The Replacements

Brothers-in-Arms

2005-10-10T11:27:00.000-07:00

The Landing Zone at Logistical Support Area Anaconda is quiet as I wait for the Blackhawk flight to take me back to my Forward Operating Base. Standing on the side of the flight-line and looking out over the runway, I begin to realize exactly how massive the LSA is. The base stretches for kilometers in all directions, a collection of reinforced concrete structures, reclaimed Iraqi Air Force Bunkers, and heavily sandbagged tents surrounded by triple strand concertina wire and guard towers.

The LSA is so large that for an instant it almost feels like a stateside base.

Settling back against a low concrete barrier, I readjust my body armor and quickly revise my opinion of the LSA.

No stateside garrison has ever required me to wear my body armor and Kevlar at all times.

As twilight falls, a glowing belt of stars emerges in the sky. It is mid-month, and the growing illumination from the crescent moon has blanketed the world in shades of gray. In the distance I can just make out the blue shadowed form of a C-17 Globemaster as it taxis out onto the runway.

At this distance, the massive cargo jet looks tiny.

Without warning, an F-16 Falcon rockets overhead, its engines screaming and completely invisible in the gathering darkness. As the whine of the jet fades into the distance, a second F-16 thunders thru the sky as it follows its wingman.

As the sound of the F-16 flight fades into the darkness, the Landing Zone becomes quiet once again.

Behind me I can hear Air Force Security Police having a quiet discussion as they guard the entrance to the Airfield. One of the airmen cracks a joke, and his friends subdued laughter echoes out over the airfield and blends in with the distant sounds of a United States military base at war.

Glancing down at my watch I realize that the flight is now 5 minutes late. With a grimace, I stare at the watch until the blue indigo backlight winks out.

It is not really a big surprise.

A sudden flash causes me to shield my eyes as a large truck turns a corner and approaches up the length of the runway. As it rumbles to a stop in front of me, I can see that the flat bed of the truck is piled high with rucksacks. A second set of headlights approaches and a bus pulls up behind the flatbed truck, packed full with soldiers.

The quiet night is suddenly alive with activity.

The bus disgorges a seemingly endless line of soldiers.

As they disembark from the bus, they cross in front of the headlights and their forms are momentarily backlit. As my eyes adjust to the harsh, almost unreal light cast by the halogen bulbs, their black silhouetted forms begin to take clearer shape.

In the darkness, their digital pattern uniforms have taken on a uniform shade of gray. On their left shoulders, they bear the Screaming Eagle patch of the 101st Airborne Division.

The soldiers carry their weapons with confidence, and they are armed to the teeth.

Scattered among the M4 Carbines with holographic optics and ACOGS are sniper rifles, shotguns, and short-barreled Squad Assault Weapons. Every weapon seems to have been modified to fit the user, forming a more lethal package.

It is an impressive display of firepower.

As the soldiers walk around, I notice that more than half of them are wearing unit patches on their right shoulder as well as their left. More than half have served more than 30 days in a combat zone.

Combat veterans.

They look lean, fit, and hungry.

They must be Infantry.

As the soldiers mill around the rapidly emptying bus, some order begins to form out of chaos. A tall, dark, squad leader begins to shout, swearing beautifully as only a seasoned NCO can. Responding to the string of expletives, the soldiers immediately begin to form up into something resembling ranks. Over by the truck, a detail of soldiers begin to toss rucksacks onto the ground in front of the formation.

In the brief flash of light of a passing HUMMWV, I recognize a familiar face in the back for the formation.

Swearing softly to myself under my breath, I jump up and walk slowly thru the milling crowd.

Standing quietly on the tarmac is a tall First Lieutenant. His blond hair is cropped short, and he has a serious expression on his face as he watches the soldiers of his unit organize themselves. As I walk up and stand in front of him, it takes a half of a second for him to recognize me before his face breaks out into a grin.

It has been two years.

“Shit man, where the hell did you come from?”

I reach out and shake his hand.

He has a strong grip.

“Hey Chris, I am here taking care of some soldier issues, when did you get here?”

“We just got into country, and are heading out east.”

I smile in the darkness.

I am glad I ran into him.

A West Pointer, he and I were in the same platoon at the Infantry Officer Basic Course at Fort Benning, Georgia. Two years earlier, during IOBC, I had rolled my ankle painfully on the last mile of a twelve mile ruck march.

In the humid Georgia heat I was carrying a 70lb load, and as my ankle started to swell, I slowly started to fall back from the rest of the platoon.

With a glance Chris had taken in the situation, fallen in next to me, and shortened his lanky stride to keep pace.

When I crossed the finish line a few hundred meters behind the rest of the platoon, I didn’t cross it alone.

It is a simple thing, but it is something that I will never forget.

Reaching over he takes a hold of my left shoulder and turns my uniform so that he can see my patch.

“What unit did you deploy with? How long have you been here?”

“I am still with the same unit I was with during IOBC. We got here about 5 months ago.”

He lets go of my sleeve and looks down.

“How are your guys doing? Holding up?”

“So far so good. Thankfully we haven’t lost anybody. We are trying to keep it that way.”

He nods in the darkness.

At this, I hesitate.

I wonder if he knows.

“Hey Chris, listen, have you heard about Mike Fasnacht?”

His smile falters and his face becomes somber.

“Yeah, I heard. He was killed in Tikrit.”

I nod my head.

1LT Mike Fasnacht was a classmate of ours at IOBC. He was friendly, smart, athletic, and always ready with a smile. He was one of the most technically and tactically competent soldiers in the class.

A friend of mine had been at Ranger school with him. He told me that when Mike had fallen down a steep ravine during the Mountain Phase, he had thought that there was no way Mike could have survived the fall.

Looking down the cliff face, he was astonished when he saw Mike standing down below and dusting himself off with a smile on his face.

That was Mike.

When I found out in an email that he had been killed by an IED, I saw his bright blue eyes and sunburned smiling face in my dreams for a week.

Quietly, I reply.

“It happened four months ago. Just after I got in country.”

Chris falls silent.

I almost hate to ask.

But I have to.

“Chris, have you heard about anybody else?”

The tall Lieutenant steps out of the way of one of his soldiers as he walks by with a rucksack on his back. Around us, the soldiers are distributing the heavy packs, and the pile on the flatbed truck has diminished noticeably.

Chris nods his head.

“Yeah, do you remember Smiley?”

“Sure, one of your West Point classmates, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, he was hurt by an IED a few months ago. I heard it was pretty bad.”

Shit.

In the sky to the south I can see two Blackhawks begin their approach. They come in hard and fast, dropping rapidly out of the sky. At the last second, the lead bird flares its nose as it approaches and slows down, red lights springing on as it lands and taxis to a stop.

Landing behind the mass of soldiers, I see the crew chief jump out and unwind the black cable that connects his headset to the Blackhawk.

The NCO in charge of the pad runs up to the Crew Chief and shouts in his ear over the deafening roar of the helicopters engine. The crew chief answers him back and the NCO turns and after spotting me in the mass of soldiers, gives me the thumbs up.

It’s my flight.

I turn back to Chris.

“It’s my bird, I have to go.”

He nods his head and looks as if he wants to say something.

I hold out my hand and lean closer so that he can hear me over the scream of the two Blackhawks that have landed behind him. The soldiers in his platoon flow around us like ghosts as they begin to move out into the darkness away from the helicopters.

“Listen Chris, it was great seeing you.”

I fall quiet for a second.

I know I will probably never run into him again.

There is not much to say.

He holds out his hand.

I take it.

“Thanks Adam, it was good to see you too. Take care of yourself.”

“You too man.”

My soul feels heavy as I turn away. Breaking out of the crowd of soldiers, I sling my rifle and head towards the open door of the lead Blackhawk.

As I approach the open door, I close my eyes, and say a quiet prayer.

A prayer for Mike and a prayer for Chris.

A prayer for all of the soldiers I have known in the Army over the years.

A prayer for my brothers-in-arms.

Save the Rainforests

2005-09-27T02:01:00.000-07:00

The morning sun has brought with it an unusually cloying heat, and I find myself dosing off in the relative quiet of the Alamo CP. Outside, soldiers pull security on the rooftop and on the front gate, and they fight to stay awake after a long night of running missions.

Inside the Alamo, soldiers that have just come off of a guard shift lay fully clothed on green, sweat stained cots. Two small rooms have been outfitted with air conditioning, and they have crammed a dozen cots into each. Others lay sprawled on the uneven tile floor, their noses buried in month old copies of well-worn magazines and tattered paperback books.

Coming off of my rounds I can’t seem to find the energy to get up and find a spare cot, so I sit in a chair in the CP and doze.

Yawning, I cover my mouth and glance at my watch.

1300.

The hottest part of the day.

Leaning back in the chair, I stretch out my tired muscles, close my eyes and think of home.

Outside the window to the CP, there is a deafening explosion.

I am suddenly wide awake.

The soldiers sleeping on the cots jerk awake, looking sleepily at one another in confusion and alarm.

There is a second explosion.

“Shit!”

“What the fuck?!”

The soldiers curse as they throw themselves out of their cots and in an organized scramble, snatch up their body armor and run to their battle stations.

Someone outside is shouting.

“Incoming! Incoming!”

We are being mortared.

I find myself on my feet, reaching for the radio.

The I-Com clicks and I hear the excited voice of one of the soldiers on the roof. He is a private, and he shouts excitedly into the radio.

“CP this is Gun 2!”

“Gun 2 this is CP, send it!”

“A house across the street just exploded!”

My whole train of thought stops.

A house just exploded.

What the hell? Outside I can hear the thundering crash of other explosions. They seem to be moving further and further away.

After the fourth explosion there is silence outside.

The silence is deafening.

Glancing out of the door to the CP, I can see that all of the cots are empty. The soldiers have moved to their battle positions, and the Alamo is now at full security.

The mortar attack may be the prelude to a VBIED attack or a ground assault.

I key the handset again.

“Gun 2, tell me exactly what you saw.”

This time the calmer voice of the Sergeant of the Guard replies. He had gone to the roof to check for damages and assess the situation.

“Roger Sir, it looks like something hit the building just south of the Alamo. Probably a mortar round. Whatever it was caused an explosion on the roof. We counted four other explosions. All south of the Alamo running in a line moving east to west.”

“Roger, so the house didn’t explode.”

“That’s a negative sir.”

In the background, I hear the private swear in a sheepish voice.

Things are making a hell of a lot more sense.

I can’t help but smile.

“Alright, get a team together and meet me at the front gate. Let’s check out the damage and see if anyone has been hurt.”

“Roger.”

After notifying Battalion about the attack, I shrug on the rest of my gear and head out into the harsh sunlight. I instantly break out into an uncomfortable sweat beneath the body armor.

A squad of soldiers is assembled and ready to move out. This soon after a mortar attack the soldiers are still tense. They grip their rifles and scan for trouble as we move out of the chicane.

In the town, people are beginning to emerge from their houses. They walk from house to house and check on one another after the attack.

To the southeast, a skinny, barefoot boy is standing at the corner of an intersection. He has dark, curly hair and is wearing striped blue shorts and a green shirt.

I do a doubletake.

“Save the Rainforests” is printed in bold yellow lettering on his tattered green t-shirt.

The irony is painful.

I turn to the squad leader standing next to me.

“Alright, let’s go check out the house that was hit and see what kind of damage was done.”

He motions to his squad, and they begin to fall into teams, spreading out to provide security on both sides of the street. Turning west, we pass near a small huddle of women, dressed head to toe in an all encompassing black. They fall silent as we pass by, and then they continue their hushed discussion.

There is stillness to the air.

As if the town is holding its breath.

A middle age man walks up to the squad as we move thru a trash strewn alley, stepping gingerly over fetid pools of liquid green waste. He is wearing a long, white cotton robe, with yellow sweat stains under the armpits. His teeth are crooked and they shine a dull yellow in his dark, sagging face.

Walking up, he turns and speaks to Max, the interpreter. Max looks like something of a pirate, with a bandanna pulled up over his face and his dark, expressionless eyes looking out underneath heavy brows. Max has a threatening, brooding presence about him, and the man is hesitant to approach him.

Max turns to me.

“Sir, this is the house of the man that was hit.”

“Ok, tell him to show us his house and show us the damage.”

The man listens to Max, and turns abruptly around heading down the muck strewn street. He keeps a fast pace, his sandaled feet stepping neatly over the heaps of refuse stacked up against the walls of the crumbling yellow brick buildings.

Up ahead, I can see the house described by the Sergeant of the Guard. The two story building rises haphazardly into the sky, as if the second level was added as an afterthought. Still, the house shows signs of wealth, with a pigeon coop on the roof, and clear glass windows.

Approaching the house, I quickly reassess the situation.

There is not a single pane of glass left unbroken.

In fact, there is no glass left unbroken in the windows of the houses on the other side of the street either.

The blast from the mortar round has shattered the flimsy, single paned windows, blowing fragments of jagged glass out into the dirt and dust.

We are lucky that there weren’t any serious casualties.

Looking up, I can see clear blue sky thru a jagged hole in the reinforced cement balcony overhanging the front door. The cement is smashed and scarred, with bent and twisted strips of rebar sticking thru the gaping hole.

The house took a direct hit.

The sandaled man walks directly up to the house and steps over the cracked rubble that has been blasted from his roof. Entering the building he is closely followed by the squad leader and two of the soldiers from his alpha team.

As they enter the building, each of the soldiers look up at the hole, and their upturned faces are briefly illuminated by the powerful sun shining thru the jagged hole.

Outside the building I stop and watch the activity across the street. A construction crew is squatting across the muddy road, watching with wary eyes as the remainder of the soldiers in the patrol secure the perimeter of the home. Squatting on their haunches, they are mixing cement by hand in round shallow dishes. As they mix each batch, the cement is layered onto a row of rough cracked brick, each trowel full slopping over the sides and cementing the ragged rows of brick together.

The crumbling bricks manage to hold themselves together.

I just can’t figure out how.

Directly in front of the wary bricklayers, one man in a blue shirt and loose black pants stained with cement powder walks barefoot on the dirt, sweeping up fragments of glass with a tattered broom.

Although I am sure he can feel my gaze upon him, he never looks in my direction.

Above me I hear a shout, and the backlit head of my squad leader pokes thru the mortar hole in the roof. In his right hand, I can see the fin and tail section of a 60mm mortar round.

He is smiling from ear to ear.

“Hey Sir, I got it. Looks like the back azimuth is 146 degrees.”

“Roger, sounds good. Check for any other damage and then come on back down.”

In my head I do a quick calculation. An azimuth of 146 degrees would put the origin of the mortar across a small canal and in the empty fields of an area that is infrequently patrolled by U.S. forces.

My platoon will have to pay the farmers in that district an unscheduled visit.

Soon.

The team leader descends the staircase and exits the building, followed close on his heels by his two soldiers and the owner of the house. The owner of the house hesitates for an instant as he looks at Max, and then he approaches me with a depreciating smile on his face.

As he lights a cigarette, he speaks to Max in an insistent voice.

Max flushes with indignation.

“Max, what is it.”

Max turns to me, his face an angry red.

“He says he wants payment.”

I stop in my tracks and turn around.

The man stops walking and lowers the cigarette.

In a quiet voice, I ask Max to translate.

“Max, ask him what exactly he wants payment for?”

Max translates, and the man answers forcefully.

“He says he wants $1,000.00 for the damage to his house. He wants the Americans to pay for it.”

Beside me, one of the soldiers stiffens. Despite his expressionless face and black-mirrored sunglasses, I can tell he wants to say something to the Iraqi.

I raise my hand slightly to forestall any outburst.

I am pissed off enough for the both of us.

“Why does he feel that we owe him money?”

“He says that you owe him money because the insurgents damaged his home with their mortar attack.”

“Then you tell him that he can ask the fucking insurgents for his money. They are the ones that shot at his home.”

“He says that because the insurgents were shooting at you, you are to blame. His house would not have been damaged if you were not here.”

Max finishes translating. Furious with indignation, he starts to swear at the man in a mixture of English and Arabic, but all I can make out is the word “motherfucker.”

For a second I am speechless.

I can’t believe that this man considers the attack our fault.

At that instant, every attack I have ever experienced flashes before my eyes.

Roadside bombs exploding as our patrols pass by.

Soldiers running for cover from incoming mortar rounds.

Charred and flaming armored vehicles, exploding from the inside out.

Automatic weapons fire raking across an open field.

Dead bodies lying in ditches.

And this man is blaming us for the mortar attack.

He is blaming me.

A burst of frustrated emotions erupts inside of me.

Looking directly at the man, I point my finger at him and spit out each word in contempt.

“You listen to me closely. What you say is an insult. We did not attack your home today. We came here to help. We are not to blame. If you want to blame someone, blame the terrorists. Ask the terrorists for the money. Ask them to repair your home, and they will kill you without thinking twice.”

Max’s voice reflects my restrained anger. For the first time that I can remember, he translates almost as quickly as I speak, our words blending together.

The man is standing still, his face ashen.

He takes an unsteady drag on the cigarette, and begins to smile, as if hoping to smooth things over.

“Mister. Mister.”

In a smooth tone, he begins to tell Max that he had not just in fact asked me for money.

That he didn’t know what he was saying.

That it was all just a big misunderstanding.

My hand drops wearily to my side.

The humidity, stress, and lack of sleep is starting to take a toll.

After a moment of silence, I turn around and walk away, inhaling deeply and forcing myself to relax.

This is not worth getting upset about.

As we move east down the road looking for the next impact site, the soldiers of the patrol fall into a lose formation. Checking the formation, the squad leader makes a quick adjustment before turning around and walking on with his lead fire team.

In his gloved right hand he has the body of the 60mm mortar round.

I shake my head and breathe deeply, the anger flowing away.

Maybe it was all just a misunderstanding.

Glancing over my shoulder I see that the man has quickly disappeared from site.

Then I mutter under my breath.

"Bullshit."

That man knew exactly what he was saying.

And he knew exactly how much of an insult it would be.

Justice

2005-09-22T08:32:00.000-07:00

The black up-armored Suburban speeds quietly down the paved road.

On either side of the road, concrete blast walls stretch into the distance, cordoning off sections of the “Green Zone” and protecting sensitive installations. It is a sunny morning, and the weather has cooled enough that there was a slight chill when I crawled out of my bunk on the grounds of the U.S. Embassy in Baghdad.

Despite wearing my full body armor and helmet in the vehicle, I can’t help but smile and stretch out my legs.

Compared to a HUMMWV there is plenty of room.

As the convoy speeds away from the Embassy and down a nearly deserted street, I find myself staring with fascination at a sight that I have never seen before.

A sight that is intimately familiar.

Twin scimitars thrust high into the air, steel grey edges crossing above a wide broad road.

In the distance, two other scimitars rise into the sky, their bleak points piercing the heavens.

The parade field.

It is a scene from my childhood.

From the 1991 gulf war.

Images of thousands of Republican Guard, goose-stepping in formation, their bayonets gleaming in the sunlight.

Images of white clad suicide bombers, declaring themselves Saddam Fedayeen and swearing eternal loyalty.

Images of an endless line of Scud missiles, draped with the black, green, and white of the Iraqi Flag driving past thousands of troops.

Images of Saddam Hussein firing his gold plated AK-47 into the air.

A chill runs down my back as the convoy drives past the now abandoned symbols of one man’s pride.

I can’t believe I am actually here.

Shaking my head, I focus on the road ahead of me. Up ahead, the first of the Chevrolet suburbans in the convoy has pulled off the road, and the soldiers are cautiously getting out. I can see them scanning up and down the road, looking for oncoming traffic.

As my vehicle pulls to a stop, I take the covering off of my optic and turn the laser sight on.

Baghdad is unfamiliar territory.

Following the other soldiers thru a door in the concrete blast wall, I find myself walking thru the remains of a park. To my front, a hideous concrete structure rises into the air. The circular concrete building is capped by a ruined clock tower. The clock is shattered and charred, a burnt-out relic of the fighting during the invasion.

The whole structure is surrounded by poured concrete benches, faded green grass and the pale green palm trees of a desolate park.

Turning to the soldier next to me, I ask quietly.

“Hey, what is that thing?”

The soldier turns to me with a smile.

I realize with a start that he is not a soldier.

He is a sailor.

A Naval JAG officer.

The JAG officer is wearing a spotless uniform, and his boots look brand new. His body armor is clean and neat, and I notice that he holds his weapon awkwardly while clutching at a sheaf of papers in his left hand.

His dark features display a young and earnest face.

He is one of the prosecutors in Iraq’s Central Criminal Court.

“As far as I have heard, it used to be a museum that housed the presents that people of Iraq gave to Saddam Hussein.”

As he looks at the building, the smile fades slightly.

Then he speaks as if to himself.

“I use the term ‘presents’ lightly. Most people gave Saddam gifts so that he would not kill off their families.”

He falls silent, and sets his shoulders, looking straight ahead.

Looking up at the gray concrete building towering above me, I find myself fighting a feeling of revulsion.

Sometimes it feels like this entire country is built on blood.

Entering Iraq’s Central Criminal Court building, I walk past armed Iraqi guards, and thru a metal detector manned by uniformed Iraqi Police. Despite carrying two firearms, a knife, hundreds of rounds of ammunition, and wearing a body armor and a helmet, the metal detector does not go off.

I hope to god that thing works.

Inside the building, the grey concrete dome rises high into the air, and I find myself in a wide circular hallway with stairs leading up to the tower and down to the remains of a theatre in the basement.

Down in the basement, the JAG officer shows me where to put my body armor and rifle along with the other soldiers that have come to testify.

My 9mm Beretta, I tuck prominently into my belt, John Wayne style.

With this many armed Iraqis around I cannot afford to take any chances.

One of the soldiers glances over at the theatre. The stage has been ripped up and only the concrete support pillars remain. The theatre seats have been reduced to bent scrap metal.

He turns to me and speaks in a low voice.

“I heard that when the first troops found this place, the stage was set up as a torture chamber, and in between torturing people, Saddam used it to show snuff films to his friends.”

I suppress a shudder looking at the stage.

I wouldn’t put it past him.

The JAG officer walks up in his body armor.

“Alright, the trial is going to begin in a little bit. Let me take you upstairs and show you where to go.”

Turning, I follow him silently up the fake marble stairs to a waiting area just outside a courtroom.

The courtroom is small, and built out of a dark, richly stained wood. Several of these small courtrooms line the walls, built to accommodate a judge, desk, four chairs, and a wooden bench.

Outside the courtrooms, court appointed lawyers stand around talking quietly. Iraqi men and women, either family members of defendants, or witnesses present to testify, stand about with numbered signs around their necks in various stages of unease.

Against the back wall, I see the first female Iraqi police officer I have ever seen. The darkly pretty woman is wearing a light blue headscarf to match her blue police shirt, and a long blue denim skirt.

She is wearing heels.

It is a striking combination.

She notices me looking at her, and gazes boldly back, a slight smile on her lips.

I quickly turn away.

Standing every few feet is a U.S. Military Policeman, keeping a careful eye on the proceedings. They are clad in full body armor and in such mundane surroundings they look strangely intimidating.

The JAG officer looks up from his file of notes.

“I am going to go get the detainees. We are going to be in the courtroom on the left, and the Judge for the case is named Hassan. Just remember what we talked about last night and we should be good to go.”

I nod my head.

“So this Judge, Hassan, is going to decide what the facts are?”

The JAG officer puts down his notes and runs a hand briefly across his eyes.

“Yes, you see, this is a civil law system. You have to explain the facts of the case to the Judge, and then other witnesses will also explain their version of the events. The defendants will then be allowed to speak.”

He drops his hand and continues.

“The Judge, as the arbiter of all that is good and wise, is supposed to be able to sort thru the different stories and make a decision as to exactly what the facts are.”

“What happens then?”

“Well at that point, the Judge’s version of those facts is then forwarded up to a panel of three judges, who read the ‘facts’ and make a determination of guilt or innocence. A lot depends on the Judge's slant to the facts, and he is going to be looking at your body language and mannerisms to decide if you are telling the truth. I am acting as the prosecutor in the case, and I will be working to ensure that an accurate version of the events is presented, and to make sure that the Judge understands that version of the events.”

He falls quiet for a second and adjusts his immaculate body armor.

It doesn’t seem to fit him very well.

“Unfortunately, the Judge can put any spin on it he wants, and the three Judge panel will be influenced by his version of the events.”

In Iraq’s Central Criminal Court, even the slightest discrepancy about the facts can get the case dismissed.

Not the desired outcome.

