365 and a Wakeup

Heros

“Good men must die, but death can not kill their names.”

           - Anonymous Proverb

     Our battalion suffered terrible blows this past week, leaving me vainly grasping for words to describe the magnitude of our loss. In a handful of days we lost four great men, COL William Wood, CPT Michael Mackinnon, CPT Ray Hill, and SPC Shakere Guy. When I chronicle the ebb and flow of our days here in Iraq the words usually tumble out on their own accord, flowing from some burbling spring buried deep in my heart. But that spring lies dormant, and the words that do appear seem little more then an echo of the clear, and perfect memory I have of these great and noble men. I will never be able to express the cauldron of fire we pass through each and every day, and because I can’t even give real insight into our reality I fear that anything I might say about our fallen heroes will be an injustice to their memory. I will do my best to snatch my thoughts from the ether, but I know I will fail. To understand just how deep our loss really is you would have to know these beautiful, noble men yourself. And that won’t happen in this lifetime.

     COL Wood was the commander of the Nightstalkers. He was a man who’s stern features seemed chiseled out of granite, but his strength and conviction eclipsed even that adamantine material. He was a man who led from the front, never asking his soldiers to carry out an action he wasn’t willing to perform himself. His steady hand and firm conviction guided the battalion, and his wisdom and far sight were unparalleled.

     CPT Michael Mackinnon was my company commander, and my dear friend. Mike was a man of enormous talent - he could have done anything he wanted to in this world. But Mike didn’t seek money or fame. He wanted to serve his nation with valor, courage and distinction... and he did that better then any man I have known.  Mike was our leader, and his legacy will live on in the hearts of every soldier in his command. I was honored to serve as his deputy, and blessed to be able to call him my friend.

CPT Ray Hill was an artilleryman by trade, looking back it seems almost ironic that a man with such an enormous love for his fellow man was responsible for the largest cannons in the battalion. I have known Ray for over five years, and I can’t remember ever seeing him without a broad grin on his face. The Iraqi people couldn’t have hoped to find a truer friend then CPT Hill. He believed in the intrinsic worth of the individual and deeply cared about the welfare of the Iraqis. He never ventured outside the wire without a bevy of presents and candy for the local children.

     SPC Shakere Guy didn’t have to come on this deployment – he volunteered to deploy with our battalion because he had the heart of a lion. SPC Guy was a Jamaican immigrant, but he personified all that is great about America. He was a M1 Abrams crewman, but he willingly gave up his beloved tank in order to deploy with our battalion. His heart never strayed from those armored giants and he spoke of them often, but he was as able an infantryman as you could ever hope to meet.  SPC Guy had a ferocious appetite for learning, and his razor sharp mind and natural ability ensured he mastered whatever skill he set his mind to.

     In the face of so stunning a loss it is natural for the soul to grow weary, and for the mind to wail for that which has been so violently ripped away. It would be the easiest of things to let my heart turn as cold as death and let it pump my veins with frigid and poisonous ice. But that would dishonor the memory of our fallen, and would be an unfitting tribute to men who had given the last full measure of devotion. Instead I will do something far more difficult; I will continue onward and complete our unfinished work. There will come a day when I will weep bitter tears for my fallen comrades and friends, but right now there is much to be done. And it is up to those of us who knew these wonderful men to see it through to the end.

 

Operation Clean Sweep

     Our day started long before the sun creased the horizon, in the quiet stillness of a Baghdad morning our barracks awoke and slowly snapped the shadowy bonds of sleep.  The dark narrow hallways sparked to life under the dull artificial glow of fluorescent bulbs, and under those pale lights soldiers started their final preparations for Operation Clean Sweep. In those first few minutes the atmosphere seemed to swell and heave with the nervous anticipation unique to large combat operations. There is no analogue for the naked rush of endorphins that presages these operations, they flood your system and keen your spirit until both carry a fine and bright edge.

     Everything had already been prepared and checked the evening prior, but NCOs still flashed back and forth between their soldier’s rooms to double check weapons and equipment. As they completed the last of their inspections troops started filing out of the barracks, and with their departure the sense of purpose and drive seemed to leech out of the atmosphere. As SSG Spite, my Fire Support NCO and I left the barracks I felt an intangible light click out behind us. The cord was cut, for the first time since taking command I was leading the soldiers of Killer Company into harms way.

     When I arrived at the airfield the platoons were already formed in their chalks and preparing for the arrival of the Blackhawk helicopters. This would be an unusually large air assault; six different airframes were dedicated towards transporting the company to our blocking positions. Soldiers banded together in their chalks, some reviewing the mission, others sipping steaming cups of coffee from Styrofoam cups, and others just retelling their favorite joke for the 10^th or 11^th time.

     The plan was briefed, the soldiers were prepared, and the equipment stood ready… all that was left was the actual execution. A few minutes after we completed staging for the air assault the voice of my tank platoon leader filtered over the tinny headphone, giving us a confirmation that his tanks were inbound to the link up point. I sent acknowledgement back over the net, relayed the mission to Battalion and then said a silent prayer. The die was cast. Operation Clean Sweep had started.

     The first hint that the Blackhawks were arriving was the dull thump of the Apache helicopters providing escort, their rotor whipping through the air with the angry buzz peculiar to those angular flying tanks. As they passed overhead soldiers tightened their gear one last time, lofted their weapons and prepared to load the helicopters. A few seconds later a string of dark pearls coalesced out of the morning sky, accompanied by the familiar bass of their powerful engines. The points of black shadow came from the east, their spry silhouettes backlit by the fiery birth of another day. As they approached their forms settled into familiar shapes, and the rumble of their engines became a roar. As soon as each bird touched down the soldiers assigned to that specific chalk started approaching those cavernous doors. By time the last bird had settled into the pillar of sand it whipped up the first Blackhawk had been loaded.

