Letter from Iraq

[Carl Harrod]

Update # 15

28 MAY 07



            We are back in the palace, waiting patiently in the entry hall.  A worker is mopping the Italian marble floors which reflect the dim light of an enormous chandelier that hangs from a carved Moroccan ceiling three stories above us.  We have been moved around from one side of the chamber to another twice already, photographers and assistants trying to figure out the right location for the ceremony.  As is true of most things here, the exact nature of the ceremony is a matter of some conjecture.  The night before COL B informed me that we had to be here at 8am with six members of his personal security detail for an awards ceremony.  Later that night, sifting through a stack of email I find one that sheds a small amount of light.  Buried in the thread is a comment from GEN Patraeus to the corps commander saying he will be the one to give out the awards, but there is little meat on the bones other than that.  Given the names of the Shurta involved, LT Mahmoud, Gazi, Nabil, Mohammad, Nour Adin, and Daud, I can only assume it has to do with the car bomb from a few days ago.

            A suit walks up to me, an ear piece stuck in his ear.  He looks about my age, and out of place in a coat and tie.  He clearly knows who I am and without introductions gets straight to business.   A flurry of words. "Do you know what this is all about?...great story...read your report....chance to recognize heroes...the general will be here shortly....how do we pronounce this name....great stuff...."  And off he goes.  I am left with little more knowledge than I had other than confirming my suspicions linking the incident to the ceremony.  My mind races back to the official report I sent, which as I recall, was far less detailed than the account I gave in my last letter.  So much so that I am left wondering if my update, and not the official report, is the basis of the day's event.

            Regardless, a crowd is beginning to gather around the six shurta that stand at a loose form of attention in front of the Iraqi, American and Brigades colors.  COL B fusses over them.  Today, they are all in the same uniform, the old American style green BDUs.  On most days these six would probably sport at least three or four different camouflage patterns.  Today they have borrowed what they needed and look uncommonly uniform.  COL B is a bit of a traditionalist in terms of uniforms.  He thinks military uniforms should be green and that the appropriate headgear should be the beret.  He has found a red beret for each.  Anyone who has ever worn a beret will know that you just can't borrow one from someone else.  They are temperamental creatures, that take months of training to conform properly to the head.  The shurta fidget, uncomfortably trying to keep them on.  Their eyes wander as they admire the palace, they never could have imagined being inside of.

            The pace is quickening and the important people start arriving.  The General in charge of the National Police is early, and looks over the troops.  The MND-B commander arrives.  My Brigade commander. The minister of Interior.  The corps commander. The Minister of defense.  All are here for a meeting after the ceremony.  COL Bahaa, my American brigade commander, and I are pulled outside to greet GEN Patraeus when he arrives.  He is all smiles when he pulls up, and after exchanging brief greetings, focuses straight in on COL Bahaa and gets to work.  They have a quick discussion about expectations and standards and the status of his district. Then its inside so the fun can begin.  I slink off to the side and join my team to watch.  COL B falls in on the end of his row of shurta.

            The ministers give a few quick words describing the bravery of the young men, willing to risk themselves to protect their countryman.  Patraeus does much the same, and then they begin to load the awardees down with gifts.  From the Americans, a certificate and a coin.  For those that don't know, the unit coin has almost replaced the traditional medal as a form of recognition.  Each unit commander develops a coin with unit crests and mottos and histories, which they present to soldiers.  It requires no paperwork, is immediate, and usually much more valued than the official ribbons.  The shurta love it.  Several have started wearing plastic ID card holders on their arms and have the coin tucked inside for all to see.  The minister of defense is generous as well.  An official letter to each is accompanied by a gift of 500,000 dinar (about $350) and a promotion of one rank.  Seeing themselves on TV that night or in the newspapers over the next few days can hardly be discounted either.  More words are exchanged as the ceremony dissolves into the normal swirl of congratulations and mingling.  I catch an occasional glace from the shurta.  They wink and nod at my team.  They are as proud as they can be. And so am I.

            Victor slides up next to me.  "sir, I think the minister of interior just told COL Bahaa that his promotion is approved.  He handed him some official papers."

            "Are you serious, they didn't announce that?

            "Sir, that's what I heard him say."

            "Wow, I better go find out"

When the crowd finally departs for the meeting, and COL B and I are back in charge of our agenda, I ask.  "So general, do you have something to tell me?"  He grins and his eyes shine.  He takes an envelope out of his breast pocket, and unfolds the paper inside to show me.  I don't have to read Arabic to know what it says.





