File Closer

Stuck Inside of Texas With The Baghdad Blues Again

2005-09-25T18:32:00.000-07:00

Even if I was inclined, it would be impossible to leave Iraq behind. It was in that God-forsaken land that I saw how low, how vile, humanity could be. I also saw the possibility of the human spirit triumphing over the base viciousness that characterizes far too many of our fellows.

I've been back from the war for just over six months now. I've had time to digest, reflect, and ponder. What do I think about the most? Proud Comanche Company was gutted by a stupid, insensitive Army "system" that cares nothing for comraderie forged in battle. We are a pallid shell, a slim imitator of the powerful band of warriors that existed not that long ago. Sometimes I feel like a piece of me left with those other men. I wish them luck in their new units, but if I could, I'd reassemble the old group for the return to Iraq.

Returning to Iraq. The thought doesn't fill me with dread, not in the slightest. I dread having to work a normal 6am-5pm schedule. I dread dealing with the ignorant mass of Americans who won't listen past the media distortions about Iraq. I dread having to do paperwork. I dread the insignificance of much of life in the States. Iraq? Bring it on. I'm ready to go back.

The reader might be asking him or herself "what exactly is wrong with this guy?" A fair question. For a few years, starting in adolescence, I imagined myself as a future historian. Perhaps that profession still lies ahead for me, but for now I prefer an active hand in world events. I'm not a billionaire, a religious leader, an aristocrat, or influential writer, but I am a soldier. I'd venture to guess that some of the decisions that I, and men just like me, made in Iraq, will reverberate for decades. The decisions I make here are limited to banalities such as which variety of gin to purchase or which particular shirt I'll wear for the trip to the HEB grocery store down the road. Monstrously dull, just like school and work. Boring and without consequence.

I'm not saying that I would enjoy the prospect of my life being an eternal conflict, but at least now, in my younger days (some of my men would disagree with the "younger" part), I feel the need to make a difference. That statement might possibly sound hopelessly idealistic, especially coming from a hard-bitten veteran. Oh well. I find it amusing, though, that the most idealistic people I know are soldiers or supporters of soldiers, most of whom would identify themselves as "conservative." Hope for a better world, and the guts to try and make it happen, are needed in this chaotic era. Sounds pretty liberal, doesn't it?

Jenny

2005-08-27T12:18:00.000-07:00

Sometime in August of 2004 -

The bastards wanted to fight again. After a month-long "truce," the Mahdi Army had apparently decided that they hadn't had enough the first time around. Unlike the ambushes of April 4th, we had plenty of warning this time. You could smell it in the city, from the increasing amount of anti-US rallies, to the vacated houses in the friendly areas. All of Sadr City knew the war would be back on soon, and now, after getting to know how things worked around here, we knew it to.

Near the end of August, after a good deal of death and destruction was meted out to the Mahdis, it was decided that the battalion would take and hold buildings in the city, rather than do drive through "movements to contact." Fine by me. I'd always said that the only time the Mahdis could hurt us was when we were moving. Setting up in a building, especially down the street from one of their mosques, really pissed those guys off. Sooner or later, they'd come and try to fight. Of course, when they did, they walked into prepared kill zones. The next morning after one of these fights, if the families of the Mahdis were lucky, there was a body to recover that hadn't dragged off and eaten by wild dogs.

One of these periods sticks in my mind. We were on route Bravo, near the Gold gas station. We'd taken some light contact during the day, and renovated the sides of a few buildings in response. After dismounting, our LT decided to take over a two-story building. It had storefronts on the ground level, and apartments up top. Pappy and I were trying to pry open the door leading to the upper story. The occupant evidently had fled for safer digs, and had put on a thick padlock. As we were working on it, and RPG flew down the street at us. I looked at Pappy, and he looked at me. I dropped the prybar and tried to find some cover. The whole platoon was scrambling around, some firing back. I could hear our Bradleys shooting, but I had no idea where the rocket had come from. I and a few others dove into an abandoned lunch counter through the broken-out front window.

Once inside, I peered out to see if i could spot any enemy. All I saw was our Bradleys destroying the side of a building. A palm tree that was growing from a second-story terrace on the building was cut in half, the leafy top tumbling to the street. After the dust settled it was clear that either the RPG guy was dead or wasn't coming back. I collected my team, and we went back to the door. By this time Pappy had gotten the thing open, and the platoon pushed its way upstairs.