     I watched Southern Baghdad slip by, every detail clear and sharp in the glimmer of a new morning. For a moment the air almost seemed preternaturally clear, as if I were looking into a fresh spring and seeing the stony bottom magnified through a watery lens. Scattered home flitted by, and then stands of old date palms clustered together like old friends. Everything looked clear and bright… and beautiful. But before I became too entranced with the scenery I reminded myself that all too often in this world exterior beauty hides malicious and ugly things. And with that rejoinder I refocused on just how lethal the area we were flying into really was.      Inside the Blackhawk soldiers were busily snapping their four point harnesses over their body armor, each soldier giving their NCO a thumbs up or scowling wink to confirm they were locked in. Once everyone was strapped in the Blackhawk started to spool up to full power, and second later we were cutting through the cool air of morning on a column of growling thunder. As I looked out the gaping doors I watched

     Five seconds after we landed in a vacant field that lesson was hammered back into my skull by a crushing blast wave that spilled over our landing site like a phantom wave. My first thought was that our landing zone was under mortar attack, but when I turned to look at the blast site all I could see was the black deaths head of a mushroom cloud burn a path into the sky. The molten cloud was too large to be indirect fire but I still wasn’t sure what had caused it. I traced the boiling black trunk to its root and suddenly realized two things. The first was that the explosion was on a road. The second was that one of my platoons was headed directly into the maelstrom.

     By time 1LT Eve answered my radio call he was approaching the site of the blast, and when he did arrive his voice was bleached out by the supersonic crack of rifle fire. The IED we had witnessed launched an ambush, and before the blast wave had even hit us several insurgents were raking the ground convoy with their AK-47s. They were answered with a hellstorm of fire from the Iraqi Army and Nightstalkers alike. As the armored fist of the Battalion pinned down the AIF, elements from Killer Company secured the IED site and started evacuating the wounded. At some point the AIF attack blunted and broke, and those that were able slunk away like wretched curs.

     About the 1LT Eves platoon arrived at the seat of the blast, elements from the other line platoons moved into their final blocking positions, effectively sealing the entire region for Operation Clean Sweep. As I ran up to the blocking position I heard the hushed scream of the M1 Abrams platoon attached to my company. The enormous, angular bodies of the tanks seemed to cut through the fields like predators on the hunt. As they approached the link up point they peeled off one by one and moved into their planned blocking positions. As they arrived on the company line they seemed to transform the blocking positions into something altogether different by their presence alone. As I looked down my lines I was surprised how much the tanks looked like hulking parapets on a castle wall.

     Back on the IED site soldiers were securing the area and treating the wounded expertly wielding their hard won skills. The medevac helicopter settled down within minutes to start evacuating the wounded, and as it did the entire region was swallowed in a manmade sandstorm. Once the medevac choppers left the scene the air cleared, and by time I finished checking the blocking positions the air had already cleared. Once again I am going to refrain from describing the actual IED site, suffice it to say it was difficult to witness. The vehicle that had been hit was towing a trailer piled high with pencils, school notebooks, dates, backpacks and all types of school supplies. When I arrived they were scattered across a large swath, as if some freighter had run aground and spilled its cargo over a broken shore.  Rather then see the material go to waste I motioned over the Iraqi Army troops, telling them to take all that they could carry on their vehicles. They eagerly complied, and within a few minutes the trailer and environs had been stripped bare. With that work complete I left the recovery team to their work,   and started back to 1LT Eve’s platoon. The platoon was set up in defensive positions in support of the recovery and had the situation well in hand, so I returned back to the rest of the company. A couple hundred meters away from our position the Nightstalker Battalion and the Iraqi Public Order Brigade were conducting methodical sweeps through this AIF plagued region. Occasionally AIF elements would try to flee the approaching tide of men and material, but when they tried they just stumbled into Killer Company. We spent most of the morning playing the anvil to the Battalion’s great hammer. The AIF remained between the two, and those that chose to fight… lost.

     Late in the morning 1LT Irish, one of my platoon leaders, called over the net and reported he was taking enemy fire. From his hasty sitrep it appeared a collection of AIF elements were firing at the platoon from the shadowy recesses of a date palm grove. The weapons fire was wildly inaccurate, but the AIF element was set too far into the palm grove to visually identify. All I needed to do was glance at SSG Spite and cock an eyebrow, we had worked together long enough to fluidly understand each others thoughts. Sure enough SSG Spite called up the Apache element in aerial overwatch giving them the grid coordinates of the enemy fire and pushing them down to the platoon radio frequency for direct coordination. The next sound we heard was the long booming crackle of the Apaches making a gun run on the hidden element. Before the sound even finished echoing there was the angry roar of an Infantry platoon laying down thick carpets of fire. The sonic scenario repeated itself a second time, the booming blast of the Apache’s cannon followed by the focused wrath of an Infantry platoon opening fire. On the third run the sound of cannon fire was eclipsed by an sound that cut through the sky like a sharpened blade… a sound followed by an thunderous blossom of shrieking air. And then there was silence.

     Once the din had faded 1LT Irish gave me a quick update. Once the Apaches started their gun runs on the AIF elements the surviving elements opened fire at the armored dragonflies pinwheeling over their heads. The muzzle blasts of the AK47s firing into the sky was enough to provide a target, and once the Apaches had competed each gun run the platoon unleashed a torrent of fire on the AIF position.  After each pass the number of muzzle blasts diminished, but by the third pass it was obvious to the Apaches that the AIF elements were dug in.  The blossom of acrid fire that resulted was the aftermath of a Hellfire missile burning into the AIF position. After the blast my platoon stopped firing… there was no point dumping rounds into a smoking crater.

     The rest of the mission progressed smoothly, the silence of Southern Baghdad broken by spurts of gunfire and the occasional AIF rocket launch. By noon the sound of gunfire finally faded. Once the Iraqi and American forces had completed their sweeps my platoons started gathering onto their respective Pickup Zones (PZs) with the M1 tanks providing overwatch. As the Blackhawks shuttled in each element threw a smoke grenade to mark the landing site, and before the smoke settled we were loaded up and heading back to the FOB.

     As we landed back at the FOB I said a silent prayer of thanks, and then started moving back to the company. There was still work to be done.

The Line Holds Steady

     During one of our Battalion’s memorial ceremonies COL Wood quoted a passage that described our last few days with perfect clarity.  The line that has echoed in my mind these last few days is this: "Soldiers have fallen, but the line holds steady".        

