blue and white National police guntrucks.  The street is remarkably clean compared to our first trip down here almost two months ago.  The area is safe enough for trash trucks to enter, and the bulk refuse is gone.  Shops are open again.  Not all, but enough to encourage folks out of their houses and convince you that you are not living in a zombie movie.  The buildings are still all riddled with the scars of gunbattles, but some of the rubble is being moved.  Particularly around a tiny little blue domed mosque that had been buried when several hovels collapsed in on it.

Guards still occupy the ground floor of the maternity hospital a block away.  We have been unable to get the ministry of health to adequately support our efforts to reopen the hospital.  We are having better luck at one several miles away.  You would like to think that it wouldn't matter what sect a hospital belonged to, but sadly it does.  We have decided to try another approach.  A local doctor has been adamant about doing something, so the US brigade is supporting him in opening a clinic.  We are there to guard the first major event.  The US has done most of the work getting supplies and bringing in military medical personnel and assets to help open the clinic.  My team along with the NP are there to interact with the population, and get the word out that it is safe to come.

It doesn't take long for a crowd to form.  Like a flock of crows, the black clad women of the neighborhood emerge with brightly feathered offspring on hips or in tow.  They patiently wait in line to be treated, and gladly give up the offspring who flock to the Americans.

"Inteenee Football?"

"Inteenee Chocolate?"

"Inteenee flag?"

"Inteenee pen?"

Give me, give me, Give me.

We hold back the goodies at first, and eventually the begging subsides.  Photos are a good substitute, and they delight in seeing their images in digital cameras.  Someone teaches the boys how to thumb wrestle, and eventually to arm wrestle.  I make it a point to loose to all the boys under about eight and to beat all the older ones.  The little ones love it...the older ones catch on quickly and revert to asking about footballs.

The mothers file through the clinic and emerge with medicines and ointments.  Men venture out briefly to talk with them and ask questions, but largely stay indoors.  No men between the ages of about fifteen and thirty five are in evidence.  They are still afraid they will be rounded up and drug away by the police.

COL B and I engage in a near ceaseless dialog with the old men and the womenfolk as they come out and ask about electricity, and missing loved ones, and any number of rumors.  Two parts fear, and one part hope, it is a constant battle to convince them that we really are working to make things better.  They all admit that things have improved greatly in the last few months, but the despair of December and January is still very fresh in their minds.

In one particularly difficult conversation with three young women and the family matriarch of about seventy, they described the brothers and husbands that had been detained.  Several were from years and months ago.  I could do nothing to help.  But two were detained several weeks ago.  I recognized their names, and was able to confirm that I had seen them just days prior.  When the ladies saw the names already written in my notebook, they new that what I was saying was true.  Having a seventy year old woman drop to the ground and kiss my feet is probably the most embarrassing thing I will ever experience.  What an odd world to see unbounded joy in the face of a mother when she found out her son was in jail and not murdered.

Over in the corner, a scruffy old American print journalist is taking notes.  I engage him briefly.  He writes for a conservative magazine...."American conservative" or some such. and the marine corps magazine Leatherneck.  With him is a sketch artist, making a pen and ink drawing of the Women waiting in line.

What I don't see participating is a single Non-governmental health organization of any type.  You would think that the International Red Cross could cough up a few volunteers for an effort as noble as opening a clinic in a war torn nation.  Especially after reading an article last week in which the IRC made a scathing indictment of the conditions in Iraq.  Apparently they can find volunteers to write reports, but not to actually do anything about it.  I guess Iraq is just too dangerous.  This seems particularly odd to me given the roots of the red cross.  If I recall correctly the IRC was founded on the fields of France in WWI. I don't ever recall reading that that was a particularly safe place to be a volunteer. 

It seems to me that wars are most often fought in areas where basic conditions are drastically out of balance between one group of people and another.  If  those who are most worried about achieving peace and goodwill (and the mission statements of most NGOs say something along those lines) fail to do anything in areas where conditions are most out of wack, then why should those same people be at all critical of the military when they are the only ones trying to bring some sort of tenuous balance.  I hear a lot of talk but don't see any action.

I read allot, and one of my favorite authors recently is Paulo Coelho.  In a book called The Devil and Miss Prym, he writes:

"I have two pockets, each contains a piece of paper with writing on it, but I only put money in my left pocket.  On the piece of paper in my right pocket, I wrote: I am nothing but dust and ashes.  The piece of paper in my left pocket, where I keep my money, says: I am the manifestation of God on earth.  Whenever I see misery and injustice, I put my hand in my left pocket and try to help.  Whenever I come up against laziness and indolence, I put my hand in my right pocket and find I have nothing to give."

That passage got me to thinking about all the times I have dropped money in a collection plate, or signed a payroll deduction slip to donate anonymously to some charity like the red cross.  How many times have I given money from the left pocket to an organization that deserved right pocket treatment?  And when did just giving money ever really make me feel like I had contributed?  What did I really change by giving money?  How much more powerful to actually go and do something - to exert energy over time in direct contact with the problem that needs to be solved rather than abdicating responsibility to someone else to carry out goodwill on my behalf?  The feeling I get when I drop cash in a collection plate is one of being finished.  The feeling I get when I look in the eyes of  a mother who's child has just been seen by a doctor for the first time in years is "I have just begun".

A few years back, my group at the Army Staff College spent a day working with Habitat for Humanity building a house in downtown Kansas City.  We all came back exhausted, but were much closer as a group, had made a bunch of new friends, and knew we had done something useful.   It didn't cost us a dime.

I get lots of letters from friends and relatives, and a surprising number of folks that I have never met that are reading forwarded copies of these updates.  Many asking what my team and I need.  The answer is nothing.  But here is what I would love to have.  I would love to have a photograph of a house you helped to build for someone that needs it.  As of yesterday, it appears that we may be extended for another three months.  That gives us almost another year.  I wonder how many houses this group can help build in a year?

Hope this finds you and yours well.

Matt

[Janet Harrington]

I know of several veterans from World War II that will not give a nickel to the Red Cross.  These veterans tell stories of being hungry and the Red Cross was there, but would only sell sandwiches, cigarettes, etc.  The Red Cross was not there to help the soldiers, but were there to provide a product for a price.  I, personally, do not give anything to the Red Cross because of these stories.