A few of my team gathered around the back of our HMMWVs.  We watched silently.  There was really nothing to be said.  Snake, our terp, stood spread eagle with his hands up against the truck.  A squad of military policemen from the detention facility searched him methodically, cataloged his belongings and cuffed him.  Snake was silent as well, and complied.  He did not attempt to make eye contact.  Over the last few days it had become clear that Snake had been serving as an enemy agent.  We were lucky to detect it after only a few weeks.  We have no idea if his infant son really died last week, we hope not for the wife's sake.  We do know that the charity we gave to him will not be recovered.  We are reminded that the first casualty of war is innocence, and trust has been wounded in the  collateral damage.



Hours later, we are preparing for a mission.  CPT S gives the intell dump before we roll.  We have the details on an attack that happened the previous day.  One of the Transition teams we had trained with at Fort Riley had been hit with one of the EFMPs that come from Iran.  Two of our comrades were dead and a third very badly burned.  The mood is somber.  While many of the teams we trained with have been attacked, these are our first casualties.  Today there is none of the normal cheerful banter and good natured abuse we normally exchange as we head out.  I get into the truck and strap on my intercom set.  SFC C has his on already and comments quietly. "The team is pretty shaken up today, what can we do about it?"   I reply.  "Ya CJ, we are a bit shaken up.  Nothing we can do but get back in the saddle.  The war isn't going to win itself." 



We of course will do something about it, collectively and alone.  Pray, tell stories, listen to music, write.  In a few days we will attend the memorial service.  And then, like generations of Americans before us, we will go back out and win.  It is what our country expects, and it is what we expect of ourselves.





I read an editorial today in the Stars and Stripes newspaper.  A teacher asked her class what Memorial Day was.  One young man apparently answered "that's when the swimming pools open."  Sad but true.

It is quite possible that that young mans family has not had any members that served or died in our nation's service.  Maybe there are no stories for him to have been told, no family heirlooms on the wall, no uniform in the closet, no rack of medals on display, no photos on the mantel, no grave to put a flag on.  But I doubt it.  My guess is, no one took the time to tell him those stories.  I also bet he would love to hear them, and would be a better man if he heard them now, as a boy.

One of my favorite possessions is a typed manuscript of my grandfather's autobiography.  In it is a mix of stories that he told us as a kid, and some that he never really mentioned.  Before I deployed, I reread his tales of service in the Navy Seabees during WWII, and of recovering in a long string of veteran's hospitals when he returned home.  I am grateful to have the opportunity to travel back with him, all because he had the generosity to leave that behind.  It is to a large extent why I choose to write these letters home.  One day, when all is said and done, I hope that my girls can dust off my words as well.  Memorial Day should be remembered with memories, and not just a small flag next to a stone.  And then, if it is really hot, maybe a dip in the pool.



As always, I hope this finds you and yours well...and sharing your families stories.

[Carl Harrod]

Update #16



The room was dark, and reasonably cool given that the power was off and neither fan or air conditioning was contributing to the solution.  "Peace be with you General".

"ah, LTC Green"  General Bahaa smiled and struggled to prop himself up onto an elbow.  His operations officer had told me a few minutes earlier that the general was sick, but that he had asked that I come over to his house.  I rounded up my medic, and headed over to his quarters.  My team doc is on leave, so we have borrowed SGT N for a few weeks to cover the gap.  Young, competent, and enthusiastic, SGT N fits right in.  He grabbed a pair of Iraqi medics to come along and do the actual work.

BG B, is laid out on a futon in his living room, watching TV with his wife.  Now that I think about it, I am not quite sure how the television is working but nothing else is.  The Iraqis have made siphoning electrical power into an art form.   At any rate, his wife makes her exit, as a slew of medics arrive to barrage him with questions.  He suffers it all patiently.  Dehydration and exhaustion are almost certainly the culprits.  For every patrol we go on with him, he does a second.  The last week has been stressful, and he has had seven hours of sleep in three days.  The medics all scold him in the way the medical profession is allowed to do.  He knows they are right.  I send them all away.  He asks me to stay.

His wife returns with chai and the three of us talk quietly and watch some satellite TV.  After a few minutes, his young niece of about thirteen scampers in and climbs joins the group.  A few minutes later the general's university age daughter comes skipping down the hall and slides to a halt at the door in stocking feet, sweat pants and tee shirt.  She panics when she sees me sitting there, and races back down the hall.  She emerges a few minutes later in black robe and head scarf.  Feeling much more appropriate, she joins the group.  She had attended school until a year ago...now it is too dangerous.  She is largely trapped in the house.  Mom delegates the next round of chai to her.  The general's seventeen year old son and nineteen year old nephew both come and go.  The nephew is in uniform, he is actually one of Bahaa's shurta.  The son is out of uniform today, and while not officially in the national police often wears a uniform, goes on patrol, and much to my team's annoyance frequently wears dad's rank when dad isn't around.

