I am sorry to say that I still haven't heard anything for my friend's old unit that just went back to Afganistan, but he did pass along this message from an advisor who is currently in Iraq.
Subject: Update #8
I vaguely remember one of my literature teachers telling me that good writing should serve to both educate and delight. That seems like pretty good advice, and I try to make sure I do both in these updates, especially as the audience grows. I never really know what I am going to write about next. So much of what we do is classified. It is not really possible just to describe things as they happen. And to be honest, many of the stories would start sounding the same. So I usually
wait for some sort of inspiration that ties a few images or tales together. I got that today when I came back from a particularly successful district area council meeting where we are really beginning
to gain some traction. I opened up my computer and scanned the headlines from the major wireless services...
...and once again my faith in the American Press's ability to responsibly use the freedom of speech a generation is fighting to defend was shattered. "Polls show Iraqis don't trust Americans!" "only 19% of Iraqis trust Americans"....blah blah blah...drivel drivel, poppycock. Story after story reciting some poll without ever explaining any of the methods used to take the poll, or when it was taken. No accountability whatsoever. I would bet this months pay the poll is at
least 30 days old, and the polltakers have enjoyed about 4-5 weekends and a couple national holidays sitting on all that useful data, while twenty year old American and Iraqi Patriots put their lives on the line without break to actually fix the problems the brave pollsters cant even articulate decent questions about.
I would love to know how the data was collected. I bet it wasn't door to door...if it was I would probably have seen the Soldiers tasked to guard them. By telephone? I wonder what percentage of folks have a cell phone and where they are located regionally? Even without my rocket science degree I can pretty well determine that telephone won't get you an even representation in Iraq. Mail? Sorry friends, Cliff doesn't get off his barstool at Cheers to deliver to
Haifa Street...even in good weather.
I wonder about the questions not asked in the poll. Did they ask what percentage of Iraqis trust Iraqis? Would it be higher or lower than the 19% level afforded to Americans? Next months paycheck says it is less. I am not an expert on Arab culture by any means, but I am pretty sure of this. Arabs don't trust anyone unless they have looked them in the eye, eaten with them, and have included them in their circle of friends. Trust is built over time and not given easily. They do not do any business on the first meeting, or the second, or often the third. They will judge you and prejudge you until they find you worthy, and when they start calling you friend, you will be in the family and they will do anything for you. The default answer to any poll question asked about trust is going to be no.
So here are some examples of Iraqis I have met. You judge if they trust us.
Several weeks ago we conducted a cordon and search operation to serve warrants on a list of about sixty individuals. We rounded up about forty. Iraqi names are often very similar, and sometimes you don't get the right guys. In this particular search the Iraqis detained a guy with an Egyptian accent. For a variety of good reasons the Iraqis assume that non-Iraqis are here as foreign fighters. This particular gentleman was pretty old, probably about sixty, so I was a bit skeptical. While we were processing all the detainees, he began faking seizures. My medic examines everyone we detain, at the point of capture and every few days at the detainee facility to make sure there is no
abuse. He was certain the old guy was faking. It is common...almost everyone ever pulled from their home has a bottle of pills for some life threatening illness that they must be released to go get. At any rate, this old guy went through the process, and after a few days the Iraqis
determined that he had no information of value and we escorted him back to his neighborhood. Weeks later, COL B and I conducted a foot patrol through the neighborhood talking to residents. When we get to the bottom of one alleyway, we hear a ruckus and the Egyptian breaks through
the crowd and greats both COL B and I like we are long lost friends. My medic was with us, and got a warm hug and a thanks for the placebos he had been given for his seizures. (I am sure the motrin helped him feel better, but had little effect on his seizures) He invited us down to his market stall and insisted that we eat fruit with him. I am pretty confidant that he trusts COL B and I. He knows he was treated fairly, and so do the folks in his little community.
We went into a school around the corner. An elementary school for boys. We sit with the school master, a male, and three female teachers. They are actually excited to talk with us, and
contrary to many of the myths, the females engage us openly. They are happy to be back to work after months of being too terrified to open the schools. I ask how many of the kids are actually back at school. They tell me that about half are back, the remaining parents are waiting to see if the next month is as good as the last. I ask why they feel safer now...why they think the violence is down? The response is that they have Iraqi units permanently assigned to the checkpoints in the
neighborhoods, and they see Americans working with them.
We negotiated a busy traffic circle the other day. An Iraqi motorcycle cop was in hot pursuit of a guy on a moped and they both careened into the traffic circle to my right rear. A car saw us and stopped abruptly. The moped slipped past, the motorcycle clipped the car sending the patrolman flying off the bike. All I saw was a while helmet fly past my window! That was strange enough I ordered a halt. My trail vehicle saw what happened, so we helped clear the scene and my
Doc and terps went to work. It didn't take long for the Iraqi ambulance to arrive on the scene, but the common response from the Iraqi police that arrived to help their comrade was "thanks, we are glad you got to see him first".
Today we drove through a busy market. As I admired a narrow alley overflowing with fruit stands, and wishing I had my camera to capture the colors, I watched a guy collapse for no reason. We stop. Doc goes to work and quickly assesses that he has passed out due to dehydration. An old man helps keep the crowd away from us and as we leave, he tells us that he is glad that we stopped when we didn't have to. He wishes us safe travels, and is glad we are finally back in the
area to help. No pollster had to coerce that response from him. He could have easily stayed in the crowd and said nothing.
About an hour before that we were stopped by a group that wanted to tell us something. It was in an area we have visited often (near the Egyptian). The kids all recognize us...candy has that effect. They know several of us by name and ask for us to stop. We find a safe spot and pull over. The kids bring over a few young adults who are asking about their brother. They are concerned because a national police unit came and took him yesterday, obviously because he was a
Sunni, and most police are Shia. I start asking questions. What did the vehicle look like? How many trucks in the patrol? What did the uniforms look likes? What time of day? The answers all match my
suspicions. I tell them "the only guy the national police arrested yesterday in this neighborhood was selling fuel."
"Yes, that's him!' They cried.
"Oh really, and he was selling fuel on the side of the road"
"yes, that is what he does."
"You know that the prime minister has made selling black market fuel illegal?"
"Well, yes"
"Did you know that the commander that arrested him is Sunni?
"No"
"So is it possible that they arrested him because he was breaking the law and not because he is Sunni?
...Pause...the adults that have gather all glance at each other.
Grudgingly "yes. But Is he OK?"
"Yes, we saw him this morning. We check the detainees every day."
"Good, we understand that he was caught doing illegal things, we just don't want him killed. If you are checking then we know they won't kill him. We trust the Americans, but not the police."
"You know that I don't get to go home till you start trusting them more than you trust me?
They laugh.
"I am really looking forward to going home!"
One of the first people the national police detained when we got here was a really odd Taliban looking guy. The full out of control beard and traditional Arab dress. That is actually very unusual in Baghdad. He had been casing one of the checkpoints and the police noticed his suspicious behavior and detained him. He was so nasty and dirty he had fungus growing on him. When he was brought back in for questioning, we were just arriving at the headquarters. They had him kneeling on the ground in the intelligence officer's office asking him some questions. They had told us before we went in that they were pretty sure he was Al Qaeda and had had some brainwashing. He was blindfolded, so didn't see the Americans enter the room. We listened to the questioning. After
several minutes one of my guys asked a question. The sound of an American voice hit him like a brick. He collapsed to the floor and began reciting the Koran over and over....refusing to come out of the trance. He trusted Americans too...he knew his chance of Martyrdom was over.
Trust is won one person at a time. It requires looking them in the eye and convincing them that you are just like them. It requires courage. It requires a commitment to stay the course. It requires consistent ethical behavior. Over time acquaintances become neighbors, neighbors to become friends, and friends to become brothers. Candy may win the kids, but consistency wins the adults. Too bad there is no magic pill to cure the attention deficit disorder of nation. Ours could use one.
Hope this finds you and yours well,
Matt
Thanks, Carl, for again sharing with us news from the war. It is great to hear what is really happening over there.
This is more like what I think it is like over in Iraq instead of all the one sided stories we get from the news coverage and goverment. Thanks for sharing the letter
Those are the same kind of things that my son was telling me both when he was in Afghanistan in '04 and in Iraq in '05 and I fully expect that I will hear those same things when he goes back to Iraq this summer. I just wish that the news media would be a little more honest in their coverage and report more of what is really happening. Maybe then the democrats would not have felt so compelled to push that deadline through congress yesterday which makes me more afraid for my son and our other service members over there.
Me, too. One thing that I am grateful to God for is our strong President. I know some people don't like him, but he is strong and he will stand behind what he says. He says he will veto any bill that gives a deadline to bring our troops home. I want the troops home as much as anyone, but why do the Democrats want to put those innocent citizens at anymore risk than they already are. I don't know the answer. I wish I did.
Update #9
Thursday, March 29, 2007 1:48:51 PM
The noise of the engine rumbles steadily as we creep along. In spite of the decibels constantly bombarding the senses, the night seems quiet. The headset helps muffle some of the noise. I suppose the near total darkness tricks ears and brain into assuming it is quiet. We have been patrolling for several hours, rolling at a slow and deliberate pace through each of the varied neighborhoods in our sector. It is small relative to other sectors, but has more diversity than most. From the richest to poorest, oldest to newest, the area provides a wide range of possibilities and pitfalls.
Our patrol started in the wealthy neighborhoods. Large homes even by our standards are lit by the occasional street light and a fluorescent business sign here or there. The trash is mostly policed, the sewage is under control. In many of the upstairs rooms you can see the obvious flicker of a TV set piping in some unknown show from a rooftop satellite. Curfew has been in effect for several hours and nothing moves in the streets, not even the expected pack of dogs or stray cat. There is not enough trash to support them here, not when there is much better scrounging to be had elsewhere.
We drive to elsewhere. A cluster of high rise apartment complexes house an untold number of residents. Close to the green zone, this area has had continuous occupants, and infrequent violence. It too is largely lit. Powered more often than not by generators tied to apartment buildings rather than the city power grid, life is reasonably normal here day and night. But nothing moves outside.
Back north to Haifa Street, to the movie studio lot I mentioned previously. New shows are being produced there during the day. Medical dramas replace war flicks. Last week our partnered US unit did a medical assistance visit, setting up a temporary clinic in a school in the heart of the previously abandoned area. Residents have slowly begun trickling back to the apartments. Word spread quickly and the sick and needy came for care. The children swarmed about in packs. COL B made a statement for the cameras. I stood in the school yard, surrounded by high rises. The face of this once thriving area is pockmarked by bullet and shell. The walls above the windows are stained by smoke and flame long since extinguished. Like the eyes of a crying woman, mascara running uncontrollably. Two months ago no one dared live above the bottom few floors. Everyone we talked to told stories of gunman roving the upper stories at night randomly killing anyone who ventured out. Today I watched a young woman on the eighth floor lower a rope to the ground and drag her belongings up to the balcony. I looked around, and found two other families doing the same in adjacent buildings. Apparently the elevators are all broken.
The activity we saw during the day last week is not at all apparent this night. Security forces patrol the streets. As do the dogs. There is much better rubish here. By and large there is no power. But the occasional window betrays a flicker. Small generators bring hope to rooms that are heavily curtained to avoid waste, or drawing attention. We continue on to the very poorest and oldest area, in the shadows of the modern apartments.
The streets begin to narrow and twist. The houses grow increasingly smaller. We know they are packed with dozens in each tiny space. The streets here are flooded with children during the day. I joke with COL B that he has yet to take me to see the children factory that produces all these kids. He jokes that the children factory will go out of business if we can get the lights fixed and give the employees something else to do. Electricity, the single most frustrating problem we face. We make a turn at the bottom of the street and pass our problem.
An electrical substation huddles in the shadows. A dark lifeless corpse mounted on the side of the wall to the cemetery, another unlikely victim of the war. About six months ago the oil cooling tank on the sub-station was hit in the crossfire of some sectarian shootout. The oil bled out within minutes, leaving a sickly pool that still marks the death. Without oil, the substation overheated and blew in a shower of sparks. The neighborhood has been plunged into an era of darkness ever since. The corpse lay decomposing on the cemetery wall largely unnoticed. Now, six months later, we have the forces to do something about it, but progress is painfully slow in the eyes of the locals.
The houses here are pitch black, and have been for almost six hours since the sun went down. The streets are lit by a crescent moon, but the moon can't penetrate the warren of slums where windows are rare. It will be another several hours before the sun entices the populace back out into the street. I can't help but wonder what they tell there children in the darkest hours. How do they give comfort when the nightmares come? How do they help the little ones overcome the fear? How do they overcome it themselves? What do they think when the sounds of our vehicles pass? Are we guardian angles? Are we death squads sent by a militia to kill them? Are we going to raid their home and snatch a loved one away? In another place and another time I would expect to see lambs blood lining the doorposts and lintels, biding the angle of death to pass over the house just one more night.
We drive on. Death will not visit tonight, or at least not that we observe. At the turn of the year this area was reporting thirty murders a day. Daylight would find corpses arrayed on either side of the road marking the boundary between Sunni and Shia neighborhoods. Bodies deliberately drug from the scene of the crime and purposefully staged, each side striving to instill fear in the hearts and minds of the other. January saw over six hundred slaughtered. We are down now to a handful a week. Breaking the cycle of violence has been easier than we expected. But how do you wipe that experience from the minds of the locals? How do they learn to forgive and forget? That fear has to be replaced with something. We hope we can start with light, resurrecting the metallic corpse tacked on the cemetery wall.
Several days later we patrol by day. We stop at the soviet style statue down by the bridge. We have been back here several times since that first nervous press conference. Tradition lets soldiers who are reenlisting pick where they want to have it done. My Doc just signed on for another six years. Great news for our Army. He decided he wanted to reenlist at that statue. I bring COL B down there with us to take part in the ceremony. Partly to educate him on how our process works, but also so he could hear the words to the oath our soldiers take. He understands them, and lives by very similar ideals. I want him to see that we work to instill those values in every solder. He is pleased to participate; he knows it is important to DOC. We bring an American flag, but don't unfurl it. DOC hold it as he reaffirms his oath and we pose for photos. The Shurta are curious. We take the opportunity to walk the street.
We no longer shuffle through piles of trash. It is not clean by our standards, but sparkles in comparison. Much like visiting New York City before and after Rudy Giuliani's tenure as Mayor, the difference is striking. We visit a newly opened café on the corner. The owner proudly proclaims that it is the oldest café in the district, which would make it one of the oldest in Baghdad. The expansive room looks larger than it really is, due to an abnormally high ceiling and large columns that line the two open walls that face the corner of the street. The inside is painted what was once a warm mustard, but is now stained by smoke. At the back of the room is an open fireplace lined with white porcelain tiles. Old men drink chai and play dominoes at low tables. They grin toothless grins and exchange warm greetings as we enter. I could make a fortune turning this place into a Mexican cantina. Note to self. Find mustard color paint.
On the way back home the radio crackles. My terp translates quickly. COL B has stopped the convoy, but we are not getting out. That is a bit unusual. Not the stopping part, he is always stopping to make a correction on one of his security forces, or to talk to locals, or to investigate something that looks out of place. So it is very odd that he would stop but not dismount. Instead, one of his guys jumps out and darts into a local bakery. He comes out a few minutes later with box in hand. The radio crackles again "ok, we can go." We do. We eat a late lunch. Sometimes it's just COL B and I. Sometimes the whole team eats. Often it's a mix. Today, it is just COL B and my two majors. We eat back in his private room, not out in his office. We had not done that before. The conversation is light. The chai guys keep us well cared for.