I nod my head and he motions for me to stay put as he heads back down the stairs to get the detainees.

It doesn’t take long.

Turning around I recognize a familiar face coming up the steps wearing a yellow jumpsuit and handcuffs. For some reason the dark face, rough beard and disfigured fingers stand out like a beacon among all of the other detainees wearing yellow jumpsuits.

I haven’t seen him in four months.

Not since my patrol stopped his car at a snap check point, and he pulled a rocket hidden in white burlap sack out of the vehicle.

Not since an EOD Sergeant told me that what I had was a “righteous catch.”

With a flicker of recognition his eyes fix on my face. I feel certain that he recognizes me as one of the soldiers that captured him and sent him to Abu Ghraib.

He has waited there for the last four months, awaiting trial.

Behind him, I see a second figure in a yellow jump suit. He is younger, and looks like he has lost some weight.

It is the driver of the vehicle.

The driver and the passenger don’t look at one another.

The JAG officer appears again behind the detainees with a harried look on his face. He shakes my hand and then escorts me into the courtroom. The two detainees follow and sit side-by-side on the wooden bench at the back of the room, carefully watched by a Military Policeman.

The JAG officer sits opposite me.

Iraq’s Central Criminal Court is the only Court in the entire country that hears cases involving terrorist or insurgent activity.

Any insurgent detained anywhere in the country will eventually find his way to this courthouse.

One Court for an entire country filled with insurgent and criminal activity.

It is an incredibly daunting task.

No wonder he looks so tired.

I’m getting tired just thinking about it.

In the seat next to me sits the court appointed lawyer for the defendant. He is a small, nervous man, and is constantly patting his balding head, and twitching in his seat.

I dislike him instantly.

After a few minutes, during which the JAG officer reads a file on the facts of the case, the Judge walks into the room and takes a seat behind his desk.

He is a serious young man, with manicured fingers and a neatly trimmed moustache. Fresh out of judge school, he is wearing a gray suit and tie, with a gold watch and matching gold rimmed glasses.

To his right, an older, graying, slightly bent man takes his seat. Blank sheets of writing paper and a neat stack of carbon paper form a pile in front of him.

As the court reporter, he will write down everything that is said by each witness and the defendant.

The JAG officer looks up from his notes, glances at the judge, and then stands on his feet.

As everyone else rises, so do I.

The JAG officer says:

“Do you swear to tell the truth, so help you god?”

As he swears me in, the Iraqi judge nods his head with a serious expression on his face.

It is almost as if he thinks that there is a chance I will say no.

“I do.”

“You may be seated.”

With that, the trial begins.

“Are the two men you apprehended here in this room?”

I turn in my seat and point at the two individuals.

“Yes sir, he was the driver, and he was the passenger.”

The two men gaze blankly back at me.

“Please give me the facts of the case.”

“On or about . . .”

Speaking slowly and quietly, with long periods of silence in between each sentence to allow for the translation, I explain the entire story to the interpreter.

The interpreter translates my explanation into Arabic, and tells it to the Judge.

The Judge turns to the court reporter and tells him what to write down, thereby establishing the official facts of the case.

It is a slow and tedious process.

The JAG officer quietly guides the story as I speak, to ensure I hit upon all of the important facts.

When I finish he will also be allowed to cross-examine the defendants when they appear before the Judge.

After about 15 minutes of testimony, I finally get to the good part.

Raising my voice, I conclude:

“ . . . at that point, I detained him!”

For some reason, I was told that if I didn’t say those words, the charges would not stick.

I say the words with relish.

I note with disappointment that the entire effect is lost in translation.

After answering some final questions posed by the Judge, and signing copies of my testimony, I am escorted from the room. The Judge calls for a ten minute break, and the JAG officer follows, ready to call his next witness after the break and repeat the same procedure all over again.

Once outside the courtroom and in the hallway, he turns to me with a smile and another handshake.

“Hey Lieutenant, you did a great job! You are National Guard, right? What did you say you do in the civilian world?”

I have to smile at this.

“I am a lawyer.”

He looks blankly at me for a second, and his jaw drops open. Recovering quickly, his smile gets even wider.

”You’re shitting me! What the hell are you doing in the Infantry? Why aren’t you JAG? You’re an Infantry officer and a lawyer? That’s hot shit! I don’t know how you do it. No wonder . . .”

He falls silent for a second, a calculating look on his face.

“What do you practice?”

“Most of what I do is litigation.”

“Where are you licensed?”

“Florida.”

He gazes at me with a speculative look in his eyes. Then quietly and deliberately, he hefts one of the manila folders in his hand and looks directly at me.

“So would you like to prosecute a case?”

His tone is casual.

My heart skips a beat.

I can’t believe what he is offering me.

I don’t hesitate for a second.

“Absolutely.”

I can’t contain the excitement in my voice.

To get to appear before the Central Criminal Court of Iraq and prosecute an insurgent is almost like a dream come true.

But then a thought occurs to me.

“Look, I am not admitted here. I know nothing of the procedures. I am not even a JAG officer. Can I appear Ad Hac Vice before the court?”

He looks down at his watch and then he hefts the manila folder in his hand again.

“I am going to ask the judge if you can appear for this one particular occasion. You take the folder and familiarize yourself with the case. Don’t worry about the procedures. They haven’t really developed their procedural process yet. Just repeat what you saw me do while I was questioning you. Do the same for each witness, make sure they hit on the salient points, and then question the defendant. Don’t go after him too hard, or the Judge will get annoyed. Just poke a hole in his story, make sure the Judge understands that hole, and then cut it short. The entire trial should only take a little more than an hour.”

He hands me the file and points to another room across the hallway.

“I will go get your first two witnesses and the defendant, and meet you in that courtroom over there. The trial is supposed to begin in about 15 minutes. That should be plenty of time to learn the facts.”

He disappears back down the steps, off to get the two witnesses and the Military Police with the defendant.

Flipping open the manila folder, I quickly review a summary of the facts. Then I read thru the sworn statements made by the witnesses and a summary of the points that need to be made.

A weapons dealer was caught selling machine guns out of the trunk of his car.

The two soldiers that caught him are here to testify against him.

The dealer denies everything and claims that the soldiers planted the weapons on him, and let their interpreter beat him up.

Shit.

For an instant, I close my eyes.

I feel like I am back in law school, having to read a brief on the fly and answer questions about the case posed by a law professor practicing the Socratic method.

Taking out my notepad, I jot down all of the important points I think the witnesses will need to hit.

I find myself shaking my head.

This is surreal.

The JAG officer appears back up the stairs with the two witnesses in tow. He is slightly out of breath from the climb in his body armor. Both of the witnesses are Sergeants, and I had spoken with them earlier that morning in the green zone.

The JAG officer introduces me.

“Sergeant, this it the prosecutor for the case. Just listen to what he tells you, remember what we talked about last night, and everything should go smoothly.”

The Sergeant looks at me questioningly.

As far as he knew, I was a witness like him and had never been to the Court before.

Out of the corner of his mouth he whispers.

“Hey Sir, are you a lawyer or something?”

I nod my head while keeping an eye on the notes in the manila folder as I memorize the facts of the case.

“Yes, I am.”

He looks relieved.

“Shit Sir, I thought you were Infantry.”

Despite myself, I can’t help but smile.

Behind us, a hard faced man in a yellow jumpsuit walks up the stairs escorted by the Military Police.

I recognize him from the photographs in the file.

The weapons dealer.

The Sergeant, who seemed about to say something, notices the weapons dealer and falls silent, his steady glare fixed on the face of the man he captured months earlier.

The door to the Courtroom opens, and the JAG officer beckons me forward.

“Alright, you ready? Good. Bring the witnesses and the defendant. I will talk to the Judge.”

I walk into the courtroom and sit in the chair reserved for the prosecutor, indicating to the Sergeant where he should sit. Behind me, the defendant sits on the wooden bench, a military policeman hovering nearby.

The Judge looks up from his notes. He is an older man, with distinguished features and graying hair. He keeps his silver glasses perched low on his nose, and seems to look over them more than thru them. On his desk in front of him, is a now familiar pile of photographs.

The JAG officer speaks to the interpreter, who turns to the Judge.

“Sir, this is Lieutenant Adam. We ask permission that this officer appear as prosecutor before the Court. He is an attorney in the United States, and is licensed in the State of Florida.”

The Judge looks at me quietly. His gaze holds mine for an instant, and then he curtly nods his head.

“Yes, he may appear as prosecutor.”

I feel a small shock of excitement.

I just got admitted to practice in the highest Court in Iraq.

I am only two years out of law school.

Hot damn.

With a final nod, the JAG officer looks back down at his watch.

“I have to get back to my hearing. Do you have any more questions? No? Okay, I will be back when you are done.”

With that, he smiles encouragingly, and walks out of the room.

The room seems smaller than the court room in which I had been a witness.

The walls seem a little closer in, and it feels like there is slightly less air.

But then again, maybe it’s just me.

The Judge looks the Sergeant up and down, and asks for the Sergeant’s last name, state of residence, and rank.

Then he turns to me, his silver glasses flashing in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

The room is quiet.

Expectant.

Looking around, I remember the sequence of events from the earlier trial.

Then I stand up, and raise my right hand, preparing to administer the oath.

The Sergeant, watching me, also stands and raises his right hand.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, so help you god?”

The Sergeant nods his head.

“I do.”

I drop my right hand.

“You may be seated.”

And with that, my second trial in Iraq’s Central Criminal Court has begun.

A Day Like Any Other

2005-09-15T09:42:00.000-07:00

It is a day like any other.

The sun has risen quickly, and in a few short minutes banished the early morning gloom. Looking to the east, the newly risen sun hangs like a huge fiery disk low over the rooftops of brick farm houses and the shaded groves of green trees. This early in the morning, the air is still cool, and the slight breeze blowing from the west is clean and refreshing.

Lying behind a chalky dirt berm, I readjust my position to get a better view of the road to the west. The partially paved road runs north and south alongside a major canal, and is pockmarked by the shattered asphalt and burnt-out craters from IED explosions.

Just a few days ago an IED buried beneath the road exploded and completely destroyed an armored HUMMWV, the front end of the vehicle shattered and the engine block sent flying in pieces thru the air.

We are here to capture or kill the insurgents digging the holes and laying the explosives.

Before dawn, my patrol has set up a traffic control point. Lying in wait, unsuspecting vehicles drive right up to the patrol’s position. When they get close enough, soldiers jump out of their hide site, and flash the vehicles with white lights. The vehicles are then stopped and searched. The key is to remain hidden until the vehicle is too close to turn and run.

It is a risky technique, but one that has proven to be very effective in the past.

To the south, about a kilometer away, the second half of my Platoon led by the Platoon Sergeant, has set up another traffic control point. This morning we are controlling access on two of the three main roads leading into a town known to shelter insurgents.

A Sergeant is lying next to me on the dirt berm, staring intently at something on the road.

“Hey Sir, look at this.”

A black, four door Daewoo Prince has approached our position, and has slowed down considerably.

I can see the occupants of the vehicle staring in our direction. It is possible that someone in the vehicle has spotted a soldier, or one of the HUMMWV antennas that stick out over the concealment offered by the dirt berm. The vehicle continues to slow, and almost rolls to complete stop, when all of a sudden the driver guns the engine, and the vehicle speeds south down the road.

Right towards the second half of my Platoon.

“Warrior 2/7 this is Warrior 2/6, we have a black, four door Prince that may have spotted us and just took off at a high rate of speed south along Route ‘Bull.’ He should be approaching your position.”

The radio clicks as the Platoon Sergeant responds.

“Roger, we’ll stop him.”

Lying on the berm and waiting for another vehicle to approach our checkpoint, I listen to the radio traffic between the three vehicles of the Platoon Sergeant’s patrol.

And then I hear something unexpected.

“This is Warrior 2/2, we are taking fire! Moving to engage!”

To the south, an element of my Platoon is being shot at.

Jumping up from the berm, I head to my vehicle. Picking up the handset on the more powerful vehicle radio, I call the Platoon Sergeant.

“Warrior 2/7 this is Warrior 2/6, what is your status?”

“Roger Sir, Warrior 2/2 has taken fire, we are moving to his position now.”

In the background I can hear the gunner of his vehicle crew shouting something.

I can also hear automatic weapons fire.

“2/7 this is 2/6, I need a grid coordinate to your position!”

“Roger, wait one.”

My entire patrol has stood up and moved to their vehicles, all eyes oriented south, the checkpoint operation abandoned.

Suddenly, my gunner exclaims under his breath.

“Oh Shit.”

A green star cluster has exploded in the southern sky, showering the area with luminescent phosphorous and marking an enemy targets position.

I key the radio again.

“Thundebolt X-Ray this is Warrior 2/6! My 2/7 element is in contact and is taking small arms fire. Approximate grid coordinates are MN 345 876. Are there any aviation assets available?”

The Battalion Command Center is more than 20 kilometers from my position, and communication is sketchy. The Battle Captain in the TOC comes thru audibly, but is broken and distorted.

“Warrior 2/6…. Negative… will call Brigade… vector aviation assets… standbye.”

So no air on station, but some is on the way.

That is better than nothing.

To the south another star cluster explodes in the sky.

Every fiber in my body screams at me to load up my patrol and head towards the sound of the fighting.

Instead, I wait.

My training tells me that without knowing the enemy situation, the location of friendly forces, and the direction to the enemy, rolling in with our guns blazing, without an informed plan could possibly be one of the worst things I could do.

The army calls it “tactical patience.”

I call it the longest ten minutes of my life.

The radio squeals with feedback.

“2/6 this is 2/7! We are being engaged from multiple positions to the east! We have one “Tango” down. Grid MN 3457 8761! Cross the canal to the east!”

He is out of breath. His voice almost frantic.

In the background, I can hear someone shouting and the sound of sustained machine gun fire.

One “Tango” down.

The soldiers have killed someone.

The gunner of White 3, listening to the transmission, can hold it in no longer, and from his turret he shouts at no one in particular.

“Let’s fucking go!”

The soldiers are eager to get to their brothers that are taking fire.

So am I.

I key the handset.

“Alright Move! Watch for fire from the East! Head over the Canal and then turn south onto the Canal Road.”

“This is White 3, Roger.”

The lead vehicle takes off speeding down the road. The engine of my vehicle whines as the driver floors the gas pedal. We should be in sight of the action within 2 or 3 minutes.

I take a deep breath and calm myself down, then I take a second to check my weapon.

Now is not the time to make a mistake.

“Thunderbolt X-Ray, this is Warrior 2/6! 2/6 element is moving to MN 3457 8761 to link up with 2/7! 2/7 reports one Tango down!”

With the engine of the vehicle screaming at our high rate of speed, I cannot make out Battalion’s reply.

The patrol rounds a bend in the road and crosses the main canal.

The sound of machine gun fire is intense.

As my vehicle comes to a screeching halt, I pick up my I-Com and yell, “Let’s go!”

Without waiting for a response, I open the heavy armored door and step out onto the hard packed dirt. Taking cover behind my vehicle, I survey the scene.

To my right and left, the squad of dismounted infantry flies out of their vehicles, and moves to take up positions along the berm of a second, smaller canal. The soldiers are scanning for targets, their weapons held at the ready and oriented toward the sound of the firing.

This second canal is separating us from the rest of my Platoon.

This close to the canal the farms are well irrigated. There is too much overgrowth and scrub brush to be able to see more than a few dozen meters. The insurgents are too well concealed for me to positively identify an enemy target.

I have no targets.

Without positive identification, I cannot engage.

We have to move.

Over the I-Com, I hear a transmission from the other patrol.

“Smoke to mark the target! We are taking fire from the small shack! Firing HE rounds!”

High Explosive Rounds.

Shit.

Without warning, the gunner in the vehicle behind me stands almost straight up in his turret, and begins to engage with his M4, the single, sharp cracks distinct amidst all of the other noise.

He is shooting single shots at a target moving in the tree-line.

A target that I can’t see.

Shouting over the din of the fire, I raise my right hand over my head and spin it in a circular motion.

“Load up!”

The soldiers see the signal and dash back to their vehicles, no questions asked.

I key the hand-mike on my I-Com.

“2/7 this is 2/6! We are crossing the second canal now and are moving to your position.”

I have got to get to the rest of my Platoon.

The heavy armored HUMMWV kicks up a massive cloud of dust as it turns around on the narrow, dirt packed strip running north and south between the two canals. Gunning the engine, the vehicle lurches forward, turns east, and crosses over the second canal bridge. As it turns south and heads down a narrow road bordered on both sides by a chain link fence, I hear my gunner and RTO begin cursing in the back.

“Shit! Small arms fire and red marking smoke to our 9 o’clock!”

“Sir, we have got small arms fire to our 9 o’clock.”

To the east, at the 9 o’clock rounds are flying past the vehicle.

I hear them, but my attention is focused ahead.

Up ahead, the first vehicle in my convoy begins to engage a target, the gunner laying down well aimed suppressive fire. Up ahead on the road are the three vehicles from the other patrol. As my convoy pulls up to their rear vehicle, I get out and run up to the front of the column.

Behind the rear HUMMWV is the driver. He is a Specialist, and he is older than he looks. He is standing behind his vehicle, facing towards the sound of the gunfire, and keeping an eye on the tree-line.

“Hey, where are the rest of the dismounts? Where is the fire coming from?”

Adrenaline has surged thru my body, and everything seems sharper and more in-focus.

I speak to the Specialist as calmly as I possibly can, despite the violent pounding of my heart.

And at this moment, time stops.

Looking over my left shoulder, I see a line of dirt being kicked up by rounds impacting in a dry, dusty field. I look impassionedly at the small explosions of dirt and dust. A part of me absently tracks the line of incoming fire, watching the rounds hit the ground further away, and then move closer and closer to my position.

The rounds are impacting in a line that runs parallel to the vehicles.

Then I hear a cracking sound.

It is the sound of rounds breaking the sound barrier as they pass over my head.

Someone is shooting at me.

I scan the tree-line, my M-4 Carbine held at the ready and the Close Combat Optic leveled at the pale green grove of trees.

No targets.

Shit.

Behind me, the Gunner of White 3 is still laying down suppressive fire, the sharp cracks of his rifle drowning out the more distant, yet distinct AK-47 fire.

I turn away from the sound of the firing.

Turning away is not an easy thing to do.

My instinct is to move towards the fighting and engage the enemy.

Right now, that is not my job.

Gaining situational awareness and maneuvering my Platoon is.

I look at the wide eyed soldier in front of me. He is staring in the direction of the firefight. I wave my hand in front of his face, and his eyes snap back in my direction.

“Where is the rest of the Platoon? Who are they engaging?”

“Sir, three or four guys with AK-47s were in a vehicle. The vehicle saw us, reversed, and then slammed into this fence and the guys bailed out! I don’t know how many of them there were! There are black ski masks, an AK-47, and a muddy shovel in the vehicle!”

He points to a battered black vehicle only a few meters away, tangled up in the remains of a chain link fence. The windows of the vehicle have shattered, scattering sharp glass everywhere, and the trunk of the vehicle is smashed in where it impacted a concrete fence post.

The engine is still running.

Glancing back at me, he continues while fingering his rifle.

“There is a two story house just over this fence and we shot a guy that was engaging us from the roof! I am not sure if he is dead or just wounded, but if you go down this road, and hang a right, you can get to the house. I know that 2/2 and some of our dismounts are in there.”

That is what I needed to know.

Turning around, I survey the field. The sound of gunfire has tapered off, and the rounds have stopped impacting on the field in front of my vehicle.

I can no longer hear any sharp cracks in the air.

Either the insurgents have fled, or they have been suppressed by the fire from White 3.

I key the handset on my I-Com.

“2/3 this is 2/6, get your men to my position. Bring along White 1! 2/2 this is 2/6, we are moving to your position now.”

Behind me, the squad of dismounted infantrymen breaks into two fire teams, each fire team taking an opposite side of the road. The soldiers are tense, their eyes scanning the undergrowth and fields for signs of movement. I find myself gripping my rifle a little too hard, and I have to force myself to relax.

I feel a surge of pride as I look at them. They look good. There is no hesitation in their movements as they close with the enemy.

Not one of them has flinched at the sound of gunfire.

I couldn’t possibly ask for finer soldiers.

Moving quickly, the squad heads north, and then east towards the sound of the gunfire, reduced now to the occasional single shot. Behind a tall chain link fence outlining an overgrown compound, I can see a two story farmhouse at the end of a narrow strip of dirt road.

The sporadic fire is coming from inside the compound, from the two story house.

My men are in that house.

The fence separating us is chained and padlocked.

No problem.

I turn and shout to the Squad Leader, pointing to the HUMMWV.

“Smash the fence!”

Without a moment of hesitation, the driver of the HUMMWV backs the six ton vehicle up and guns the engine. The heavy steel bumper on the front grill smashes into the sturdy chain-link fence head on, and with a shuddering crash the front gates of the fence shatter as the chain parts and the hinges give way.

We are thru.

Moving into the choking cloud of dust that has been kicked up by the impact, I am followed closely by the squad of dismounts scanning for movement.

Moving rapidly, I get up to the front porch of the two story house, where I can see members of my Platoon taking cover. The building is solidly built, with arching windows and tall columns on the front porch. The usual yellow clay brick walls are plastered over and the front door is an ornate wood. One of the expensive looking windows is smashed out, and protruding from the window is the short, deadly barrel of a squad automatic weapon.

The building is a veritable fortress.

Around me, the rest of the dismounted squad takes up positions that provide good observation and fields of fire. The Squad Leader is shouting at his squad, organizing them into position and getting them ready to move forward.

From inside the house, one of my team leaders approaches me. He is crouched low and moves quickly. His face is bright red and is covered with sweat. He is breathing heavily, as if he has just gone running in his body armor.

Despite his sweat slicked face, the team leader smiles as he gets to me.

“It is good to see you Sir!”

“It is good to see you too! Where is the fire coming from?”

He looks briefly around. His slight Latin American accent is more obvious than usual as he replies in a clipped voice.

“It is coming from everywhere! In fact, you might want to get down!”

That’s probably a good idea.

I take a knee.

“Where is the rest of the Platoon?”

He points to the east.

“We were taking fire from that shack, but we put some HE rounds into it and the firing stopped. Right now, 2/7 has his vehicle in the field to the east of the shack, and he is engaging targets up there! In the building we have one enemy wounded. He has been shot several times and is in a bad way! They are working on him right now, but he is going to need to be evacuated.”

“Roger. Get him stabilized as best you can. We can’t call a bird in yet, the LZ is still too hot!”

I am not going to endanger one of the Blackhawks by calling it into a hot Landing Zone.

At least, I am not going to do it just to evacuate an insurgent.

The Team Leader nods his head.

“Yes Sir, just let us know and we will work on calling a bird in.”

Turning away from the team leader, I move down the porch steps and up to the Squad Leader that is taking cover by White 1.

“Hey Sergeant, get your squad online! We are going to move thru this field to the right by fire-team, and link up with 2/7.”

Moving rapidly, the soldiers get online, separated from one another by 3-5 meters in this highly restrictive terrain. With the squad in position, the Squad Leader waves his right hand forward, and the squad begins to sweep by fire-team up thru an open field.

As we move, I continue to scan the hedgerow bordering the far end of the field. The hedgerow runs alongside a small irrigation canal, and is thick and full of brambles and reeds. Somewhere beyond the hedgerow is the rest of my Platoon and the remaining insurgents.

I cannot see beyond the hedgerow to outlying field.

I still do not know exactly what is out there.

The day is starting to get warm, and the heat is causing the sweat to run in rivulets down my face. My sunglasses have begun to fog up, making it hard to see. While I move, I take the dark ballistic glasses off and wipe them on my uniform.

It helps . . . some.

Approaching the hedgerow, the squad stops as our movement is blocked by an eight foot deep, water filled canal.

I key the I-Com hanging from my body armor.

“2-7, this is 2-6! We are in position along the first hedgerow to the east of the building at 2/2s position! What is your current location?!”

“2-6, I am about 25 meters to the north of your position. Keep your squad there! We have taken fire from the next hedgerow across the field and we have Apache support. The birds are coming in hot!”

Quietly, I move north along the row of silent, grim faced soldiers. On the other side of a short, chain-link fence is White 7, the Platoon Sergeants vehicle.

As I get up to the vehicle, I can hear the Platoon Sergeant talking on the radio with the Apaches. Behind him, the Platoon medic looks tensely out of the vehicles armored glass windows. In the turret, a young Specialist has his M240B machine gun moving and scanning for targets.

