Yup -- stories from somewhere

Paying for peace, Part Two

2007-12-06T15:51:00.001-05:00

Soldiers dispose of trash with JP-8 fuel and fire at Patrol Base Jurf-as-Sakhr, about 30 miles SW of Baghdad in Babil (Babylon) province.

Jurfasucker.

Jurfasucker jurfasucker Jurfasucker.

Go ahead, say it a few times. It's fun. It's among the simple amusements soldiers have at Patrol Base Jurf, located in -- that's right, the town of Jurf-as-Sakhr.

Several of the young soldiers at PB Jurf are on their first tour -- a rarity in the 3rd Infantry Division, which has been deployed more often than not since the war began. It's not at all what they expected.

They heard tales of giant bases with all kinds of amenities. Those places do exist; for example, you can buy your very own Pizza Hut Iraq Collector's Edition merchandise at Camp Victory near Baghdad. Leave it to fast food companies to treat war like it was a war movie.

PB Jurf has electricity most of the time, which is its chief amusement. That, and burning stuff. There are no trash pickups and Dumpsters, no toilets and no maid services in town. So everything is burned. Yup, nothing like gathering around the ol' burn pit, telling tales by the fire and betting on whether the freeze-dried veggie and cheese omelet that no one will eat will produce a technicolor flame.

The soldiers at Jurf live there for eight days and return to Forward Operating Base Iskan for four days. That's also how long they go without showers.

"Baby wipes go a long way," said a private on his first tour. "That and hand sanitizer. Use it everywhere."

In the meantime, the 70 or so soldiers can at least be happy for now that no one is bombing their small base, located in the middle of town. For the past few years, practically everyone in town wanted the U.S. out. But not long ago, the sheiks in charge decided that Al Qaeda poking their nose into local business was a lot worse than the Americans doing the same thing. Plus, the Americans were willing to pay everybody, even the people who were bombing them all these years, to patrol the neighborhood and keep out the really bad bombers.

Like a lot of places, when I got to Jurf the colonel of the unit comes up to me and talks about what a great success story Jurf has becomes. Reconciliation, understanding, etc...I've heard it so many times now. The soldiers have a different perspective.

"We trained the whole year to come out and kill the terrorists," said private first class. "Now we have to ask permission from Sheik Sabbah if we want to search a building. And we're paying them $60,000 a month not to attack us. We should save that money and just go after them."

Well, the U.S. already tried "just going after them," and it hasn't exactly gone so splendidly. Turns out you can't just go after everyone. But you can go after the worst of them, and especially the foreign Al Qaeda guys. For now, the U.S. pays the "concerned citizens," and it's a good short-term fix to quell violence. But I wouldn't want to be around when the money runs out.

"Let's not lie. It's not that we love the Americans"

What happens when everyone has an AK-47

The lighter side of things here

Buying peace by the village

2007-11-28T12:21:00.000-05:00

The town of Arab Jabour is like a lot of the villages just outside Baghdad’s limits. You can see hints of past affluence, like palm tree groves running along the Tigris River. There are a few large houses, but they’ve been bombed out during the last five years.

Mostly, there are a lot of poor people with a lot of pride. Too much sometimes. It’s drove a lot of men to plant roadside bombs for Al-Qaeda because it paid well enough to support their families. An Iraqi man who can’t support his family is barely a man in this culture.

The same pride has been turned on its head. The U.S. has found its most successful strategy in dealing with insurgents to date: paying them. Specifically, they pay them to be “concerned citizens.” It’s sort of like a neighborhood crime watch program, but with AK-47s.

Patrol Base Murray, the closest base to Arab Jabour’s main drag, used to get attacked with mortars regularly last June. They’d usually get hit when they lit fires to burn their – well, let’s just say they don’t have port-a-potties at every base.

Now that most of the military-age males are on the U.S. payroll for about $10 a day, they don’t get hit anymore. People have moved back to the neighborhood. The roadside bombings have stopped. And slowly, something resembling businesses are opening.

The Army, State Department and USAID are backing this up with microgrants. Barbers, tire repairmen, glass makers and others ask for $1,000 to expand their businesses and get them going. They roll out a business plan and they get some cash. One particularly ambitious guy, whose son has an engineering degree, wants to open an Internet café with two computers.

“Right now people have to go to Baghdad,” Abbas told me. Many people in Arab Jabour want to communicate with people outside. We need this business for our area.”

Abbas’ Internet café building would have been condemned under U.S. building codes. The cinder blocks stuck together at sharp ends, with old plaster keeping them precariously in place. The roof was made of whatever materials were available. But for Iraq right now, this is what works.

Arab Jabour is a tiny spot in a country twice the size of Idaho. Two miles south, Al Qaeda is still ruling the area. There are Arab Jabours in many places, will it ever be enough?

Few of the soldiers here really want to be here right now. But many want all the time and sweat and blood they spent here to count for something. They hope that small success stories will spread like an ink spot into neighboring villages – as the same speed as the money they’re paying out.

The Euphrates River at sunset

2007-11-21T14:13:00.000-05:00

A military pontoon bridge connects Patrol Base Dragon (an abandoned power plant) to the farming village of Owesat, about 15 miles southwest of Baghdad.

Al Qaeda's old truck stop

Search continues for soldiers missing since May

Suspect in soldier abductions detained

2007-11-15T15:48:00.000-05:00

After five days at at tiny little outposts, I spent the last three at Forward Operating Base Hammer.

This particular base is surrounded by absolutely nothing but sand for miles. The command tries to make up for this by offering karaoke and speedy laundry service.

While walking through my tent I saw a soldier wielding a surgical instrument and plunging it into another soldier's bloody head. I didn't mean to be nosy but I had to ask.

"Shaun was hit by an IED (roadside bomb) two years ago," explained Matt, an Oregon National Guardsman and medic. "It got infected and he says it abcesses every now and then. So I drain it for him."

But Shaun didn't seem all that distraught about it. He showed me another notch on the back of his head from a second IED.

"Each time, my friends heard about it and thought I was dead," Shaun said. "The told the local paper and they've run my obituary three times."

Over people 250 showed up at Shaun's first funeral. Awful nice of them too, he says. He's thanked as many as he could for remembering him.

There is no point to shoes that aren't tan in Iraq.

***

Spent some time in a relatively peaceful town called Narwan that, like a lot of towns in Iraq, really needs water, electricity and other basic services. The kids beg you to take their picture everywhere. They beg the soldiers for pens and water. They're real cute until they start throwing rocks. But I suppose a kid will get away with what he can, especially if he isn't in school all day. I'd say more, but it's midnight and I've got a story coming up in a few hours. Should be a busy work weekend.

Kids at the Narwan market, about 20 miles east of Baghdad.

In the neighborhood

2007-11-10T09:18:00.000-05:00

A couple of infantrymen wait for others after finishing a search at a home on the Tigris River about 20 miles southeast of Baghdad. The family waits behind them. Al Qaeda likes to hang out in some of these houses, especially the ones on the other side of the river.

He says he's 18. He is one of 362 "concerned citizens" sanctioned by the U.S. military to act as something like a community crime watch. They've actually done fairly well. Working with U.S. troops and Iraqi police, attacks and roadside bombs are way down. However, a lot of the guys they drove out are probably living a few villages over now.

Not quite a beach

2007-11-08T13:52:00.000-05:00

It’s easy to tell people about Iraq’s politics or its military gains. But I doubt anyone who hasn’t been here has a sense for the feel of living in ever-present sand.

It is not the soft-white quartz you find on a coral beach. It’s not the dredged, crushed ocean bottom of a Miami Beach. Nor is it the brown dirt posing as sand at a northeastern shore or the mucky stuff I remember from an island near Seoul.

The top layer of sand here is chalky-tasting and it gets on everything. There is really no such thing as dark clothing, especially outside of the city. It is bright tan in color, if there is such a thing. It never really comes off hands, which is why everyone carries a bottle of hand sanitizer.

I drink water and Gatorade to wash the sand down. I brush off my shoes for no apparent reason. But after today, I’ll probably give up. My dark brown shoes will turn the color of Army desert combat boots for the remainder of my stay. However, they are still more comfortable.

I’m currently at COP Cahill, a speck of a base 20 miles or so outside Baghdad, where the walls are made of what else, but sandbags.

I spent much of the day at a Sunni Iraqi sheik’s house, listening to him talk with soldiers and even a few Shia Sheiks. That’s a good thing, since the two religious groups have had a tendency to hurl exploding objects at each other for the past few years.

I’ll have more on that in the next couple of days.

For now, I’ve got to get some work done and then get to my bed. I’m excited; last night I had a green stretcher with a mattress on top. Tonight I have a bed frame.