Paydirt! It turned out that of all the places we could've taken over, this suite of apartments was occupied by a rabid supporter of Muqtada. His fat face was postered throughout all of the rooms. This immediately put us in an even worse mood. Either the cocksucker who lived here was off fighting in another part of the city, or he had taken his family and fled. We ripped most of the posters down. Ziggy, our translator, a mid-fiftyish man from western Baghdad, was raised Shia, but hated the political posturings of "all those fucking Shia imams," as he put it. Ziggy wrote some Arabic messages on the few remaining posters, the content of which, I was assured, dealt with Muqtada's predilection for interspecies coitus.

My team's assigned sector of fire was overlooking the street to the west and south. Our little area consisted of the master bedroom. The woman of the house was a packrat; there was an entire china cabinet filled with plates, cups, and knick-knacks. We thoroughly searched the room, looking for weapons, ammo, or counterfeit money (we did find a huge stack of Iranian cash). While searching, I saw something that made me chuckle. Stapled to the wall was a toy package, a Chinese Barbie knock-off. She was called Jenny. Jenny was still sealed in her package, and she was stapled about six feet from the floor. I thought of the little girl to whom this belonged. Why did her father staple it to the wall, clearly out of her reach? The whole situation reminded me of those guys who buy Star Wars figures but leave them in their packages "to preserve resell value." Ugh.

Now here was a man, a supporter of, if not a fighter for, the Mahdi Army. He had at least one small daughter, evidenced by the clothes in the wardrobe. To me, the "Jenny" situation spoke of the cruelty that the devout Shia in Sadr City exhibited toward their females. Keeping a doll out of reach of a little girl isn't very high on the cruelty scale, of course, but turning your city into a war zone at the behest of a Iranian-funded religious maniac is. The Mahdi Army shut down schools, firebombed music stores that sold nonreligious music, sacked beauty parlors for promoting "loose" behavior, and planted bombs all over the streets that killed hundreds of their co-religionists. I truly felt sorry for the little girl who owned Jenny. She had almost no chance in life to be anything but a baby factory for an illiterate, unskilled goon. If she did go to school, what were the chances that she'd be allowed to continue her education after getting married at age twelve or thirteen? Her life was going to suck, and her asshole father wouldn't even let her enjoy what little childhood she had left. He wouldn't let her play with Jenny.

It's Just Like a Bicycle

2005-08-22T08:50:00.000-07:00

I stopped blogging in Iraq because I had little time to do it in, it cost $2 an hour, and I just plain lost interest. The other day, something happened at Protein Wisdom that made me want to get back into the game.

I have grown weary of the "chickenhawk" argument...very weary. So, when I read this little gem at Jeff's blog, I had to respond:

Hey cowards-

Casey Sheehan was a man. You are pussies.

Put up or shut up.

1-800-GO-ARMY

Go here to see what happened next (or here to see the action in it's original context).

Back to the S**t (with apologies to Millie Jackson)

2004-12-18T00:41:00.000-08:00

Yes, I'm back in Iraq. Now it's cold and sometimes rainy, so the craplakes are overfed with rainwater, keeping them from even slightly evaporating off of the streets. The folk in the northeastern part of Sadr City are still surly, ignorant, and filthy, but they have apparently calmed down - slightly - since I left in late November. Right now they are in the midst of a remembrance celebration for Mohammed Sadiq al-Sadr, killed by Saddam in 1999, and father to Muqtada al-Sadr ("Mookie"), the doughy, monkey-brained spiritual "leader" of the bands of Shia criminals that plant bombs in the road and beat up women for patronizing beauty salons. Perhaps I'm being a tad too oblique: I loathe Mookie, and if I had the chance I'd feed his writhing, pudgy body to hungry feral pigs. His "resistance" has fairly well destroyed what little the people of Sadr City had, and it has kept US-led reconstruction efforts from proceeding at an acceptable pace. Of course, although the majority of his hysterical, hyperventilating followers live in squalor so profound that even Sally Struthers would run out of tears if she witnessed them, Mookie himself doesn't even live in the city that bears his name. Too nasty, I guess.