[emptynest]

Monsters and the Weak
            by Michael Marks

The sun beat like a hammer, not a cloud was in the sky.
The mid-day air ran thick with dust, my throat was parched and dry.
With microphone clutched tight in hand and cameraman in tow,
I ducked beneath a fallen roof, surprised to hear "stay low."

My eyes blinked several times before in shadow I could see,
The figure stretched across the rubble, steps away from me.
He wore a cloak of burlap strips, all shades of grey and brown,
That hung in tatters til he seemed to melt into the ground.

He never turned his head or took his eye from off the scope
But pointed through the broken wall and down the rock slope.
"About eight hundred yards," he said, his whispered words concise.
"beneath the baggy jacket, he is wearing a device."

A chill ran up my spine despite the swelter of the heat,
"You think he's gonna set if off along the crowded street?"
The sniper gave a weary sigh and said, "I wouldn't doubt it,
unless there's something this old gun and I can do about it."

A thunderclap, a tongue of flame, the still abruptly shattered.
While citizens that walked the street were just as quickly scattered.
Til only one remained, a body crumpled on the ground,
The threat to oh so many ended by a single round.

And yet the sniper had no cheer, no hint of any gloat,
Instead he pulled a logbook out and quietly he wrote.
"Hey, I could put you on TV, that shot was quite a story!"
But he surprised me once again, "I got no wish for glory."

"Are you for real?" I asked in awe, "You don't want fame or credit?"
He looked at me with saddened eyes, and said, "You just don't get it."
"You see that length of shot up wall, the one without a door?
Before a mortar hit it, it used to be a grocery store."

"But don't go thinking that to bomb a store is all that cruel.
The rubble just across the street,--it used to be a school.
The little kids played soccer in the field out by the road."
His head hung low, "They never thought a car would just explode."

"As bad as all this is though, it could be a whole lot worse,"
He swallowed hard. the words came from his mouth just like it was a curse.
"Today the fight's on foreign land, on streets that aren't my own,
I'm here today, cause if I fail, the next fight's back at home.

"And I won't let my Safeway burn, my neighbors dead inside,
Don't wanna get a call from school that says my daughter died,
I pray that not a one of them will know the things I see,
Nor have the work of terrorists etched in their memory."

"So you can keep your trophies and your fleeting bit of fame,
I don't care if I make the news, or if they speak my name."
He glanced toward the camera and his brow began to knot,
"If you're looking for a story, then why not give this one a shot."

"Just tell the truth of what you see, without the slant or spin,
That most of us are OK and we're coming home again.
And why not tell our folks back home about the good we've done,
How when they see Americans, the kids come at a run."

You tell what it means to folks here just to speak their mind,
Without the fear that tyranny is just a step behind.
Describe the desert miles they walk in their first chance to vote,
Or ask a soldier if he's proud, I'm sure you'll get a quote."

He turned and slid the rifle in a drag bag thickly padded,
Then looked away again with eyes of steel as he quietly added;
"And maybe just remind the few, if ill of us they speak,
That we are all that stands between the monsters and the weak."

[Carl Harrod]

Update 11
Date:Sunday, April 22, 2007 1:55:55 PM

Voices echoed of the ridiculously tall ceilings of the palace.  Unfortunate really, the intricate Moroccan designs carved into the ceiling are almost too far off to appreciate.  I leaned up against the doorframe of huge handcrafted wooden doors with several other members of my team.  We had been cooling our heals in a back room for over an hour and then hastily rushed to lobby of the main conference room.  The Iraqis were all ushered inside and the American's stripped off the tail of the procession as the large doors closed with some urgency. 

            COL B had been summoned to the Baghdad Area Command headquarters.  All he had been told was he was going to get some kind of recognition and he should bring COL D and LTC A, his two subordinate battalion commanders with him.  Apparently, the command had decided that his district was doing the best out of the ten and they wanted to recognize them.  You never quite know what that means in Iraq.  In the past it has usually meant a little bit of extra cash in the paycheck...like a Xmas bonus...only they don't do Xmas here.  Given the years of Soviet influence, you would expect them to all have chests overflowing with medals, but surprisingly they don't go for medals.  At any rate, we had all figured it was going to be LTG A, the corps level commander giving the award. We had all met him plenty of times so we were all a bit surprised when we showed up and security was much tighter and everyone seemed on their toes.

            Several minutes after COL B and crew disappeared inside, the door opened up again abruptly. A very serious looking western female complete with headset, burst forth, looked around, read name tapes, pointed at me and motioned me inside.  I slid into line beside my counterparts, joined them at attention and let the eyes wonder while the ears got to work.  At the head of the main table was the Iraqi commander of Baghdad.  I have met him several times.  Chairing the meeting was the Iraqi national security advisor, along with the minister of defense, and the minister of the interior.  Ok, this was a bit more that we had thought, no wonder everyone seemed so uptight today.  Eyes continued around the table to the American side.  Deputy division commander, check.  Division commander, check.  Corps commander, check.  Gen Petreus, grinning ear to ear.  Yikes!  looked like King David had brought the whole galaxy with him today.  They all wore little ear pieces.  I would have been totally in the dark, but Miss Business took up a position behind my left ear, and began translating loud enough that I could hear it as she spoke into the microphone connecting her to the other Americans.

            The National Security advisor lounged in his chair, and swung to face Patreus.  He then proceeded to tell a quick story about the first time he had met each of the three Iraqi officers, and a bit about the work they had been doing in our sector.  Then he expressed his thanks to all the advisor teams that were helping his countryman.  The meeting ended.  Patreus vanished, a victim of what must be a punishing schedule, handshakes all around, and a few minutes later, my group of dumbfounded colonels broke into laughter, all wondering what had just happened.  An Iraqi aid bustled up, informed us that the actual "awards" would be in the mail, and trotted off.

            Needless to say COL B was pretty pleased, and I couldn't have been prouder of them.  They really have made a big difference in our area, even as things seem to blow up all around us.  We headed back to COL B's office.  In the garden by the front door, a wild female dog had been sheltering a litter of puppies.  They weaned last week, and now the pack of seven grey and white pups engage in a never ending rough and tumble.  Iraqis normally don't much like dogs, but they have been feeding this group.  I think it's because they know that my team loves them.  They call MAJ K the "adviser to the dogs".   Up the stairs and past the bloody hand print.  It is starting to fade and I normally don't notice.  I do today because LT M, is back on duty.  He was the young bodyguard wounded in the car bomb attack.  Mercifully he has full use of his leg again.