COL B loves deserts. He has been telling me about one of his favorites which has an Arabic name I can't remember that translates into "from the sky". I have no idea what "from the sky" is made of, and neither do they. The bakers keep it a guarded secret apparently. Served on a tray of flour, "from the sky" comes in small Oreo size globs. Sticky on the inside, the flour makes it possible to hold. It is not dough, nor is it taffy. Somehow it is both, and contains a nut similar to a pistachio in it. I love it, partly because I can not figure out what it is. It is kind of like what you get when you knead a marshmallow for a few minutes, but not that sweet.
When we have eaten all we can eat, COL B goes to his refrigerator and pulls out a bakery box, the one picked up earlier on the patrol. He grins broadly. "I have just a little thing for your birthday." A cake from Haifa Street, that is hardly a little thing, I am delighted. "Take it with you so your team can celebrate." We save it for the next day. My mother has taken to celebrating birthday weeks in recent years. I think it's a shame she didn't have this epiphany when I was nine. But thirty-nine will do.
So tonight we sat out behind one of Saddam's old palaces. In the gardens, under the palm trees are a variety of tea shops and small restaurants catering to the soldiers. We drink chai and eat cake. My team has been together for six months now. We laugh about those first few months of training, and plot the first few months of our return. COL B's gift takes us away, at least for a few hours, from a city still desperately in need of our efforts, tentatively embracing a few early rays of light.
Hope this finds you and yours doing well. We are.
Whoever this soldier is, he needs to be a writer. He paints a picture in words that allows your mind to see what he is seeing. To feel what he is feeling. Thank you again, Carl, for sharing. I love it. I sit and read and can almosts escape Howard, Kansas, and sit in Iraq with this man.
Ditto to what Janet just said. I love hearing about the more positive side. Of course, this wouldn't make good news so the reporters avoid telling us about it.
I want to share a YouTube video made by Bob Parks, Black & Right. It is very good and I hope that you are able to make it play. He's talk is about the liberals wanting to give Iraq a timetable to get our troops out of Iraq.
http://www.youtube.com/v/m9Yc3wYJOtI
You may have to copy and paste this address into your address window to get it to come up.
Bob Parks is a member/writer for the National Advisory Council of Project 21, and
VP of Marketing and Media Relations/Staff Writer for the New Media Alliance, Inc.
Enjoy.
Thank you very much Carl. These are wonderful .
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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."
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
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
**taking a long slow breath**...
WOW.
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.
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).
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
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.
And the story ends there??? Oh my gosh. What happened? What happened?
Me too! Don't stop now.
I hope LT Green finds time to give the follow up to this letter in the near future. I do think from his letters things maybe getting a little better over there.
Update # 19
Needless to say I was a bit stunned by the news. I imagine I felt much like Commissioner Gordon must feel when the Joker dropped into his office in a cloud of laughing gas surrounded by hooligans. "Holy sectarian motivated hatchet jobs Batman!"
LTC Abud, the Iraqi commander of all Iraqi Security Forces in Baghdad is rather large for an Iraqi, and his normally humorous eyes, set deep in a walrus-like face, looked anything but happy. He, BG Bahaa, the National Police commander and I went into his office to talk alone, chai being the only interruption. In quiet tones, the specifics became clear.
I wrote previously about one of the very earliest operations we did when taking over our current area of responsibility. We had rounded up a bunch of Sunni detainees and ended up releasing ten for lack of evidence. Those released included "the Egyptian" I described way back in Update #8. (Sadly I have not seen him in several months. Hard to say what his fate might be.) This was also the incident I wrote about several months later in Update #11 that had COL Bahaa interrogated by the intelligence section of the prime ministers office. When brigadier general informed then COL Bahaa, that the investigation would be "placed in a bottom drawer in case it was needed later," he wasn't kidding. The ridiculous charges that BG Bahaa had taken bribes to let Sunni detainees free, was surfacing in a politically motivated attack by one of the prime ministers underlings to discredit one of the ISFs fastest rising Sunnis. Apparently the fact that BG Bahha and his younger brother COL Alla, who recently took command of the 6th NP brigade was getting too much power, was too much for various Shia factions to stomach.
LTG Abud, did what he could to calm Bahaa's fears, while getting all the facts. While he had Bahaa write down a sworn statement, I gave him my take on the events and all the reasons why I and the coalition forces had not only underwritten but actively encouraged the release of those detainees. A total lack of evidence being chief among them. The fact that it almost certainly began the process of building some level of trust between that Sunni neighborhood and the largely Shia National Police, was another goal, but went unstated in this context. A little after midnight, we took our leave, with the assurance from both commanders that no action would be taken until they had had a chance to speak with the prime minister personally.
Unlike the good Commissioner Gordon, I don't have a button under my desk triggering the Bat Signal to light up a cloudy night sky. But I do have email, and given that the night was crystal clear, it would probably be more effective anyway. Needless to say this particular bit of injustice traveled around Baghdad fast. Maybe not as fast as the 15 month extension news of the spring, but damn close. The Coalition began making their case, while LTG Abud waited for an audience. Bahaa and I continued about our business. Another meeting with Dr Chalabi on Haifa, a command and staff meeting, a late night patrol...the details of all, a bit fuzzy as two nervous days passed with no news.
Patrolling helps Bahaa relieve stress, so we did just that. We had word that the meeting with Abud and the Prime minister was in progress, and the suspense was palatable. We headed over to the neighborhood that was at the heart of the controversy. I made an attempt to give out a box of Rice Krispie treats, but the youngsters refused to get into a line and not push each other. So I put them back in my truck and headed into the alley to catch up with BG Bahaa. The kids were not pleased. The young man I had enlisted a few weeks back in the bag of trash for a soccer ball project gave me a particularly malevolent glare. I caught up with the boss in conversation with several of the older men, who were concerned that the new electrical wires that had just been installed might get knocked over if one particularly dilapidated old structure fell over. After almost a year without power, they were not willing to take any chances now that hope was almost in sight. Several minutes later, the foreman of the electrical team that was working this part of the project appeared. He eagerly explained to us the progress they had made. They had all of one type of wire installed, and were now just waiting on a supply of the second gage to finish the work. He was on track for a load test in two weeks, and if all went well, his neighborhood would be one of the first to get reconnected to the power grid. He proudly explained that his entire team lived in the neighborhood, and that they were in a race with the muhalla to their south to see who could get done first. Given that these two neighborhoods have historically fought with rifles and hand grenades, I took it as a good sign.
On the way out of the alley, I ran into some old friends unexpectedly. Somehow, in all my previous updates I have failed to mention that my old battalion, 1-14CAV "Warhorse" had joined the Blackjack Brigade back in May and was working along side my National Police unit in the Haifa Street area. This was the unit I fought with back in Mosul in 2004, and which I had left reluctantly back a year ago when I was assigned to the transition team mission. Needless to say, it has been hugely comforting to work along side so many old friends and to watch appreciatively as their professionalism continues to ease my work with the National Police. We took a second to snap a photo of LTC Jeff Petterson, myself, and BG Bahaa at the spot which I increasingly see as the benchmark for progress in our district.
An hour later the moon was up, and we headed north on the main four lane highway in our district, well past curfew, our convoy came to a complete stop. We were near one of the gas stations, so I figured Bahaa had spotted something odd. I dismounted and moved forward to greet my brightly smiling friend. "LTC Green, I have good news! LTG Abud just called, he talked to the Prime Minister and they dropped the charges. Bear Hugs are hard in full body armor, but the attempt was creditable. He grabbed my hand as we started walking and he rattled off his thoughts in the rapid speech I have grown accustomed to when his mind races. He normally spares me the hand holding, he knows it makes Americans uncomfortable. I give him some leeway when he is really happy about something. The team can't bust my balls about it too much anymore. I have seen at least a few of them trapped into a bit of hand holding embarrassment with one of their counterparts. One of these days I am going to jog by the general after a successful mission, slap him on the ass and yell "good game!" just to see what his reaction is.
The next day we celebrated by going to the zoo. Well, sort of. What we were really doing was going to provide a bit of extra security and mingle at the job fair being conducted in one of the parks in the zoo complex. For several months now the brigade's civil affairs folks have been working with the local district government to establish a chamber of commerce and to tackle the unemployment problem. No easy task, the chamber of commerce was a difficult task to get them to buy into. We originally had the fair scheduled almost a month ago, but curfews imposed in the aftermath of the second Golden Mosque bombing in Samara had forced us to postpone it the day before. At any rate, twenty four local companies, and four international companies had all agreed to set up booths and take applications. An entry survey would help the chamber see what kind of skill sets and demographics were represented amongst the areas unemployed.
We showed up at the main gate of the zoo about half an hour before the event was supposed to start. The crowd was forming fast, and was all being kept in the parking lot waiting for opening time. The actual fair site was about five hundred meters away and out of sight. The relatively calm nature of the crowd, probably lulled us into a false sense of security as the Shurta began to take up positions next to the private security forces belonging to the zoo. About five hundred males crowded behind jersey barriers to the left, and about fifty young women lined up orderly to the right. It is customary to form two lines. As the published start time approached, we prepared to search individuals before they entered, suicide vests being the worry of the day.
As the clock ticked forward to 0930, an evil spirit descended upon the male crowd and the relatively orderly group, panicked. While the females proceeded orderly through the line and had their bags checked, the men all surged forward pinning the mass against the concrete and crushing people as they tried to squeeze through the openings to get searched. They immediately began to spill over the barriers. General Bahaa's men moved forward and began shouting. The mob had no ears. The General surged forward arms spread, and pushed the tide back over the wall. His men followed, fortunately all keeping their weapons lowered and under control. A momentary pause gave us time to think. I stepped forward next to one of the entry ways. CPT L at one flank and one of my terps at the other. MAJ B and Doc took the other entrance. In the time it took to regain some order, the 50 women were all through. We finally started getting the men through. Each convinced that if he was not first, then there would be no job. There was not way to convince them that the companies were just taking applications today.
In relatively short time, the first group of five hundred was in, and the steady slow flow of additional applicants was easily in the capability of a few guards. We estimate about 1500 over the course of the day. We started moving down to the fair site. As we crested the hill and approached a high arched bridge over the manmade lake, we saw our next challenge. The leaders of the pack had all arrived at the reception tents of the fair and were filling out applications. The fastest were already done and in line to the lakeside pavilion that had previously been an upscale restaurant. It now housed the prospective employers. It was obvious to the organizers that they already had more folks than they had anticipated and someone had decided that they would block off the bridge and regulate the number of folks actually in the tent area at a time. The zoo security guards were desperately trying to stem the flow as we arrived. The only other Americans were all down too far away to help.
As we stepped up onto the bridge from behind the crowd, things got ugly. The crowd started heckling the guards prompting one to plant the butt of his AK-47 squarely into a young agitators face. As I strode forward, the crowd surged on him. In the press, the guards rifle discharged, and the tight mass of bodies flew apart with a handful of men all clutching various body parts. Unharmed myself, it took seconds to scan the scene and determine that there was no blood. The bullet had mercifully fired straight down into the concrete and while several had been struck with flying cement fragments, fear was the worst of the damage for all but the young man with a bleeding but unbroken nose.
Bahaa barked a command, and his shurta surged forward seizing the five zoo security guards and confiscating the weapons. The crowd, momentarily stunned by the noise and violence was temporarily relieved of its unemployment educed panic. The guards were separated from their weapons, which were cleared to prevent further accident. Placing the guards in flex cuffs drew a cheer from the crowd. There are very few forms of life lower in many Iraqis eyes than the national police, and the private security guards are one of them. A bit of a shouting match between Bahaa and the head of zoo security followed, much to the delight of the crowd. My team mates walked the leading edge of the crowd silencing the hecklers. We called our trucks forward to give us some more deterrence, and for the next hour or so were relatively successfull at keeping the crowd calm and metering traffic into the event.
Bahaa and I went down to speak with the organizers leaving MAJ B and crew up at the bridge. It's good to be king. Things inside were going well. The district area council members and chamber of commerce representatives were delighted, and the employers all steadily went about their business. The citizens, having filled out an application and no longer suffering from panic were all smiles. Everything was on the up and up. Until we went back outside.
Back by the tents, the organizer in charge of handing out the applications had reached the final stack of them in his box. The crowd having realized that there were more of them than visible applications panicked for a third time. The organizer, who had a well developed fight or flight instinct, chose the later and made a straight line for the first American he saw. He handed the stack of papers to MAJ K, my teams Military Policeman, and luckily the only one of us with any formal riot control training. As I stepped out of the pavilion, MAJ K clutched applications in one hand and pistol in the other, shouting at the top of his lungs while he moved back toward the trucks. Doc and SFC B raced towards him from that side, while MAJ W, CPT L, Bahaa and I moved in from ours. Forcing people to sit down had proven to be the only useful technique of the day and within a few minutes we had everyone back on the ground long enough to get another case of applications.
When the box finally arrived, they all began to arise at once and lurch forward. Weapons raised we got them to subside. At one point I yelled something to the effect of "are you all a herd of animals, or people!" Before my terp could repeat it, one twenty something young man looked at me, raised an eyebrow and in tentative questioning English voice replied "were people?" I broke out laughing. I turned to Bahaa who was now personally handling the applications, grabbed one and handed it to the young man. "People indeed, good luck with a job. Somehow we were able to get an application into everyone else's hands without further incident. The organizers fed us lunch.
As we were wrapping things up, a young man on a bike sped over the bridge, and apparently took the turn too tight and did a header into the asphalt. He approached us, bleeding from a pretty severe gash in his head. Doc, went to work gleefully. He loves stitching people up, and quickly had a great big needle of anesthetic loaded causing a significantly unhappy look on the victims face and jeers from all his buddies who found the show hugely amusing. Most of them calmed down when DOC brought out the stitching needle, morbidly fascinated as the stitches went in.
Meanwhile, one of my new terps was playing at a different kind of doctor. Sam, is our newest addition. In his mid 20s, Sam is an Iraqi Christian. With a large build, light hair, and light complexion, we tease him that he really must be Canadian. Almost inevitably, when he is wearing American ACUs, the locals fail to recognize he is a terp until he opens his mouth. One of the booths inside the fair belonged to the international company that manages all our interpreters. The booth was run that day by two young, and probably deliberately picked for their attractiveness, Iraqi ladies. Sam had his eyes on one and quickly found out that neither of them had a ride back into the green zone. As it happened, we had two spare seats in the HMMWVs and we were headed back that way. Bahaa, overhearing the conversation, sealed the deal and before I knew it my terp population had temporarily doubled. Sam got a phone number. The teamed spared him the embarrassment of a standing ovation. Probably only because we didn't think of it in time.
Apparently Bahaa is right, the Baghdad Zoo is for lovers!
UPDATE # 20
July 20, 2007
"Six, this is five, ya see the smoke?"
"Roger, looks like it's in our sector"
"Check it out?"