How much should it take to make a person materially happy? I wonder if anyone who hasn’t gone without luxuries like a real bed and hot showers for extended time can really appreciate them.

The snorer of war

2007-11-05T12:50:00.000-05:00

War is often portrayed as drawn-out stretches of boredom punctuated by pounding intensity.

I am now experiencing that first part while watching Pirates of the Caribbean 2 for the third time in the Baghdad International Zone Combined Press Information Center lounge/gulag. This time around, I'm rooting for the giant squid to win.

The Baghdad CPIC is a tad less glamorous than it might sound. There are three sets of bunk beds for journalists in transit, a couple of computers, a TV and a DVD player. The whole thing is set in a small bunker-like maze of portable buildings, porta-pottys, porta-showers and whatever else the contractors had for sale with that porta- prefix.

The larger Baghdad International Zone, or "Green Zone" as its popularly known, has checkpoints manned everywhere by Peruvian guards with machine guns (red-tipped with blanks in most cases) every 300 yards or so, making walking anywhere time-consuming. And since I didn't have my CPIC ID yet, a young soldier said, there was a chance if I left that I wouldn't be able to get back in. Fortunately, he was wrong, but I wouldn't know this until a Sunday afternoon and Monday morning of marinating at the lounge.

In between, a very large "journalist" showed up Sunday night dressed vaguely like a soldier and carrying three standard issue camouflage bags.

"That's good thinking. Play soldier and make himself an even bigger target than he already is," said Jon, a Kiwi television producer who, like most of us, is waiting for his embed in another area.

Neither Jon nor I could imagine this paunchy guy going "outside the wire," out on patrol with soldiers for eight hours. I can't believe a doctor cleared him.

He probably never got a checkup. Which is unfortunate, since a doctor might have been able to help him with his tendency to snore louder than a jet engine.

I put my earplugs in from my earlier helicopter ride, but the plugs that comforted me in an open-door Army Blackhawk helicopter were no match for this man's respiratory system. He finally calmed down around 2 a.m. This made for great sleep until 3 a.m., when another large man in a crew cut and wearing an Operation Iraqi Freedom theme T-shirt showed up.

It seems the military isn't too picky about handing out press credentials these days, which is probably a good thing. But they're not too picky about the whole torture thing either, since I do believe being subjected to a chorus of snoring men who don't use sheets to cover their sparsely clothed bodies is expressly forbidden under the Geneva Convention.

I thought about applying for asylum in the morning, when a group of Yemeni journalists showed up and began the Pirates of the Caribbean 2 marathon. Apparently, Johnny Depp is huge in Yemen.

Instead of petitioning the UN, Jon and I make a break for it. We casually walked out of our bunker and past a few checkpoints, smiling and greeting the guards with "Que tal?" and "Hola, amigo." I always knew high school Spanish would come in handy for that one day I'd be in a fortified Middle East war compound.

Jon and I kept walking and made it to the Al-Rashid hotel, a 12-story building that doesn't do a whole lot of business, being that most Iraqis can't get into the Green Zone and insurgents aren't big fans of anyone working or staying there.

It cost $13 for a large plate of fries, two milk teas and a bottle of water. Guess when business is slow, you've got to make up for it with higher prices. That or the dollar is so weak it's even making the Iraqi dinar look good. Probably both.

The Al-Rashid had a few shops, mostly specializing in Afghan (Iraqi?) rugs and haircuts from the 1980s. I always wondered what happened to Jheri curls. Now I know.

I should be off to somewhere a bit more interesting in a few days. By then I'll have my audition tape ready for the next Pirates of the Caribbean movie, should it ever come to nearby Yemen. And I can't think of a reason why it shouldn't.

Spin that record

2007-11-03T13:10:00.001-04:00

I think people are supposed to think about their gear and mission and something or other about security when going to Iraq. This is all probably a good idea, but it's not where my mind is wandering as I sit at the terminal, ready to fly into the desert.
I'm wondering what my theme song will be this time.
For every trip I take, there is some song that fits it. Sometimes it's a song that bores through my skull for no apparent reason and lays eggs, connecting it with the memories. Last time in Iraq, that song was "We built this city on Rock and Roll" by Starship. I had hoped for something more appropriate like Jimi Hendrix's "All along the Watchtower" or Outkast's "Bombs over Baghdad." Instead, a pop tart from the 80s sneaked up on me.
I read a story explaining that we remember the songs of our childhood when we're in war zones. If that's the case, I'm staying away from any 80s music Web sites this time. Last thing I need is a fond 2007 memory from the field forever linked with the video from "You Spin Me Round like a Record Baby."
I've got a long trip ahead of me. See you in the sand.

2006-04-20T09:35:00.000-04:00

The view from my balcony. That's the soccer stadium below, and the brick buildings beyond it are Camp Red Cloud.

Need some input

2006-04-20T09:30:00.000-04:00

What you you like to read about while I'm in this country?
It was easy to keep this thing going in the desert, but now I want to hear from you. Any questions about South Korea, Seoul, the military or the price of rice on my block? Prefer random views of the world?
Try commenting here or e-mailing me and let me know. Looking for outside inspiration here.

2006-03-30T08:35:00.000-05:00

Jimmy Carter pops up in the strangest places.

2006-03-30T08:30:00.000-05:00

The view from a South Korean Amphibious Assault Vehicle of a whole bunch of C4 explosives detonating. Marines shoot this stuff in a line trailing from a rocket to clear out minefields.

2006-03-30T08:26:00.000-05:00

A night out at No. 10 Western Bar in Uijeongbu, about 18 miles north of Seoul.

Weej nightlife

2006-03-30T08:17:00.000-05:00

It's a long week...here is a bar review I wrote, which will soon be published.

UIJEONGBU, South Korea -- On the second floor above a sushi restaurant, there is a bar named after a British prime minister’s residence and decorated in a Western motif, playing Korean boy band music that makes The Partridge Family look “gangsta” in comparison.
Colorful contrasts aside, No. 10 Western Bar’s strengths are its English-speaking bartenders and its stiff drinks.
#1 Bartender Nicky greeted the bar’s only 9 p.m. Friday patron with a re-enactment of the drink-slinging acrobatics in the 1988 Tom Cruise semi-hit “Cocktail.” The glasses weren’t full and the bar floor was padded, which was a good thing. Nicky’s juggling later showed a bit more skill.
Nicky also had a few card tricks up his sleeve, but they were later trumped by Smart Benny. The tricks would have been just as impressive without beer goggles.
As the night wandered on, even Korean pop hits like “South side, let’s ride!” sounded a little better. Clearly, that was influenced by beer.
But while discussing music, Smart Benny showed there was more to him than just the K-pop band of the month.
“Run DMC, I like them,” he said.
I give any 25-year-old Korean bartender credit for old school rap knowledge.
Each of the four bartenders said they were in their mid-twenties. Female bartenders Soie and Sean reminded me that in Korea, an extra year is added to your age to count the year you were born.
Coincidentally, this is when I switched from beer to liquor.
The bar is well-stocked with American whiskey mainstays and liqueurs from around the world, and the pours are fairly generous. No. 10’s beer list includes imports like Hoegaarden and Guinness among Korean mainstays like Cass and Red Rock. The bar snacks include a free bowl of imitation Funjuns, the round snacks that pretend to taste like onions, but actually taste a lot better and different.
Gradually, the bar filled with a Korean clientele, minus a courtesy patrol looking for soldiers who weren’t supposed to be there, thanks to a recent military exercise.
It’s usually a mixed crowd, as evidenced by the Polaroid pictures on the wall. A few of the Koreans drinking that night were eager to practice their English, and any attempt to speak Korean was welcomed and appreciated.

Rating: 5 out of 6 beers
Drink prices: 5000 won for domestic beer, more for imports and liquor
Cover: None
Food: Bar snacks
Entertainment: Television, music
Clientele: Mixed Korean and American
Dress: Casual
Directions: The bar is located downtown, not far from the Uijeongbu Station. Take a taxi, or on Highway 3 make a right before the Dunkin Donuts. After a few blocks, make a left.
Hours: 5 p.m. to 4 a.m.

2006-03-22T03:27:00.000-05:00

Just hanging out, a few miles or so from the Demilitarized Zone. The tank crews were trying out some new ammo that day from close range.

2006-03-22T03:24:00.000-05:00

Seoul from above. Lots of traffic and bustle among the millions.

2006-03-22T03:23:00.000-05:00

The North Koreans are a curious bunch. The guy peeking through the window is KPA (that's Korean People's Army to us heathen capitalists). At one point, I think he was smudging the window with his nose. Everything on the other side of that U.N. flag in the middle is technically North Korea.