I notice that hundreds of spent shell casings litter the turret and the hood of the vehicle. The Gunner has fired hundreds of rounds.

Then I hear the Apaches.

The sleek, deadly machines drop out of the sky from the south, lined up on the hedgerow that runs north and south parallel to the open field to my front. As the Apache drops down low, I can see the 40mm cannon slung under the cockpit traverse, and a deep, ripping sound emanates from across the field as the Apache strafes the far hedgerow.

Immediately behind it, a second Apache drops low, and again, the violent ripping sound echoes across the field. A haze of dust rises from where the rounds have impacted in the pale green hedgerow.

The sound of the Apache’s cannon has a shocking finality to it.

I release a quiet breath.

Very little could have lived thru that.

As the echoing roar of the cannons fade, the field sounds unnaturally quiet.

High above, the sun glinting off their canopies and flashing in the morning light, the Apaches move into a holding pattern, circling above our position and watching for movement.

I give them a quick wave of thanks, and turn to the Platoon Sergeant.

"Where do you want us?"

The Platoon Sergeant faces me, his face flush with excitement.

“Sir, we have to clear out this open area.”

He points north, out across the hood of his vehicle.

"Roger, we were taking fire back by the house- the rounds were kicking up right in front of the vehicles."

He nods his head.

"We were taking fire from there also, and we just took fire from that house across the field."

Looking out across the fallow field, I see two separate cultivated fields bordered on both sides by fences and hedgerows. To the southeast is the house his position took fire from.

“Okay. I brought you two more dismounts to plus up your squad. Take first squad and sweep around to the right. I will take third Squad and flank around to the left. If anyone is still out there, we will either find their bodies or flush them out.”

Radioing 2/2, I give him permission to call for the Medivac to come and pick up the wounded insurgent. Within ten minutes of the call, a Blackhawk with a distinct red-cross painted on it's side lands in an open field that the Platoon has secured.

Despite the powerful prop wash, the soldiers rush to the Blackhawk carrying a stretcher with the wounded insurgent to the waiting Medics. One of my soldiers, also a trained Medic, boards the aircraft to accompany the insurgent to the hospital. In a whirl of dust and debris, the Medivac bird takes off and heads to the south, escorted by an Apache Gunship.

An hour later, the Platoon has swept the surrounding fields and raided farmhouses in the area. It is tense, exhausting work, as the soldiers scale fences in body armor, and move rapidly thru the dense terrain and the dusty, open fields.

Constantly scanning, the troops look for movement and watch for insurgents.

Any clump of trees could conceal an ambush.

Ambushes often have fatal consequences.

In 115 degree heat, the squads clear section after section of broken farmland and fenced in compounds.

But the hard work pays off.

In a clump of bushes, we find a bandoleer of AK-47 magazines, and the trail of one of the fleeing insurgents.

He has been wounded.

And he was not alone.

Heavy drag marks leading into and out of the deep, muddy canals show where one of the insurgents has managed to flee thru the irrigation system.

He had to have been helped.

Carried or pulled along by a fellow insurgent.

Despite our efforts, the two insurgents manage to get away.

The Platoon has lost their trail on a hardball road.

But not for long.

Later that evening, word reaches the unit that an insurgent has shown up at a Baghdad area hospital with multiple gunshot wounds, including one that was inflicted by the 40mm cannon of an Apache.

Before he dies, he admits to being involved in the fire-fight.

That same afternoon, at a different hospital, word reaches us that the insurgent evacuated by air has died after being operated on.

Despite doing all we could to try and save him, he could not recover from a massive loss of blood.

Thankfully, all of the Platoon’s soldiers have come thru without a scratch, and we have stopped, at least for a while, a group of insurgents that were burying IEDs on Route "Bull."

It is only later I realize that during the entire engagement, I never fired a single shot.

In Iraq, it really is a day like any other.

The Roadblock

2005-09-10T10:34:00.000-07:00

The sky has turned a striking shade of purple and red as the sun begins to set in the west.

To the east of the Alamo, the tall blue and green minaret of the Shia mosque is lit up with a single string of white lights. The mosque, standing alone in "no-mans land," has only been partially completed, and the unfinished sections of brick wall look ominously down over the crumbling city in the falling light.

Across from the mosque, in a small woodworking shop, a man has just been murdered.

An hour ago, three insurgents entered his shop and shot him in the head. The weapon was held so close to his head, that the muzzle blast burned and blackened his ear.

Only 300 meters from the Alamo, he was left to die, four AK-47 shell casings lying next to his body.

He is the second man to be executed within sight of the Alamo in as many days.

The city is restless tonight.

In front of the Alamo, in the falling darkness, a squad of soldiers work to improve the fixed defenses. A single HUMMWV sits on the road, it’s hood stacked high with concertina wire, and a soldier crouched low in the turret, scanning the surrounding darkness with his night vision.

The soldiers work quietly in the darkness. Triple strands of razor sharp wire are stretched across the road, and weighed down with sandbags. Concrete barriers are maneuvered into place. Spike strips are laid across avenues of approach.

All designed to stop a suicide car bomb.

As I walk out from between the concrete barriers and onto the main street in front of the Alamo, I can see a soldier with a flashlight waving at oncoming traffic. As his squad erects the barrier, he is signalling cars to turn off onto a side street.

Every one of those cars is a threat.

Further out in the dark, a blue van stops for a second, it’s driver confused by the roadblock.

The soldier with the flashlight tenses, and he raises his rifle up to cover the driver of the blue van.

On the corner sits a white and orange taxi, its lights turned off. The taxicab driver shouts helpful directions at the driver of the blue van, and the blue van pulls down the side street.

I can see the soldier relax, his shoulders slumping beneath his heavy body armor.

It is a Thursday night, and this type of traffic is normal. In the falling night, men walk from house to house for a cigarette or a cup of tea with their neighbors. Cheap tobacco smoke permeates the air as the men cluster on doorsteps smoking French Gallouises.

Across from the Alamo, a small convenience shop is doing a brisk business, and a crowd of men are gathered outside. Signaling two soldiers to accompany me, I walk across the street and up to the group of men standing out front of the small shop.

In front of the shop is an older man with a careworn face and a full white beard. He is wearing a flowing white robe, which contrasts sharply with the darkness of his skin.

The man's eyes are dark and shadowed in the harsh light of the fluorescent bulb hanging from the wall of the shop.

Touching my hand to my chest, I give him the traditional greeting.

“Salaam Alechem.”

The old man returns the greeting with a slight smile. Beside him, a young man gets up from a worn wooden bench. He is strangely pale and overweight, and his hand nervously grips plastic prayer beads.

The small red beads click together quietly as he methodically counts them.

The old man begins to speak in Arabic, and my interpreter, Tornado, listens to him politely before turning to me to translate.

“He is asking about the hurricane Katrina.”

This was the last thing that I had expected to hear.

“Really? What does he know about Katrina?”

The old mans face grows solemn.

“We heard that 10,000 people have been killed, and that the city is destroyed. We have heard that there is disease and fighting.”

Behind him, the younger man smiles at me. In the shop behind him, I can hear the muted sound of a strident Arabic voice on the radio.

“And how did you hear about this?”

“We have a satellite. It told us all about the hurricane Katrina.”

“Do you have such hurricanes here in Iraq?”

The younger man’s smile widens. It seems that he wants to tell me something, and as he leans forward, his hands briefly touch as he makes a dusting motion.

“No, we do not have such things as hurricanes in Iraq. We do not have them because we are protected by Allah. We have the shrines of the Prophet, and Allah does not permit such tragedies here.”

He leans back as if he has gotten something important off of his chest.

This is the point he wanted to make.

It sounds like a theory out of the dark ages.

As if on cue, the sound of automatic weapons fire erupts in the northern sector of town. It is a series of sharp reports, one after the other. In response, another automatic weapon opens up, its higher pitched whine audible over the lower, more guttural single shots.

Turning around I scan the low hulking shadows of the houses across no mans land for any sudden muzzle flashes that would indicate the shooters position.

There is a gun battle going on, no more than 400 meters from the Alamo.

The sky and the buildings to the north remain dark.

To my left, one of the soldiers, a young private, flips down his night vision and scans the darkness of an alleyway for movement. He is fidgeting nervously from foot to foot.

Anybody could be out there tonight.

Turning back, I face the younger man.

“Are you saying that America had a hurricane because there are no shrines in America to the prophet? Because most Americans do not follow Islam?”

He nods his head, pleased that I understand him.

“Yes, it is God’s will. In America there are no shrines so Allah does not protect Americans. Here there are no tornadoes, earthquakes, volcanoes or hurricanes. If there were more of Islam in America, such things as hurricanes would not happen.”

The gunfire in the north sounds as if it has doubled in intensity.

This man is telling me that Iraqis are protected by God because of their faith in Allah, and that America, because of a lack of faith, deserves to be hit by a hurricane.

With the gunfire in the background, the irony of this has not escaped me.

The comment has also pissed me off.

I take a step forward.

He takes a step back.

“So God protects Iraqis from hurricanes? What about the violence? The fighting? The murders and executions? The poverty? Look around you! A man was murdered a few hundred meters away tonight! If God is protecting Iraq, why does God permit such violence here?”

Tornado hears the passion and anger in my voice, and he echoes my harsh language in his translation.

The young man goes pale in the fluorescent light. He begins to speak, falters, and then goes quiet.

He looks as if he has swallowed something unpleasant.

To the north, the gunfire has tapered quickly off. The stillness is only broken by single, sporadic shots in the distance.

We stare at each other in the darkness.

The old man, pulling contemplatively on his white beard, takes a hesitant step forward and gently pushes the younger man back. Then the old man turns towards me and smiles apologetically, revealing rotten, yellow teeth.

“In’Shallah. All of that is in God’s hands. It is for Allah to know who lives and who dies. It is not for us to question or explain the will of Allah. He gives help to those that ask, but in the end all of our fate is in his hands.”

He touches his right hand to his chest, turns, and without looking back, quickly ushers the younger man back inside the shop. The young man, still pale, turns and enters the shop, his prayer beads clicking in his right hand.

Taking a deep breath, I turn and stand quietly in the darkness, watching the armored HUMMWV slowly roll past in the shadowed street.

I need a second to cool down.

The hood of the HUMMWV has been emptied of concertina wire, and the two soldiers escorting it are taking off their tough, rawhide gloves. To the west, I can see that the wire roadblock has been stacked three strands high, and tied tightly into the rusted steel bars of a power line.

Any vehicle trying to drive thru that is going to come to a sudden stop, tangled up in a mass of steel razor wire.

At least it is something.

Turning away from the now quiet shop, I walk over to the roadblock to finish inspecting the reinforced obstacles. A few feet behind me, I hear the young private that was pulling security during my conversation mutter quietly under his breath.

“Well I’ll take his help if he is offering it, but I am not leaving anything that I don’t have to in Allah’s hands.”

Pulling on the concertina wire and checking for any gaps in the defenses, I can’t help but smile at the young private in the darkness.

Those are my thoughts exactly.

The Matriarch

2005-09-05T03:46:00.000-07:00

This far out in the countryside, the stench of the cities has faded, and the fresh, fragrant breeze blowing from the north brings with it the slight scent of citrus. The morning breeze is cool and the countryside looks peaceful in the warm, yellow glow of the sun.

It is the first beautiful morning that I can remember.

It actually feels like spring.

The canal path stretches east to west, an elevated platform just large enough for a HMMWV. For 500 meters up and down the path, the gunners in the turrets of the six armored vehicles of my platoon provide cover for my two dismounted squads. All told, I have brought 33 soldiers of my platoon into this morning’s search operation.

This is our fourth straight day of combat operations, and the second day in a row that I have not had the time for sleep.

To the north and south of the canal path, a grassy field leads down to well kept houses and lawns shaded by pale green groves of trees. Walking down the embankment and into the field, I can see the soldiers spreading out and beginning to search the houses for weapons or other signs of the insurgency.

To the north, Apaches circle around a target, providing air cover for the operation, which began at 2:00 am this morning. The operation involves hundreds of troops, both US and Iraqi, and my platoon plays only a small part in the overall picture.

The radio warbles for a second, and then a crystal clear transmission comes thru.

“Warrior 2/6, this is Warrior 2/1, where is our medic at?”

I key the small black I-Com radio I carry on my body armor.

“Warrior 2/1, this is Warrior 2/6, Doc is over at White 7 with Warrior 2/7.”

“Roger, there is a woman here that appears to need some medical assistance, can you send him over here?

At this my Platoon Sergeant, who has been monitoring the traffic breaks in.

“Warrior 2/1, this is 2/7, I see you over by that group of people. I have Doc with me and I will bring him right over.”

“Roger.”

Looking further south, past the field filled with farm animals and livestock, I can see a small crowd gathering by a two story house in a grassy lot to the south. It appears to be a family, and they are clustered around a little old woman in a black burkha, sitting on a colorful blanket on the grassy ground.

Surrounding the matriarch throng young children with dirty bare feet, their toothy smiles unmarred by their poverty. The unmarried girls wear purple and blue burkhas, a relief from the stark black of the older women.

Gathered in a small cluster, bearded old men with nicotine stained fingers stand and watch, their heads lowered in quiet conversation.

Turning, I gesture to Max, my interpreter, and he follows me down the embankment and across the field towards the small crowd.

As I arrive, I see our Platoon Medic, or “Doc” as he is affectionately known by the troops, beginning to kneel down by the elderly lady on the blanket. Behind him, stands my Platoon Sergeant, talking with one of the older men. They are surrounded by a dozen family members watching Doc intently as he and Max talk to the Matriarch.

Looking down at the Matriarch of the family, I am startled by hold old she appears.

Her face is shrunken, toothless and lined with age. A headscarf covers her hair, and her tiny, shriveled form huddles on the blanket, wrapped in black.

Taking off my dark sunglasses, I stand quietly in the shade watching Doc talk to the Matriarch.

She stops talking to Doc and looks up at me.

I find myself riveted.

Her eyes are amazing.

Startling blue eyes gaze up at me. In her small, shrunken face, her blue eyes appear larger than life. Her eyes widen briefly as she looks into mine, and then she smiles, a toothless, mirthful grin.

Reaching a wrinkled, shrunken hand up, she points at her eyes and then points at mine.

Behind her, two careworn women, kneeling on a small red rug look up into my face. They whisper and smile, pointing at my eyes, and then pointing at the Matriarch. The family begins talking excitedly, and some of them begin to laugh in delight.

A small girl, shy in her pink dress giggles and whispers behind her hand to her father as she points at my eyes.

I too have blue eyes.

All of the other members of the family have brown eyes.

For these simple people, blue eyes, eyes that are the same color as that of the family Matriarch, are a rare and special thing.

I can’t help but to smile back.

Hearing some talking behind me, I turn and see my Company First Sergeant speaking with a group of women about his family. To these rural farm women, the family is everything. None of the women can read or write, and from marriage at the age of 14, they have as many children as they can to help work the farms.

From childhood, the family is all that they know.

The Company First Sergeant, or “Top” as he is known to the soldiers, is a grizzled former Marine, looking fiercely stern beneath his dark goggles and helmet.

Today, his usually stern expression is softened as he takes out a photo of his youngest daughter, a blond haired, blue eyed, four year old named Katie.

The women are enthralled.

They giggle and laugh at the photo of the little blond girl. Talking excitedly, they discuss the color of her hair, and they pass the photograph around to one another, exclaiming in Arabic in delight.

The atmosphere is relaxed and friendly, despite the soldiers searching the houses around us. It is almost as if we are in a small pocket of calm, in an otherwise tense and stressful world.

This family has accepted us, delightedly comparing their families with our own.

It is a common bond that we all can share.

Turning to the First Sergeant, I catch his eye as he watches the women look at the photo of his daughter.

“Hey Top, how about I fetch my RTO over here.”

He looks at me quietly for a second, and then nods his head with a smile.

Pulling out my radio, I request the presence of my RTO, a young, freckle-faced, 18 year-old soldier. He is the lowest ranking soldier in the Company, and is only 8 months out of basic training.

He is also the First Sergeant’s son.

To the north, along the canal road, I can see my RTO approach, a look of confusion on his face. On his body armor, he has slung dozens of shotgun shells for the pump-action shotgun he is carrying. On his back, he has slung his M4 Carbine, for engaging more distant targets. Beneath his helmet and dark glasses, he looks every bit like an infantryman, well equipped and ready for action.

I can tell that he is wondering why he was pulled from a search team and told to come here.

The First Sergeant walks up to his son and whispers something to him. Then he puts his arm around his son’s shoulder, and turns to address the crowd of curious family members.

Without looking at the interpreter, he tells him.

“Max, tell them that this is my oldest son.”

Max, who has served with our unit for months, is momentarily speechless.

Although their two names are the same, he had never made the connection that the highest ranking, and the lowest ranking soldiers in the Company were even related.

Let alone father and son.

Max translates in a quiet Arabic, and the people fall silent, staring at the First Sergeant and my RTO.

They are stunned.

It has never occurred to them that such a thing was possible.

In the quiet, I can hear a slight, quavering voice call out. Behind the clustered crowd of people, the Matriarch of the family is asking that the First Sergeant and his son be brought forward thru the crowd of people to where she can see them.

The crowd respectfully parts, providing a clear path from the First Sergeant to the Matriarch.

The First Sergeant walks forward, and his son, standing several inches taller than him, trails a step behind. They stop in front of the elderly lady, and the First Sergeant puts his left hand on his son’s shoulder again.

With his right hand, he respectfully touches his breast as he quietly addresses the Matriarch and her attendees.

“Ma’am, this is my oldest son. We made the decision together, to come to this country and help the people of Iraq.”

Her piercing blue eyes gaze up at the First Sergeant and his son.

For a moment, all is quiet.

Then I notice.

Tears are coursing down her cheeks.

The sight of the First Sergeant and his son is too much for this gentle woman.

Thru her tears, she speaks quietly in Arabic in her wavering voice.

“I am crying for your mother. May she be blessed by Allah. For you to be here with your father, and for your poor mother to be at home without you. Without her son.”

Then she looks up, her finger pointing towards heaven.

“May Allah watch over you. May Allah watch over your mother, as she misses you. As she misses both of you.”

For an instant I am chilled.

The blessing has power behind it.

I can feel it.

Turning away from the Matriarch’s tear stained face, I walk out of the crowd and take a deep breath of the cool, scented air.

Walking up to the canal path, I stop and do a quick survey of the area, checking on my Platoon’s progress.

Then I quietly say a prayer, one that I have heard my mother say countless times.

“May it be from her mouth to God’s ears.”

Ambush

2005-08-26T23:57:00.000-07:00

I can not believe what I am hearing.

The screaming over the radio is horrifying.

Something, somewhere, is seriously wrong.

At the first sound of the scream, all movement in the Alamo CP stops. My eyes are riveted on the green radios sitting on the top of the old wooden desk. A quick glance around the room tells me that every other soldier is frozen in place.

The radio static is heavy, the voice making the transmission frantic.

I can barely make out a few words.

“This is Titan 5 . . . an RPG . . . Ambush . . . Casualties . . . Grid Coordinate . . . UX 2468 7531 . . .”

It is enough.

Jumping to my feet I run over to the map against the wall. I quickly pinpoint the grid coordinates that I have just heard thru the static and the gunshots.

For some reason they are seared into my memory.

The grid coordinates are a straight shot west for about 6 Kilometers.

We are not far.

Turning around, I see that the other soldiers in the Alamo CP are all still frozen, waiting for the next transmission. I exchange glances with the other Platoon Leader, and announce to no one in particular.

“I’m going out there.”

Without a second glance back, I turn and grab my gear. Shrugging on my body armor, I run into the Hallway shouting.

“Let’s go! Get to the vehicles! There is a unit in contact that needs help! Move!”

The soldiers in my patrol tumble out of their cots where they had been lying, exhausted, and taking up their gear they take up the shout.

“Come on, get your shit on!”

“Fucking move!”

The soldiers are not yet sure what is going on, but they know they need to get to the vehicles.

Unfortunately, I don’t know much more than they do.
The heat hits me like a blast furnace as I run out of the building, still pulling my body armor on. Behind me, the soldiers are flying down the steps and running to their positions in the vehicles. Climbing into my seat and fastening my helmet chinstrap, I can hear the guttural roar of the engines of the other vehicles in the patrol.

We are in the vehicles and out of the gate within 4 minutes.

The HUMMWVs speed out of the concrete and concertina wire obstacles erected in front of the Alamo. My driver takes the turn around the concrete barrier so sharply, that for an instant I am certain that we are going to hit the barrier.

The front bumper clears by an inch, and we are thru.

As we begin to speed down the broad paved main street I pick up the handset for the Platoon net and gather my thoughts.

“Alright, this is what is going on. A unit was hit about six klicks west of here on ASR ‘Robins.’ From what I could tell, it sounds like they have been hit with RPGs and small arms fire, and have several casualties.”

There is silence in my vehicle as my crew listens in on the conversation.

“One more thing, we may be targeted as we respond. Be on the lookout for an ambush, especially a VBIED.”

Insurgents have been known to hit units that have moved to assist a unit in contact.

Overhead, I hear the metallic clacking of my gunner charging the M2 .50 Caliber Machine Gun. He has racked a five inch round into the chamber of the long barreled, lethal weapon system.

The M2 has a rate of fire of more than 10 rounds per second, and the rounds can easily punch thru concrete walls.

It is a reassuring sound.

Turning west onto route “Robins” and we begin to pick up speed.

“Thunderbold X-Ray this is Warrior 2/6, we are headed west on route “Robins,” moving to Titan 5’s position. We should be there in about 5 Mikes. Do you have an update on Titan 5?”

In front of us, civilian traffic is hastily pulling out of the way as the patrol runs screaming down the road.

I can tell that my driver has his foot clamped all the way down on the accelerator. The clear, paved road stretches west into the distance, empty and desolate except for scrub brush and trash lining the sand berms on both sides of the road.

It is a stretch of empty desert between two towns, and out here, traffic is thin.

Over the Battalion net, I can hear Titan 5 calling for a Medivac to pickup his casualties.

Someone has been seriously wounded.

Above me, I hear my gunner swear an oath under his breath.

Looking up, I can see a plume of thick black smoke in the sky.

It can only mean one thing.

Something is burning.

Adrenaline floods my system and my heart starts pounding rapidly as we round a bend in the road.

A HUMMWV is completely engulfed in flames.

Flames billow from the windows, and black, choking plumes of smoke rise high into the air. The smoke is thick and acrid from the burning tires.

A chill runs down my back, and I realize that there are no soldiers anywhere to be seen.

Nothing moves.

It is terrifying.

Like something out of a nightmare.

Where are all of the soldiers?

100 meters past the burning armored vehicle, I can see the charred, torn and twisted remains of a pickup truck. What used to be a gray Mazda is now scattered all over the road.

I key the Battalion handset.

“Thunderbolt X-Ray this is Warrior 2/6! We have arrived onsite. There is a burning HUMMWV and what it looks like the remains of a VBIED. There are no soldiers anywhere! What is the current location of the Titan element?! Where are the wounded soldiers?!”

My only thought is to get to the troops that need help, and secure their position.

The only problem is, I can’t find them.

“Alright, stop here! Secure this location! White 1, move out about 300 meters and block off the west end. White 3, set up a blocking position 300 meters away on the east side. Tell your gunners to watch for follow on VBIEDs, and do a good dismounted sweep for IEDs!”

My vehicle comes to a screeching halt, 75 meters from the burning armored vehicle.

Dismounting, I hear a loud staccato popping sound.

The ammunition stored in the vehicle is cooking off, the bullets stored in the vehicle exploding in the heat of the fire.

I key the handset again.

“Thunderbolt X-Ray this is Warrior 2/6, I need the location of the Titan element! Where are they?”

There is a moment of silence, and then Thunder X-Ray replies:

“Wait one.”

Surveying the scene, I can see that the ground is littered with spent brass and links. There has been a major firefight here, and it looks like hundreds, if not thousands of rounds have been fired.

The berm to the north is separated from the road by a 20 meter stretch of empty ground, and rises 15 feet in the air.

It is the most likely place to set up an ambush.

Lying on the road, I notice a half-filled, 30 round magazine amidst the scattered brass and shell casings.

Reaching down, I pick up the battered magazine and place it in my cargo pocket.

With a flash of sunlight off of a canopy, the Apaches fly out of the sun. They are so quiet I do not even hear them until they are circling in a tight formation above my location. The circle is so tight that the Apache looks like it is standing on its side. I can see the pilot looking down over his right shoulder at the carnage below.