"Please"
We turned right, back into the heat instead of left and back home. An afternoon meeting and lunch with a panel of retired four star generals making their rounds at the beck and call of some congressional or presidential commission had gone exceptionally well. Nothing else was on the schedule and the previous few days had been hectic, so we were going to pack it in early. But a tall pillar of black smoke was a pretty clear indication that the plan was changing.
We had not heard the explosion earlier. Acoustics in the city continue to baffle me, some of the largest booms go completely unmissed, yet a distant boom will roll me out of bed over the sound of both air conditioning and headphones. Without having heard it, the visual signs brought the event together pretty quickly. A car bomb had detonated just off the side of a main road, and had ignited four of five cars adjacent to it. The cluster still burned intensely, while a crowd of Iraqi Police looked on. National Police Shurta, from one of our subordinate battalions, scurried around trying to restore some order. Several hundred meters down the road it looked like one of their truck had been shredded. We pulled up as close as seemed prudent and dismounted.
Sam and I wadded into a crowd of locals and IPs asking questions. As the story started taking shape, an American platoon arrived to help secure the area, followed shortly by Iraqi fire trucks. The well practiced crew doused the raging fuel fires in white foam, leaving the charred automotive remains in a drenched cluster. The car bomb had detonated as a national police convoy had passed by, on its way to deliver dinner to one of the checkpoints. The fire had been raging for somewhere between twenty to ninety minutes depending on who you asked. Iraqis are hopeless at telling time, so I suspect it was closer to twenty as my team was the first on the scene, and the road is heavily trafficked by military convoys.
Determining the casualty count was equally frustrating. The wounded had all already been thrown into the back of national police trucks along with the dead. The whole lot taken hastily to a nearby hospital. As the numbers sorted out, it looked like one national policeman killed with nine others wounded. The residents suffered as well, with another Iraqi national killed and four of them wounded. As the cars became safe to approach, we were relieved to find that no one had burned to death inside. A small mercy. While my dismount team asked questions, the vehicle crews passed the appropriate reports, and got in touch with Bahaa, he would be out shortly.
Bahaa was not going to be happy. The side road was blocked to through traffic by a chain and bollard fence. That allows the neighbor hood to limit entry to a few checkpoints, and by and large provides an increased sense of security to the residents. But it has the unfortunate side effect of creating a small parking area. This area, along with a variety of others in the neighborhoods busy market districts have long been a concern as they provide a tempting target for car bombs. The General has been working diligently with the neighborhood councils, and police to prevent residents from parking in these most dangerous areas, but has met with less than satisfactory results. The paradox of improved security is an increasing unwillingness on the part of the population to follow the precautions that allowed things to get better. Today it was clear that the local police forces inability to force the no parking rules had had terrible consequences.
While I mused on Bahaa's likely response, the National Policeman on the scene continued to try and keep curious onlookers away. They were pretty hyped up, having just evacuated so many casualties, but the major in charge was doing a creditable job of keeping order. And then things went to shit.
Across the divided highway from where I watched, and on the other side of the now smoldering cars was a small row of businesses, all with their security fences lowered, thier windows shattered from both concussion and shrapnel. A pair of shurta kept onlookers at bay. One, I would learn later took his rifle and knocked out a piece of broken glass from one of the store fronts. Hard to say why he did it...frustration, anger, ill intent? Regardless, the populace always assumes the worst about the police, and was immediately stirred into motion. Watching from and adjacent courtyard, a Sudanese man emerged, making a bee line to the store. Confronted by the police, he began a shouting match. I have no idea what was said, but the previously efficient major began beating him. Within seconds, others emerged from the courtyard, and the shurta closed into a tight knot. Rifle butts and batons emerged.
"Doc, Koast, on me!" They had been looking the other way, but quickly understood. They and Sam joined me in the sprint across the burning wreckage and into the crowd. In those seconds an old black berka clad women and several more men had joined the fray, with the major now steadily smacking the crow down. We each grabbed a Shurta and flung them from the group, our sudden appearance surprising enough to get all parties to separate and desist. The major didn't need a terp to understand my command for him to get back to his truck. All was quiet for the few seconds it took for everyone to catch their breath. And then the verbal assault on Sam started, as an ever increasing crowd tried to talk at once. I try to never to show anger when talking to the locals, but they were trying my patience. Eventually I pried the victims of the fight from all the extraneous witnesses and started hanging facts on the skeleton story I had observed.
The Sudanese family lived adjacent to a string of money exchanges. The first man from the courtyard was paid by the owner to be the security guard. When he saw the young shurta break the glass, he assumed it was an attempt to use the explosion as an opportunity to loot the money exchange. I have no idea what he said to the major, but given his agitated state, I am certain it was confrontational. Iraqis are outrageously vocal in their disrespect of all civil servants. On the other side, I have little doubt that the Shia Major was more than anxious to beat down a foreign and almost certainly Sunni outsider, who was so blatantly challenging his authority, at the scene of an explosion. The Sudanese man could very well have been the trigger man, given the location of both his house and shop.
While I gathered up what appeared to be the local leaders and lectured them all on the need to work with the police and not deliberately provoke them, Bahaa arrived and waded into the Iraqi security forces with every bit of the fury I had expected. Gathering up both the National Police Major, and the Iraqi Police captain responsible for the area, a load and public tongue lashing ensued on their failure to do their duty and prevent cars from parking in the area. The major, who at this point was not thinking anything through bowed up and argued back. Bahaa skipped his notorious finger waving rebuke and escalated straight to an arrest order, sending the major in disgrace back to the trucks. The captain, with more sense, took his medicine. Having vented his initial frustration, I walked over to him and caught him up on what had happened. The situation was largely under control, all we really had to wait on was EOD to show up and reduce an orphan explosive which had been blown clear and lay in the median. A few cracked 60mm mortar rounds that had not gone off in the main blast.
Within minutes, Mr Jammal, the head of our district's Ammanant (the cities public works organization) arrived. A small, penguin like man, who is always immaculately dressed, he is a constant feature amongst the people of our district. Much like Bahaa, he is always out and about, and is a bit of a media whore, often taking credit for projects initiated by coalition forces. But in spite of that, he is one of the few who legitimately seems to working for the good of the people, and is part of the solution. His team of workers immediately began sweeping the streets and removing the signs of violence. Getting the area quickly back to normal is an important part of the process. While the sweepers cleaned, the Sudaneese family brought out water jugs for Bahaa's policeman. The difference in the manners between those my team works directly with, and others is often night and day. With any luck our actions mitigated the previous abuses to some degree.
The EOD team arrived after almost an hour. A young sergeant declaring that this was "his" incident scene and barking orders. That kind of statement is almost deliberately calculated to piss me off, and wasn't well received by Bahaa either. Our work largely complete, and the threat of half a mortar round, being largely insignificant I decided it was time to go. "Saydee, lets go to the hospital and check on your shurta...they don't need us here." He jumped into my HMMWV. His trucks scrambled to mount up and followed us south.
We pushed our trucks into the crowded entry of the hospital. Sam, Doc and I trailed in Bahaa's wake as we pushed into the emergency room surrounded by a swarm of Bahaa's personal security detachment. It was complete bedlam, and the introduction of another fifteen did nothing to help. National policeman from the unit that was hit crowded the waiting area, while their wounded comrades were being worked on inside. There was no method to the madness, and as we worked our way in, a gurney was working its way out. Bahaa pushed passed to start asking questions, I backed out to keep from being part of the problem.
Inside the emergency room, a tall Iraqi Lieutenant Colonel saw me and frantically pushed through the crowd towards me. In perfect English, he introduced himself as the ministry of defense liaison to the hospital, and that the man that had just wheeled out on gurney was a shurta that had been injured in the car bomb. His femur was crushed, and he was past what the local facilities could do for him. The bleeding was too much. They were loading him up into the ambulance to take him to the best hospital in Baghdad, but that was at least a forty minute ride, and at this time of day probably twice that.
"Doc, Sam, go find out what you need from the doctor. LTC Fahil, we will take him to the CASH in the green zone. Is he in the ambulance now? Tell the drivers to follow the second HMMWV. Bahaa! Mount up, were taking this one!" I vaguely heard the LTC's thanks, but the relief in his eyes was obvious. We burst back out into the afternoon heat. This was turning into a long day. MAJ B was on the ground outside the truck. "Were heading to the CASH! That ambulance is coming with. DOC has the report, get him on the medivac net. Bahaa, come with me, have your guys wait at the bridge." The seven kilometer race began.
The trip didn't take long, but seemed agonizingly slow. Every speed bump fraying the nerves. Entry control points, designed to save lives, now frustratingly delaying attempts to save one. We made contact with the CASH so they were expecting us. The team helped transfer the patient to a small ATV for movement into the emergency room, an American medic taking over from the Iraqi ambulance crew. Bahaa, Doc and I shed our gear, and were escorted inside while the team parked the vehicles nearby. Our walk was largely silent. A few quick questions as we went inside linked us up with the right set of staff. We found seats in the corner. I consumed a bottle of water in seconds. Bahaa declined and paced, as anxious as I have ever seen him. At the reception counter the staff chatted quietly and joked and talked happily about whatever kept them going from day to day, while the young shurta lay inside. I clenched my fist, knowing that they saw this every day, it was part of their world. I had no right to judge.
Minutes later, a tall doctor emerged; tossed blood stained gloves into a waste can and approached me. He determined I was who he was looking for. "The patient arrived with no pulse. We conducted a scan to determine if there was any brain activity to attempt resuscitation. He was dead before he got here." He turned, and walked away. That was it. Nothing else. Just one more dead Iraqi. I should have punched that ****er.
Doc coordinated getting the shurtas remains back out to the ambulance so we could take him home. Bahaa and I walked slowly out to the trucks. Soldiers know when not to talk, and when questions with one word answers are the best defense against public tears.
"Saydee, do you know his name?"
"Not yet..."
The team waited in the shade of the large trees that make the green zone green. My crews mingled with the civilian ambulance drivers and the cousin of the young man that had until a few minutes before been struggling for life. Our premature return announced the unhappy outcome without need for the confirmation we eventually voiced. Failure is an emotion that mixes poorly with grief.
Later that night, at various times, and each in their own way, all three of the interpreters that were there that day found me. The conversations were all eerily familiar.
"Sir, I wanted to thank you for taking that Iraqi to the CASH."
"Of course, why wouldn't I have?
"Well, he is Iraqi, you didn't have to do that."
"He was human, of course we did."
Quote"Sir, I wanted to thank you for taking that Iraqi to the CASH."
"Of course, why wouldn't I have?
"Well, he is Iraqi, you didn't have to do that."
"He was human, of course we did."
:police: :angel: :police: :angel: Amen!
UPDATE # 21
31 July 07
Bullets snapped through the trees overhead. We quickened our pace. The staccato of gunfire had steadily increased for several minutes and showed no signs of abating any time soon. We ducked into the safety of the palace, rather than continue the trek back to our hooch's, PT gear being no great defense against gunfire. We had timed this one badly, forgetting completely as we emerged from the mess hall that the Asian Cup would end at almost exactly six-thirty, barring any tie.
I had witnesses the full fury of celebratory gunfire during the Olympics in 2004, the night sky awash with the light of tracers and flares. No such visual pleasure this year, just the auditory certainty that what goes up must come down. It is a somewhat disturbing state of affairs that in the six months we have been here, not a single American has been wounded by hostile fire in our area of operations. Yet each of the two final soccer matches produced a casualty due to lead rain. Last week one of the Lieutenants working in the brigade was hit in the head by a falling round. Fortunately it just grazed him. SFC S saw him in the laundry the other afternoon, apparently getting ready to go on leave. The bullet remains in his scalp, waiting for removal back in the states. I doubt he will ever shed the obvious nickname, Bullethead, with which he was greeted by the troops. Minutes after I left the chow hall, a bullet penetrated the ceiling and struck a young female soldier in the shoulder. A surreal event described by the team members still sitting near by. She too will be fine, but probably without a cool new moniker.
Injuries and deaths occurred all across the country in the bizarre expression of national patriotism and joy. Our terp Frank's brother was wounded in the leg. In his case, the perpetrators may have actually been using the confusion to deliberately shoot people. One of the two gunman involved in that incident was shot by an American sniper. But all of the individual pain and suffering aside, the Iraqis are universally ecstatic over the win, and in the early hours of victory, attribute to it a great healing quality. We shall see.
I for one fail to see soccer's allure. The following day, every channel showed the clip of the only goal scored...over and over and over again. While I generally shared the pride our Iraqis felt in their team, I couldn't help but give BG Bahaa and his staff officers a hard time. They really need to find a sport than can generate more than five seconds of highlights and thirty minutes of celebratory gunfire.
Sports seem to be increasingly on the Iraqis minds. This weekend saw the first annual Karkh District swim meet. Planned entirely by the District Advisory Council, Iraqi security forces were asked to provide additional security for the event and to attend the awards ceremony. I had to witness this! I find it hugely ironic that after six months of making the district safe enough for the council to sponsor community events, they would use their new found freedom to deliberately jump into the Tigress River for a swimming race. In the words of one skeptical trooper, "the real race is which contestant will die of disease first".
We were all running late on the day of the event. Blackjack Six (the U.S. Brigade commander), Warhorse Six, BG Bahaa, and I linked up on the ground right as the event was supposed to start. Unfortunately the race's planners had given us some bad information about the location and there were no swimmers to be found. While a battery of cell phones was called in to work the problem, one of the young soldiers commented "Just look for the ESPN 8 film crew, they have to be covering this important event!"
We eventually found the correct location, a large floating barge jutting out from the bank several kilometers down stream from where we had been told. We arrived just in time to see the roughly fifty swimmers slipping out of the water and into the festive atmosphere of one of the rivers "casinos". The tent covering the volleyball court sized barge provided a welcome relief from the blistering sun. We pushed our way past the cheerful crowd on the bank and into the awards ceremony. Local government officials and civic leaders sat on the couches in the front row, with a throng of onlookers and competitors crowding in behind. Bahaa and Black Jack Six are both local celebrities and were warmly welcomed, giving speeches and eventually awarding prizes.
When the contestants all started moving up towards the awards stand, the barge started listing noticeably. There was no apparent danger, until one exceptionally large council representative, affectionately referred to as Pac Man due to his perfectly round physic, began moving towards the front. I took the opportunity to reposition back by the gang plank. I have seen enough redneck home videos to know how this one played out. My team still reminds me consistently of the folly of my Tigris river boat cruise several months back, and I wasn't about to give them further ammunition.
The ceremony complete, the delegates began withdrawing from the tent. I had met most previously, but one in particular caught my eye. A very young religious Imam, immaculately clad in rich traditional garb and flanked by a half dozen very attentive aides and a pair of policeman. My terp whispered the Imam's in my ear, saying that he was one of the famous religious leaders of the neighborhood. He couldn't have been more than eighteen years old, but in a culture that passes religious leadership down by the generation, he was held in significant reverence. I had to shake my head. At age eighteen, the only religious experience I can recall was sneaking a peek of Miss November at the news stand. I can't possibly imagine what this young man had to offer anyone in terms of religious insight. Maybe that's part of the problem.