     The day we lost our commanders was the longest day of my life.  Once we had completed our grim work on scene we lined up the recovery and security vehicles and started the movement back to the FOB.  As our convoy approached the FOB 1LT Moth called us over the company net and requested we immediately report to the company CP.  As the words rolled over the net I felt naked tendrils of anger swell as if molten fingers of lava were coursing through my body.  The message didn’t fan the glowing embers of rage smoldering in my chest, it was a perfectly legitimate request.  What infuriated me was the thought that our follow on movement to the CASH to check on CPT Mackinnon, SGT Bard, SPC Sol, and SPC Spartan might somehow be stalled.            As we rolled into the gate the patrol leader guided the other vehicles to the refueling point, and my vehicle broke formation and sped towards the CP.  I dismounted the HMMWV before it had even rolled to a stop and marched into the command post.  I used each footfall as a thumping mantra, focusing on purging the useless fury infecting my thoughts. 

     As soon as I walked in our CP the anger clicked off and my hot blood congealed into pure ice.  Standing in front of me was MAJ Ursa, the Battalion Operations Officer, and the look on his face carried a grave solemnity that seemed to chill the entire room.  MAJ Ursa walked over to me, looked me in the eye and said “We lost Mike”.  Up until that very second I had assumed CPT Mackinnon would be fine, holding on to the childish notion that the hero in every good story would somehow live happily ever after.  I felt hot tears start to burn the corners of my eyes, and struggled to keep them from betraying my anguish.  What stopped my tears from falling wasn’t my own resilience, it was the sudden realization that there was still much work to be done. 

     We had caught several suspected insurgents at the IED site, and we still had wounded soldiers in the CASH and both situations needed to be addressed before there would be time to mourn.  In those first few empty minutes duty took the place of will, and eventually my grief was stayed by the gravity of our follow on tasks.      Once the detainees were turned over to the detainment facility I took one of the HMMWVs and sped to the CASH to check on our soldiers.  As we were walking into the CASH we ran into SPC Sol outside the main entrance smoking a cigarette.  We rushed up to greet him and he dutifully pulled up his pant leg to display the ugly crease a sliver of shrapnel had carved in his leg.  We joked around for a few minutes and then let him get back to his room to get some well deserved rest.     

     As we entered the CASH we stopped at the front desk to find out where our troops were located, but the desk was vacant.  As I waited for the attendant to arrive I started to look around the waiting room.  The entire room was immaculate, the drab uniformity of the walls brightened by cheery Halloween cards and posters.  For a second I had to look back at SSG Spite and remind myself I was still in Iraq – the sense of order and cleanliness was utterly bewildering.  As the minutes slipped by I walked over to one of the Halloween posters.  There splashed in a scarlet, bleeding font were the words “Halloween Party – 1800 at the XXXX pool”.  I can’t describe the bitterness that simple line dredged up.  There has always been a yawning gulf between the bleeding edge of the battlefield and the relative luxury of the rear areas – but after everything we had witnessed today that chasm seemed especially hateful.  In that instant I knew I could no longer wait at this cheery desk, with its carefree invitations and smiling Halloween monsters.  This was not my world, my world was a land of real monsters, and dirt, and death.  I wanted nothing to do with this rear echelon oasis.     

     I grabbed SSG Spite and we moved upstairs to find our troops on our own.   After a few minutes one of the nurses took pity on the dirty bedraggled soldiers roaming the halls and guided us over to SPC Spartans room.  When we walked into his room we found him laying down in one of the hospital beds, looking as bright and hopeful as always.  His short term memory was still a little disorganized, and he laughed at his inability to remember how many times soldiers had stopped by to visit.  We laughed and carried on for a few minutes and then let SPC Spartan get some rest.  As we left we returned to the nursing station to find out other injured soldier, only to find he had already been released back to the FOB. 

     We jumped back in our HMMWV and made our way back to the rest of the convoy, and once we had linked up we all rolled back to our FOB together.      By time I walked back into our CP it was well into morning, but the entire company leadership was still awake waiting for our return.  Around the simple mapboard that serves as an makeshift table sat 1SG Nascar, 1LT Mo, 1LT Irish, 1LT Eve, SSG Rock, SSG Moose, and SSG Longboard.  As I looked at these men I recognized the same pain burning in my chest was reflected in their eyes – and in that moment we were brothers in grief.  I couldn’t have asked for kinder company then this battle worn family, our lives bound together by bonds of both joy and pain.  We talked for a few minutes and then I sent everyone off to get some rest.  As they filtered out of the CP I walked back to my room and spent the rest of the morning staring at the ceiling, my mind adrift in dark currents.  I felt like a feckless boat seeking refuge from a gathering storm, but there was no safe harbor that morning.  Eventually the sun leeched into the sky and I walked back into the CP.     

      By then a message had come down from the BN TOC, both myself and the 1SG would have to report the Fallen Hero’s room for a Battalion meeting.  I walked into the latrines to clean up and was startled by the lined faced gazing back from the mirror.  After a quick shave I looked a little better, but my reflection still looked as aged and worn as an old grindstone.       The morning slid by, as some mornings tend to do, and looking back I can’t seem to remember much of what happened in that span of hours.  Eventually lunchtime arrived and I joined the 1SG in the Fallen Heroes room.  The entire battalion leadership was there around the assembled tables, and after a few minutes the Brigade Commander, COL Cor arrived.  His face looked drawn and fatigued, but there was also a strength there that I had never before seen.  He talked to us for a few minutes, and though I don’t remember his exact words they seemed to sing in a way that only true words can.  Then he turned towards where me and the 1SG were sitting and officially appointed me the new company commander of A Company.  The moment those words rang out the fog that had settled on my thoughts seemed to burn away. 

      In that instant I lost the right to dwell in darkness… because to do so would only destroy what Mike worked so hard to build.   The sense of loss remained, as it ever will, but now I had a duty that eclipsed my own personal welfare.  With the subject of A Company resolved the Brigade Commander introduced our new Battalion Commander, LTC K. Our new commander talked to us for a few minutes, and laid out the future course of our battalion.  He seemed to grasp the enormity of our task, and his confident words were proof enough to me that we were in good hands.  By time his words trailed off I knew that the line would hold steady indeed. 

Backscatter

     After night has finished gnawing away the last, feeble scraps of daylight our area is reborn in darkness. Twilight provides a stark reminder of the architectural gulf between central Baghdad and  its southern provinces. Central Baghdad hovers in the cold glow of an artificial dawn, the true night held at bay by countless legions of fluorescent lights. In this light Baghdad seems proud and aloof - an island of light in an ocean of shadow.