“Apache flight, this is Warrior 2/6, what is your call-sign?”

“Warrior 2/6 this is Blue Max 2.”

“Blue Max 2, this is Warrior 2/6, I need you to sweep the area to the north and west! Look for insurgents and also check for American troops, I know that Titan is here somewhere and is set up for a Medivac, but I can’t find him.”

The Apache pilot immediately banks north, and I get his crisp and clean “Roger” over the net.

Looking east and west down the road, I can see that the other vehicles in my patrol have moved into position. To the east, another three vehicle patrol has arrived, responding to the urgent calls over the radio.

With a tremendous explosion the burning armored HUMMWV explodes from the inside out and shreds itself into pieces of shattered and twisted steel.

The armored glass explodes outwards, and large heavy chunks of armor go catapulting thru the air, landing 20 or 30 meters away.

The sound of the explosion is almost deafening, and it takes me a second to realize that something inside the vehicle . . . likely a claymore or several grenades, have exploded due to the heat of the fire.

My driver comes running up to me, his rifle held at the ready.

“Sir, I don’t know how to say this. I think I saw a body in the back passenger seat, before the vehicle exploded.”

My heart stops.

Looking up, I can see that the HUMMWV is just a mass of charred steel, flames and smoke.

I force myself to speak.

“Are you sure? Are you sure that is what you saw?”

My driver falters.

“Sir, I . . . I don’t know. It could have been the headrest or something else. I just thought I saw a body slumped over.”

I clear my throat and key the handmike.

“Thunder X-Ray, this is Warrior 2/6, the HUMMWV has just been destroyed by secondaries. Do we have a location for Titan 5 yet?”

This time Thunder X-Ray responds quickly.

“Warrior 2/6, this is Thunder X-Ray, roger. Titan 5 has headed south along route “Maples” and has linked up with an element from Avalanche. They are secure and are conducting air-evac of wounded personnel right now. Continue to secure the site, more units are enroute.”

“Roger Thunder X-Ray, are all Titan 5 personnel accounted for?”

“Warrior 2/6 this is Thunder X-Ray, that’s affirmative, all Titan 5 personnel are accounted for.”

Closing my eyes, I breathe a sigh of relief.

My driver must have seen something else.

The hollow knot in my chest eases and a weight lifts off of my shoulders.

Titan 5 is secure.

I hear my gunner calling out to me from the other side of the vehicle.

“Sir, Sir! There is an IED over here. I think that there are two of them!”

He has done a sweep around my vehicle to check for IEDs, and in doing so, seems to have found some.

“Roger, show me.”

Walking around the vehicle, I can see a burned and blackened 155mm artillery round lying out on the dirt, amidst the wreckage of the charred Mazda pickup truck. From this distance, I can easily see a long string of white cord running from the nose of the round, which has been packed with some type of plastic explosive.

Lying as it is on the dirt, it seems less an IED than a kickout from a VBIED. When the vehicle bomb exploded and tore itself into shreds, some of the artillery rounds from the bomb were kicked out by the explosion, and failed to explode.

This does not, however, make them any less lethal.

I can see at least four, possibly five of these kickout rounds lying scattered on the pavement and on the dirt. Four or five battered and primed artillery rounds less than 100 meters from my position.

Shit.

“Alright, stay back. Conduct another sweep up to the northern berm and I will call EOD.”

“Thunder X-Ray this is Warrior 2/6, we need EOD at this location. We have either secondary IEDs or kick-out rounds from a VBIED scattered all over the place.”

“Warrior 2/6, Thunderbolt X-Ray, that’s a good copy. EOD will be enroute.”

In the distance I can see the Apaches circling something to the southwest. To the east, I see a plume of dust rise as two M1 Abrams Main Battle Tanks arrive on scene.

“Warrior 2/6 this is Reaper 3, where do you want us?”

“Reaper 3, this is Warrior 2/6, it is good to see you, I want one of your tanks to take up a blocking position on the eastern side, and one of your tanks to circle south around the HUMMWV and take up a blocking position on the western side of the road. Watch out for follow on VBIED attacks.”

“Roger.”

One of the 60 ton monsters drives past my position. The Tanks are slung low and squat, with surprisingly sleek lines. The turbine engines grumble and the steel padded treads squeal as the Abrams drives past, sending up a hot cloud of dust and dirt high into the sky.

Now I feel that the site is finally secured.

An hour later, EOD has detonated five 155mm shells in a controlled explosion, and so many units have arrived that the place is swarming with troops. The senior man on the ground far outranks me, and some of the soldiers have found bloodstained fighting positions dug into the berm in the north.

With the amount of blood found in the positions, it is likely that at least some of the insurgents never made it out alive.

Another HUMMWV pulls up, and three soldiers dismount. I can see that their uniforms are stained with blood. One of the soldiers, a sergeant, has his hand and arm swathed in white bandages.

They are soldiers from the Titan 5 patrol, escorted back to brief the Battalion command on what had happened during the ambush.

They look around, as if reliving a dream. I can’t help but notice that they seem to be in good spirits, as if relieved at being back at the scene of the ambush, and still in one piece.

One of the sergeants is standing quietly to the side, watching the flames continue to consume what is left of the HUMMWV.

I walk up to the Sergeant.

“How are you doing Sergeant?”

He turns and smiles.

“Hey Sir, we’re okay. My Lieutenant is hurt pretty bad. He took some shrapnel in the leg, and we had to apply a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. A couple of the other guys were hit. My arm got scraped up pretty good, but all in all, everyone is still alive.”

I turn my eyes back to the still smoldering HUMMWV.

“What happened?”

“Well, we were traveling east along Robins when our vehicles were hit by RPGs. This pickup truck was rigged as a VCIED, but for some reason it did not explode, so the insurgents hit it with an RPG to try to set it off. After it exploded we took some pretty heavy small arms fire. They must have had at least one RPK there up on the berm.”

He points to the berm on the northwest, and then continues.

“We returned fire over here, and then some of our guys were hit by shrapnel. Basically, we fought until the ammunition ran out, and then we withdrew to evacuate the wounded. My SAW gunner opened up on a couple of them on the bridge, and I saw at least two bodies fall into the water. They took a pretty good beating . . . I think we killed 5 or 6 of them.”

In my head I can picture the entire sequence of events as he describes it.

I glance at my watch. It all occurred about two hours ago.

“When did you leave? We got here about 15 minutes after your call went out, and we couldn’t find you guys. I didn’t know if you had all taken off, or if you were all lying somewhere in a ditch.”

He shakes his head.

“It was my LT that made that call before he was hit. We disengaged once our ammunition starting running low and headed out to evacuate the wounded. We probably left no more than a few minutes before you guys showed up.”

Turning away from me he stares again at the burning vehicle, and then glances at the berm to the north, now crawling with soldiers.

Reaching into my cargo pocket, I pull out the battered half-full 30 round magazine and hand it to him.

“Here, you guys dropped this.”

He reaches out and takes the magazine, weighing it in his palm.

Then he smiles as he looks back up at me.

“Shit, Sir, if we had known you were coming so quickly, we would have just stayed here.”

Beckham's Song

2005-08-21T09:15:00.000-07:00

With no wind, the dust has settled, and the sky is a washed-out blue. On either side of the road stretches long rows of shabby market stalls. A rusting heap of mufflers advertises a shop selling auto parts and petrol out of worn plastic jugs. Several dirty white sheep stand contently tethered to a wooden stump, while a skinless haunch hangs directly over their heads from the rafters in a slaughterhouse. A rough wooden bench is stacked high with cushions and blankets for sale.

The district we are driving thru is not a friendly one.

Groups of men standing outside the roadside market stalls stop and stare at the patrol with dark expressionless faces. Black veiled women move from stall to stall with worn, frayed plastic bags filled with produce. Children stand quietly on the side of the road.

There is no waving or begging for chocolates.

No cries of "Mister, Mister!"

No cheerful "thumbs up."

Not pleasant.

Fingering the handset for my loudspeaker, a thought occurs to me.

Twisting in my seat, I turn and face my interpreter. Beckham is sitting in the back seat, sweating despite the air conditioning. He is looking thru the window at the grim faces outside.

“Beckham, what is a popular song?”

“A song?”

He looks perplexed.

“Yes, what is a popular, traditional song?”

Beckham thinks for a moment, and then he smiles.

“I have one for you.”

His voice is strong and clear, and the Arabic song has an insistent rhythm. I can feel my foot unconsciously tapping in time with the music. The song is incredibly catchy, and his deep voice holds the tune.

I trade glances with my driver and he smiles.

Beckham is a great singer.

Passing the handset for the loudspeaker over my head, Beckham takes it in the back seat.

“Beckham, I want you to sing that song into the loudspeaker.”

Beckham stares at the handset for a second in thought, and then keying the button with his thumb, he begins to sing his song.

Thru the loudspeaker mounted on the front of my vehicle, comes the insistent, catchy Arabic tune.

The music has an amazing effect on the marketplace.

In astonishment, a black veiled woman stops her inspection of a stack of pale green melons, and turns to face the vehicle.

One mans glare turns to amazement, his cigarette dangling at his side, forgotten.

All movement in the marketplace stops.

Beckham, looking out of the window, sees the effect his music has had. His voice falters for an instant, and then he catches himself and he begins to sing even louder.

A small dark boy, no older than ten years old, stands on the north side of the road. He smiles, white teeth flashing in his dark face, and his thin body begins to sway in time with the music. His hands raise up above his head, almost of their own volition, and he begins to dance in time with the music.

As we roll down the marketplace street, I see smiles break out on normally dour faces.

A group of young men sway and clap in time with the music.

An old man, sitting in a blue plastic chair by a produce stand, is snapping his fingers and wagging his toothless head in time with the song.

Two little girls, one dressed in a black burkha, smile and point their fingers in delight at the American vehicle playing the unexpected music.

For an instant, the mood in the marketplace has changed completely.

A small bridge has been built by Beckham's song.

As we turn at an intersection and head north, we leave the marketplace behind. The long rows of stalls and people give way to arid desert and a murky canal running north and south along the roadside.

Beckham stops singing.

As his voice fades from the air, the air suddenly feels empty.

Turning in my seat, I give Beckham a reassuring smile.

“Beckham, keep singing. It sounds great.”

Beckham keys the handset again, and the patrol continues north thru arid, deserted fields, accompanied by the cheerful sound of Beckham's Song.

The Crew of White Two

2005-08-14T09:03:00.000-07:00

Sitting in my HUMMWV, I look at the thick armored glass windshield in front of me.

My gunner, an aspiring artist, has drawn the crew of my vehicle on the windshield in cartoon characters.

The driver of “White Two” is depicted as an armored Knight, plume on helm, and “Death by Steel” hand lettered on his breastplate.

My Interpreter is drawn in a ski mask and Kevlar helmet, “The Interpretator,” purpously mispelled, and hand lettered beneath a toothy smiling face.

The drawing of my RTO is actually an incredibly good likeness of the soldier. He has tears leaking out of his eyes, and two radio hand-mikes held to his ears. Beneath his tragic face is his nickname, “Bottom.”

Being the lowest ranking soldier in the Company, he ranks at the very “Bottom.”

Desperate to clarify the nickname, my RTO has modified the artists drawing, scrawling in a careful parenthesis: “(not the gay kind).”

As if we needed the clarification.

The Gunner of “White Two” has a fanciful impression of himself. He has drawn a roughly bearded Rambo, grinning maniacally with a knife clenched between his teeth.

And finally, my gunner has drawn his impression of me.

A masked Darth Vader glares back at me, clutching a light saber.

Great.

You Really Don't Want to Know

2005-08-10T10:38:00.000-07:00

An older man, but perhaps younger than he looks. He is dressed in a white boater hat, a crème scarf folded neatly under his neck, linen crème trousers, and an collared, open necked shirt.

I can tell that he has taken time to dress himself today.

He is dressed to impress.

He comes off as slightly greasy.

In the heat of mid-day, while most residents of the town are dozing under shade, he approaches the Alamo on foot. Walking thru the maze of razor wire and concrete obstacles, he walks up to the front gate and asks for the “Captain.”

He has information for sale.

My I-Com warbles, and I miss the beginning of the transmission.

“….. is asking to see the Captain at the front gate. Can you send someone down here?”

Putting on my 35 lbs of body armor and helmet, I step out of the Alamo into the heat of the full August sun. Instantly, I break out into a sweat beneath the armor, and within a few seconds my shirt is soaking wet.

Walking up to the front gate with my interpreter, I find the man standing quietly, smoking a cigarette.

When he sees me, he instantly jumps up.

“Captain?”

“No, I am a Mulazem. There is no Captain here.”

For a brief instant, a look of disappointment flashes over his face, and then his face reverts to an ingratiating smile.

“Lieutenant, I have information for you. Information about ammunition.”

This is interesting.

“What ammunition? Where is it?”

The man smiles again, pleased that I am interested.

“The ammunition is buried next to my house. Before the war, Saddam’s army came and buried boxes. Many boxes of ammunition are buried there.”

He takes out a handkerchief and mops the sweat on his forehead.

The hankerchief is yellow with sweat stains.

“How do you know this?”

“I saw them bury it myself. It is buried right next to my house.”

“What kind of ammunition is it?”

The man thinks for a second. His flush gives him an unhealthy looking pallor. He notices that his cigarette has gone out, and he fishes around in his breast pocket for a pack.

Pulling out a soft pack of “Pine” cigarettes, he lights one and offers me the pack.

I wave it away.

“They are large bullets, about the size of your hand. There are many boxes of these bullets and the bullets are all linked together.”

It sounds like a large caliber round. Perhaps an anti-aircraft round.

“How long have they been buried?”

“Since the war.”

The Iraqis always refer to the Gulf War as “The War.”

“Alright, I want you to come back tonight when it is dark. Come back at 9:00 pm. You come back here, and you can take us directly to where the ammunition is buried.”

He nods, but his face is hesitant.

He came here for a reason.

He is clearly expecting something more.

I throw him a bone.

“If you come back tonight, and we find some ammunition, there will be a reward for you.”

At this he beams.

I don't like this guy.

So I throw a little water on his enthusiasm.

“The ammunition has to be there, and we have to recover it, for any reward to be given. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Lieutenant, yes. I will be back tonight. I know that it is there. I am 100% certain. However, I must not be seen. I must look like one of you.”

In this at least, he appears earnest.

He is watching out for his own skin.

“That won’t be a problem, we will put you in a uniform, give you body armor, and a helmet. It will be dark, and no one will see you. We do it all the time.”

“Thank you Lieutenant.”

The sun has set and the heat has not yet subsided when the man returns. He is still dressed in his rather incongruous outfit, this time, with the addition of sunglasses.

In the Command Post at the Alamo, I gather my platoon leadership and ask for a volunteer.

“Alright, I need one of you guys to give up your uniform and body armor, we need it to disguise this guy.”

“Sir, he can have my shit.”

Amid snickers and nudges between the soldiers, one of my team leaders smiles and strips down to his black spandex underwear, a brown t-shirt, and combat boots.

“Nice outfit Sergeant. Thanks.”

Stopping in the doorway with the bundle of clothing, I turn back to address the Sergeant.

“Oh, and by the way, you are not allowed to leave the Alamo dressed like that.”

He flashes me a wry grin.

“Sir, it is a good thing I didn’t go Commando this time like I normally do.”

Walking down the staircase I walk up to the informant. He is standing in the main entrance of the Alamo with an escort. When he sees me, he instantly reaches forward, and grabbing my shoulders, kisses the sides of my cheek.

The man smells like garlic.

In fact he is chewing on it.

Watching him pop raw cloves of garlic, skin and all into his mouth makes me feel slightly ill.

Turning to the private who is escorting him in the Alamo, I whisper under my breath.

“Hey, if he tries to kiss me again, I give you my permission to shoot him.”

The soldier tries to hide his grin but fails. He smiles back at me, still trying to stifle his amusement.

The man puts the uniform on over his clothing we head out into the night.

Loading him into the back of my HUMMWV, the three vehicle patrol leaves the Alamo under blackout drive. Driving with the use of Night Vision Devices, the vehicles move thru town in utter darkness, confidently reaching speeds of 40 and 50 miles an hour in the pitch black.

The man, without the aid of night vision, is tense, staring out of the windows and gripping the back of my seat with his two hands.

Finally pulling into the street where he lives, my driver switches on white headlights.

Looking out of the passenger side window, the man finally indicates a patch of overgrown weeded ground on the south side of a ramshackle two story building. The ground is immediately off of the main street, and there are curious onlookers out in the street.

Dismounting, I get on the I-Com with my team leader. “Get out the shovels and the metal detector and let’s check this out.”

The vehicles form a perimeter around the open patch of ground, and soldiers dismount and pull security. I can hear my driver yelling “Imshee!” to a particularly insistent boy that wants chocolate…a football…anything.

The ground is strewn with trash, and overgrown with weeds. The earth is broken and cracked and right in the center there is a stagnant pool of foul green waste water, fed from some of the toilets in the surrounding houses.

The smell is incredible.

“Where is it?”

The man walks directly up to the stagnant pool of foul mud and water, and points into it.

“The ammunition is buried right here.”

I have a sinking feeling that he means it is beneath the muck.

The man, so close to his prize, is incredibly eager.

“It is here. Not far under the ground. We need to dig here.”

Picking up a shovel from one of the soldiers standing by, I dig into the ground and begin to shovel loads of muck to the side. The further down I get, the more foul the mud and water seems.

Digging down only releases more sewer water into the hole.

Dripping with sweat under my armor, I look up and exchange a glance with my squad leader, who is leaning into the other shovel and pulling shovelfuls of earth from the ground.

They don’t pay us enough for this shit.

Finally looking into a green pool of stagnant water only slightly disturbed by the digging, I stop and ground my shovel.

The man looks up expectantly. I turn away from the water and leave the shovel in the earth.

“Look, any ammunition under this muck is going to have been destroyed by the water. It is worthless. Besides, no one is going to be crazy enough to dig for it beneath this sewer, this close to the main road. As far as I am concerned, it can stay there.”

Immediately his hopeful grin turns into a concerned frown. Beneath the ill fitting helmet and sunglasses, he looks angry. Then a pathetic expression dawns on his face as he realizes that I do not intend to dig any further in the sewer.

The prospect of a reward is slipping away.

“No, no, it is here. I swear it is here. It is not far down!”

Dropping to his knees, he reaches into the green waste water, and begins to scoop at the ground with his hands. Lifting out handfuls of the foul muck and trying to dig his way to the boxes with his bare hands is almost more than I can bear to watch.

“Holy Shit!”

“Stop him!”

“What is he doing?”

The soldiers exclaim in astonishment as the man mutters to himself in broken English like a madman.

“Here, it is here.”

My interpreter has taken a step back with a look of disgust on his face. His sharp Arabic conveys his feelings on no uncertain terms, and the man looks up from his digging, muck dripping from his hands and the sleeves of his borrowed uniform.

Reaching forward I grab the back of his uniform blouse and haul him to his feet. The man is still trying to dig out a hole in an Iraqi sewer with his bare hands.

He is out of his mind.

Pulling him back from the hole, I turn to one of my disgusted soldiers.

“Alright, get him cleaned up and let’s head back to the Alamo. We are thru here.”

Back at the Alamo, the man takes off the wet uniforms and hands them back to me.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out $19 in small bills. Trying not to touch him, I hand the man the cash. He reaches his hand out for me to shake. Suppressing a shudder, I take it.

“Thank you Lieutenant.”

He pockets the money like a reward is the last thing in the world he cares about.

Bullshit.

Turning around I walk upstairs to the Alamo CP where I find the Sergeant still wearing his skivvies and a T-shirt.

He reaches out to take the uniforms from me. I hand the uniforms to him gingerly, trying not to touch the wet spots on the sleeves.

Behind him, my squad leader grimaces.

“Sergeant, I wouldn’t put those back on.”

“Why not, sir?”

He looks at me questioningly, his hands feeling the wet thru the uniform.

I have to suppress a smile.

“Sergeant, you really don’t want to know.”

Respect

2005-08-04T09:50:00.000-07:00

The lonely strip of paved road is surrounded on both sides by tall garbage strewn berms running north to south. The hard packed sand berms diver the flow of water from the grand-canal into the arid fields and dry, cracked land in the south.

Stepping out of my vehicle, I see a group of soldiers clustered around a dark shape lying huddled on the ground. Behind me, two Iraqi Police vehicles come to a stop, and the Iraqi Police begin to dismount from their blue and white Ford Explorers.

Motioning to the Iraqi Policemen to stay back, I walk over to the soldiers that have been securing the site.

“Who is in charge here?”

“I am Sir, thanks for coming.”

The Sergeant in charge walks over with a tired smile. There are dark rings under his eyes, and his face is strained with fatigue. I can tell that his men have had a long night.

Glancing at my watch, the blue indigo glow tells me that it is only 5:45 in the morning.

He and his men have been here for hours.

“No problem, Sergeant, what do we have?”

The Sergeant waves his right hand towards the body.

“Well Sir, the body was found a few hours ago. He was probably killed last night or yesterday afternoon. We have been pulling security since he was found.”

Turning, I look at the body.

He has obviously been tortured.

Clad only in dark blue sweatpants with a thin vertical white line running along the seams, I can see that his dark skin is badly scored, the chest a mass of blue bruises and black marks.

Lying on the side of the road, with his hands tied and twisted beneath him, his face is still covered by a bright red bandana.

For a second I close my eyes.

I can imagine his last moments.

He was alive, if barely, when the insurgents brought him here to this place to die. In pain and terror, he was thrown from a moving vehicle by his kidnappers. With his hands bound painfully behind his back, he was unable to break his fall. After the vehicle stopped, a man wearing a headscarf wrapped around his face placed a pistol to his head and fired a single shot into his right temple.

His body lies where he fell.

Opening my eyes I walk over to the body lying on the ground. He is surprisingly young. Not more than 20 or 25.

A handwritten note is tied to his body by a black plastic bag. A government ID card is displayed prominently on his chest.

“Have you checked him for traps?”

Insurgents have been known to rig their victims with grenades.

The Sergeant runs a tired hand across his face.

“Roger Sir, we checked and it’s clean.”

“Alright, let’s get the note and the ID card.”

The Sergeant reaches down with a gloved hand and pulls the ID card off of the plastic bag. He holds the card up in the morning light, and reveals a photograph of a serious young man in a blue collared shirt.

Glancing down at the body, the man is recognizable as the man in the photo, even from beneath the blindfold.

The Sergeant grimaces and gingerly drops the ID card into a clear plastic ziplock bag.

Pulling out a matte black gerber he picks up the frayed white note using the pliers. A soldier behind him hands him another gerber, and he unfolds the note with a deft twist of his wrists.

Both sides of the note are scrawled with a ragged Arabic in a light blue ink.

“What does it say?” A masked interpreter standing to one side walks over and reads the note.

He is quiet for a second.

“Whoever wrote the note is badly educated. Almost illiterate. Most of the words are misspelled, and it is hard to read, but it says the man’s name, and that he is from Baghdad. It also says that he is a Ministry employee. They want to be sure that we can identify him.”

The insurgents are trying to make a point.

To work with the new Iraqi government is to invite the worst kind of death.

Looking over at the Iraqi Police, I can tell that they are upset. For them, this hits very close to home.

“Alright, let’s get the blindfold off and take some photos.”

The Sergeant walks over and unties the red blindfold. The young man’s face is oddly at peace, his eyes closed and his features calm. The only sign of violence is the dark red mark on his right temple where the bullet entered his skull. I cannot see an exit wound.

The Iraqi police captain and his officers turn away.

They believe that to look at the executed man’s face is to offend god and invite the same death on themselves.

I can’t say that I blame them.

Finally, I turn and motion to the Iraqi Police Captain. My patrol has escorted his men here so that the police can take possession of the body and return it to its family.

The Captain walks over, surprisingly reluctant. His men hang back by their vehicle.

“Sir, this area is not our responsibility. This area is the responsibility of another Police Precinct. They need to come take possession of the body. This is not our job.”

It takes me a second to realize that he is refusing to pick up the body.

“So you are saying that even though we escorted you out here, you want another Police Precinct to come pick up the body? That you will not do it?”

“That is correct, Sir.”

I stand quietly gazing at the man. I can’t believe what I am hearing. Suppressing a sudden flash of frustration, I address the Captain calmly.

“Captain, this man has been murdered by insurgents. His body is lying on the side of the road. It is disrespectful to the man, and it is disrespectful before god to not do everything we can to send him back to his family, where he may be laid to rest in peace.”

