365 and a Wakeup

New Set of Wheels

     During our last patrol through the shantytowns a young mother waited patiently outside the bustling throng of children hopping back and forth between our vehicles. I don’t remember seeing her arrive, she just suddenly appeared on the outskirts of the roiling flock of children. In that sea of motion she stood as still and resolute as a obsidian tower, her black burkha providing a mute contrast to the gaudy kaleidoscope of children’s clothing. She was clutching a toddler tightly to her chest, and I reflexively assumed she was trying to secure some candy for her child.  I watched her for a moment and sensed that she was too proper to approach and ask for treats. I made a mental note to hand her some candy once the throng had died down, and put a few pieces of candy into my pocket to pass to her later. Then I turned my attention back to the happy shrieks of the children vying for our attention, and finished passing out the remaining supplies

     Once our vehicles were stripped of humanitarian supplies the children started to settle down, happily splitting off to try to wheedle more candy from their favorite soldier. As the children filtered off I got my first good look at the young boy she held to her chest. And it was only then that I realized she hadn’t come here to ask for candy.

     The young boy was clearly suffering from a congenital birth defect - he looked as frail as spun glass. His slender, atrophied limbs seemed to hang off his little body like limp banners, and his oversized head rested on his mother’s chest as if he needed help supporting its bulk. As I approached I greeted the sad eyed mother, and then bit the inside of my mouth and waited for her to ask me for the medical help I knew I couldn’t provide. The mother spent several minutes explaining her sons medical condition, and then asked the question that I knew was coming - “You have helped fix some children – can you help my son?”. I already knew the answer, but to avoid appearing callous I called my medic over and asked him if there was anything we could do for the boy. He took one look at the crumpled waif of a child and then said “Sir, we couldn’t help him even if we were in the States”. I turned back to the mother and explained to her that her sons condition was beyond our ability to help. Once my terp had conveyed the message she gave a small smile, and thanked me for trying to help.  Then she turned away and made her way back to her tiny home.

     The memory of that wisp of a boy stayed with me, and after a few days I asked SSG Spite if he could think of anything we might be able to do for the family. SSG Spite said that he would see what he could do and then disappeared for the rest of the day. The following day I knocked on SSG Spite’s door and when I walked in I almost dropped my coffee mug in shock. There sat SSG Spite quietly cleaning his weapon… sitting in a wheelchair. SSG Spite seemed to sense my agitation without even turning around and after a pregnant pause he said “Don’t worry sir, I’m fine. The wheelchair is for the kid”. Then he turned around, gave me a sly grin and said “But I had you worried, didn’t I?”. We laughed for a few minutes and then SSG Spite said “If I didn’t feel sorry for the kid I’d keep the wheelchair – this is the best seat in the barracks”.

      The next morning we loaded up our HMMWVs with small Iraqi flags, candy, and a bulky wheelchair and set out for shantytown to bring SSG Spite’s favorite chair to the little boy. As our combat patrol came to a close we turned onto the long, dusty road leading to Shantytown to drop off our supplies. The entire town seemed to flood into the alleys to greet us, and in a few minutes we were swimming in a sea of smiling faces. As we passed each mudbrick compound the head of the household would anxiously flag us down and offer their advice on how to catch the AIF, and we spent long minutes trying to politely bring each conversation to a close. Several of our soldiers were passing out small Iraqi flags and toys to the children yammering around our legs, and in a few minutes our procession through the alley ground to a halt under the sheer numbers of children vying for a small flag. Usually the children are fixated on candy or toys, but not today. Today the big ticket item was Iraqi flags. As we passed out dozens of the little flags the kids seemed sated, and the alleys started to clear. We continued towards the house followed by a phalanx of children happily waving their flags. When I looked back at this strange procession I almost felt like I was watching a miniature parade - the kids were laughing and waving their flags as proudly as drum majors.

     After the better part of an hour we arrived at the right house, and I rapped my knuckles on the tin gate to announce our arrival. I peeked over the gate to make sure we had the right house and noticed the little boy sitting in the dirt watching his mother prepare a meal. The mother must not have heard us knock, because she turned and looked surprised to see our kevlars peeking over her front gate. She recovered quickly and greeted us warmly, opening her gate and inviting us to come in for chai tea. We politely declined, but asked her to take her son and follow us to our vehicle. She looked a little confused at our request, but dutifully picked up her son and followed us to the HMMWV. When we arrived SGT Bard opened one of the doors and pulled and tugged until the wheelchair slid through the armored door. I wish I could describe the womans face when we gently picked up her son and placed him in the wheelchair - but there are some emotions words cannot hope to touch. We stopped to snap a quick picture as the little boy rested peacefully in the full sized wheelchair, and then we quickly said our goodbyes. As we loaded into our HMMWVs several of the local kids were arguing over who would get to take the boy for his first ride. I’m not sure who ended up shuttling him around, but as we left you could see his wheelchair weaving through the trash strewn alleys.