     Our realm lies submerged in that great oceanic darkness, an inkstain flecked with prickles of lonely light. In this jet landscape the only color is the burnt orange of sodium lights, flickering like the campfires of a ancient army. 

     Driving in central Baghdad is relatively simple - the collective backscatter of a hundred thousand naked bulbs pulls away the curtains of night. Since the area is already thick with light most HMMWVs think nothing of flipping on their service lights and adding to the photonic din. But in the unsteady darkness of southern Baghdad headlights are a dangerous liability. Their powerful light stabs through the night like a blade, their sheer force drawing every waking eye. To avoid this photonic betrayal our HMMWVs move through the night sheathed in darkness – roaring nocturnal predators hurtling through the gloom.

     If we relied on our own naked eyes our mission wouldn’t last long - we would end up blindly hurtling off into one of the deep agricultural canals. Fortunately our success isn’t contingent on our own eyes, built as they are for the light and warmth of day. Instead we rely on our trusty night vision goggles (NVGs). The minutes leading up to our night patrols are marked by the spring loaded click of NVGs mating to Kevlar helmets. In their stand by configuration they seem to erupt out of the front of our helmets like a great misshapen horn. When we leave the wire these ungainly protuberances drop down and lock into place, eyecups nestled against your eye soft plastic leeches. In this configuration the upright horn seems to jut out from your face like a long thermoplastic eye stalk. These cyclopean sights incessantly tug at your trapezius muscles, but in exchange for their nagging weight they peel away the cloak of night, and reveal the darkness in her naked splendor. The emerald images the NVGs splash across our retinas allow us to move like wraiths across the silent moonscape, dodging and weaving through the murk.

     Despite the visual enhancement driving in blackout remains a pulse quickening ordeal. To get a flavor of just how difficult the process really is grab a toilet paper tube, and lash it to your eye. Then tape your other lid shut and get behind the wheel. You will quickly get a sense of just how challenging night driving can really be. And that isn’t even taking into account craters large enough to swallow a HMMWV, the specter of newly emplaced IEDs, and the throat clogging clouds of dust. Our vehicle crews have long since mastered this silent art, but it never seems to get any easier. But then again nothing here seems to be all that easy. 

Best of...

     As many of you already know Blackfive is collecting postings from several milblogs to compile into a book published by Simon and Schuster.  I have agreed to contribute to the project, but I need a little help from my readers.  Once I hit the publish button I don't reread through my postings, so I can't say with any authority which ones are worth submitting.  If you've read through my electonic scribblings please take a second and post a reply telling me which one (or ones) you want to see in print.  The deadline is looming, so speed is of the essence.

Autumn Memories

It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life. 

                       - P.D. James

     Tonight silvery clouds skipped across the sky, thick gossamer curtains that blotted the cold light of the moon.  I stood on the roof of our barracks for the better part of an hour just watching the night wind chase them through the high atmosphere.  In the grip of those ceaseless currents of air they would scatter like children playing a game of hide and seek, only to reform minutes later into billowing sheets of pearlescent light.  The last time I remember seeing clouds was months ago.  During the arclight days of summer the sun refused to share his high kingdom with any usurpers. 

     The breeze lazily shuffling past was crisp and cool, like a bite into an unripened apple.  When the wind flickered past I could feel the air greedily bleeding away my body heat, but I stood rooted in place.  Because when I looked up at that jigsaw sky, endlessly reforming itself in some chaotic ballet, I could almost fool myself into thinking I was home. 

     Standing there lost in memory I started to hear the skeletal scrape of leaves bouncing along the driveway.  For a second I caught a familiar scent on the wind, the smoky tang of seasoned wood crackling on a fire.  That phantom smell was enough to soften the cold lines of the FOB, and the next breath I took pushed me even farther into memory.  For a few minutes I wasn’t on a forlorn roof…  I was home.  I could see the flickering incandescesence of a fireplace dance on my wife’s face.  I could hear her voice, as pure as a claret and as bright as the searing embers in the fire.  I don’t know how long I remained absorbed in thought - dreams and memories follow their own meandering path through time.  Eventually I heard the rooftop door groan heavily on its dried hinges, the tortured sound pulling me back across the long miles.  Back across the oceans of sand, and it scattered islands of pain and strife.  Back across the fierce shoals of vehicles and weapons that ring our encampment.  Until I was once again standing on an ugly roof.  In Baghdad.  Alone.

Justice

True peace is not merely the absence of tension: it is the presence of justice.

                          - Martin Luther King Jr.

     On the very edge of our FOB is a dilapidated trailer that looks for all the world like it was cast here by some merciless storm.  The trailer drunkenly cants several degrees off of center, like a shipwreck forever hung on a shelf of rock.  To add to the entropic illusion a battered blue tarp stretches from one of its mangled corners to create a barren patch of shade net to the trailer.

     In that small wreck of a building several Iraqi entrepreneurs gather to sell their wares to American soldiers. Six days a week they can be found huddled in the trailers selling the gaudy trinkets that they try to pass of as memorabilia.  One wall of the trailer is adorned with faded movie posters, bubbled and wrinkled by the summer heat.  Another is covered with commemorative OIF III prayer rugs embroidered with unit patches.  One corner of the trailer is filled with Hookah pipes clustered together like octopi, smoking pipes sprouting out of glass bodies like thin tentacles.  The last corner is filled with the leather 9mm holsters favored by those who never leave the FOB. 

     On most days the Iraqi’s shuffle around the trailer haggling over prices, or casually chatting with their customers. But today they were huddled almost out of sight, transfixed by a small television set teetering on a stack of cardboard boxes.  It was a little odd to see them all bunched together instead of pacing back and forth behind their display cases, but I figured they were watching some new DVD and started flipping through their merchandise.  As I thumbing through some of their black market DVDs I casually looked over at them and almost took a step back in surprise.  What caught my attention wasn’t their clothing, they were still garbed in a mish mash of Western clothing and Dishkas.  What was different was their eyes, they seemed to glow with feral enthusiasm.  It was strange to see their chubby middle aged features etched with so much grim enthusiasm, and for a second it seemed to me I wasn’t looking at a group of shopkeepers.  Instead it seemed like I was gazing at a pack of hungry predators enchanted by the images moving across the screen.  As I watched them one of the shopkeepers snapped out of his trance and stood up, bellowing in laughter and heatedly pointing at the screen.  I looked through the gap he had created to see what they were watching so intently… and then in a flash everything made sense.  Because when I looked through their little gathering the face I saw staring back at me from the screen was none other then Saddam Hussein.  The shopkeepers weren’t watching a movie - they were watching history. 