Back safely on land, we took the opportunity to walk a stretch of Haifa Street. It was now early evening and the hundred and twenty degree heat was easing up as the sun's direct rays fell behind the high rise apartments. We strolled past newly painted kiosks, repaired curbs, and through renovated playgrounds. We stopped in a local pool hall, and chatted up the locals. What was an empty lifeless urban canyon back in February is now once again a vibrant community. It is by no means complete. It still requires military check points. Many of the apartments are still empty and in need of renovation. Power is still intermittent, and water not always reliable. There are still nefarious characters looking for opportunity to do harm. But the sense of terror is largely gone. In January, this area averaged six dead bodies a day. It is unusual for us to have six in a month now. It is hard to tell how long it will take for this fragile equilibrium to develop deep enough roots to be sustainable over the long term. The consequences of underestimating would certainly be brutal
I wished our guests were still with us. Earlier in the day the Brigade had hosted William Krystal of The Weekly Standard fame, and the historians Fred and Kim Kagen. BG Bahaa hosted them for lunch the previous day, and early in the afternoon, the US and Iraqi command groups had the opportunity to take them for a mounted tour of the Haifa area complete with a walking tour of the now flourishing Al Alawi Market and one of the Haifa Street apartment complexes. While the atmosphere at the peak of the day's heat was overwhelmingly positive compared to their similar visit back in early May, the evenings are really the best opportunity to take the district's pulse.
I will be anxious to see what gets reported from the visit. I hope that it reflects the sacrifices of both the Iraqi and US forces that have toiled for the last six months, and are justifiably proud of the measurable successes we have achieved. I have historically taken a dim view of the Fourth Estate, but am encouraged to see them arriving in country in increasing numbers to see it all first hand before passing judgment in September. I was encouraged to see an op-ed article in the New York Times the other day entitled "a war we just might win." Given the traditional stance of both the Authors and the publication, it was a refreshingly candid confirmation that someone other than the military is actually paying attention to the impact the surge is having across Iraq.
Hopefully Congress will stop taking political advice from twenty-something interns resulting in the ever effective slumber party and pay attention to what is going on outside the beltway. They should consider taking a harder look at what the world needs, outside of the context of the self-interest generated by the 2008 campaign. Here is an idea. Why don't we bring all those young interns to Baghdad and introduce them to that silly young Imam and his friends. Maybe we can change some Iraqi hearts and American minds. And Mom, for the record...the Miss November thing was a joke.
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UPDATE # 22
10 AUG 07
The rhythm of the rotor blades picked up speed, and the birds weight shifted slightly. Then the magical moment when the connection to mother earth is broken and flight begins. BG Bahaa grinned from ear to ear, a fighter pilot in his youth, he has had only a few opportunities to fly since the Iraqi air force ceased to exist back in 1991. A few years back, when working as an election official out in Anbar, he had ridden in a Chinook, but this would be his first trip in a Black hawk. His son Mustafa sat next to him, it would be his first flight ever. Momentary weightlessness in the surge of takeoff took Mustafa by surprise, two hands clutching his father's leg. Bahaa put a gentle hand over the boys to calm him.
Mustafa, a slight seventeen year old who is apparently an accomplished violinist, but can no longer attend music school, is Bahaa's youngest, and not surprisingly spoiled child. While not officially a shurta, he nevertheless wears a national police uniform, carries a rifle, and patrols regularly as part of his father's personal security detachment. It is not an arrangement that I or my team is particularly fond of, especially the lads tendency to wear his fathers rank and to come and go, participating as he pleases. Bahaa feels he can best protect him by keeping him close, so I largely grin and bear it.
The pair of Blackhawks quickly gained altitude and raced off to the south, and banked hard over the river giving us a birds eye view of Baghdad's primary oil refinery and power plant. Unlike my previous trips over the city, it was early morning and I was not buried under a mound of my own equipment. The view revealed the landmarks of the city all around us. Every detail familiar, garnered from countless hours spent pouring over satellite imagery, maps, and patrolling the streets. We skimmed over rooftops and headed back north, our query finally in sight. Tens of thousands of Shia pilgrims swarming out of the slums of Sadr City and the muhallas of east Baghdad, and funneling onto two of our narrow bridges on the their way the Kadhimiya shrine to the north.
The days march, in memory of the death of the 7th Imam Musa Al-Kadhim had been our concern for several weeks, with the Iraqi military chain of command taking security very seriously. Two years ago, the threat of a suicide vest on one of the bridges had caused a stampede, breaking the guard rails and killing close to a thousand as they tumbled into the Tigris. With all the recent sectarian violence and the politics of the summer on everyone's mind, today's event had the potential for disaster. The Iraqi army and police had done a total recall of all forces from leave, boosting available manpower considerably. A vehicle curfew reduced the significant threat of car bombs. But in the end, several million Shia were going to march right through the heart of historically Sunni areas, and it was anyone's guess what the day would bring.
Our day started early, and by six in the morning we linked up with the general at his headquarters. A quick cup of chai and we were on our way. We had a few hours before we needed to link up with Blackjack Six at the helipad, so we headed along one of two march routes to the southern bridge. At six there had been only a handful of marchers in small knots, by seven, there were large groups organized into "parades" and chanting under various leaders. We fought our way to the bridge, and by seven-thirty, the main four lane arteries of our district were pulsing with a constant stream of marchers. We pulled over at the bridge and dismounted, my team and Bahaas PSD struggling to maintain a protective bubble as we moved against the flow and up onto the bridge. Bahaa's battalions protected both ends of the bridge, and we moved to inspect them.
The morning had dawned blessedly cool for August. The temperatures had been dropping steadily from a high of about 125 degrees a few weeks previous to just over a hundred that morning. The marchers were fresh, most having emerged from the neighborhoods closest to the river. Full of energy, they repeated a single chant over and over, the sight of Americans prompting each passing group to new levels of enthusiasm as if in attempt to convert or provoke us. Doc, SFC B, CPT R, Tony and I, trailed along in Bahaa's wake largely ignoring the challenge. Bahaa set a quick pace as we cut through the sea and a quicker one on the way back as we flowed with the tide. Having tasted what the day had in store for us, we mounted back up and eased out of the crowd on our way to back to the waiting birds. MAJ B and COL Mohammed would take our patrol back out while Bahaa, Mustafa and I went joyriding.
Well, maybe I should say while Bahaa and I went joyriding. For Mustafa, there was little joy. As we banked hard again and raced down Haifa street, with high rise apartments at eye level, Mustafa lost his battle with motion, the contents of a near empty stomach fighting their way up in dry heaves. Blackjack Six fished around in his kit bag, handing our young hero a beef jerky pouch against any further emergency. Much to the amusement of the Americans present, Mustafa spent the rest of the trip staring unhappily into a plastic bag, the smell of teriyaki almost certainly doing nothing to alleviate either his nausea or his embarrassment.
The rest of us focused on the view. By nine in the morning, all three of the major entrances into our sector were flooded. The mob steadily poured out the two main exits to the shrine several miles to our north. Security checkpoints, patrols, and sniper positions, provided a blanket of deterrence, but no iron clad guarantee against misfortune. Pilgrims marched past the zoo or over the bridges, past the train station and the airfield, or up Haifa Street. Local civic organizations dotted the route, with sanctioned tents providing limited food, shade, and refreshment. It was inadequate. There were no latrines anywhere. Some questions are best left unasked.
By ten in the morning we were back in the trucks. Mustafa curled up in the back seat of our trail HMMWV, and passed out. Bahaa mounted back up in his up armored Silvarado and led us into the eye of the storm. Our trucks plowed through the masses, making only marginally better time than the mob around us. Flags waved, marchers sang, young and old, women and children. The bright greens and yellows of Islamic banners contrasting sharply with the black of the women's burkas and the all too frequent black of the Mahdi militiamen, who crowded the ranks. The same chant over and over. "Allah is great, blah, blah, blah...death to our enemies" with fingers pointing to us, or fists beating on chests.
As we pressed north the crowd grew increasingly hostile. Given the time and distances involved, this group would almost certainly be those that had emptied from Sadr City at first light, those most opposed to us. The percentage of young men was significantly higher than at other parts of the day. Emboldened by the mob surrounding them and the heady enthusiasm that ritual chanting evokes in the mindless, they looked for ways to act out defiance. The chants became more frequent and spitting on our trucks a favorite sport. The most defiant employing the ultimate insult, taking off a shoe and throwing it at us. Shoes began collecting on the top of our HMMWVs. At days end we had at least one matching pair, one on my truck, and one on our trail vehicle. I can't help but think we got the last laugh. The shrine was still several miles away, and the asphalt was getting hotter and hotter as the noontime sun found its fury.
Bahaa's shurta were taking their share of abuse as well. I suspect much of it suffered because we were with them, even if the general would never tell me so. Up ahead, sudden movement caught our eye, with a surge of bodies racing towards a center point. A rifle crack! We push forward, the Shurta surging out of open truck beds to push back the crowd which all surged forward to see what had happened. The tide momentarily stemmed, I dismounted, Doc and SFC B flanking. A lowered shoulder or two into an encroaching crowd providing breathing space. Bahaa and his officers waded into the fray, separating the crowd from a pair of visibly distraught young shurta, who he sent back to the trucks. Apparently the verbal abuse had become too much for some of the young men in the lead trucks and a scuffle ensued. Age and wisdom prevailed over youth and passion, as the two sides separated. We mounted back up and headed south. Nothing good could come from provoking the mob further.
We paralleled the railroad, and much to our surprise were passed by a four or five car train pulling south. The Baghdad train station lies unused most days. Open briefly in 2004, the number of attacks made it impossible to sustain its use. Today however the old green cars were pushing north and south, packed to overflowing. The roofs crowded with exuberant young riders, it was a disaster waiting to happen. Safety, I am certain has no direct translation in Arabic. Several hours later we would learn that one was killed in seven more wounded due to electrocution aboard one of the trains. I was not surprised.
Back down south, we made the jump from the western route over to Haifa street. This was our turf. We were playing at our home stadium now, and the crowd was much different. The locals at the side of the road all knew us and the pilgrims coming in over the northern bridge were not as likely to be from the most extreme Shia neighborhoods. The crowds still chanted, but much of the anger was missing. We dismounted and walked another kilometer of the route, this time without incident. We mounted back up and drove back south through one of the adjacent largely Sunni neighborhoods. They quietly went about their business in small coffee shops and pool halls, staying largely out of sight and keeping the kids off the streets.
Back in the traffic circle at the northern bridge, we parked and set up camp. Blackjack Six had joined us on the ground, and we expected Bahaa's Iraqi commanders to join us soon. It was now close to fourteen hundred, and the tide up people still flowed steadily over the bridge from east to west and making its turn north. The first tenuous ebb of visitors started making their way backwards against the masses. It was getting hot. After almost seven hours I climbed in the truck for a break. A hastily snapped photo from SFC C, proof that I succumbed to a short nap.
By fifteen hundred the tide had reversed, with the vast majority of marchers were now on the weary return trip. A handful of national police vehicles, ambulances, and a lone bus made an all but futile attempt at shuttling people south. We watched incredulously as each successive trip managed to pack more and more people into each vehicle. The arrival of each, igniting weary marchers into a frenzy of activity as they raced, trampled, pushed, shoved, and beat each other, oblivious to age or gender, to find some hand and foothold. It was shameless.
An old man dropped to the ground in the intersection, clearly the heat had taken him. The shrurta drug him to the side of the square and into the shade. My docs went to work. I had brought extras with me today. SGT N was back with us, having grudgingly returned to his unit when our own SSG E had returned from leave. CPT R, one of the brigade's physician assistants joined the team for the days event against any unforeseen tragedy. We also had two new terps. Rafid was back, having left us for a job with the ministry of oil in March, he was not making enough to support his pregnant wife. We expect he just missed us too much. Tony had joined us about a week earlier. He has been terping for almost four years now. Both would perform flawlessly and with great compassion over the next several hours. A bag of IV fluids fixed the first grateful old man. According to the old fellow, CPT R's efforts had earned him a "castle in heaven".
Within an hour, we had established a full up casualty collection point, and all three docs were fully engaged. The tide was now in full flow back south, the days heat had peaked, and whatever meager water the events civilian organizers had given out had long since been consumed. The crowd's enthusiasm for chanting had largely faded with their thirst. Exhausted masses trudged south. The women wrapped from head to toe in black, and often far to large and out of shape to be marching any distance bore the brunt of the suns punishment. The crows started falling on our curbside as if plucked from the sky. The docs went to work administering IVs and pain medication while the rest of us secured the area and vetted the crowd for those with the worst symptoms of dehydration. We had brought enough water to do some good, and pulled the worst to the side and distributed what we could. One obese old crow glowed red and by the dryness of her face had stopped sweating. I asked SSG P to get a bottle of water from the cooler and get it to her. He raced off and caught up with her handing her the bottle. She took it gladly, until she turned around and focused long enough to see that it had been given by an American. She gave it back.
Others, in equal peril were far more willing and grateful for assistance. We treated fifteen or so with IVs, and dozens more with liquids. I have very little doubt that at least four of them would not have survived the march home had we not intervened. As my team labored away, Bahaa's men provided security and managed the increasingly hectic flow of transportation. The worst of the heat victims pulled over to the side and eventually moved onto women only busloads, with obnoxious males being forcibly removed to allow patients into the vehicles. The selfishness of the average Iraqi was extraordinary, as was the courage and patience of Bahaa's men. It is far too easy for us to judge the Iraqi security forces, and they are far from our soldiers standards, but they are hard young men who increasingly stand out for their sacrifices and devotion especially when juxtaposed with the rabble of the slums.
Another organized parade passed, and spotted us treating our growing mass of patients. The parade leader fired up the chant "Allah, blah, blah, death to our enemies" fists in our direction. One of the men sitting on our curb resting, joined in the chant. Our terp Tony became irate and laid into him. "I have been riding with these American's all day today. For almost twelve hours, they have listened to Muslims wish death upon them. They have been spit on, they have been degraded, they have had shoes thrown at them, yet here they are, at our parade, treating our sick and giving you water to drink. Do you see a single Shia doctor helping anyone, any Muslims giving out water? And all you can do is chant stupid slogans." Tony vocalized in a few short sentences the heart of the problem, and the truth stunned the man.
Today was a holy day for Islam, one that inspired an expected three to five million people to walk dozens of miles to honor a fallen Imam. For weeks I have been asking my various Iraqi friends to explain the event to me. What is its religious significance? Why is it important? And the answer is wholly unsatisfying. We are marching because he was the 7th Imam. Well, what did he do? None of them can tell me. He didn't appear to achieve any grate purpose, no societal or religious reforms. From what I can tell, the only thing that he appears to have done is father the 8th Imam, and die. Given that it takes no particular skill to have achieved either of those unremarkable tasks, I am left to wonder what the day was about. I had hoped having watched it I might know. Maybe the march would be filled with joyous songs that would bring about a sense of community, charity, or some other praise worthy value. But ultimately, the only consistent attribute I witnessed was selfishness as they fought over limited resources, and anger as the end of every religious utterance called for the death of those that were not them.