We talk a bit of business.  The general appears to be perking up.  He makes the comment "maybe I was just lonely."  I laugh.  But it might be true.  Arabs are very rarely alone, and Bahaa is almost always surrounded by people who need something from him.  His daughter comes back in.  She has shed the black coverings and is back in sweats.  Apparently mom or dad had declared me safe.  We watch the five o'clock news.  I recognize more of Baghdad and the local politicians now than I do of D.C. or my own policy makers.

The phone rings, the oldest son calling from Syria.  He has been there for a few months.  He had been serving in the army but was getting threats against his life based on his dad's position.   He wants to come home.  Dad says no.  He tries to convince mom.  No luck.  She asks him to get a prescription filled for her that she can't get in Iraq.  Niece and daughter are trading video clips and songs on their cell phones.  Dad hears something that peaks his interest and grabs the daughter's cell phone and starts watching.  As he thumbs through it, Nephew, Niece and daughter all exchange guilty uh-oh looks and I can tell they are just waiting for dad to find something he shouldn't.  The young niece notices my amusement and pokes her cousin who is now looking doubly guilty.

            Daughter checks her watch, and pleads with mom.  The channel is changed, to the opening minutes of "Iraqi Idol".  Everyone settles in.  Dad gives back the phone, any contraband is either unfound, or returned without remark.  The first contestant is a young blind man in his early twenties.  He sings in a deep slow voice, that sounds much like the call to prayers we hear every day.  The first song is a love song.  He finishes.  Simon-Mohammad gives him a hard time.  Paula- Fatima props him back up.  The final judge, a friend of the general who works at the local university for the arts, gives him a second chance and the young man launches into a second tune.  This time one he wrote himself.  The general gives me a feel for the refrain. Essentially a blind mans desire to see the country he loves.  Mom sobs audibly and wipes a tear and whispers something in Arabic.  Bahaa touches her softly.  I ask if the song is that powerful?  He replies "No, she was friends with his mother, she is dead now."  Unsure how to reply in either English or Arabic, I retreat into silence.

            Eventually I make an exit, the team has finished up our days work outside and I have intruded long enough.  For a few hours, in a tiny portion of the city, for a very few people, life has been perfectly normal.

           



Three days into month six and the urge to count is starting to take over.  We are almost at the half way mark, or at least hope so.  The three month extension does not appear to affect us, but we are all painfully aware that the shelf life on truth in Iraq is measured in hours. Three of the team have already gone on leave and returned, the fourth is home now and everyone is teasing SFC K about having a bag already packed for his upcoming departure.  My turn is still months away.  Too early to count that yet.  Statistically, month five to seven are the worst.  That is when the guard comes down and complacency sets in.  At this point we have done most of the things we are likely to be asked to do.  The excitement of the first few months wears off as tasks become routine and new places become old stomping grounds.  That which was easy to fix has been done.  That which is difficult is often really difficult. 

            Most of the team has started to get orders for follow on assignments.  The mind naturally drifts to planning events that can not yet be influenced.    It is still early enough to count off birthdays and holidays missed, and not yet far enough along to start planning the ones yet to come.  The heat makes it worse.  A few merciful hours in the morning or late at night bring folks out to socialize on their stoops.  But the heat of the day is exhausting mentally and physically.  After a day of patrolling or meetings it is hard not to wish for anything more than to disappear into an air conditioned cocoon.  All the music starts sounding the same. The names of the insurgents start running together.  DVDs start moving back to the top of the play list as reruns.  Another District Area Council meeting, another complaint about power.

            There are days where I feel like the crew of a becalmed ship.  The classic movie scene with everyone sprawled out on deck with tongues dragging over blistered lips.  Sun beating down, and the hero pacing because he has some place else he really needs to be. 

            But, we are making progress even if the wind does not always seem to be in our favor.  We escorted Dr Chalabi, a prominent political figure on a walking tour of Haifa street the other day.  While it is starting to seem commonplace to us, it is still pretty remarkable to have him stroll through about two and a half kilometers of back streets and markets.  Film crews documented his tour and his conversations with shop owners and citizens.  Those alleys were deserted a few short months ago.  The main street is now lit by solar powered street lights, a very visible sign of change.  A local paper back in texas where our US brigade is stationed in Texas ran a story about the improvements. The headline recalled the streets former nickname: Purple Heart Boulevard.