The Captain returns my gaze, and then his eyes fall on the body at his feet.

Straightening, he gives a short nod of his head.

“You have the right of it. I was not thinking clearly. It would be disrespectful. I must not forget my duty to the man.”

He is quiet for a second, and then he looks back up.

“Also, I must not forget my duty to god.”

Turning, he speaks quietly to his men. They look at one another, and then they look at the Captain.

Finally, one of them reaches into his vehicle and picks up a body bag.

Moving quietly in the early morning light, the six Iraqi Policemen reverently pick up the body of the young man, and prepare to bring him home.

The Calm Before the Storm

2005-08-01T09:34:00.000-07:00

The roof of the Alamo spreads out before me in the darkness, with only the silhouette of the machine gun positions outlined against the night sky. The sandbags building up the positions form part of the wall in the darkness, leaving me feeling like I am looking out over the crenulated battlements of an old castle.

To the east, the moon is low in the sky, its pale crescent face floating prophetically above the outline of the tall minaret of the mosque. Above, only the stars high up above the horizon are visible. The rest of the sky is washed out, with the lights of the city glaring off of the perpetual mist of dust in the air.

Walking to the south wall, I look out over the Shia district. I can hear them celebrating. Down the road a few hundred meters, to the west, is a large crowd. A band is playing Arabic music, and the crowd thrusts their hands above their heads and moves and sways in time with the beat. A few gunshots ring out, and the crowd cheers the gunmen on.

I glance at my watch.

Thursday.

It must be a wedding.

Standing behind a gun emplacement, I allow the sounds of the celebration to wash over me. The revelers are in full swing. Just off the main road, they sit around their tables and watch the crowd dancing. I can hear the men laughing and shouting. The women are grouped in clusters, many wearing all black, except for the bride, who is adorned in white.

These are the sights and sounds of life. Here, in the midst of all of the darkness and decay, it is wonderful to see.

Suddenly, without warning, the entire northern section of the city plunges into darkness.

Turning, I look to the north, and can make out the bare shadowed outline of the buildings marking the start of the Sunni district. From here, the shadowy buildings and the even darker window holes take on a sinister look.

Then like a final curtain falling, all lights disappear to the south. The entire town washes out in darkness as the electricity fails. The electricity cutting out shuts off the music from the wedding, and the sudden failing of light and sound is profound. In the silence, the Alamo is surrounded by a sea of shadows, with nothing brighter than the moon and the now vivid stars in the sky.

The wedding party cheers in the darkness.

To the south, a few homes light up as the wealthier occupants of the town power up their generators. To the east, the mosque flashes into brilliance, its tall minaret glowing as its power comes online, a beacon of light in a sea of darkness.

I can hear the guests at the wedding begining to sing, making up for the loss of music from the band.

“Sir?”

One of the soldiers on guard walks over and flips the night vision mounted on his helmet up and out of his face. The night vision mounted on his helmet gives his profile a slightly alien shape.

He beckons me over to the east wall, towards the mosque.

“Sir, you need to see this.”

The concern in his voice is apparent.

Walking over to the east wall I can see why. In the distance, beyond the town, a huge orange glow lights up the sky. On the horizon, the flames reach the sky and billow with a pulsing life.

Something is on fire.

Something big.

It is quite possibly the eeriest thing I have ever seen in my life.

I turn to the soldier next to me.

“When did that start?”

“Sir, it started just a few minutes ago.”

After watching for another minute, I turn away and walk over to the door leading down into the Alamo. The inside of the Alamo is not lit when the power in the city is out, and stepping down the uneven concrete steps in the darkness is hazardous at best.

Moving thru the shadowed corridors, I pass sleeping soldiers, some resting on flimsy metal cots, and some sprawled out on the ground.

All are sweltering in the summer heat.

The CP of the Alamo is small room, filled with maps and communication equipment. The soldier on radio-watch is listening to the radio intently, but he is trying to look out of the sandbagged windows at the glowing orange flames in the darkness.

Reaching for the Battalion net, I trigger the handset.

“Thunder X-Ray this is Warrior Alamo. We can see a fire to the east, possibly two to three kilometers away. It started a few minutes ago. The fire is huge, a bright ball of flame in the air.”

Thunder X-Ray seems to be digesting that information, because it takes a minute for them to respond.

“Warrior Alamo, this is Thunder X-Ray, Roger, keep us updated.”

As I put down the handset, other calls start flooding the Battalion net. Units from all over the area are calling in the massive ball of fire in the east.

As the successive calls come in, I can hear the radio-watch at Battalion getting more and more frustrated with his lack of information.

That there is a massive ball of fire in the sky is all that anyone seems to be able to say.

Finally, someone at Battalion makes a decision, and the call comes out over the radio net.

“All units, go to Redcon 1.”

Handing back the handset, I pick up my personal radio. It links me to the rest of the Platoon scattered all over the Alamo.

“All units go to Redcon 1. I want 3rd Squad on the roof, and 1st Squad manning the perimeter and the gate.”

One by one my Squad Leaders check in and acknowledge the order. Outside the CP, I can hear the soldiers scrambling to their feet to don their body armor and get their weapons.

As I walk back down the dark hallway and up the steps to the rooftop, I pass soldiers heading in the other direction, moving to man the front gate and the perimeter of the Alamo.

Other soldiers are passing me on their way up the steps, moving to their positions on the rooftop. There is little noise in the darkness. No shouting and no fuss. The soldiers know their job, and they do it well.

As I step out onto the roof, I am greeted by a relatively cool breeze that I barely notice.

The dark silhouettes of soldiers outline the wall, and I can tell from their positions that everyone has moved to the perimeter. There is now a formidable force on the rooftop. Everyone is tense, the soldiers talking quietly as they scan their sectors. Team leaders move from man to man, checking on their positions and double-checking their equipment.

We can take no chances.

The fire in the distance could be a decoy, a false alarm to draw attention away from the Alamo.

The city power going out could be the prelude to an attack.

Walking back to the west wall, I pick up a pair of binoculars, and scan the rooftops around the Alamo for signs of movement.

Nothing.

Putting the binoculars down, I can see the massive orange glow, still lighting up the night sky in the distance.

It is spectacular.

It is awful.

And there is something else.

The city is strangely quiet. It takes me a minute to realize what is missing.

Looking out over the street to the southwest, I realize that in the few short minutes I had been inside the Alamo, the entire wedding party has disbursed.

All of the signs of life and happiness are gone.

Gone is the singing and dancing.

Gone too are the sounds of laughter and the long rows of food laden tables.

It leaves me strangely empty inside.

In just a few short minutes, the street has gone from one of reveling, to that of tense, anxious moments in the dark.

It is as if the people here sense it too.

There is a sense of waiting.

Like the calm before the storm.

We could be attacked at any time, and still there is that massive orange glow to the east.

As I begin to walk the perimeter of the roof to check on the battle positions, I suddenly feel very tired.

It is going to be a long night.

Thank You

2005-07-28T09:16:00.000-07:00

Leaving the Alamo and walking to the front gate, I can feel the sweat trickling down the back of my neck. Three hours after the sun has set, it is still unusually hot. The wind blows in earthly gusts, fluttering the frayed plastic bags caught up in the concertina wire and giving the night a haunted, uneasy feel.

Walking thru the gate and past the sandbag reinforcements, the armored vehicle staged out front looms up at me in the darkness.

The gunner is up in his turret, silhouetted against the night sky as he scans for trouble. A bright red cherry colored light flares up, and in the light of the lit cigarette, I can see the face of the Sergeant of the Guard, talking quietly with the driver who is monitoring the radio.

Suddenly, the radio silence is broken by a transmission by my Platoon Sergeant, who is on a patrol out in the town.

“Warrior Alamo, this is Warrior 2/7, we have heard multiple shots fired to the north. Somewhere along the Wahabi market street. We are moving to check it out.”

Reaching past the driver, I pick up the handset in the vehicle.

“Warrior 2/7 this is Warrior 2/6, that’s a good copy.”

Turning and looking to the north, the district seems quiet.

It is almost too quiet.

Unusually for this time of night, there are no vehicles driving past the Alamo on the road running east to west along no-mans-land. Instead the buildings sit silently in the dark, outlined only by the occasional naked, fluorescent light bulb harshly illuminating their exteriors.

The night’s silence is again broken by my Platoon Sergeants excited voice.

“Warrior Alamo, this is Warrior 2/7, we are in pursuit of a black Opel. There has been a drive by shooting, and at least one person is down. The gunmen are in a black Opel that is driving north along the market road.”

“Roger, are there any other casualties?”

“Negative, at this time, I believe that only one man was hit.”

My Company Commander breaks in from where he has been listening at the Company headquarters back in the rear.

“Warrior 2/7 this is Warrior 6, what’s your status?”

“Warrior 6 this is Warrior 2/7, we are in pursuit of gunmen in a black Opel, they are running north up the Wahabi market street and heading to the bridge. How far north can we chase?”

I can picture my Company Commander back in the rear, leaning into the handset of the radio and wishing that he was out in the field giving chase to the insurgents.

“Warrior 2/7 this is Warrior 6, you can chase that bad boy from here until you run out of gas! Keep me updated.”

“Roger.”

Standing next to the driver and monitoring the Platoon net, I can hear my Platoon Sergeant giving commands to his element as the patrol gives chase.

Thru the radio I can hear the tension in his voice and the whine of a vehicle engine as it begins to accelerate madly up the road.

Suddenly, two white headlights flash out and a mini-van pulls up to the gate. Three men jump out and start speaking loudly with the Iraqi Police stationed at the gate.

They are gesticulating wildly and the urgency in their voices is clear.

I motion to Steve, my interpreter, to accompany me around the concrete barriers forming the chicane and up to the minivan idling in front of the gate. As I move forward, the minivan shuts off it’s headlights, plunging everything into shadows.

As I approach, two of the men fall silent, and a third man steps forward. He is shorter than the others, but possessive of a quiet authority. His dark brown hair is cut short, and it looks as if he has not shaved for a few days.

I can feel the strength of his gaze on me in the dark.

Touching my hand to my chest respectfully, I give the traditional greeting.

“A’sallam Alechem”

“Alechem Sallam,” comes the reply, and the man immediately launches into a passionate monologue in Arabic.

Motioning to the vehicle, he looks at me expectantly.

“What is it?”

Steve replies quietly, his normal cheerful nature subdued.

“He says his brother has been shot. He is in the van.”

Reaching into my pocket I pull out my LED flashlight and step over to the van. Leaning into the interior, I notice someone lying down on the seat in the back, his feet curled under him.

On the passenger seat, clad in dark blue pants and a brown shirt is his brother. In the powerful white glow of the LEDs I can see that his face is a sheet of red. His shirt is twisted and completely soaked with blood. Where the rounds have hit, the shirt is stuck to his body.

With a brief glance, I can tell that the man had been shot multiple times in the torso and the head.

He is the victim from the drive-by shooting.

Shutting off my flashlight, I turn from the body and face his brother. I can tell that he is having difficulty trying to control his emotions.

“First, tell him that I am very sorry for his loss. Then ask him to tell me what happened.”

The man listens to the translation for a second, and then nods his head. He glances at his brothers standing behind him, and then back at me.

“He says that a car pulled up and a man wearing a headwrap jumped out with an AK-47. His brother was sitting in front of the shop that he owns, and the man shot him. He then walked up to his brother’s body, and shot him in the head to make sure he was dead.”

I look quietly at the man. I can tell that he and his two brothers are controlling their anguish.

Barely.

This death is too new. Now that the concerted action of bringing their brother to the Iraqi Police Station has ceased, in the quiet night their loss is finally beginning to sink in.

“Tell them that we are currently in pursuit of the vehicle that we suspect was involved in the shooting. Is there any reason why their brother would have been targeted?”

The man blinks at the news, and then shakes his head “no.”

“My brother was a peaceful man, he was shot for no reason that we know of.”

I am glad that no one can see my face in the dark.

“Alright, I know that this is a difficult time for you, but you have to accompany the Iraqi Police to their offices and fill out some paperwork. I promise you, that if we can do anything to kill or capture the men that shot your brother, we will.”

The man looks at me silently for a second, and then places his hand over his heart.

“Thank you,” he says in halting English.

The man then turns away and gets back into the vehicle with his brothers body. As the minivan starts to move, the other two brothers walk alongside the vehicle. They are giving their brother an escort thru the concrete chicane and over to the Iraqi Police station.

Watching the minivan pull thru the entrance, I say a silent prayer for the dead man and his family.

Walking back to the HUMMWV, I pick up the radio handset.

“Warrior 2/7 this is Warrior 2/6, what’s your status?”

“Warrior 2/6 this is Warrior 2/7, we are currently north of the bridge, heading south on ‘Route Maples,’ and we are no longer in pursuit of the Opel.”

For a second there is silence on the net.

“The Opel got away.”

I can hear the tired frustration in my Platoon Sergeants voice. I can only imagine that the rest of his patrol is feeling the same way.

“Warrior 2/7, this is Warrior 2/6, you did everything you could. Come back to the Alamo.”

“Roger Warrior 2/6, on our way back now.”

I force myself to relax my hand which has involuntarily curled into a fist around the black plastic handset.

Damn.

The Least That I Can Do

2005-07-24T11:15:00.000-07:00

She is handsome, rather than beautiful.

Her black dress covers her from head to toe, with only her face showing under a black head scarf. Still, her open, expressive face is attractive in a motherly way, as she smiles and looks down at her curly haired baby, the child’s first crammed firmly into his mouth.

Sitting on the woven carpets in the bare room are her other children. A slender girl, with her back against the white plastered wall, perhaps 14 years of age, and wearing a red dress smiles shyly up at me. The third child, a young boy, sits quietly besides his mother, his dark eyebrows and pale skin forming a striking contrast. Children’s books and white note pads filled with the children’s drawings are scattered on the carpets that line the floor of the room.

We have come to raid their house.

Standing in the room with the mother and children, I feel slightly foolish as I post a young, serious soldier with a squad automatic weapon to guard them. He is to prevent them from getting up and moving around the house while my soldiers conduct their search.

For both their safety and ours, I can take no chances.

Turning to the boy, I have my interpreter ask him where the family’s weapon is. Throwing a quick glance at his mother, he gets up and walks into his parent’s bedroom.

There, behind a curtain covering an opening into a cupboard, is a well maintained AK-47 and a 40 round Banana Clip magazine.

Each household in Iraq is allowed to have a single AK-47 and one clip of ammunition.

Reaching into the cupboard I take out the weapon. It takes only a second to remove the magazine, clear the chamber, and place the weapon back on safe.

One less thing to worry about.

“Are there any more weapons in the house?”

“No” he says, and shakes his head.

“Alright, go back in the room with your mother.”

Walking into the hallway, I stop next to my squad leader and give him the go ahead to begin searching the house. He moves up to the top floor and out onto the balcony with his search team.
Turning, I survey the house. As houses in Iraq go, this is a relatively nice one. The small refrigerator and freezer in the hallway appear to be new, and the house is neat and well kept.

As in all Iraqi houses, almost all of the rooms have no furniture, just mats and rugs on the floor for family members to sit on.

In the kitchen, what is left of the afternoon meal is sitting on a large metal platter. Cut cucumbers, white rice, and what looks like curried beans are each sitting separately in small metal bowls on the platter. When the family eats, they place the platter on the ground between them, and scoop the food out of the communal dishes with their hands.

My stomach gives a little flutter. The food is covered in a crawling mass of flies.

Walking up the staircase to the roof, I come across a growing pile of electric cables and copper wires. The squad leader and one of his men are collecting the spools of cable from a corner of the rooftop, and placing them into a pile for removal.

These are exactly the kind of materials used to manufacture and detonate an IED.

This is exactly the kind of thing we are looking for.

From the rooftop I can see my soldiers securing the perimeter of the house. To the north and east, armored HUMMWV’s are staged giving the gunners good sectors of fire. In the event that we are fired upon while conducting our search, the gunners will be able to return fire and suppress the enemy.

In the distance, to the west, looking out over no-mans land and past the Mosque, I can see the rooftop and gun positions of the Alamo.

We are just a stones throw from home.

Walking back down the stairs and out of the intense heat, I re-enter the room with the mother and her children. Behind her, a color television set sits on top of a large cupboard, an Arabic soap opera loudly and emotionally playing out on the screen.

I can’t help but noticing that the outfits and hairstyles in the soap opera look like something straight out of the 1960’s.

The woman is looking at me expectantly. Her dark eyes smiling as she plays with her child. She asks me something in Arabic and the girl behind her giggles.

“What did she say?”

“She wants to know if you want to take a picture with the baby.”

Caught off guard, I smile briefly down at her pleasant face, but then my smile begins to fade.

The woman does not know that we have arrested her husband on suspicion of being an insurgent.

He is currently out in one of the vehicles awaiting transport to a holding facility.

With a sinking feeling, I try to shut out my emotions. I know that what we are doing is going to be bringing a lot of pain and suffering to this friendly, motherly woman and her delightful children.

I tell myself that it is part of the job.

Still, I don’t have to like it.

My squad leader appears behind me and beckons me back into the hallway.

“We have completed the search. We found a mess of wires and cables, and a couple of boxes of documents.”

“Alright, good work. Go ahead and move everything into the back of my HUMMWV. I will go talk with the CO and let him know the search is complete.”

Turning, I walk outside into the heat. In one of the vehicles, my commander sits talking on the radio. He is coordinating events with another platoon searching a different house just down the road.

“Alright Sir, the search is complete. We found a couple of boxes of documents and some cables and wiring, and we are going to bring it all with us.”

The Captain looks at me thru a sheen of sweat on his bright red face.

"Okay, good work. Bring him inside and let him get some toiletries and a change of clothing.”

I walk back to a second HUMMWV and open the back door. There, in the back passenger seat, is the woman’s husband. His hands bound behind his back, and a pair of dark goggles covering his eyes.

Surprisingly, he is an older man, his salt and pepper hair and moustache accenting a strong, stern face.

The soldier guarding him is sitting beside him in the other passenger seat.

“Take him out of those cuffs and remove the blindfold. She doesn't need to see him like that. Oh, and when you guard him inside the house, try not to look like that is what you are doing.”

The soldier nods.

This is going to be emotional enough.

The man rubs his wrists as he steps out of the vehicle, briefly stretching his legs. On his face, I can see that he is steeling himself to face his family under these circumstances. It is a struggle for him to keep his face emotionless while he walks towards his home.

Following behind him, I can see him square his shoulders and muster his dignity. As I let him lead me into the house, I can see his wife on the floor, no longer smiling, as she looks at her husband with shock and concern all over her face.

Trembling she turns to me and starts asking me questions in Arabic.

“What has he done? Where are you taking him?”

Clasping her hands together she is almost pleading with me.

“Ma’am, we are just taking him over to our base to ask him some questions about a few matters that need clearing up.”

“How long will he be gone? Can he be back tonight?”

The pain in her voice is obvious. She is terrified for her family and for her husband.

The soldiers have come to take him away, and for all she knows, she may never see him again.

My heart is in my mouth.

“Ma’am, I am afraid that this is not possible. You should expect him to be gone for a few days at least.”

She glances down at her children and then looks at her husband. He speaks to her in Arabic and she moves into the bedroom to pack some belongings for him.

With a nod, I send a soldier in after her to keep watch.

The man asks permission to gather a few papers that he wants to take with him. He walks over to the cupboard and under the watchful eyes of his guard gathers what he needs.

Within a few minutes, his wife enters the room clutching a plastic bag filled with clothing and a towel.

She looks at her husband as if she wants to say something, and then she turns back to me as he is getting ready to leave the room.

“She wants to know if she can keep the AK-47.”

“Tell her that she can. Each household can keep a weapon for their own protection.”

She looks relieved, and then she continues hesitantly. Her hands clasped together as if in prayer.
“What will I do? How long will he be gone? I cannot stay here alone. It is dangerous here. Please bring him back tonight. If you do not, where will I go? Who will protect us?”

Behind her, I can see that her daughter has tears in her eyes.

I turn away from their stricken faces. Glancing at the soldier behind me, I can tell that this is as difficult for him as it is for me.

In a quiet voice, I give instructions to the private standing behind her husband.

“Alright, take him back out to the vehicle, and lets get ready to go. Let the CO know that we are done here.”

Accompanied by the subdued young soldier, the man leaves the room and walks outside without so much as glancing at his wife or his children.

“Ma’am, do you have family you can go and stay with? Is there someone you can live with until all of this is resolved?”

She thinks a moment, and then replies:

“Yes, my husband’s family lives in Baghdad. I could take the children and go there.”

I nod my head and attempt to look encouraging. “I recommend you do that. I honestly don’t know how long your husband will be gone.”

She looks at my face as if trying to read something, and then she glances down at her children and clutches at her infant’s chubby little hand.

Turning away, I address the other soldiers still left in the room.

“Alright, let’s get moving. Go ahead outside and mount up. Let’s get out of here.”

As the soldiers file out, I turn and place her AK-47 on the ground, and ask her not to pick it up until we have left. Then after all of the soldiers have left the room, I stop in the doorway and turn back.

“Steve, tell her that if she chooses to stay here, I will patrol near the house and check in on her from time to time to see if she and the children are okay. Also tell her that if she leaves and goes to Baghdad, I will try to stop by and make sure the house is okay.”

She listens and then nods her head quietly.

It is the least that I can do.

The Enemy

2005-07-21T07:21:00.000-07:00

The front gate of the Alamo opens up into the sprawling town. A mass of triple strand concertina wire and jersey barriers block out traffic and channel incoming vehicles thru a chicane of concrete blocks. The front entrance is reinforced by an up-armored HUMMWV, a gunner sitting in the armored cupola manning a long barreled .50 caliber machine gun. The gunner scans oncoming traffic looking for signs of trouble while the driver sits patiently and monitors the radio. The vehicle must be moved for any traffic to enter or exit, and is a last ditch effort to prevent a car packed with explosives from slamming into the Alamo and reducing the building to fire and ash.

Nearing the front gate and stepping around the wire, I wrinkle my nose as I catch a fresh draft of hot wind from the city. The sewer stench of the city permeating the air is something I will never get used to.

At the front gate, a man stands patiently, waiting to talk. He is wearing a dark blue robe and worn brown sandals. His sleeves, where they are rolled up, reveal faded swirling tattoos and Arabic markings on his skin. His unshaven face is rough, made up of sharp angular planes that are hardened by hooded, expressionless eyes.

Looking into those dark brown eyes, I can tell that he wants me dead.

Without taking my eyes off of his, I motion for the interpreter to come over. Steve walks over, and stops suddenly, as if sensing the tension between the stranger and myself.

“What does he want?”

Steve begins hesitantly, stumbling over the first few words of his normally flawless Arabic.

The man replies so softly that Steve has to lean forward to catch his last few words.

“He says he has come for his brothers.”

“Who are his brothers?”

“He says that one of his brothers was killed by Americans yesterday, and that the other brother was taken and arrested.”

Unconsciously I nod my head. I know who he is talking about.

The day before an IED had hit an American patrol. Immediately after the blast, the soldiers had noticed a blue bongo truck fleeing from the scene. The patrol reacted quickly and gave chase. The blue bongo truck fled until its tires were shot out. As the truck ground to a halt, two armed men had jumped out and started running. My patrol had arrived on scene just after one of the armed men had been shot dead and the other one had surrendered.

The brothers had been insurgents. This one was likely no exception.

Standing before me is the enemy.

The bastard is trying to stare me down.

Resting my right hand on my pistol, I feel an involuntary rush of adrenaline.

“Tell him that he can have his brother’s body. I will show him where it is.”

At the mention of his brother’s body his gaze cracks. For an instant, the corners of his eyes tighten with grief, and then his features return to his intense,hate-filled stare.

Motioning with my right hand, I turn and walk over to the Iraqi Police station. Behind me, the man follows, shadowed by two of my soldiers pulling security. They have picked up on the lethal atmosphere, and are moving with extra care, their eyes scanning for trouble.

I can feel his gaze on the back of my neck.

Walking into the comparative cool of the Iraqi Police station, I step thru the shadowed concrete corridors and into a back room. There, on a wooden pallet, is a body bag with his brother’s remains. An Iraqi policeman walks in and Steve quietly explains what the man is there for.

There is a slight stench in the air that no words could properly describe.

The man steps around me and walks up to the bag. I can see him grip his blue robe with his right hand, holding the material so hard that his knuckles have turned white.

After a long moment, he turns to face me.

“And my other brother, the Americans arrested him. Where is he? How can I get him?”

