ACE Report: Green, Green, Green

Part of my mobilization paperwork was delayed last week because there apparently was a red flag in my medical file pertaining to panic attacks related to PTSD. No big deal. In the vast majority of cases, this is certainly not a show-stopper. Thousands of soldiers deploy and re-deploy with associated PTSD diagnoses on their records. As a consequence of the flag, however, I was designated a “no go” until I had found my way across base to the behavior health clinic and been given a clean bill of health. The next day I found myself in a small office being interviewed by a full-bird colonel who was hunched over a computer battling in vain to keep it from randomly powering down. She asked questions, I answered questions, and she punched those answers into her temperamental computer. It was all very mundane, and she spent more time and attention focused on that computer than on me. Until, that is, she asked me what triggered the last panic attack. I told her that in May of last year I had seen a headline from a news article about a shooting that had taken place on Camp Liberty in Baghdad, where I had been stationed. (On May 11, 2009 a troubled sergeant had stolen a weapon and killed five soldiers at a counseling clinic on the base.) The headline and the first couple of sentences triggered the attack. At that point, the colonel stopped typing, slowly pushed herself away from her computer, and took off her glasses. She turned to me and said, “That was my clinic.” She hadn’t been there at the time, but was intimately familiar with everything about it. She said that she had trouble dealing with it at the time as well, and had to call upon her own colleagues to help her through that period.

I got my paperwork signed off, and we're good-to-go.

OEF: A New Adventure Begins

It has been over two and a half years since my last post to this blog, and I've received numerous inquiries as to whether or not I would resurrect the venue for the purposes of documenting my current...adventure. I've decided to do so, but an important couple of caveats must be acknowledged: The nature of my job necessitates far more circumspection on my part with regard to the nature of what I will be able to post in a public forum. Also, all previous posting related to our activities in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. As of today, we embark upon a journey in support of Operation Enduring Freedom. Many of you are already aware of our ultimate destination. Those of you who are not, please be patient. I will discuss this topic more as we approach actually having boots on the ground.

I bid an emotional farewell to my family this morning at the airport. I had nearly forgotten that realization of the reality of departure can come as a shock to the system like a splash of ice water to the face. Months of preparation, planning and anticipation fade in comparison to the momentousness of a family torn apart at the gate of an airport concourse. With the exception of a few days of R&R some unknown number of months down the road, I will not see my family again for at least a year. It seems such a very long way away...

The flight to our MOB (mobilization) station was uneventful. Unfortunately, we deplaned to a disturbing discovery: Every one of our team's footlockers and duffel bags had the locks cut off by TSA, and the contents rifled. At baggage claim, one soldier's belongings tumbled onto the conveyor in bits and pieces; loose 30 round 5.56mm magazines had to be collected from amongst the arriving luggage of other passengers. The entire experience cemented the impression in the minds of the soldiers that TSA is riddled with thieves and other life forms that populate the lower strata of modern society. Nothing critical appears to have been pilfered, but we are still taking stock of missing inventory. Interestingly enough, mine appears to have been the only luggage untouched! There is no accounting for this, as nothing distinguishes mine from anyone else's belongings.

So, now we are engaged in getting settled into our new home for the next few weeks: scenic Fort Dix nestled in the heat and humidity of a late New Jersey summer. As is the case on almost every other Army post, the quarters are old, dirty, crowded, and a little odoriferous. Still, it could always be worse.

Transition

This will be my last blog entry from Iraq. My Internet account will expire in a couple of days, and I will not be renewing it. Our replacements are here, and we're on the downhill slope of handing everything over to them; our equipment, records, experience, relationships, accomplishments, failures and hopes. I am in awe when I reflect upon the changes that we've witnessed (participated in) over the course of the year, and how incredibly lucky we were to have navigated the experience unscathed. A year ago we stepped off a Boeing C-17 Globemaster at Baghdad International Airport, with our hearts in our throats, and into a country that was ripped asunder with sectarian violence. Soon, landing gear will fold up into the belly of an airplane that will be carrying us away from a country that is healing and rebuilding itself. Violence has dropped 90% in Baghdad over the course of our tour. A year ago, Iraqi soldiers planted IED's for us, and fled when attacked by insurgents. Today, we live with them. They call us brothers. They find IED's and disarm them on their own. They plan and execute their own raids, and roll up terrorists on a daily basis. I recently read an academic white paper that reached the conclusion that the US Army has transformed itself into the greatest counterinsurgency force in history. If true, it is an accomplishment made all the more remarkable by the obstacles arrayed against us: language, culture, religion, and all in a country surrounded by hostile neighbors pumping weapons, money and men into the war against us; and us undermined by disunity and political opposition back home. It is still a very long way from over, but there is no denying the momentum driving the social and political transformation in Iraq today augurs well for the future of the cradle of civilization.