            For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and the enemy still makes his evil presence felt.  So we remain vigilant and wait for a sail to rustle or the music to strike up, letting us know that something more exciting is ahead.



Hope this finds you and yours well.

[Carl Harrod]

UPDATE #17

21 June 07       


"Six this is five, Bahaa is on the ground"

"Roger" pause...


We were not in one of our neighborhoods, so a decision that had become almost automatic took several seconds to process.  The night before, the general had asked if I would come on a patrol with him the next morning to visit one of his subordinate battalions.  His first battalion had not been under his command in the last six months.  They have been up north, and we had had very little interaction with them.  The previous day the unit had road marched down to Baghdad where they were going to take control of a new area, allowing a unit of Pesh from northern Iraq to return home.  The first battalion would not be working in our sector, nor would they be under our control, but Bahaa felt it was his responsibility to go visit, see how the unit was doing, and give the battalion some advice on how to regain control of an area that had not made anywhere near the progress as ours had.  The fact that this neighborhood was where the General had lived as a boy and for the few years between the invasion and him joining the National Police was an obvious second motive.

As I expected the news of our trip went over like a fart in church, but to their credit the team didn't say anything.  This was not our area, we had never been there before, and it really wasn't strictly our task.  But the Transition team that was assigned to the first battalion had lost a truck to an IED a few days previously and they would not be there.  I agreed with Bahaa that we should help the unit out on their first day in sector, so I decided to go.  Bahaa had been unable to give me the exact grid that night and the map I had was not an appropriate scale to plan the route.  We would work out the final details in the morning, but I was pretty certain I knew where we were headed.  It would put us into an area that was significantly more contested than what we were used to.    Everyone went about the morning pre-combat ritual with a bit more urgency, the unknown being a remarkable cure for the corrosive effects of complacency; a few extra glances at the map... double checking radio nets...calling adjacent units to check route status.  The Shurta in the trucks in front of us looked a little more serious as well.  I was reminded of a passage I had read a few weeks ago. "Fear reaches only to the point where the unavoidable begins; from there on, it loses its meaning. And all that we have left is the hope that we are making the right decision."....and we were off.

Within minutes we plunged into the new neighborhood.  The jitters were gone and the team quickly stepped up the cross talk, picking out unusual things and comparing them mentally with what we new to be normal in our area.  The urban geography was much different here.  The streets were much wider, the houses almost all middleclass and two stories.  The streets were all laid out in a neat grid...much different than the ramshackle city planning and mix of urban high rise and century old slums that dominate much of our area.  A few things were immediately obvious.  We didn't see any regular Iraqi police, we ran into no other Americans, and the people were...cautious. 

We made link up with the first battalion in their new compound.  They were just settling in, and had yet to get generators established. So we sat in the commander's hot dark office while the two commanders talked.  Outside the shurta from our brigade and the first battalion mingled in a family reunion of sorts.  Many had fought together in Falluja several years ago when the unit was first formed.  Bypassing both chai and the traditional small talk, Bahaa went straight into business mode, giving advice on how he though COL Z could best establish himself in the opening days.  Shortly thereafter we were back in the trucks.  Active patrolling by the commander is high on Bahaa's list of priorities...and we were all going for a ride.

I had very little feel for what the history of the neighborhood or the ethnic makeup was, but it quickly became obvious as we weaved our way through the city grid.  Most of the outskirts of the neighborhood were relatively normal, shops were open, there appeared to be a fair amount of electrical power and by and large the streets were clean, but the closer you got to the area's main center boulevard, the more things changed.  At the north and south end of the mile long stretch, stood barricaded checkpoints with corner buildings sandbagged and fortified.  The national police now occupied positions that apparently the Pesh of the Iraq Army had been in just days prior.  The center street was completely empty...not a soul.  Trash was piled up in a complete juxtaposition of the two roads that paralleled it just one block away.  All the shops were closed...there was no life.  I had seen streets like this before, in two places; In zombie movies, and in our own district when we had first occupied it back in February.  This was an ethnic border battleground, and from the looks of it, the guards had been turning a blind eye to whatever was going on, biding their time until their deployment to Baghdad ended.

As we left no-mans land and back into populated territory, the commanders began to dismount and press flesh at local markets.  I stayed in the truck.  Americans have a way of pulling the populace to them, and this was not my area.  I would not be able to talk intelligently about anything that was happening here, and since they always assume you are lying if you say you don't know, it was best not to give them the opportunity to ask.  Besides, what was important here was getting Iraqis to trust Iraqis...so we stayed mounted and watched. 