2006-03-22T03:19:00.000-05:00

The view from my hotel of Uijeongbu, about 18 miles north of Seoul

Less sand, but still plenty of tanks

2006-03-22T03:04:00.000-05:00

Yes, I’ve been gone a while. And I’ve switched countries a few times since.

I’m currently living in a nicely appointed hotel suite while I get permanent quarters here in South Korea.

It’s what is known as a “love hotel,” a common enough thing in Pacific Asia. They’re where folks sneak off to when they don’t want anyone to know. They’re also a lot nicer than the bare bones businessmen hotels, and westerners often prefer them.

So, here I am with a pink fluorescent light hanging over my dresser, and one of those Craftmatic adjustable beds that dominated daytime TV ads in the 1980s. I always wondered where they went. The lit-up, body-contoured Jacuzzi is a nice touch too.

It’s been six weeks since I left Okinawa, so I won’t try to recap it all here. Here are a few random observations:

If you’re driving in the countryside – defined as anywhere outside Seoul – stopping at a red light is considered offensive.
Seoul is comparable to Tokyo, but grittier and about half the price.
A visit to the Demilitarized Zone further proved my theory about the military, originally formulated in Iraq: the closer you are to actual hostility being a reality, the less the servicemembers are concerned about bureaucratic nonsense. Not getting shot is what matters.
If offered a choice between a simple rice roll and a piece of pig’s head, choose the pig’s head. The “safe” choice is the one that will give you food poisoning.
I always had the feeling in mainland Japan that I was inadvertently breaking a social custom that made me a heathen foreigner. Somehow, walking and drinking water at the same time means seppuku to avenge one’s ancestors. I don’t get that feeling here. Next to soccer, baseball, the national sport seems to be loogie-hocking. They take their sidewalk spitting very seriously.
Keep a phrase book handy so you can translate the words under plates of tasty looking food. That way, you won’t be surprised to find out that “booldak” means “fire chicken.”

I’ll try to update this thing a little more in the future. Let's shoot for once a week.
Here are a few stories of interest:

Camp Bonifas soldiers find fellowship at a tense border

Army considers action against slashed Seoul American senior

Ok, I've been slacking

2005-11-17T10:56:00.000-05:00

For those of you still checking in, I apologize. I think I'm just getting back to normal after a few weeks out. It's tough to find the same sense of urgency to write at length when you're not being shot at.

Okinawa is an odd little tropical island full of people who vaguely associate with Japan. It also has about 50,000 Americans tied to the military. I'm taking pictures to post this weekend.

Until then, here's the main part of a 4-story package on how the U.S. can better protect its men and women in the turret:
Humvee gunners set sights on new shield

Coming soon

2005-11-10T07:53:00.000-05:00

Hello all,
I've been taking a little break from the blog posts while taking a little break from reality.
In the meantime, I've covered three continents or so at a ridiculous pace. I'm now in Okinawa, Japan.
I'll be updating with a longer account on Sunday.

Out of the frying pan for a while

2005-11-01T15:41:00.000-05:00

Getting off a windowless cargo plane and seeing something other than Iraq is a difficult feeling to describe. It's fall in heavily forested Central Germany, and the leaves are all kinds of colors not found in places like Tikrit or Samarra. This being Europe, it was gray and rainy -- a welcome change from the usually cloudless desert skies.

I walked off the runway and gazed at the mountains surrounding Ramstein Air Base. I wanted to kiss the ground. After clearing customs, I noticed all kinds of little things as I stared at Western civilization with appreciation and gratitude.

Then I pigged out at the biggest buffet I could find. Life was good.

There is a lot more to say, including a side trip to England and a story on Humvee gunners that is probably rankling some brass at the Pentagon -- unfortunately, my Internet time is short here. Tomorrow I fly to Tokyo via Chicago -- an extra 11 hours or so of flying than necessary, thanks to government regulations that I'm sure somebody somewhere understands. Sometime around Hour 20 of the flight, I'll be ready to strangle that guy. But I guess that's why they came up with free booze on international flights.

Light at the end

2005-10-26T11:58:00.000-04:00

When two more of our fresh reporters piled into Iraq last week, I officially became redundant.

Fortunately, this does not mean that I will be thrown from a Humvee and left at the nearest sand dune. It means I’m a few steps closer to my current home base in Okinawa, Japan.

It took several days to catch the right flights into Tikrit, so I counted on the same long waits and seemingly endless transfers. I called the helicopter terminal to check on flights and received a surprise:
“We can get you on a Chinook, but it leaves in 45 minutes.”

No flight in the history of military aviation has ever left at the exact time scheduled. The only question was whether it was going to be early, or late. I grabbed my still-drying khaki pants and all other belongings, stuffed them in my rucksack, threw on the helmet and armor and caught a ride to the helo pad.

When I arrived, a fresh unit of 101st Airborne soldiers were waiting for their flight. The 101 is taking over command of the north central AO (area of operations) next month, an area about the size of Maryland. They’re taking over from the 42nd Infantry Division, which is actually a New York National Guard division.

The 101st guys are easy to spot, since they’re all wearing the hip new digital camouflage uniforms, which are predominantly green. This is great if you want to resemble a computer-rendered desert tree. I think they came up with it out of rivalry with the Marines, who have also have a digital pattern. Of course, the Marine Unies actually match the desert.

A couple dozen of the 101s would join me on my flight, which was late. The Chinook is an odd-looking chopper with twin rotor blades. The sergeant I spoke with who once crew chiefed a Chinook used less than flattering terms to describe its capabilities.
“I’d quit before crewing another S@#!hook,” he said.

We took off at nightfall and stopped at three bases during the 2-hour flight. I’ve flown on several aircraft in the course of my job, including some deep-diving search and rescue choppers. This was the first one where I could feel yesterday’s lunch screaming to rise up and reintroduce itself. I closed my eyes and tried to think about anything else…

“You know, Achmed, I wish we had one of those funny looking helicopters.”
“Yes, Habib.”
“You think the Americans would trade it to us for the Kia we have on blocks? The dash is like new.”
“I don’t think they will do that, Habib.”
“Why not? They gave $40,000 to a man who sent his kids in Samarra to pick up trash.”
“Yes, well…Habib, you might finally be on to something.”

I arrived on the ground, stomach intact, at Balad Air Base/Logistics Support Area Anaconda. If you’ve been anywhere recently without much in the way of comforts, Balad is a shock. They have multiple chow halls, fast food restaurants everywhere and more square miles than Washington, D.C. They have six bus lines running through the base. I found a bus to take me to the air terminal, and the Filipino driver immediately began bartering with me.
“Do you like DVDs? Do you have anything you don’t need? Maybe some Army pants?”

***
I made it to the terminal and figured I’d just ask when the next flight to Ramstein Air Base left, then find a bunk.
It was listed to leave in less than two hours.

I set my expectations low; it was a medevac flight, and those rarely took passengers. I waited in the terminal and grabbed an MRE. Some sort of chicken, with a side of peanut butter and bread. It sustains you, even if it does make your pee smell funny.

I was booked for the flight at 11 p.m., and cleared customs be dumping everything out of my bags at 11:45 p.m.

As I said, military flights never leave on time. I lied down on a wooden bench until about 4 a.m., when the flight left.

I sat next to an Air Force reservist who had spent three months at Q-West, a base way out in the northern desert where nothing ever really happens. She carried an M-16 as required, but she had never fired it. Air Force folks don’t normally use weapons anyway.

“My friends back home say I make Iraq sound like it's fun,” she said with a little Chicago grit in her voice. “We used to explore all the old buildings that Saddam’s Air Force hadn’t cleared out. We’d have a few socials. The PX wasn’t bad.”

On the other side of the C-17 Globemaster Cargo plane laid three stretchers. One Marine looked OK; two others had breathing tubes stuck down their throats. I couldn’t see much but the medical equipment surrounding them, but their discolored, swollen feet stuck out from under the blankets.

The difference between the Fobbits and the Marines in Western Iraq (see last entry) had never contrasted so deeply as in that moment.
More to come …

2005-10-22T17:27:00.000-04:00

Even in the middle of nowhere, Lt. Rob and Sgt. John show that civilization exists.

The average day

2005-10-22T10:51:00.000-04:00

I've been traveling a lot this past week, so I haven't had much time to write. I did speak with a reader who asked me to describe what the average “day in the life” was like in Iraq.

Since I’m constantly moving around, I don’t have much of a routine. But a lot of servicemembers do – especially the ones known as “Fobbits.”

Fobbits spend their days “inside the wire” and relative safety of the Forward Operating Base. Some of the more gung-ho types make fun of them. But they need Fobbits. A lot of support work has to be done, from equipment maintenance to handling the vast paperwork bureaucracy.