 

The Healers

The everyday kindness of the back roads more than makes up for the acts of greed in the headlines.

  - Charles Kuralt

     As we made our way to the home through one of the narrow alleys in shantytown a middle aged man flagged us down. We walked over to his shack, and after the traditional greetings he politely asked if we could provide medical care for his son. I grabbed our two medics, SPC Hart and SPC Night, and we followed the father into the dim hovel. As we stepped inside we passed through a closet sized kitchen thick with the sickly sweet scent of burned meat before passing into a small room adorned with thick sleeping mats. Inside the room doubled over on the floor, was a little boy whose face was creased with pain. Looking at the crumpled form in front of us I suddenly realized that I hadn’t smelled the burnt remains of breakfast… the source of the bitter stench was lying right in front of me. The back of the boys leg was a softly glistening ruin, raw muscle stripped of skin.

     Without saying a word SPC Hart and SPC Night dropped their medical bags and started sifting through their contents. As they carefully arranged the tools they would need to clean the boys burns, I marveled at their cool detachment. Although these men were barely out of their teens they suddenly seemed far older, as if they were wizened doppelgangers of the soldiers I had worked besides all these long months. It was the first time I caught a glimmer of just how much combat has aged all of us.

     As the medics set to work the father tried to soothe the little boy, but the sight of the two medics had him yelping in fright. While the medics were cleaning and dressing the wound my driver, SGT Bard, reached into his pocket and pulled out a stuffed animal. SGT Bard handed the little boy the stuffed tiger, and his crying stopped as quickly as if somebody had turned an invisible valve. A few minutes later the medics finished their work and they gave the boy’s parents extra dressings and antibiotics along with instructions on how to care for their son.

     As they started to pack up their gear one of the soldiers providing security outside the house walked in and asked if we could see another sick child. I told him to send in the boy, and a moment later a ten year old boy sheepishly walked in. His right arm was wrapped in dirty white gauze. In the middle of the gauze bloomed an ugly brown splotch… the telltale sign of physical corruption. As the medics peeled back the filthy dressings the air filled with the fetid stench of infection. As the dressings finally peeled away they revealed a wretched volcano wreathed in skin stretched taut with pus. I had to fight to keep the wave of nausea rumbling in my stomach at bay, but our medics didn’t even flinch. Instead they deftly started treating the infected wound. As they treated the boy I stepped out to get a breath of fresh air, and by time I returned they had filled a small plastic bag with pus filled dressings. I stepped out once again, and when I returned the swollen limb had regained its normal proportions.  With the wound clean our medics started putting on fresh dressings and in a few short minutes they were done.  Once the terp explained how and when to take the antibiotics we set off to finish the rest of the patrol.  There was still a lot of ground to cover.

Parting the Waters

     A little after the sun settled into its twilight cradle the radio in the CP hissed out a message from our tank platoon; apparently the Iraqi Army soldiers they were parked beside knew the location of a fresh IED. I told 1LT Mac to hold the element in place and put out a quick guidance to my NCOs. By time I suited up and stepped outside the vehicles were almost prepped, and a few minutes later we rolled towards the link up site. When we arrived1LT Mac jumped off his M1 and gave me a quick backbrief on the situation. Apparently a helpful local had reported that there was a newly emplaced IED lurking about a kilometer down the road, and the Iraqi police officers would be able to identify the exact location. As I walked over to the Iraqi officers it was apparent that they were more then a little agitated, and it took several minutes just to coax the story out of them. The officers weren’t exactly sure where the IED was, and as they nervously shifted back and forth it became apparent that they wanted nothing more then to flee the area. My terp dutifully passed along their concerns, and then turned to me and said “the man on the left said he knows who put the IED in”. I took a long look at the small police officer in front of me and then asked him if he knew who placed the IED in. He hesitated for a moment, and it was clear my terp had translated something they hadn’t meant for me to hear. He admitted that he knew where the IED builder lived, but the second he did so he seemed to ball up like a pillbug. After several minutes of questioning I was able to get the full story. The frightened police officer knew where the individual lived, but he was certain he would be recognized and the AIF would take reprisals against his family. I spent several minutes appealing to his sense of duty and the oath he had taken as a police officer, and when I finished he agreed to take us to the location. By then his watch commander had arrived and sheepishly asked if they could take custody of the AIF fighter if we were able to capture him. I readily agreed, and the die was cast. We would take down the IED cell and then locate the IED.