Tony may not have specifically recognized it, but what he saw in the Americans is the legacy of our largely Christian heritage; turning the other cheek, the good Samaritan, loving thy enemy as thyself, doing unto others. The values of our nation's historically dominant Christian faiths, express themselves daily in the actions of our soldiers. Those in uniform represent a wide range of faiths and a widely divergent degree of commitment to them. But what is so obvious to me, time and again, is that even those that do not maintain a deep personal faith still demonstrate the best social aspects of it. This war may look like a lot of things from the outside looking in. On the ground, in the filth of the street, in the heat of the day, in the throng of the crowd, it is about good and evil. Allah may be great, but it is often an US Soldier armed with American values and an IV that fends off death.
As always, I hope this finds you and yours doing well.
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Carl,
Thank you so much for sharing these updates with us. I look forward to reading them. LTC Green does a wonderful job writing words that make this war come alive to me.
UPDATE # 23
19 AUG 2007
Some days it is hard to tell if things change around me or if it is me that changes. The night is blessedly cool, the suns brutal rays no longer able to sustain the grueling pace they set in July. Darkness brings welcome relief, and soldiers start emerging from their climate controlled boxes for reasons other than work or survival. A cigar smoker stares absently into the palm trees. A reader struggles to focus in the dim porch light of his hooch. The soft notes of someone learning to play guitar echo from down the row. Doors are once again cracked, letting light stream out. Small groups talk quietly. The temperature today is exactly the same as it was when it first pushed us all indoors several months ago. Only our perception of it has changed.
So much of what we do here has become very commonplace after eight months. Arabic no longer sounds odd to me. I rarely notice the calls to prayer. I notice when a street is unusually clean, not when it is filled with trash. Nothing that a child does in the street strikes me as dangerous any more. Everywhere we go we meet people we have met before. There seems to be very little new, and the days start blurring together. Every now and again something particularly absurd stands out.
* * * *
A few weeks ago BG Bahaa and I were called to a late night meeting in the palace. The exact same sort of unexpected meeting that almost put Bahaa in the hoosegow. My grandfather always used to say hoosegow. I have never had the chance to use it in a sentence, this seems as good a time as any...but I digress. So we went to the meeting, on a topic I can no longer recall, and as we left, we were called to the side and told that a target on the wanted list had been spotted and we were tasked to go nab him.
Several hours later we found ourselves in an old government compound that has been largely abandoned but now houses a small population of squatters. The night was overcast, with a moon that occasionally beat its way brightly through the clouds. Otherwise it was painfully dark. This was not one of the areas blessed with any power, and the squatters we far below the income level that made generators possible. We had already cleared the first apartment, locating the target's brother and wife, and obtaining lead to a second building. My tolerance for uncertainty lowers significantly the farther I get from the original information I was given, and Bahaa was quickly leading us to the end of my patience.
His men flowed into the subsequent building like water into a maze, not what I had hoped for. I kept my team close. We moved into the foyer and guarded the escape route and lower hallways while listening for the sounds of progress above.
SSG P, Doc, Rafid, a few shurta and I scanned the room, under gun lights cutting bright swaths in the NVGs. The place was a shambles, but there was no obvious threat. We waited while Bahaa and crew worked upstairs. Doc called out to the trucks to let them know where we were at. Minutes ticked by. I glanced in his direction...and froze. I know I wasn't seeing what I thought I was seeing. There, on a bookshelf, not a foot from Doc's head was a huge...rooster – sound asleep. I broke out laughing, the obvious bawdy jokes raced through my mind. Doc raised a quizzical eyebrow "what?" A shurta flooded Doc in the beam of his flashlight. SSG P, seeing what I saw, joined in my mirth. Doc turned, and looked past it at first, focusing just in time to see a shurta poke the sleeping bird, sending it into a panic induced dance around the room and down the hall. That night, we captured two targets suspected of sectarian killings, but we failed to detain the cock.
* * * *
Several weeks later, on a sweltering afternoon, we conducted a similar raid in one of the older neighborhoods and came up empty handed. As we wound our way out of the warren of small alleys, stepping over streams of sewage and ducking under low hanging wires, BG Bahaa stopped short at a familiar house, and said "I want to introduce you to someone." His guys spread out in the ally, and he knocked on the door frame and called softly inside. A quick conversation and he was invited inside, waving me in after. We ducked past the curtain that served as a door and down a short hall into a courtyard of sorts.
The courtyard was roughly fifteen feet on a side, with an ancient wooden balcony providing a mere semblance of a roof around the edges. Another ten feet up, what should have been a roof had long since collapsed, doing nothing now to block the sun. Around the open room was a smattering of furniture. An old wooden couch, contrasted sharply with a very new looking refrigerator, idle due to a lack of power. A stove, a table, a few chairs, not much more. I took it all in quickly as Bahaa explained. "I come here to visit the old woman that lives here, she is very sick." Indeed she was. The small creature occupied a tiny fraction of the couch which occupied the corner with the largest portion of overhead cover. She wheezed audibly. Two other women and a handful of kids stood nearby. Bahaa introduced us.
The youngest of them, in her early forties and relatively attractive. I suspect that that is how Bahaa met the grandmother, but that was not the time to ask. She spoke passable English, and insisted that I sit down on the couch next to the matriarch. With a sheepish smile, she apologized for not having anything cold for me to drink. I can't imagine feeling more out of place. This kind of poverty is shocking every time. I was at a loss for words. Kids are always a good place to start. Grandmothers all love to talk about grandchildren. Bahaa and the young woman translated.
I quickly learn that granny had lived in the same house since 1939. All of her male relatives were dead. She was being supported now by her daughter and granddaughter, and enjoying her great grand children. A framed family portrait on the wall, showing a clan of probably fifty hinted at the potential magnitude of her lifetime's worth of loss. I shared a picture of my girls with her. She kissed it, saying how much she knew I miss them. I imagine she does. I wanted so very badly to do something for this family. They had almost nothing. I asked if there was anything they really needed that I might be able to find. From under her robes the old lady pulled out a small plastic purple box. She opened it up and revealed a blood sugar testing kit, whose battery was inoperative. I looked up, past the useless refrigerator, and out the open ceiling, a tear forming. Dear God, where am I going to find one of those?
* * * *
The great dream of almost every terp is to obtain a visa to the United States. Much like a Willy Wonka's golden ticket, it dominates their thoughts. This provides no end of entertainment as my guys administer various American trivia tests upon them to see if they are fit for admittance into the country. Rafid is the preferred victim in this sport. Asked to name five American Presidents, he responded "Bush, Clinton, and Lynn Collin."
"Lynn Colon?" we asked. "Do you mean Lynn Cheney...or Colin Powell?"
"No", he replied, "stop messing with me, Lynn Colon...he freed the slaves!"
Game over. He is one of us. I know I have seen that on Jay Leno before.
A few months back I wrote about a meeting with one of the Deputy Prime Ministers of Iraq. At that meeting one of his assistants handed out business cards to those present. Most of the Iraqis have dual sided business cards, one in Arabic, and the other in English. I flipped his over to see what his duty description was. "Assistant to the Deputy Prime Minister for Entertainment and Trysts." Hmmm, I bet I could get his terp a slot on David Letterman. Sounded like a great job to all of us.
* * * *
A small white piece of paper flutters in the breeze, pulling against the tape that holds it against the wall. The photocopied face of a young girl smiles. Graceful Arabic script portraying the heartbreaking message; Have you seen this child?
We have been at this wall many times over the last few months. It marks the boundary between the road and the fuel station. A few weeks ago we could go no where near it...the fire was too intense. A car bomb had detonated, it's explosion igniting a large fuel truck which in turn engulfed the crowd of men, women and children waiting to buy fuel for their homes. The walking wounded, almost forty, had already been evacuated when we arrived. The dead and dying lay beyond reach. The tanker threatened to explode at any minute, potentially igniting the nearby underground tanks. The Iraqi fire department showed up shortly thereafter, and for the next thirty minutes did nothing short of heroic work in quenching it. The damage was mind numbing. We watched helplessly as fifty-two victims were pulled from the debris. The child's body had not been identified.
MAJ W, One of the officers we work closely with had been with us at the gas station several days prior to the bombing. He takes lots of pictures. Scanning through them, he stopped short. There, on the computer was a picture of the girl and her mother, standing in line, holding a gas can. She was the same age as my Alexandria and has the same dark brown eyes...
It is a damn good thing we get to laugh occasionally. And that some nights, the heat feels cold.
Oh, how heartbreaking. LTC Green just makes me want to cry with pain for that child. :'(
UPDATE #24
7 SEP 07
I sat in the back corner and finished a silent prayer. I quietly surveyed the room while those who surrounded me finished their own. We sat in a small Huseniya, an Islamic place of worship, more like a community center than a true Mosque. The room was quiet, filled with mourners. They say that bad things come in threes...maybe because that is when humans say to themselves, enough is enough and we have to package things together to prepare ourselves for the next set of three.
LTG Abud, the impressive Iraqi Corps commander that informed BG Bahaa of his arrest and eventually fought it off, sat near the entrance. I had never seen him in civilian cloths, his suit was expertly tailored. But he looked small and fragile. The death of his mother two days prior had obviously hit him hard. He looked very tired. We sat quietly. My Iraqi friends know I am curious and they could see me focusing in on various aspects of the room. COL Mohommaded explained a basket of hockey puck size objects in the corner. They were small clay disks, stamped with a picture of the shrines at Karbala and made from mud taken from that area. Shia, who commemorate the battle of karbala, will place them on the carpet in front of them as they pray. Bahaa caught me eyeballing a series of strings running diagonally across the room atop the Persian rugs at one meter intervals – they mark the direction to Mecca and line up worshipers and ensure they are evenly spaced and don't knock each other over as they execute their prayers. Other aspects I was more than familiar with. The inevitable Chai and Turkish coffee providing welcome points of familiarity.
This was the third wake in as many days. One of BG Bahaa's subordinate battalion commanders had lost his father a few days prior, and most tragically for us, BG Bahaa's mother had lost her fight with breast cancer late last week. In Arab culture the family sets up a tent or a gathering place, and for three days, family and friends come to pay their respects. It was more than a bit humbling to see the genuine regard and respect that the community felt, as the greater Baghdad civilian, military, and tribal communities came and went. It left Bahaa exhausted, and without any time to grieve. I am not quite sure how he managed.
I am glad that I had gotten the opportunity to meet her. On that one occasion she and Bahaa's wife explained to me the secret of Iraqi chai, which for those that are curious is not at all like the crap you get at starbucks. The secret is a clove like seed called "Hell" which apparently comes from India. Mixed with the finely ground tea leaves, both are steeped loosely in boiling water. The slight spice of the Hell cuts the bitterness of the tea, and a healthy dose of sugar seals the deal. While certainly not a family recipe, I will probably always think of it that way.
Fortunately all three deaths were of natural causes, an odd sense of normality in a world that is otherwise far from normal. It has been awhile since I have written, not so much because there has been nothing to write about, indeed in some regards the pace has accelerated, but more because I find it increasingly difficult to put things into context. The last few weeks have just felt odd. Like there is something big just ready to happen, and if I wait another day the story will write itself. And then I wake up and its three days later, and the other shoe still has not dropped.
I imagine much of that feeling comes from the insanely artificial deadline of September 15th and the much anticipated report to Congress. It is the elephant in the room that no one will acknowledge. Except that we all do. Visits by famous media, politicians, and pundits hit a feverish pace over the last few weeks, and for the first time in a long time I actually look forward to reading the news and seeing articles with some meat on the bones and written by someone who at least saw it all first hand. I will paste in the text of an article written by Ralph Peters, a somewhat controversial commentator, with whom I often, but not always agree. But since his article describes many of the places and people I have introduced you to, I think it will provide a useful contrast.
New York Post
BACK FROM HELL
By RALPH PETERS
August 31, 2007 -- AO WARHORSE, IRAQ
IF you saw any news clips of intense combat last January, you were probably watching the fighting unfolding on Baghdad's Haifa Street: 10 days of grim sectarian violence.
Until we put a stop to it.
The boulevard of Sunni-inhabited high-rise apartments erupted in shootouts pitting the "Haifa Street Gang" and its al Qaeda allies against heavily Shia Iraqi army units. It was a recipe for massacre, as terrified residents - those who remained - cowered in their apartments.
Then the U.S. Army moved in. Commanders must've felt tempted to just level the former Saddamist stronghold. Instead, they decided to rescue what they could. Our troops cleaned out the terrorists with what Brig. Gen. Vince Brooks - one of the Army's rising stars - termed "very focused kinetic effects."
And the Cavalry charged in: the 2nd Infantry Division's 1-14 Cav, OPCON - Army-speak for "on loan" - to the 1st Cavalry Division's 2nd Brigade.
This is a ride-to-the-rescue outfit in the old Cavalry tradition. Shifted from one hot spot to another in their wheeled Strykers, 1-14 Cav has fought its way through the streets of one gut-shot Iraqi city after another.
BUT Baghdad was the big one. Not only because it's the capital but also because our changing strategy suddenly opened new opportunities to reset the terms of our presence.
Initially, Haifa Street was a brawl-for-all. Even now, the troopers of 1-14 Cav keep their "sabers" ready. But a patrol through the sector on Tuesday evening revealed changes many the media just won't credit. (We're not supposed to win, you understand.)
Six months ago, terror ruled. The streets were empty of civilians. Shops were shuttered, facades were shot up, and hate graffiti covered the intact walls. Power was out, and the district was out of hope. The residents who could leave had already left.
It would've been easy to write off Haifa Street.
Instead, 1-14 Cav and their foster parent, the 2nd brigade, 1st Cavalry Division, switched gears. First, they won the fight. Next, they were determined to win the peace.
AND the numbers in "AO Warhorse," their area of operations, reveal an impressive transition from a hellhole to a livable - if still understandably nervous - neighborhood: From 74 attacks on our troops in January, the violence dropped to 20 attempts in August. And they were minor attacks, compared to those of the past.
Overall, murder rates in Baghdad are down by two-thirds, while attacks on the Iraqi police and civilians have declined for months. In fact, 2nd Brigade is now "out of the checkpoint business," according to its commander, Col. Bryan Roberts. With the Iraqi police doing its job, Roberts can muster as many as 34 combat patrols a day - the presence we always needed and didn't have.
And plans are already in the works to turn the district over to the Iraqis.
During the mounted segment of the patrol, I asked Gen. Brooks - who stood tall in a Stryker's hatch beside me - if he worried about a surge in al Qaeda incidents in the remaining weeks before Gen. David Petraeus reports to Congress.
Brooks realizes how badly the terrorists yearn to embarrass us, handing ammunition to the just-quit camp. But he told me we'd just broken a key al Qaeda network that was planning dramatic eve-of-testimony strikes. Other terrorists might still manage to stage attacks, but the organization's spinal column was broken.
MEANWHILE, our "urban renewal" of Haifa Street became an accelerating success. En route to Combat Outpost Remagen, we saw people of all ages in the streets, a half-dozen soccer games under way, patched and repainted facades - and even new solar street lamps (a big hit in a power-strapped city).
It was all part of an innovative small-is-beautiful approach to gaining trust and helping Iraqis get back on their own feet. The administration's initial policy of funding huge projects to be developed by multitentacled U.S. contractors failed miserably. But our soldiers are making progress where favored contractors only ripped off the taxpayer for billions.
How? As Col. Roberts put it, "Micro-everything is good." Our troopers have backed micro-projects, such as community generators, awarded micro-grants to jump-start street-level commerce, and favored a ground-up version of capitalism, rather than the administration's dysfunctional marriage of profits at home and socialism in Iraq.