For Fobbits based far from the fighting, the days blend together. They might occasionally hear a boom somewhere. At the remote bases, life isn’t much different than on any other U.S. military base in the world. You go to the office, you eat, maybe you visit the post exchange and buy a DVD.

Then there are the folks out in daily convoys, patrolling the streets and raiding suspected insurgent targets. These men and women don’t have average days. To illustrate the difference, here are some complaints out of the Stars and Stripes letters to the editor section from Fobbits:
“I am writing to protest the gym hours. It used to open at 5 a.m., but now it only opens that early for officer and sergeant majors. That isn’t fair.”
“Why do the guards at the main entry point stand for sergeants major? If you’re going to stand for them, you should stand for lieutenants too.”
“The food at the main chow hall was better last year.”

The folks outside the wire are a bit more to the point about their complaints. It’s usually something along the lines of, “Hand me a bandage, I’m bleeding.”
A more philosophical complaint might be, “We’ve had four IEDs on this trip, and now we’re getting small arms fire? Did they think they didn’t have our attention?”

The soldiers who spend their time off base sometimes forget that Fobbits are the ones who keep the trucks running, the guns working and make sure the gunners have hot food when they come back to base. The Fobbits sometimes forget how good they have it in comparison.

Personally, I’ve tried to strike a balance. You cannot tell a complete story of Iraq’s servicemembers by staying inside the wire all of the time, nor can you tell it if you’re wrapped in a full body cast.

2005-10-17T04:25:00.000-04:00

An Iraqi voter dips her finger in indelible ink as a fraud countermeasure. Never mind that the ink lasts for 8 hours and the polls were open for 10 hours.

We've voted, now what?

2005-10-17T04:15:00.000-04:00

Two milestones were achieved during the past few days in the Middle East: the Iraqi people cast their ballots in their first constitutional referendum, and I got up early two days in a row.

Around 10 p.m. Thursday, Lieutenant Rob shows up at my “choo,” a half-trailer surrounded by sandbags.
“We got you a ride, Erik,” he said. “You’ll be leaving from the helicopter pad at 5. Link up with a Captain Burnett.”
Good, I thought. I’ll be leaving a base on the edge of Samarra, aka Hell, and returning to the relatively comfortable confines of one of Saddam’s renovated former air bases. I’ll even be able to sleep late.
Wait a minute. Military folks don’t say 5 p.m. They say 1700, 17. If they say 5…
“Ok, Rob, I’ll see you then.”
“Actually, I’ll be sleeping in. Have a good ‘un.”

I should probably explain that a flight or convoy scheduled for 0500 never actually leaves at 0500, or any other listed time. You have your “show-up time,” which is between 20 minutes and two hours before the listed time. Then you usually wait for 30 minutes to four hours after the listed time. It’s all part of the military’s patented “Hurry up and wait” program.

Since Lt. Rob swung by around 10 p.m. and I had to be there at 4:30 a.m., that meant six hours of sleep, minus 30 minutes for packing and cleaning up. Or so it seemed at the time.

At 11 p.m., the artillery began firing. The first shot is the startling one, but only for a split second. If it’s a really loud boom without any noise afterward, it’s outgoing. It’s the soft boom with a “pfft” afterward, that means it’s incoming. Even then, you don’t really worry about it unless it’s close, and fortunately, the insurgents don’t have much grasp of trigonometry.

Boom. The second round of artillery fires, further confirming that it’s outgoing. The startle factor is way down, and continues downward with each round to the point that your hear rate stays about the same. There are people who get so used to it that they can sleep through several rounds of artillery fire. Unfortunately, I am not one of them.

The trip back to cushy Forward Operating Base Speicher was therefore groggy, but uneventful. I spent most of the next day relaxing for the first time all week. Little things like a spring mattress, clean showers and a library at your disposal become wonderful luxuries when you’re living mostly in desert tents.

So it was in this content, if tired state, that Maj. Bethany sees me and says, “Good news, we got you a ride to the provincial elections office tomorrow. We’ll be leaving shortly before 0400.”

For most other stories, I would laugh and tell them go to enjoy themselves. But the Iraqis were voting on their constitution, and it would be a toughie to tell my editors that I had no idea what happened because it was sleepytime. So at 0330, I put on my IBA (Army slang for individual body armor), my helmet, my backpack with 25 lbs. of electronics equipment, grabbed a compression bag with a sleep sack and one night’s worth of clothing and hoofed it to the staging area.

True to the “Hurry up and wait” formula, we arrived at the elections office at 0700. By 9 a.m., the voting numbers in the Sunni-dominated Salah Ad Din province looked strong. Remarkably strong. But an Army lieutenant colonel reassured my skepticism.

“Would I say these numbers are 100% accurate? No. But would I say that these numbers are 95% accurate? Umm, no, I wouldn’t say that either.”

He did show me photos from a UAV (expensive remote control plane) that showed lines out the door at some polling booths, which was reassuring. Of course, I couldn’t take the Army’s word for it without seeing it for myself.

The folks with the 2^nd Battalion, 7^th Infantry Regiment were more interested in taking the South African centerfold model posing as a CBS reporter out for a spin to the polls, but they found a tiny corner in a Humvee for me too. The CBS woman and a battalion’s worth of Humvees roared off in one direction, and my smaller detail went to a different spot.

***

It was a hotter day than usual. The streets were nearly empty of traffic, thanks to roadblocks throughout the country. People were walking to a large, renovated school to vote. Several children spotted my camera. They began hamming it up, happy to have their picture taken. It’s only their fathers who get skittish around photographers.

The troops set up in position behind some barbed wire 100 yards from the polling spot. They were barred from the site to make the referendum look more Iraqi. I went to the station with an Army interpreter, and was promptly told by an elections worker that only one site in Tikrit was open to the media. We walked back to the officer in charge and told him which site was open. He was not pleased.

“I’m responsible for your security,” Captain John said. “If we go there, and something happens to you, it falls on me. I can’t guarantee your safety there…it’s probably the least safe site in the city.”

Fortunately, Captain John had an Iraqi general on speed dial. Amazing how that can clear the way. So after 10 minutes of arguing back that at the original polling station, I was in. It took another 10 minutes of arguing to get permission to take pictures, under the condition that I ask voters if it was OK. We walked into a small classroom with about a dozen voters lining up to sign their names on a registry, then collect their “yes” or “no” ballot.

Nearly all of them men refused to have their picture taken. I wasn’t sure how to shout, “wussy boys” in Arabic, but I wanted to, although in retrospect this probably would have been a bad idea:
“Achmed, did he just call us what I think he called us?”
“Yes, Habib. He called us wussy boys.”
“Achmed, do you think a black bag over his head would be a good fashion accessory for him?”
“Yes, Habib. Maybe something in burlap.”
“Or maybe on of those new burlap/poly blends. Everybody’s raving about them.”

Fortunately, my photographic savior appeared in the form of a large woman in black, who I have affectionately nicknamed, “Big Mama.” Seeing the anxiety in the men’s faces, she waved me over as she grabbed a ballot. The men demurred. She was fine with pictures, names, anything I needed. Was she scared? No way. Men here usually get uptight when you try to take pictures of “their women.” But it was obvious to me that no one in their right mind messed with Big Mama.

Story:

In Saddam's hometown, citizens have their say

2005-10-13T14:32:00.000-04:00

Samarra -- umm, no longer a vacation paradise.

2005-10-13T14:31:00.000-04:00

Everyone in Samarra is a tough guy. The kid greeted us with, "Yo, what's up!" in English.

On the road again

2005-10-13T14:23:00.000-04:00

Some people would rather walk outside during an artillery barrage than sit through an American Forces Network commercial break.

They’ll usually play back-to-back commercials along the lines of “A good soldier is a heart-smart soldier!” followed by “Baskin Robbins, now available at a base near you!”

I can live through life’s little hypocrisies. Boredom is what drives me out of perfectly comfortable surroundings and into destinations that wouldn’t be any fun even if they did have real toilets. It’s what put me in a Humvee bound for Samarra, one of the least desirable places to live on earth at the moment.

I took this one-hour jaunt in a much safer vehicle than the aforementioned Old Yeller (see the ‘Road tripping with Bart’ entry). It was nice to have a seat belt and windows without cracks. However, it didn’t inspire confidence when the gunner started asking First Sergeant Reg, who sat in the front passenger seat, “What if the cars don’t stop when we pull out? What if this and that and….”

The driver looked equally experienced. I think he was 12.