     As I was briefing the troops I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see the police officer and my terp behind me. The police officer had changed into civilian clothes, a flak jacket, and a Kevlar helmet to hide his identity and in that garb I barely recognized him. As I looked at his new apparel my terp asked if I could loan him a mask and gloves to further hide his identity. I pulled out a black ski mask, then took off my gloves and handed them to the policeman. He gratefully donned both, and when he did he looked for all the world like a haggard knock off of a GI Joe character. Another one of the IPs who wasn’t from the area agreed to come along to take the individual into custody, and when he gave me the thumbs up we set out in a long low line. The police officer familiar with the home was in the lead, and I followed a few steps behind him. We were paralleling one of the reed choked agricultural canals that criss-cross the area, and as we approached a small mound on the side of the canal the policeman whispered a quick message to the terp. The terp turned to me and said “they cut the bridge – we have to go around”. We doubled back until we found a crossing point and then we continued forward. After a few minutes our guide stopped beside another canal and looked back once again. This time my terp spent a long minute talking with the officer, and when he came back he looked dejected. He told me that this bridge had also been cut. I asked him if there was a way around and he told me that the bridge had been cut to allow the IED emplacer time to escape… if we took the long road around he would get warning of our arrival and skip away. As I looked down at that hateful black strip of water I thought back to some of the items I had seen in other canals and my stomach performed a slow, paralyzing roll. Then I heard a voice whisper “we are going across’ with perfect resolution. It took me a few seconds to realize those frightful words came from my own lips. By then the Iraqi policeman was already wading through the chest deep water, and I knew it was too late to turn back. I slipped down the muddy canal wall and sank into the cold, fetid water. I focused on keeping my weapons and equipment above the mire, and tried not to notice my boots settling into the thick scum on the canal floor. I made it across and clambered up the other side of the canal, then I settled behind the tall reeds net to our guide. Our troops quietly made their way through the canal, leaving only my terp on the far side. He stared at the water like a prey animal hypnotized by a weaving viper, unable to move forward into the watery morass below him. I hissed for him to follow and he plunged in, noisily made his way across the canal. While he sat net to me heaving and wheezing like an old steam engine I had our guide point out the target house, and then we set out with the other IP in the lead. We came up to the darkened home at a dead sprint, and the moment the IP barged into the unlocked home we detained the sole male inside. As we brought him out to allow the guide to positively identify him, the guide frantically waved off to his left. My terp turned towards me and said… “the IP went to the wrong house, it’s next door”. We immediately cut the man loose and stormed next door. We entered the home right behind our geographically challenged IP officer and started to clear the rooms.

     One room held a combative 20 year old Iraqi with wild eyes and once we detained him we marched him out for the informant to identify. To my surprise the informant shook his head side to side to signify this wasn’t the AIF fighter, and we turned him back around and led him back to his living room. One by one we brought out the males and one by one the informant shook his head to signify that they weren’t our target. Finally we brought out the mildest of the bunch a smiling, neatly dressed man in his early 20’s. As soon as we too him out the IP seemed to shrink back in terror, and he nodded wildly before disappearing behind the home. We had our target. We flex cuffed the AIF fighter and turned him over to the other IP, then we made our way next door to apologize for our earlier mistake. Once we had made amends we made our way back to the tanks, our boots squishing with every step.

     After returning the two IPs and their detainee to their police station we returned to the forsaken stretch of road that contained the alleged IED. By now we had long since lost our “guides”, and the entire road was cloaked in deep shadow. Rather then blindly searching the road for an IED we decided to continue the second part of the mission at first light - at least then we had a chance of spotting it while we were still out of the kill zone. Once the coordinations were complete we made our way back to the FOB… we all had clothes we needed to sterilize. 

Home Sweep

     In the predawn light our motorpool became a broad river of light, each soldier’s flashlight following its own random path through the long rows of armored vehicles. As soldiers stashed their gear and loaded equipment the HMMWVs and M113s stood resolute, as if those boxy, angular machines were river rocks brusquely diverting the torrent of purposeful light. As each vehicle finished its heated preparations the lights around it slowly winked out, and by time the sun started to chisel away at the darkness the artificial fireflies that had shuttled between vehicles had long since blinked out of existence.

     Once all the final preparations had been completed I walked over to the CP, poured a steaming mug of coffee, and ran through the mission one last time. By time I finished the cup our line up time was approaching, so I snapped on my Kevlar and stepped back into the chill autumn air. In the few minutes I had been in the CP the motorpool had uncoiled into a sinewy string of humming vehicles, the cold air resonating to the throaty whine of powerful engines. I walked up to my vehicle, slipped into my seat and requested an “up” from each vehicle. One by one the vehicles keyed their radios and gave me their status, and when the last vehicle gave me their “up” the patrol rumbled to life and we started carving a dusty path through the chill air.

