Disturbing Conversations, Understanding True Iraqi Gratitude, and Wannabe Warriors

It’s early and I’m crusty eyed and tired. It’s pretty cold outside and inside the tent. I stayed bundled up all night. I guess it gets so cold because we are out in the open. It’s a crystal clear night sky outside and the stars are so bright. You can especially see the constellations Scorpio and the big dipper.
Hopefully we’ll get a flight out today. I’m excited about getting out of here right away. I’ll actually start feeling normal once I get to Kuwait. Nixon is starting to get up now. He’s exhausted too. We’ve got formation at 0700 to find out if we’ve got a ride out of here. Hopefully the mortar attack won’t affect any flights.
Well, I’m going to start packing my things for this formation. Hopefully I’ll get some good news! I love you Nora!
1340 – I’m mentally exhausted. Today we waited outside for 3 hours only to find out that 13 people could fly out and the last flight out of here is tomorrow and not on the 1st of February. We signed in yesterday and they didn’t even put us on the list this morning. I had them add us to the list again. In the Army, you have to personally see to it that things get done. I can get anything I want from the Army, but only when I handle issues myself. Unfortunately, I can’t do everything myself. I called you this morning to tell you the bad news – and it ripped me apart. Right now I feel dead. This rollercoaster is getting to be enough. I’ve got to stay strong for you though. I love you, and it hurts to tell you bad news. I love you. The last two flights leave tomorrow, and that will be my last chance to get out of here.
Day before yesterday, SSG Newsome (who’s wife is down the road and also in the Army) told me, “Pack your things T, you’re going home tomorrow!” So, I believed it. Of course, I’ve been told I’m going to Qatar, not going to Qatar, then told going again, then going home, next to go home, not going home because we’re not married, then going because of combat fatigue, then not going, and now waiting to go. I was told I was getting out of the Army in March, then told I would have to stay against my contract. Then told I would go to Freedom Rest hotel for 4 days. That didn’t work either because “they need me here.” Whatever, I love you and I am never doing this again. The sacrifices aren’t worth it, because the results or return on all this is so minimal. Iraq is pretty much on its own, and we’re in the background spending loads of money amongst ourselves. If our sacrifice brought about real change and I felt like I made a difference – then it wouldn’t be so bad. Sometimes I feel like I make a difference, but that’s when I interact with Iraqis as a civilian would – not as a soldier. I could do the exact same thing and be as effective in an NGO or with the UN. It’s independent of the Army. A lot of times I realize very clearly that I don’t belong in this Army. I realize it when SSG Siegel points his shotgun at people just to show off. Or some NCO says to hit a car when you see that women and children are inside. Iraq is an asshole’s dream. You can do a lot, flex your ego, exert your authority, destroy things on a whim, and there are no consequences. I refuse to push a car full of kids into an intersection because, “We own the road.” There are a lot of times where I didn’t do something when driving because it would have killed someone for no reason – and I will not be responsible for anyone’s death. Especially if totally innocent – that is murder. You can get away with that here though. If I wasn’t the best driver in the battalion, I probably wouldn’t be allowed to drive. But, I can get fast through busy streets and through anything. All that practice in Paris, Amsterdam, Rome, Berlin, Milan, Washington D.C. and other places. It’s a rush for me. I can weave my way through a lot. It’s dumb to just hit cars that can’t move anyways. This reminds me of something. A few days ago, we (SGM Walker, SSG Gonzales, SPC Foley, the scouts, and I) were driving around. We took Ali the laundry guy with us. He’s a brown-nosing Iraqi that I don’t trust because the first time I met him, he lied to me saying he had permission from CPT Nicks to bring his truck into the back gate. That wasn’t allowed because there were a lot of car bombs going off. I confirmed he was lying to me, so I arrested him until a representative from CPT Nicks could come and claim him. Anyways, he kisses ass, he lies, and the Army loves him. He deserted from the Iraqi Special Forces during the war and went to Lebanon (or so he says). His brother was arrested because Ali ran away. Now his brother works for him at the laundry place. We were at Alpha Company for some reason, and SSG Gonzales and Ali were talking about SGM’s MP5 machine pistol.
“Yeah son! Bitch if I had one of these back home, I’d be killin’ muthafuckers! BAAM, BAAM! Yeah!” SSG Gonzales is a Puerto Rican, California or something. Good at Army stuff – dysfunctional at everything else. He was playing with the MP5, then Ali started playing with it. I didn’t like Ali having that gun – but I guess it didn’t matter, because he was carrying a loaded, confiscated 9 MM that our battalion gave to him.