     I caught one of the shopkeepers attention long enough to make my purchase, and he quickly made the sale, looking over his shoulder the whole time.  As much as I wanted to stay and gauge their reaction, it somehow didn’t seem right.  This was their moment of triumph, a trial most of them thought they would never live to see.  So instead of intruding I shuffled out of their little trailer and made my way back to the barracks.  As I was walking away I heard a string of Arabic curses and smiled.  Justice was finally coming to Iraq. 

Life

Bitter are the tears of a child: Sweeten them.
Deep are the thoughts of a child: Quiet them.
Sharp is the grief of a child: Take it from him.
Soft is the heart of a child: Do not harden it.

- Pamela Glenconner

     Last night a grain of hot metal tumbled through the air, a swift manmade meteor crashing through the heavens. The statistical chances of this solitary round impacting one the scattered buildings was negligible, and the chances of it actually injuring someone were almost infinitesimal.  But in stark defiance to all known laws of probability, this small sliver of dead steel plummeted downward, downward, downward… until its path intersected a house. And then it continued on, tunneling its way into a little girl sitting down for the celebration of Ishtar. The round smashed into the girls head, its sheer velocity driving it on a merciless path through her neck and into her chest. Left alone she would have died in less than five minutes, her death throes painting the kitchen with bright spatters of arterial blood.

But she wasn’t left alone. Instead her father picked up his beloved daughter and carried her trembling form out into the dusty street. As he stumbled outside the door, blinded by the agony only a parent can know, his movements were tracked by two sets of practiced eyes. Those eyes belonged to our two battle seasoned medics, who had heard the painful cacophony and leapt to action as surely as if someone had bellowed out their names. The medics assessed the situation in less then a second, and then without pause they both set out at a dead sprint. In those first terrible seconds they recognized how grave the girls condition was, and passing the information to one of our platoon sergeants. While they struggled to stabilize their patient the little girl continued emptying her precious life into the street. As the medics labored under the harsh light of their LED flashlights, SSG Rock was making coordinations with a MEDEVAC helicopter for immediate pickup. Fortunately they didn’t have to wait long.

     Mala survived long enough to make it onto the medevac bird, and then she left our protectorship. When the helicopter whisked her away at full combat power she disappeared from sight, but not from our memory. The minute we arrived back in the barracks the commander jumped on the line and made a call to the CASH (Army Combat Hospital) to find out if Mala was still alive. The nurse on the other end of the line told him that Mala was in surgery, and that we could call back at midnight to find out if she’d survived the surgery. The last couple days had wore us to the bone, but instead of succumbing to sleep the company leadership waited for the time to crawl by. The evening quietly slipped by, the small coffee pot set up in our command post straining to keep up with this sudden spike in demand. The coffee was hot and nourishing, but it did little to lift the tension that fogged the room. A little before midnight, unable to wait any longer we made a second call to the CASH. In a cool, professional tone the nurse on duty told us that Mala was in ICU. Something about our tone must have hinted at the storm of emotion on our end of the line, and taking pity she added “she is going to make it”. As the news spread though the barracks everyone breathed a deep sigh of relief. Then, with our concern slaked we all crawled into our bunks to get some desperately needed rest.

     The next morning brought even better news. The bullet had broken her jaw and nicked her carotid artery, but despite the agonizing injuries she was awake and alert. Hearing this news we decided that instead of our usual patrol we would return to Mala’s home and escort her family to the CASH. Although it was still early in the morning when we arrived at the small home Mala’s extended family told us her parents were already making their way to the CASH to see their daughter. We loaded into HMMWVs and made our way to the IZ, hoping to link up with Mala and her family. As we entered the hospital there was no sign of the family, but when we got to the ICU ward we found Mala’s family anxiously waiting for her in the hallway. They were as silent and grave as marble statues. That all changed the moment they recognized us. In an instant they had returned to life, and they started to shower us with blessings and tear filled praise. We looked around sheepishly, uncomfortable with this sudden outpouring of praise. A few of the soldiers looked through the ICU door to see Mala for themselves, seeing instead her father anxiously signaling for us to join him. We walked over to Mala’s father, and as we did Mala came into sight in the hospital bed behind him. She was awake, and as we walked up she gave us a tired, thin smile. We had brought some stuffed animals along to cheer up the antiseptic sterility of the room, and her eyes flared with joy when we placed them at the foot of her bed. As we were arranging the stuffed animals SGT James T., the medic that had worked so hard to save little Mala, came into the room. Although the young sergeant was making an earnest attempt to maintain some semblance of medical detachment he beamed like a new father at the birth of his first child. Mala didn’t recognize him, but he wasn’t looking for praise or thanks. He just wanted to know that his little patient would survive her terrible wounds. We didn’t want to tire out Mala by extending our stay, and once we were convinced she was going to make it we left the room. We said our goodbyes to the grateful family, made our way to the vehicles, and returned to the FOB.

     Ten years from now our unit will have long since passed out of local memory, the desert swallowing any physical trace of our year in the Land of the Two Rivers.  But there will be one living, beating heart that will bear testament to our company’s mission and the good we tried to do.  And right now that somehow seems enough. 

Election Day - Part III of III

     With dawn still several hours away the first stirrings of life appeared, the new day heralded by the collective groan of tired soldiers pushing aside dusty poncho liners.  For most it had been a brief and quite unsatisfying sleep, more of a nap then anything approaching slumber.  But the shared experience of suffering has a power all its own, and rather then roll over and get more rest our element moaned and bitched its way to wakefulness.  After a few minutes the wry jokes settled into a dull murmur and we started packing our vehicles with the small mountain of equipment we had shuttled out with us.  A few soldier collected up out trash, collecting it in a small mound that they burned to ash.  By time they were finished all that was left as evidence of our brief occupation was a large pile of bottled water we left for the Iraqi police and soldiers. 