Gate traffic delayed our trip long enough for the sun to set. Once on the road, we drove fast enough to come within 100 feet of the tail vehicle of another convoy. When Iraqi vehicles do this at night, bad things happen.

“Gunner, flash the light! Let him know we’re American!” yelled Sergeant Reg.

Yes, gunner, please let him know we’re American. I’d like to take a nap back here and I can’t do that during a .50 caliber firefight with another Humvee.

We were successfully identified, but not moving fast enough for Sergeant Reg.

“Cut around them,” he told the driver.

We drove over the sandy median and to the opposite lanes of the four-lane highway. The fact that cars were traveling toward us did not seem to bother Sergeant Reg. Sure enough, they all veered while we passed a 40-vehicle convoy of Humvees.

Despite the unorthodox travel, I made it to a base outside Samarra and slept the night. I won’t bore you with too many details about the next day, mostly because I’m tired right now. But by Friday morning U.S. time, the story will be on Stripes.com. I’ll put a link here to the story when it posts...Vote will be a decisive point for Samarrans

I spent most of the day in the Green Zone (there isn’t anything green there, but they call it that anyway) in a 4-hour meeting with a bunch of local politicians, Iraqi generals and a few random Americans.

For most of the meeting, I was too far away from the Arabic translator to have any idea what they were saying. I got so bored that I considered pulling out my pocket Texas Hold ‘Em electronic game. I play the game on mute, but sometimes the game resets and the sound comes back.

Not knowing what they were saying, I didn’t want to interrupt some major strategic plan against Zarqawi’s Al Qaeda forces with a computer voice saying, “Welcome to the World Series of Poker!” followed by tinny drumbeats. I don’t think Iraqis generals play much poker.

When I got out of the room, I did meet a translator outside talking to some soldiers. He was a 17-year-old kid who taught us to greet Iraqis by saying, “Elefah tafah,” which means, “1,000 apples.” I believe that we too should greet each other by yelling out random numbers of fruit.
“Morning, Bob! 1,200 peaches.”
“Thanks, Doug. How’s the wife? 50 cumquats right back at ya.”
“She’s doing great, Bob. Watermelon.”

The translator also taught us how to say, “You suck” two different ways, along with, “This place sucks” and “We all volunteered for this. Damn, we’re stupid.” I’m sure we could have learned more useful things to say, but this is what you get when you hire a 17-year-old translator.

He then showed us a cartoon clip on his cell phone of George W. Bush ranting in Arabic about beating Saddam. Even in Arabic, Dubya has a high-pitched Texas accent.

Stories:
Information, access may hinder Iraqi rural voters

2005-10-09T08:36:00.000-04:00

The next time you complain about needing a bigger house, just be thankful.

2005-10-09T08:35:00.000-04:00

Hanging out in the crib with the Hussain brothers. Most Iraqi homes don't have couches. But they do have satellite dishes. I guess everyone has their priorities.

2005-10-09T08:31:00.000-04:00

For some reason, a lot of the kids are taught to look serious in pictures. This guy cut loose.

2005-10-09T08:28:00.000-04:00

Our interpreter reaches for dates from a palm tree in rural north central Iraq.

Give me liberty, or give me tile flooring

2005-10-09T08:17:00.000-04:00

There are some advantages to living in a mud hut.

Feel free to walk around the kitchen in muddy boots, because all you’re doing is reinforcing the floor. You save a lot on Pine-Sol and paint. Should the home ever need repairs, all you need is a bucket of water and a clump of sand.

Other than that, living in a mud hut sucks. Fortunately, most of the farmers living in the rural desert between Tikrit and Bayji have upgraded from mud to concrete. The rooms are tiny and the furniture consists of traditional rugs and a couple of pillows, but it’s better than mud.

Despite their humble means, the local farmers can be generous and welcoming. Granted, some of them actively support insurgents who are trying to kill you, but at least they have the decency to offer you watermelon and Chai tea. They’ll feed you, but they won’t eat anything. It’s Ramadan, when Muslims abstain from food and drink until sundown. They are also supposed to abstain from sex and impure thoughts.

I’m not sure what the Hussain (note the ‘a’) brothers were watching on their satellite TV hookup Friday, but I’d say it probably conjured an impure thought or two. Lt. Blaine from Idaho, several members of the Puerto Rican National Guard and I pulled up a rug and spoke with Ali and Barzad. I asked them about the constitutional referendum coming up on Oct. 15. You know, the one the United States is hoping will unite the Iraqi people and serve as a shining beacon of democracy in the part of the world where blah blah blah…
“We haven’t seen it,” Ali said.
Ok, so you don’t have a copy. What have you heard about it?
“We don’t know what’s in it.”
Our interpreter, an Iraqi-American nicknamed “Nick McKurd,” doubts them.
“A lot of them don’t want to tell you when they disagree with the constitution, so they only tell you what they think you want to hear. They don’t want to offend you. But I get this same satellite TV service, and I know they’ve been talking about all the points in the constitution, the good, the bad…”
Nick confronts Ali in Arabic for a few minutes.
“He says they must have been watching other channels,” Nick said.

I’m sure they were. While I was there, they were watching a blue-eyed bellydancer who looked like she was performing on some sort of Middle Eastern American Idol knock-off.
Alright, um, do you plan to participate on Oct. 15?
“Oh yes, we plan to participate. Except we don’t know where the polling places are. And there is a curfew, we don’t know when. We hear that we are not allowed to drive that day.”

There will be a curfew from Oct. 13-17, 10 p.m. to 7 a.m. Traffic will be restricted in the city centers. Voters from rural areas are being asked to park at the outskirts and walk.
I talked to several others like the Hussain brothers who knew little about the constitution. When you asked them what they wanted in the document, nobody talked about systems of checks and balances. They want peace, security and enough natural gas to power their homes.

I did speak to one guy, Hamid, who said he knew about the constitution. He lived in a large concrete house with thin pillars supporting a covered porch. A tract of fresh-cut grass stretched across the front yard. Several trees provided shade, including a palm tree with dozens of still-ripening yellow dates.
“This guy was a Baathist,” Nick said. “You don’t get a house like this out here without having some connections.”
Roving behind Hamid was a young man in a white gown with a long, black beard. Lt. Blaine didn’t like him at all. “Looks like your campus radical type,” he said.
I questioned Hamid to see how much he really knew about the constitution. It turned out he knew about as much as everyone else, not that the details mattered to him.
“I don’t trust the guys who wrote it,” he said. “And yes, I’ll vote.”

So it appears that in the midst of a crucial vote, some people won’t show at the polls and many others will make decisions based on personality instead of policy. Sound familiar? And you thought they hadn’t learned anything about the American political process.

Stories:
Free press is a foreign concept in new Iraq
Forces plan election security in Sunni Triangle

Be safe, buy an Iraqi Freedom T-shirt

2005-10-05T18:44:00.000-04:00

I saw the new civilian Army safety officer at my current location today. He is, of course, incredibly dangerous.

This should not surprise anyone acquainted with Army logic, which dictates that some jobs be given out to people on the premise that they either perplex or humor other soldiers, thereby distracting them from their difficult mission. This in turn boosts morale, assuming no one gets hurt.

Eager to make a big safety impact, the safety officer grabbed a ladder and climbed up to a light fixture with a burnt bulb. The safety officer is not a small man. The locally bought ladder was well aware of this, as much as an inanimate object can be aware of anything. As he climbed the top steps, the ladder bowed under his weight. Several people noticed, but no one was quite sure how to tell the safety officer. As a rule of thumb, if you can’t tell someone that they are engaging in risky behavior on a base, you report it. The report would then be forwarded to … the safety officer. He could then forward the matter to a pile of paperwork to a higher up safety officer, who would review the report, say, about the time the U.S. is ready to remove Saddam Hussein’s great-grandniece from power.

The safety officer’s next move was to ask Sergeant 1^st Class Mike about the fire extinguishers. “Why weren’t they in boxes? We need to make boxes. The regulation states that each fire extinguisher shall be mounted on the wall in a box.”

SFC Mike pointed out that this would require taking several soldiers off duty to make fire extinguisher boxes. Some of these soldiers were rather busy with trivial pursuits, like watching the perimeter for insurgent attacks on the first day of Ramadan – a time when jihadists believe they will go to a special place in heaven as a reward for martyrdom.

“I told him that actually, the regulation doesn’t require boxes,” Mike said. “It says the fire extinguishers should be placed in boxes if they are available. In the absence of boxes, a sign at eye level should be placed on walls, with arrows pointing to the fire extinguishers.”

Paper signs were made, and the safety officer left in a huff. Times like these, I begin to wonder if I’m about to run into Heller's Major Major Major Major. Rule pushers like the safety officer are actually a time-honored tradition in the army. It’s something new that makes me wonder if I’ve crossed into the twilight zone. We’ve turned a war zone into Your Official Operation Iraqi Freedom Shopping Destination.