“Where the American Army is, there is also Ali laundry,” Ali said like an idiot – but like someone trying to look like an idiot. “I don’t deal with civilians, only American Army. You go to Syria, Ali goes to Syria too!”
“Yeah son! Fuckin’ Syria, Iran, North Korea, they all goin’ to get some,” Gonzales said throwing one hand up and putting the MP5 away.
“North Korea,” Ali said stunned. “No man, I think North Korea is too much. You won’t win man.”
“What do you mean, we’ll bomb those mutherfuckers to hell,” Sergeant Gonzales was getting excited and using more street gestures. “We won’t let them know we’re coming like we let you know.”
“Yeah man, but Iraq is easy. No one stay and fight for Saddam.”
“Because the Hajjis are pussies, the Iraqi army ain’t shit, they all ran away, ‘cause they know we’d kill every one of them.”
“You know,” Ali said, still not bothered by Gonzales’ comments – not yet, “Iraqi soldiers had two bags in war. One for military and one for civilian clothes.” Ali laughed nervously, but I could tell he was getting aggravated.
“Yeah son! But you see, Iraqis are fuckin’ stupid. Look how little time it took to get to Baghdad. We’ll do it in Syria and Iran – anyone who fucks with the U.S.A.” Gonzales was getting all caught up in himself talking trash.
“Why are you here?” Ali then asked. “Why?”
“For George Bush,” Gonzales said quickly.
“Ah, George Bush? So you do anything for George Bush?”
“Damn straight, son!”
“You come to Iraq to free Iraq?”
“Naw, to fuck motherfuckers up and make an example to other countries. Let Iran and Syria know they are next,” Gonzales continued ranting like a hip hop singer. I was amazed myself at all the trash he was talking.
“You know,” Ali said while placing three small pebbles on the pavement, “you think Bush is God. France, we don’t like you.” He stepped on one pebble and acted like he was rubbing it out. “North Korea, we don’t like you,” again crushing a rock. “Iran, you don’t do what we say – you all die. Uncle Sam is coming.” Ali acted like a monster crushing things.
“That’s right, because we are going to get them before they get us – Americans don’t give a fuck, we’ll nuke a motherfucker before we die – ask motherfuckin’ Japan. We nuked their ass, no problem son,” Sergeant Gonzales was really on a roll – and dead serious.
“Man, if Korea and America go to war – it is the end of the world,” Ali started looking very distressed and lost his idiot mask. “You know Iraqi army not stupid. We fought in the south and came behind you.” Ali said defensively. I thought that was strange he said “we” and started to defend the Iraqi army. He usually always makes fun of Iraq or kisses our ass. Then he went further, but no one noticed except for me. “We’ll see in 10 years. You’ll be back in Iraq fighting all these ICDC you are training. They will kill you. No one will save you because you think you are the best.” My suspicions about Ali were starting to find justification. Everyone else just ignored his comments. He was angry inside though, trembling outside.
“Fuck that,” Gonzales said, “in 10 years, we’ll nuke this place – nuke North Korea – fuck it – we’ll nuke the world before America loses.” Some soldiers started laughing. I just stood there silent and serious. I wanted to write about this. Ali all of a sudden looked gravely troubled, looked at everyone around him nervously just as someone would when realizing he’s surrounded by wolves and not ordinary dogs. He suddenly looked at me, as if pleading, grabbed me (I guess he saw I was the only one not amused by this conversation).
“Thompson,” he said emphatically, “Get out of Iraq and away from these people – they are crazy, they will make you sick. Go home and be a teacher or write books. You are not like soldier!” I was shocked, because Ali doesn’t personally know me – only works around me, but he sounded so incredibly sincere and almost begged me to do something else with my life – as someone who knows me would. It was surprising when he said to write a book. That was exactly why I was standing there, to put the conversation in my book. All of a sudden, I felt he was a friend – because he knew me, just as I know who he is really. So we’ve respected each other ever since. He was upset that I arrested him, but he knows he was lying. So now we respect each other. I don’t think he’s a laundry guy though. I have a feeling he may be gathering intelligence on us.
Ali then said something that shut Gonzales and everyone else up. I thought it was interesting. “If America goes to war with North Korea, or if it gets attacked again, it will be the end of the world.”
“Damn straight,” Sergeant Gonzales said. “We’ll destroy everything.”
“No,” Ali said, “The Koran says Jesus will come at the end of the world.” Ali became very serious, “and he’ll send some to paradise and the others to the fire. The Koran says this. You will stand in front of Jesus and he will send you to fire or paradise.”
“Well fuck it, I already know I’m going to hell,” Gonzales said while laughing. Other soldiers echoed the same comment. As soon as Gonzales finished his statement, he looked as if he got very nervous. Other soldiers exchanged glances nervously at each other and stopped laughing. Everyone fell silent with preoccupied expressions on their faces. That was the end of the conversation.