The Iraqis get their batteries charged. Once. Then it's up to them to make their neighborhood - and their country - work. Lt. Col. Jeff Peterson, 1-14's commander, adds that the "spontaneous economic development" that followed the establishment of security and face-to-face engagement with the population has been inspiring.
It is. As we dismounted from our Stryker to walk the streets and alleys, Sunni residents - once hostile to Americans - crowded around to thank our local commanders, all of whom were well known down in the 'hood.
OF course, other sectors in Baghdad remain contentious, and progress can be reversed in the wake of a single trigger event.
But even across the river in Rustamiyah, where the troopers of the 1st of the 8th Cav - a butt-kickin' outfit - have been fighting Muqtada al Sadr's Mahdi Army in urban-guerrilla warfare, hopeful signs are emerging. A few days ago, Mookie unilaterally announced a six-month timeout for his gunmen. Partly, it's a political move - but it's also due to the sacrifices and fortitude of 1-8 Cav and other frontline units.
So why don't you hear more about our military's successes? It goes beyond the old media dictum that "if it bleeds, it leads." Plenty of journalists have staked their reps on our predicted failure in Iraq - and they hate the reversal of fortune the surge is achieving.
God knows plenty of problems remain. Iraq's government isn't much help - none, as far as Haifa Street's revival is concerned. And five minutes away, there's a bustling Shia neighborhood. Not long ago, the residents were all Sunnis. Shias with a new-born sense of entitlement (and a vicious militia) drove them out.
Nor have all of those who used to live on Haifa Street returned - they're being coaxed back bit by bit.
But those familiar with the desolation-row atmosphere that prevailed just months ago are encouraged by the prog- ress. Iraqis have begun to help themselves, while their government squabbles.
AFTER winding our way through a lively market, we stopped by a riverside cafe. Its patio was crowded in the softening evening.
The establishment had been reopened with a grant of pennies from the Cav and 2nd Brigade. At the sight of us, the owner rushed to tell everyone that we would always be welcome as his guests. He was excited about the future - almost to the point of weeping.
Outside, in the orange twilight, 1-14 Cav's Maj. Dave Stroupe and I paused on the embankment above the river. A micro-grant had cleared away years of garbage. Kids were swimming, while their elders fished.
Every so often, a corpse still floats by. And the mahalla, or neighborhood, across the river is still seeded with terrorists. But the precious normalcy around us represented a true and wonderfully human victory.
Smiling at the hubbub on the cafe patio and the laughter from the kids splashing in the shallows, Maj. Shoupe shook his head in wonder.
"When we came down here in January," he told me, "the only people we saw in the streets were shooting at us."
Then the U.S. Cavalry rode to the rescue.
Ralph Peters' new book is "Wars of Blood and Faith: The Conflicts That Will Shape the 21st Century." All his reports from this Iraq trip are online on the Opinion page at NYPOST.COM.
Sadly I did not get a chance to meet Mr Peters again or introduce him to BG Bahaa or the many other brave Iraqis who have had no small part in the success in our area. As much as we can all be proud of what American forces have achieved in our district over the last few months, the only measure of success that matters is if BG Bahaa and men like him can carry on when we leave.
And that really is the fundamental question of September, and one that is almost impossible to know how to answer. When have you done enough? When have you made enough money to retire? When have you taught your children enough values to let them loose in the world? When have you stored enough grain for the winter? When have you done enough to ensure victory?
On the long march back from Gettysburg, I don't think any of the Union generals told Harpers Weekly that that was the turning point of the war. Yet today few will argue that the first few days of July 1863 and the victories at Gettysburg and Vicksburg spelled defeat for the south. But two years later men were still giving their lives to finish the work. In towns like Bastogne and on ships out in Midway, the average twenty year old soldier or seaman almost certainly had no idea that the corner in Europe or the Pacific had been turned. It all still seemed pretty damn cold and lonely and dangerous to them. But the simple fact is that the corner had been turned. Sadly great sacrifices still remained.
None of us are going to read anything spectacular on September 15th. Chances are a celebrity scandal or a major storm front will provide the more intriguing headlines of the day. For most of us the day will pass unremarkably, and we will go about life normally; Attending a funeral, drinking Chai with a friend, fretting about our children. The war will continue and over time it will become clearer if we have had the defining battle of the war. My sense is that we are in it, now, and winning. But there is no way to know.
As always I hope this finds you and yours well
Carl: shouldn't the date in the next to last paragraph be 1863? I don't seem to remember anything like that in 1963.
I wondered about that too. :'( There were plenty of terrible happenings that year, but Gettysburg wasn't one of them.
I hate to be tacky...but can't you ladies overlook one typo?
I am just thinking about posterity. At the rate things are going, they won't know the difference. We old folks need to keep it straight for our younger ones.
Carl,
Once again LTC Green has showed me how remarkable of a writer he is. I love his reports. I haven't told him that Rudy did print that one letter. I know of one person who remarked to me about the letter. Shirley Black, a retired LTC from the Air Force, loved reading about the war as seen from the eyes of LTC Green.
(Shirley, if I got your rank wrong, please correct me.)
I made the correction for you.
Thank you, Carl.
UPDATE #25 – 23 SEP 07
We made the left hand turn down by the cemetery and started winding our way into the back roads. As we turned we could see a large crowd forming several hundred meters past the Iraqi Army checkpoint at the corner. The sun was down, and what might have given us cause for concern in the spring seemed natural in the fall and even more so during Ramadan, where the community gathers in the evening to break their fast and celebrate. Back in the neighborhood we stop to investigate a set of parked fuel tankers, one empty one full. The owner provides some fishy paperwork, and the truck does not have government markings, so we detain the man for questioning and confiscate the truck. An hour later we approach the crowd again, this time coming from the north. I am not surprised to see BG Bahaa's brake lights glow read. We dismount.
The gathering of males of all ages is festive, and greets us warmly, with some chanting. Bahaa in full politician mode grins from ear to ear and wades into the mix, man kissing the elders. I catch up and get sucked into the crowd. Several days before the general had told me about a traditional game called Mahebes or "rings" that is played during Ramadan. We had apparently just stumbled upon a match of rings, and he was eager to show it to me in action.
Rings is a team game, with each family or neighborhood fielding a group of about twenty lead buy a team leader. Each team gathers on either side of the pack, standing, or sitting on low benches or plastic chairs in no particular order. Age apparently is no factor. The leader of the team is armed with a blanket and a ring. He goes to each member of the group, placing the blanket over their heads and engages in a conversation and motions that may or may not result in that individual receiving the ring to be hidden in either of their two fists. Once every member has been visited, the team is ready to defend, twenty poker faces all ready to fool the opposing team's leader. The opposing team, having watched patiently now puts forward their guesser who makes an elaborate show of strolling through the other team observing their behavior –tapping out those he believes does not have the ring. Culling the crowd takes minutes on this night, but apparently it is not uncommon for staring matches to last for half an hour or more in some of the more ancient rivalries.
Finally, there are just two remaining - the guesser, almost always an old and wizened veteran of the game, and whomever it is he has singled out as the guilty owner of the ring. All that is left is to pick the hand. Over the last few days I have had several conversations with Iraqis who have mentioned the ring game and invariably the name of a man called Jasim Al Aswad or "The Black Jasim" comes up. He lives in a neighborhood to our north. Apparently this guy's power of observation is legendary and he has led his neighborhood to multiple championships. Tonight, age and wisdom overcame youth, and the guesser has correctly picked the owner but failed to pick the correct hand. His team scores one point, but not the extra. The teams switch sides and start again as we head back to the trucks to mount up. Back on our intercoms we decide rings would make a great drinking game, an idea certainly not in line with the notions of Ramadan.
Much like the meaning of Christmas is often lost in the trappings of the season, I can't help but think that Ramadan suffers from much the same in its observance. In a nutshell, Muslims should refrain from doing anything sinful (which apparently translates as fun) while the sun is above the horizon. So no eating, smoking, swearing, sex, water etc. The notable exception to the exclusion list is sleep, which is about the only saving grace of the whole month in my opinion. Having spent the day in misery, the evenings become festive and in general are a time of increased communion with the neighborhood. For those that practice, it is a pretty good excuse to slow the pace of work down during the day. Kind of like a month long company picnic. Apparently a few extra prayers are added each day. At the risk of sounding cynical, I can't help but wonder if those are largely spent asking for the day to be over quicker so they can quench their thirst in the ridiculous heat. Fortunately the weather is cooling off now and Ramadan, which is on a lunar calendar, didn't happen to fall in the height of summer this year.
I have a new favorite Iraqi food, a dish called Moqloba or"Upside-down". BG Bahaa's wife cooked it for me a few months back, and I suspect that because of my positive reaction, it has found its way more frequently into the rotation. I a medium size pot, a layer of pulled chicken is spread in the bottom, probably with some cooking oil. Over that, a layer of sliced eggplant, and then a layer of sliced potatoes about a quarter of an inch thick. The rest of the pot is filled with rice seasoned with some sort of tomato based flavoring that makes it red like Mexican rice. At any rate, the whole thing is baked and when ready to serve, is brought out and the pan is turned upside-down onto a large silver tray. Having molded to the shape of the pot, the entire dish looks like a large free standing rice cake with chicken icing. Mercifully this is eaten with a spoon and not the goat grab style free for all common for some dishes.
Several blocks further south, we stop again. We are back at a familiar corner and I take a moment to speak with a shop owner –the man who angrily showed me the food can pierced by a sniper's bullet back in February. I asked if he remembered that conversation. He did. "You don't seem as angry as you did back then?" He smiled, "no, I can sleep at night now and not worry." Another elder approached and told us about the power lines that have been going up all over the neighborhood. The work is nearly complete with all but the final connection back into the national grid done. He mentioned that this neighborhood had lost its power just before Ramadan last year and they had all hoped to have it back before then end of Ramadan this year. That was a promise I couldn't make, but again his tone had none of the anger of the spring, but rather the excitement of someone about to achieve a long awaited goal. I desperately hope to see the project complete before the end of my watch.
Further south, amongst the high rise apartments, we stop again. Lately, BG Bahaa has been confiscating jerry cans of fuel from black marketers and redistributing the illegal product to mosques and needy families in a modern day Robin Hood campaign. This coupled with pressure on the sector's gas stations to end corruption and coalition efforts to improve the traffic patterns around the gas stations has dramatically dropped wait time for legal fuel and dropped the price of black market fuel. The mood on Haifa street is light. It is starting to get late, so many of the families have gone inside, but the young men are still out. Six months ago you didn't see young men at all. Bahaa decides to make a game of distributing fuel. Approaching one gaggle of about fifteen high school age kid, he proclaims that whoever can answer some Ramadan Trivia correctly can have a can. The first question, how many verses are in the first book of the Koran stumps the crowd. Finally the youngest of the lot ventures a guess and wins the prize. We move on to an older group, university age guys. After three or four religious questions, they give up. Bahaa gives them a second chance and asks a soccer question. To my surprise they miss that as well. One of their friends approached to see what is going on. Dressed in a Metalica T-shirt and armed with a beat up six string, he could have been plucked from any street in America. He begins to make a credible attempt at the opening bars of "Hotel California". Bahaa looks at me for approval. I figure I would much rather have the kid memorizing the Eagles than being brainwashed in some Wahabi Madrasa. Fuel for all my friends.
Back into the night we head into our most dangerous sector. For the last few months, The 1-1-6 battalion of the Iraqi Army and Warhorse, now replaced by the 4th Squadron 2nd ACR from Germany have been busy trying to end the tyranny of a local Jeash Al Mahdi affiliated gang leader that has dominated the area. A series of raids and arrests has decimated his gang, but the gang's Prince has continued to avoid capture and has moved to another district. As we patrol, locals approach us openly with information. Much of it we already know, but their willingness to talk publicly in front of neighbors is a good indication that the fear he exerted may finally be broken. One more chapter I hope to see closed before I return.
Every success is marred by a setback. A few weeks ago I read an article buried on the back page of the news and deep in the internet about Yarmook Hospital, one of the three main hospitals in our sector. Essentially the article talked about how the morgue, which was filled past capacity last winter is now largely empty, and the Doctors are no longer flooded with violence based emergency room cases. This barometer of success was largely overshadowed by the Blackwater fiasco which happened just up the street and whose victims ended up in Yarmook.
The Blackwater firefight took place on our western boundary, in the traffic circle I talked about many months back where a car bomb had collapsed an underground tunnel screwing up the traffic patterns in the area – the same corner that the crazy lady calls home. The city officials have done great work over the intervening months and have completely rebuilt the tunnel and used the opportunity to overhaul the median and adjacent parks with brick sidewalks and refurbished gardens. The tunnel was set to open again in a few days, but construction equipment still snarled up traffic.
I was not at the scene of the event, but BG Bahaa arrived shortly after, and the video footage his guys shot of the aftermath and the testimony from people I have come to know provided me pretty much everything I needed to know. That coupled with my own observations of the Blackwater arrogance and their outdated convoy practices leave me very little doubt that the incident in question certainly involved excessive force, and was almost certainly avoidable.
I have always held a low regard for mercenaries, and have found it more than a bit distasteful that we have resorted to their use in Iraq. I have nothing against the huge variety of contractors providing a wide range of support activities. But the realm of violence is one that should solely be reserved to the state. Subcontracting the use of deadly force to those whose motivation is corporate profits and the adrenaline junkies they hire is a slippery slope regardless of the previous pedigree of the employees. A security firm has no vested interest in the war being over, and no incentive for its employees to take any risks at deescalating rules of engagement based on changing conditions on the field. Blackwater is not responsible for interacting with the populace they disrupt and has no need to take risks when they interact with them in order to accomplish their mission. My team, and thousands of soldiers still serving at wages far below our skills and far lower than the mercenaries of Blackwater have all learned better. There are times that assuming a bit of risk brings an overall higher level of security and the economic and political benefits that flow from it.
The single greatest tragedy of the Blackwater incident will be the same as the Abu Gharib scandal. It will take the focus away from what the Iraq government should be doing to fix itself and allow them to point a finger of righteous indignation on Americans – with much of their population joining the band wagon. This distraction will absorb a huge amount of organizational energy from the Iraqi government in a time where we should be ruthlessly holding them to standards and cutting out the corruption that stifles the growth that is a precursor to our success and eventual withdrawal. I hope I am wrong.
As always I hope this finds you and yours doing well. I look forward to seeing some of you over the next few weeks as I am now just five days away from finally getting some leave.
UPDATE #26
22 OCT 07
From the cove on the far right bank, an early morning mist rolled, discharging small clouds which drifted across my front in a seemingly endless armada. The first tenuous glow of dawn illuminated their sails as they marched victorious - as if on parade. The lake, almost perfectly calm, reflected the autumn colors of the trees on the far bank. Below me, the gentle creaking of the dock on its moorings provided the mornings only sound.
To the left, hugging the friendly shore, a much smaller squadron of ducks rounded the cape, a pair of fast frigates out front scouting for danger in the van of another dozen trailing in their gentle wake. Low calls signaled a change of course, and these new comers put out to sea, choosing a tack which would take them headlong into the foggy flotilla and away from whatever danger they sensed in me.