Most bases both stateside and abroad have a PX, or post exchange, where servicemembers and other base denizens can purchase tax-free stuff they would find at retail stores. Most PX’s in Iraq resemble a 7-11, adding special forces knives and subtracting the Slurpees.

The PX on Camp Liberty near Baghdad resembles a Wal-Mart. Shoppers can buy digital camcorders, books and furniture. They can buy music, and not just those $2.99 tapes you find at truck stops in Alabama. I considered purchasing a collection of rare hits by The Animals.

The most striking items are the ones that market the war as something like a tourist attraction. You can buy Hard Rock Cafe, Baghdad (under new management) mugs; "Happiness is Iraq in My Rear View Mirror” hats; and what war souvenir collection would be complete without a “Naked Camel Watching Team” T-shirt? Each of these items comes in a variety of sizes to fit the whole family.

The 101^st Airborne, the same folks from “Band of Brothers,” will be taking over command of the north-central area of operation, a place the size of Maryland. I’m imagining going back in time to Bastogne in 1944, with Rangers pinned down in the snow, surrounded by enemy gunfire.

“Hi, guys. In 60 years, your division will be at war again, except they’ll be shopping for ‘Don’t Make Me Open This Can of Whoop Ass’ T-shirts inside an air-conditioned, portable battlefield superstore. In between, they’ll be rounding up people who believe that God will grant them 40 virgins in heaven if they blow themselves to smithereens.”

To think, all I wanted to buy when I got here was some Saddam money from a kid outside the base with a pimped-out tricycle.

Corrections

2005-10-04T08:34:00.000-04:00

I've corrected a few things in the last post after some sweet, blessed sleep -- should make it more readable.

May I speak to the concierge?

2005-10-02T11:12:00.000-04:00

It’s easy for people to question their sanity before choosing to come to Iraq.
Given a choice between 1. Traveling to a war zone, or 2. Doing just about anything else, most people choose the latter.

Society will never judge anyone as crazy for not going to Iraq. Those who choose to go do the “Am I crazy?” self-examination at the terminal, on the flight and during the first night’s stay. After that, the absurdity of the situation takes over. You never ask yourself if something you’re doing in Iraq is crazy because, well, everything here is nuts.

This is why my sanity alarm never went off when I gave up the first private room with a clean shower I’ve had since arriving in Iraq, for the opportunity to experience luxury accommodations at the Abu Ghraib detention facility (slogan – you’ll come for the jihad, but you’ll stay for the 24-hour Photo Mart.)

No, I was not an inmate; although some of the guards probably would have happily dragged me around in a dog collar and pointed at unkosher places while smoking a cigarette – but you have to pay extra for that kind of treatment.

I stayed at a nearby location and toured the prison during a massive prisoner release that U.S. and Iraqi officials consider a conciliatory gesture ahead of Ramadan. The official thinking is thus, provided by Iraq’s deputy prime minister: “These people are messengers of the good treatment they have received here. This release will build bridges of understanding between the coalition and different Iraqi groups.”

This is partially true. U.S. servicemembers expect a flurry of “messages of understanding” before the Oct. 15 constitutional referendum, most of which will drop out of the sky and explode. A few more care packages will be placed alongside the road, a token of appreciation for their “good treatment.”

The official line from the U.S. government was also handcrafted by the Pentagon in Bizarroworld. Review boards have determined that none of the 900 or so prisoners released were guilty of any violent crimes, according to the top brass. Meanwhile, one soldier told me that about a week ago, a guy they accidentally released was actually a sniper with three confirmed kills. And while the U.S. does pick up a lot of people in sweeps that probably aren’t guilty of anything, many get released from local detention facilities before being transported to places like Abu Ghraib.

Many people who first visit Abu Ghraib are surprised. They imagine a fortified concrete compound, or something that looks like a modern prison. It’s actually a lot of tents, gates and barbed wire sprawling over 280 acres of dirt. Most of the prisoners share tents. Others are in reasonably spacious accommodations that still amount to cages.

When a reporter asked about prisoner treatment, the Iraqi deputy prime minister said, “Prison isn’t supposed to be fun. Have you been in a prison? I’ve been in prison for political reasons. It wasn’t fun.”

Many of the detainees are well aware of the focus brought by Lynndie England and company on the prison. They will walk around with their Korans in hand and shoes off. The juvenile detainees will shout, “I want to go to school! We are missing school!” in Arabic to passing reporters, as if 15-year-olds in any nation on earth actually want to go to school. I can’t imagine any of their parents putting, “My son made the honor roll at Abu Ghraib detention facility” bumper stickers on their cars.

The prisoners also act differently whenever an Islamic cleric gets detained, a military policeman told me Saturday.
“The prisoners don’t like the halal food because it’s too bland. They ask us for our MREs.”
For the non-military folks, MREs are meals-ready-to-eat, chemically heated food in a bag that stores for several years.
“When an imam gets arrested,” he said, “suddenly everyone is praying five times a day. It stops again when the imam leaves.
“A lot of Iraqis are like that. They act one way when we’re around, because they know we’ve got the money to support them and they don’t want to offend us. But once we leave, they go back to their old ways 20 seconds later. If we leave the country, that’s exactly what they’re going to do.”

If this country is ever going to join the 21st Century, it will be the doing of a select upper-middle class that decided it’s in their best interests, much like the American revolution. Otherwise, all of the U.S. prodding in the world won’t make a difference. Because after a while, the folks who are asked to come back to Iraq won’t bother asking themselves the sanity question. They’ll pop open a beer, turn on a football game and stay home. Who could blame them?

2005-10-02T08:12:00.000-04:00

Prisoners from Abu Ghraib await their release Saturday.

Road trippin' with Bart

2005-09-29T18:38:00.001-04:00

The road from Tikrit to Forward Operating Base Speicher begins with a bullet-marked concrete sign adorned with flowers and a message: “Wellcome to Tikrit.” The misspelling surprises no one who has attempted to communicate with most of Iraq's English-Arabic interpreters.

This stretch is relatively free of IEDs, otherwise known as roadside bombs. Part of the reason is that the highway is well-paved and girdered. It’s a lot harder to hide a bomb with nothing to camouflage it. Oh sure, the occasional dead sheep with wires sticking out of it shows up on the highway, but show me an American town where that doesn’t happen.

The journey to Speicher was led by the intrepid Major “Bart,” who everyone agreed should not drive. Bart wears fairly thick glasses and does not recognize any difference between pavement and sidewalk. In fact, any hard surface is considered fair game.

We would be riding in a five-vehicle convoy. Since we were the only vehicle without a gunner, we rode in the middle. We were in the only vehicle without a lot of other things, including uncracked glass, seatbelts and, naturally, any more than a few centimeters of cushioning against the bare metal under our bottoms.

The vehicle, a Humvee of sorts, sounds like it drags something under its tires wherever it went. I nicknamed it “Old Yeller,” thinking the term resembled both the paint job and its state of existence.

If you know anything about Army logic, then by now you also know that Major Bart wound up driving.
“We’ll be there in no time, guys!” said Major Bart, each of us hoping to avoid crashing into any sand dunes on the way.

We drove beyond the base barricades and rode through the “downtown” district. Shops made of wood, concrete and any other scavengable material lined each side. Some were stacked on top of each other. They sold lots of random items, with one display cart outside featuring a vacuum cleaner, a carving block and what appeared to be a stack of doilies. Whenever I see a doily, I’ll think of Iraq.

We were about five minutes outside of town when Major Rob, in the backseat, shouted “Bump!”
Major Bart sped along happily.
“BUMP!” Rob shouted.
Major Bart kept moving along. I saw the speed bump sign coming in 5, 4, 3….
“BUMP!” I shouted, and Major Bart slammed on the brakes. I could feel Old Yeller straining to keep it together.
Major Rob looked pained. It turned out his seat was completely devoid of cushioning, and a bit jagged. He may need a hemorrhoid pillow from now on.

Old Yeller took a slight scrape from the concrete barrier leading to FOB Speicher, but Major Bart kept his promise: he got us there fast. When I arrived, I was shown to a shower so clean, I scrubbed up without wearing flip-flops for the first time since arriving in country. Little luxuries like that are worth a lot around here.

Tomorrow I’ll be headed somewhere you’ve all heard of; need a clue? Close your eyes and think of England.

Stories:
Draft Iraqi constitution an issue for Sunnis
Iraqi general gives public an ear, officials an earful
Army teaching Iraqis to handle administrative task
Army lieutenant sees husband’s boxing win turn sorrowful

Sticking with the fruit

2005-09-26T19:27:00.000-04:00

I stood at a lunchroom table in a room designated for generals and a provincial governor today. I never sat down.