I speak all the time with Iraqis, all kinds. I’ve spoken to pro-Saddam people to Kurds to Sunnis and Shiite and Catholic Arabs. I don’t get my perspective on daily Iraqi life from the news or military – I get a wide variety of information on a daily basis. Haider, Abbas, Ali, Sadr, Tariq and many more – we all eat together a few times a week discuss politics, religion, and Arab culture and the lighter sides of life. We talk a lot about Arab courtship and relationships and religion. Recently I was talking to a watchsmith, he’s Kurdish, and now running a watch business in Baghdad after being restricted from going to Baghdad since the first Gulf War. At any rate, he’s older, very friendly, and the soldiers at the base (501st old Olympic Stadium) are loyal to him. He sells Rolexes and other copied watches to soldiers, and really enjoys working with them. He and I talked for about 2 hours last week.
“Will Bush be president again?” he asked this very curiously.
‘Hmmm, I don’t know. He’s spending a lot of money and not everyone agrees with it,’ I said. I didn’t want to say anything hurtful.
“I don’t know about Americans, but I hope he stays president,” he said confidently, but unsure of how I would react. Some other soldier made a comment that Bush wants to go to Syria and Iran. The man continued, “Bush is like my king. Maybe you don’t see, but you are not liberated like we are. If I were to have another son, I would name him George. I’m serious,” he said without wavering. “You soldiers, you are liberators, you are like a king to me – and many Iraqis are thankful. Only a few don’t like Americans – because they are bloodsuckers, they suck on Saddam’s blood. Many people were Baathist, but hated Saddam. It was only for money. But you, I thank God you are here, my family thanks you, you are a gift from God.” I could tell he was completely sincere. I could only thank him, caught a little off guard by the overwhelming praise. “Iraq is very happy you are here, we want you to stay.”
I took into account that he had been living in the very peaceful Kurd region of Iraq for over a decade – so his love of Americans may be more than average. We may have lost a lot of support from some Iraqis because our stupid behavior here. I guess it’s asking a lot for America’s young ex-potheads, delinquents, and trouble makers to be ambassadors for America. Especially after being trained to kill and destroy. But like Haider says, “All soldiers have nothing in their heads – it doesn’t matter the country.” I guess it could be worse, like rape, open looting, and more killing.
The watch smith then said, “I’m not saying this so you buy watches, I don’t care about it. There are people who’d kill me just for working for Americans. I don’t care. I trust God. If I get killed, I thank God. If I get sick, I thank God, and when I’m healthy.” Usually I have that same attitude, and later that night, I sat on my bed and said to myself, ‘Thank God for everything – everything is going to be OK. Don’t be foolish to think otherwise. Stay strong for Nora.’ It’s true though, you’ve got to thank God.
2200 – I thank God my time in Iraq is almost finished. We stood outside for 3 hours waiting for seats. 4 were given out. I’ll continue to wait until tomorrow – the last day to fly. I don’t know what to think. We’ll see what happens. I love you Nora. Stay strong, you’ve been so perfect in supporting me. I can’t wait until you’re my wife, and I’m your husband. You’re my best friend Nora, and I am trying to get home to you…if only I could tip-toe across the stars. I love you so dearly.
Now I am in an old World War II style tent with no lights, cramped with tired and teary-eyed soldiers who’ve given up hope of going home to lonely wives and children. What a profound sacrifice these guys are making. Ask any of them though, and they’ll say they shouldn’t be here.