We're coming home.

Winter wonderland

I woke up this morning, opened the door, and my jaw hit the floor. HUGE white snowflakes were drifting down out of the gray Baghdad skies. All the Iraqis we're talking to are saying that this is the first time in living memory that it has snowed in Baghdad. Sleet in winter is not so uncommon, but never snow. I'll resist cracking-wise about global warming, but perhaps it is time to sit back, take stock, and mull over the profound implications of the fact that... Hell has indeed frozen over!

...and a news article relating to the snow.

For the children

A little project we'd been working on for two months has finally been hand-held through to completion. Two months ago while engaged in an email exchange with a radio station back home on an entirely different subject, the folks there asked if there was anything they could do to for us to express their support. It immediately brought to mind a school we had recently visited packed with 4-6 year olds with absolutely no toys to play with, and teachers with no supplies with which to occupy their charges. This is largely a function of dramatically uneven distribution of resources by Iraq's Ministry of Education. Some schools are well supplied, some are entirely neglected. This one was of the latter category. The school also happened to be located less than a block from one of our JSSs (Joint Security Station). To that end, I told the folks at the radio station that we, as soldiers, lacked for nothing. However, if they saw fit to coordinate a toy drive to support this school, well... I could think of nothing that would be appreciated more, both by the soldiers, and the Iraqi people. So began a journey that involved several businesses from back home, and hundreds of ordinary people who went out of their way to make a small gesture of support and affection. The cumulative effect of that effort was realized this week when we loaded up a convoy of humvees and delivered the toys to the school.

The radio station posted the photos from the drive on their website HERE.

Furthermore, HERE is a link to a recording of a call-in interview I did with the outstanding folks at the radio station in the days following.

US...O...nevermind

It was billed as a star-studded USO entertainment tour for armed forces on the ground. For the first part of our tour we were stationed at the periphery of the war; a nasty little base known best for being the Southern point of the "Sunni Triangle", a.k.a. "Triangle of Death". No USO shows made it out to those nether-regions. After we moved to Baghdad, we were essentially too tired from a high mission tempo, or too busy to pay much attention to any of the shows that passed through. With this in mind, and with our schedule open, Bob and I decided that we would at last take advantage of the opportunity to put a good, ol' fashioned USO show under our belts at the end of our tour of duty. The show was to feature Robin Williams, Kid Rock, Lance Armstrong, and several others. We headed over to the Division field house where the meet-and-greet was to take place. We arrived a full hour and forty-five minutes early to ensure ourselves a seat, and there was already a substantial line. While we waited, the temperature dropped, and the line rapidly lengthened. We estimated that by the time they opened the doors, there were approximately 3,000 persons in line for a venue that was going to be limited to 600 persons.

Rumors started to move through the crowd even before we entered the building. Once inside, they were confirmed. High winds in Tikrit had grounded the helicopters, and the show was canceled. Instead, we were greeted to a ten minute "pep talk" by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Mullen, who reassured us that he received briefings on what was going on in Iraq. Really. He then proceeded to distribute commemorative coins, shake hands, and have his photo snapped with anybody who wished it. Bob and I received coins, but we were rushed through so rapidly, that we were unable to get photos with the Admiral.

While we were waiting in line, I scanned the crowd and it occurred to me that these USO concerts probably are not attended by the soldiers for whom they are largely intended. The soldiers doing the heavy-lifting in this war are the guys stationed away from the big bases. They're quartered out in the neighborhoods in converted office building, houses, or police stations. They make it back to base maybe one day out of the week. Instead, those attending these "moral-boosting" functions appeared to be largely the "fobbits"; those with desk jobs, Air Force personnel, and others who otherwise almost never make it outside the wire. A significant percentage of the crowd was also civilians; handsomely compensated KBR employees and contractors. We stood in line next to a group of these guys who loudly compared the quality of many of the USO shows and celebrities they'd had occasion to see over the past year.