And then the shooting started.  Its hard to know how veterans can tell which shooting is dangerous and which is not...but they can.  Both Iraqis and Americans are pretty inoculated to the sounds of far off gunfire, accidental discharges, or the occasional warning shot.  But for some arcane reason, when a shot is aimed at you...you know.  The first round alerted everyone's senses.  And much like a prairie dog farm, turrets and heads all swiveled left scanning for danger.  A bombed out high rise, affectionately dubbed the "sniper motel" was the dominant piece of terrain some 800 meters away, but the shot was almost certainly from the much closer palm groves and associated farm houses much closer in.  Three more shots in rapid succession, and Shurta sunk lower in their far from adequately armored trucks.  To their credit, none returned fire.  Many Iraqi units unleash a "death blossom" when they make contact, indiscriminately shooting in every direction.  We could not identify the source of fire so did not return any. 

BG B and COL Z finished their conversation with the market owner.  Personal bravery is a large component of Arab leadership.  While leading from the front is certainly the norm in the US Army, much of the power of American commanders comes from the ability to reach out by a network of communications systems and call upon a dizzying array of assets, quickly gather a picture of what is going on, and bring all the right pieces to bear.  The Iraqi really has much more in common with our ancestors from the civil war.  In many cases...standing upright in the middle of things, barking orders, and acting unafraid is about the most useful thing they can do.  I often think that if Bahaa had a horse he would mount up in a fire fight just so his guys could see him better. 

The fire stops and he mounts his truck rather than a stead and we continue our way south.  There are very few people in the main streets now, but many in the alley ways.  As we head south we here more shots.  None of the fire appears to be aimed, but it is following us, challenging our presence.  As we get to the end of the block a group of civilians have emerged from the shops and wave us down, pointing back up the side streets.  They clearly have an idea of where the fire has been coming from...and that has enticed the General back out of his truck.

"Five, this is six, I am on the ground"

"roger"

MAJ B and CPT L join me as we form up with the shurta.  About fifty of them have dismounted and begin to fan out, a small group off to each flank, while the main body begins moving up the next side street.  MAJ K maneuvers the trucks to overwatch as we patrol up the road.  The road is deserted, we can see up it for almost 500 meters, and we begin our advance.  I can here people inside their courtyards...moving indoors, or locking gates.  Each noise attracts the muzzle of a weapon.  One man braver than the rest stands in his open courtyard gate and peeks out after the main group of shurta pass.  My team is in the middle, with a few of the heavy weapons being brought up in support.  I smile "Asam Alyakum – peace be with you".    In English he replies "you are welcome here".  Interesting.  We advance further up the street.

            Several hundred meters ahead, a large house dominates the intersection.  It has been fortified, and almost certainly lived in by the Iraqi Army at some point, but they are all gone now, and the once proud house stands pockmarked with bullet holes and neglected.  The shurta smash in the front door and begin to clear it.  Within minutes the general and his men are up top, pushing off the sand bag positions, leaving it looking significantly less threatening.  I move inside the bottom floor.  While the IA has been gone for days, a lone mattress lay in the entry foyer with a small stove, kettle, and the remains of breakfast.  Someone had clearly moved in already...potentially our friend the gunman.  Giving some credence to what the locals had told us minutes before.

We continued up the street. All the way to the palm groves where we had first taken fire.  As we had advanced north, our vehicles had trailed in overwatch.  The shurta led with a pickup mounting the largest gun in their arsenal.  The DISHKA is a huge Russian made anti-aircraft gun that dwarfs the American made 50Cal machine gun.  It is a beast of a weapon, and was not meant to be mounted in the ass end of a Silverado pickup truck.  But what is not meant to be, rarely survives contact in Iraq, and somehow they had mounted the gun into the truck.  Having reached the limit of our advance, the commanders decided to halt the pursuit.  As the patrol began moving back south, and the gun truck negotiated a three point turn, our friend the gunman decided to take a final stab at us as we withdrew.  A short burst of fire bounced off the pavement just behind the pickup.  The startled crew spotted the gunman as he ducked into a house, and immediately threw the truck in reverse.  A quickly shouted exchange from Bahaa to the gunner determined that he had positive ID on the house.  Dismounted shurta took up the prone or ducked behind corners and the order to fire was drowned out in an impressive gout of flame and noise as the DISKA opened up, drowning out the accompanying PKC and AK fire.