I liked being in this tent, and not some barracks like we’ve got at our camp. It’s simple. I’ve got a light stick (modern day candle!) and some accordion music playing on my walkman. It’s nice. Tonight Nixon and I went to the chow hall for dinner and are well. All the chow halls here are run by KBR. They are well appointed and provide high quality food in excess served by tidy, uniformed Pakistanis (although nationality hasn’t been confirmed. I call them the “little, kidnapped brown people. I think KBR may have bought a small Pacific island where these little brown people are forced into slavery!). At any rate, these slaves can be found all over any camp – working at the well stocked PX, working at laundromats, cooking and serving food, and not to mention the Iraqis cleaning portapotties, ditches, showers, trash bins, and other tasks. Tonight I watched one brown guy very courteously and politely serve ice cream to soldiers. There was a bucket of vanilla ice cream and a scoop. That’s it. Why soldiers don’t get their own ice cream, I don’t know. I watched soldier after soldier walk up and hand the little brown guy their bowl. The soldiers stood their like masters not making eye contact with the servant, only snobbishly gesturing that they wanted more. The little brown man would smile, and eagerly serve more, and attempt to earn the approval of the soldier. Each time, the soldier walked off without saying a word or even making a sign of thanks. The little brown man’s smile would fade a bit and he looked unsure of himself, looked around the room, then the floor, scoop in hand – waiting for the next ungrateful customer. He smiled all the same, and they ignored him as if he was an ice cream dispensing machine. Then you look on the collar of some of these soldiers, and you realize they are (or should be) servants themselves. Low ranking enlisted kids who probably never had much served to them in the first place and who were probably punks contributing very little to civil society before coming into the Army. Then I thought about this new “Warrior Ethos” concept some hard ass general is pushing in the Army. It’s a creed meant to instill basic soldier qualities in our modern day Army. So the Army says modern soldiers are losing the basics of soldiering – BUT, they serve some snot nosed private ice cream, they do his laundry for him, clean his piss off toilets for him, pick his hair out of clogged shower drains for him, pick up his trash for him. What kind of “warrior” gets by doing nothing for himself? What kind of person does that develop? Self important, ungrateful boys – that’s all. I like this old tent I am in now. I like having the basics, I don’t mind eating Army food. It reminds you you’re in Baghdad – a messed up place requiring your full attention – not at some holiday resort. KBR would like to make Iraq a resort. It would mean more money for them. Heck, we want the “best” for soldiers. Maybe that money should be spent on putting armor on Hummers and properly equipping our guys out on the most abstract front since the Vietnam War. Santos could have used some steel armor on his truck.
A lot of soldiers have started paying lots of money to have steel plates bolted on to their trucks to protect them from roadside bombs. You see all kinds of crude designs. Crude gun turrets, metal boxes, wooden chairs strapped down and a tripod tied to the roof of a Hummer. You go anywhere now, and you’ll find welding jobs of every kind. Going back to Warrior Ethos, we’re too busy trying to act like a peacetime army on camp. It detracts from the real danger soldiers face off camp. As for all these servants, it reminds me of the Roman Empire’s soldiers. I believe they could force anyone to carry their gear for a few miles on demand. Privates should learn to take care of themselves before people start serving them. That used to be common sense.
I thought about all the Polish soldiers here and wondered what Iraq has to do with them. It’s so transparent that they are seeking to further their influence and legitimize their position in Europe and the world by assisting the U.S. In principle, I don’t agree with this – because exploiting Operation Iraqi Freedom is only a means of improving their own standing. Deploying to Iraq is a means to an end (or should be) – Iraqi freedom and peace. Exploiting a war for personal gain is criminal and immoral – but seems to be OK with Bush and Poland and others. It’s the principle of the matter. Once we start allowing our principles to crumble – we’ve got nothing firm to build on. Only after failure and disaster will we come to realize why we as a society have principles in the first place and a moral code that has developed for hundreds, if not thousands of years. Government must be principled, because it is the center of gravity and example to our society. Once our government throws away principles or throws caution to the wind – you can expect the same from its citizens – only worse.
Before Iraq, the U.S.’s biggest deterrent was Hollywood’s portrayal of our intelligence services and military and the mask of invincibility. We’ve seen that deteriorate in Iraq as soldiers get killed by bombs hidden on the sides of roads. The U.S. looks weak and lacking a clear mission. That may embolden our enemies. Sometimes, restraint or threat of war is weapon enough.
Anyways, after seeing all the money being wasted here, I can say I never want to hear a politician complain about welfare again.
Oh Nora! I love you! If I loved you any more, I would be an angel. You bring me to life, you are everything right in this world, and you’re always supportive. Ich liebe Dich without end Nora!

It was only a matter of time until someone tried to shoot down a helicopter behind our barracks along the Diyala River. On the eastern bank of the river, which was densely vegitated, an unseen attacker fired a rocket or missile device at a passing Blackhawk helicopter. I had no idea the attack occurred, until I went in a friend’s room that looked out over the river. He said he heard a loud pop sound and a subsequent hissing noise as the helicopter flew past at a low altitude. He said that the bird’s countermeasures (flares and chaff) began dispensing as he looked out of his window. Several other soldiers told me the same thing.
I told Assad about the attack. He said that there were missiles everywhere, but the Iraqis are too afraid to turn them in out of fear of incarceration. He told me an Iraqi urban legend about a boy who walked for two days to an American base to turn in a Russian man portable missile. At this time, there was a sizeable reward offered for such weapons. Well, the story goes, the boy’s booty was taken away without a reward being paid. I thought that sounded a little fictitious. The Iraqis didn’t though. I heard the story again from several other translators. Where is the truth in Iraq? The truth is whatever the Iraqis want the truth to be.