            We lounge around in the office for awhile, watching the news and sipping Chai. Several of COL Bs buddies are lounging around.  He gets all kinds of visitors during the afternoon lunch hour...old army buddies, family, community leaders.  I expect something sweet to nibble on to come out any minute.  I am hoping for a new treat called "windows" which has taken pole position from my old favorite "from the sky".  Windows, are a pretzel like pastry filled and covered with honey, making the obvious window like frame with gooey panes. Instead I get a much more bitter pill.  MAJ K comes in and whispers in my ear.  "Doc just called.  He needs you and COL B to come down to the detainee cage when you get a chance...we have some abuse."  Crap.  Have to wait for the guests to leave.           

            We check the detainees as often as we can, and for good reason. Years and years of the Rodney King School of law enforcement has left most young Iraqis with a significantly different idea of what normal is, than you or I would expect.  We eventually make it to the cell, and inspect the twenty-some year old male.  DOC slips me the statement the detainee wrote. I am not happy.  The detainee's feet are swollen to twice normal size.  It would be several days before an x-ray could even be taken.  I have little doubt what it will find.  COL B and I have some words in private.  I am particularly concerned about a young captain on his staff that proudly displayed a Muqtada al Sadr picture on his wall until we made him take it down.  "Accidents" always seem to happen on his watch...and for some reason Shia's balance is genetically far superior to Sunni's, or so I am told.

            The mood is now significantly more somber than during the triumph of the morning. We start walking back to the office.  The front gate of the compound swings open, and a convoy of National Police trucks from one of our subordinate battalions rolls in, Shurta dismount in droves.  We affectionately call the blue and white police trucks, clown cars...you can really pack the shurta in.  One distraught looking civilian in business cloths and five bound hoodlums are unceremoniously dumped onto the ground and herded into the Intel section.  An excited young captain approaches COL B, stops the requisite ten paces away, drags the trail foot, brings it up in a British style heal clinking stomp, while rendering a crisp open handed salute.  He then proceeds to fill us on the latest action.

            About an hour before, the distraught civilian had left his job at the ministry of justice, and caught the bus home like he always does.  An SUV pulled up in front of the bus, stopped it, two men climbed on board, grabbed him at gun point, herded him off the bus, bound him, put a bag over his head and tossed him in the back of the truck.  Fortunately, an astute Iraqi Lieutenant at one of our checkpoints thought something was up (the windows were tinted which is against the rules).  He searched the trunk and busted the attempted kidnapping.  It takes about an hour to get all the details and put the story together, but it ends up being a very important catch.  Back on an emotional high.

            Several days later, I am in yet another palace with my friend.  Equally fine craftsmanship marks the walls and ceiling, and the sofas are the nicest I have seen yet.  COL B is under investigation for letting some detainees go from our first big operation.  We never should have taken them in the first place, and letting them go was in order (I am willing to bet that old Egyptian would agree with me on that particular point.)  But, they happened to be of a certain sect, and so is COL B, and that group isn't in power, so people with friends call people, and I got to spend the afternoon in the equivalent of the  head of the CIAs office helping my friend keep his job.  He is as nervous as I have ever seen him, but we still joke.  I lean over part way into the interrogation and whisper 'It's a shame that award hasn't come in the mail yet! We may need it to bribe our way out of here."   Four hours later we make our escape.  The file has been bottomed drawered...probably to be miraculously rediscovered if leverage is ever needed.  A shity way to live, but probably the best we could have hoped for.

            We drive back toward COL Bs HQ, not much paying attention as we transit the "safe" international zone.  KRUMP.  A wave of concussion rips trough my belly.  I am not sure why I always seem to feel concussion in my stomach.  That was close, damn close.  Every other time I have been hit by artillery, I was out of the hatch.  Stuck inside the HMMWV, with muffled radio headsets on, I felt the round far more than I heard it.  I glanced at the driver, and he at me.  I was just about to call the other truck to find out if they had seen anything when...KRUMP...a second round lands twenty meters behind my turned head.  My driver and I are still debating whose eyes got bigger.  Mine when I very definitely heard the explosion this time, or his, when he saw the debris block out the window behind my head. 

            A quick assessment and both trucks are fine, no civilians are hit, and the traffic on the busy traffic circle all continues to move.  I call two rounds of 81mm fire into the TOC.  COL B and the other Iraqi riding in my truck jabber away in Arabic.  Both are glad they were in the HMMWV and not a clown car.  Nothing like a near miss to put you back on top off life's roller coaster.  I drop COL B off.  We agree we have had enough for one day.

            The mess hall was out of strawberry ice cream that night.  Damn.


Hope this finds you with unrestricted access to all 31 flavors.

Matt

[Carl Harrod]

Update # 12

            We rounded the corner at the bottom of the narrow descending street and into a now empty fish market.  It was fast approaching eleven o'clock, and the fish trade is an early riser's game.  The fish and the customers are mostly gone, but the smell lingers and hits us like a wave.  We push through towards a black and red table surrounded by well worn benches tucked up under a balcony.  As we approach, the shurta fan out and an older man emerges from one the back rooms.  All the movement sets alight a cloud of flies and it is suddenly clear that the table really is just red after all.  I couldn't help but wonder if the flies or the smell were thicker.

            We sat down to chat.  Chai arrived.  Chai always arrives.  The day before, thirteen people were grabbed from this market and forced into a truck and driven away.  Forty minutes later, the Shia captors realized they had raided the wrong market and took thirteen of their own.  They released them.  The Sunni market is about five hundred meters away and they had screwed up.  If the stakes were not so high, the stupidity would be laughable.  We talk in frustrating generalities.  Hand waves.  Them...some guys....not sure what they looked like.  All crap.  The locals are either so scared they will not talk, or are supportive enough of the militia that they are willing to overlook what must have been a pretty terrifying abduction.  Maybe both.