Much to my surprise, when the cloud of dust settled, the DISKA was still mounted and the truck had not flipped over.  Sadly I was not in a position to see the condition of the target farmhouse.  But two solid bursts later, the General was satisfied and ordered the withdrawal.  An American unit would almost certainly have swept the objective, but I wasn't going to call him on it in front of his men, so we made our way back to the trucks.

Back at the end of the street, the shurta were greeted to a warm reception, with previously cowering residents now emerging from courtyards with pitchers of water.  One elderly man emerged with a dish of candy and began tossing them up into the trucks.  We slowed down long enough to take a handful ourselves.  A surreal turn of events considering how much candy we have passed out in previous months.  As we continued off that street and into the next few blocks, our reception continued to improve.  The Iraqi commanders dismounted again and moved into a crowded marketplace and talked with locals.  This was Bahaa's old stomping grounds, and he introduced COL Z to the locals and explained that things were going to change.  Many recognized him from a string of TV interviews he had done the previous week.  His new found fame and a series of positive spots on the progress in Haifa Street lending credibility to both commanders. 

My team found ourselves surrounded by the inevitable mob of children. I tried to keep out of the General's way while he worked the crowd.   Some days our role is much like a trophy wife.  It is simply enough to stand to the side and be American.  We lend an instant air of credibility.  We added nothing measurable to the firefight.  But it is the immeasurable aspects of what we do that may be decisive, and unfortunately there is no way to prove it.  Would they have been as confidant going down the alley if we had not been there?  They know that if push comes to shove we can bring in assets and medical care that they can't.  More importantly, if we had not been there would the same locals that asked for the Shurta's help and later praised them, have assumed that the National Police were militia and accused them of being part of the problem?  It happens all the time.  So if my team had the same effect as the diploma on a doctor's wall, then so be it.  We returned home, glad to be back in our relatively quiet neck of the woods.

Two days later an American Apache helicopter watching a gunfight in the same neighborhood, accidentally engaged and destroyed a pick up truck from the first battalion and killed four shurta.  Two steps forward one step back.


About two weeks ago I had an interesting conversation with a few Iraqi men down in one of our market places.  A few middle aged men had approached me and were skeptical about the work we were doing and said he wish that he could trust the Americans, but he just couldn't bring himself to do so.  I asked if things had gotten better since February when we had arrived.  He admitted that they had, but reminded me that that was only four months out of four years.  I agreed, and talked about some of the positive civic improvements that were going on around him.  He said he would try and be hopeful, and maybe he could meet me there in a few more months and tell me if his mind had changed.  His friend, who had remained silent broke in and asked, "why is it that when you invaded Kuwait, the country was fixed in just a few months, and is now once again very rich and prosperous?"  I choked up on my bat, ready to knock this one right out of the park.  "Well sir, that is pretty easy.  None of the Kuwaitis ever shot at us when we tried to help them.  More importantly they didn't waste time attacking each other.  Four years later, you all can't seem to put your weapons down long enough to build anything!"  He was stunned...and silent.  A third man, a bit older, had said nothing during the exchange.  He put his arm on the second and said something in a low voice.  Bahaa was mounting back up so I had to make my apologies and leave before hearing what he said.

Later that afternoon, I was sitting with a few of our terps and talking about the second bombing of the Golden Mosque in Samara which had just happened that morning.  We were all taking our best guesses on what the Iraqi people's reaction might be.  Frank stopped all of a sudden and looked at me.  "Sir, do you remember the conversation we had in the market earlier today, about rebuilding Kuwait?" 

"Yes" I replied.

"Do you know what the third man said to his friend as we were leaving?  He told his friend that you should not ask American officers questions, when you know the truth of the answer will break your heart."





As always, I hope this finds you and yours well.

Matt

[Teresa]

**taking a long slow breath**...
WOW.

[Janet Harrington]

Oh My Gosh.  I just got through reading that letter and it made me feel as if I were right there.  Right there in the middle of the battle.  Right there surrounded by children.  I love this writer.

Carl,

Is there anyway to get his name and address?  I would like to send him a letter thanking him for sharing his thoughts and what he goes through everyday just so we can be free and Iraq can live free.  Iraq living free will happen.  I know it in my heart.

[Carl Harrod]

I would like to give it to you, but I better check with him first. I don't know if I told you or not, but he is a fellow Kansas boy (or at least it is his home of record).

[Carl Harrod]

I heard back from LTC Green this morning and here is his reply:

HI Carl,

I very much appreciate all the feedback I get from the letters I write.  It often comes from interesting and unusual places. It also helps me know what people are interested in hearing about.

