365 and a Wakeup

Elections - Part IV

     A little after midnight my eyes crept open and filled with the cold, diamond light of a full moon.  I squinted hard against the liquid glow, but the light seemed to seep through my eyelids until I gave up my futile attempts at falling back asleep.  As I sat up I felt the dull cacophony of muscles shot through with lactic acid, and for a long moment I sat there on the edge of the cot waiting for the staccato aches to fade. 

     It seemed like every nerve was yearning for rest, but      I walked out of our temporary CP and moved out to the soldiers manning the weapons positions.  At each position I gripped the soldiers shoulder as I approached and then settled next to them to watch the area.  In those long minutes the silence of the desert night was broken only by the soft rustle of palm leaves.  No words were exchanged, because no words were needed.  Somehow I knew that just being there with them would convey my pride in their hard work more clearly then with burdensome words.     

     Later that morning I headed over to one of the classrooms serving as a makeshift barracks, and was greeted by Black Sheep’s toothy grin.  He whispered good morning, but after the long silence the words seemed to boom in the darkness.  I answered with a wheezing croak, my vocal cords rusted shut by long silence.  We laughed at each others clumsy vocalizations for a minute, and then we started talking about the elections that was now only a few hours away.     

     Black Sheep started to explain to me the different parties and platforms, and as usual his insight cut right to the heart of the matter.  There are literally hundreds of parties competing for the electorate, and though I had dozens of documents on the elections my actual knowledge on the candidates was woefully inadequate.  Black Sheep started to paint the picture of the leading parties and their platforms.     

     Each electoral party has a name along with a number, the number corresponding with their place on the ballot.  The first party that Black Sheep mentioned was the one whose election posters were splattered all over the town.  The party known as 618, was a Sunni Islamic Party who claimed their hands had not been sullied by corruption, hence their unofficial title of “the clean hands party”.  Their campaign slogan was “Iraq for the Iraqis” and their campaign pledge was to clean the country of terrorists.  The next party Black Sheep mentioned was the Unified Iraqi Coalition List, also known as 555.  This party was composed of Shia fundamentalists including Hakim and Sadrists, and their campaign seemed to revolve around their interpretation of Islamic law.  Allawi’s party was number 731, and though they were a Shia party they had a more secular focus.  Their campaign pledge was to support the Army, Police, and security forces, and to encourage freedom of religion.  The other big player in the elections was party 730, an alliance of Kurdish parties.  Their focus seemed to be on splitting Iraq into three distinct states under one national government, thereby maximizing Kurdish independence.     

     By time Black Sheep had finished explaining the different parties I glanced at my watch and realized that it was time to start packing up.  I moved to each of the key leaders and woke them up, and within a few minutes the night air was filled with the sound of methodical packing.  The empty hallways started to pulse with movement, as if some silent heart was pushing Soldiers and material through the concrete halls, and in less then an hour the only remnant of our time here were the handful of Soldiers still providing guard.  With our bags packed and our vehicles loaded we waited in small groups, clustered together for camaraderie more then for warmth.  Ever so slowly light started to fill the Eastern sky, and as it did we finished the last of our coordinations with the Iraqi forces.  To avoid any perceptions of American influence on the upcoming vote we would leave the election site completely.  Our mission these last few days was to set the conditions for a successful election, the elections themselves would be in the hands of the Iraqis.      

      Once we finished our coordinations we wished our comrades the best of luck, and then we started the long movement back to the FOB.  We stopped just outside the small town to link up with another of our platoons that would remain in overwatch on the off chance there were any attacks on the election site, and then we made our way along the empty streets.  As soon as we returned our exhausted troops started to prep their gear for the next mission, and having finished that they started to catch up on much needed rest.      

     By late morning I had finished catching up on the mountain of paperwork and reports that had stacked up on my desk, and I was ready to get back out of the wire.  While I was working my crew had managed to get a few hours of sleep, but their features were still whittled with the unmistakable edge of fatigue.  I wondered just how deeply fatigue had settled on my own face, but as soon as the thought crossed my mind I laughed at my own petty vanity.  I silently chided myself, then poured another cup of coffee and prepared to return to sector.

