365 and a Wakeup

Bile

"He knows so little and knows it so fluently."                                   
                          - Ellen Glasgow    

Dear “John Travolta” (and no, I'm not referring to the actor)

   We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting, but since you felt the need to perturb my wife with your myopic, sub-literate rantings about my service here in Iraq I figured I’d address them in an equally public forum.   So here goes…

how many kids did you rape today, son of a bitch?     

     Today that number was a whopping zero.  Just like yesterday, and the day before.  And every other day we’ve been out here.  I know you probably have difficulty with something as complex as “numbers”  so maybe I have to explain the concept of zero.  Zero indicates the absence of any or all units under consideration.  So if I were to use the word “zero” in a sentence it might read like this.

“John Travolta has zero dignity”

or perhaps

“John Travolta has zero functioning neurons in his cerebral cortex”

    That should make it easy enough to understand my foreign friend!  On to the next illuminating question…

can you sleep good, f****n' murderer?     

     Sadly no, I don’t sleep all that well.  Maybe it’s the heat, or just the stacatto missions, but I just haven’t been able to get a solid five hours of rest in the last few weeks.  I’m sure you have been in the same situation once or twice.  You know the whole “laying in a sleeping bag in a combat zone, staring at the ceiling, half sick with the thought that there was something else you might have fit into your 20 hour day” thing.  Oh, wait a second I forgot – you aren’t a soldier.  I'd try to compare the stress of my job with the stress inherent to your job, but I really don't know all that much about operating rides at a carnival..

    Your next comment wasn’t really a question as much as it was a proclamation, but I’ll respond to it anyway.

nobody wants you in this world, bitch     

     Really?  I’m stunned.  All this time I have been fooling myself!  All I needed was your brilliant insight to reveal the truth before my very eyes! It all makes sense now – that is why my wife and family have been so supportive!  Thank you for helping me uncover their secret plot to destroy me with care packages, prayers, and letters!       

      John, I gotta hand it to you - your last line was a real piece of work.  You wouldn't know reality if it walked up to you, bit you on the ass, and announced “I AM REALITY”.  Seriously, was that a conclusion or simply the place where you got tired of thinking?

Do you know, you kill kids and women, but, who f****n with your wife?, yes a latin lover.     

     Wow - have you ever considered a career as a journalist?  A wordsmith like you could really be useful in an interview – you could just answer all the questions yourself instead of waiting for a pesky response.  Although you already attempted to provide your own answers, let me give you a slightly more accurate account.  I don’t make it a practice to kill women or children.  I am a soldier, not a butcher.  In your ideological world those two may seem synonymous, but that only shows your complete and utter lack of good sense.      As for my wife…  all I will say is your knowledge about women is about as accurate as your understanding of our mission here in Iraq.

     Now that we have taken care of your postings let me give you a little advice.  Read.  Learn.  Stop spouting empty Marxist dogma and take the time to find out what Iraq is really like.  And if that is too difficult for you to grasp then remember, there is nothing wrong with having nothing worthwhile to say - unless you insist on saying it.  If you need a reminder I'll post your email address again just in case anyone else want to drop you a line.   editorinferno@hotmail.com

"Over There"

     Yesterday I received a care package with DVDs of the FX show “Over There”, a series loosely based on the experiences of soldiers here in Iraq.  As the day wound down my XO and 2LT Lucky drifted over to my room, both eager to watch this new series and how they depicted life here in Iraq.  We sat down and spent the next hour in utter and complete awe.  It was the most riveting hour of television I have ever seen, and by the end of the show I had tears in my eyes.     

     They were tears of laughter.     

     I don’t have the words to express how tragically flawed the show really is.  There are bad shows, and there are terrible shows.  There are even shows so singularly awful they come full circle and almost seem interesting.  This show is much, much worse then even those campy train wrecks.  The episode was so abominable that I couldn’t even get angry at it’s hollow depictions of combat, all I could do was laugh until my sides ached.     