Getting Attacked in BIAP, Charades With the "Coalition of the Willing"

I’m at Camp Flexible right now in an old, cramped tent out at BIAP. It’s the most comfortable place in Iraq though because it’s the place you stay before you leave for home. That’s right, I’m going home! Wow! Nixon and I are waiting for a flight out of here – maybe tomorrow, we’ll see. I’m so excited about coming home to you! AH! It doesn’t seem real yet! I’m excited and exhausted and can’t wait to hold you again! I’m happy about it, and will explain how all this happened later. I’ve got to tell about something that happened only a short time ago.
“BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!” Nixon and I hearing this to the west as we were walking back from the PX in the pitch dark night. This was only an hour ago here at BIAP. He and I walked about 3 miles to the north part of the left side of the airport just to see what we could find. We had just started to make our way back when we heard the quick “BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!”
‘Mortar fire,’ I thought immediately. It seemed too big of an explosion to be the firing of a mortar though – and too fast. So I figured it was a bombing.
“That was loud,” Nixon said calmly.
‘Yeah, that’s the wild west out there,’ I said. West of Baghdad is bad, and zones surrounding BIAP are no good. On the way walking to the PX earlier, there was red tracer fire climbing into the air in red beads. Anyways, right when I said “wild west” to Nixon, there were 3 thuds to our left – the center of Baghdad International and our division HQs. The thuds occurred about 30 seconds or so after the first three explosions to the west. The three thuds hit at the same interval as the three explosions that went off seconds before.
“You hear that?” Nixon asked.
‘It looks like a mortar attack,’ I responded looking across the airstrip. ‘Something else to add to the list.’ I kept scanning the division HQ area (where I picked up the documents on New Year’s). All of a sudden, I saw three plumes of grey smoke rising slowly, being lit up by airfield lights. Nixon and I still had a long way to go to get back to camp. All of a sudden a siren went off, like one of those air raid sirens you hear in the movies.
“SEEK SHELTER! MORTAR ATTACK! SEEK SHELTER!” a voice boomed everywhere on the base.
‘Shit.’ I said and looked around for a shelter. There was none. ‘Let’s go,’ I said to Nixon and started running for the lights (buildings in the distance). So he and I started running down the road. Then, we saw a pair of headlights coming down the road. It was an SUV. We waved it down and he pulled over.
“You need some help?” It was an older man with a grandpa appearance.
‘Yeah, there’s a mortar attack, we need to get to shelter,’ I said quickly as Nixon and I got in the brand-new truck.
“No problem, I’ll take you to where you need to go. I thought I saw two things flying through the air when I was driving down here,” he said as we pulled off towards our camp. “I work for KBR (Kellog Brown and Root) and was in Bosnia for a year. We never saw anything like this. It’s crazy.”
‘Yeah, I’ve been in two attacks – one grenade and one bomb,’ I told him. I guess those mortar rounds tonight went right over our heads. That KBR guy said he saw two objects flying through the air – so maybe they were rockets. I think they were mortars though.
Well, the KBR guy dropped us off at our camp and then sped off after we thanked him numerous times. Hopefully the attack was over – but I wonder if anything was damaged, because by the looks of it – it looked like the smoke was at the HQ area. Crazy. I don’t understand it though, today I noticed – and even this evening – no Apache or scout helicopters were flying around. They all sit on the tarmac doing nothing. Row upon row of helicopters. They weren’t guarding the perimeter, so it’s no surprise that they get attacked. Then once they get attacked, they scramble choppers at once. Too late – the attackers will be gone. So, attacks on BIAP will continue. Even as I’m writing this, Nixon and I keep looking over at each other because we hear low “thuds” in the background through our headphones. I just told Nixon we’re paranoid.
“Yeah we are,” he laughed. Nixon’s a good guy. He’s falling asleep now. Earlier today, we went to the chow hall and saw soldiers from Kazakhstan, Ukraine, and Poland. The soldiers from Kazakhstan looked the most professional. Ukrainian and Polish soldiers looked poor – their weapons all banged up and old. Their helmets and vests are American – perhaps barrowed.