     Having finished our haphazard packing (if you have ever seen an Infantry unit pack a vehicle in the dark you might suddenly understand why everything is over-engineered) we rotated the security elements and waited for dawn.  The election officials were supposed to arrival shortly after dawn, and as the sun climbed ever higher in the sky I started to wonder if they were going to arrive at all. The poll opening hour was rapidly approaching when a small white sedan plastered with election placards snapped around a corner.  As the Iraqi soldiers checked the election vehicle our security elements pulled of station and we started mounting our vehicles.  The poll workers were all men in their late 20’s, neatly dressed in slacks and collared shirts, and as they approached they greeted us with wide smiles and warm English greetings.  As the election officials started unloading the boxes of election material I walked over to my Iraqi security counterparts and once again gave them solemn assurances that we would not abandon them.  I’m not sure if the bright, clear air of morning burned away their anxieties or if our lengthy conversations the night before had bolstered their confidence, but I sensed some subtle change in demeanor.  As I turned away I was confident these men would give the last full measure to ensure the election went smoothly.

     We separated into two separate elements and took up stations several hundred meters from the election site.  As the polls opened a steady trickle of Iraqi citizens made their way towards the election site.  Since all vehicle traffic had been shut down to prevent VBIEDs they came on foot, crossing the fields, weaving through the palm groves, and loping down the vacant streets.  They came in small smiling groups, and when they noticed us in overwatch they waved with wide, open smiles.  There was no common feature that tied together these meandering groups other then their common destination. Some were dressed in the traditional Dishka as if they were conjured out of some ancient Arabian fable.  Other were dressed in neat western style clothing that wouldn’t have looked out of place in any American business.  And still others came out in jean, sandals and gaudy American t-shirts.  Grandfathers walked with sons.  Mothers came with children in tow.  Friends came in chattering groups brimming with bravado. 

     That was how we spent our morning, watching a steady stream of Iraqis wave as they walked to the polling center, and then smile and hold up their ink stained thumbs as they returned.  The entire area swimmed with motion as Iraqis came from kilometers away to cast their vote.  As the sun reached its burning apex one of the Iraqi soldiers ran over with a grave look on his face.  He spilled a torrent of words, urgently motioning for me to follow him.  I took a small detachment to the outer perimeter, a wall of concrete barriers a couple hundred meters from the polling site and was met with an anxious group of Iraqi soldiers.  As I walked over there I expected I would have to listen to pleas for additional ice, or some other creature comfort.  What they had to say took me by surprise, and I felt embarrassed at my callous guessing game.  The reason they had called me over was to express concerns that one of the election officials was trying to sway the voters in the polling center.  As they laid out their case their eyes burned with passion and their voices trembled with emotion.  It was only then, seeing these soldiers aflame with a desire to have a free and fair election, that I truly understood how committed these men were to their fledgling democracy.  I had one of the Iraqi policeman collect up the election supervisor and the poll worker in question and as they arrived the soldiers let loose a heated verbal salvo.  I motioned for them to stop for a moment, and as they lapsed into silence I explained to the supervisor how critical it was to remain impartial.  The poll worker lowered his head in an obvious expression of shame, and the supervisor promised to keep a close eye on his staff.  They walked back to the election building, and the soldiers seemed convinced that my impromptu civics lesson would cow the passionate poll worker into a semblance of impartiality.

     As the afternoon heat flared I started seeing groups walk away with the water bottles we had left with the soldiers, and I walked over to the perimeter to see if everything was alright.  They told me that they had plenty of water, and that they wanted to share it with the people who were walking great distances in order to vote.  All of these soldiers were Shia, and all of the voters were Sunni, but that didn’t matter to them.  For on this day sectarian concerns faded away like the morning mist, and all the Iraqi soldiers could see was Iraqi citizens in need of a cool drink.  For the second time in the day I was impressed and slightly humbled by these soldiers I had been so concerned with the prior evening.

     The afternoon was no different from the morning, and voters continued to make their way to the polling site in spite of the oppressive heat.  In our small position soldiers took turns on the heavy weapons scanning for threat that never materialized.  And then it was over.  The election officials packed the ballots into their small sedan and piled into it like it was a circus clown car.  As they left the site we pulled out of our overwatch positions and reassembled on the election site.  As I stepped out of my HMMWV I noticed an Iraqi soldier carefully cutting down the election banner.  I snapped a picture of him holding up the banner and then watched him carefully folded the banner.  Once he had done so he walked over and placed it in my hands saying “take, take – thank you for you protecting

Iraq

democracy”.  His tongue stuttered on some of the unfamiliar consonants, but his message carried so much weight I almost staggered backwards.  His words washed away all the miseries we had suffered over the last few days, replacing it with a deep sense of pride at what my men had helped accomplish.

     As we waited for the armored vehicles to pick up the Iraqi soldiers the atmosphere burned with the a sense of joy that is hard to express in words.  American soldiers wrapped their arms around Iraqi soldiers and mugged for pictures.  Iraqi soldiers let their American counterparts take pictures holding their AK-47s.  One of the younger soldiers danced an clumsy jig in the empty street, flanked by Iraqi soldiers dancing to a tune only they could hear.  Even the hardest of our NCOs had to crack a smile at this strange pageant.

     A few minutes later the vehicles arrived and the Iraqi soldiers happily piled on.  Our vehicles settled into formation and we started back towards the link up site where we would meet the rest of our company. 

     At our link up site the rest of our comany was busy packing the last of their gear into their waiting vehicles, all traces of fatigue eclipsed by the tantalizing thought of returning to the FOB.  The deliberate packing that had been slowly occurring all afternoon suddenly ended, replaced with an avalanche of boxes and bags hurriedly stuffed into the cargo bays of waiting M1114s.  Finally, with all the material loaded into the overfilled HMMWVs the clamshells doors over the cargo bays creaked shut, and the soldiers scurried back to the sheltered alcoves of the main building. 