Busy, Busy, and Going Home

2004-11-18T04:17:00.000-08:00

No, I'm not going home for good (yet). I finally get my fifteen-day leave - which I'll be spending in SPW. Maybe I'll blog from there, and maybe I won't. I haven't decided yet. I may find that I enjoy being totally disconnected from the world. We'll see.

Until then, goodbye!

Elsewhere in Iraq

2004-11-06T02:54:00.000-08:00

Check out this letter home from a Marine in Fallujah. Our leatherneck brothers over there have had their hands full since April (which I can sympathize with...April was the beginning of the awfulness in Sadr City also).

(thanks to Donald Sensing for the link)

That's Finally Over...

2004-11-05T10:31:00.000-08:00

On the morning of the 3rd of November my platoon did an operation jointly with Iraqi security forces - both police and military. I won't (and can't) go into the details of that operation, but that's not the subject in any event. While we were doing our Army thing, we were receiving messages over the radio unrelated to the ongoing operation. Someone "at higher" (as in higher echelon of command) was passing blow-by-blow election updates to the units operating in sector. It was great to see American soldiers so involved. Most, of course, were rooting for the incumbent, but there were a few guys looking for a change in the White House. At one point I even had an ING (Iraq National Guardsman) ask me how it was going and who was winning. I'm not sure if he even knew who the other guy was besides Bush (they all, even the little kids, know who he is), but he was interested all the same.

When we returned to our temporary field-operating base (a more hellish patch of blight and neglect has never been glimpsed by man), I took a little break by sitting in the back of a Bradley and smoking. By that time news passed to us that Kerry had conceded. There was a palpable sigh of relief from everyone, and not just because most of the guys wanted Bush to win. I heard a few people mutter about how they were glad it was over so we could get back to work. I can say that I share that sentiment (I'm also overjoyed that there will be no 2000-esque recount). My unit has passed the halfway mark in our tour here, and we're ready to get on with business and get it over with. Now we can concentrate on the January election in Iraq, which I predict will be a circus of confusion and death, with me and the guys stuck right in the middle of it.

I'll really be able to relax when that election is over and done with.

The Safest Place in the World / Why I Fight

2004-10-30T18:49:00.000-07:00

My favorite month is ending in just a few short hours, and once again, I've missed my favorite holiday. Halloween is the closest thing to carneval that we Midwesterners have. The obscurement of identity, the Dionysian release of over-indulgence (candy as kids, and other stuff as adults), the sense that "it will all be over come daylight, so let it all out" all appeal to me. But, as I said above, I missed it again, stuck in dreary eastern Baghdad - during Ramadan no less, the holy month (isn't a month sort of overdoing it?) when a true believer isn't supposed to eat, drink, smoke, have sex, or basically do anything that makes being human worthwhile during the daylight hours. Top it off with the US Army's ill-considered "no fun" regulations (which, if followed to the letter, would make even the most devout moslem look like John Belushi circa 1978), and you have the makings of a shitty time (not to mention the bungholes that try to shoot at me).

All that being said, hopefully you'll indulge me in a bit of homesickness. I even miss the town that I call "The Safest Place in the World" (hereafter known as SPW). SPW is just that: a smallish midwestern liberal-arts-college town with no major highway running through it, little crime, and no large industry - the type of place that is basically a state-subsidized haven for aging hippies and fresh-faced transnational progressives. Hell, the state even provides the former with jobs and the latter with twin senses of entitlement and purpose! This burg is like a mini-Berkeley, except on lithium (we are midwesterners, and of course most of us don't get THAT worked up about most things). SPW has hit all the stations of the cross that a lefty mecca needs to hit: large Unitarian community, Greens outnumber Republicans on campus, pre-recorded Mumia speeches every now and again, Bush puppet heads and guys on stilts trotted out on the Leftist High Holy Days, police gun range shut down due to "excessive noise," sand on the roads in lieu of salt in the winter (it doesn't help any with the snow, but it doesn't disturb the Earth Mother), Jewish student union vandalized with bloody pig head, those charming Che posters in alleyways, doctrinaire Stalinist bookshops posing as havens for free-thinkers (I'm talking about YOU, Boxcar Books) unwashed homeless-by-choice twentysomethings clotting up the otherwise quaint downtown area, and, of course, Starbucks vandalism.