We were walking back to our tent and saw a group of Ukrainian BTR-80 armored vehicles. We walked over to look at them, because we’ve never seen a real BTR-80 – just pictures of them. One of the crew waived us over and we followed. He started speaking to us in Russian (or Ukrainian) and we followed him. He took us over to a side door and we shook hands with the crew. They all looked like regular Joes, just like us. I like talking to people from other countries – because it’s encouraging to see that we can all communicate and smile and relate to each other even though we come from another culture, country, or ideology. I got in the BTR and the older soldier with crystal blue eyes and the face of a Russian submarine captain with a ragged beard, eagerly showed me all the equipment in the vehicle and how it functions. He was proud of his vehicle. He had the gunner rotate the turret so we could see the machineguns and bullets. The gunner puffed on a cigarette and rolled his eyes to show his dissatisfaction with the guided tour being put on by his older, excited comrade. All the writing on the panels were written in Russian. I looked to the front of the vehicle where the driver sits and saw two photographs. I had to smile at myself. ‘We’re all the same,’ I thought to myself. ‘Everyone misses home, everyone has someone who misses them, everyone wants to get home alive.’ One photo had a young boy acting like he was drinking a bottle of beer – probably someone’s son. The other picture was of a soldier with his wife and kids. They didn’t look dreary and stressed (the stereotype of Eastern people I’ve had since I was old enough to know the Cold War). They looked happy, radiant, healthy, and normal. A lot of people, a lot of families, so many have been affected by this war. The company commander came over and shook my hand. We talked a bit in English and he told us about the weapons. I’m not high ranking at all – just a soldier, but you get a lot of respect from others just for being American. Sometimes you feel spoiled – because these people are so respectful and kind and you know they’re hard working – maybe even more so than we. That always makes me uncomfortable. Maybe I’m thinking too much about it. I do think it’s cool to be sitting with and communicating with sergeants that used to be in the Soviet army when they were privates and I was a child on the other side of the Iron Curtain. The world changed so much in 1989-1991. The Evil Empire’s regime changed in an almost bloodless coup – and the Cold War ended without the U.S. or Russia going to war. Now it seems war is the solution for difficult situations. At any rate, when enemies become friends – I am always happy. It’s not idealistic thinking – it’s real, and as real as the Ukrainian soldiers I was with today. I love you Nora.

Nixon and I had to suppress our laughter when we asked the BTR officer what kind of cannon the vehicle had. He answered, “She go 40 mile per hour.” We then asked how many crewmen can sit inside. He answered, “Hmm, maybe 10 mile per hour.” Nixon and I then stopped asking questions and simply smiled and nodded, realizing he couldn’t understand what we were asking. That was OK though, he spoke more English than we did Ukrainian. We realized that and settled for handshakes and a primitive version of Charades to communicate.

Children Approach My Patrol With Mortar Round, Dreaming of IEDs, Assad the Welder's Undying Love for George W. Bush

We’ve talked today for quite a while on the phone. It’s so wonderful to hear your voice Spatzi. I was moving some of my duffel bags and I could swear I could smell your perfume. I miss you dearly, but I’m so happy to be coming to you soon!
Today was interesting, just driving to a few of the camps in Baghdad. SGM Walker, Foley, and I were on my truck, and we had a scout escort truck. We were driving to Charlie Company to take them the morale phone (satellite phone) in the north of Baghdad where the farmland begins. Charlie tank company is at Camp Marlboro, called that because it used to be a cigarette factory.
“THEY’VE GOT A BOMB!” It was only 15 minutes into our trip from our base camp and Sergeant Monroe came across my tactical headset yelling this chilling message.
‘Goddamnit,’ I muttered to myself.
“We’ve got several kids, motioning that there’s a bomb, one is holding a mortar shell,” Sergeant Monroe said to follow up. “We’re pulling over.”
“Roger, pull over, contact Knight X-Ray,” SGM Walker told me. The guys got out of the trucks.
“Watch the rooftops, I see someone over there,” Sergeant Gonzales said. I got the GPS (global positioning system) and called up the grid location and situation to our headquarters. The guy on the other end of the radio was having trouble copying information and getting numbers right, so I kept repeating myself.
“Get the fuck back!” I heard SGM Walker yell. “Get back!” One of the kids was running up to us with a mortar round in his hand. I looked over and saw another boy in the mud tossing a mortar round like a toy. We cleared the kids away. They were all gathered around the mortar rounds. The girls’ school nearby was just letting out, so a lot of little girls were running up and waving, close to the site of the bombs. The kids started motioning with their hands and indicated that 10 rounds were there. I called it up to headquarters. “We’ve got to go, we can’t sit here,” SGM Walker said. It was true, you can’t sit out in the open like that or you’ll become a sitting target. Explosives Ordinance Disposal (EOD) was notified and said they would come pick up the rounds. So we told the children to stay away and left. It happens sometimes that these kids blow themselves up playing with these things. Just another day.