            COL B is frustrated as well.  We have had relatively little of the ethnic cleansing in our area, and this looked like a group coming from the outside to stir things up.  He wanted to catch them.  I notice a well dressed couple walk by and wave.  I recognize them from an interview a few weeks ago, a pair of Iraqi journalists from an API or Reuters-like wire service.  The female has a flashy smile and a blatant feminist and Kurdish agenda.  Her cameraman is well groomed and protective, but she is clearly in charge.  They head our way and tell us their office is just around the corner and invite us up.  COL B lets them know we will be there shortly.  We finish a bit of small talk with the fishmonger.  We have to wait a bit longer.  COL B has order me a fish for lunch, insisting I pick it out of the twenty or so remaining.  It had been busy simmering in an old kiln like oven trapped on a long handled iron fish frying contraption.  Eventually it is finished, wrapped and packaged with a variety of vegetables and pita for later consumption.  We truged uphill with more food than information.

            I tossed the fish into my truck and get ready to head into the reporters office.  A muffled boom rings in the distance.  It is hard to tell sometimes the size or distance when you are deep in the city.  The buildings split and channel the sounds in unusual ways.  It was far enough away we were not in any danger.  We headed inside and upstairs into a well appointed office.  Small talk about nothing in particular, and were soon invited back into a music studio.  Their artists have been composing a song for each of the two national police divisions.  They had just recently finished the verse dedicated to COL B's brigade and we are all delighted to hear about the exploits of the famous Sword Brigade putting fear in the hearts of the terrorists.  DOC, and my terp Victor begin to dance, the enthusiasm of youth fueled by an attractive reporter with a flashy smile.

            The second boom was much louder, and a wave of concussion left little doubt that that this party was now over.  Everyone raced back to the trucks – game on.  As the dismount team hustled back up the street, both Iraqi and US truck crews plied the radio waves looking for info.  The fish got tossed in the back as I piled into the truck and slid a headset back on.  It took a few minutes to build a picture.  Both explosions were in our sector.  The smaller one apparently a suicide vest at a cafe where the police like to frequent, and the larger a car bomb in a parking lot.  We could see the smoke of the later as we start winding through traffic which has gotten steadily thicker over the last few months.  That day it was bumper to bumper in many places and the going wass slow.

            A mixed military convoy of Iraq Army and Police pushed past us in the opposite direction, sirens blaring as they jumped into opposing traffic.  In the bed of one of the police pickups was a blood covered shurta with leg propped up on the side.  I say leg because there was not foot.  I remember back to one of our 40 hours of Arabic language classes.  Apparently there is no separate word for leg and foot in Arabic.  Absurd.

            We arrived at the café about 45 minutes after the explosion.  If we had not known it had happened, we may have driven right past, we are so inoculated with war torn structures.  Disturbingly, life was almost back to normal.  There was no crowd, no onlookers, people shopped, kids played...could this really be the place?  It was.  The store front was mangled, the front window and door blown out, an obvious pattern of debris from the center point.  A pool of bright red blood made a disturbing pink color as it mixed in a slowly forming puddle of water produced by a neighboring shop owner hosing down the walls of his store.

            We walked towards the building.  A shattered cell phone lay in the street.  Hard to say if it or it's owner took more damage.  Six were killed and another 5 wounded.  The injured and most of the remains had already been removed.  I stepped carefully preferring to look upwards, and unwilling to analyze the crunching under my boots.  In the shattered window on the second floor above the now rubbled café were the faces of two pre-teen children.  Children should not look expressionless.  It is not natural.

            Several blocks away, a fire truck was finishing its chore of dousing the cars ignited in a secondary explosion from the car bomb.  What could have been a much more spectacular attack, wasn't.  Only one injured mercifully.  I would hate to be an insurance underwriter in this country.  I was full of inappropriate thoughts that day.  We rounded up several of the parking lot managers, who were essentially charging rent to use what used to be a public park.  They came with us for questioning.

            The next day we are back to politics.  Over the last few weeks we have been garnishing support for a reconciliation conference, and have been parading around various offices.  The Governor of Baghdad isn't doing too bad for himself, nor is the director of public works.  We check on a public school renovation project the Governor promised us.  It is ready to go.  A project completely conceived, coordinated, and executed by COL B. Without any US help.  He has been watching his American Brigade counterparts with a student's eye, and learns fast.  I am delighted.  Both by the progress and by the little cup of hot chocolate served in tiny antique porcelain mugs.  This was a delicious diversion from the chai standard.

            The days started running together, but I soon found myself seated in a comfortable chair in the house of Dr. Chalabi of Iraqi National Congress fame.  Sadly he was not present, and we were meeting instead with his staff to elicit sponsorship for our reconciliation conference.  In one of the nicest neighborhoods I have yet seen, the house was not as large as I had expected, but was immaculate on the inside.  My mind drifted a bit as Sunni and Shia representatives from the neighborhoods in question vented about one outrage or another from the past few years.  This placed looked exactly like the set of the Brady Bunch.  Same bricks, same vaulted ceiling, same wood.  I half expected Jan to flounce down the stairs yelling "Marsha, Marsha, Marsh!"  Hmmm where is Alice with the chai, I'm parched!

            I found myself back in the parking lot a day later.  On the way we passed a car parked on the curb.  Strapped to the roof was a pine coffin, decorated with the artful curves of Arabic script, memorializing the lost soul contained within.  Ten to fifteen men and woman from teen to octogenarian sat patiently on curb waiting for some unknown event to kick off the procession.  We were relatively close to where the suicide vest went off, and I couldn't  help but wonder if this is one of the victims.

The lot is now all but empty.  We have given orders to close it off.  It is a weekend, so not a great test, but it appears that the police are enforcing the standard.  The park is largely deserted except for the burnt husks of last week's automotive victims.  And the drunks.  Drunks you say...yup, I was a bit surprised, it was not yet noon.  Nestled up into the weeping willow-like trees that dot the park are a variety of refreshment stands selling drinks out of coolers.  Each has a handful of homeless bums. Clones of the ones you pass in New York or Paris or Tokyo.  They see us coming and all start trying to look busy...picking up cans..fixing abandoned auto parts that are well beyond repair...trying to walk in a straight line.  COL B shakes down the owners.  Shurta search through the coolers to find hidden stashes.  CPT Mundar, the commander of COL Bs body guard, plucks a forty ounce can of beer from an ice chest.  The can sweats as he pulls the pull tab with calloused hands.  Time stops.  DOC, SSG P and I are trapped in a bizarre Budweiser commercial.  Foam spills out over CPT Mundar's hand.  He rears back and pitches the can in a high arch out towards the river.  Amber fluid spills out, golden drops glistening in the sun as they fan out and rain to the ground.  The Americans all look at each other, not sure who is going to cry first.  The Iraqis laugh at us.