     The drive out to the election site seemed utterly surreal.  With the driving ban in place the highways had become enormous soccer fields.  As far as the eye could see there were children and teenagers playing soccer in the empty streets, and as we made our way into sector we had to dodge dozens of hastily arranged goalposts.  Eventually we linked up with the platoon in overwatch, and we spent the rest of the afternoon watching the slow pilgrimage of voters make their way into town to vote.  They came alone and in groups, and they seemed to pass by like a long, knotted rope.  There were doddering men in traditional robes, their stiff canes helping them along.  There were whole families moving into the town, the parents and grandparents walking steadily forward while their children revolved around them like hyperkinetic satellites.  There were young men dressed in acid wash jeans and leather jackets and women in burkhas walking side by side… all making their way to the election site.  As the afternoon came to a close and the election site closed we cautiously made our way back to the election site.  The town square was relatively empty, save for a few scattered groups talking outside the small shops.  We linked up with the POB troops to ensure the election was over, and once they confirmed the elections had ended we pulled back into a security posture on the site.  As we manned positions on the second floor the election workers were busy tallying the thousands of votes that had been cast.  By late evening the votes had all been tallied and loaded into the POB vehicles.  We gave a quick brief to the Iraqi drivers on how to react to enemy contact, and then surrounded them with our own armored vehicles for the drive to the district election center.  We slipped through the darkened streets of Southern Baghdad, weaving back and forth through the traffic barriers like a needle slipping shuttling through thread.  After a Byzantine series of loops and u-turns we finally arrived at the ballot collection site, and the Iraqi soldiers linked up with their headquarters element.  We said our last goodbyes to the Iraqi troops and then slipped back into the night

Elections-Part III

    Once the mermites were stacked away the Soldiers who weren’t manning positions settled into a satisfied torpor, and several rooms filled with soldiers sprawled out like vagrants. Security is far and away the most critical element in a defense, but that duty also shares the distinction of being one of the most onerous. The difficulty with pulling guard doesn’t stem from any physical exertion; in fact it’s quite the opposite. When you stand guard behind a fortified position your awareness collapses down into a single lonely arc. As the hours wear on focusing on the same narrow shard of earth starts to weary the eye and numb the brain. Although you won’t read it in any book there are thousands of techniques to wile away the time. The techniques are passed down from Soldier to Soldier, forming a oral tradition that a Zen monk would envy.

    But however apt the technique, over time it becomes increasingly difficult to remain focused and alert. An hour or two after the off shifts had settled into sleep I walked between positions to check up on the Soldiers. The moon glittered in the winter sky like a silver lantern, and it drenched the area with its cool light.  As I settled into each site there would be a short whispered exchange and then the troop on duty would point out the highlights of the last few hours. They would point out the houses with generators, and note how often the occupants would slip out their doors to refuel their growling engines. They would point out the packs of haggard canines, and point out their pack hierarchy as if they were safari guides describing mysterious denizen of the African plains. Each conversation was carried out in soft whispers, despite the fact that our positions were unmistakable. Our subtle conversations weren’t based on tactical necessity, they just seemed appropriate in the silvery light of a desert moon. After a few hours I returned to the pink classroom that served as our CP and settled into a restless sleep.

     The next morning announced its arrival with waves of burnt orange that seemed to crash against the horizon like waves breaking on a reef. The fiery light of dawn leeched into the Eastern sky like dye spreading in a still water, and eventually the colors condensed into the bright eye of morning. The soft light did little to improve the local aesthetics, the area around our position still seemed raw and unfinished. The one and two story homes in the vicinity were in various stages of decay, and they all shared the same general look of disrepair. The slipshod appearance had little to do with economic prospects, there were several glittering cars sitting outside some of the careworn buildings bearing testament to their owners financial acumen. There just seemed to be an unspoken agreement that the aesthetic qualities of a home were secondary to convenience.

     As the day wore on the driving ban went into effect, and as it did the streets started filling with laughing kids playing riotous games of soccer. The kids would carry out random pieces of garbage to serve as goals, select their teams, and start boisterous games back and forth along the empty asphalt. We conducted several dismounted patrols with the POB soldiers to secure the local area, but other then the children playing soccer the area seemed strangely vacant.