     The scattered conversations were suddenly muted by the sharp, angry bark of automatic weapons fire.  The flat, ugly crack of AK-47 fire creased the night air, as if some monstrous rattlesnake had been stirred to wrath.  But once the initial shock wore off most of the troops continued with their conversations, for all its fury this frenzied burst of gunfire was too far away to pose any kind of threat.  As the firing was dying down one of the SPC Spartan heard a soft hiss, so gentle and short it seemed like an auditory phantom.  He paused in mid sentence, trying to get a bearing on the sound, but the night had swallowed the noise.  On the other side of the building SSG Rock heard the same sound, followed in turn by another, and yet another.  The sounds were so brief, and so silent they barely reached the threshold of hearing.  They were fragile unformed sounds plucked from the air before they were ripe – amounting to little more then a few sighs of air too weak to influence anything of substance.

     As our soldier finished their preparations to leave, a small Iraqi family a few houses away was settling around their dinner table to share Iftar.  Iftar isn’t just a dinner, it is the meal that breaks the daily fast required during the month of Ramadan.  If you have ever gone without food or water for a day you have an idea of the joy, gratitude and kinship this single meal can bring rushing to the surface.  Midway through dinner a stranger arrived, heralded by the same muffled hiss that had caught our soldier’s attention.  It was the sound of a plunging bullet.

     Far, far from this little table someone had raised their rifle into the air, switched the selector switch onto fire, and pulled the trigger.  Whether their fire was celebratory, an angry warning, or a shot fired in anger we will never know.  All we do know is that those deadly, arrow tipped rounds were suddenly rammed down the barrel of an AK-47 by the explosive expansion of propellant, and finding themselves in the open air they soared into the night sky.  As the rounds clawed their way towards the black star stained vault their momentum was bled away by the relentless tug of gravity, until they reached their bitter apogee and the implacable force jealously bent them earthward.  As they hurdled back towards the ground they picked up some of their initial velocity, whipping through the air with deadly force. As the rounds crashed to earth they left soft hisses in their wake, as if the air in their wake was mysteriously transformed into a ghostly serpent.  This gentle hiss was the sound that had caught the attention of a few of the soldiers, only to be shrugged off as some auditory hallucination. 

     The bulk of the rounds vanished into oblivion, the only trace of their existence the soft rustles of twisted air.  But one solitary round left a more lasting memory - arcing down in an evil trajectory that brought it crashing down onto a roof.  This simple, shoddy roof, designed to deflect little more then a mild winter storm, instantly yielded to the brute force of this fated projectile.  And this is how a stranger arrived at this small celebration of Iftar… a stranger that tore into the happy, beaming face of a 10 year old girl.

     A ghastly scream tore through the darkness, a ghastly, painful cry plumbed from the very depths of a mother’s heart.  That shriek of terror and loss seemed to hang in the air for several seconds, only to be replaced with the hysterical sobs of the girl’s family.  All conversations came to an instantaneous halt, and in those terrible seconds security teams scanned the area for the origin of this calamitous, heart wrenching sound.  And then one of the sentries cried out “Medic”.  Our two combat medics had already grabbed their gear, and the second they heard the cry they lept into action.  As they ran out front they instantly spotted the anguished father carrying his bleeding daughter outside into the street and sprinted over. 

     The father placed his daughter down, entrusted his daughter to our medics, and as he rose he revealed a shirt stained with bright, hot blood.  The girl was dying right in front of them, her lifeblood pouring into the dusty street.  Sizing up the enormity of their task SGT James T shouted out “Medevac” and one of the Platoon Sergeants started making coordinations over the net. 

     As this was all unfolding our convoy was steadily making its way toward the link up site.  As we approached we received an order to halt in place, and the radios crackled out an ominous message “we need the medevac site clear”.  Any residual joy we might have felt bled away in the next heartbeat, and every soldier wondered just what the hell was going on a couple of hundred meters away. 

     The medics worked feverishly to stabilize the little girl, but her lifeless body was pumping out blood at a hideous rate.  Their skilled hands worked feverishly to keep her crumpled body from pouring out any more blood, and in the next few minutes they managed to stabilize her frail form.  This ghastly tableau was suddenly interrupted by the powerful growl of a Blackhawk helicopter on a crash descent.  The rotors kicked up a tornado of dust as the bird settled down, and the medics used their own bodies to shield their patient from the sand blast.  The second the medevac helicopter hit the ground the medics and the flight nurse picked up her tiny frame and loaded her into the chopper, and just as quickly as it had arrived it left.  Leaving behind a tortured family, a shocked platoon, and two brave and blood stained medics standing next to a pool of scarlet.

     After a long pause the soldiers shook off their momentary daze, and started to load into the vehicles – we still had to link up and make our way back to the FOB.  Our convoy got the clearance to move, and we made our way to the rotor scoured asphalt that had just served as a medevac site.  The rest of the company finished loading into their vehicles and we started back to the FOB in one long, silent convoy.  Our joy was tempered by the cruel twist of fate we had just witnessed, but not the pride.  That still burned bright.  I imagine it will for quite some time.

Election Day - Part II of III

     As luck would have it our tidy little breakfast was the high point in the day.  As the morning wore on the temperature started to creep ever higher.  Although the temperature didn’t reach the crushing heights of summer it was hot enough to turn our armor into miniature saunas, complete with helmets that seemed to drip sweat like leaky faucets.

     As the hours ticked by the steady hum of everyday life seemed to swell and grow until the entire area was alive with sound.  The one exception to this gathering tide of noise was our small little enclave.  Within the walls of our compound the only noises that seemed to break the silence was the occasional rush of static that preceded radio transmissions, and random snippets of quiet conversations unconsciously amplified by emotion.  It was as if our compound was mired in watery silence, every sound rippling through the air like a stone thrown into a still pond.  The silence wasn’t the result of any verbal order, it was the natural outgrowth of years of training for environments where sound draws a straight and deadly line between success and compromise.

     A little after noon the sound was broken by the amplified shout of one of our sentries, electronically magnified a hundred fold as it passed through a powerful loudspeaker.  Experience trumped fatigue, and before I could make a conscious decision on the best course of action I found myself out front underneath the security position.  The security team on the roof snapped out the distance and the direction to the disturbance.  I pulled out my binoculars and scanned for the threat.  Before I could even focus the aperture I could see exactly what had caused the sentries so much alarm.  What came into focus was a large group of Iraqis; men, women, and children – all armed with sticks and farm implements.  That in and of itself wasn’t to unusual – what brought it into the realm of the ordinary was the crumpled, bloody forms lying at their feet.  The entire group was paralyzed, staring up at our position in utter shock.  But hot blood carries a power that isn’t easily sated, and seconds later the group turned on each other in a murderous frenzy.  The ugly, grating sound of pain and fury filled the air, and I turned around to shout out an order to alert the QRF.  The words died on my lips because as I turned I realized the entire QRF was already assembled and waiting for guidance.  Once I passed along the little I did know they shot off at a dead sprint towards the bloodthirsty mob.  The sight of armored and heavily armed soldiers rushing toward their position quelled their naked aggression, and the closer the soldiers came the stiller they seemed to become. 