     My unit has spent the better part of a year here in Iraq attached to the 3rd Infantry Division (the unit highlighted in the show) and there wasn’t a single scene that seemed even remotely plausible.  I don’t have the time or energy to express what a catastrophe the show really is, that would take days upon days.  But I will say that the show did an excellent job of showing the audience one thing.  That Hollywood has no clue what our experience on the ground is really like. 

Goattown

     While on patrol today we stopped by one of the Shantytowns we nicknamed “Goattown”. As we approached Goattown the children ran up to any high ground they could find to watch our approach, waving and jumping like fans at a football game.

     Our mission was to assess the medical needs of the area, and to that end we had our Battalion Physician’s Assistant riding along with us. As our patrol dismounted the PA was quickly surrounded by a wall of soldiers weaving a tight net of security. Once everyone gave an up we made our way to the patch of bare earth that served as the center of the neighborhood. When we arrived in the city center we were greeted by a cheering crowd of anxious children and one of the village elders. As the Surgeon talked to the village elder about medical care the soldiers split into two groups. The first pushed down the dusty alley’s and set up security positions. As soon as the security was established the second group started passing out candy and toys to the cluster of children that have were anxiously waiting for the boxes of goodies we brought with us.

     As we were passing out the school supplies and candy the neat lines of children quickly turned into a giggling mass of hands and arms reaching for anything they could get their hands on. The interpreters kept telling the children to remain orderly, and every time we stopped passing out supplies they followed the instructions. But the minute we started passing out goodies all order collapsed and they went back to a tiny mob of smiling faces.  A couple of the sharp eyed troops noticed which children weren’t getting anything, and they made a point of hand carrying some gifts to them to keep everything relatively equitable.

      A couple miles away the scene was repeating itself in Redi-Mix, where the CSM’s (Command Sergeant Major) patrol was busy setting up an impromptu medical clinic. After looking over the pictures from our earlier patrol the Battalion Surgeon agreed with our medic’s diagnosis, if left unchecked the infection would continue to eat away at the little girl’s ear. In that situation the best she could hope for was permanent deafness. Rather then task my company with the mission the CSM agreed to use his PSD to take the surgeon to Redi-Mix and remedy the situation. About the time we were checking on Goattown the Surgeon was treating the rampant infection, carefully removing necrotic tissue and cleaning out the festering wound. It was a quick operation, lasting a few short minutes. But in that narrow sliver of time a child received a gift worth more then any fragile toy. For in that instant that little girl received the chance to hear. Hear the sound of the desert wind. Hear the sound of her mother’s voice. Hear lilting music on a crisp fall day, and the sound of tears on a winter’s eve. And someday maybe even the gentle sound of her own baby’s gentle coo.

     By time the boxes were empty the PA had his information and we started to pull back out of the area. But as we left the village elder came over and graciously thanked us for our packages and warmly invited us to a wedding party that would occur that very night. I respectfully declined, but thanked him for the invitation. And with that we mounted back up and returned to mission, leaving a chattering group of happy children in our dusty wake.

The Break

     One of the ironies of military operations is that soldiers will get injured even in the absence of enemy activity.  A lot of the risk can be mitigated by strong leadership and meticulous planning, but after all the cards are dealt sometimes chaos comes up with the best hand. Last night was one of those times.

     As our patrol moved along a shadowed road one of our gunners screamed in pain. The Platoon Leader, 2LT Lucky, called out over the radio that he had an injury and in that instant the patrol transformed from a stealthy column into a coiled ring of force. Gunners scanned for targets, dismounts spilled onto the road to take up overwatch positions, and our medic went sprinting for the stricken truck. When he arrived the vehicle was unblemished, but the gunner was bent over in pain. SPC Tiberius started treating the gunner while the rest of the patrol secured the area, pausing only to give instructions to the combat lifesaver’s assisting him. In a few minutes he had the bleeding staunched and the gunner prepped for evacuation back to the FOB. The dismounts jumped back into the gunships and the silence was broken with the whining roar of the turbo diesels flaring into life.