I look at him for a moment, not saying anything.

“Your brother was arrested after he attacked an American Patrol. He has been confined and they are doing an investigation. If he is guilty of terrorist activity, he will be charged and sentenced by an Iraqi Court of Law. If he is not guilty of terrorist activity, you have nothing to be afraid of. If he is innocent, he will be released and you will see him again. If however, he is guilty, he is going to be going to prison for a very long time.”

The man looks at me, his jaw working in anger. For a brief second, I get the impression that he is going to attack, and then suddenly, as if the energy has gone out of him, his shoulders slump slightly and he looks down at his brother’s body.

“Can you help me move him to my vehicle?”

I can tell that it was painful for him to ask me for assistance.

Looking steadily at the man standing before me, his face half cloaked in the shadows, I consider his request.

Part of me goes out to the man in sympathy.

For the loss of a brother.

And then I remember all of the bodies of innocent civilians that my men have found rotting in the sun, their hands bound behind their backs, and their eyes blindfolded, before they were shot in the head by insurgents that had suspected them of helping the Americans.

This man is an insurgent. His brother had tried to kill Americans.

My resolve hardens, and I shake my head to clear my thoughts.

Still, I will get him the help he needs.

“Tell him that the Iraqi Police will help him carry the body.” The Iraqi Policeman in the corner nods, and leaves the room to get a colleague to help.

For my men will do no such thing.

Play of the Day

2005-07-17T08:09:00.000-07:00

The open fields stretching out to the north and south of the road are empty and dead in the heat, the ground chalky with dust and cracked by the sun. For several kilometers in either direction, the gray-brown monotony is interrupted only by small mud buildings and the occasional yellow brick farmhouse. Small fields of gray palm groves look faint in the distance, and they dot the horizon in a haphazard pattern. To the south of the road runs an ever-present irrigation canal, its dry bottom filled with refuse and dead reeds.

The red 7-series BMW is parked on the north side of the road, its powerful engine purring contently as it idles in place. To its rear, a tan HMMWV rolls to a stop, blocking off any escape down route “Galaxy.” To the front, my vehicle pulls up just short of the BMW, its four-wheel disk brakes squealing in protest as 12,000 pounds of armored HMMWV come to a sudden stop.

Thru the dusty windshield, I can see the two male occupants of the car. The driver, in his mid 30’s looks quickly up, and then looks back down as he engages in a fierce but whispered conversation with his passenger, a dark, unshaven man in his early 20’s. The passenger, in a dark blue shirt and loose black trousers, is beginning to look nervous.

Two days previously, the TAC had been mortared, and intelligence reported that three cars were seen leaving the site of the mortars.

One of them was reputedly a red BMW.

I am going on a hunch.

Unlocking the combat lock, I swing open the door and dismount, my M4 Carbine held ready. Looking thru the close combat optic, I train the red dot of light onto the torso of the driver. The driver looks up again, and compresses his lips into a fine white line, his running argument with his passenger abruptly ended.

Thru my peripheral vision, I can see other soldiers in the patrol dismounting and securing the site. They sweep the roadside and the fields around the HMMWVs looking for IEDs.

They know that we are only 500 meters from a location affectionately called “the Circle of Death,” and no one is taking any unnecessary chances.

Moving away from the rear vehicle, one of the soldiers steps up to the driver’s side window. With his reflective black sunglasses and his body armor, the private looks particularly intimidating.

“Shut off the engine and step out of the vehicle.”

The driver, reaches into his front breast pocket of his blue and white plaid shirt, and pulls out an ID card. Waving it in the air thru his open window, he appears to be holding it out like it is a get out of jail free card.

An alarm bell goes off in my head.

“Hey, tell that motherfucker I don’t give a shit what kind of ID he has, tell him to shut off his engine, and get out of the fucking car.”

“Get out of the damned car!” shouts the private, and around the backside of the vehicle, a sergeant steps to the passenger side and opens the door himself.

“Get out!”

The two men reluctantly get out of the car, the driver still holding out his ID like a talisman.

Lowering my rifle, I indicate a patch of gravel on the side of the road. The private nods, and grabs a hold of the loose shirt of the driver, walking him over to the rocky patch of gravel. On the other side of the BMW, the sergeant takes hold of the shirt of the passenger and marches him next to the driver. Putting pressure on the passenger’s sweaty back with his forearm he forces the passenger to his knees.

The driver, a bright smile on his face, is nodding his head to me in a friendly fashion. He holds out his right hand and hands me his ID.

“Alright, search them and bring me all of their documents.”

Walking back to the hood of my vehicle, I lay out the ID card the driver has just handed me. It is a red and white ID card, with an Iraqi flag, and the driver’s photo laminated on the front.

In big black letters, it reads, “Ministry Security Office.”

So the guy is an Iraqi Ministry Security Guard. Big deal. Why was he waving the card at me?

Then, the title of the card catches my eye. It actually reads;

“Republic of Iraq, Minstry Security Office.”

“Minstry?” I mutter to myself.

You would think that the Ministry would know how to spell the name of their own department.

Then a thought occurs to me, and I look at the card more closely.

While engrossed in the details of the card, the private who has searched the two men walks over with their possessions and places them on the hood of my vehicle. In addition to a wallet, two cell phones, and two more ID cards, there is a very large amount of money.

“Holy Shit!”

I can’t help but exclaim as I undo the dirty rubber band and unfold at least thirty crisp and clean $100 dollar bills. Glancing at the hood, I can see that a second folded stack of money is thick with multicolored Iraqi Dinars, their colorful scenes depicting ancient Iraqi history.

Thumbing thru the stack quickly, I count at least 3,000,000.00 dinars. In my head I do some quick math; about $4,000.00 dollars. Some serious dough for an Iraqi.

“Where did these guys have all this cash?”

The private, flushing with excitement at his find, gives me a big grin.

“Sir, they had it all over, in every pocket, I just kept on finding more!”

Looking up I can see the driver watching me intently with expressionless brown eyes. His dark face a few shades paler than before. The passenger, knees folded beneath him, appears to be staring at the ground.

I walk over to the driver and instruct the private to move him a few feet away from the passenger. My translator, Steve, gets out of the HMMWV and walks over to assist.

The driver, seeing me approach, is quick to try to leave. He begins to stand, still with a smile on his face, and thru his fixed smile he says, “Thank you mister, thank you.”

The full weight of the stocky private standing behind him forcing him back to his knees quickly disabuses him of any notion that he is getting released.

His cocky smile no longer looks so certain.

“Whose money is this?

“It is mine.”

“What is all this money for?”

“I live in Balad and I am building a house in Baghdad. This is money for building my house. I am on my way there now.”

I stare at him for a minute. He begins to shift and fidget under the strength of my gaze.

Finally, I nod my head and walk over to the passenger, still sitting despondent on the side of the road.

“Whose money is this?”

“The money is all mine.”

“What is it for?”

“I have the money because I am on my way to Tikrit to buy a car.”

You would think with all the time they had to whisper to each other that at least they would get their stories straight.

“Really, so the money is yours. How do you know the driver? Where were you going in his car?”

The young man looks even more nervous than usual.

“I don’t know him. I only know his face. I don’t know his name. I only see him around.”

“Really? So what were you doing in his car?”

The passenger begins to speak, and then falls silent, his attention still firmly fixed on the ground in front of him.

I hate being lied to.

Turning my back on the man I walk back to the hood of the car to sort thru the rest of their possessions.

Opening the wallet of the driver, I pull out several pieces of paper, another ID card, and a small, folded paper envelope. In the billfold, I notice another two crisp, US $100 bills.

Someone is bankrolling this guy.

Putting aside the wallet, I pull out the second ID. The ID is a photo ID for a construction company, proclaiming that the owner of the ID is a general contractor.

Is this guy a general contractor, or is he a ministry security official?

The alarm bells have been ringing nonstop in my head.

Unfolding the white envelope, I tip out the contents into the palm of my hand.

Nine identical postage stamp sized ID photos of the driver.

In a fold in the wallet, there are another three ID photos, all three of different men, but each with the same thick, black, Saddam-like moustache that almost all the old regime men here have.

The alarm bells have turned into a five-alarm fire.

Looking up, I catch the attention of my squad leader. “Sergeant, go get the X-spray, and give them a test while I sort thru this.”

“Roger sir.”

The General Contractor ID is poorly made. It looks almost as if it is two pieces of paper printed out on a computer, put back to back, and then sent thru a laminating machine. The blood type catches my attention.

The blood type on the General Contractor ID is B+.

The blood type listed on the Ministry ID is A+.

So which is it?

Then the nine ID photos catch my eye.

They are the same photograph used on the Ministry ID. A well dressed, self-satisfied man with a rainbow background.

The date on the back of the photographs is only a few weeks old. The Ministry ID must be brand new.

I turn my attention to the passenger's ID. It claims that he is in an Industry Defense Force Battalion, whatever that is. The spelling of the ID also looks peculiar.

“Batalion” is missing its second “t.”

My initial hunch must be right.

With multiple, poorly made IDs, misspellings, the un-matching blood-types, and the envelope with all the photos, these can only be fake IDs.

Apparently whoever made this guy the ministry ID, must have told him that it would bear some weight with US troops, which is why he was so quick to show it to us.

Too bad for him.

Fake ID’s. Several thousand in sequential $100 dollar bills, their stories aren’t straight, and their vehicle matches the description of a vehicle seen leaving a mortar attack….

I carefully place everything back the way it was brought to me, and I stuff each item into a ziplock bag.

I finish just in time for the sergeant to walk up to me with two X-spray test papers.

They are both bright pink.

Positive for nitrates and other explosives.

That makes it easy.

“Alright, we are taking these guys in for more questioning.”

The sergeant nods his head. “Roger, what are we going to do with the car?”

I smile, “we are going to take it with us.”

I always did want a BMW.

Ten hours later I leave the brigade holding facility where I have finished filling out the half dozen forms and sworn statements required to detain a suspected insurgent. The driver and passenger have changed into their orange jumpsuits for an extended stay, courtesy of the U.S. Army.

Walking into the Command Post, the First Sergeant stops me with a smile.

“So I heard you guys were hit by an IED on your way back to Camp."

I smile wearily back at the First Sergeant, while making a bee-line over to my stack of mail.

"Yeah, when we got hit and opened up with the crew-served weapons, the suspect I had in the back of my vehicle was so scared that he pissed all over himself."

That was not fun.

The First Sergeant grimaces wryly at the thought.

"Well, good job anyway today Sir. Did you hear that you had the Play of the Day?”

“The play of the what?!” I demand, not sure that I heard right.

The First Sergeant continues with his smile, delighted that he is the first to tell me.

“You had the Baghdad Area of Operations ‘Play of the Day’ as deemed by the Commanding General. It has just been released over the net that your catch of those two insurgents has been deemed the most important catch in the entire Baghdad area of operations today, and that is out of 60,000 troops. Rumor has it that they are talking.”

Cool.

Incoming

2005-07-15T01:01:00.000-07:00

The first round explodes with a shattering crack, and I can hear shouting coming from outside the sandbagged room.

“Incoming! Incoming! Incoming!”

I leap to my feet and quickly settle my advanced combat uniform helmet onto my head. Despite the explosions and yelling coming from outside, somehow my mind registers the inconsequential thought that the helmet pads lining the inside of the helmet feel tacky from days of sweat and grime and will need to be washed.

Grabbing my rifle, I move to the sandbagged window and get down on my knees to minimize my silhouette. I am in the safest possible place, inside, behind sandbags.

My soldiers however, are not.

Thru a crack in the layered sandbags I can see them scattering in all directions. The soldiers drop their shovels and half filled sandbags and run to the nearest HMMWV clad only in their shirt sleeves.

With another shattering crack, a dirt cloud erupts from outside the Chicane protecting the entrance to the TAC. Black smoke mingles with cracked earth and the mortar round shreds itself into fragments of hot shrapnel. The explosion is only 15 meters from the HMMWV guarding the entrance, and I can see the soldiers inside the vehicle struggling to close the gunners hatch.

With a thud, the hatch falls shut, and glancing around, I can see that all of the soldiers have made it behind some level of armored protection, their shovels and half filled sandbags lying forgotten on the dusty ground.

I don’t think I have ever seen them move so fast.

To my rear, there is a muffled explosion, and I hear the brittle sound of wood snapping and something falling. It sounds as if a mortar has hit an electrical pole, and has cut it in half.

The thought occurs that we are being bracketed. Somewhere out in the fields and farms surrounding the isolated TAC is an insurgent watching where the rounds land, and calling adjustments back to the mortar team.

Bastards.

Ignoring the next explosion, I do another visual check of the area. I can see no soldiers outside cover. Finally satisfied, I edge away from the window and sit down on the marble floors with my back against the tan stucco wall.

I begin to count the sharp, quick, explosions in my head. They come rapidly, one after the other. One… Two… Three… Four…

With a thunderous roar, the fifth round hits the other side of the wall I have taken cover behind. The wall shakes and the dirty glass window rattles in its frame and threatens to crack. The sandbags lining the windows shift, and a cloud of choking dust rises from the neatly stacked green burlap bags.

That was close.

The silence outside is deafening.

Glancing at my watch, I realize that it was all over within a few seconds- from start to finish.

It felt like an eternity.

Silently counting another ten heartbeats, I can hear the soldiers outside begin to shout at one another. Team leaders are getting accountability of their teams, and Squad leaders are getting accountability of their squads.

Clambering to my feet, I grab my rifle and walk outside into the heat to check on my platoon.

It is a good day. No casualties.

American Graffiti

2005-07-13T00:45:00.000-07:00

The dirt road cuts between two farms, dividing the fields of pale green scrub brush and tall willowy palms. On other side of the road, deep canals run north to south, the murky water slowly filtering through the muddy silt and reeds. A yellow brick wall borders the north side of the road, defining the property line of one of the small farms and curving outward to match the run of the road.

On the yellow brick wall, the black spray-painted scrawl in Arabic seems to shimmer in the afternoon heat.

I turn to my interpreter, who is standing next to me with his hands on his hips.

“Spider, what does this graffiti say?”

Spider looks around briefly and then pulls his mask off. His face turns thoughtful as he considers the writing.

Finally he grimaces.

“It says, ‘May Allah bless the brave warriors and martyrs that fight the Americans in Fallujah. May Allah bring death to all Americans and their lackeys.’”

Oh really.

I turn and walk a few meters to my HMMWV which is staged on the south side of the road. My gunner is pulling security, but he turns briefly to throw me a questioning glance as I lift open the heavy hatch on the rear of the HMMWV. Rooting around in the trunk of the vehicle, I toss aside bottles of water, Meals-Ready-to-Eat, and rucksacks filled with gear until I find what I am looking for.

I walk over to Spider, and hand him a black can of spray-paint.

“Give me a hand painting over this shit.”

Quickly we spray-paint black lines vertically and horizontally over the Arabic. The propaganda disappears under a thin sheen of high-gloss black spray enamel.

Stepping back and looking at my work with a critical eye, I realize that something is missing.

Turning to Spider, I give him his instructions.

Slowly, a smile forms on his face and he nods his head as he gets to work, his can of paint flashing in the setting sun while he carves out bold, black Arabic letters on the yellow wall.

Satisfied with his work, he gives me a nod, and I turn and wave my right hand in a circle above my head, giving the signal for the patrol to mount up.

As the soldiers in the patrol pull back from the road and pile into their HMMWVs, I can tell they are wondering what exactly it is that Spider has just spray-painted in Arabic on the wall.

Getting back into my vehicle, my gunner leans down thru the hatch and grins.

“Sir, what does it say?”

I can’t help but grin back.

Keying the handset for my platoon frequency, I answer the question on everybody’s mind.

“Alright guys, listen up. Just something I wanted the insurgents that wrote that shit to think about. It’s an old Iraqi saying. It says:

‘We are watching you, and you can never hide. Like the eyes-of-god, we never sleep.’

Signed, the U.S. Army.”

The Routine

2005-07-10T00:41:00.000-07:00

The concussion from the controlled detonation sends a visible shockwave thru the air, and the flash and thick smoke quickly obscures my view down the highway. From inside my vehicle, the explosion appears in slow motion, a bright crimson flash followed by a sharp report and billowing smoke.

Wiping the stinging sweat off my face, I key the radio handset.

“This is White 2, give me your status.”

The three other vehicles in my patrol check in, letting me know that no one was hurt by the blast.

This is starting to be routine.

Unlocking the combat lock, I crack the heavy door and breathe in the air of the desert. This far outside of the city, the usual stench has dissipated and the hot, thick air smells almost fresh. With the air conditioner in the vehicle broken, the heat is especially brutal.

At times the sweat dripping into my eyes is so bad that I can hardly see.

Dismounting, I step over to the front of my vehicle and look thru my binoculars. To the east, a pile of charred rubble and trash has been scattered by the blast. On the far side of the blast, three hundred meters out, White 4 is blocking the road with his vehicle and preventing the long line of civilian traffic from approaching the IED.

This was a lucky one.

The IED was spotted by the sharp eyes of one of my drivers. How he managed to spot the artillery shell hidden in the pile of trash as we hurtled down the main supply route at 55 miles an hour is beyond me.

Shaking my head, I look thru my binoculars at the burning, scattered trash, and I try to ignore the glare of the harsh sunlight off the lens. There is a bright orange glow coming from the charred and scattered trash pile. I turn to my squad leader and hand him the binoculars.

“What do you make of it?”

He gazes thru the optics for a minute, and then hands them back to me with a shrug.

“Probably just a burning piece of trash.”

On the other side of the blast crater, I can see my team leader dismount from White 4 and begin to walk towards the blast crater accompanied by a Sergeant from EOD. I raise my right hand and wave towards the blast crater.

“Alright, let’s go do a crater analysis.”

As I move east along the road, my eyes scan the berms lining the route for any sign of a triggerman or an impending ambush. On my right, I can see that my squad leader is doing the same.

Someone has hidden the IED in the trash pile, and the insurgent waiting to detonate it might still be out there.

A sudden motion on the road ahead of me causes me to look up. The White 4 team leader and the EOD Sergeant have stopped short of the crater, and are staring at the burning piece of trash on the ground.

Then the EOD Sergeant turns and runs.

My blood running cold, I stop dead.

Ahead of me, my team leader is frantically waving us back, trying to get us to back away from the burning object.

He doesn’t need to tell me twice.

Walking rapidly backwards while observing the burning trash, I make it back to my HMMWV in half the time it had taken for us to approach the crater.

My squad leader is right behind me.

Reaching into the vehicle, I pick up the platoon handset.

“What’s going on?”

Thru the static, I hear the breathless voice of my team leader.

“Sir, you see that orange glow coming out of the trash pile?”

“Roger, the burning piece of trash?”

“Ah, Sir, that’s not a piece of trash. It is another 155 round that has cracked open and is burning. It must have been hidden underneath the one that we detonated! It scared the crap out of EOD!”

No kidding. It scared the crap out of me.

“Roger, is EOD going to blow it?”

“Yes, they are getting R2D2 up and running now. The robot is going to plant a charge on the burning round and blow it.”

Stepping back into my vehicle, I shut the heavy door behind me and engage my combat lock. Thru the three inch thick armored glass I can see the EOD Robot apply a charge to the burning artillery shell. Picking up the handset, I notify Battalion that there is going to be another controlled blast.

This is definitely starting to be routine.

A Long Day

2005-07-05T21:58:00.000-07:00

Looking thru the binoculars I can just make out the frayed black plastic garbage bag caught up in the bushes. From 50 meters, the bag looks like a normal piece of trash, the type of refuse that is scattered throughout the canals and culverts lining the roads all over Iraq.

This bag is different. It is supposed to be a bomb.

Resisting the urge to get closer for a better look, I raise the binoculars to my eyes again. If it is a bomb, it is in a perfect location to hit a vehicle leaving the main road and heading into town towards the Alamo.

I am starting to become more convinced.

Turning on my heels I walk past the HMMWV blocking the road and over to an Iraq police cruiser. In the back seat of the cruiser is an Iraqi man. He is nervous, with perspiration dripping down his face and onto his neck. The chest of his loose brown shirt is saturated, and I can tell that he is uncomfortable being in the police vehicle. He is wearing a green medical cravat around his face, hiding his identity, topped with a New York Yankees baseball cap. He is also wearing my sunglasses.

“Are you sure this is the right place?”

Spider translates, and the man emphatically nods his head.

“Yes, this is it. I saw a black plastic bag and wires. There was a radio attached to it.”

The man leans out the window and points directly at the bushes. I stare at the pale green prickly plant again and the black plastic bag caught in its leaves.

I still don’t see anything.

Not sure what to think, I shake my head. The thought crosses my mind that this guy may be setting us up for an ambush.

It has been known to happen.

To my right I hear a commotion. An Iraqi Policeman is shouting at a boy that has just blissfully ridden his bicycle past the cordon and right up to the black plastic bag. Hearing the shouting the boy looks confused and he dismounts from his bicycle. At first, I think that the Iraqi Policeman is telling the boy to move away from the bag. Then I realize that he is telling the boy to go look into the bushes.

I cross my fingers.

The boy shrugs his shoulders and walks casually over to the bushes. Leaning down, he studies something on the ground. He stops dead, and then hesitantly leans closer for a better look.

He turns and takes off at a run.

Even from this distance, I can tell he is as white as a sheet.

I may not be able to see the bomb, but that is good enough for me. Walking over to my vehicle, I pick up the hand-mike.

“Warrior Alamo this is Warrior 2/6, stand by for IED/UXO Report.”

“Roger Warrior 2/6, send it.”

I send up the date, time, and grid location, as well as what other little information I have. Once the report is sent, I am informed that EOD has been dispatched to my location.

It may be nothing. A piece of trash. An overactive imagination. But I have to act as if there is a bomb in the bushes.

Leaning into the HMMWV I grab a bottle of Gatorade from the cooler. It is lukewarm. Twisting the top off, I begin to turn towards Spider to ask him a question.

The bomb detonates with a tremendous thundering roll and a violent surge of dust and debris.

A shower of dirt rains down, and I feel something hot down the back of my neck. The mushroom cloud of dust rises several stories in the air, and the blast wave shakes the vehicle. Jagged chunks of twisted steel, warped from the heat of the explosion rain down on the road. On the far side of the explosion, White 4 disappears in the cloud of dust and dirt.

That was close.

My stomach twisting for White 4, I turn and grab the handset.

“Is everyone okay!?”

“White 4 okay!”

“White 2 okay!”

I exhale a breath that I had not realized I was holding. No damage and no injuries.

I quickly notify battalion that the suspected IED has in fact exploded, and that it was triggered by someone other than us. Whoever he was, he must have realized that we had discovered the bomb and got tired of waiting for us to approach.

So he blew it.

“Did anyone see a triggerman!?”

Thru bad static I faintly hear the voice of the gunner of White 2. He is shouting excitedly into the radio handset.

“Sir! I see a guy about a half-mile down the road! Just after the explosion he left that berm on the north and is walking to a vehicle! It’s a gray hatchback with a roof-rack!”

“Roger, White 2, go get ‘em.”

White 2 peels off from its position and starts barreling down the road to the west. In the distance, I hear warning shots from White 2 as he attempts to clear a path to the suspected insurgent. The Iraqis on the road, too spooked from the explosion, refuse to move their cars quickly, and the path to the hatchback is blocked. With frustration and anger in his voice, White 2 reports that the hatchback has gotten away.

“Roger White 2, we will stand by for EOD.”

Standing above the crater looking down, I am amazed at how massive it is.

Five feet deep and eleven feet long.

Jumping down into it, I level my hand and measure its height. It comes up to my chest. According to EOD, the bomb was multiple 155 Howitzer shells buried into the side of the roadway.

The Iraqi man with the Yankees baseball cap has definitely saved someone’s life.

It is dusk, and I can make out the moon and the stars as we are get ready to leave the blast site. EOD has already left, and in the growing darkness my men are doing final sweeps to ensure that we have checked everything before we leave and return to the Alamo.

“Sir, this is White 2, I think I found something!”

The radio blasts with the sound of my gunners excited voice.

“What have you got White 2?”

“I think its some kind of rocket! It’s a big metal tube and it looks like it has fins!”

It doesn’t sound like we are leaving yet.

“Alright White 2, where is it?”

“Ah, Sir, it is on the north side of the road. I got out of the vehicle to take a piss, and just as I was pissing I was saying to myself ‘wouldn’t it be fucked up if I was pissing on an IED’ and then I looked down, and no shit, there was a rocket! I was pissing on the rocket!”