It is now Christmas day. The dining facilities on base are packed with soldiers taking advantage of an extravagant Christmas dinner with all the trimmings. Rather than deal with the huge lines, our detachment opted to ante up, and one of our interpreters arranged to bring in a positively massive authentic Iraqi feast from one of Baghdad's finer restaurants. The quantity and variety of delectables was mind-boggling. All manner of meats and vegetables, rice, soups, sauces, and breads, were followed by a selection of sweet desserts. It was enough, even for a short while, to relieve the ache of being so far from home and loved ones.

Merry Christmas from Baghdad.

Something wicked this way comes

Some new mechanical monsters are crawling through Baghdad's streets these days. They are MRAP (Mine Resistant Ambush Protected) vehicles. The medium sized US Army version began arriving a month or so ago, and units have gradually been getting trained up on them. Troop reaction has been mixed. My first reaction upon seeing them lined up outside our battalion headquarters was that these things are really going to irritate the Iraqis! The base vehicle is really tall. But when you add a turret, and all of the antennae required by the schmorgasboard of communications and anti-IED electronics, well... the gunner damn near performs the function of close air support! Here are some of the problems as I see it. First, most of Baghdad operates on power generated by local private, or neighborhood, generators rather than the cities power grid. This means that a large generator parked on a street corner will have hundreds of wires strung from it like a spider web feeding homes and businesses in the area. As the ability of the city to provide power ebbed, this chaotic overhead wiring began to blanket the city like a great, multi-colored cobweb. We routinely snag one or two of these low-hanging wires with our vehicle antennas when we drive through neighborhoods. They snap, and eventually somebody will have to come out and restring the wire. (We've also had guys electrocuted by these wires, and had equipment snagged that became dislodged from the vehicle and injured soldiers.) In most neighborhoods, the residents eventually began to accommodate the humvees by elevating the wiring beyond the reach of the antenna. However, now with the introduction of the MRAP, a huge percentage of the wire that feeds electricity to Baghdad's homes and business is now at risk once again. We recently did a patrol composed of one humvee (that would be us) and three MRAP's. We watched in awe as the vehicle in front of us took down strand after strand after strand of the wires strung over the streets. People on the sidewalks had to be particularly alert as cables snapped towards them like angry bullwhips. Not the most effective way to win hearts and minds!

Second, there is the psychological impact of having these monstrosities rolling through neighborhoods. There is no question that these are significantly more resistant to IED attack. However, one of the most effective components of the current counter-insurgency strategy is the integration with the communities we're tasked with protecting. This means, getting to know the people, developing relationships, and learning the proverbial pulse of the neighborhood. Rolling around in armored humvees makes achieving this level of intimacy difficult enough. (I personally would prefer greater emphasis on dismounted foot patrols.) But, moving from humvees to MRAP's, from a psychological point of view, only serves to distance us further from the population, and it comes at a time when the number if IED attacks against us appears to be nearing an all-time low.

Lastly, another drawback relating to the height of these beasts is the propensity of the crew to misjudge the distance to the ground when they dismount the vehicle. Burdened by armor, weapons and gear, we've seen numerous broken ankles and other injuries simply from getting in and out of the vehicles.

That said, not all units are using the MRAP's they've been issued. Some commanders are opting to just keep them on the property books and turn them over to the unit that replaces them when the time comes. It is also probably true that the vehicles are also being employed elsewhere, perhaps in more kinetically active areas or main supply routes, where the terrain and conditions give the characteristics of the MRAP a decided advantage over humvees. In my opinion, however, that just isn't the case in our area.