     The mission we were leading was a battalion sized joint operation between the Nightstalkers and the Iraqi Wolf Brigade, but it was much more than just another sweep to us. Because unlike our prior missions this mission was focused on the portion of Southern Baghdad we patrol through each day...

     As the armored chain of vehicles sped out of the FOB vehicle traffic screeched to a halt, leaving a wide swath of empty asphalt for our vehicles to speed down. In the lead were the lean, low silhouettes of our tank section followed in turn by the armored HMMWVs and armored Hate Wagons (M113s), as I watched them plummet down the road even I was impressed by this unstoppable train of force. As we turned past our first checkpoint the patrol slowed to a crawl, and before I could send a message over the net I heard SFC D’s distinctive Southern drawl mutter through the radio “Our lead tank has an engine problem… standby”. The second those words crackled over the radio all our dismounts spilled out and set up a bristling circlet of security. The tank crew worked feverishly to repair the problem, but as the minutes ticked by I was left with a difficult decision… leave half my tank platoon behind to escort the stricken vehicle back to the FOB, or miss our scheduled link up time. Our mission was to secure the porous Eastern flank of our sector and prevent any AIF elements from escaping the Wolf Brigade’s determined search; if we missed our hit time there would be the chance that AIF cells could escape the coordinated sweep. As much as it pained me to leave so much firepower behind, we had to make our hit time. I ran over to the tank section, told them to return the troubled vehicle to the FOB and then briefed the new order of movement. And with that we continued into sector, because by now every second counted.

     As we roared past the final checkpoint we stormed past the long string of Wolf Brigade vehicles, and moved to our respective blocking positions. As each set of vehicles slid into position the soldiers set to work, each troop carrying out their respective assignment with deft skill. There was no wasted motion; every movement looked as polished and rehearsed as a drill team. In a flash the long string of exit points transformed from roads and bridges into hardened, lethal checkpoints.

     Minutes after we set in our positions we faced our first obstacle, a large group of young Iraqi children patiently waiting to go to school. For the thousandth time since I arrived in Iraq I marveled at the surrealism of this strange war. Here we were ensconced behind rows of razor wire and hasty fortifications, intent on preventing any AIF elements from escaping a coordinated sweep by the most successful Iraqi unit… and at the same time we had a large crowd of children trying to get into the area to go to school. I decided that it was better to let the children walk through our position after their bags were searched, if we left them waiting outside our checkpoint there was always the chance they would get caught in a cross fire. Two of the soldiers joined my terp at the edge of the wire and quickly shuttled the kids to the other side of our position.

     After that the morning grew silent, and our only company was a small family selling fruit just outside our position. Occasionally we would hear the sharp bark of automatic weapons fire, but for the most part the hours ticked by quietly. Every few minutes small groups of Iraqi males would peek out from behind corners, intent on finding weak spots in our ring of security. Every time they appeared one of our vehicles would roar down the access road, and the small groups would scatter and stream back into the walled compounds. This dangerous game of cat and mouse ended up a draw every time; they failed to escape, but we failed to catch them before they melted away. I wasn’t terribly concerned at their hasty disappearance; I knew that if they stayed in the city the Wolf Brigade would surely catch them.

     As noon approached a long string of Wolf Brigade soldiers drove up, and to my surprise they spent the next ten minutes happily mugging for photos. Harald, our Dutch imbed reporter, was beside himself as some of Iraq's best troops smiled and  waved for the camera. Eventually their officers focused them back on mission and they headed to their final target… the fruit stand owner. My mouth almost dropped open in sheer surprise; this gentleman had been patiently selling fruit a couple dozen meters from our position all morning.

     With that final capture the Wolf Brigade sped off for their final link up point, and a few minutes later we received the call to pull out of position. Our positions dissolved as quickly as they had been assembled, and a few minutes our scattered elements congealed on the stretch of road out of town. The Wolf Brigade had rolled up dozens of AIF fighters; their infiltration into the shadowy world of the insurgency had paid rich dividends. As we passed vehicle after vehicles full of blindfolded detainees my face stretched into a long wolfish smile… the days hunt had gone well.

Baby Steps

     The Iraqi Police (IP) forces have come a long way in the last year; I doubt our predecessors would recognize them these days.  When we arrived most of the IPs stayed hunkered down in their police stations, content to restrict their patrols to the roads circling their stations.  As they gained confidence the areas they patrolled slowly expanded and a few months after we arrived their heavily armed patrols were flitting through areas that had been a virtual no mans land.  Their expansion into new and dangerous areas wasn’t easy, and they suffered no small number of casualties in the process.  But with our Battalions patrols backing them up when they were heavily engaged their confidence skyrocketed, and they went from being the hunted to being the hunters.     