     After a breakneck sprint we roared back onto the FOB and brought the gunner, SPC Math, into the TMC (troop medical clinic). The company commander was already there to check on his soldier, and by time we cleared our weapons he was joined by the Battalion Commander and the Command Sergeant Major. As the doctors worked in the dull glare of the cold fluorescent light it was obvious that while his injury was painful, it wasn’t life threatening. The platoon leader, the commander and I waited there in the hallway in full battle rattle waiting for SPC Math to have his hand x-rayed, talking about the incident in hushed tones. A few minutes later the Doctors came by to tell us he had two breaks in his hand, but would be alright. There was a collective sigh of relief that was echoed a moment later when I relayed the message to the troops waiting outside the TMC. As I returned to the treatment room the Doctors asked that we wait near the entrance while they finished treating SPC Math. We waited in the tiny waiting room for another hour before SPC Math was ready to be released, chatting about idle empty topics to speed the passage of time. When he finally came through the doors of the treatment room, woozy from the painkillers and propped up by his SSG Vent, the stubborn cloud of unease finally lifted. As we made our way back to the vehicle we all joked about the accident and took turns looking at his heavily bandaged hand. To an outsider we probably looked like a laughing pack of hyenas, but to those with clear eyes we were something rare and precious. We were a family made whole again.   

Sickness

     In the dying light of day our patrol shuttled out of the FOB, our exit marked by the sharp metallic click of rifle bolts chambering rounds.  There is no sound under heaven that fills the mind with greater clarity then the harsh crack of a rifle bolt slamming home.  It is an angry clap of sound that bypasses the pleasantries of thought and speaks to that ancient part of the brain that wanders deaf and dumb through the modern world.  The primal core whose only purpose is survival, and only language is streams of pulse quickening adrenaline.     

     The long string of shantytowns in our AO don’t have names, so in grand military tradition we come up with our own names.  The official names are little more then a string of digits referencing the grid coordinates of the walled enclaves.  The numerical designations are atomically precise, but since it is difficult to say “I visited 1234.5678 today” the shantytown neighborhoods usually end up with names that don’t sound like calculus equations.  One such neighborhood, a mud brick refuge we labeled “Redi-Mix” was our destination this evening.      

     Like most shantytowns Redi-Mix was a motley collection of squatters, itinerant laborers, and sheep herders.  The trash choked lane that meandered through the neighborhood was little more then an alley, bordered on both sides by skewed mud brick walls.  Even by shantytown standards this place was a complete and utter disaster.  The buildings were collections of mud bricks, oil cans, metal boxes and old furniture, all glued together by thick clots of congealed mud.  Just outside the neighborhood a slow trickle of filth slithered through a streambed that served as an open air sewer.  As I looked around I couldn’t help but think that this was a place where hope went to die.     

     As we pulled into an adjoining field curious children started coalescing in chattering groups, their eager eyes glittering in the fading light.  The second we dismounted the children started hopping around like little wind up toys, their excitement manifesting itself in curious half leaps.  Seeing their gleeful motions softened the image of the ruined neighborhood ever so slightly, at least until the smell hit us.  The security element set up their positions with rehearsed ease and we made our way into town.  As we approached the kids we passed out handfuls of candy to the older children and passed toys to the younger children.  As we passed out gifts we had to keep an eye on one another because the children would take our offerings with a smile, hide them in a fold of dirty clothing, and then move to the next soldier and act like they were left out.  Some of the younger children would plead for more candy… with one hand behind their back full of treats.  When we smiled and pointed at their “hidden” stash of candy they would just smile and act like they had no idea what we were pointing at.  The children were jubilant, but there was a very different dynamic at work here - behind the smiles there was a hard edged desperation.  I first noticed it when a 10 year old boy walked up holding a 4 year old boy.  He pushed his way to the front of the throng and then demanded “Mr…. Toy for Baby, Toy for Baby”.  I pulled out a stuffed animal and passed it to the young boy.  The little boy’s eyes just lit up and he clutched the toy tightly to his chest, but the older boy just turned in place and pushed his way back out of group without a word.  As soon as they were out of the throng the 10 year old put down the boy, took his stuffed animal and started running away.  The little boy was sitting in the dirt sobbing, so I stepped over and handed him another stuffed animal.  He recovered in an instant, the pained lines of his face smoothing into a gap tooth smile.  But as I went back to the clamoring group of kids I wondered how long it would be before the mercenary 10 year old stole this present too.   

