The power of one

This little story has been sitting on my computer now for several months, as I wasn't quite sure what to do with it. It was relayed to me - with some emotion - by a friend who was there. I've spent a good deal of time at the police station and hospital in question, and am very familiar with the area. However, the events occurred approximately a year before our tour began. I share it here only to shine a small light on the human drama and tragedy behind the all too prosaic crawl across the bottom of the television screen that passes for news.

Haidar was a stocky, rotund fellow. The kind of guy that is immediately likable; a jovial, warm man whose honesty and humor instantly created intimate friendships. He was also a popular police chief, who took his job as a civil servant of the people very seriously.

The police station is located immediately adjacent to the hospital, so the police were regularly checking security and socializing with the hospital staff. On this day, Haidar happened to be talking with staff near the entrance to the hospital's emergency room.

The American soldiers were at the police station when they heard shouting and a commotion coming from the hospital. One of their interpreters turned wide-eyed and said, "It's Haidar. There's a suicide bomber." At that moment, Haidar staggered into the street, towards a protective concrete barrier, clutching a struggling man in a ferocious bear-hug. Before anybody could react, an explosion ripped through the streets.

Haidar knew he was a dead man, but he sacrificed his life to save dozens of patients and staff in that hospital emergency room. He left behind a wife suffering from cancer, and two children. The American soldiers took up a collection amongst themselves in support of his family.

There happened to be a CNN reporter embedded with the American unit, who was a witness to the events. So, the heroics of this lovable, dedicated patriot who sacrificed himself so that others may live were relayed to a global audience as: "Suicide Bomber Kills One."

Mono y mono

Sometimes things happen in war that no amount of training can adequately prepare you for. We were infiltrated. I don't know when it happened. I don't know how long the enemy conducted surveillance before making his move. It is disturbing that he was able to get so close to me before he was identified. A fellow soldier stopped by my door to discuss an upcoming mission, and it was he who alerted me to the interloper in our midst. "Dude. You've got a mouse." So began an epic - and lethal - battle of wits; mono y mono.

I took an initial inventory of assets at my disposal with which I planned to dispatch my adversary. I immediately dismissed my M-4 rifle, and my M-9 Beretta pistol. Not only would their usage violate the principles of proportionality, but the disciplinary consequences resulting from discharging either weapon in my own room were compelling disincentives. Then my eyes fell upon a toy pellet gun confiscated from a Baghdad market (see the photograph from the October 6 posting on this blog). As the weapon in question is sufficiently powerful to put a hole in an empty Coke can, but silent enough to escape the notice of my chain of command, It appeared the ideal tool.

I perched on my bed with the plastic rifle aimed at a Cheese Nip cracker near the baseboard across the room, and I waited. ..and waited. An electronic bong sound emanated from my laptop computer indicating in incoming email. I turned to identify the sender, and in that brief split-second, the Cheese Nip vanished. Out of frustration I began pulling gear from beneath the bunks, shaking out bags, dragging wall lockers into the middle of the room. I listened intently for the tell-tale sounds of miniature incisors masticating baked crispy snacks. Finally, my piqued ears detect movement from beneath or within Bob's wall locker. I very carefully arranged boxes of soup cans and energy drinks to create a "fatal funnel" through which my foe would have to traverse in order to procure yet another strategically placed Cheese Nip. Again, I wait.

Nothing.

By this time, it was after 1 AM. My sleep deprived brain had reached a point where I was quite simply unable to focus. Even if I did get the creature in my sights, I had no confidence in my ability to hold steady my weapon. I decided on a tactical retreat. Morning would mean a trip to the PX, and an escalation of force: Mouse traps! I shut off the lights and crawled into bed. Alas, my nemesis had other plans.

Just as I was drifting to sleep, I sensed something moving through my hair. The mouse was on my head!! I leapt to my feet, frantically sweeping my scalp with my hands. The mouse jumped to my bed, scurried to the end, bounded to the floor, and disappeared into the rucksacks and duffels piled in the middle of the floor. Sleep was now out of the question. I got to work.

I constructed an elaborate trap using two Cheese Nips, a daub of peanut butter, a piece of string, a Priority Mail box, a can of chili, and a cleaning rod from a gun cleaning kit. It was brilliant! The crackers and peanut butter were attached to the string which was tied around one end of the cleaning rod, which propped up the box. The chili added weight to the box. If the mouse tugged the string, it would dislodge the rod, and bring down the box upon him. For good measure, I loaded the pellet gun and tucked it next to me as I climbed back into bed. Again, I waited.

I saw him out of the corner of my eye as I was answering an email. Such a subtle movement, and oh so silent. There he was...tugging on the cracker attached to the string. But he wasn't strong enough to dislodge the cleaning rod! I slowly raised my rifle, brought the preoccupied rodent into my sights, and gently squeezed the trigger. A plastic Thwack! immediately preceded an aspirated mouse-sized squeak as the creature took a direct hit to his side, flipped over and began kicking wildly at the air. It was a miraculous shot! One in a million! I was exhalant! But before I could cross the room to administer the coup de grace, the animal righted himself and beat a hasty retreat from the battlefield. I couldn't believe it! What was this creature made of that it could withstand such an assault that could puncture a soda can!

There was little more that I could do. He was to make neither another appearance, nor a sound for the rest of the night. The next morning I journeyed to the PX and purchased mouse traps. I could only hope that I had not dealt a mortal blow, and that he did not seek refuge in some dark corner of my gear only to die there. It could be days before the smell confirmed that fate. I set the traps, and my team and I departed for several days outside the wire.