A thunderous crash broke the morning calm as a fish broke the surface and splashed back underneath. Neither duck nor cloud seemed alarmed by the submariner. I jumped. A blue heron swooped in low over the deck, nature's radar alerting him to the aquatic prey. He was silent, but his allies in the trees behind me were beginning their morning pre-flight rituals, and the day was soon filled with the strains of nature's song.
The sun, having finally gained some altitude poured forth an army of rays over the far ridgeline and through the forest leaves. They beat back the shadows in a relentless assault, and drove the morning mist back into port. Sun and lake conspired and illuminated a path unerringly to my footstep, reflecting all of Gods glory. I was home, safe at my parent's house, and in that moment, everything seemed possible.
By nightfall, that illusion had vanished and the struggle between good an evil, joy and pain, sickness and health had reasserted itself and crashed in around me. Having earned a few weeks reprieve from a war now far away, I would face a more personal one at home. My marriage of nearly seventeen years had been failing for many months, and now the tenuous truce, had failed. News that my wife had petitioned the court for a temporary restraining order arrived, and my plans to return home and visit with my daughters and salvage what I could were shattered. I bled.
So I traveled and found respite in the homes and company of friends and relatives across the nation. Quiet conversations, over a dizzying array of food, and more than a few handcrafted ales. Inevitably the question would arise. Are we winning? Is it worth the cost? I told many stories, and am not sure if the answers I gave satisfied anyone, let alone myself.
In a headquarters back at Fort Lewis, I mingled with brothers in arms. Troopers of the Warhorse Squadron, now several months removed from the trials on Haifa street, sorting out their futures but eager for news from a conflict in which they gave and achieved so much. Later that night I took much comfort watching these warriors, now reunited with their families. Husbands and wives both enjoying hard won victories over years of separation.
In the quiet suburban home of a friend in Olympia, I met the most charming, fairy like child I could imagine. Her face lit up as we met, and she chatted away a mile a minute, as if we had been friends forever. She has prayed for me every night for the last ten months. I can't imagine a more powerful force in the world.
In a law office in Tacoma, my lawyer, her paralegal, and her assistant worked diligently on my behalf. It was was completely unremarkable that I was the only male visible in the bustling office. And the fact that it was unremarkable lies in stark contrast to the much of the rest of the world that still languishes in the darkness and intolerance of cultures and religions that fail to embrace all of humanities vast potential. I talk much comfort in knowing that my daughters will know no such constraints.
In a fast food restaurant in the Salt Lake City Airport, a teenage girl asked innocently "are we still fighting over there?" I could not help but laugh. "Yes dear, we are. And I would most definitely like fries with that!"
At a High School Football game in Leavenworth I sat with friends watching their son perform in the middle school band. Last time I blinked he was a baby. Around me young men and women put the finishing touches on their early education and were blissfully unaware of how carefree they are, and how their peers in foreign lands are often locked in struggles and violence that are all too real.
At an Irish festival in a small town in Missouri, six friends reunited over a few beers, for the first time in almost ten years. All of our lives have changed, but we are all exactly the same.
In a sports bar a young college kid took a seat next to me. Thinking he has found a receptive ear, he launched into a bigoted tirade filled with grand proclamations about "bombing them all" and "no ten of them are worth one of us." I took a deep breath. "Son, I have spent a lifetime defending your right to say that, but I don't intend to send another minute listening to it. Should I leave or are you going to?" He moved to the other end of the bar and watched the game silently. I don't ever recall calling anyone "son" before. I am getting old.
On a sprawling farm in Gregory South Dakota, my father and I spent a few days in the rain hunting Pheasant. The owners, Eddie and Alice shared their American dream with us. Hard work, home cooking, and American generosity - a much needed respite from far away troubles.
Over pheasant and wine, the other hunter's, businessmen from all over the country, talk about their latest projects and dreams. Never, in a dozen conversations did the war impinge upon their plans. No factories needed retooling to churn out tanks or planes. No luxury lines needed to be shut down for want of precious resources diverted elsewhere. No shortage of investment capital, or real estate. No workers being diverted to support a draft. No sign whatsoever of a nation at war.
At a real estate office in Weston Missouri I placed a bid on a great little place, looking forward to a new year and a new start. At no point during the process was I questioned about my race, religion or beliefs. It simply did not matter what neighborhood I chose. I was American and belonged.
At a church retreat in Kansas City, I sat with my Mom at a chili cook off and pie auction organized to raise funds to support a variety of charitable causes. One more reminder of our nation's desire to do good for those in need, and the importance of our faith based values. Mom bid on a pie, to be baked at a date to be named later by a local woman with quite a culinary reputation. She will have to struggle to do better than mom.
In countless conversations I have been thanked for my service by individual Americans that understand and are thankful. In airports it is almost impossible for a serviceman to pay for their own meal. Their support and appreciation is heartfelt, earnest, and genuine. But I am left with a distinct impression that while our individual citizens may understand, America does not. The war is not real here. It touches the county only trough a perilously thin connection to a generation of men and women who have chosen to insulate our country from the darkness that presses relentlessly at our borders.
So if I were to be asked again the question "are we winning? I would have to say yes. War has not descended upon America and almost everything I value is safe. Are the Iraqis winning? I will have to go back and see, there is absolutely no way to know given the abject failure of our news media. I pray that they are, I have too many friends there now to wish anything else. Which brings us to the most important question, "Is it worth the cost?" For the nation –absolutely. For several hundred thousand brothers in arms? I won't be so bold as to speak for them, each will have to decide for themselves. For me? I will not know until I win custody of my girls.
Until then, I have a plane to board, more friends to see, and a team to bring home.
I hope this finds you and yours well. A special thanks to all of those who provided shelter in the storm.
Oh, I am so sad for our friend, LTC Green, who sends us those lovely letters about the war in Iraq. Carl, I have visited Weston, Missouri, once, and it is a lovely little town. Please tell LTC Green that I hope he gets that place there. I think he will enjoy living there.
UPDATE #27
12 NOV 07
Daylight savings had kicked in, so while it wasn't late, it was very dark, and my body still had not recovered from the five days of travel and waiting it took to get back from Kansas to my team. I dozed off, waking as I felt the helicopter begin its rapid drop into the LZ. I had no clue if this was my stop or not, several of us occupied the lead ship enroute to various remote locations. I could make out the distinct outlines of a military installation below, and in the distance, a small town. The bird settled in a storm of dust, the crew chief dismounting with practiced ease, slid open the troop door and pointed to me and one other. "Numiniyah" I yelled over the din of the rotors. A thumbs up. Releasing my harness and grabbing my bags I jumped out. Seconds later the birds were gone.
MAJ K moved out onto the airstrip and grabbed a bag. We exchanged the typical welcome home from leave rituals which had now become all too familiar. I was the last to go, so marked a milestone in the team's history. The end was in sight. A short ride took us to the compound where my four teams and our National Police Brigade were billeted.
For several months we had been scheduled to take the brigade to a month long training course at the Numiniyah National Police Training Academy. The program was established about eighteen months ago as a reaction to the rampant corruption that plagued the entire national police organization. The idea was to bring each brigade out of the battle, get rid of the corrupt leaders, and then put them through a rigorous curriculum of ethics, police skills, and tactical training. At the end of the training each unit would receive the new blue digital pattern national police uniform, and the brigade would then be sent back into the fight, hopefully with a renewed sense of nationalism and without the militia influences that plagued them. The entire process came to be called "re-bluing"
My Brigade had originally been scheduled to go to Numiniyah and Re-blue back in June. A combination of good performance and success in Karkh by BG Bahaa's men and some very poor performance in other areas of the city led to a series of shifts. Other brigades were moved forward in the timeline and we kept shifting to the right on the calendar. Eventually there was no other brigade's to switch us with, and with all the political importance swirling around the September congressional hearings, and enemy activities down in Karbala, the 5th brigades September rotation was cancelled as well. When I left for leave, it looked like we might be the only brigade not to go at all. The day after I left however, orders came down, and my team packed the brigade up and moved them south.
It is both satisfying and humbling to return to your unit and find that everything is running full steam ahead without you. I got a quick tour of the facilities, an introduction to the Australian cadre, warm greetings from the team and then a much needed cup of Chai and a happy reunion with the General. The training had been going very well, and over the next few days it was increasingly obvious that the brigade had benefited enormously. We still shake our collective heads at much of what we see, and have all but given up in making headway in some areas that western forces deem important. But by and large they were looking more and more like soldiers.
I returned in time to see the last few days of the standard curriculum, and just in time to partake in the end of course culmination tactical exercise, and the all important graduation parade practice. Apparently Bahaa had been drilling his eighteen hundred shurta for a few hours every afternoon. The familiar art of the parade field connects armies of every culture and every generation in a way that probably no other activity can. The specifics of arm swing, pace count, or angle of the hand salute may vary, but the focus on attention to detail, precision and perfection persists.
"If you are taller than the man in front of you, move up!"
"Your out of step Mohammed!"
"Swing your arms Mustafa, all the way up to the shoulder of the man in front"
Lines are painted on the parade ground, marking precisely where commanders and guidon bearers and musicians will stand. Officers and a precious few NCOs swarm around each formation making corrections.
Several days before graduation the shurta are issued two sets of the new blue uniforms. They are the last brigade to get them, and they are anxious. They discard a wild menagerie of old army green and desert uniforms, issued from various American programs over the last few years or purchased from markets. Camouflage patterns from Jordan, Egypt, Russian, England, the US, or the former Iraqi army, all discarded in a heap and replaced by one standard. There is something remarkably transforming about issuing a young man a uniform and lining him up with thousands of his countryman all dedicated to the same purpose. The exact same energy generals like Napoleon harnessed to draft class after class of French to perform his will. The next day's parade was an entirely transformed affair. Shurta stood taller, paid more attention, marched straighter. An organization which a week earlier looked like a militia, now looked like an Army.
There is something about parades and ceremonies that make General officers minds race. They all seem to have a good idea fairy land on their shoulder and whisper in their ears. Bahaa decided they needed white gloves, sending his commanders out to find some. 1800 white gloves in a land without power, I shook my head...and that was before I heard the solution. Medical gloves. One of the shurta suggested they use the white latex medical gloves that our medics used while treating them and training them in first aid skills. I don't tell the general "no" often, but drew the line here. Sir " I don't have them, and am not going to go find them." Somehow, the second battalion all showed up on parade day in latex gloves. If only they had kept them for the following day when it came time to clean out their nasty barracks.
The month had been good for the brigade, and for my four teams. Life in Baghdad had become routine, and many of the guys had become frustrated by a lack of progress. The opportunity to train, and more importantly to show the Iraqis the value of training was invaluable. It was also good to get the Iraqis off the street corners and out of harms way for awhile. The compound we lived in was pretty spartan. Eight three story buildings surrounding a central courtyard and a motor pool, all enclosed in barbed wired. While the Americans and Australian cadre had free reign, the Iraqis, had been unarmed, had their cell phones removed, and were pretty strictly controlled. An untrained observer could have easily concluded he was looking at a prison camp. But the atmosphere was remarkably festive in the evenings with Iraqis huddling in small groups, smoking and singing and dancing. A series of unit vs. unit soccer games and other competitions providing entertainment. The final match saw the defeat of the joint American-Aussie team by a composite team of the Iraqis, ending the season in good form. I think the final score was 4-2. We were pretty happy with that, having expected to get routed.
Graduation came and went, the usual delegation of dignitaries arriving to observe. Followed immediately by the race to clear the barrack, and line up the convoys for the trip home. The brigade had earned a weeks leave, so many of them departed directly from the academy for homes across Iraq. Those that lived in Baghdad mounted trucks to get the brigades equipment home. We approached the outskirts of Baghdad as the sun set. As we wound through the eastern part of the city it became common for one truck or another to pull over to the side of the road and kick a grinning shurta out of the car. His buddies waving and singing as he wandered off into his neighborhood. We crossed the bridge over the Tigirs and back into Karkh at the south end of Haifa Street. It had been almost a month since I had left...it was good to be home.
Over the next few days we reintegrated with our Coalition Headquarters and caught up on all that we had missed and the various plans being staffed that would effect or immediate future. Our district had continued to make progress while we had been gone. The main criminal on Haifa Street, who had eluded capture for months, had finally been captured by US forces several days prior. Arresting Hussein Hani provided a bit of closure for all of us that had worked so hard to end his intimidation and thugary. With both the Sunni and Shia threats largely defeated in our sector, I feel pretty good about the future of the district. Other bad actors will inevitably move in to try and start trouble, but their task will be much harder now that the old established gangs have been broken.
It became increasingly clear over the next few days that we would not be staying in Karkh. BG Bahaa and his brigade's reputation had gotten them noticed, and fresh out of training he was essentially unemployed. The minister of Defense and Minister of interior both had competing demands, and the political struggle to determine where Bahaa would be committed next began in earnest.
In what is becoming a disturbing pattern, I seem to spend all my American holidays with senior Iraqi leaders. I spent the fourth of July with BG Bahaa and MG Hussien discussing poetry and trying to keep Bahaa from being arrested. Four months later, I spent Veterans Day with Bahaa and MG Hussien cooling our heals discussing passport reform with a deputy minister of the interior while we waited to go see the minister about our next mission. MOD and MOI had issued conflicting guidance and we needed answers. After several hours Bahaa and Hussein were ushered into the minister's office. A phone calls to the Prime minister sealed the deal. Orders were issued. Bahaa apparently mentioned that I was outside, so the minister invited me in. Every other time we had met the Minister had been in a huge hurry and completely uninterested in an American Lieutenant Colonel. He apparently had a light schedule that night, and sat us all down for Chai. He was filled with a whole string of questions about our training at Numiniyah and the performance of the national police and my impressions of Baghdad. I have lots of impressions...more than he had Chai. As we left, he wished me a happy veterans day, and thanked me for my service to his country - needless to say I was impressed. On the way out he reiterated our new orders to the generals. Our final month may be interesting.
Once more into the breach.
UPDATE #27
22 NOV 07
"Gunner, Sabot, two Hinds, left hind first, driver move up"
"where?'
"200 mils left of TRP#2, just over the barn...driver stop"
"Identified"
"Fire"
"On the way"
KABOOM
"target, right Hind"
"Identified"
"flashing zeros – relaze....Fire!
"on the way..."
KARACK
"Target, Cease fire, driver back up"
The sound track of my youth played over in my head. As a young Lieutenant we practiced tank engagements against soviet tank and helicopters over and over again. I spent countless hours in the Unit Conduct of Fire Trainer (UCOFT), a huge over grown tank gunnery computer game. My crews killed thousands of computer generated soviet HIND-D attack helicopters.
Fifteen years later I followed BG Bahaa on a foot patrol in the northwest suburbs of Ad Diwaniyah, a mid-sized town in southern Iraq. My HMMWVs shadowed us several hundred meters behind providing overwatch. The Apache gunships that had been circling overhead all morning had broken station for fuel several minutes before. I heard the new birds long before I saw them, the low buildings on either side of the street masking the horizon. And then the beast appeared. The HIND-D is an ugly brutish bird, far larger than our own more agile craft. Designed to carry both a huge weapons payload and troops in the lead of a soviet armored column, it is quite literally a flying tank. It cleared the rooftops and came straight at us, its twin following shortly after in its trail. My heart beat faster in spite of myself. This Polish aircraft was on my side now, and it's near constant presence in the sky above the city served as a significant deterrent to enemy rocket and mortar activity during daylight hours. I couldn't help but feel several decades out of place. On foot, patrolling with Iraqi light infantry, calling in close air support from Polish attack helicopters...I would not have dreamed it in a thousand years.