     After we had passed out all the candy and gifts we started our patrol through the scarred neighborhood.  About halfway through the neighborhood we heard the clacking sound of hooves, and turned to watch several dozen mangy sheep run into one of the enclosed courtyards.  Following slowly behind was a middle aged sheep herder with his arms wrapped around a bleating sheep, tottering slightly as the animal shifted in his grip.  The sight of a man carrying a sheep like a sack of flour seemed utterly ridiculous, and as he passed with his ungainly load we tried to suppress nervous laughs.  The next time we ran into the gentleman it wouldn’t be laughs we were trying to suppress.       

     We continued our patrol through the neighborhood, and a few minutes later we doubled back to return to the vehicles.  As we were making our way back we turned a corner and stumbled into the sheepherder and his wayward sheep.  The dirt stained sheep was lying in the filthy street its throat spilling a thin trickle of blood into a pile of burnt trash.  The first thing I noticed was the absence of blood, the trickle coming from its neck couldn’t account for its current state.  Before I could figure out this nauseating puzzle the sheepherder bent over his charge, gave us an embarrassed smile and buried his mouth in a  deep cut in the sheep’s leg.  For a couple seconds my brain refused to process what I was witnessing, and then the sheepherder looked up again and smiled through crimson teeth.  The entire patrol stood there in horror; watching the sheepherder alternate between swallowing greedy mouthfuls of blood and slapping the sheeps stomach to force more of it out of the carcass.  Occasionally the man would smile and hold the leg up to me, as if he were offering me a great delicacy.  I managed to force a smile and politely decline, but after his third or fourth offer I decided we had better continue on with mission before I ran out of excuses.     

     As we were leaving the town we ran into a scrap of a child with a spine as bent as an archers bow.  His atrophied legs were crumpled beneath him in a wretched pile and he was lurching around on his calloused hands like something from a horror movie.  As he clambered over to our patrol we noticed his mother standing at a distance and we waved her over to find out what was going on.  Our interpreter talked with the mother for a moment and then told us the child had spinal bifida.  As we talked with the mother the child just sat there at our feet, looking up at us through vacant eyes.  It was a little unsettling standing there over him because he was in such wretched condition.  Back home disease is something foreign and unwelcome, something walled off in an antiseptic hospital room.  But out here there are no such barriers.  Here disease is a wraithlike predator endlessly consuming lives.   When you see these ailments up close and personal some small and bitter part of you just wants to flee.      

     The mother wanted to know if we could help her son,  and as much as we wanted to help there was little that we could do.  Once the interpreter conveyed the message she looked down for a long moment and then asked if we could spare any food or water.  As soon as she asked two of our soldiers walked to our HMMWVs and pulled out a dozen Halal Meals and a box of bottled water.  As she watched the soldiers unload the supplies she sat there in utter disbelief.  For a moment I though the woman was going to collapse, she stood there like a tree swaying in the wind, her lip trembling and eyes focused on the vehicles.  Then she recovered with a sudden start, and sped off towards her hovel.  She moved with amazing speed, pausing only to make sure the soldiers were still following her.  It was as if she thought our offering was a mirage that would fade from sight if she didn’t hurry.  The soldiers followed her with the heavy boxes in tow and in the rush everyone seemed to miss the little boy dragging himself through the rubble.  One of the troops heard him wail and immediately turned and walked towards the collapsed figure.  When he reached the boy he bent over and gently picked up the boy, as if he were picking up an infant.  Picking up that boy was one of the most compassionate acts I have seen here in Baghdad.   In that instant the soldier looked past the disease, past the disfigurement, past the smell of rot and waste and noticed only what truly mattered.  That the was a little boy who was scared and wanted to return to his mothers side.  As he carried the boy to his home he stopped sobbing and started humming a tune.  As they turned the corner to her home I could still hear him humming.     