            We follow the trail of illicit alcohol back to its source and find the mother load.  In a small compound, an outbuilding about five meters to a side is filled with crates of booze.  All Arabic brand names scrawled in indecipherable text.  But the product is clearly displayed in English.  Gin, Whiskey, Rum, Beer.  General Order Number 1 prevents US Forces from drinking alcohol, and any number of other fun things.  We are on the set of a classic war movie booze scene and the director has just yelled "cut."  Damn you general order number one!  Oh well, its starting to get hot out.  Booze would just dehydrate us and we have a lot of walking left to do today.  COL B issues the appropriate warnings not to sell before 1600 and to keep it in the private confines of the casino as the liquor license the owner possesses demands.  We hurry off.  This may be the first place we have been that didn't serve chai.

            We find ourselves at the other end of our sector, again down by the river.  The lifeless corpse of a massive steel girder bridge lies shattered and half drowned in the Tigris.  The bridge was blown last week in a pretty spectacular attack.  After several months of relative calm, the pace of attacks has picked up.  And why shouldn't it?  The enemy smells blood in our press and in the American Halls of government.  Evil thrives on fear.

            COL B and I board a small river patrol boat, and the river police give us a tour.  This is probably the single stupidest thing I have ever done.  COL B and I giggle as the boats captain takes us to full throttle and we bank hard and cut across our wake.  A thousand summer safety lectures are forgotten as cammo body armor replace orange life vests.  We race past old riverside villas, and a pair of Jersey cows dinning on river grass.  The water is thick with silt, like last weeks hot chocolate.  I tell COL B about my families lake house in Missouri, and invite him to join me there in a happier future. We dock safely, and weather the exasperated looks of my guys.  They all wish they could have gone too, but enjoy the chance to call me an idiot just as much.

            The morning after we speed through a traffic circle we have past a hundred times.  At the corner sits an old vagabond lady we have dubbed the "crazy lady."  Some days she dances for us when the traffic is backed up.  She sat quietly.  Several blocks and minutes away we heard radio traffic on the brigade net.  Apparently a car bomb had just exploded at that traffic circle.  We were all a bit surprised as we had heard nothing, and were still pretty close.  We found out later that it had detonated in a tunnel that cuts under one of roads going into the circle, causing the road surface to buckle.  Reports on injuries varied depending on the source.  We have not had occasion to go back that way yet. Later that night, we sat in the garden outside the restaurants and DVD shops that fill one corner of our base.  We sipped chai and talk about how crazy fate is and how much difference a few minutes makes.  The waiter collects the bill, he has been absent for the last few days.  We learn that his brother had been killed in a car bomb.  We hope the crazy lady is ok.

            Amidst all the loss in Iraq this week, I learned that a family member passed away, one of the last of my families Greatest Generation.  I hope that one day, those two expressionless children from the second floor of the bombed out café will look back on these events.  I hope that they will remember brave men like COL B and CPT Mundar as their greatest generation.  I hope that we, like our grandfathers, always remember the importance of allies in a world that requires them.



Hope this finds you and yours disobeying General order #1.

Matt

[Carl Harrod]

Update # 13

9 May 2007


I would complain about being hot, but I know that the worst is yet to come.  After several months of remarkably pleasant nights and reasonable days, our grace period is up.  At a mere 104 degrees everything is incrementally harder.  The only real mercy is that the sun remains out longer, and the pace of life in the mid-east adjusts to the brutal reality.

We make the turn off of Haifa Street and into on of the poorer muhallas.  Three months ago this wide side street would have been completely empty of all but trash, stray dogs, and a few men busy getting from one place to another.  Two months ago, we would have been confronted by elder males eager to tell us about their woes.  One particular shop owner made a point of stopping every American patrol that passed in those first weeks and bringing them to his shop.  Off his shelf he would take one of about twenty cans of various foodstuffs.  The can had a bullet hole in one side and out the other.  Proof of the "sniper," that hunted by night in the high rise apartments that overlooked the slums.  An all too real urban legend, the sniper boogey man, struck fear I the neighborhood and kept them out of the main street and tucked in the relatively secure back allies.  Coupled with the corpse like hulk of the burnt out power station on the other side of the neighborhood, the residents told a constant and unrelenting tale of horror.  Last month, the sniper threat had stopped as some cancer in the local forces was carved out.  People ventured back out in the streets and children became common place.

Now, the street is packed for the almost nightly game of soccer.  The late afternoon cools off significantly and the last few hours of the day see families enjoying themselves at every doorstep, in the cafes, at the slowly improving parks and gardens, and in the streets.  The crowd parts as we pass by during a joint patrol with our shurta.  We weave in and around the makeshift rock goal posts and through the slums.  In another few hours, when we pass through again, curfew will be in effect. The streets will be empty, and most of this area will be dark, the electrical corpse here has not been resurrected yet.       

But the next neighborhood tells a different story.  This area while still a ghetto, is nowhere near as ancient as the one we have just left, nor has it suffered quite as much recent loss.  Its infrastructure has been easier to replace, and neon signs and well lit shops are gearing up for the setting of the sun.  The streets are filled, and our fourteen vehicles wind trough as if on parade.  The tentative waves of February's children are replaced by almost enthusiastic responses from entire May families.  Women that once discouraged kids from interacting smile and wave.  Males eagerly take the newspapers we drop off.  Hard to say if they believe the governmental papers, but they are at least considering them.  We still get hard stares from many.  Knots of young males glare from street corners.  Older men study us as we go by.  Many still hate us, but terrors fever has largely broken and fled the neighborhood.