     The highlight of the morning was watching the antics of an midget donkey just outside our security perimeter.  Physically the donkey was a rather plain animal, standing a shade higher then a Great Dane. But it wasn’t the donkey’s small stature that attracted so much attention, it was the creatures ridiculous displays of territorialism. It didn’t matter what wandered into the little donkey’s patch of dusty earth – if it came into range the bitter little animal bared its ridiculously blunt teeth and charged like a Spanish bull. The little animal seemed to lack any real maliciousness, choosing to butt its victims instead of trampling them under it gangly hooves, but that just made its ridiculous attacks all the more amusing. Regardless of whether the victim was a chicken, a stray dog, or a small child the donkey’s tactics remained the same. As the prey approached the donkey would bow its head and act like it was grazing on the dead underbrush. As the target drew closer the little donkey would bend its knobby knees as if it were attempting a feeble imitation of a jungle cat. When the victim was in range the donkey would make an ungainly leap into the air and clumsily gallop towards its cross species rival. I can think of no less fearsome sight then a temperamental midget donkey, but somehow the little animal managed to ward off all rivals.

     By the afternoon the election officials arrived in a sputtering column of ancient cars and trucks. As they stepped out of their vehicles they nervously scanned the area, their heads craning about like a frightened herd of elk. As they took in their surroundings their gaze seemed to settle on the array of armored vehicles and weapons ringing the compound. Their eyes darted from vehicle to vehicle and from position to position, and as they did their nervous ticks dropped away like a winter coat. Emboldened by the unyielding forces deployed around them the election officials started to download equipment off the overburdened trucks. For almost an hour a steady stream of material spilled into the school, and when they were finished the lower floors were awash in cardboard boxes. The officials took a few moments to rest in the wide hallways, and for the next few minutes they splayed out across the haphazard array of cardboard. Eventually one of the lead officials got them all moving again, and the motley assortment of workers started setting up the polling site. I found it mildly ironic that the cardboard boxes were filled with… cardboard.  The officials took the folded sheets of cardboard and quickly slotted them together into individual polling booths. It was a little like watching a display of origami writ large, and it was repeated over and over until several classrooms were lined with cardboard booths the size of an Egyptian sarcophagi. It was strange to think that in these narrow boxes, little bigger then a child’s play fort, the next chapter in Iraq's history would unfold.

     After all the preparations were complete the election officials gathered into a small room and drank steaming cups of tea the rest of the afternoon.  The officials didn’t share any common uniform, they were dressed in a mixture of western and traditional garb. In fact the only evidence they were election officials were the laminated identification cards each official wore around their neck. If you squinted your eyes to blur the bright identification cards they could have passed for a random gathering of friends chatting about old times. As I watched them casually rest behind our curtain of security I had to smile, their lackadaisical posture was proof positive that our mission was succeeding. During the last two elections the election officials flatly refused to show up for fear of their lives, but now they were lounging around the election site without a care in the world.

     As the sun settled low in the sky I breathed a sigh of relief, our second day had passed without incident. All that was left was the big day…the day Iraq would become a true democracy.

Elections - Part II

        With the POB elements safely ensconced between our armored vehicles we began the movement to the election sites.  The movement was as short as it was uneventful, a testament to the professionalism of the anti-IED sweep by the Buffalo and its security detachment.  As we approached the first polling site our convoy started to transform with an almost organic grace.  In a matter of seconds our reed thin column started to form a dense knot of force, growing and swelling like an enormous, hollow fruit.  Just as the boundaries of this vicious wall of armor started to fill the dusty field the POB pulled into the middle of the swollen circlet.  As they pulled into the epicenter of our armored cocoon the chrysalis cracked and the formation folded into its next form.  The outer rings of vehicles peeled away, splintering into their overwatch positions.  What they left behind was a single wall of armored vehicles with the vulnerable POB serving as the kernel seed.  As soon as the last overwatch vehicle shuttled away our heavy doors swung open and troops pounded out, fanning out to secure the staging area.  Once all the overwatch positions were in place and the staging area was secure elements of the POB linked up with our Soldiers and started clearing the election site.  The radio hummed with clipped traffic as troops cleared through the classrooms and called up their reports, and in a handful of minutes the site had been secured. 