The Iraqi custom is that if there aren’t enough chairs for everyone to sit, then everyone eats standing up.
I didn’t mind this too much, since we would be eating “finger food.” No, we were not eating hors d’oeuvres. We were eating large chunks of lamb on a bed of rice from communal plates. We were given a thin tissue, a spoon and no dish. Sensing my trepidation, an Iraqi translator asked if it was OK with me if he used his hands. I smiled politely. He got the message and used a combination of the spoon and some flatbread to pick at the lamb.

An Iraqi policeman jumped between us and began eating the old fashioned way. He dug half of his hand into the rice and went to town. I think he polished off two or three lambs on his own, picking and pulling until the bones fell apart in a heaping mass.
I had a light lunch. The figs were really good.

The occasion for the lunch was a visit to the Provincial Joint Communication Center, or PJCC. The center is sort of a roll-your-own 911 hotline, army base, security center and elections commission rolled into one. Today, they simulated the upcoming Oct. 15 referendum, complete with response to riots all over Salah-ad-Din province.

Anyway, a couple of army brigadier generals decide to walk in, which never does anything to an exercise but delay it while someone explains to the generals in simplistic terms what is happening. They smile, give everyone an “attaboy” and move on. The provincial governor and assorted high falutin’ Iraqis were there to receive them as well, since they had all participated in a mock press conference earlier. I, of course, caught wind of the mock conference and turned it into a very real press conference, but that’s a story for another day.

The dignitaries gathered in the ranking Iraqi general’s office, although the governor claimed the general’s chair. The office was about as tasteful as, well, the guy who stuck his hands in the rice.

A picture of something vaguely resembling a Chinese dragon hung in the corner. Crimson and gold baroque chairs lined the far side wall, with several more and two 70s romper room couches on the other side. Above the couches was some sort of tropical beach scene wallpaper, warped in the middle and at the edges. The desk and an Iraqi flag sat facing the audience as well as a television with a picture on top of, who else – himself.

“This is what a governor’s office should look like!” remarked one American general, who either has equally bad taste or subscribes to the “always say the opposite of what you’re thinking” school of diplomacy.

No one said anything of consequence. One general recommended that the governor begin building golf courses to bring in tourists. Sure, I can see that going over well with the average local.

“I have an idea!”
“What is it, Habib?”
“You know how we live in a mud hut?”
“Yes, Habib.”
“And you know how we own nothing but livestock and dirt?
“Yes, Habib.”
“You know, thousand of acres of scorched, barren dirt?”
“I know, Habib, lots of dirt.”
“Well, why don’t we take our limited resources and plant grass, so rich people can get sunburns while walking around in hideous orange shirts and baggy pants!”
“This is a great idea, Habib.”
“Yes! That way, all of the dirty water we use to sustain our meager existence will be used on greenskeeping! It is perfect!”

I'm thinking Iraq has a ways to go before it becomes the next world golf resort destination.

2005-09-25T12:37:00.000-04:00

Spc. Soto del Puerto Rico, keeping the Humvee secure. Try telling her women don't belong on the front lines.

I passed on the $5 rolex

2005-09-24T23:51:00.000-04:00

You wouldn’t expect to find a Michael Moore book lying around a forward operating base in Iraq.

Moore has gone after George W. Bush with such venom that even people who have opposed the war from the start wish he’d tone it down a bit. The sergeant who was reading, “Dude, Where’s My Country?” is on his third tour, and is counting the days until he can get back to his base in Germany.

“I think we should get out of here,” he says, flatly.

He is justifiably sick of his current lifestyle. Of course, everyone who has been deployed for almost a year is tired of being in this country. But despite the endless expanses of dirt and lack of beer (except for this non-alcoholic “Becker’s” swill), not everyone thinks the U.S. should pull out.

I haven’t met anyone yet who believes that Iraq is going to be a "model of democracy and beacon of hope for the Middle East." Well, except for one guy, whose head is the exact shape of his helmet, right down to the raised browridge in front.

The feeling I get is that most soldiers want the Iraqis to be able to secure the country on their own. Even if by “securing,” they mean occassionally, “arresting that guy because he bought a N.Y. Yankees hat from a guy who once looked at my sister's ankle with longing desire.” Given another year of army building, some believe the Iraqis will passably succeed. They're not saying that the Iraqi army will rise to U.S. standards. There is a quote attributed to Lawrence of Arabia clipped to the makeshift wall next to a U.S. intelligence adviser’s desk here that sums up their philosophy:
“Better the Arabs do it tolerably than you do it perfectly.”

They know they’re not creating the 82^nd Airborne here. They’re just trying to create something that will stick before they leave.

I went over to this base’s version of a Base Exchange today. It’s a trailer featuring the best that a couple of fortunate Iraqi merchants have to offer. You can get several first-run DVDs here in mass quantity, for about $6 apiece. This price actually has some people steamed, since at some other bases you can get them for $2. In Iraq, you could buy a few thousand acres of land for what you make of a day of $6 DVD sales. That’s an awful lot of baked dirt.

In comparison, Iraqi soldiers used to make about $4 every month (it’s about $400 now). Along with the DVDs, they sold nothing but the finest "Havena" cigars and a wide variety of Rolex watches.
"It sounds good, yes? Ticks loud, like time bomb."
I think I'll pass, thanks. The only item I saw of real interest was some Saddam money.

Not much doing around here otherwise. Tomorrow should be more interesting. The Iraqi Army will be taking instruction from a female sergeant first class. I guarantee they’ve never seen anything like her in their lives. I’ll bring the camera.

Story: http://www.stripes.com/article.asp?article=31762&section=104

Everybody gets a cut

2005-09-23T00:29:00.000-04:00

Hello all,

I watched six dishdasha-clad sheiks, a political operative and a guy named Habib rat out two Iraqi Army officers today.
I didn’t understand much of the conversation, since unlike in the movies, people of the world don’t distinguish their ethnicity by speaking English with a foreign accent. However, the word “mafia” came up several times.
I was interviewing a Kurdish general in Saddam’s hometown when the sheiks showed up outside. Through my interpreter, the general explained that the local sheiks like to just show up outside without an appointment and expect a prompt audience. The general always says yes, since it was these guys who kept the Baathists from whacking him when he got to town. You see, the general made some sharp comments about Arabs gassing his people once upon a time, and the locals -- including a few hundred of Saddam’s cousins -- though he might take revenge (he didn’t).
The sheiks come in to complain about the mafia stealing gasoline, which doesn’t leave enough for poor little farmers with 45 wives like the honest, hardworking sheiks. They blamed it all on a captain and a colonel in the Iraqi Army. Noting my presence, along with a U.S. colonel, they let it slip that the captain in question was once Saddam’s house servant. The colonel was his uncle, they said.
The general thanked them, and the sheiks all looked like they felt better. Then came two more guys dressed in modern clothing – the label on one guy’s shirt said “Middle Eastern Man” in English. Apparently, it’s the Kenneth Cole of Iraq. One introduced himself as a teacher, and the other introduced himself as “Habib” but said nothing throughout the ensuing conversation. Maybe Habib came for moral support.
Once the door closed, the teacher called all of the sheiks thieves, according to my interpreter. He explained how he had been arrested by the same captain the sheiks were complaining about for no reason. He said it might have something to do with him being active in a political party.
“But I am an honest, peaceful man. I am a teacher, and I’m not someone who resorts to violence.” He thanked the general for his time. While walking out the door, he asks if, by the way, “Can I have a weapons license?”
I later asked the American officer who sat in on the meeting for his take. The officer has been in country since November dealing with the general and his problems.
“I’ll tell you what probably happened,” he said. “The captain made a deal with the gas station to let most of the tankers in, but let one of the trucks ‘disappear’ from time to time.
“Once the captain hooked up with the colonel, he stopped giving the sheiks their cut of the action, which made them upset. The political party the teacher works for was probably getting a cut too.”
I imagine Tikrit is what 1920s prohibition-era Chicago would have been like if nobody drank alcohol and gasoline were considered taboo.

One more story

2005-09-22T09:08:00.000-04:00

http://www.stripes.com/article.asp?section=104&article=30873&archive=true

New Story

2005-09-22T02:14:00.000-04:00

This one is about Iraqi Army basic training:
http://www.stripes.com/article.asp?article=31708&section=104

2005-09-22T01:30:00.000-04:00

Uday's bombed Tikrit palace from afar.