     Despite their considerable progress there are still some sectors of Baghdad that are so rife with danger they are assiduously avoided by the IP patrols.  One of those areas is the sector of Southern Baghdad my company patrols each and every day.  It’s not that the IPs aren’t doing their job, our area is only a fraction of the area that they are responsible for patrolling, and truth be told it is far less populated then the neighborhoods to our North.  But that being said I’m sure the fearsome reputation of our Area of Operations (AO) didn’t help much either.     

     When we first arrived in our new sector the IPs assured us that they conducted daily patrol through the area, but after a few weeks it became clear that we had vastly different ideas about what comprised a daily patrol.  To remedy the problem we started building a stronger relationship with the IPs, and over the ensuing days and weeks their attitude started to slowly change.  After a few weeks there were several members of their strike teams who were more then happy to conduct joint patrols, and eventually that teamwork started paying rich dividends.     

     Before I go on I should explain a little about the AIF, because without describing our enemy the IPs reticence won’t make a lot of sense.  A good starting point to understanding the AIF in our sector is to dump all your preconceptions… because chances are they are dead wrong.  After watching countless televised clips of AIF attacks you might think the average AIF fighter is a ferocious, shadowy figure cloaked in menace and seething with hatred for the United States.  The truth is far less flattering.  The AIF forces are indiscernible from the average Iraqi, on more then one occasion we have had to pick up individuals who had offered us tea during one of our daily patrols.  Instead of hiding in some shadowy spiderhole they hide in plain sight.  Their defining characteristic isn’t courage, it is deception.  They operate a little like a school yard bully, when we aren’t around they threaten their communities with death to ensure they aren’t compromised, then when we arrive they smile and wave as we pass by.      

     When the IPs conduct raids the trapped AIF fighters occasionally stand and fight, but even when they don’t many IPs are concerned for the safety of their families.  Before some raids they can be seen masking their identity with thick woolen ski masks - you can judge just how dangerous their target is by how many of their officers decide to “mask up”.     

     While the AIF occasionally takes their chances by standing and fighting the IP raids they never seem to contest US raids.  By this stage in the war they know that they can’t win a fight with US forces, and they don’t even try to put up resistance.  Because the AIF lives in mortal fear of a US raid the IPs are more then happy to conduct joint operations with our forces, they know that the mere presence of our forces is enough to cow the most stubborn AIF fighter into submission.     

     Tonight, during one of our routine joint patrols the Iraqi officer riding in my HMMWV started to fidget and look decidedly uncomfortable.  After working with the IPs I’ve learned to use their unconscious body language as an impromptu diving rod for AIF activity.  And at that moment it was obvious that something, or someone was nearby.  As my soldiers pulled up a security perimeter I started to slowly wheedle the information out of the IP.  After a few minutes of question and answer the story started to unfold, apparently several hundred meters away there was a home that harbored a particularly lethal gentleman affiliated with Al Qaeda in Iraq.  The mere mention of Al Qaeda immediately piqued my interest, and the proximity to several recent IEDs sealed the issue… our patrol had a new mission.  The IP and his comrades looked decidedly uncomfortable at the prospect of bringing in this particular fighter, but when I pulled out several black ski masks out of the trunk their distress vanished.  As they pulled the woolen caps over their faces they seemed renewed, and for a second I silently laughed at the sudden transformation.  In that moment, in that darkened patch of road, they looked for all the world like some B-Movie superhero putting on their crime fighting outfit.      

     Once they were all clad in the ebon masks the IPs were eager to take point and lead us towards the suspected safehouse.  We shuttled through the underbrush in a low and stealthy column, and once we the vegetation started to thin up we gathered together in a small hollow and called forward the HMMWVS.  The vehicles crept into overwatch positions, while the gunners slewed their turrets towards the target buildings.  Once they were in place the IPs stood up, and prepared to charge the target building.  As they stood up some of their nervous energy seemed to dissipate, but once they watched American soldiers stand up behind them ready to follow their confidence seemed to magically congeal.  Without a second glance they hurtled towards the house at a dead sprint, and we followed a handful of steps behind them.      

     I won’t get into the tactical details of the next few seconds; passing along that type of information could be calamitous to our mission and make life easier on the AIF.  What I will mention is one particular memory that was burned into my mind in those first few seconds.  A memory of the AIF leader seeing the American forces enter behind the IPs and squeal like a little girl… then proceed to urinate on his dishdash.     