As you can see, I'm fully aware of the (many) shortcomings of this place, but I love it nonetheless. Why? Because in SPW, unlike most of the rest of the world, I can stroll down to a coffee shop (corporate or family - my choice), sit down, read both the New York Times and The National Review, and not have to worry about a FUCKING ROCKET being fired from down the street. I can display affection toward a member of the opposite sex (and that's a SHOUT OUT, Maria!) in public without incurring the wrath of the Holy Police. I can turn on my faucet and raw sewage doesn't pour out. If I disagree with my government (and I often do), no one will come and throw me feet-first into a stump grinder (try telling that to those Black Cross kids who hang out at the library, though: "We live in a police state!" okay...sure guys, just lay off the meth, will you). In SPW I can buy pretty much anything I want or need, and I don't need a home arsenal to protect my purchases. I can drive out to the lake in the summer, drink a few, and unwind without having to keep one eye open for brigands who'd kill me for my shoes. In short, in SPW, I (and everyone else, too) can live mostly as I please with minimal interference from either the government or malignant non-governmental forces.

That's why I fight. I will not allow the backwards reactionaries that throng so much of the world's surface to destroy (or even damage) my home. I don't care why they hate us or wish us ill, the simple fact that they do is enough to motivate me. I will not surrender my values, my loved ones, my freedom to placate the childish impulses of a pack of insane petty tyrants. I will fight them until I'm too feeble to pick up a rifle, and then I'll pick up a pen and take the fight to the marketplace of ideas. I'll continue to fight them in the streets, I'll fight their friends and allies if need be. I'll fight their philosophies, whether they be religious (e.g. Wahabbism and al-Qaida) or secular (communist dictatorship and the like) wherever and however I can. I fight them here, in their backyards, so they won't have time to creep into mine.

I cherish my freedom, the safety of my home, the embrace of my life's love. I cherish the notion that someday my descendants might live on other worlds, and maybe even prosper there. I cherish the idea that my descendants might only know AIDS and cancer from textbooks. I cherish progress, liberty, and joy of living. I cherish these things enough to kill to preserve them. I love these things enough to not sully them by surrendering to my enemies in the vain hope that they "just leave me alone" (ahem, Spain, you might want to start taking notes). If my nation's proactive, often nonlinear approach to this conflict disturbs or bothers some people, so be it. If it disturbs or bothers some people enough that they feel they must take up arms against us, then bring it - I'll also fight them, and so will several hundred thousand of my friends - the best that the United States, Britain, Poland, Australia, Italy, and many other nations have to offer. Push us too far, and those numbers jump to the millions.

So SPW, sleep soundly tonight. Some morning soon you'll wake up a little bit colder, with no leaves left on your trees, and I'll be there. I'll stroll down your overhung streets without having to check for armed insurgents in your alleys and I will smile. I'll light a cigarette and sit down on one of your limestone retaining walls and listen to some bedraggled-but-earnest youthful Che-worshipper spout about "oppression" and I will laugh. I'll reflect upon the first dusty snowfall on your many copper and slate eaves and I'll grin from the sheer joy beholding the pure beauty of freedom.

Fall in Baghdad

2004-10-17T15:41:00.000-07:00

Gone are the 120 degree days. Gone too are the blast-furnace winds and the swirling dust devils. It actually rained a few days ago. It wasn't a downpour, just a sprinkle, but it came as a great relief to we Americans who aren't used to desert summers. The Iraqis seemed to feel the change too: the cooler air and the little sprinkle seems to have heralded a different, more relaxed attitude. The children have started to return to school, and they all seem very eager and happy about it (even if many of the little boys seem to take an hour or so to walk to school, making frequent stops to waste time in some way or another, but I suppose some things, like schoolboys ditching classes to mess around, are universal). As nice as this all is, I still wish I could see the hills of home covered in the riot of color that mid-October brings. Maybe next year.

Leaving for a Bit

2004-10-12T15:06:00.000-07:00

No real posting today. I'm off to do what I get paid to do, and will be away from the solace of the computer center (a $2 an hour solace, that is). Be back in a few days, but until then check out this (rather old) article from VDH:

http://www.victorhanson.com/articles/hanson022502.html

Cast of Characters, part I: The Translators

2004-10-11T19:17:00.000-07:00

(This is the first in a series of posts in which I'll highlight some of the groups of people that make up the scene here in my little corner of Iraq. Since nothing would get done without them it is appropriate for me to start off with our Arabic interpreters.)