We arrived at Charlie Company camp and I walked into the warehouse where everyone lives. It was cold and dirty – nothing like the luxury of our HQ. Immediately I saw my friend, Sadr. He worked at the internet “café” at our camp and was now working at Charlie camp. He was happy to see me and came to give me a kiss on the cheek. I was surprised to see him there. He told me it was cold there and he didn’t like it at all. It was especially cold at night. We talked about Iraqi food and how you were doing. He asked about the next time I would make Mexican food. ‘Whenever you want,’ I replied.
Then I saw CPT Berlin, and it was refreshing. He said he and his fiancée were getting married in Friedberg and reserved a grand reception hall in Bad Nauheim. I was genuinely happy to hear this news. I looked outside of the door at the muddy tanks and thought about those old WWII movies you see about the B-17 bomber crews. The warehouse had the same atmosphere as one of those old airfield hangars. ‘Hey Sir,’ I said, ‘All you need is a B-17 sitting out there and a record player playing big band music.’
“Yeah, that would be perfect,” he said as he smiled. “During targeting briefs, I say, ‘Gentlemen, we’re going after Bremen!’”
Eventually, we went back to the Martyrs’ Monument. While there, two trucks pulled up – civilian trucks. It was the SAS – British Special Forces. They got out of their trucks, took off their bullet-proof vests and went underground where our brigade HQs are. They don’t look like macho military guys – just normal guys that look like hikers.
When I got back, I talked to the welder and checked up on his brother, who I took to our medic station yesterday for eye damage from welding. He was doing OK, but still insisted on welding without the proper eye protection. I went to see the welder to get some metal plated doors put on our truck. The welder is a big guy, who speaks very good English. He’s got a scrubby beard, the same green shirt, coveralls and a welding mask with a peace sign on it. He’s short and fat, big. We always have good conversations about Iraqi life. I am trying to get him to ask for more money for welding jobs. He does a lot of honest work and asks very little in the way of money. So I am trying to get SGM Walker to put in a good word for him so he can get paid more as skilled labor. I know about his family and his kids, and we talk about how his kids are doing. He has 7 children, one is only a few months old, born during the war. He said his youngest son wasn’t planned at all, but (they use the “pill” birth control here) there was no contraception available or something. “I didn’t plan on him, I made a mistake you know, but I thank God for him. He’s a good boy!” I had to smile.
Well, it’s time to go to sleep now. I’ve got so much to write about! Nora, I love you! I thought about that dream I had a few nights ago about finding the bomb along the road. Then, today, we found bombs on the side of the road with the help of the kids. It’s strange, but a lot of what I’ve dreamt has come true out here. It’s nothing supernatural, of course, but you probably take in indicators all day long of things that will happen soon or as a result of events that are constantly unfolding. You probably don’t even realize it, but all of these indicators come together in your mind and sometimes you can see the end result in dreams. Like you know x and y and figure it equals z. Just a though. You try not to think too much about all that stuff here. The less superstition, the better. You don’t think certain thoughts though, because you don’t want to tempt fate, or write letters from beyond the grave, or make comments about luck, or carry new pictures. You keep everything consistent and neutral. I love you Nora. Have faith always in God.

Most of the Iraqis I talked to loved George W. Bush. “George Bush, he is my king, he is like a king to me. He freed my country,” said a shopkeeper to me one day. He was Kurdish, and moved to Baghdad to open a shop that specialized in fake Rolexes and other brands of watches. Assad the welder was one of the most outspoken supporters of Bush and Bush Sr. He would scold other Iraqis who thought poorly of Bush, and politely remind me that Bush freed Iraq when I would avoid speaking positively about Bush.
“The Americans brought a big storm to my house, break all glass, shooting. But, we are friends. The American army is our army. We love you. You have given us liberty,” he told me once as we drank tee while sitting on some old car seats in a junkyard. “You know, Iraqi people are stupid. I was on bus today, and we see ICDC on the road. Some women are saying, ‘Look at them! Traitors! They wear American uniforms! They are American puppets!’ Other people started agreeing! I told them to shut up. They ask why. I tell them ICDC is army, and army must have uniforms. Every army has a uniform. There are not enough Iraqi uniforms and they are bad quality. I tell them this! I tell them it’s good thing America give ICDC better uniforms, that they all look the same! When I say this, all Iraqi people on bus were quiet, and then all agreed with me!” Assad said. He was a positive person. Only once did he tell a negative story about the American invasion. “We were in Babylon, and the American Apache helicopters came. We would wave to the Apaches and finally we knew that Bush was coming! Then the soldiers came and began shooting. Shooting at everything, even where there was nothing. My family stay in house. When it was quiet, I go into city. There were people stealing from the school! I yelled at them and told them to stop, but no one listened. They all wanted something! These no poor people! They take only because they can. I go to police, and there is big black American sergeant in police station. He tell me, ‘Fuck you and school. Go away. I don’t care about the school!’ I yell at him and black sergeant says, ‘We are not enough people, I cannot leave here. What can I do? Everyone is stealing! We are not enough soldiers!’” Assad said that he wrote down the names of the thieves and later turned them in to the MPs.