     With the sites secure our Soldiers started to stream into the enormous school and start the laborious process of turning a school into a fortified security position.  I spent a few minutes watching our NCOs position heavy weapons and set up the communication relays, and then I moved back to the powerful HEMMT wrecker.  Although the wrecker wasn’t a combat vehicle it was key to our long term survival, because it was the only vehicle capable of moving the concrete barriers into blocking positions.  I spent the next several hours leading the wrecker to our outer security positions to set up the concrete revetments.  As we approached each site the crew would dismount, affix the wrecker’s powerful crane to the concrete k-rail and deftly move it into position.  Although each concrete k-rail weighed several tons the practiced crews moved them like they were oversize children’s toys, easily slinging them into blocking positions.  By late morning the wrecker crew had finished setting the barriers into place, and from that moment on the area was no longer a school.  It was a fortress.

      With the outer perimeter in place I released the wrecker back to the FOB to assist other units and moved back to the school to check on our inner perimeter.  Our Soldiers had used their time wisely, by time I returned to the school the battle positions were hardened and the first guard rotation was scanning their perimeters.  I walked to each position to double check their work, and finding no fault I called over my terp and headed a few classrooms over to where the POB were staged.  Although showing up at the appointed hit time was a good indicator I was still uncertain about the tactical proficiency of the POB forces, and as I was walking over to their position I asked my terp, Black Sheep, for his take on our compatriots.

       Black Sheep is far and away the best terp in our Battalion, his tenure as an interpreter for combat units stretches back to the early days of OIF I.  More then a few terps flatly refused to work with our company because of the dangerous area we patrol, and several others have quit after surviving an IED strike.  But not Black Sheep.  Black Sheep has been through so many IEDs that even he has lost count, and yet he still happily jumps into my vehicle every time I head into sector.  After spending year after year working with American forces Black Sheep has gained an almost intuitive sense for what questions I am going to ask, and as soon as the question left my lips he was ready with an answer.  Black Sheep stopped in his tracks, turned to face me and said “most of this POB force just graduated basic training, but they are very excited to be here”.  With that in mind we walked over to the Lieutenant in charge of the POB forces and started integrating our security positions.

      After exchanging pleasantries the POB officer gave me a run down of his personnel and equipment and how he had initially arrayed his forces.  After he had given me the information I paused for a moment, waiting for the Iraqi LT to start his litany of supply requests.  The silence seemed to yawn out, and as it started to become awkward I turned to Black Sheep and asked why he wasn’t demanding equipment.  Black Sheep turned to me and said “I don’t know sir, let me ask”.  After a brief exchange Black Sheep turned to me and said “The LT has several shortages, but before he asks he wants to ensure his security positions are in the right location”.  I’m not sure what answer I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that one.  I silently chastised myself for being so jaded, and started towards the areas I wanted the Iraqis to occupy.  As we walked to the first set of positions I felt utterly bewildered, and for the first time I started to question some of my preconceptions about their tactical utility.  Once we were overlooking the area I wanted them to overwatch I explained my intent and asked the LT to show me where he planned to arrange his forces.  Once Black Sheep finished translating the LT looked around for a few seconds and then pointed out two positions.  The first location was tactically perfect, a commanding position with perfect views over the main avenues of approach.  The second was tactically sound, but slightly off my assessment of the best location.  His choices weren’t perfect, but they showed that he had a firm working knowledge of defensive positions.  I spent a few minutes coaching him on some of the nuances of defensive arrays, and why his forces in the second position would best be moved to another location.  The LT listened attentively and concurred with my assessment, and as we walked to the next position he barked out orders to his soldiers.  We walked from point to point, with the LT pointing out positions and asking for my assessment.  Most of his choices were well made, and when he made mistakes I quietly pointed out where he might want to set up instead.  Each time I offered a suggestion he readily agreed, and by time we moved to the second site he was choosing strong tactical positions.

      Once the Iraqis were busy setting in their own positions I headed to the pink walled classroom that was serving as my makeshift CP and started to settle in.  The headquarters element had done an impressive job, and I spent the next hour getting updates on events in the battalion sector.