     Once the supplies had been dropped off we started loading back into our vehicles, and prepping to return back to the FOB.  And then out of the darkness a little boy walked towards our vehicle holding his head in his hands.  Through my NVGs I could tell something was wrong with him and called over our medic, SPC Tiberius.  As Doc switched on his white light to examine the boy all I could see was black hair matted down with bright, wet blood.  Doc put on some gloves and started the treatment while the interpreter started to ask what had happened.  After talking with a few children the story finally came out – an older boy threw a rock at this kid because he wanted the soccer ball we had just given him.  By time we made it back with the story Doc had finished up his treatment and was explaining to the boy’s father when to administer the antibiotics he had placed in his hands.     

     As soon as the boy walked back to the village we started to load back up, but the frantic calls of a wailing mother stopped us once again.  As I dismounted I noticed a middle age woman frantically waving to get our attention.  I walked over with the interpreter and Doc to investigate what was going on.  The woman kept screeching and pointing at her daughters ear, and when Doc clicked on his flashlight it was all I could do to keep from jumping back.  The girl’s ear was a gray, festering mass of bacteria with a lacework pattern of infection leaking through a dozen poisoned veins.  The interpreter passed along that the girl had her ear pierced and the ear was infected.  Doc muttered “No kidding” and snapped a few pictures to take to the physicians on the FOB.  Then he passed her mother some antibiotics, spent several minutes explaining when to use them, and we slipped back into the night.  I wanted to ask SPC Tiberius if the girl was going to make it, but we still had a mission to conduct.  There would be time enough to think about everything later.   

Rolling with the Heavies

     Here in Iraq the M1 Abrams tank is the apex predator, even at rest its sleek lines convey a sense of lethal menace.  The M1 isn’t so much a vehicle as a rolling battleship, it’s massive belts of armor were designed to absorb or deflect direct hits from the main guns of enemy tanks.  There must be some parallel between the ballistic laws governing deflection and the laws of aerodynamics, because the M1’s low profile mirrors the shapely lines of an exotic sports car.     

     Being an light infantry officer doesn’t afford you many opportunities to work in conjunction with these mountains of steel, so when I had the opportunity to jump onboard an M1 heading out on patrol I seized the opportunity.  As the driver spools up the engine there is a low whistling whine and then a soft growling hum that seems to course through the tank.  You don’t really hear it as much as feel it, when the turbine is running you can literally feel the tank shiver with horsepower.   That is the first thing that surprises you about an M1, when the engine is running the Abrams practically bleeds power.  That sense of coiled intensity is no illusion, when the driver lurched the vehicle forward I was thrown against the rear of the hatch by the hard wave of acceleration.      

      There are two hatches on the top of an M1, one for the TC (tank commander) and one for the loader.  Since we would be patrolling with hatches open that meant we would spend the mission standing on our respective seats.. When you stand in that position your chest is about level with the thick armor roof of the Abrams, and your upper body is free to use the machine guns that festoon the turret.   As we loaded the weapons I felt like we were loading toy guns.  The machine guns weren’t any different from the weapons that adorn our HMMWVs, but next to the menacing profile of the main gun they looked like little more then an afterthought.      

     As the Abrams slipped into traffic the engine was finally free to unload its staggering might and the tank accelerated forward like a shot.  In a few seconds I could feel a stiff breeze cooling my face, and a few seconds later I noticed the Abrams was catching up to the civilian traffic.  The driver eased off the throttle and we continued forward at a steady trot, the vehicles ahead of us gunning their engines to avoid the ominous figure in their rear view mirror.  The second thing that surprises you about riding in an M1 is the butter smooth suspension.  When our HMMWVs drive down the roads the journey is usually a jarring, kidney rattling affair.  But in the Abrams all you feel is the steady throb of the engine curl up through your feet, the suspension just absorbs the uneven roads as if you were riding a polished piece of ice.      

