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!