Despite myself, I can’t help but smile.

“Okay White 2, you did a good job, drop a chem-light to mark the site and pull back another hundred meters, I will call EOD back.”

Down the road in the dark I see a green chem-light flash into existence and drop to the center of the road. White 2 pulls off another hundred meters and stages, blocking traffic until EOD arrives… again.

The EOD Sergeant pulls back from the computer screen. There, clearly revealed by the robots camera and lights, is a metal cylinder with three short triangular fins. The robot is motionless in the darkness, crouching over the rocket like a steel grasshopper on its miniature tank treads as it allows the EOD Sergeant to see thru its eyes from a safe distance.

It is like watching R2D2 go to work.

Smiling, the EOD Sergeant turns to me.

“That is a Surface to Air missile. It is probably Russian, although it appears to be only one stage of the rocket. We are going to blow it in place.”

The Sergeant cocks his head to one side and smiles again, “Unless you would want to do it?”

Crouching on the side of the road I pull the adhesive off of three blocks of C4 plastic explosive. Three hundred meters to the east and west, traffic has been stopped on the road, the cars waiting silently in the darkness. It is just the EOD Sergeant and myself in the dark stretch of road next to the rocket. His vehicle is parked behind me, its engine running for a quick getaway.

Once I trigger the fuse, we will have less than 45 seconds to get away before it blows.

Gently I lay the blocks of C4 along the length of the rocket, overlapping each block by layering one on top of the other. Pushing the blocks down firmly, I insert the small, shiny blasting cap into the end of the final block, and grasping the fuse assembly attached to the end of the det cord, I nod to the EOD tech in the darkness.

He nods back.

“Fire in the Hole! Fire in the Hole! Fire in the Hole!”

With a twist of my finger I push down, turn, and then pull the fuse back out. Immediately a thin wisp of white smoke begins to emit from the charge.

45 seconds.

I haul ass.

Jumping into the EOD vehicle, the driver guns the engine and we shoot off down the road to the eastern cordon of vehicles. Reaching a safe distane, I dismount as quickly as I can. Walking around to the front of the vehicle, I turn to watch the coming blast.

And then it blows.

With a spectacular fiery flash and a thunderous report, the rocket is blown into pieces. In the darkness, the dust cloud is much harder to make out, but the flash and report are far greater.

Propelled by the explosion, fragments of steel, concrete, and rocks, are propelled outward in all directions.

I am hit.

I feel a sharp blow to my abdomen below my body armor, just as my mind registers the blast. The blow doubles me over, and knocks me back on my feet.

I don’t want to look.

Gingerly reaching down I feel for wetness, for the sign that I am cut and bleeding. I close my eyes and check for pain.

Nothing.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I open my eyes. Turning to the worried EOD Sergeant who is standing next to me, my eyes meet his. He has seen me knocked backwards and doubled over by the blast.

“Hey Sergeant, would you have a look?”

Bending, the Sergeant pulls out his white surefire flashlight and inspects my uniform. He reaches his hand out and feels for any wetness, just as I had done.

Nothing.

Straightening, he looks relieved. “Sir, I think your okay. You must have been hit by a rock or a piece of pavement projected by the blast. If it was a piece of shrapnel, it would have cut you. You will probably have a bad bruise. That’s all.”

Inwardly, I breathe another sigh of relief and start to laugh.

I can’t help it. It has been a long day.

Good Boy

2005-07-03T10:54:00.000-07:00

The brutal heat fades as the afternoon begins its slow descent into dusk. Over the crumbling rooftops the sky has turned a pale orange, gently blending into an even paler blue. In this impoverished section of town, the evening air is filled with the sound of barking dogs and the smells of spiced lamb and baking bread. Dirty, barefoot children, curious at the presence of soldiers, stop their play and watch with wide smiles. Young men squat in small groups in front of houses, smoking cheap cigarettes and trading on the local gossip. As the patrol walks by, the men stop talking and watch, taking long drags on their cigarettes.

It makes me miss home.

He stands out front of his yellow brick home in the Shia neighborhood of town. It is a 15 minute walk south of the Alamo, thru neighborhoods of dirt lanes, streams of raw sewage, and fields of rubble. It is a well-constructed home of yellow brick, in better condition than the surrounding buildings.

He is obviously a proud man.

He stands tall and straight, his large frame filling out a long flowing white linen robe. His broad, frank, weather-beaten face is partially hidden by a thick black beard, and his arms are clasped behind his back.

“Marhaba,” I smile and touch my chest in the traditional symbol of greeting.

He smiles back, revealing fine white teeth, and touches his own arm to his chest.

He has no hands.

Both of his hands are cut off before the wrist, ending in jagged stumps. Looking closer, I realize that he is missing half of his right ear, and beneath the folds of his robe, I can see long thing scars on his chest, as if he had been whipped and the wounds had badly healed.

To cover my surprise, I turn to my translator.

“Max, tell him that I am LT Adam, and that I understand that he has found something he thinks is a bomb.”

In my peripheral vision, I can see that the soldiers from the patrol are securing and cordoning off the area, keeping away curious onlookers.

Max the translator looks like a highwayman. A scarf tied around his face reveals only his dark brooding eyes. Max nods his head at my request and introduces me.

“Yes, he has found something.”

Turning, the man points to a spot on the ground ten feet in front of his house.

I glance over in that direction and stop dead. It looks like a grenade.

The squad leader standing next to me swears softly under his breath. Together we inch forward and take a closer look.

It is definitely a grenade.

And worse, the safety pin and spoon are gone.

My squad leader and I back off, and I snatch the radio from my startled RTO.

“Alright everyone back off another 20m, there is a pineapple grenade on the ground over here.”

I turn back to the man and motion him a little further away from the grenade.

“How did it come to be in front of his house? Did anyone throw it at his house?”

Max translates rapidly.

“Yes, someone threw it at his house. A terrorist threw it. His son found it and thought it was a rock and he brought it inside the house.”

With the reddened stumps of his arms, the man takes out a cigarette from his front shirt pocket and leans down down. Behind him a small boy emerges holding a bic lighter, and a white curl of smoke rises gently as the young boy diligently holds the flame to the cigarette.

The boy, neatly dressed in a pair of trousers and a red t-shirt is maybe four or five years old. He is wearing brown sandals, and is one of the first children I have seen of that age to be wearing footwear.

The man takes a drag on the cigarette and continues.

“He took it from his son and threw it outside the house, he knows it is a grenade from when he was in Saddam’s Army.”

I smile at the boy. He stands quietly behind his father and does not smile back.

“Well why would terrorist want to throw a grenade at him? Does he know why anyone would want to kill him?”

As the man answers a change seems to come over him. It is as if his light brown eyes are filled with an inner light. He grows animated, and manages to somehow stand even taller and straighter than before.

“They try to kill me because I do not fear them. I do not fear the terrorists. They cannot make me bow to them, and I tell them that. I tell everyone that. If they come here, I will fight them. They cannot take my life away.”

Max translates passionately, his voice matching the tone of the man.

With a gesture, he waves his right stump expansively over his house and his son.

It dawns on me where he might have gotten his wounds.

Saadam was not known for tolerating free spirits.

“Max, tell him that we will call EOD and get the grenade disposed of. Until then, please ask him to keep people away from it.”

The man listens to Max intently and then nods his head.

“He swears he will keep everyone away. He will guard it himself until they come to dispose of it.”

Gratefully I nod my head. “Max, thank him and ask him for some I.D. so we know how to reach him if we need him.”

With a word, the boy runs inside the house and returns with his fathers I.D. His father takes the small plastic card from the waiting boy. Holding it between his two stumps, he hands it to me.

It is not a regular I.D. It is from an organization that I have never heard of before.

Above his photo and his name reads “Humanitarian Association of Victims of Genocide of the Saddam Hussein Regime.”

My suspicions about his injuries are confirmed.

I hand him his card back, unconsciously holding it vertically so that it is easier to grasp between his two stumps. He deftly seizes the card and tucks it away into the left breast pocket of his robe.

“Please tell him that we will do all we can to capture or kill the terrorists that threw the grenade at his house and tried to harm his family.”

At this, the man’s voice drops into a low growl, and I am struck by how formidable the scarred, disfigured man is.

“They will not harm my family. They will try and I will kill them. I am not afraid of them. My family is not afraid of them. My son is not afraid of them.”

His son, standing in the shadows of the fading light is listening intently to his fathers reply. As his father speaks, the boy stands a little straighter and a little taller.

The father, noticing this, stops speaking Arabic and turns to look at his son.

And then he surprises me.

“Good boy,” he says in almost perfect English, flashing his son a proud smile.

The small brown boy, standing quietly, smiles bravely back.

The IED

2005-06-29T13:11:00.000-07:00

The 155 Artillery Howitzer Shell hidden in a tan burlap sack on the side of Main Supply Route “Cardinals” explodes, and blows jagged chunks of shattered molten steel thru the air at something close to the speed of sound. A heavy piece of twisted steel smacks into the armored HMMWV, leaving a thick crack in the front window. The gunner hunched down in his armored cupola behind the M240B Machine Gun receives the brunt of the blast. The concussive force knocks him briefly unconscious, and fragments of shrapnel and hot asphalt bounce off the inside of the blast shield, peppering the tan paint with smears of black tar and ash.

One vehicle and 100 meters ahead, the blast sounds like a high pitched whine followed by a low roar. It is a sound that I have never heard before and yet is somehow intimately familiar.

Inside the vehicle there is a stunned stillness and I unconsciously count three silent heartbeats before I key the Platoon Mike.

“IED! IED! IED! Give me an ACE Report!”

Surprisingly my voice is calm and belies the sudden flush of adrenaline that has flooded my body.

One by one my vehicles check in.

“White 1 is up!”

“This is White 3! IED! We are up!”

“This is White 4…. This is White 4…. We have been hit by an IED… I think we are okay.”

I can tell that White 4 is still a little shaken.

Above me, the machine gun begins to rock with a guttural roar, its 7.62mm rounds ripping thru a partially flooded field to the North, and tearing into a haystack.

Part of me records the comical scene of a herd of cows scattering at the shattering noise and site of bright red tracer fire tearing thru the field.

Thru a dusty windshield, I have a clear view of the lead vehicle opening up with its heavy .50 Caliber Machine Gun. The five inch shells tear out of the weapon with a series of low coughs that blend into a blur of sound and impact high up on the dirt berm bordering the road to the south. The berm appears to explode outward as the dense rounds impact and slice a line of steel into the dirt, a veritable explosion of dust and earth running from east to west.

“Alright stop in place! Anyone see the trigger man!?”

The HMMWVs come to a screeching halt and the smell of smoke and rubber filters in thru the air conditioner.

In response to my question, adrenaline pumped voices flood the net.

“Negative, no trigger man!”

Turning in my seat, I can see that the gunner in the trail vehicle, White 4, is firing his machine gun straight down the road.

“Sir! Our Gunner said that he saw someone jump up from the berm after the blast and get into a car! It has taken off west! He thinks the guy is wearing green pants!”

“Roger!”

White 4 is engaging a vehicle down the road that is too far away for me to see.

Switching over to Battalion net, I send up a contact report.

“Thunder Oscar this is Warrior 2/6. We have just been hit by an IED! Grid Coordinates as follows: MR 3456 8235. No damage, no casualties. How Copy!?”

“That’s a good copy Warrior 2/6. Do you require assistance?”

Looking out the windshield I can see the other vehicles in my patrol. They appear intact, and the gunner in White 4 has ceased firing.

Looking up and down the road, there is not a car to be seen on a normally busy stretch of highway just outside of town.

“Negative Thunder Oscar, we do not need the QRF.”

“Roger, Warrior 2/6. No QRF. Be advised, Apaches are on the way, Call-sign Deathstalker 2/3.”
As the Battalion gives me the call-sign, an Apache streaks low over my vehicle, the thunder of its blades almost deafening at this close distance.

The Apache almost immediately calls me over the Battalion net.

“Warrior 2/6 this is Deathstalker 2/3. I have five fighting age males wearing OD green in a field to the North.”

For once, communication with the Apaches is not crystal clear, and I have a hard time hearing what Deathstalker 2/3 is saying.

“Roger Deathstalker 2/3, give me directions to the five males!”

To the north, Deathstalker 2/3 is doing some incredible aerial acrobatics. The sleek Apache flies in a circle so tight that it seems almost to be standing on its side as it maintains a ring around the individuals spotted in a field.

Thru a haze of static, Deathstalker 2/3 gives dense, quick, concise directions.

Adreneline pumping, my driver floors the gas and the six tons of armored vehicle lurches down the road. Shouting I begin relaying directions to my driver as they are fed to me by Deathstalker 2/3.

For a heart-stopping moment, the HMMWV crosses over a deep water filled canal on damaged dirt bridge that does not look wide enough to support the vehicle. A vision of the HMMWV sliding 15 feet into the water filled canal at high speed crosses my mind, and then with a bump we are thru, tearing down a dirt road and into a grassy field.

Across the field I can see five men walking nonchalantly away from the vehicle, not looking at the patrol and not looking at the Apaches circling overhead. I yell at my gunner to stop them, and he starts shouting. “Awgaf! Awgaf!”

The men, still walking, don’t even look up. With a sharp crack, the gunner fires a warning shot into the dirt in front of the men. A fiery red light lances out of his weapon as the tracer round impacts the earth and skips off at an angle, burning thru the sky until it winks out in the distance.

At the sound of the first 5.56 round being fired, all of the men stop and look up.

Opening the door to my HMMWV, I jump out and raise my M4 Carbine. Leaving the door to the HMMWV open and aiming the rifle at the man closest to me, I start shouting, “Awgaf!” and begin advancing thru the broken field, keeping the man in my sights.

I notice that he is, in fact, wearing, green pants and a green sweatshirt.

Vehicles come to a screeching halt in the field, and soldiers are hurtling out of the vehicles, dismounting with their weapons ready.

“Grab those motherfuckers!” My voice is starting to become hoarse from shouting over the roar of the Apaches overheard.

With determined expressions they begin advancing on the men, motioning them over and forcing them to their knees in front of my vehicle.

Taking a deep breath, I lower my weapon and finally get a good look at the men we have captured.

For the most part, they are kids.

Four of them look younger than 15. The fifth, however is an adult. Wearing a flowing white robe and dark leather sandals, he is about 40, with a salt and pepper beard and crows-feet etched into the corners of his eyes.

All five look at me dispassionately. Despite the Apaches and the warning shots, the kids and the man are calm, cool, and collected.

None of them say anything.

Turning to my squad leader, I nod toward the trunk of my vehicle. “Alright, get the X-Spray.”

The squad leader crosses to the vehicle, and returns with a plastic kit filled with contact papers and three different aerosol cans, each containing a different chemical.

One by one the kids raise their right hands and white contact paper is applied to their palms. Spraying the paper with the three cans, the paper is observed to see if there is a chemical reaction.

If the paper turns pink, then the man we swabbed with the paper has handled an explosive in the last few days.

One by one, the contact papers come up negative.

“Alright, do a sweep of the area.”

The soldiers’ criss-cross the field, looking for triggering devices, wires, or signaling equipment.
The search comes up negative.

Finally, I take a step back and look at the men kneeling on the ground. As a body, they gaze at the ground, and I realize the youngest one, kneeling in his blue t-shirt and black shorts, is starting to look upset. He is trembling and his eyes begin to glisten with the beginnings of tears.

With a sinking feeling, I realize that we have no real cause to hold them.

“Alright, take their pictures and let them go.” Despite the suspicious circumstances, despite all the effort, this man… these kids… are not the triggermen.

The triggerman is still out there.

As the patrol remounts their vehicles and heads back thru the dusty field to the main road, I realize with a start that the sun is beginning to set in the west. I look down at my watch.

It has been an hour since the blast.

It feels as if the entire experience took less than five minutes.

Taking a deep breath I close my eyes. The HMMWV lurches beneath me as it re-crosses the shoddy dirt bridge and head back to the scene of the blast.

Finally, I open my eyes and look back to the setting sun.

Time, which had stopped, begins to run again.

The Alamo

2005-06-24T13:18:00.000-07:00

The yellowed, cracked concrete walls of the police station seem to sag under the weight of a single strand of rusting steel concertina wire. The walls of the station, patched and flaking, surround a wide broken plaza, filled with rubble, broken cinderblocks, and refuse. In the darkness, hundreds of shredded plastic bags are caught in the concertina wire, and they wave and snap like banners in a hot wind.

The police station’s empty windows are black against the night sky, sandbags piled high in the windows to provide protection from mortar rounds. Inside the building, soldiers sleep on dirty concrete floors, often using their hard body armor as a pillow. They sleep where they have collapsed, exhausted from a long day and night of continuous dismounted patrols and sandbag details.

On all sides of the police station stretches the decaying town. I am told that the towns population is 25,000... not all of them friendly.

My platoon has 38 men.

Soldiers are calling it “The Alamo.”

The stillness of the night is broken by shots to the north. I stop my pacing and look up. The shots continue to echo into the night, blending into one rapid blur of noise. From the roof of the police station, behind a sandbag bunker, I scan the outlines of the short, squat, yellow brick buildings for signs of life. Their crumbling facades are lit in the distance by naked fluorescent lights.

Unconsciously I begin to count shots. Ten single shots in rapid succession.

The Wahabi district of town is restless tonight.

I walk to the north wall on the roof of the Alamo and look out over no-mans land. No-mans land stretches before me in the darkness, a half kilometer of broken ground, trash, feral dogs, and half-grown, stunted weeds. When Saddam ordered the city built, he left an empty hole in its center. At night it looks like a black gash in the heart of the town, its long black void bisecting the town from east to west. I can’t help but reflect that if Hell had a central park, it would be a lot like this.

Turning and resuming my pacing back and forth across the rooftop brings me to the south wall. A gust of hot wind brings the promise of the coming day’s heat and a whiff of the foul odor of an open sewer from the Shia district.

On a patrol earlier in the day, I discovered the hard way where Iraqis dumped their waste.

Against the south wall, I check on the soldiers on guard duty. The soldiers are trying to stay awake, scanning the city below from gun positions mounted on the rooftops. The soldiers had built the gun positions earlier in the day, establishing a fortified presence in an Iraqi town that had not seen a regular U.S. presence for six months. The long, lethal barrels of the M2 .50 Caliber machine guns are silhouetted against the night sky, their tripods mounted on sandbag platforms. I stop myself from re-testing the sturdiness of the platform. I have already checked it half a dozen times today.

Checking my watch, the blue indigo backlight reflects the time back. 0315. Two hours until daybreak.

As I finish my inspection, I turn and catch a glimpse of an Iraqi flag flying from a pole on the west wall. Earlier in the morning, the Iraqi flag flying from the pole was a filthy rag, torn and frayed, its black, white, and red stripes barely discernable beneath the caked dirt.

The Iraqi police were similarly disheveled, disheartened after the murder of one of their own by insurgents earlier in the week. They wandered the police station with their blue police shirts un-tucked, and their checkpoints at the gate and their gun positions on the rooftops of the prison unmanned.

But this flag is different. It is beautiful.

Its stripes shimmering in the darkness, bordered by a fringe of gold tassels, the words “God is Great” are picked out in a dark green in Arabic. Sometime during the day, as my platoon dug in its fortifications, I noticed the Iraqi police beginning to man their guns and their checkpoints. They walked with their backs a little straighter…. and within a few hours of the arrival of my platoon, the Iraqi police remembered who they were and what they stood for.

As I lie down to sleep on the dusty concrete roof of the Alamo, I can not help but feel a burst of admiration for the Iraqi police. They have remembered their duty to their country, and with a little security, feel bold enough to change out their ruined flag for a new one.

Two hours later, I awake from a deep sleep to the insistent sound of an Imam issuing his call to the faithful. From a blue and green minaret glowing in the morning sun, the wailing prayer reverberates throughout the Alamo, and echoes throughout the stirring town bringing the promise of a new day.

"A Righteous Catch"

2005-06-19T10:00:00.000-07:00

The dirt road stretches off to the east, disappearing into a grove of dark palms lining the horizon. The road is bordered on either side by a deep canal, hedged with the long thin stalks of river reeds. Squinting into the sun as I cleaned my ballistic glasses, I could see the four door black Opal approaching, a trail of dust marking its passage.

Something is not right. Instead of approaching the snap check point, the black Opal slows almost to a stop, far short of where it needs to be. Stepping forward, I waive my hand over my head, trying to get the car to approach. It is apparent that the driver of the Opal is thinking about turning and running, and I want him to see that we are watching him, and that running would bring its own consequences.

The black surface of the Opal is coated with a light white film of dust, and thru the glare of the sun off the dirty windshield, I can see the two occupants of the car talking. After a few seconds, the Opal picks up speed and slowly approaches the checkpoint.

As the Opal grinds to a halt, its occupants enter into a frenzy of activity. The driver, a young man in his early 20s, wearing Real Madrid Futbol sweatpants, and a light blue button down shirt, jumps out and immediately opens the hood. The passenger, a darker, wiry man with a swarthy five o’clock shadow moves to the rear of the car and opens the trunk. A detached part of me notices that his right hand is missing three fingers, and that what was left of his hand is a scarred, misshapen, boneless mass.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the passenger pulling a white burlap sack out of the trunk and tucking it behind the rear passenger side tire.

“Sir! Sir! That motherfucker just put something behind the tire! I saw him fucking do it!”

One of the gunners in the turret of a HMMWV in over-watch is shouting his head off.

“Roger, I saw it too.”

The search team, fully alarmed, raise their weapons and approach the two occupants of the vehicle.

“Get the fuck down!”

“What’s in the fucking sack!?”

To my left, a soldier tells the driver to get on his knees. The driver begins to protest loudly in Arabic, waving his hands in the air attempting to explain his innocence.

The sudden, loud, metallic clacking of a shotgun racking a round into the chamber cuts him short. The soldier with the shotgun casually raises the blunt muzzle and points it at the driver. The driver, suddenly still, ceases his protests immediately and falls down on his knees.

The sergeant in charge of the search team gestures at the sack and shouts at the still standing passenger, “Open the fucking sack! Open it now!”

The passenger, his face gone a pale shade of brown, is standing over the sack, ignoring the shouted instructions and gestures. Despite all the shouting, he is attempting to pretend the sack does not exist.

I reach into my holster and pull out my 9mm Beretta. Pointing it at the passenger with one hand, I pull the translator over with the other, “Charlie, tell that motherfucker to open the god damned sack.”

Charlie complies, and the passenger tears his eyes away from the pistol and looks down at the sack. He looks up again at the pistol aimed steadily at his face, and then back down at the sack.

With sweat running down his forehead, he slowly reaches down and opens the sack.

For a few seconds everything is still as a three foot long metal cylinder rolls out of the sack, its end capped with a piece of black plastic. The passenger steps away from the cylinder, looking nervously at it. Then a soldier calls out, “What the fuck is that!”

I stand motionless for a second, looking at the metal cylinder and at the nervous passenger. I don’t know that the cylinder is, but whatever it is, it is not good.

“Alright, everyone get the fuck back!”

The search team backs away from the metal cylinder. One soldier runs up and grabs the passengers collar firmly, forcing him into the dirt and on his face. I can tell that despite having his face in the dirt, the passenger is still trying to keep his eyes on my pistol.

The sergeant in charge of the search team pulls everyone back away from the car, and has the two passengers blindfolded and zip-tied with their hands behind their backs. Charlie the interpreter is furiously questioning the two men, asking them what that cylinder is. The men, separated from each other, are at first refusing to answer the questions, and then they begin blaming each other.

I walk over to my HMMWV and get on the radio, “Cobra X-Ray, this is Warrior 2/6. We have an unidentified object that appears to be an explosive device of some sort. We have two men detained and we pulled it out of a Black Opal that they were driving. I need EOD here ASAP, Over.”

Instead of hearing from Cobra X-Ray, I get a response from Deathstalker 1/0, an Apache that has just begun circling overhead, flying low so that the pilots can make out what is happening on the ground.

“Warrior 2/6 this is Deathstalker 1/0, Cobra X-Ray is having some commo trouble this morning, but I will pass along your EOD request up to your X-Ray element.” The birds take up a holding pattern overhead, flying in slow steady circles around our position.

“Roger Deathstalker 1/0, that’s a good copy.”

One of the soldiers turns to me, his face flushed with excitement, “Sir, I think I saw them throw something from the window of the vehicle back there when they slowed down.”

I look up the road in the direction the Opal had approached. A quarter mile away, one of the patrol’s HMMWV is blocking access to the road, preventing anyone from approaching the Opal and the metal cylinder.