At the end of the block we recognize two of the local government leaders from our weekly council meetings.  We pull over and dismount to chat with them.  COL B, MAJ B and I chat on the corner while the nightly block party swirls around us.  The frosty reception COL B received at our arrival in sector has been replaced with warm greetings and genuine appreciation.  Months ago, the conversation would have been dominated with a list of demands about plugged sewers, mounds of trash, downed power lines, missing relatives and abusive security forces.  Tonight, over a cold orange soda hastily offered from a local vendor, they eagerly tell us of the work that has gone on the last few days.  Junker cars towed away.  Water pipes repaired. Increased electricity. They are beginning to see that cooperation with security forces allows real work to get done.  And when real work gets done people are happy.  And happy people are happy voters.

            As we stood there, the shurta passed out newspapers.  Many of the young kids took them, anxious to have anything free.  One tiny young boy, barely pushing two was determined not to be left out.  Smart enough to know that the papers probably originated from the Americans and not the National police, he gathered up his courage, strode up to MAJ B, executed a flawless parade ground salute, stomped his heal in Iraqi style and asked in a clear young voice if he too could have a newspaper.  One of COL Bs security detachment quickly acquired one back from the many they handed out while our terp filled us in on the young lad's request. MAJ B presented the young trooper his trophy.  If I could have one untaken photo from my trip here, it would be of that young child saluting the American soldier.

I won't be so naïve to say that all is rosy. The violence still rages all around our sector and as last week reminded us, also in ours. Nor will I say that these men on the street corner have been converted.  It is however progress that they are at least showing signs of being conflicted.  Unsure if they should jump fully on the winning team, or if they should hedge their bets and keep one foot solidly in the enemy camp...just in case worse comes to worse. These men walk a fine tight rope.  And why shouldn't they, they read a steady diet of defeatism in the press.

I can't help but wonder about the huge amount of relief the enemy must feel after years of climbing, knowing that they are no longer looking at a false peak.  There it is! The summit, right in front of them!  I have climbed enough mountains to know how easy that final ascent is.  The burst of enthusiasm at knowing the end is in sight.  After years of constant conflict, in a brutal strategy of pure attrition, this must be a huge relief.  They had no measurable way of marking success.  No march across Europe.  No castles to siege, no flags to raise.  Only an endless series of explosions and ethnic killings with no real way of knowing when victory might be in sight.  But now, completely inexplicably we have told them where the finish line is.  Foes that thought they were in a marathon know that they only have several hundred more meters to run.  Those on the fence have renewed hope.  Victory is in sight.

I wish my grandparents were still alive, or my parents were old enough to remember D-Day.  I would love to know how they felt on hearing Eisenhower's powerful D-Day message.

Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Force!
You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have
striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The
hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you.
In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arms on
other Fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the German war
machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of
Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world.

Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well
equipped and battle hardened. He will fight savagely.

But this is the year 1944! Much has happened since the Nazi triumphs of
1940-41. The United Nations have inflicted upon the Germans great defeats,
in open battle, man-to-man. Our air offensive has seriously reduced their
strength in the air and their capacity to wage war on the ground. Our Home
Fronts have given us an overwhelming superiority in weapons and munitions
of war, and placed at our disposal great reserves of trained fighting men.
The tide has turned! The free men of the world are marching together to
Victory!

I have full confidence in your courage and devotion to duty and skill in
battle. We will accept nothing less than full Victory!

Good luck! And let us beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great
and noble undertaking.


                                            SIGNED: Dwight D. Eisenhower

How sad that General Petreus couldn't pull this speech in it's entirety off the shelf.  Unfortunately the third paragraph needs some serious work....but this is 2007, much has happened since Al Queda's triumph of 9/11.  We have inflicted serious defeats on the enemies' capabilities.  Our home front...well, ok we don't have a funding bill.....and the freedom loving nations of the world...well, ok they have lost their stomach...and victory would be cool and all...But you troops, you guys rock!  We love you.  Go knock yourselves out...you have about three months to pull a rabbit out of the hat.  Don't screw it up.



The note that Eisenhower didn't publish, the one he kept in his pocket, written before the operation in case of failure, read:



Our landings in the Cherbourg-Havre area have failed to gain a satisfactory foothold and I have withdrawn the troops. My decision to attack at this time and place was based upon the best information available. The troops, the air and the Navy did all that Bravery and devotion to duty could do. If any blame or fault attaches to the attempt it is mine alone.



What an incredibly amazing document.  The fact that the commander, on the ground, in charge of the free worlds human and industrial treasure, took personal responsibility for the success or failure, knowing he had the backing of his government and its people.  Great big brass balls!



Can you imagine if we had put the D-day invasion up to a congressional vote?  How about the A-Bomb?  How much harder would D-Day have been if every aspect of the strategy had been second guessed in every nightly talk show and editorial for months on end.  Rommel would have giggled like a school girl.



While I would never advocate a restriction on a vigorous public debate, the simple reality is that there is a time and place for the doors of Congress to be shut.  The hard decisions to commit or withdrawal should be done in secrecy.  And in a way that keeps the troops certain that the sand on the beach is worth wading up onto, keeps the enemy uncertain of how high the climb is, and keeps hope alive in the millions tyrannies' victims who have a vested interest in which way the tide will turn.



Our job gets harder every day, but is no less rewarding.  This morning we drove past construction crews already rebuilding last weeks collapsed traffic circle.  The crazy lady has been forced to pick a new corner to sit on, but she is alive.  And I am left to wonder whose world is crazier, hers or mine.

[Carl Harrod]

UPDATE #14

18 MAY 2007


"Slug bug Orange, three O'clock!"

"That's 3 points, Ares 8"

"Six this is five, did you see that one?"

"Roger, it was tucked in an alley, three points"

Three points put truck three's SFC B just barely in the lead for the day, and the patrol was almost over.    I doubt that when any of us were nine, we would have predicted that we would still be playing "slug bug", but at age 39 its every bit as fun as it was then.  I am sure some will be appalled to hear that we scan constantly for the infamous VW Beatle as we drive the neighborhoods, but we do.  We scan for lots of things.  IEDs, cars from the BOLO (be on the look out) list, people that are out of place, civic projects that are going on, anything that is different from the day before.  We look for patterns.  After three months, we know where almost every VW Beatle in our area parks.  So much so, that the lead truck was getting all the points because they knew where to look and always got first dibs as we rounded a corner.  We have since had to adjust the rules, with trail vehicles getting more points than the lead.  On most days the occasional mobile slug bug will decide the score.  For whatever reason all the bugs here are white or orange.  Think we will add bonus points for other colors, just to keep things interesting.