    

We spent most of the morning patrolling one of most fearsome roads in sector without hearing a single shot.  For a few hours that contested piece of road was as quiet and still as a mountain lake, the insurgents knew that tangling with the Abrams was a sure path to the next life.  Standing there in the turret, surrounded by tons of thick armor I could understand why so many tankers are loathe to dismount their vehicles.  Inside those overpowered fortresses you don’t protect terrain – you dominate it.  The M1 leaves the insurgents utterly impotent; all they can do is crawl into a corner and wait for you to leave.  And that is the essence of power – defeating the enemy without ever firing a shot.

High Flying

     After spending the better part of a minute adjusting the straps on the four point harness I finally heard the last strap click into place.  I breathed a heavy sigh of relief and looked around the Blackhawk, taking a little comfort from the fact that I wasn’t the last one to clip in.  I don’t know why Blackhawk harnesses are so difficult to latch into, but I can’t remember a single instance where someone didn’t need the crew chief to help them buckle in.      As we were fumbling with our restraints the crew chief waited impatiently at the door, silently cursing our lack of manual dexterity.  After watching for about a minute he gave an exasperated grunt and latched the last soldier into his harness, then stood back up and inspected all of our restraints. Satisfied that none of his hapless charges were going to fall out he muttered something that was lost in the growl of propwash and slid behind one of the low slung machine guns in the front of the bird.      

     The moment the crew chief settled into position the dull howl of the engines started to ratchet up until it was a throbbing shriek.  The entire airframe seemed to bristle with power, as if the entire assembly were some great metallic predator ready to pounce.  For a long moment nothing seemed to happen, then the pilot made some imperceptible shift on the controls and our Blackhawk dutifully leapt into the sky.  Taking off in a military helicopter in a combat zone is nothing like taking off in a commercial airliner.  The raw power that seems to course through the entire assembly is literally awe inspiring, as we took off I could feel my back muscles flexing to adapt to the vertical acceleration.

       I had the good fortune of sitting in the seat closest to the yawning doors, which afforded a view that put most convertibles to shame.  As I sat there watching the earth retreat under my dangling feet I felt like I was reliving some half remembered dream – a dream where I could just up and fly away from our graceless FOB.  After a minute or two a sun bright flash caught my eye and choked me back to reality.  It took a second to understand just what was going on, but when a second micrometeorite shot past the door I realized the automated flare dispenser was throwing out anti-missile decoys.        

     The flight over Southern Baghdad was nothing short of spectacular.  From 500 feet in the air all the rot that clutters the streets seemed to melt into the background, and the settlements seemed to take on orderliness altogether absent from the ground.  The farmland was criss-crossed with canals, dull concrete bulwarks that seemed to triage the fields themselves.  On one side of a canal you might find the rich brown of tilled soil and just on the other side you might find dried pools of cracked and blistered mud.  There was no order and no pattern to their arrangement, they just were.  And through it all there was always the gentle curl of the Tigris in the background, reflecting the sun like a bright pane of shimmering glass.      

     I was so wrapped up in the flight I stopped keeping track of time.  It didn’t help that the only clue that time was still following its steady course was the occasional hiss of decoy flares shooting out of the Blackhawk.  And then all too soon the Blackhawk wheeled around and started heading back to the FOB.  The pilot feathered the bird in and we all jumped out and started walking back to our barracks.  I don’t think walking has ever seemed quite that slow.