If it ain't rainin', we ain't trainin'

Yesterday the long awaited (and dreaded) rains came to Baghdad. An impressive lightning and thunderstorm pushed waves of rain and hail across the city turning the omnipresent powdered sugar-like dust into a sloppy, sticky, muddy mess. It remains to be seen if this storm is an aberration, of if it can be considered the official beginning of the rainy season. American and Iraqi officials throughout Baghdad have been pouring extra resources into neighborhoods to reduce the amount of trash on the streets. The fear is that the rains will wash the trash into the already dilapidated sewer systems and further aggravate an already critical problem of broken pipes and lakes of raw sewage.

Meanwhile, grassroots efforts are taking place to institutionalize the security gains of recent months, while at the same time work towards sectarian reconciliation in the absence of legislative action at the national level. Neighborhood volunteers, dubbed Critical Infrastructure Guards (GIG's), have been recruited in Sunni neighborhoods to receive rudimentary training, and work alongside the predominantly Shia Iraqi Army and Iraqi Police. They've begun jointly manning checkpoints, and participating in joint patrols of the neighborhoods. The Iraqi soldiers are supposed to assume the role of mentors to these new recruits, and provide them with additional on-the-job training. In return, the new volunteers bring to the table local knowledge of the neighborhoods from whence the come, as well as vastly improved relationships between the security forces and the residents of the communities, who are the friends and family of the new volunteers. As the CIG's gain experience, a certain percentage will be selected to attend the Iraqi Police Academy where they will undergo additional training, and shed their quasi-official status. Under the umbrella of increasingly detached American oversight, the hope is that the program will result in a much improved and professional Iraqi security apparatus.

Friction, however, is inevitable. Aside from the sectarian nature of the arrangement, there is the implicit threat to the status of the Iraqi soldiers who no doubt resent the presence of the volunteers. There is also the very real danger of al Qaeda infiltration of the ranks of new recruits. I had occasion to speak with one of the volunteers who was a Sunni, and a Major in the old army under Saddam. He acknowledged that it will take time to work through many of the problems, but he remained optimistic. He expressed great enthusiasm to be able to serve again in a productive capacity. He clasped my hand, looked me in the eye, and told me with some emotion that none of this would have been possible without the help of the Americans. I just smiled, and said, "Welcome back, sir." He squeezed my hand tighter, and beamed.

The professionalism of the Iraqi Army remains...uneven, and largely a direct reflection of the quality of their leadership. We routinely conduct inspections of Iraqi-manned checkpoints. In the course of one such inspection, an American soldier noticed a ballistic (bulletproof) vest sitting on a chair. When he picked it up, he noticed that it was much lighter than it should have been. To reduce the weight, the Iraqi soldier who owned the vest had replaced the interior ballistic armor plate with ...a book. Now, here is the kicker, and I am not making this up: The book was a medical text on heart trauma.

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).

A cautious peek around the corner

It is a fact that how the locals react to the presence of an American patrol varies from neighborhood to neighborhood. I've written in several previous posts about the warmth of the reception in some of the Sunni neighborhoods in our area where the friendliness and hospitality are truly genuine. However, we also have Shia neighborhoods that remain under the oppressive thumb of Sadrist militias. Driving through these neighborhoods is a singularly eerie experience. Occasionally a child will wave, but in most cases the faces that pass by the armored glass of the humvee are wary; blank and emotionless. We recently had the opportunity to do a foot patrol through one of these neighborhoods. There is an inevitably warmer reception in face-to-face encounters. The glaring silence from a group of men sitting outside a cafe is dispelled briefly when I place my hand on my heart, nod, and say, "Salaam a'alaykum". The gesture is mirrored by every man in the group. "A'laykum Salaam!" It isn't much, but in many cases it is the most anybody will dare to commit to in their interaction with Americans because the militia is watching. Notices are plastered everywhere warning the people against, not just helping us, but even being friendly. The message is clear: We know who you are, we know where you live, God is on our side, and we will not distinguish between man, woman or child. Do not embrace the infidel. The militia also has a bloody track record to support their threats, and they infect the local Iraqi security forces.

It is after dark, and the foot patrol moves from the well lit busy market streets to the back alleys that are cloaked in shadow. Night vision goggles come into play, and awareness of one's surroundings intensifies. We scan rooftops for snipers and RPG's. Every darkened window is a potential sniper nest. Every derelict car is a potential bomb. We're patrolling with the Iraqi Army, and the increased security in numbers is offset by internal questions about the competence, skill, and loyalty of the Iraqi soldiers watching our backs.