Upon my return, my victory was confirmed. He lay stiff beneath a sprung overturned trap, his dried blood splashed upon the baseboard.

"The art of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike at him as hard as you can and as often as you can, and keep moving on."

- Ulysses S. Grant

Veterans Day

We've been busy. For quite some time, 14 hour work days have been the norm. Several days ago I think I about reached my limit, and I had to take myself out of the game for a day or so. It is a blessing to be in a position to exercise that option. Schedules are erratic, and we'll frequently go days at a time without returning to base. Fortunately, we've nothing particularly exciting to report. The thud of rockets landing on base has apparently ebbed somewhat, taking the edge off the cool autumn evenings. We do still have to be on our toes, however. About a week ago I was outside of a large hospital in an unfamiliar neighborhood talking with a couple of young women on their way to catch a bus. I was asking them about what they thought about the security situation in the neighborhood. Just as my interpreter finished relaying my question, and before they had an opportunity to respond, a huge explosion about a block away rocked everybody back on their heels. I just laughed and jerked my thumb in the direction of the explosion. "...well, except for that, what do you think of the security here?"

And then there are days when war just is no fun at all, like when you unexpectedly find yourself trying to console a father whose teenage son was accidentally killed only 48 hours earlier in a raid against a bomb making neighbor. You find yourself in a house still reeling from shock and grief. There's a bullet hole in the wall at eye-level across from an open window, and hair and tissue still stuck to the high ceiling well beyond the reach of the women who had scrubbed away every other physical trace of the tragedy. As we listened intently to the father's narrative of what occurred only hours earlier, I suddenly found myself at a loss for words. I wrapped my arm around the man's shoulders. My touch seemed to open the floodgates. He bowed his head, and I could feel his body quake with silent sobs. Beneath all the armor, ammunition and weapons, I felt utterly helpless.

It is Veterans Day. I know that back home there are the traditional parades, pancake breakfasts, documentaries on TV, and probably reams of newspaper columns dedicated those in uniform. However, I'm equally certain that not enough attention is being paid to the families of those soldiers without whose unwavering support none of us would be able to serve. The families of soldiers frequently bear a greater burden than the soldiers themselves. They must deal with the uncertainty into which their loved ones have been thrust. They must endure the absence and the unknown. In an unpopular war, they must deal with the barbs and arrows flung by ignorant ingrates unable to differentiate between the war and the warrior. On this Veterans Day, I want to say thank you to my family. Thank you for the sacrifices you have made that have allowed me to do what I am doing now. I appreciate it more than you can possibly imagine.

Things are not always what they seem

We had just finished a meeting with some hospital administrators. As I climbed into the vehicle, my driver and gunner informed me that there had just been an explosion somewhere to the East and several gunshots. With no more information than that, our patrol left the hospital and headed off to a scheduled meeting with a representative from the Ministry of Trade. As we approached our destination, we were frantically waved down by a security guard at a girls' middle school. We could hear the gunfire nearby as we rolled to a stop. The guard ran over to my vehicle and excitedly tried to explain what was going on. I had to force him to stop, as I had to retrieve my interpreter who had already leapt from the truck and started running towards the shots. "The school is on fire, and they're shooting at us!" Okay. Got it. The platoon sergeant, myself, and another soldier quickly moved through the gates of the school, and started working our way around the building to where the shots were coming from. Around a corner we could see a good sized grass fire scorching the ground between the school and the perimeter wall. The shots were coming from the other side of the wall. Suddenly, an explosion rattled the school windows and sent debris raining down on us. As we took defensive positions, it became apparent that nobody was actually shooting at us, but that the grass fire was cooking-off some munitions that had been dropped or placed outside the walls of the school. We then realized that the scorched earth we were crouched in was littered with small, discarded propane tanks. We immediately instructed the school faculty to move all of the children to the opposite side of the school, and away from the windows facing the fire. We continued to scout the perimeter of the school, and then moved inside to make sure everybody was okay.

What followed was pandemonium. As soon as we moved into the school, all of the girls who had been herded to the central hallways panicked. The screaming and chaos drowned out any internal communications. Two girls fainted. We quickly beat a retreat while the staff attempted to restore order. Several of the instructors approached us very apologetically, saying that we were frightening the students (duh), and to please be patient. In retrospect, it is perfectly understandable that the kids would panic. After all, you've got fire, smoke, gunshots, explosions, a frantic lone security guard who is convinced the school is under attack, and then a bunch of heavily armed American soldiers start stomping through the building.

Parents started showing up at the school and demanding to know what we were doing to their kids. An ambulance rolled up to tend to the children who had fainted. A brief, but surreal, meeting with the school administrators ensued wherein we explained that nobody was firing at the school. One of the staff found it difficult to believe that we actually did not have equipment in our trucks to put out fires. Several persons voiced opinions as to where the closest fire station was. Finally, somebody produced a cell phone and actually called the fire department.

The pieces of the puzzle started to come together. Several days earlier, an American platoon was patrolling the neighborhood conducting some routine operations. Some local militia bad guys beat a hasty retreat, and dumped their stocks of grenades and ammunition in the heavy brush next to the school. We don't know what started the fire, but as it spread to the munitions, bullets and grenades started cooking off making it appear that a full-blown shoot out was taking place.

Remount, and Charlie Mike (Continue Mission).