     A careful search of the home provided more then enough evidence to verify the IPs intelligence, and once the search was complete we escorted the IPs back to their police station.  As they walked into the station the IPs strutted like peacocks, proudly displaying the captured AIF fighters the way a fisherman might display a trophy bass.  We remained several paces behind the IPs, and watched their antics with great amusement.  Our translator quietly passed along their story as they passed it along to the other police officers, and I was mildly surprised at how much the story had already evolved.  Despite their inflated claims I was happy to let the IPs take all the credit, if nothing else it would help build their confidence in their own abilities.  We spent a few minutes confirming the slightly swollen accounts of bravery, and then we said our goodbyes and started on our long dusty ride home.  As we drove back to the FOB I kept thinking of the complete and utter fear that seemed to ooze out of the self proclaimed Al Qaeda member… and I laughed when I remembered his soaked dishdash.    I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at Al Qaeda the same.          

Id al-Fitr

     One of the last missions CPT Mackinnon talked about was a goodwill mission to help the shantytowns celebrate Id al-Fitr, the closing days of Ramadan. Id al-Fitr is a joyous celebration that roughly approximates Christmas in both festivity and mirth, and CPT Mackinnon wanted to help the poorest of the poor celebrate in grand fashion.

     And so on the day of ID al-Fitr we found ourselves loading our HMMWVs with boxes of dates, stuffed animals, soccer balls and candy. Loading up all these presents should have been a carefree process - but the wounds we had suffered were still suppurating. Our recent losses still boomed in our collective memory, and the constant hammering on our heart’s door seemed to poison the joy we should have felt.

     As I watched our soldiers finishing preparing the loads their haphazard motions belied their discomfort, as if their actions were physically manifesting the turmoil in my own heart. For in those few minutes I was of two minds. The hard edged part of my being, the warrior spirit chiseled into the granite of my soul, recoiled at this mission of mercy. I barely recognized that shadow of my own consciousnes, it was too clotted with wrath to appear familiar. Its inchoate screech battered my will with naked fury – and with every hot beat of my heart I heard it cry out its need to ensure justice for our fallen.

     The song of blood battered that still, focused part of my being that understood the importance of this mission. Even in the midst of the torrential onslaught it remained true, as if it were a relentless compass needle heeding only the soft field lines of conscience. The battle does not always go to the strong, and in that inner struggle it was the quiet voice of reason that prevailed over the ravenous anger. By time the HMMWVs were loaded I was no longer conflicted – I knew what my duty was. We had come to Iraq to build a more secure future for the country, and this mission was as good a start as any.

     After the mission brief I pulled together the patrol and came clean, admitting my own struggle to unclench fists balled with anger. I could have just ordered the troops to pass out the gifts - they are disciplined to carry out orders they don’t agree with. But in my heart I knew that was just the easy way out, the last recourse for a poor leader. Instead I put into words the thoughts hanging over all our heads. My words didn’t provide any real insight, and they didn’t soothe old wounds.  They just reminded these hardened troops that we weren’t here to bring the law of the sword, but to seed a friendly area with hope. In the end the only thing that would permanently undermine the AIF would be our mercy and goodwill. CPT Mackinnon believed this to be true until his dying day, and I would not dishonor him by abandoning his mission. With that said we loaded into the vehicles and sped towards the shantytowns.

     As we drove into the first village I wondered if my words were worth the breath in my lungs, or if they had died in the space between my lips and their ears. Doubt crept into my thoughts for the first time, and I wondered if I even believed myself. As we dismounted several children came running out to meet us, dressed in their finest clothes. The moment I watched the first throng wash up the doubt disappeared, melted away by the exuberance of these happy upturned faces. As we walked along the village passing out small gifts to the children I looked around and noticed our soldiers were all smiling. The gunners still tracked their sectors with practiced care, but the troops walking the streets reflected the sea of joy around our convoy. Although the area was too poor to have any holiday decorations it seemed like everyone was dressed in their finest clothes. Men wore clean sets of clothing, and their wives were dressed in bright patterned burkhas as garish and jovial as a Hawaiian shirt. It seemed like every woman in the village was painted with thick coats of makeup, a subtle difference that stood in sharp contrast to the roughshod appearance of their patchwork homes. At a few of the homes I gathered together the families and snapped a Polaroid snapshot and handed the photo to the family patriarch. That simple gesture brought tears to several sets of eyes, photographs were obviously rare treasures in these bustling neighborhoods. By time our HMMWVs were emptied entire communities were laughing and cheering, and my soldiers looked over their work with justified pride. We returned to the FOB far stronger then when we left it.

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. 