       By time I was briefed up on the latest intel the dust started to dance across the tile floors in tune with the heavy throb of approaching tanks.  That could mean only one thing… dinner had arrived.  I headed over to one of the security positions and sure enough the tanks rolled in escorting a LMTV loaded with mermites (the insulated containers holding hot meals).  By time I clambered down the steps the 1LT Mo and 1SG Nascar had started unloading the mermites and arranging the chow line.  Setting in defensive positions is hard labor, and in seconds our troops started appearing to assist with downloading the vehicles.  I chatted with the XO and 1SG a few minutes and by time we wrapped up company business the chow line was up and running.  The XO and 1SG finished going over a few key items and then jumped back into the LMTV and prepared to head back to the FOB with the M1 escort. 

       Meanwhile SGT Bard and SPC Spartan were happily ladling out steaming scoops of rice and chicken onto long line of plastic plates.  The troops held out their plates like Buddhist monks seeking alms, until the plastic dishes looked like the steep sided slopes of a steaming volcano. After everyone was served I grabbed a plate and served myself.  The food was nothing spectacular, but it was hot and pleasantly satisfying.  Once we finished we started serving the Iraqi soldiers.  They seemed to have taken their cues from our Soldiers, and they happily piled their plates high with food.  The thoughtful DFAC crew had sent a mermite full of red jello, and watching the Iraqis poke and prod the wobbling scarlet cubes had me laughing outright.  Finally one of the Iraqis grabbed one of the cubes and popped it in his mouth.  As he chewed on the jello his grimace melted into a wide smile, and he quickly asked for more.  From then on every POB soldier giddily asked for large portions of jello to accompany their meal.  By time everyone was served there was still plenty of chicken and rice… but the jello had disappeared.

Elections - Part 1

     As our lead elements turned into sector I started to laugh at the absurd amount of military might rumbling into our AO.  Our normal patrols carry a fearsome amount of weaponry, but this was something altogether different.  The point element was composed entirely of M1 tanks and the impregnable Buffalo IED clearing vehicle, as they cleared the road ahead of us the resembled nothing more then the armored prow of an icebreaker.  Their appointed task was to keep a watchful eye for the insidious IEDs that seem to metastasize along our routes.  Their titanic weight and their powerful engines seemed to bleed through the asphalt in trembling crests, a microquake with the convoy at its epicenter.  They slowly moved out of sight, and eventually  even the sound of their titanic engines was subsumed in the low din of morning.

       A few minutes later our election day convoy moved out, a sinewy strip of armor and weaponry.   The armored flanks of our element glinted in the morning light, as bright and hard as the scales of a storybook dragon.  Our grim parade of vehicles were led out by the low, angry profile of M1 tanks,  whose slewing turrets whispered hymns of hydraulic force.  Following behind were a knot of M113s and armored HMMWVS, their irregular silhouettes studding the road like dull metallic beads.  Sandwiched in between our bellowing war machines was the lanky profile of a HEMMT wrecker, its lines still sleek and graceful despite the thick slabs of armor plating its sides.  It was an awesome spectacle, made all the more impressive by our mission.  This assemblage had only one purpose – secure an election site in one of the worst areas in Southern Baghdad.

       Our final destination was two nondescript schools sitting smack dab in the middle of our sector.  The Iraqi election officials had turned a blind eye towards the entire region during the last elections out of fear for their personal safety.  To ensure the citizens would have the opportunity to vote in this election we were assigned with the task of living on the polling sites in the run up to elections.