After just a few days back in Baghdad from our training, we were once again ordered south. The town of Ad Diwaniyah is the provincial capital of one of Iraq's southern districts and lies in the heart of the Multi-National Division's area. The region is largely Shia, and while it has not felt much of the Sunni-Shia violence, it has recently become more volatile as the Shia factions increasingly fight amongst themselves for political gain. My 5th Brigade of National Police got tossed into that mix, to both BG and my dissatisfaction. "Ours is not to wonder why..." goes the famous poem.
The trip south was remarkably easy. Bahaa's battalions settled into various governmental compounds around the city and my team carved out a spot in FOB Echo. The Multi-national division is currently commanded by a no-nonsense Polish Major General. A battalion of Poles, a battalion of Romanians, and a battalion from Mongolia make up the bulk of the force in the city with a smattering of five other nations represented in varying degrees. American officers augment the staff. African guards man the private security company that runs much of the base security. The Green Bean Coffee shop is staffed by a few young Asian girls from Kyrgikistan. The sister of one of them lives in the trailer next to me up in FOB Prosperity – small world. Iraqi nationals work the laundry. Pakistanis work the Mess hall. British and Australian contractors work various repair facilities. The motor pools are an armored vehicle enthusiast's playground.
BG Bahaa is eager to get to work. The national police have a long term agenda to move out of Baghdad to take on the roll it was created for and work the outlying districts. Several brigades have been sent out before with some mixed results. Bahaa is anxious to prove that his Brigade, fresh out of training is up to the task. The local Army commanders are wary. They did not ask for more forces and the Fifth Brigade has been forced upon them by the minister of interior. After two days they grudgingly give Bahaa a task.
He executes with characteristic vigor. His shurta are impressive. His officers and NCOs have rid the ranks of all the old uniforms, and for a change, every man has a helmet and body armor. The new uniforms have done wonders for the formation. They look impressive and disciplined. A local unit of emergency police is married up with them for the operation. The locals wear the rag tag smattering of mixed uniforms and face masks that was our lot a few short weeks ago. They look like ill-disciplined thugs, and act like it. The Brigade notices it themselves, and stands a bit taller.
The first day's operation goes very well. Eighteen detainees and eighty assorted weapons are pulled from a neighborhood that was supposedly "safe". We spend the afternoon doing foot patrols around areas coalition forces don't normally go. We are greeted warmly wherever we go. We have packed 1600 troops into a very small area, it is pretty impressive. The locals take note. So do the local politicians. Fifteen of the eighteen detainees work for one of the local big wigs. They were not supposed to get captured nor are they supposed to be armed. Bahaa couldn't give a damn about local politics and detains them anyway. That night we get orders that would put us in a small town about an hour to the east early the next morning. We are told it is where "all the enemy fled" when the operation started.
We swarm the small village of Afak the next morning. By noon it is clear we have been sent chasing wild geese –we think deliberately. The locals greet us enthusiastically. The day is bright and clear and we spend mid-morning eating Falafal at a local stand and drinking Chai with the village elders in the city square. We walk off our lunch with a patrol. A small stream divides the town, with palms lining parks on either side. We cross a foot bridge and into a covered market. Life in Afak is quiet and largely untouched by the violence of the north. The shops are well stocked, and the people are happy. One of my team's terps has family from Afak. They call him later to tell them how the locals were impressed by the professionalism and behavior of the brigade. A year ago, the arrival of a national police brigade would have spread terror.
For several more days we conduct operations on the periphery of the main operations going on in town. Bahaa is understandably frustrated. I take a slightly different view – maybe because I am getting short, and am ready to hand off my baton. This series of relatively easy missions was good for the brigade. It built confidence, allowed them to practice what they learned, and left them with a good reputation. Eventually, the political charade ended and the brigade was ordered back to Baghdad. They have a new mission - a new part of the city to occupy. The scrimmages are over and a new season is about to begin.
We make it back to Baghdad in time for Thanksgiving. I find myself spending the morning drinking chai with MG Hussien, the National Police Commander. We talk about the new mission, and his favorite singer whose song plays on the TV. We talk about the Christian church service in Dora he attended at ST Josephs yesterday...the first time a service has been held there in ages. He had not been there in years, but reminisced about various Iraqi Christian friends that had been buried there. We talk about Thanksgiving. I joke with him that I spend all the American holidays with him, and ask him for a photo I can take with me so he can be with me at Christmas. He chuckled, then looks at his watch. "LTC Green, come with me, I have a meeting". I look at my own watch. Bahaa is now forty minutes late and I am about to get drug into a meeting that isn't the one I came for. Hussien has my hand now and drags me along out of his office. I find Bahaa waiting in the hall.
"Saydee, what are you doing out here?"
"Lieutenant Colonel Green, what were you doing in there with my boss?"
I laugh. "Telling stories about you!"
MG Hussien shuffles us both into a conference room. He sits at the head of the table. All the other seats at the main table are filled by a smattering of National police Sergeants. I find a seat in the back row, as does BG Bahaa and his deputy COL Mohammad. This is very odd - the Iraqi National Police has an almost non-existent Non-Commissioned Officer corps – and they damn sure don't sit at the big boy table while officers sit in the back row. My curiosity is peaked. I count heads. Thirteen. One for each of the National Police Divisions and Brigades. It becomes quickly apparent that each Sergeant represents one of those commands. I recognized Arif Awol Amir from my own Brigade. We have been working with limited success to build up his authority as a sergeant for months.
MG Hussien begins to speak. I love listening to him, in the way that a kid listens to a grandfather. He speaks very softly, and slowly. His thoughts often trail off. He repeats himself often. But he peppers his thoughts with anecdotes and stories and quotes, so I am naturally drawn to him. He begins by telling the assembly about the very first Battalion Command Sergeant Major he met when he was a Lieutenant in the old Iraqi Army. He recalled every detail of the man. And then he told of his first Platoon sergeant, a man who became a close friend and was killed many years later in a car accident. He talked of old military traditions: changing of the guard, raising the colors in the morning, and lowering them at night. He talked of inspections, and standards, and NCOs that new every man by name. He lamented the death of those traditions as his country suffered through the era of Sadaam, and the Iran-Iraq war, and Desert Storm and the following embargo. Over the next hour he challenged those thirteen Non-Commissioned officers to go back to their brigades and give a new birth to those old tradition. Time will tell if that spark will ignite the fire of change. If it does it will have been an historic moment for the Iraqi National Police. I was a bit humbled to have stumbled into the event.
MG Hussien made one other comment that stuck with me. He told the NCOs that he was going to deliberately send them outside the country for training....any training...any foreign military school he could find regardless of subject. Not for the trainings sake, but to get them to see the rest of the world. "As a child" he said "I was always told that Iraq was the most advanced and cultured of the Arab countries and that all the others were mere Bedouins". He went on to describe a trip two years ago to Oman, where he expected to find nothing but Bedouins, and instead found a thriving modern nation which blended east and west, and had far surpassed Iraq. For thirty five years Sadaam had kept the Iraq people isolated, and while they had stagnated, the rest of the world flourished. "I had become the Bedouin" He lamented. "I am going to send you out into the world so that you can take your culture to it, and you can find culture to bring back to Iraq."
Compare that vision with the alternatives offered by Osama Bin Laden. Progress in Iraq is not fast, but leaders of character are slowly emerging and leading change.
*****
I sat in an internet café down at FOB Echo last week. The free MWR café was packed and the connection far too slow. I had escaped over to the Iraqi run shop and paid a small fee. It was thick with cigarette smoke, and filled with the noise of a soccer match. The local terp crowd and international soldiers frequented it far more than the US troopers. A thirty-something female terp sat at the terminal next to me. Western clothes and a head scarf put her in the moderately conservative camp. Some female terps abandon their western ways all together, and a precious few cling to them completely. Age appears to be the most prevalent determining factor in which they style they choose. The young woman clicked away for several minutes, and then all of a sudden, yelled in triumph "THEY HAVE ROOM FOR ME!" She shrieked and giggled, and cried and spun around and danced all at once...then ran out of the room into the night yelling in a mix of Arabic and English, I must go tell them at once!
I couldn't help myself, and glanced at her screen, left untouched in her euphoric exit. An official memorandum from the US Department of Immigration informed her that her visa application had been approved! She returned several minutes later, followed by a steady stream of other young Iraqis and a few of the Americans she worked with. Each took a moment to read the document and share in her joy. Lady Liberty's light could not have shown brighter than the glow from the computer monitor that night.
As I sit in my hooch this Thanksgiving, I cant help but feel thankful to come from a nation whose promise is so wonderful after all these years that people from vastly different cultures still look to it, and decide that sight unseen they will make a leap of faith and risk everything to move there. No other nation has ever held that power over others.
"They have room for me!"
Happy Thanksgiving Everyone.
Carl,
That last letter from LTC Green was very moving. I hope he is able to keep the letters coming. It sounds like he will be home for Christmas or am I just reading that into something?
I haven't asked him when he is going to be coming home, but the previous letter did mention something about a final month and this one talked about being away from them for Christmas. So, maybe he will be coming home soon.
I wish him well. I have found all his letters facinating and very informative.
I asked LTC Green and he told me that he has less than two more weeks over there. He will be stationed at Fort Leavenworth upon his return to the U.S.
That is wonderful news! And how fortunate for all of us that he has taken his time to write detailed letters so we really have been able to get a feel for what he and the troops have been doing. Thanks also to you Carl for passing those on to us.
I have so enjoyed the letters and read each one several times in detail.
I send a prayer out to him that he will continue to stay safe until his return to the United States.
And for all of our troops who don't have their feet on United States soil.. ...
May God and his host of angels continue to hold them and protect them, until they return home to their families.
UPDATE # 29
7 DEC 07
It gets dark early these days - like the end of a movie when everything fades to black. Driving the dimly lit stretch of Route Jackson back north to the International Zone, I half expect to see the credits start rolling up my windshield, and the orchestra striking up for the grand finale.
I hate endings. Always have. I hate the end of a really good book - one whose characters I have come to know. I hate the ending of a song, - I can never remember how they go. I hate graduations, and funerals, retirements, and goodbyes. I hate knowing that something that I invested my heart into is no longer there for me to fuss over. I hate feeling irrelevant.
But that is exactly how the days since our return from Diwaniyah have felt. The brigade has been assigned to a new sector, one that is both much bigger and will have many more forces for BG Bahaa to control, and new Coalition forces to build relationships with. New council members and sheik's and Imams. New streets and shops and parks. New children. New criminals. I sit next to Bahaa and admire his new carpets, adorning a much larger office. The map on the wall is of an area of responsibility that is not mine, and won't be. I take no interest in it. Officers from new Iraqi and American Units sit across from me in familiar couches. I take no interest in them either. All of it belongs to a story that is not mine to tell. And in an odd way I am jealous, because the new author will be borrowing many of my characters. Characters who I have grown to care for, far more than I would have thought, and far too much to entrust to anyone else.
So with the jealousy goes a tinge of guilt. I get to escape; free, safe, unharmed, with nothing left to risk. While Bahaa, Mohammad, Hamid, Hassan, Ali, Nabil, Safah, Faras, Husein, Mundar, Mahmoud and countless others are left to carry on the struggle. Never mind that it is their homeland and not mine. Never mind that the root causes of much of the struggle grow from a religion that I can not give any credence to, and political rivalries about which I have no vested interest. Somehow, the task had become ours, and to leave without a final outcome assured leaves a void.
Not all on my team feels that way. Some convince themselves the time was wasted - a year of their lives they will never get back. While they have served both honorably and well, they failed to internalize any of it. They will laugh at me for using the word"failed." For them, the ability to leave it all behind will be a victory of its own. And who knows, maybe they are far saner than I. It is hard to measure what it is exactly that we accomplished. We went to war, and never fired a shot. We were in the vicinity of danger, but never really attacked. We have been in attendance at some significant meetings, but were not the key players. We have coached but not played. It has been a strange war.
I hope that in the days to come, when their own children's laughter once again fills their ears, when the smell of a lovers hair delights their senses, when they sit on family farms, or in a hometown park, or eating quietly at a favorite restaurant...when all of the frustration and fatigue, and stress, and fear have finally faded...I hope that they can look back and see that their efforts really did make a tangible difference in the lives of a nation.
I am proud of our brigade - my brigade. A year ago, when we fought our way into the slums of Haifa Street, down unlit and neglected roads, we were an armed rabble, with a dubious reputation. In many cases only the presence of my team served to convince the much abused people that the 5th Brigade was anything other than an extension of the nightmare the sectarian militias had unleashed upon the city. Today, the Sword Brigade's reputation precedes it. Neighborhoods are welcoming them, confident and hopeful –expecting that good things will come to them as well.
I am proud of my friend BG Bahaa. It has been a privilege to watch him take command and so dramatically change his unit. I was sent here with the specified task of providing him training, coaching and mentoring. I leave with very little doubt that I received far more than I gave. I have watched him make some of the hardest moral and ethical choices I have seen anyone confronted with. I have seen him stand up to political pressure which would bend all but the most principled men. I have seen him make mistakes and learn from them. I have seen him say I told you so, and I am sorry. We have taken some incredibly stupid risks together. We have witnessed things I don't care to see again. We have celebrated, and laughed and cried. I had always wanted a big brother, and never dreamed I might find one here in Iraq.
Our replacements have arrived. Full of all the cocky youthful vigor one would expect. I am certain we were just the same. They are anxious to take over, and we are having a hard time letting go. The first of my guys were dropped off at the airport today, waiting to start the journey home. The rest will filter out over the next few days. The terps are shaken up. So are we. Victor, Frank, Rafid, and Al have been through much with us. They must start making the connections with the new team, but are all eagerly awaiting the VISA applications that will let them catch up to us. The team is slowly dying, and within a few short weeks will have made the long journey home and scatter to the winds. The final verse of the famous WWI poem "In Flanders Fields" echoes in my head.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
It is time for me to come home. I look forward to winter's chill, and the promise of spring and new beginnings.
Safe passage from all of us who have learned so much from you and about you. ( These letters could be published.) I hope we'll hear from you again as you make the transition home. You have touched my heart and opened my mind.
Why am I wiping the tears away...................................?
Sadness, & Pride..... for him.
For all the young men who have dealt with and are still dealing with things that we here, safe within the cocoons of our warm environment, don't have a clue of.
May they all return safe. With hearts full of the knowing that they DID succeed, They mattered in areas where they will most likely never know. But the people there know...and God knows.
God's speed to you, our forum friend -- our keeper of the faith. May He wrap his arms around you and your brigade and keep you safe from harms way and let you arrive safely home to the land that you helped protect.
God Bless you and Merry Christmas.
LTC Green,
We are proud of what your unit has done. I believe that what you have done is a success. Thank you for opening our eyes to the war and allowing us into your mind to see and experience what you just went through. We hope that you stay in touch with us, your forum friends. God keep you safe on your journey home to the greatest country God has ever given to man.