     By time they arrived the group had settled into a jittery, confused mass of people.  Through my binoculars I could see our soldiers segregating the two groups like policeman separating two warring gangs, and this final action seemed to lull them back into something approaching normalcy.  Our interpreter ordered the angry farmers back to their homes, and the medics patched up the handful of locals that had been bloodied in the fray.  When the element returned to the compound they gave me the details my binoculars were unable to unearth.  Apparently the field we were overwatching was shared by three families, and through ancient custom each of these families agreed to rotate the trickle of irrigation water that was pumped out of a nearby canal.  What had started the altercation was one family’s blanket refusal to obey this binding clause, resulting in an unequal distribution of water to the adjoining properties.  The other families tried to force the obstinate farmer to obey this ancient custom, and when words failed the farmers and their families turned on one another.  Water may seem like a ridiculous thing to shed blood for, but to a desert farmer water life personified, the dividing line between prosperity and despair. 

     Fortunately the rest of the day went on without any further blood feuds.  As the sun started sinking in the western sky I walked over to our Iraqi counterparts to coordinate for our actions the following morning.  I patiently explained to the Iraqis that the following morning, the day of the election, we would be pulling away from the polling site in order to avoid any influence on the voting process.  My words were met with looks of abject horror – I didn’t need the interpreter to tell me that the Iraqis didn’t like that idea.  The entire group seemed to erupt with nervous energy that seemed to verge on genuine panic, and after a few seconds the interpreter turned to me and said “Sir, they are saying they will leave the site if you pull out tomorrow morning”.  I spent the next hour appealing to their sense of duty, and the sacred trust they would be breaking by abandoning their sworn duty but my pleas fell on deaf ears.  They remained resolute, if we followed our orders and left the voting area they would leave with us.

     In the face of their stubborn refusal I switched tactics, trying to get a better understanding of the genesis of their gnawing anxiety.  I started by segregating the Iraqi police and the Iraqi soldiers and talking to each group in turn.  The soldiers explained to me that several miles south of where we were standing their element had been ambushed in a coordinated AIF attack.  I had heard about the battle weeks before, but seeing the anguished look on their faces brought it to sudden, terrible life.  As the soldiers weaved their tale my translator dutifully passed along the story.  On a lonely road a dozen miles away their element had been suddenly ambushed by a large, heavily armed force.  The furious attack shattered their column, and as they regrouped they found themselves pinned down behind their burning vehicles with little ammunition and even less hope.  At that point in the story all the soldiers paused, and then made a curious gesture I will never forget.  They turned their eyes towards the heavens, kissed their clenched fist, whispered a single English word and then moved their hands skyward as if their motion would somehow cast the word into God’s ears.  The word they whispered out was “Apache”.  Their reverent gesture was imbued with the deep reverence you rarely find outside the battlefield, a mix of awe, admiration, and blessing. Because what saved them from annihilation that day wasn’t superb tactics or their own organic firepower – it was the arrival of American gunships.  Once the Apaches arrived on station the die was cast and the battle won, because there are few forces on earth that can withstand the withering firepower these flying tanks can bring to bear.  The gunships cut down the AIF forces like winter wheat, gouging the earth with thunderous cannon fire.  The AIF brave enough or dumb enough, because there is a razor thin line between the two, to stay and fight died in place. 

     When they finished the story the soldiers were visibly moved, and I could feel the weight of their tension as if it were a crushing weight on my own shoulders.  I looked at the soldiers and told him that although we couldn’t stand side by side with them we would be less then a heartbeat away.  And if there was a battle to be fought we would stand side by side with them and bring the collective fury of the United States Infantry to bear on their enemies.  As the translator passed along my words they visibly relaxed, and sensing their relief I pressed home my argument, adding that the same Apaches that had defended their forces would be flying overhead all day.  At that the soldiers seemed somehow restored, and their eyes seemed to regain the spark that up until now had been extinguished.  I explained to them how vital this election would be to their future, and the future of their children - but the words were unnecessary.  Their fear was replaced by the fierce pride of a battle tested soldier, and seeing their resolve I started over to the Iraqi policeman.

    The Iraqi police were still visibly agitated, and as I approached their small group their commander stepped forward to express his concerns.  He went through a litany of woes, mentioning his lack of familiarity with the area, his lack of heavy weapons, and the enormous threat he felt was lurking around every corner.  After listening to his chain of reasoning I realized that his concerns were the complete inverse of the soldiers.  The soldiers fear was that of the battle scarred veteran, the fear that flickered in this man’s heart blossomed from lack of exposure.  Having never faced the full weight of combat this police officer feared not only the specter of battle, but how he would respond to it.  I spent the better part of an hour giving him an impromptu pep talk, but when I finished I could still see doubt etched in deep lines on his face.  I explained in painful detail how my forces would remain nearby, ready to pounce on any enemy activity, but he still seemed unmoved.  Finally, utterly exhausted by the entire ordeal, I realized just what I needed to do to convince this man.  I reached out, held both of his forearms in my grip and looked him in the eye saying “My mission is to ensure the safety of this election site, but I cannot stay here and run the risk of even accidentally swaying this vote.  But I will not let you fail, because if you fail then I will have failed”.  I’m not sure if it was my words or if it was my use of Arabic social custom, but he finally seemed committed to staying on site.  I breathed a sigh of relief and walked back to our haphazard little command post.  I collapsed next to the radio, weary beyond words, and volunteered to man the radio so SSG Spite could get some rest. I felt utterly drained but that didn’t really matter – I knew I wouldn’t be getting that much sleep anyway.  A few hours later I finally did manage to get some rest, waking up in the deep shadows that presage dawn.  It was a new day… election day.