       But that of course, was our final destination.  Our first hurdle was to link up with the Iraqi Public Order Battalion that would live with us on the election sites.  As we pulled into the link up area I glanced at my watch and wondered aloud how long we would have to wait for the POB element to arrive.  This was our first time working with this specific POB element, but if they stayed true to experience I figured we would be waiting quite some time.  As the linkup time approached I noticed several HMMWVs speeding down the road followed by the POB’s white and blue chevy trucks.  As they stopped and linked up with our rear security I looked at my watch in disbelief… they had made the hit time!       As I glanced at the POB element sitting there in their standard issue 4 door light pickup trucks I almost laughed, they seemed to be a cross between a college road trip and a collection of Chinese acrobats.  It wasn’t the vehicles themselves; the trucks all shared the standard paint scheme of brilliant blue and gleaming white, and they are all crowned with the perennially flashing blue and red police light bar.   What made me want to break into laughter was the sheer amount of personnel and equipment they managed to cram into a single vehicle.  Each cab was crammed with six to seven POB soldiers huddled together as tightly as a coiled spring.  They were so tightly packed that when you looked into the cab you couldn’t identify individual occupants, it just seemed like a collection of limbs and heads were sprouting out of a crumpled pile of uniforms.  The beds of the trucks were equally overloaded.  In the middle of each POB truck bed you will usually find a 4 foot high weapons pedestal to mount an RPK machine gun.  The vehicles were so overloaded with vehicles and gear, all piled in one tottering mound, that the entire pedestal was buried.  As if that yawning height weren't enough several intrepid POB soldiers were clambering on the piles like strange mountaineers.  The majority of their bodies seemed to be hanging off the vehicle, but they managed to balance there in defiance of all known laws of gravity.   

    Despite their cluttered vehicles they looked excited and ready to move to the election center, and once we finished our link up we moved into town to secure the election site.

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.

Elections Part I of III

     Yesterday we settled into the naked concrete bosom of an Iraqi school destined to serve as the regional polling center.  Under the watchful eye of the moon soldiers slid like wraiths through the narrow hallways, combing through the grounds for the malignant signs of AIF activity.  Every inch of the school was carefully examined – and not just because of the role this compound would play in the election process.  Our methodical search was fueled by the siren call of self preservation, because for the next two days this small corner of Baghdad would be our home.

     Our temporary occupation of the abandoned school wasn’t part of the original plan, up until yesterday morning we were planning on doing little more then extending our patrols and serving as a ready response force for the Iraqi security elements occupying the site.  But for whatever reason the Iraqi commanders balked at the idea of occupying this dusty little compound alone – convinced that the AIF would surely mount an attack on the site.  When the Iraqi’s concerns made it to the ears of the soldiers it was met with a certain amount of masochistic pride, after all this was our sector.  I don’t think anybody faulted them for their trepidation, but it reinforced in many soldier’s minds just how difficult our area really is.  But the gentle smiles of self congratulations died on our lips when word came down that we would occupy the polling site for two days before the elections to supplement the Iraqi soldiers and policemen. 

     Of course by time we were conducting our careful sweeps all that drama was little more then a memory, we had more urgent things to concern ourselves with.  Like security.  Once the sweeps were completed our element split into prearranged sections, each section setting to work on their own specific tasking.  One element clambered onto the flat shelf that served as the school’s roof quickly setting up the weapons and observation gear that would provide an iron curtain of security.  As they made their way up the rickety steel ladder you could the sound of the steel groan under the weight of men and metal, but once they were on the roof their presence seemed to swallow all sound, becoming as silent as a tomb.  Another team started the laborious process of fortification, huddling together around an area of soft earth.  Their small group was bent low to the ground, slowly filling sandbags to the familiar, crunching sound of shovels biting into rough earth.  The last element spent the next hour shuttling from the LMTV to one of the vacant classrooms, arms laden with the food, water and equipment that would sustain us for our sojourn.  The Iraqi soldiers and policemen sharing this strange “home” spent the time settling in, watching our preparations with a mix of admiration and amusement. 

     In an hour the bulk of our work was complete, and the convoy that had escorted us to this empty corner of the world started their return to the FOB.  And we were alone.  Our area is predominantly agricultural, and as the sound of engines faded into the horizon everything setted into the deep and abiding silence you can only find among open plains.  On any extended operation security duties are rotated between personnel, and with our preparations completed the soldiers off rotation settled into a fitful sleep. 