You obviously have my email already.  Matthew.k.green@us.army.mil

Or snail mail works just as well.

LTC Matthew K Green
5-2 NPTT
FOB Prosperity
APO AE 09348

[Carl Harrod]

UPDATE #18

July 4, 2007

            I sat with two other U.S. Lieutenant Colonels, a major, SSG P, and a terp along one side of a very long conference table in cavernous hall on the second floor of the Iraqi Parliament building.  BG Bahaa and his staff rounded out our team.  On the far side of the table a collection of Iraqi deputy ministers-of-this-or-that waited patiently for the meeting to begin.  About eighteen hours prior BG Bahaa had been summoned to meet with one of two Deputy Prime Minister's, Mr Salih Zorbea, on the topic of the Haifa Street Project, and to "bring his American's along with him."  Our full COL Brigade commander was home on leave, so our small band was dutifully playing backup to BG Bahaa in an engagement that was significantly above our pay grade.

            The Haifa Street Project is the brainchild of the 2nd Brigade 1st Cavalry Division "BlackJack."  In a nutshell, it is an urban renewal project along a three kilometer stretch of high rise apartment buildings that cut a swath through the heart of the cities oldest section.  The area was originally built by Saddam in the early eighties, and so it should come as no surprise to anyone that there is a lot of historical tension associated with it.  This is the area I have described several times previously as a cross between Miami and Stalingrad.  The concept is pretty simple.  Secure the area.  Create as many visible signs of change as possible.  Fix the minimum essential services to get people back into the area, and then use that momentum to push for more significant projects and to extend out into the surrounding neighborhoods form there.  After four months our efforts are bearing fruit.

            I have described many of the initial efforts at securing the area in previous letters.  We have been hugely fortunate that the significant increase of forces in the district made possible by the "surge" had a measurable and so far lasting deterrent effect on the enemy.  There is more than just anecdotal evidence of Haifa street terrorists captured in other districts because they were looking for easier places to operate.  Sadly, that is not entirely true, and every day we face challenges that range from murder to extortion, to politically motivated suicide bombings.  But all at a level low enough that life has gotten significantly safer for the average resident of our area, and both individual and government workers are going about the business of rebuilding.

            Many of the schools we visited in February have already undergone the entire process of writing statements of work, bidding for contractors, obtaining funding, and actual construction.  I can not overstate how transforming it is to see two or three freshly renovated schools, clad in new bright coats of paint, standing proudly as a centerpiece to a neighborhood.  More importantly, is what is going on inside.  I have had more than one child tell me how proud he is of his new school, and that they look forward to going there again in the fall.  Last week the Iraqi school system finished their annual nation wide testing...similar to New York States Reagents tests or other ones around the country.  BG Bahaa's men had spent the week guarding the various test sites and ensuring the students safety.  In a conversation with the head of the Baghdad testing office, he was proud to say that he believed that in our district, over 95% of the eligible students took the test.  The only real hick-up in the whole process was a sad bit of business, where apparently someone stole the test booklet for the "Islamic Studies" portion of the test. So that had to be moved from the first day of testing to the last.  Seems to me that if I am going to steal a state exam, I am going for the Algebra test!

            All up and down Haifa street, small things are being done to make visible changes every day.  Local men have been hired to continue the enormous trash removal problem.  Local masons have been contracted to rebuild the security walls around apartment complexes and the local soccer field.  Old posters and advertisements have been scraped off walls.  Curbs have been repaired, trees planted, bullet holes patched, and a fresh coat of paint gives it all a new feel.

For the last few months the brigade has been installing streetlamps, both solar and conventionally powered ones.  Every week the previously haunted streets become more inviting.  In our meeting the deputy prime minister made a comment that "terrorism is a darkness, that can't always be fought with a sword or a gun, but must be fought with light."  Now he was almost certainly referring to light as a metaphor for goodness and justice, but the simple fact is, light or more specifically power matters!  And in a country where power almost always requires a gas run generator, that means fuel.  For all of those pundits who have long been shouting that this war is all about the oil, I say "your right!" but not for the reasons you think you are.

The enemy is fuel.  The black market of fuel is the source of no end of corruption as the ministry of oil fails to provide the supply to a subsidized market.  Local gang leaders infiltrate the fuel distribution process, at every level, taking their cut and financing terror.  The average civilian has no recourse.  Without fuel, air conditioners, refrigerators, water pumps, sewage pumps, TVs, cars, lights, cell phone chargers, all fail.  In 115 degree heat, life gets miserable pretty fast without some combination of those things.  So while the US Brigade is working a variety of creative solutions to solve the generator and distribution problems, BG Bahaa is focusing his efforts on the areas three gas stations.