I notice that in front of the HMMWV a traffic jam of sorts is forming. On this back country road, pickup trucks loaded with produce begin to stack up as their access to the market place in town is blocked.

I turn to the squad leader, but he is already on it. “Alright,” he says into the handset, “send a team up both sides of the road. Search for any secondary devices or anything they might have tossed from the Opal.” It doesn’t take long.

“Sir, we found something… it appears to be some kind of warhead. They must have thrown it out of the window when they slowed down back here.”

“Roger, leave it in place till EOD arrives.”

The controlled explosion sends a cloud of smoke three stories into the sky. The sudden heat ignites the grassy field, leaving a 30 meter long swarth of blackened stubble, a small fire burning out around the edges. The detainees, blindfolded and ziptied, are secured in the back of two vehicles. The Opal, its license plates removed, is sitting on the side of the road, its trunk still open and its keys in my pocket.

The EOD Sergeant walks up, his face streaked with sweat and dirt, and an acrid smell fills the air as the smoke from the explosion and fire disperses.

“So what was that thing?” I ask as he stops and takes a pull from a bottle of “Abraaj” water, the sides of the bottle glistening with condensation.

“That, was what I call a righteous catch, Sir.” his Southern Californian accent immediately apparent.

He continues, slightly gasping for air, “What you had there was a 57mm Rocket with a high explosive warhead and a proximity fuse used for air burst.”

He takes another pull of water and nods his head with a smile, “That was definitely a righteous catch.”

The Ziggurat

2005-06-16T14:07:00.000-07:00

The 3500 year old Ziggurat at Agargouf towered overhead, its yellow clay bricks baking in the heat. The Babylonian relic looked out of place, surrounded by a wasteland of desert strewn with the tents of Bedouins and flocks of sheep. From the top of the Ziggurat, the observation team had an unobstructed view of the desert plains and streets below.

Single shots rang out, somewhere to the south, and I received the radio call from the senior sergeant in the observation position.

“Sir, we can hear shots being fired to the south. Approximately 1,000 meters.”

“Roger, get down here, we are going to check it out.”

The team came hurtling down the narrow brick steps and piled into the four armored vehicles that made up the patrol. Thru the static of the radio, I notified Battalion that the observation team had heard shots fired.

The HMMWVs sped past the aging tourist signs in Arabic and down the dirty narrow streets to the south. A large stone building, with a rusting sheet metal roof came into view.

The patrol pulled to a screeching halt outside the building, and the dismount squad got out, weapons at the ready. The gunners checked their sectors of fire with their crew served weapons, swiveling the big guns to cover the most likely avenues of approach.

I dismounted and took a team around the right side of the building. It was a wrecked factory, rusty metal machines exposed to the sun and dirt. A confused, sleepy faced man in a white robe approached, straightening his clothing and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Behind him, lay a stone courtyard, the crumbling gray brick walls crooked and poorly made. An open window in the courtyard revealed the shadowy form of a woman lying on a small bed.

Shots rang out in the distance, to the north, closer to the Ziggurat.

Turning my back on the sleepy faced man, I made a decision. “Alright, we are going to do a dismounted patrol north along the road, the vehicles will stage here and act as reinforcements.”

The dismounted squad fanned out, their weapons at the ready, and their faces grim and serious beneath the sweat and dust. The soldiers tan suede boots kicked up small puffs of dirt as they moved cautiously, scanning both sides of the road for contact.

Overhead, two attack helicopters roared by from the south, the thin blades of their rotors screaming in the pale blue sky. Under the spotless glass of the cockpit, the pilots could be clearly seen, strapped into their seats.

A man’s deep scratchy voice broke the silence on the radio, “Warrior 2/6 this is Killer 6, do you need assistance?”

“Roger Killer 6, nice to see you, we are hearing gunfire but haven’t located the source. It is coming from the north of our position. Scan north up the road and notify me if you see anything.”

“No problem.”

The Apaches circled, casting long quick shadows on the ground as they scanned the road. The dirt road was bordered on either side by thick groves of palm trees, and ahead, the Ziggurat towered into the sky around a bend. The green of the palm trees looked faded, as if their vibrant colors had been dusted over and muted in the sun.

A sharp report sounded, just around the bend ahead, and the soldiers on point moved quickly forward to engage, their weapons held at eye level as they moved by twos down the road. I could feel sweat running down my forehead and into my eyes. Blinking rapidly did little to remove the sting. A single bead of sweat ran down my back between my shoulder blades, where the body armor prevented any itching.

Moving forward quickly toward the sound of the gunfire, I notified battalion of the situation. The Apaches, monitoring the net in the distance, turned their slim, lethal forms into the sun and moved back toward my position.

Suddenly, the point man's right hand thrust into the air, giving the signal to halt. The squad froze in place, giving the soldier time to assess the situation. Over the radio, the calm voice of a team leader broke the silence, “Sir, you have to get up here.”

“What is it?”

“Kids… with fireworks.”

Standing on the side of the road stood three children. Their faces delighted at all of the attention. On the ground lay yellow and red wrappers, some blown into tiny pieces, other wrappers still whole enough to reveal the Chinese lettering on their sides. Char marks dotted the road where they had been set off.

“Look Sir,” One of my team leaders held the small yellow and red firework in a gloved hand. He lit it with a disposable blue bic lighter, and tossed it into the road as the Apaches screamed overhead once again.

The report sounded just like a gunshot.

A Man from the Moon

2005-06-13T11:41:00.000-07:00

Her feet were splayed, flat and bare on the hard cracked ground. Beneath her tattered blue dress, her dry brown skin was chalky with dust. Her face, partially covered by a frayed red scarf held no beauty but that of her eyes, hidden away beneath the dust and the grime.

Her three brothers stood staring at me in rags, their open, upturned faces shy and intensely curious. The girl hung back five feet behind, her hands clasped in front of her and her eyes on the ground.

I turned to Spider, who stood next to me in the heat in a black ski mask and body armor. It seemed not to effect him. “Where do they live? Why aren’t they wearing shoes?” The Iraqi interpreter turned to the boys, his quick Arabic a sharp staccato as he translated my question.

“They live near here.”

“What about shoes, why aren’t they wearing any?” Spider turned back to the boys.

“Their family is too poor to afford shoes. They have never worn them.”

“Well don’t they wash themselves? Wash their clothing?”

Spider shrugged. “Clean water is not what you think it is here. Besides, it is not important to these people. They are the poorest of the poor.” He makes a motion with his hand. “They are at the bottom.”

“Well how old are they?”

Spider questions the eldest, a stunted boy of about twelve, and the boy responds.

“He does not know. None of them know how old they are. They have never been told, and they can’t count.” Spider reflects for a second. “When I asked him how old he was, he said he was two.” Spider turns to me with a grimace evident even beneath the mask, “There are children like them all over Iraq.”

“Do they know who I am?” I asked quietly. “Have they heard of America?”

Spider smiles. “To them, you are from outer space. From Mars. They have never heard of America, and they don’t know what you are. They dont know why you are here. In your uniforms, and armor, and everything, you are truly a man from the moon.”

I look down at the children. They are still staring at me. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a bag of M&Ms.

The boys faces brighten, and small hands come forward for the brightly colored candy. The girl still hangs back, gazing down thru dark brown lashes. I beckon her forward, and she moves slowly, unsure of herself. Reaching out I take her hand and place the remainder of the candy in her palm.

She puts them in her mouth one by one, but quickly, as if she would lose them. Then, for the first time, she looks at me, and thru a haze of dust and dirt, a slow, shy, beautiful, smile begins to form as the chocolate melts in her mouth.

The Wedding

2005-06-09T23:35:00.000-07:00

In the Mansoor district of Baghdad, in the middle of a crowded two lane street, one of our four armored vehicles breaks down. The battered old warhorse has finally given up after being driven 24 hours a day for months on end. It is leaking oil, and will not run. It is my first trip into downtown Baghdad. Past the burned out concrete palaces with the scorched gilt façade and faux marble. Around the blackened shell of “Saddams Space Needle” that once housed Baghdad's finest resteraunt. Skirting the edges of the Green Zone, which appears to be an endless sea of palm trees behind a dull brown concrete blast wall.

It’s a Thursday and we are in the middle of rush-hour traffic, on a dusty avenue of outdoor shops and small cafes, interspersed amid a forest of wilting, frayed power lines. The patrol takes up a defensive position around the broken down vehicle, and one vehicle repositions itself to hook up a faded green tow bar. I unlock the combat lock, take off my seatbelt, dismount, and step out into the hot afternoon sun. Over my right shoulder, I glance to the rear. The traffic has stopped 150 meters out, the rear .50 caliber machine gun's intimidating muzzle leveled at the street behind us. The machine gun and the Iraqi's intimate knowledge of our rules of engagement act as an effective deterrent, and the cars wait patiently for the Americans to finish their business.

To our front, cars drive past the intersection, slowing down to let passengers look at the American soldiers. One small, battered, rusty blue car passes with an old man behind the wheel, and a woman dressed in black from head to toe in the passenger seat. I stare… the entire car is missing from the front axle forward. It looks as if the entire front has been torn off.

Suddenly, the distinct rat-tat-tat of an automatic weapons fire comes from the street to our front. I move slowly to take up cover behind a concrete wall trying to pinpoint the sound. It is quiet for a second, and then the rat-tat of automatic fire continues. I reach the concrete wall and raise my rifle to the “low ready” position. As if in slow motion, a man shuffles by on my left, clutching a plastic bag of plums. I scan the road to my front, and the rooftops of the buildings ahead of me, still trying to locate the source of the gunfire… as it is getting closer, and then suddenly it becomes clear.

A red bus drives by packed to the gills with screaming people. It is heavily decorated with tinsel and aluminum strips. People hang out of the windows of the bus waving and shouting and yelling. I notice a trumpet coming from an open window in the back of the bus, the lone horn sounding over the yelling and engines and gunfire. The bus turns the corner and the people see us and yell louder. Then, there is another car and another… all packed with people screaming and yelling and waving. I catch a glimpse of a woman in white, with a veil over her face, and next to her, a dark, proud man. A wedding. In the final car, the source of the gunfire. Several Iraqi Police officers either clearing traffic for the convoy, or firing celebratory shots into the air. A wedding. I relax my grip on my weapon, and see the other soldiers in my convoy relax as they identify the source of the shots. I manage a weak wave for the departing wedding celebration, but can’t help closing my eyes and shaking my head at the sound of the automatic weapons firing into the air. Automatic weapon fire in downtown Baghdad. A wedding. Madness.

Abu Ghraib

2005-06-09T19:00:00.000-07:00

They were clearly terrified. Blindfolded, with their hands bound in front of them, they stumbled from the holding facility into the heat. The military police, looking impossibly young behind their red, sweat slicked faces guided them firmly up the removable steps and into the waiting armored pickup truck. The detainees gratefully sank down and kneeled, when the MPs pressed firmly down on the back of their neck. Some, I noticed, began to pray.

They were generally fighting age men. However, there were exceptions. One was barely old enough to call the peach fuzz on his face a beard, and another was graying and bald. A few wore an assortment of western style clothes, but most wore the traditional robe and all wore open toe sandals.

All, without exception, were filthy. Their clothing was stained and rank. All of them stank, giving off a vile, putrid odor, as of something rotting. All had refused the showers and clean clothing offered to them.

Watching them weep into their blindfolds, and mumble thru their prayers almost made me feel sorry for them. “Sergeant,” I said to the supervising NCO, “can I see their files?” He handed me a stack of papers, several inches thick. The old man, with the gray thinning hair, was not simply just a truck driver and part time cab driver. The digital photos showed parts of radios and garage door openers and cellular phones taken apart and stacked in heaps on a worktable in his house. A bomb maker. The skinny young fellow with the brown skin and rough beard was not just a chicken farmer with his father and brother. Mixed in with a weapons cache, explosives, and $17,000 found in feed sacks in his barn, were 15 IDs identifying him variously as a member of the department of industry, a former member of the Baath Party, a member of Saddam's secret police, and an ID card that had his photo and “Iraqi Intelligence Service.” One of Saddam's cronies. Probably a murderer. Certainly a financier and arms supplier. What the politicians call “a former regime loyalist.” I stopped feeling sorry for them.

We convoyed from the holding facility to Abu Ghraib. At first sight, my breath was taken away. Abu Ghraib was huge. Its concrete walls and guard towers stretched out before me into the distance. The whole, a mass of dust, heat, barbed wire, and concrete barriers. Torn and shattered concrete. Rusting and bent sheet metal. The walls scorched and stained by insurgent attacks. As we pull into the gate, we find out that just this morning, Abu Ghraib had been attacked with mortars, small arms fire, and rockets. With the detainees housed in tents, the insurgents don’t even care if they kill their own. Here, the soldiers wear their body armor and helmets even when they are inside the buildings.

I take the detainees personal effects in to the clerk who bags them and logs them. When the detainees are released, they will get their personal items back. I hand him a plastic bag with $17,000 cash in it. He signs over the chain of custody documents. Even for the bag holding nothing but a lighter and pack of “Miami” cigarettes. I noticed the Iraqis smoke a lot of Miamis. They also smoke Gallouises.

They bring the detainees in, six at a time, and place a jumpsuit and towel at their feet. The military police light sticks of incense and stick them into the walls next to each detainee to mask the overpowering stench. They are given new sandals if they have none. One man sees the jumpsuit at his feet, leans his head against the wall, and begins to urinate all over himself. A puddle forms at his feet, and the military policeman jumps back swearing. Another, to the right, begins to swoon. He moans, leans over, and vomits. The sergeant in charge calls the medics, who give him water. He instantly recovers.

One I notice, has three tattooed dots on his left hand. He has something tattooed in Arabic on his right hand. On his skinny brown arm, is a tattoo of an "F", surrounded by a heart with wings. “What, is that?” I nudge the MP. He looks up from his paperwork and focuses on the tattoo. “One of Saddams, Fedayeen… that is their mark” I look at the dark face with bushy eyebrows and narrow eyes. Those sworn to die for Saddam. One of his legions of suicide bombers and brutal thugs and executioners. Then I notice his hands… he is missing the last third of each of his middle fingers. The scars closing the wounds are red and puckered and have not healed well. The MP sees it also. “Saddam would have done that to him. As a Fedayeen, he must have fucked up… its how they were punished.” He walks up to the Fedayeen and points to his arm. “Fedayeen?” “No”, the man replies, shaking his head emphatically, “No.” The sergeant turns to me and grimaces, “Bullshit, those are Fedayeen tattoos, on his arm and his hand… and losing his fingers is a Fedayeen punishment…. But he will never admit it.” He then looks back at the Fedayeen and shrugs, “No, you'll never own up to what you are and what you have done… will you?” The Fedayeen looks up for a second at the sergeant with his dull brown eyes and then drops his gaze to his sandaled feet before being marched further into the recesses of Abu Ghraib.

D-Day

2005-06-06T14:41:00.000-07:00

Hour 12 of a 20 hour patrol, and the patrol pulls off a main road and enters into a nature preserve. The armored vehicles stop in a field to the side of the road, and the soldiers dismount and stretch. It has already been a long day. The dust storm has subsided, but my uniform is caked with a fine white mush, from the dust mixing with sweat. My collar has turned brown, and beneath my body armor, I have been soaking wet for 12 hours. The heat continues to make my ballistic glasses fog, and I periodically take them off to wipe the plastic lense, and dry the rivers of sweat running off my face. We are to be here for a few hours…. Observing the countryside and acting as a quick reaction force if needed by any convoys in the area moving north along Route Tampa. The fields on either side are cultivated… long green rows of plants and foliage. Across the narrow street, rows of palms wave in the hot breeze, and further off there is a wet stretch of ground with rough brown reeds. It is the first peaceful place I have seen in Iraq.

Behind me, I hear a tinkle, and I turn to find three slender women passing by, mounted on the backs of donkeys. The donkeys are piled high with cut rushes and the women are perched upon the rushes. They are completely covered from head to toe, in clashing, undescribable patterns, colors, and designs. Except for their faces. Their weather-beaten, ageless faces look at me with unabashed interest as they pass quietly by. I notice that each is holding a small sickle, with a worn wooden handle. They had cut the rushes with a sickle… much as might have been done two thousand years ago. Not much, it seems, has changed for some people.

Some time later, a middle-aged man dressed in brown slacks and a collared, button down shirt boldly approaches. He claims to be a farmer and that he has found a “rocket” a little ways down the street. This was definitely worthy of investigation. Leaving the vehicles, five of us move with the farmer and translator several hundred meters down the street.

The farmer leads us straight down the road and gestures off to the side. “There,” he says, “the rocket.” Off to one side, lying on a matted bed of grass, is an artillery shell. Not a “rocket” as the farmer had explained, but a 155 South African Howitzer shell… and it looks new. At the Captains request, the translator asks the farmer… “how long has it been there?” The farmer looks blank for an instant and then says “two years.” He smiles, revealing dark black gaps in his teeth. I exchange glances with some of the others… the shell is in too good of a condition to have been lying there for two years.

Quickly we move to secure the site, and call EOD. It seems EOD, the busiest guys in theatre, have other calls to attend to, and it will be a few hours before they can reach us. The farmer departs... It gets hotter… The sun shifts in the sky... It gets hotter... and EOD arrives.

EOD pulls up in 5 vehicles, and the EOD sergeant saunters over with a friendly wave. He is wearing a shoulder patch with a bomb and blast symbol that vaguely reminds me of old black and white photos of the fat man and little boy.

EOD proceeds to examine the shell. He inspects it for wires, and detonating devices, blasting caps, and booby traps. I watch from a respectable distance, as do most of the infantrymen with me….no sense in tempting fate. Finally satisfied, the EOD sergeant nods his head and bends at the knees…. As he straightens, to my horror and amazement, I see that he has lifted the massive shell up off the ground and put it on his shoulder like a sack.

With no ceremony at all, he walks off to his vehicle with the shell on his shoulder… mission complete... to be stored and detonated at a later date.

"I am study English"

2005-05-23T16:27:00.000-07:00

Wearing a faded blue cotton button down shirt, rumpled brown linen pants, and sandals with a split toe made him look vaguely Japanese. He smiled as I boarded the bus, red-faced and sweaty from the combination of the desert heat and the body armor. His smile increased, revealing crooked, yellowing teeth in a dark creased face, and he said, "welcome, welcome" in a surprisingly soft voice. He looked at me expectantly.

"Hello" I said, "Marhaba, ani mulazem Adam, tasharafna"(Hello, my name is LT Adam, nice to meet you.) He beamed, but left me wondering if he had understood my tortured attempt at Arabic. I tried again in English,"How long have you worked for the bus company?"

"4 months" he said, and lifting a thick, calloused finger into the air, he punctuated his thoughts. "Before, I work in Turkey, for five year, Saudi Arabia for seven year, Iraq, for seven year, and Kuwait, again for five year."

Stopping, he turned and reached into a crumpled plastic bag kept at the foot of his leather drivers seat. Sitting up, he pulled out a stack of folded papers, each neatly lettered in English with painstaking precision. He shuffles thru the stack of papers. "I am study English" he announced, and he looked thru the paperwork again. "I have one son," and with this, he looked anxiously up, inspecting my face to see if his English was acceptable.

I smiled, and he glanced back down at his tightly clutched papers. I could see that the papers were frayed around the corners from use, and that they were a sort of Turkish-English phrase book that he had compiled in his careful handwriting.

Finally, he found the phrase he had been looking for. "I want to go to America, two years." He looked up and with determination in his eyes, he exclaimed, "I want to live there." He looked almost embarassed for a moment at the ferocity in his voice, and he quickly looked down, muttering over his phrase book.

As he did so, I could not help but reflect that I had no doubt, that he would somehow manage to fulfill his dream of living in America.

Going to War First Class

2005-05-19T01:08:00.000-07:00

I never thought that I would go to war first class on a Northwest Airlines Jet. After leaving Fort Stewart, I arrived at Hunter Army Airfield, outside Savannah, and proceeded to "manifest" by swiping my military ID (registering me for the flight) and weighing in. With my rucksack (the smaller of two) I came in at 282 lbs. It was dark and the sky was a deep midnight blue when we walked out onto the tarmac past military jets and boarded the chartered flight to Kuwait.

I was one of about 40 soldiers that got to sit up in First Class, and I curled up with "Dr. No" by Ian Fleming for the takeoff. Ten minutes into the flight, while reflecting that "Dr. No" was one seriously disturbed individual, I fell asleep and did not wake up for 8 hours, until the wheels touching down in Amsterdam for our layover. We deplaned at Amsterdam International and sat for half an hour in an enclosed terminal. Many of the soldiers enjoyed the novelty of being able to smoke indoors, and we were quietly guarded by Dutch police with submachine guns. The Dutch were quite polite, and they offered us pastries that we wolfed down.

We touched down in Kuwait at 3:30 am local time, and boarded buses, where we were instructed to keep the curtains closed to prevent people from seeing us on the bus. I attempted to speak my pidgeon arabic to the driver, but it turned out that he is a Seikh from India, whose brother drives a Taxi in NYC. It turns out, that most of the workers and laborers here are either from India or Pakistan. We received bottles of water, and it was quite sobering when two soldiers on each bus recieved live ammunition. This was to defend the bus in the event that we were attacked on the trip from the airport to our present location.

By 8:30 in the morning, it was already 90 degrees. By 12:00 it was 120 degrees. Imagine putting your face into a lit oven, turning a powerful hairdryer on your face, and throwing sand in your eyes. If you can picture such a thing, this is what it is like in Kuwait. The sun rises at 4:30 am, and turns into a big ball of fire in the sky. When the wind blows, there is no relief from the heat, because the wind blowing turns the sky into a sandstorm. Why anyone would want to live in such a place is beyond me.

Saying Goodbye

2005-05-16T12:49:00.000-07:00

First Shower in 3 weeks

2005-04-22T23:27:00.000-07:00

Forward Operating Base "Detroit"

2005-04-15T12:57:00.000-07:00

The Heights of the Mojave

2005-04-03T17:03:00.000-07:00

Splitting up the Company

2005-03-28T21:32:00.000-08:00

Sun Tzu

2005-03-23T17:56:00.000-08:00

The Last 3 Months

2005-03-17T16:05:00.000-08:00

So where have I been for the last three months? Training 7 days a week, 20 hours a day, with almost no time off. My internet access is limited so I have come up with a solution- I will be posting via telephone... calling in my blogs. So from now on, just click on the "Play this audio post" and when I can, I will get online and write up a more "traditional" entry.

"Vee are French after all"

2004-12-03T13:58:00.000-08:00

My last week as a civilian for 18 months. The reality of it has not yet kicked in.

I went to the "salon" today to get a haircut. The salon would be a barbershop, except for the fact that the employees are all french and would be offended at such a notion. The french barber, I'll call him "Jock" said to me:

"So how do ve vant it cut?"

"Short on the sides, long on top. Use a number 1."

"Dis is too short. You vant something longer, no?"

"No, use a number 1, it has to be regulation for the army."

"Ahh, you are in de armee? Vill you go to Iraq?"

"Yes, in May I will be there, I found out three weeks ago that my Army National Guard unit activated."

Jock shut the clippers off and asked in a voice that could be heard by everyone in the salon. "Oh I see, so what, are you tired of living?"

I looked at him in the mirror, sitting in the barber chair, and trying to decide if standing up and walking out with half of my head buzzed was a bright idea.

Jock must have thought about what he had just said, because he then tried to reassure me with a wave of his hand:

"Ahh, yes, I respect de militaree. I myself was in zee French navee in 1993. I vas in de Somalia during zee Blackhawk Down. It vas just like Iraq. Very dangerous for us, so I have been dere too. Vee vere always afraid of being shot."

Really? French sailors in the Battle for Mogadishu? I was impressed.

"So where were you in Mogadishu?"

"Vell zee ship I was on, vas a mile offshore."

"So you weren't actually in Mogadishu."

"No, vee never left zee ship."

"Never left the ship? What did you do on the ship?"

"I cut ze hair... just like Iraq... very dangerous zere."

"You cut hair, and you never left the ship... so how were you afraid of being shot?"

Jock stopped buzzing my hair and started waving the clippers around demonstrating. "Zee rifle bulletz, zey can travel a long vay, vee vere afraid of zee bullets coming out to ze sea and hitting ze ship. Vee vere alvays nervous."

I stared at him.

Jock looked at me back and blushed. Then he shrugged his shoulders and explained, "Vee are French, after all."