Snapshots

If you watch how nature deals with adversity, continually renewing itself, you can't help but learn.      
                              -Bernie Siegal, MD     

     Central Baghdad itself is a dense knot of infrastructure – a place where grandiose homes adjoin crowded hives thick with humanity.  One of the only consistent theme you see in this area of Baghdad is the omnipresent litter.  Every street is lined with random pieces of junk, and every fence line flutters with chattering pieces of plastic and paper.  Some fences are so thick with the windblown flotsam they start to resemble lines of Tibetan prayer flags twisting in the wind.  The other unifying theme in central Baghdad is the jury rigged electrical lines that seem to tie together every building in a muhallah.  As you drive down one of the narrow alleys its hard not to think the entire muhallah is caught in some colossal, haphazard spider web.      
     Southern Baghdad is a world removed from the twisted maze of streets you find in the heart of the city.  For convenience sake you might call the area agricultural, but that description is like a broth with too little substance… it doesn’t provide any real flavor.  In some areas of Southern Baghdad you will find small suburbs where multistory homes sprout off of dusty main roads like unripened grapes on a vine.  Many of these homes squat in virtual compounds, only their upper floors peeking out over their outer walls.  It’s ironic but there is a inverse relationship between a building’s former opulence and its current state of decay.  Many of the larger homes are covered with scabs of peeling paint and crumbling masonry.  These homes stand all at once both proud and forlorn, as if they were some vain group of actors unable to comprehend that no amount of makeup will hide the march of time.      
     Although the population is centered on these small urban outposts, the vast majority of southern Baghdad is composed of vast tracts of farmland crisscrossed with hundreds of steep sided canals.  The canals are the very essence of the region - access to water is what differentiates the burnt and barren fields from the dull green pastures filled with growth and life.  Interspersed in these fields are broad patches of palms arranged in arrow straight rows.  The palms stand in their orderly rows like soldiers in formation, the clean precision of their lines broken only by squat mud brick homes hiding in the cool shade.  The mud brick homes that rest in the palm groves are identical to the drab and baked buildings that dot the landscape, but here under the palm trees’ they seem somehow different.  It is almost as if the long, graceful necks of the palm trees lend some dignity to what would otherwise be a spectacularly unimpressive home.     
     There is one other community that flourishes in the area, the shantytown. Shantytowns sprout like weeds in the oil soaked wasteland bordering the major expressways.  From the expressway these hardscrabble communities look like one long collection of roadside debris, but the scene is far different when you patrol through the area.  On foot the details velocity encrypts becomes accessible, and you can see that the jumbled string of forlorn homes are divided into distinct neighborhoods.  Each neighborhood clusters behind broken walls of mud brick and discarded material, like travelers huddled together for companionship in a foreign land.  The buildings themselves are ugly, utilitarian affairs that line narrow alleyways strewn with trash, but their brusque lines are softened by the throngs of laughing children. 
     Within a minute of arriving in one of the shantytown neighborhoods children will start showing up, waving and giggling at their strange visitors.  The braver children will approach and try to practice their English skills, which usually revolves around the phrase “Mr., Mr., Saddam is a dork”.  The people living in these ugly neighborhoods have few comforts, but in spite of their atrocious conditions the children here are the quickest to smile and wave at our patrols.  I just wish I could carry more candy out on patrol.   

Fallow Field

    While driving on patrol our HMMWV started getting sluggish and off balance, pulling to the side like a dazed prize fighter. We dismounted the vehicle and realized one of our tires had blown. Although the HMMWVs can drive on flat tires our patrol was just beginning, so rather then stumble along the roads we decided to change the tire right then and there. We set up a tight ring of perimeter security and started changing the tire. The area was relatively empty, save for a family that was busy making mud bricks on the side of the road.

    As we paused to take in the environs a middle aged woman noticed our arrival and started walking towards us, making a point of showing her hands were empty. I flashed a smile to put her at ease and then walked towards her to find out what it was she needed. As our paths crossed we exchanged greetings in Arabic and then settled down to the reason she needed out help. Through the use of some clever hand gestures the woman let us know that there was an artillery round sitting in her field, leaving them unable to plant the area. Could we help her she asked?