Selfless Action

     We left the FOB in the cool light of morning, our string of vehicles shuttling between vacant lots like a sinewy sewing needle.  The mere sight of our speeding phalanx cleared the roads of traffic, and in a few minutes we safely arrived at our destination… the small shantytown we named Goattown.      

     As our vehicles coiled around the neighborhood the first waves of children started spilling out of the narrow alleys in nervous anticipation, clustering together in small chattering groups.   By time our vehicles settled into overwatch positions they were joined by a half dozen teenagers boys, who tried to mask their excitement at our arrival by casually strolling down the narrow lanes toward our positions.  In many areas of Baghdad the locals greet our patrols with an almost casual disinterest, but the shantytowns are a far cry from those “developed” areas.  In these drab neighborhoods the arrival of our patrols elicits the kind of excitement normally reserved for a holiday parade.      

     Our mission was relatively simple, move into the shantytown and set up a web of security while our Battalion Physician’s Assistant provided medical care to the local populace.   It was a good thing that our mission didn’t rely on stealth -  if it did we would have been instantly compromised by the small constellation of excited children followed each fire team like little ducks in a row.  Despite the warm welcome the fire teams moved to their overwatch positions with deliberate care, their every sense focused on the tactical situation.  The contrast between the smooth clearing tactics employed by the fire team, and the laughing throng of children skipping in their wake made for a very strange visual.   Once they were set in the medical team slowly moved down the alleyway, and as they did a steady stream of sick and injured Iraqis started appearing from the small homes.  As I made my way between the security positions I almost lost sight of the medical teams behind the quiet treatment area, it seemed like a good portion of every household had some type of illness that had been left untreated.  The medical team did what they could, patching up infected wounds and dispensing medication to alleviate some of the illnesses.  For the second time that day I was struck by a contrast, only this time it was between the sick and the healthy. The sick locals were almost all adults, and as they patiently waited in the shade their faces were an odd combination of hope, veiled behind a palatable sense of weariness.  The children on the other hand danced around our soldiers, peppering them with requests for soccer balls and photographs.  These kids were brimming with the blind joy of youth, and their smiles and laughs seemed to transform the humble alleys into something altogether different. 

     As I was walking along the alley one of the teenage boys pointed to the hood of a car and then placed his elbow on it, signaling for me to do the same.  His friends were happily cheering and waving for me to join him, and I suddenly realized he wanted to have an arm wrestling contest.  I tried to defer, I must have outmassed this kid by at least a 100 lbs and I didn’t want to embarrass him.  But the teen and his friends were not to be denied, and after a few minutes of politely declining I finally leaned over the hood and gripped the teenagers hand.  Once he started pulling I let him start pulling my hand over so he could save face in front of his friends, and then I slowly pulled his hand over and won.  I congratulated him on the effort,  and without batting an eye he asked for a rematch.  I agreed and we settled back down over the hood of the car.  At first everything seemed to be repeating itself, and then I suddenly found myself honestly struggling.  I took a breath, closed my eyes, and started pulling with all my might – losing face to the locals had more second order effects then I cared to ponder.  I slowly pulled my hand over, feeling my arm throb as the corded muscles strained with effort.  Finally, with my arm shrieking and my pulse pounding in my ears I managed to pull my hand completely over and triumph.  I opened my eyes to see the teen looking back at me with a shocked look on his face, and I patted him on the back with my good arm and congratulated him for his effort.  As I was doing so SPC Tank yelled over “Good job sir, you beat all three of them”.  I turned around and called back “What do you mean?”  It was only then that I realized that two of the boys that had been cheering their friend on were sprawled in the dirt at their friend’s feet.  SPC Tank gave me the rundown on their sudden increase in strength - as soon as the rematch started the first teenager stopped pulling and just lifted his feet of the ground, leaving him hanging from my outstretched arm.  A moment later his two friends jumped on his back to add to the weight and “win” the contest.  If I had opened my eyes their ploy would have been immediately obvious, but with my eyes bolted shut from sheer exertion I never noticed I was in effect lifting the combined weight of the three teenage boys.  They certainly weren't playing fair, but I had to applaud their teamwork.

     As I turned around to check on the rest of the patrol I suddenly realized that I was surrounded by a crescent of children all standing in utter silence.  I smiled at them, and the moment I did so they erupted into a chorus of cheering and excited squeals.  The boys took turns running up and squeezing my biceps and then staring at their friends in mock awe, then they took turns swinging from my outstretched arm.  They pestered the interpreter until he finally turned to me and said “They want to know what you eat to get so strong?”.  For a second I was stumped, I couldn’t really tell them to eat well – they were barely above the sustenance level.  I finally settled on telling them to exercise everyday.  The boys listened to the interpreter with rapt attention, and then slowly scuttled off to ask the soldiers for more treats.      