There is no ambush. There is no attack. Once again, at the end of the day, we all return to base safely. The intimidation under which the people in these neighborhoods live cannot be sustained. People are becoming fed up with it, and our presence is giving them someplace to turn. Behind the glassy-eyed stares that follow us on every patrol are courageous individuals determined to wrest their community from the oppression of the mafia-like militias. There is a distinct sense that terror is ebbing, and the terrorist are now the one's watching their backs.

As we return from another patrol on another day, we chance upon a disturbing scene. Iraqi soldiers are frantically loading a limp woman into a military vehicle for transport to a local hospital. Her blood-smeared car is smashed against a concrete pylon. She'd been shot in the face only moments earlier by somebody in another car. It is a grim reminder of the challenges yet remaining to the courage and perseverance of the Iraqi people.

كل سنة و انت طيب

I understand that one's 40th birthday is supposed to be some kind of milestone. Perhaps it is. I'm suffering from some sort of lingering head cold, so I'm certainly feeling older today. It occurs to me that this is the third year in a row I've passed my birthday rather anonymously among soldiers and far from my family.

Here's hoping that 41 will be different.

Won't you be my neighbor

UPDATE: This should curtail some of the racket around base for a little while.

We've been spending a lot of time lately away from base, and out at the JSS's (Joint Security Stations). These are smaller company-level combat outposts that are situated in the middle of Baghdad neighborhoods. Some are manned by both Iraqi and American soldiers, some are purely American enterprises. The plan is to eventually turn all of these outposts over to Iraqi control over the course of the next year. There is certainly a downside to staying at the JSS's. For my part, I miss Internet connectivity the most. We sleep on cots or in beds that aren't ours. The food is mediocre. They're more crowded and dirtier than our quarters on base. There are no showers. On the upside, being away from the flagpole means that uniform standards are lower. You can actually walk around in a t-shirt and flip-flops without incurring the wrath of some irritable Command Sergeant Major. There is also a stronger sense of camaraderie and shared sacrifice with the guys out there that is much more elusive on the big mega-bases. Also, as of late, it actually feels somewhat safer out in the neighborhoods. Our base has come under increased rocket and/or mortar attack lately, which has resulted in a couple of deaths and dozens wounded. The thud of mortar rounds has become an almost nightly nuisance. I use the word nuisance because, really, that is all it is. In spite of the recent casualties, the impact of these attacks is mostly psychological, and strategically insignificant. They do little more than harass.

As conditions improve in Baghdad, the danger of complacency becomes increasingly relevant. On some of our recent patrols in Sunni neighborhoods, we have received the warmest, friendliest receptions of our tour. It is too easy to push the dangers of war to the back of your mind when you're sitting on lawn chairs in a well tended garden with children playing on the swing while you're being served fresh homemade lemonade and chatting about electrical problems and the price of propane. A brief anecdote illustrates the reverse side of this coin. At one house, as we pounded on the large metal gates to gain entry to the property, an old woman in a neighboring house panicked, "Oh no! It is the National Guard!" - meaning the Iraqi Army. Another woman said, "No, no. It is the Americans!" The old woman replied with obvious relief, "The Americans? Oh! Well, show them in! Offer them something to eat!" The Iraqi security forces are improving, but they still have along way to go before they truly earn the trust of the people. This is particularly true of the Sunni neighborhoods which chafe under the presence of dominantly Shia Iraqi Army and Police. The Sunni are still suffering the consequences of their refusal to participate in the political process and security force recruiting drives back in '03 and '04; a decision that most Sunni leaders now view as a grievous mistake on their part.

IED

As I write this, I'm struggling to keep my eyes open. Hours ago we were supposed to have embarked on a mission deep into a militia controlled Shia slum. However, our security element has been delayed by a serious accident in another part of the city. It is almost midnight, and we wait to find out if we will have any mission at all. If the mission is a go, we will likely be driving under blackout conditions using night vision goggles. We will be maneuvering through narrow debris-strewn streets packed with crowds of Ramadan holiday revelers. There is no doubt that concealed in the masses will be hostile militia. With the help of average Iraqis increasingly willing to step forward with information, we've been depleting their numbers. Their hostility towards us will be piqued.