"Six, this is Five, they are turning left up ahead"

"Tally Five."  That is odd.  Why would they be turning in there?  They must have gotten a call.  Indeed, COL Bs shurta had turned into an alternate road to avoid the congestion at the main intersection up ahead.  The road is tight, so his trucks slip through where our HMMWVs barely fit.  They race ahead, and we loose them.  Something urgent must be going on.  We finally catch up, Shurta have dismounted and are securing an area around one of our checkpoints.  We park and dismount, moving up the line of vehicles to the far side of tall concrete barriers which block much of the view.

As we walk up through the search lane, it becomes apparent what has happened.  A small car bomb has gone off.  Obvious but not damaging scorch marks and debris advertise the area of detonation.  The car, an old rusted-out red four door, continued to roll for another thirty meters out of the checkpoint and into a field next to the road.  The car is intact, other than the shattered glass, and slight scorching.  It is not on fire, and the only thing that would really distinguish it as out of the ordinary is the leg sticking straight out of the drivers window.  I think it was Alice of wonderland that first said "curiouser and curiouser"

COL B strides up, flanked by his guards.  He has been on the radio since the first report, now ten minutes old, and has had an opportunity to assess the scene.  An adult male, in the passenger seat had offered to give a ride home to two co-workers from the International Red Cross (note to self: IRC apparently does work here in Iraq after all).  When the vehicle was driving out of the checkpoint, a small explosion from under the driver's seat ripped through the car, killing the driver.  The man in the passengers seat had also been lightly injured and had already been taken to a nearby hospital.  A woman in the backseat had been completely unharmed, other than being very obviously shaken.  As we interviewed her, I was amazed to see that she has completely unmarked by either shrapnel or flame.  Every hair was still in place, makeup still perfect.

Normally we would assume that the attack was intended to harm the shurta at our checkpoint, but the very small size of the blast left us with the conclusion that it must have been designed to kill the driver.  As we talked our suspicions over, the family of the man began to arrive.  His brother, in anguish, was desperate to remove the body and take it home.  Arabs are pretty emotional about the issue of their dead, and COL B wanted to oblige, but we could not be certain that there was not another bomb in the car.  We were going to wait for EOD to come...and he would have to wait.

More relatives arrived, and a crowd from the neighborhood began to form.  The relatives were not at all pleased with being held at bay.  The female victim waited patiently to the side, away from the driver's family.  Eventfully one of her relatives arrived to take her home.  As she departed, some of the dead mans relatives jumped into cars prepared to follow her.  COL Bahaa barked a set of orders, and his guards quickly surrounded the cars.  Had we not stopped them, she almost certainly would have been targeted in the strange cycle of revenge that always seems to taint what goes on here.  She had survived where their brother had not, so she must be guilty. 

The neighborhood crowd became agitated.  That particular area is just out of our responsibility and is a security challenge.  Someone over there took the opportunity in the confusion to act.

CRACK, CRACK, CRACK.  Three AK-47 shots rang out...no indication of where they were aimed, but clearly a challenge to our authority.

COL Bs normally rapid speech kicked into hyperdrive as he issued orders to his troops.  His shurta all chamber a round, and click their rifles onto fire. They form a skirmish line along the road, taking a knee and aiming at the neighborhood.  I almost wish COL B had a sword, tt is the only thing that would have added to the effect.  In a voice that projected across the field and into the neighborhood where the agitators gathered, he proclaimed loudly. "I have a thousand rounds for every round you fire.  Go to you homes now."  COL B, like most Iraqis is fond of hyperbole.  His words, backed by thirty rifles proved sufficient to end the confrontation.  The crowd dispersed, and the family lost much of it's grief born bluster.

We waited for EOD who were taking a long time coming.  Each new family member that arrived begged COL Bahaa to let them take the body from the car.  The anquish was palatable.  They would rather die themselves, than fail to follow the traditions that they felt honor demanded.  COL B stuck by his position.  Too many people die here every day to take the risk.  We would wait.  And wait. 

LT Mahmoud (the young man whose wounded prompted the bloody handprint) approached COL B.  He was clearly upset, and had gathered all his courage to plead the civilian's case knowing that it would be a challenge to COL B's authority.  The young LT was desperate to help the family, and honor their traditions.  Letting the body just sit in the car in such an unnatural way was painful to them in a way that words don't quite convey.  COL B loves LT Mahmoud like a son, and talked quietly to him.  The LT backed down, eyes tearing.

A few more minutes.  The radio crackles.  EOD won't be coming.  We don't have an explanation.  The family wants to go get the body.  LT Mahmoud won't hear anything of it.  If someone is going to risk going out to the car it will be a soldier and not those he protects.  He picks two of his men.  Doc fishes up some plastic gloves for them.  Another group of shurta retrieve the pine box the family has brought.  LT Mahmoud carries out his grizzly task while the rest of us watch with baited breath muttering whatever prayers our respective gods require.

The body is placed in the box, and the LT leads the detail back to a waiting ambulance.  The family begins to wail and console themselves as they take possession of their tribesman.  Tears fall, mixing indistinguishably from the first drops of a light summer rain.





"Inteenee Chocolate!"

"Inteenee Football!"

"Inteenee pencil!"

"Mister Mister!"

Give me, give me, give me...you guessed it we are surrounded by children again.  Back  in one of our favorite areas – the neighborhood with the sniper can and the old Egyptian.  Neither gentleman is present today, but many others are.  The normal cast of characters is grouped on the outside gates of a small local mosque pulling security.  Inside, a team of Iraqi doctors are immunizing children for measles, mumps, rubella, and polio.  I am particularly pleased to be out here today.  The previous medical operations I have described have all been American conceived and resourced, with Iraqi help.  This one is all COL Bs doing.  After coordinating with the mayor, and ministry of health, he arranged for the event.  He invited us along the night prior, it is the first I knew of it. No other Americans are involved - progress.

We chat with the locals and spar with the kids.  The dismount team avoids giving anything away early.  We know better.  The kids know we have stuff, they just have to wear us down.  Parents wait patiently in line.  Several come and talk with us about one detained relative or another.  One young boy named Haydr, always makes a point to find me.  He speaks great English, and likes telling me about his school and his very strict English teacher.  When I saw him last we were talking with the local teachers about what renovations they needed.  Today he came and told me all the things that had been done to repair his class room. Paint, new tiles in the bathroom, a sink that works...air conditioners!  But sadly not enough power yet to make them all run.  Electricity not the enemy is our biggest barrier to further progress.