     After the better part of an hour the medical team was out of treatment supplies and we started wrapping up the mission.  As we left the children became even more animated, jumping up and down as they asked for candy or soccer balls.  As I started to get into my HMMWV I noticed a 10 or 11 year old girl standing behind the little mob holding her baby sister.  I could tell from the look in her eyes that she wanted something as much as the kids jostling for attention, but she was either too polite or to shy.  I grabbed our last soccer ball and started to walk over to where she was standing.  The kids screamed even louder when they noticed the soccer ball, but they parted to let me through to the quiet girl standing in the back.  I passed her the soccer ball and she said “Thank you” in perfect English.  I walked back through the crowd of kids, got back in HMMWV and we started moving away.  My last sight of Goattown was an image that will stay with me long after this mission ends.  The same little girl I had passed the ball to was standing in the front door of her home and passing the soccer ball, the prize of prizes, to her younger brother.  It was too late to stop the convoy and try to give her a reward for her guileless generosity, but I resolved then and there to bring her a stuffed animal the next time we visit.  She earned it the hard way, through selfless action.

The Blocking Position

     As our patrol moved into the wide intersection our vehicles suddenly shifted from a slithering column into a multiheaded hydra. Each driver smoothly wheeled their vehicle into their respective clock position, and as the HMMWVs inched into position it almost looked like each respective head was carefully sniffing the intersections periphery.  Once they had settled into their blocking positions the turrets rotated into overwatch positions and the dismounts spilled out.  In less then a minute the dismounts had cleared the area and were fanning out to reinforce the blocking positions with Arabic warning signs and over size traffic cones. The two traffic cones set up on our corridor gave the impression the asphalt was teething, they seemed to erupt out of the street like two fluorescent fangs.  In many ways these simple plastic cones were far more lethal then any tool in nature’s arsenal.  Their lethality didn’t come from their composition as much as their symbology, because in Baghdad traffic cones in front of HMMWVs convey only one message.  Stop or be shot.   Any vehicle that ignored the warning signs and tried to blow through the traffic cones would be identified as a lethal threat… and dealt with accordingly.      

     For a long while the cones stood desolate in the road, but as the afternoon slid by traffic started picking up.  By late afternoon the road was cluttered with drivers trying to perform sloppy three point turns on the narrow lane.  Although the road was blocked to wheeled traffic we still allowed locals to walk through the checkpoint, and that was where the excitement started.        

     As the local school children returned home from their classes they trickled down the dirt shoulders, careful to avoid the frustrated eddies of vehicles. But as they passed the traffic cones they started to spill onto the vacant road, oblivious to the fact that they were wandering into our line of fire.  As soon as they started spreading out onto the empty asphalt we would get their attention and wave them towards the sides of the road.  For a while that worked perfectly, but after most of the children had passed through one small trio of school kids continued on oblivious to our distant shouts.  They weren't trying to be obstinate, they were just kids lost in their own private world.  By time they were halfway between the cones and our HMMWV we had given up trying to get their attention, and I found myself bemusedly watching the two brothers compete for their sisters attention. 

     SPC Spartan’s sudden shout snapped me out of my silent observation and the edge to his voice let me know the message before the words left his mouth.  He shouted “Sir – someone is trying to push through”.  I reflexively tracked the speeding vehicle and shouldered my weapon, but as I did so the children finally broke out of their reverie and came to a sudden stop.  Fear is a powerful tranquilizer and one sideways glance made it clear they were functionally paralyzed.  I sprinted a dozen steps to where they were standing and pushed them out of the line of fire, and then skidded aside myself.  Before my kneepads had finished scraping along the asphalt my muzzle was lined up to take a warning shot.  But in that instant some glimmer of understanding finally made it through the drivers alcoholic stupor and the driver brought his car to a screeching halt..  As soon as the vehicle stopped the driver slammed his car into reverse, practically rolling the vehicle into a ditch in his haste to back away from the traffic cones.  I tracked his vehicle with my weapon until his car had completed its U-turn, and then stood up and walked over to where the children were crouched.  I helped them back onto their feet and took a minute to pick up their spilled books..  Their drawn faces were still awash in residual shock and fear, so I motioned them to follow me and walked them towards the HMMWV.  As they waited next to the vehicle I reached into the cargo area and fished out a couple handfuls of candy and a stuffed animal.  As I passed out the small presents their confused expressions melted away, replaced by wide eyed smiles.  It wasn't a gradual change, it was like watching the sun break through the clouds after a long storm. SGT Bard stopped to snap a picture of their beaming smiles and then they were off like a shot,  happily chirping to each another.  The rest of the time slid by without anything of note, and a few hours later we were back on the FOB.  Another day down.