In numerous conversations, I've always been able to distinguish our team by saying that for as long as we've been in country, and as many missions that we've run, not once have we been on a patrol or in a convoy that has been struck by an IED. As of a couple of days ago, I can no longer make that claim.

Moments after we passed through a shady Iraqi Army checkpoint in the Eastern Mansour district of Baghdad, the shockwave pounded our vehicle as the earth erupted next to a humvee two vehicles in front of us. The view was immediately obscured by a brown and black maelstrom of dirt, asphalt and cement curbing. The adrenalin-fueled voices that fill my radio headset display remarkable competence and control. As the dust settles, it becomes clear that the targeted vehicle is still rolling. Push through! Push through! Get out of the kill zone! Are there any casualties?

We move as fast as the mortally wounded truck can roll, and manage to limp a safe distance away. We establish a security cordon, and assess the situation. The targeted humvee is gushing fluids and has two blown front tires. Its crew is a little shaken, but thankfully unhurt.

I would love to post more than this right now, and expound on the context in which this incident occured, but quite frankly I am just to flippin' exhausted...

UPDATE: Continuing an earlier post, today a patrol rolled back to base after having confiscated three truckloads of very realistic looking Chinese made toy guns from a local vendor.

In related news...

Another American Import?

Today, October 1, we saw something that we haven't seen in Baghdad since our arrival four months ago.

 

Clouds!

Toys Made in China...for the Iraqi market

It is the kind of thing that can happen anywhere, and when it does happen the consequences can be tragic. When it happens in a volatile neighborhood in Baghdad, however, tragic consequences may actually be the objective of the enemy. My heart skipped a beat when a young boy of about eight or nine years pushed his way through the other boys clamoring for my attention. He pointed to the 9mm Beretta strapped to my thigh, then patted a bulge at his waist beneath his shirt. As he started to move away, he casually pulled up his short to reveal a pistol grip protruding from his belt. I grabbed him, and yanked the weapon away. It was a toy. I started scolding him loudly, then realized that my interpreter was off with some other soldiers talking to a group of shopkeepers.

The gaggle of kids, maybe a dozen in all, followed me to retrieve my interpreter. The disarmed gunman rushed to the protection of a group of older male relatives, and refused leave their side when I beckoned him over as I continued my lecture. The adults appeared amused when I pulled my pistol and held it next to the toy. "Do you see this?" I asked through my interpreter. "They look almost the same, don't they? Are you trying to get killed?! Do you think a soldier can tell the difference from a distance?!" Some of the older kids seemed to get it. The adults just continued grinning stupidly. I pulled out a couple of dollars and gave them to the kid. I told him that this time I'm buying the toy from him. Next time we'll simply take them. When we got back to base, a soldier from the same patrol tossed me another plastic gun confiscated on the same mission. "Here's another for your collection."

Later that day I learned that it wasn't so long ago that some kids were playing with toy guns and pointed them at an American patrol from behind a brick wall. That time the results were tragic. A Bradley fighting vehicle spun its main gun around and neutralized the "threat". These are not accidents. These are the results of a sinister strategy on the part of some insurgents who have been known to flood neighborhoods with toy guns with the intent of producing exactly this kind of result.

Fortunately, this time nobody got hurt. Another good day in Baghdad.

Rhinitis

Op tempo remains high, so we've been keeping pretty busy. Centaur75 has a new team member, so our manpower strength has spiked a whopping 50% in the past week. Now that we have a full crew, we're far more self-sufficient and flexible when it comes to being able to take advantage of opportunities to go outside the wire, which is what we've essentially been doing non-stop for a while now.

Sometimes our interactions with the local nationals can border of the surreal. A recent mission took us to a local hospital in a dominantly Sunni neighborhood. We had a helluva time finding it, as the GPS coordinates that filtered through the byzantine military bureaucracy had us wandering aimlessly through residential neighborhoods, and backtracking at makeshift roadblocks composed of concrete, rusted engine blocks and palm logs. The frustration at not being able to find the place was eased by the reception we received from neighborhood children who flocked to the curbs and actually cheered us as we drove by; some snapping smartly to attention, stomping their right foot, and whipping out that ridiculous palm-outward military salute that the Iraqis borrowed from the British ages ago.