     The new day started unfurling long before the sun broke the horizon, marking its arrival with the scattered sounds of waking hours.  Somewhere in the distance generators coughed to life, followed by the soothing sound of water being pumped into parched fields.  Scattered guard dogs greeted the mechanical croaks with a chorus of yelps and howls – and this combined din greeted the new dawn.  As the sun cracked the horizon both these sounds were eclipsed by the high, thin cry that seemed to leap across the open fields.  The shrill call came from a tall metal tripod, on which balanced three enormous loudspeakers.  This haphazard assembly served as the graceless minaret for the local mosque and what it lacked in sublime detail it made up for in sheer sonic intensity.  There was little grace to the peal emanating from those speakers, stripped of all vocal subtleties by the harsh crackle of the speaker system.  Yet even through the distortion the sound was thick with imagery. It was as if the vibrations pouring through the air were imprinting images on our minds, each as unfamiliar and harsh as the open heart of the desert.   

     After a few minutes the voice cut off as suddenly as it had started, and for a few minutes everything returned to the quiet sounds of morning.  A few minutes later the silence peeled back once again, only this time the sound cutting through the air was the familiar throbbing hum of approaching tanks.  As I stretched out in the morning sun I smiled… the sound of the approaching tanks was as welcome and soothing as a lovers coo.  It wasn’t the additional security that sent a wave of good cheer through my stiff joints – it was what I knew would surely accompany those frightful leviathans.  Hot food. 

     In the simple world of the Infantry there are few things that inspire as much exuberance as a hot meal in the field.  I can’t quite explain the physiological mechanics behind the stomachs influence over the will, but just the sight of hot food being delivered to the field is enough to raise morale a thousand fold.  The tanks rolled up to our humble little fortress, followed in turn by the armored hull of an LMTV laden with food. Before the vehicle even rolled to a halt several grateful hands were reaching into the cargo bay to unlash the precious containers.  The chow line was set up with the kind of haste usually reserved for combat, unfolding in a blur frenetic motion. It seemed for a moment like some mythical desert jinn’s had snapped his fingers and brought a steaming feast into existence out of thin air.  Granted our breakfast was no feast - but it was hot.  And it filled our empty stomachs.  And standing there in the brittle light of morning I couldn’t help feeling blessed.  It’s funny how, in the absence of all other comforts, the little things can start to mean so much. 

Preparation

     If I could somehow transport you to our sector of Baghdad, you might think you place amidst a bustling fortress preparing for war.  Soldiers, both Iraq and American, man battlements as fell as any you might expect between two great armies.  Long rows of armor and armaments shimmer with the reflected glory of the sun.  Tall revetments of implacable concrete cradle the weathered brick of small municipal buildings.    Mazes of serpentine barriers dams the smooth flow of traffic. And snaking coils of concertia wire weave their dagger sharp webs between buildings.

     These concentric rings of security aren't in place to protect some vast trasure trove of gold and jewels.  They aren't set in place to protect some legendary figure.  If you peeled back layer upon layer of men and material you would find something surprising at the core.  You would find utterly nondescript brick buildings, weathered by the harsh caress of winter winds and the crackling torch of the summer sun.  It isn't the buildings themselves that our long labors so jealously guard, it is the germinal seed that will grow from each of these buildings.  Because for one day these buildings will be elevated above their course and low station and husband the rarest, and most fleeting of treasures.  Hope.

     In America elections are heralded by stump speeches, cryptic statistical analyses, and relentless media coverage.  And yet despite the enormous cost in time and treasure less than half the voters find the time to exercise their sacred duty as citizens.  Perhaps we are too comfortably swaddled in our insensate social womb to be bothered with something so trivial as the exercise of our democratic freedoms.  Or perhaps after 200 years we've just grown numb to how fragile our freedoms are.  Fortunately our collective disregard for voting isn't something we've passed to the Iraqi people. 

     Unlike our own elections there were few concerns with apathy, our sole concern was for the safety of the voters.  Democracy is new to the area, and like anything new in this world it needs protection.  If hundreds of people gathered together to cast their ballots, only to die at the hands of an AIF VBIED any good that could come out of the election would carry a very bitter aftertaste.  To prevent that catastrophe we spent countless hours setting up the type of fortifications you might expect around a medieval castle.

     I won't bore you with the details of the Herculean task our soldiers and Iraqi contractors assumed, that is a story best left to those with a deep and abiding interest in military engineering.  What I will say is that few, if any, Iraqi citizens had any concern for the safety of the polling centers when we were finished.