There are two types of Arabic interpreters employed here in Iraq. First we have the relatively rare US citizen who is a contractor through a company like Titan. Don't get me wrong here, those guys are great, but I really would like to tell a little about the other group of interpreters, the native Iraqis who work with us day in and day out.

These men (and they are invariably men) undergo the same crappy conditions that we do. They go out on the same patrols, the same dangerous raids, and the same endless, boring overwatch missions. They and their families are targeted for harassment and assassination by the 8th-century goons that we're fighting. The pay for them is good (for Iraq), but not that good. Not good enough to risk life and limb. Not good enough to have almost no free time and never see one's family. Nope, the pay isn't why they do it. To a man, when I've talked with them on why they do what they do, the translators say that they want to serve their country. Not serve the insane despotism of Saddam, or the supposedly incipient Islamic-weirdo state that is glimmering in the eyes of Muqtada and Zarqawi. The translators want to serve their country and what it can be, and what it should be. They want to see services restored, children going to school, and people going to work. To that end, they put up with conditions that would make most people quit and go home.

Most of these guys learned English in school, which meant they went to school, and therefore represent the educated class. They have a lot of resentment toward those countrymen who exhibit immature and irrational behavior that sets back the cause of reconstruction. The translators realize that Iraq will never be the United States. All they want is Kuwait- or Jordan-style government and economy, which is an attainable (and worthy) goal.

I've seen these guys pick up weapons and return fire in fights when they could have just laid low. I've seen them deal with their fellow interpreters not showing up for work and finding out later that the absence was due to assassination. I've seen them do a lot, and they go above and beyond for their country.

So, here's to you Ziggy, Bob, George, Ricky, Tom, Jerry, Sal, and all the others. Thanks.

Conspiracies

2004-10-11T13:20:00.000-07:00

From the always provocative Jonah Goldberg over at NRO, comes this.

How could Bush think he could pull this thing off? I mean, knowing as he did that there were no WMDs in Iraq, how could he invade the country and think no one would notice? And if he's capable of lying to send Americans to their deaths for some nebulous petro-oedipal conspiracy no intelligent person has bothered to make even credible, why on earth didn't he just plant some WMDs on the victim after the fact? If you're willing to kill Americans for a lie, surely you'd be willing to plant some anthrax to keep your job.

I especially like the bit about the "petro-oedipal conspiracy." (But, as they say, read the whole thing).

Why is it that some people are willing to believe the most outlandish tales about our own officials, but won't even consider, for even a moment, that other nation's leaders might have some nefarious intentions of their own? I especially find it exasperating to listen to someone lay out a torturous theory that supposedly explains the "true motivation" of the administration in deciding to invade Iraq. Without fail, these theories presuppose a cabal of twisted geniuses who cook up needlessly complex plots to enrich themselves by a few million dollars. Maybe I don't understand the mindset of these folks because I haven't been huffing Krylon and watching Michael Moore flicks. Not that I plan on starting to do either of those things, however. I enjoy having whatever loose grip on reality I still possess.

Wild Dogs

2004-10-08T22:45:00.000-07:00

There are a lot, and by "a lot" I mean "a shitload" of wild dogs in Baghdad. Most seem friendly enough. They may be feral hounds scrounging meals out of trash and carrion, but they're still dogs, with thousands of years of guided evolution compelling them to run up to humans while wagging their tails. The one useful thing about having them around is that they bark at any biped that moves by. This comes in handy on those late nights spent guarding some god-forsaken intersection next to a disused sewage-filled canal. Even if the guard does zone out a little, no one can approach within one hundred meters without the dogs letting the guard know that something is up. (Not all of my time in Iraq is spent in the grim struggle for survival, on the contray, quite a bit of it is just flat-out dull, like spending the evening watching dozens of insomniac dogs cavort around on a dirt road that leads from the bad end of town to the worse end of town.) Why are all the dogs hanging around us, you might ask? Simple: Americans are nice. Americans like to give out food. Americans don't chase dogs around with sticks. Americans will even pet dogs if the animals don't look completely flea-bitten.