We finally found the hospital, and positioned our vehicles in a defensive perimeter. Our audience with the hospital director, and our tour of the facilities found us in the somewhat awkward position of clanking through and amongst the hospital beds in full battle-rattle, all the while noisily smacking weapons into walls, bed frames and chairs. The patients all stared at us wide-eyed as if we'd descended from another planet. Navigating the narrow stairwell through three stories under all the weight of armor, weapons and magazines was exhausting in itself.

As we were wrapping up the mission, and collapsing our security perimeter, we were approached by two middle aged women in an agitated state. Their animated gestures and tone drew several other soldiers to where my interpreter and I were standing. Now, it is not at all unusual for locals to approach American patrols with information on bad guys, or complaints about infrastructure, etc. It is common and expected. So... what did these two woman believe was so important that only the might of the U.S. Army was up to the challenge? What was so pressing that they had to wave us down so that we could stand there in the triple-digit heat, encased in armor, with sweat pouring down our brows?

The allergy medicine they got from the pharmacy wasn't working.

I am not making this up. I was ready to draw my 9mm Beretta semi-automatic and tell them that it was the only thing we carried that was guaranteed to clear sinus passages. I didn't, of course. We were polite, told them we just couldn't help them with that, gave them some ice water, and sent them on their way.

This is just an example of what can constitute a priority on one Baghdad street. A five minute drive from this location is a neighborhood that may be witnessing a spike in sectarian violence. A clash between rival militias, in which U.S. forces were not involved, left bodies burning in the streets and families fleeing their homes.

Shift gears and drive on.

Speaking truth to power

Today a relatively small group of us had an opportunity to meet with a visiting congressional delegation from back home: Senators Olympia Snowe (R-ME), Ben Nelson (D-NE), Max Baucas (D-MT) and our own homeboy Ken Salazar (D-CO). The meeting was held in a conference room near division HQ here on Camp Liberty, and was billed as an opportunity for the Senators to hear the points of view and concerns of the soldiers. there were four tables in the room, and seven soldiers from each state had the opportunity to have lunch and chat with their elected representative. Well... not exactly. Nebraska and Montana had empty seats. Colorado had too many people, so a Major was booted from the guest list, and our own Liz (who flew down from the IZ specifically for this event) was relegated to sitting with the Montana folks, which I think she found more than a little irritating.

Sen. Salazar was about as courteous and amiable as can be, and appeared to be genuinely interested in our perspectives and concerns. At the end, he was the last one to leave the room only after telling the escorting entourage to cool their heels so that he could hear more of what we had to say. Even then, however, time was short and far too much was left unsaid.

I found it a little disconcerting, after all the introductions were made, that the first thing he did was to remind us how unpopular the war was back home, and started quoting polls and percentages. An image flashed through my mind of trying to conduct a war like an American Idol talent contest. "If you support the Surge, call 1-800-(etc.) and press #4. If you support immediate withdrawal, press #5. I'm sorry, Gen. Patraeus, but you will not be joining us on stage next week!" ...what a way to run a war! We were then treated to a brief campaign spiel about all his votes in favor of benefits for military members and veterans. Yippee. Then we had our turn.

A Major from Division HQ spoke eloquently about the strategic importance of the region, the dangers or Iran, and the necessity to do "whatever it takes" to achieve a positive outcome. Senator Salazar leaned into the table. "What if it takes 5 years?" The Major looked him in the eye and repeated, "Whatever it takes."

I elaborated on the question of Iran, and that I felt that discussing the withdrawal of US forces as an end unto itself risks a long-term catastrophe in the region. I told him that, based on my experience, the American public underestimates the "corrosive" nature of Iranian influence. A Lt. Colonel across the table commented that he thought my use of the term "corrosive" was absolutely correct. We all agreed on the strategic need to secure the borders of Iraq; primarily the Iranian, but the Syrian as well.

The meeting wrapped up, and the Senators were swept off to waiting Black Hawks. Later in the evening was a USO sponsored appearance by the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders. As I didn't think they would be quite as receptive to my geopolitical criticisms, I decided not to attend. I got a haircut instead.