2005-09-22T01:29:00.000-04:00

This is the where the U.S. thought Saddam was staying at Uday's Palace in Tikrit. They say around here he was probably not too far away.

Oh look -- more dirt

2005-09-22T01:28:00.000-04:00

We have a civilian guy here at the base named Nick, who as far as I can tell, has no native language.

That hasn’t stopped Nick, an Iraqi-born American, from parlaying his fascinating blend of English and Arabic into a well-compensated job as an interpreter. Nick translates for a transition team assigned to help organize the Iraqi Army 4^th Division.

Nick, a guy well into his 40s or 50s, also has a mad crush on Jennifer Anniston. Today, he found her agent’s address on the Internet and decided to write her a letter.

The letter is written in Arabic, but I think he wants someone to translate it so she doesn’t think she is the subject of a terrorist plot. Nick says she has this “special…..special...I don’t know” he finds in no other woman.

“I think maybe she will read this because it is from Iraq,” Nick said.

“I want to tell her that even though she has heavy heart, you know, because she divorced, I want to tell her that people she doesn’t even know are thinking about her and have her in their heart every second.”

After walking around for five minutes, he changes his mind:

“You see, I need to clear my head, I don’t want to say that. It will upset her to remind her of these things. I should take time to think about this. Sometimes when I go to sleep, I have a thought and I must wake up and write the thought. You know, I was a writer too, you know?”

“Yeah? Who did you write for?” I asked.

“For love,” he replied.

“Love. Oh. Love’s good.”

“I will think more about the letter writing,” he said.

I’ve spent the last few days with Nick and several soldiers at a “lights-out” base not far from Tikrit, meaning all you’ve got at night is the moonlight for a guide when you’re outside. This isn’t all that bad, since it’s not like anyone is going for a pub crawl out in town. If the lights were on, all you’d see is beige dirt, large rocks, concrete barriers and tents. The tents are about 60 feet long and supported by an inside metal frame. They have portable air conditioners and can fit 20 or so double bunks comfortably. The walls and ceiling look like the top of a flowery mattress without sheets.

If you walk a few minutes from the tents, you’ll find a warehouse-sized tent known as the DFAC, also known as the chow hall. This may blow my image as the intrepid reporter roughing in the desert, but, um, we had crab legs tonight. Not just crab legs. We had T-bone steak, shrimp, scallops, pasta, a salad bar, dessert and your choice of beverages. It’s pretty much like this every night at select bases, and all the food is all-you-can-eat. Leave it to the good ol’ U.S. of A to put people in the sweltering, barren desert and bring them back fatter than when they came. I should say though that the crab legs were horrendously overdone. I don’t think anyone will be opening up a chain of Tigris River Seafood restaurants anytime soon.

“Welcome to Tigris River Seafood, where 5,000 years of accumulated muck is the secret behind our tasty original recipe. Come for the food, stay for the sweltering atmosphere -- but not too long, please. And don’t look at anyone funny, or they may declare a lobster jihad on your family.”

Yeah, I don’t see it happening.

2005-09-20T14:20:00.000-04:00

A view of the Tigris from Saddam's former compound in Iraq. It's actually quite nice when you don't think about the people on the other side who aren't so thrilled about you being here. (9/16/05)

2005-09-20T14:17:00.000-04:00

My apologies to the vegetarians. I believe this was the Sabbath sacrifice to Allah. (9/16/05)

2005-09-20T14:15:00.000-04:00

Basic training at "Iraqi Island." Note they're wearing U.S. 1991 Desert Storm uniforms. I don't know why they swing their arms while marching. They just do.

2005-09-20T14:07:00.000-04:00

Read the Sept. 18 entry for an explanation. (9/18/05)

Vegas, football and Iraqi Chinese food

2005-09-19T00:36:00.000-04:00

We were driving in an up-armored Humvee back to the 42^nd Infantry Division’s headquarters, located at the highest point on Forward Operating Base Danger. We stared over the ridge at the sandstone buildings and the Tigris River. During the day they looked dreary and baked; but shortly after sunrise, they glisten with the cloudless sky’s hazy pink light.

“This could be Nevada,” said Specialist Connolly, an upstate New York national guardsman working in the press office.

“You’ve got the sand, the sun and spots of green next to the water. You’ve got palaces. They could turn them into resorts.”

“You know the only thing it’s missing?”

“What?” I asked. I was thinking maybe Wayne Newton and those German guys with the white lions.

“The mob. And if you bring them in…”

Connolly rubbed his hands together, “if you bring them in, you know all this random violence stops, I guarantee you.”

Hmmm… could the John Gottis of the world spell the soldiers and take out the insurgents in the name of illegal business enterprises? I don’t know, but it might make for a fun reality TV show.

I woke up at 5 a.m. today, voluntarily. Very few things in life can make that happen, but being here in Iraq motivates you to do things you wouldn’t normally do, especially when it’s something that reminds you of normality. I got a ride to the Morale, Welfare and Recreation center at halftime for the University of Florida/Tennessee football game in the Swamp. It wasn’t showing in the main rooms with the big TVs and the cushy couches, and the guys working the overnight shift don’t get paid $5 a day for their English-speaking skills.

After roaming the building for additional TVs, I wandered into the weight room, where two TVs tuned into American Forces Network Sports were showing the game. Since there were no chairs in the weight room – I guess exercising is the point – I plopped down on an inclined weight bench in front of a TV in the corner. I thought, “This is good. I can lift weights while I watch the game. If I keep doing this, I’ll be able to haul my backpack-of-bricks with ease.”

Well, anyway, I thought about it.

The game was pretty sloppy, with Florida stumbling to a field goal in the third quarter primarily because Tennessee played like they went across University Avenue at halftime for 99 cent kamikaze shooters.

It got interesting at the beginning of the fourth quarter. The heralded Florida “spread offense” converted on 3^rd and 29 and looked like it actually might pull away from the Vols. I was getting into it when the music began playing.

Laissez-moi secouer votre grille-pain, LalalalalalLA, la la

Vous buvez du lait comme un cheval, LalalalalalLA, la la

The speaker was mounted on the wall right next to the TV. The music had some sort of quasi-African rhythm to it. At any rate, I would have had to turn the TV up several decibel levels to hear anything, so it was video-only from that point. Eventually, the gym employee of indeterminate origin began playing a mix CD that led off the Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit. Didn’t see that one coming.

For those who don’t know, Florida won 16-7. I celebrated by taking the long way back to my work area and walking by Uday Hussein’s bombed out palace. I also walked by the Chinese restaurant Saddam had built next door. I tried to imagine him sitting there, eating with chopsticks in his military uniform. I wondered if we could have averted this whole mess with a little more MSG in Saddam’s kung pao chicken.

Tikrit -- family fun for everyone

2005-09-16T14:18:00.000-04:00

Hello all,

I slept in one of 68 of Saddam Hussein's former palaces last night. Most of them are very imposing, but very tacky. Stucco is fine for Florida houses, but who ever heard of a stucco palace?

I've been moved since last night to accomodate for all the judicial types coming to home sweet home, AKA Forward Operating Base Danger. I don't know why they had to name it that. Do they just want to scare the bejeezus out of every soldier who comes here? They could name it something else, like Forward Operating Base Mildly Precarious. Or possibly FOB Candyland. I'm just thinking of morale here.

Anyhow, things are fine here. It really is a dry heat. I'll be posting frequent updates to my Web site soon, assuing I figure out how to use this internet satellite doohickey that I lug around with my Kevlar, helmet, clothing, laptop, camera and the rest of the gear in my backpack. I think someone may have stuck some office furniture in there while I wasn't looking, but I'm too afraid of what might be lurking at the bottom of said backpack to completely empty the thing.

Got a good look at basic traiining for the new Iraqi Army today. The verdict: it's gonna take some time, maybe more than public opinion will allow. It sounds like the officers are the ones that need the most help. The sunnis don't like the kurds, the shiites don't like the sunnis, and there are a few people who appear to be wondering around in circles who don't like themselves and want to let everybody know it in loud Arabic.

There are some units that the Americans actually trust to go out and take care of business on their own, so there is a little hope in North Central Iraq for that. Baghdad is a whole other story from what I hear. The reporters coming in from there say they can't walk outside without 16-year-olds threatening them. They're a lot like the precocious 16-year-olds we have in the states -- bored, looking to get into trouble, ready for wacky escapades. Unfortunately, their 16-year-olds have grenades.

Tomorrow is Saturday and I'll be working. What else would I do here? I'll be looking into what the Iraqi governors are doing with the money the U.S. gives them. Personally, I think they're blowing it all at Greenwich Village thrift stores judging by the furnishings, but we'll see.

Cheers,

Erik

2005-09-02T06:25:00.000-04:00

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