Another pair of boys approach, I know them too.  They are the most devious beggars of the lot.  I am pretty sure they have been harassing my guys up in the trucks, and the team has sent them down to bother me. 

"Mister, give me foot ball."

"Do I look like I have a football?  Do I have magic pockets?"  A shurta scurries him off.  Another shurta brings up a  Falafal (a sort of Arab taco) that COL Bahaa has ordered up.  You know what that means!  Chai is on the way too!  While I eat, I call DOC over.  "Doc, go up to the trucks and get me one large trash bag, and a soccer ball.....you want some of this thing? It is pretty good."  He trots off shaking his head, leaving me to my culinary bravery, returning several minutes later with a garbage bag in hand and a deflated soccer ball hidden under his body armor.  MAJ B is with him, with a cache of stuffed animals MAJ Ks family had sent.

I scan the crowd for my beggar friend, who obeys my summons. Victor translates my instructions. "You are too old to be begging, so I am going to put you to work.  Take this trash bag, and fill it with trash.  When you bring it back, I will give you a soccor ball."  He gives me a funny look, not certain if he should give up his life of ease for the evils of a thing called work, but the temptation of a brand new leather orb is too much.  He snatches the bag from my hand and races off, quickly attracting a flock of others.  We watch as they begin to pick up smaller pieces of trash.  They hold a quick conference.  Small trash does not fill a bag quickly...look for bulk.  Eyes scan...cans, bottles....aha!  A big box.  It goes in unsmashed.  Minutes later the out of breath posse approaches, hoping that the task is done.  I open the bag to inspect, and push down hard, flattening the empty boxes.  The bag is half full.  COL B smiles, and informs them the standard is not met.  Young eyes roll. 

COL B and MAJ B hand out stuffed toys to the smallest and most fearful of the children in line for the shots.   Appreciative parents smile and nod.  I have also armed COL B with a bag of peppermint candies, which he gives to each child as they leave, curing more than one frowning face.  I catch him sneaking one for himself.  One very old grandmother emerges with three young ones, each eager for a treat.  She gives COL B a toothless grin, and asks if she gets one.  With eyes that twinkle like old Saint Nick, he offers her one.  She may have been the happiest of all.  Minutes later, task complete my small work party makes off with their prize.

Meanwhile, up at the trucks, the battle for stuff is raging in earnest.  Every time one of my guys opens a trunk a crowd descends on them.  SFC C braves the masses to recover a box of stuff my sister sent - a bunch of notepads and packs of crayons which we had bagged up.  Knowing chaos will ensue, he hands them up into a truck full of Shurta to distribute.  They don't have much more luck at controlling kid swarms than we do, but they at least can speak the language.  The small packages are a hit, most of them being hidden beneath shirts, or quickly policed up by mothers to end ownership disputes.

Two hundred immunizations and we are done. War shouldn't be fun, but sometimes it is.


Several hours later, back at the compound, I was eating a very late lunch with COL B, and the reporters I mentioned who had come to deliver the final version of the brigade song they had composed.  Much of the conversation was lost on me, as all the terps were out and about with the guys finishing up some business.  I have not mentioned the terps much lately, which, given their importance is a gross oversight. 

We have lost several of our original group.  Rafid, the atheist engineer was under a lot of pressure from his new wife, and left us to move down south.  He calls us now and again, and is doing well. He finally found a job with the ministry of oil, and is glad to be living in a much quieter region of Iraq than Baghdad.    Gary the doctor has also left us.  He is waiting for his approved visa to the US to finally be activated, and with that elusive goal he decided work with a team that was always going on patrol was too much of a risk.  We found him a terp job that does not require him to be quite as active.  We had one young man come and go, his English wasn't quite good enough, and our Shurta were getting really frustrated because they new something was amiss.  We found him a job where a mistake was not as likely to get someone killed.  Saki, the Armenian Christian is with us for a few more days.  Much older than the other terps, and with a temperament much like Oscar the Grouch, he has become disenchanted with some of the teams shenanigans, and vice versa.  After some long debates we agreed that maybe he would be better off on another team, so we have found him a new home as well.  I like the old guy, and will be sad to see him go, but I didn't have to live in a trash can with him...

That leaves us with Victor as the only one of the original crew, He is now the old timer, and very proud of his position as lead term.  Young, and cocky, Victor is very good at what he does.  He is joined by Frank, who is also very good and has been with us for about a month. So far he has been very quiet around me, but he fits in well.  Our final terp is a new guy named Snake.  Snake is a bit of a character.  A Kurd with a political science degree, he has been working as a butcher.  Apparently that wouldn't pay for his two wives and four children, so he is using his English for the first time in the terp trade.  Unfortunately his youngest son by his second wife (who is pregnant with a fifth child) has been ill lately.  We gave him a few days to help the family while the son was in the hospital with a virus that had caused him to loose a lot of weight.  Snake had returned to duty the night before, after the doctors released the child from the hospital.

As we finished up lunch, MAJ B poked his head into the room. "Sir, I need to speak with you a second".  I excuse myself.  COL B gives me a questioning look.  I am not anxious to air any laundry in front of the reporters.

"whats up?"

"Snake just got a call, his son died this afternoon..."

Silence.

"Ok, get everyone kitted up, let's get him to his family."

I let COL B know what is going on and apologized for my hasty retreat.  COL B explained in Arabic as I depart.  I hurry back to the truck.  Back on the FOB the team gathers under the palm trees around the trucks.  The terps are all helping Snake pack and offering what comfort they can.  The rest of us take up a collection, Snake had not yet reached his first payday and had borrowed money for hospital bills.  We stand around quietly lost in our thoughts until he arrives for his ride out to the gate.  Many on the team have children, and witnessing our worst fears has us all a bit shaken.  Snake arrives.  A thousand words are expressed silently in the form of an embrace or a gentle nod, or a hand on the shoulder.  He drives off.  He may not come back.  I certainly wouldn't blame him if he did not.  Either way, he is one of us now.

            It had been raining.  I almost failed to notice.