I collected up my security team, and we all dutifully followed her to the field to see just what it was she was talking about. As we climbed over the berm surrounding the field the smooth, deadly lines of the shell were all too obvious. The round was sitting in a shallow crater, as if it were some metallic seedpod blown in by some dark wind. Rather then wait around in the projectile’s kill zone we jumped back over the berm and returned to the vehicles to call up the EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) team. As soon as we called up the report the EOD team called back requesting coordinating information. “How big is it?” they asked. I responded back with a highly technical infantry term “It’s uh… very big”. Their next question boomed out over the speaker box “Roger, is it fused?”. Since I hadn’t approached the shell I answered back “I couldn’t tell from our position”, hoping that would be the end of it. I had no such luck, the next message that came out of the squawk box was the one message I didn’t want to hear “Understood, we will standby while you check for its fusing status”.

    With that sentence the die was cast, I would have to check the damn thing out from close range. As we approached the shell I had my security team get all the curious children off the berm for their safety, and then had them set up security positions outside the shell’s broad kill zone while I checked it out. As I stepped onto the field I could feel the plowed soil settle under my weight, each footstep settling into rich earth. As I made my way towards the shell it almost felt like the ground itself was holding onto my boot soles, warning me not to approach the damnable object. When I was a few meters away I made a mental snapshot of the round and then started making my way out of that cursed plot of land. As I stepped back over the berm one of the platoon sergeants, SSG Rock asked me why I didn’t take our resident artillery expert out to look at the round? I tried not to laugh at the utter absurdity of the situation, here I was trudging out to a field to look at something I knew nothing about when I had an expert less then a hundred meters away. I asked SSG Rock why he didn’t bring this to my attention a little earlier, and he flashed a quick smile and said “Because SPC Towers was changing the tire”. I sent SSG Rock to get SPC Towers to perform another analysis, and when he charged up we made our second trip into the kill zone. The second trip was easier then the first, my system was already flooded with adrenaline and I felt a little more secure having an expert with me. As we approached the round he confirmed my initial analysis and started making his way around the shell. As he walked around it he started smilig and laughing, catching his breath long enough to shout “It’s empty”. I moved to his position and peered into the casing. Sure enough, the round was little more then an empty American artillery shell.

    We all started laughing at that point, a deep shuddering kind of laugh that seemed to mock the tension that was clouding the air. We ensured there were no secondary devices or wires of any kind and noting their absence we lofted the empty shell and walked it back to the vehicles. As we walked back we were shadowed by a long train of Iraqi children dancing and jumping with glee, the Americans had triumphed over their local boogie man.  We put the empty round in the back of the truck and passed out some candy to the gleeful crowd of children, and then we mounted up. As we drove away we left the fear poisoned field renewed; now the local families could finally tend its fertile soil and provide for themselves. I hope they plant something nourishing.

Meltdown

  We are all in thrall to the fulgid patriarch that boils the summer sky. In Baghdad the sun claims dominion over all, there is no sector of the city that doesn’t bow before its scathing wrath. The sun is utterly pitiless; those foolish enough to shed tears in the blistering onslaught would find the drops evaporating before they hit the ground.
     The heat is manageable, even with body armor. Miserable, but manageable. The sheer force of the sun is another matter entirely. The rays burn down with such force that the palm groves here rain down boiling sap. And manmade structures fare much, much worse. Yesterday our patrol linked up with an armored task force and we fell in line behind some  M1 Abrams tanks. As soon as we settled in behind the tank we noticed it was leaving soot black impressions on the roads as it rolled by. It seemed like some massive stamp pad was leaving a breadcrumb trail of hundreds of jet impressions in perfectly symmetrical lines. It took us less then a minute to realize the superheated asphalt was literally melting the tanks rubber track pads. Boots suffer the same fate, if you stand in place too long you will often find the spongy roads have settled around your soles like so much boiling tar. I’m really starting to miss the rainy season... even if it does mean ankle deep mud.