I spend far too much time at the gas stations.  I vaguely remember watching the news as a young kid and hearing about the gas lines in the 70's  era of Jimmy Carter ...although strangely I don't ever remember actually sitting in a car waiting in line.  Thank you mom and dad!  But I get to watch it now, with much of our time devoted to trying to figure out how to design traffic flow that minimizes the potential for car bombs, and also works to prevent corruption.  Sadly the biggest offenders are the various personal security detachments of government officials who routinely break in line and use their position to get extra fuel while citizens wait.  In a country where bribery is the norm, a few extra bucks or a relative at the station almost ensures that there are more vehicles in the cut lane, than the actual one.  We have done some things to prevent that, not the least of which is stationing BG Bahaa's men to oversee the stations, hoping that we can weed out the corruption in our own, easier than we can in others.

Collectively, all of the efforts by the U.S. soldiers of the "BlackJack" brigade, and the Iraqis of BG Bahaa's "Sword" brigade have made a serious impact and have drawn some attention.  A meeting with the U.S. Ambassador the week before and now the meeting with the Deputy prime minister, specifically to see what the Iraqi government can do to reinforce an essentially grass roots efforts to bring Haifa back from the dead.  The meeting went well, and like most Arab meetings there were not a lot of specifics decided, but it was clear that some government attention was coming our way.

On the wall in front of us, was an unusual painting.  I was attracted to it partly for its style, and more than a bit by the vibrant blue and yellow pigments the artist chose.  But what really captured me was the content.  An angel knelt in prayer.  Above the angels head, in what could loosely be construed as a thought bubble, was a collection of Babylonian style hieroglyphics and images.  While I am certain the Muslim artist did not intend it, all I could see was a Christian Angel desperately praying for some solution to the disaster in the cradle of civilization.  How appropriate that it hangs above the decision makers.  I am sure it went completely unnoticed by all but me.

After the meeting our smaller group was invited up to the Deputy Prime Ministers office.  It might have been Louis the XIVs office for all the ornate furniture and frilly curtains.  Mr Zorbeh, took the opportunity to give us a bit of his philosophy.  Of particular note was a comment he made about America.  He said that "Americans are the most generous people in the world.  That is because they are still a young people, made up from all over, and they are not burdened by their past wars, they don't carry them around in their hearts.  For that reason you can meet an American and become friends with them very quickly."  As much as I wanted to enter a debate on that subject, it was not the time or place.  But it occurs to me that American's do carry our wars with us in our hearts, certainly our soldier's do.  The difference is that by and large our wars have advanced the cause of freedom, and we have a tradition of not being beaten.  The difference between the American way of war and what the Arabs carry as their burden is that we are gracious winners.  We have historically gone back and helped recreate those countries we have fought, and left them better and more free than we have found them.   That is difficult for a society of victims to grasp.

My team spent the Fourth of July doing pretty much the same thing we do every day.  It would have gone largely unmarked if not for the festive decorations in the mess hall.  A hamburger and some potato salad about the only links to what I would have been doing back at home.  At a meeting that afternoon, BG Bahaa made a point of wishing all the Americans present a happy Independence Day.  His heartfelt reminder was yet another indication of how much of the rest of the world really does admire us, and how much of a struggle is left here for us to finish.

Later that night Bahaa and I found ourselves summoned to a 2100 conference at his Corps Headquarters, apparently on the topic of improving living conditions at some of our checkpoints.  Within minutes I realized something wasn't quite right.  The correct combination of people were not present.  While we waited for this meeting to materialize we drank some chai, with the commander of the national police, who had been COL Bahaa's instructor at the war college.  He is a tiny little man with bad teeth, a lazy eye, crooked smile, and a razor sharp mind.  He took us to the officer's mess and back to his office.  For about two hours a small collection of us chatted about all things but business.  He likes American and British novels, and history, so the subjects ranged from the Civil War, to Mark Twain, to the Atomic bomb, to Agatha Christi (who lived in Mosul for a while and wrote several novels based on Iraq).  It made for an interesting celebration of the fourth.  Eventually the Commander of Baghdad arrived and the shoe finally dropped.


The prime ministers office had issued a warrant for BG Bahaa's arrest.

[Janet Harrington]

And the story ends there???  Oh my gosh.  What happened?  What happened?

[Diane Amberg]

     Me too! Don't stop now.