Franks Contracts a Strange Skin Disease (From Which He Later Dies) After Working Near Al-Tuwaitha Nuclear Facility

I’m dead tired. I’m going to stay up a little longer so I can call you again. You were driving to one of the girls’ surprise B-day parties. I love you. Stay safe!

It was around this time that my journal noted the continuing health problems of SPC Franks. He developed a skin disease in 2003 while we were still in Baghdad. After some limited treatment, he was detailed to the TOC as an RTO (Radio Telephone Operator) and allowed to wear tennis shoes. I remember one day going to his room to wake him up for his RTO shift. He was laying face down on his bed under a blanket. Part of his calf was exposed from under the cover, revealing a deep lesion in his flesh. Flies had gathered around the rim of the lesion, and other flies swarmed around him. I had no idea his condition was so severe. Others didn’t think it was so severe, and he remained in Iraq for most of the deployment. Franks was African-American, so the skin disease affected the pigmentation of his skin (perhaps worse than it would a white person). Spots on his body became pink and blotched and scabby. Still, he remained in Iraq. I talked to him about writing his congressman about his situation, but he wanted to avoid creating any controversy. He was a good man, a gentle man – it wasn’t his nature to fight. So, I wrote a letter for him. I got a form letter back, saying that sympathized with my concerns over Iraq becoming a “quagmire.” It must have been a form letter, because I never wrote about such a topic. His leaders largely dismissed the problems, as more pressing matters commanded their attention. Sergeant Newsome was happy to help Franks by reducing his physical tasks and placing him in front of a radio, where he could be of better use.
Franks, after a long struggle, died in a northern German hospice almost a year later, leaving behind a young wife.

Baghdad Dying and Dire Need of Leave

Today is a cold, wet day, overcast and cloudy – almost exactly like Germany. It’s the rainy season now, and all is turning green, the palm tree trunks that were once scorched and dry are now black and moist because of the rains. Everything turns dark, the trunks of trees, the soil, the sky. It’s easy to understand why this area is so fertile after you see the rainy season. The ground springs to life from ground that was seemingly wasted by the heat and sun. It’s amazing anything can survive the Iraqi summer. It’s not an easy task to describe just how hot it is – or just how sweaty you get, or how much water you consume. Even after drinking over 7 liters of hot water (or more), you would hardly be able to urinate. Now it’s freezing cold out, everyone has gained a lot of weight since summer and we’re not drinking so much water.
Well, I’ve got to go to CPA for a big dinner for Sergeant Major Sanders’ command dinner. He’s replacing CSM Francis at Brigade. My boss, SGM Walker, is now the command sergeant major at battalion. So we’ve got to go to this dinner at the palace tonight. We’re taking the up-armored Hummer. I had a dream last night that we were walking along the road and I found a bag with an artillery shell in it covered in dirt. I wasn’t scared, just pissed about it. It’s insane how people are dying because of this stuff. I love you Nora, so dearly I pray for God to protect me and deliver me safe and sound to you. I’ve got a lot of writing to do now! But, I’ve got to go now to CPA. I love you!
2115 – Just returned from CPA. It’s raining heavily, so I had to drive carefully with the armored Hummer. When we were driving to the palace, an Iraqi pulled in front of me and wouldn’t get out of the way. I honked my horn and then he pulled all the way in front of me and pumped his brakes. We can’t drive on the sides of the road because of bombs. Then he pumped his brakes again, and the front end of my truck hit his tail end and I had to push his car out of the way. Sometimes these Iraqis really try to agitate you (like rock throwing or back stabbing) and they don’t respect you unless you set consequences. Of course, not all Iraqis are like this, most are OK. We went to CPA to the “Freedom Rest” hotel that used to be for Saddam’s special soldiers. They (Pappy and the other senior NCOs) had their dinner there and we waited outside with the jeeps in the rain. Some geek with a pistol stopped us drivers at the door and said we couldn’t stay. Some kind of “Freedom Rest.” What kind of name is that anyways? Rest from Iraqi freedom? Rest for freedom or from freedom? “Have you got a break yet?” a private asked SSG Monroe as we walked back to our trucks in the rain.
“No, I haven’t gotten shit, jack shit.”
“I know a guy who went to Qatar and got to go to Freedom Rest,” the private said sounding a bit confused.
“Yeah, the only people who get rest are people who screw up or don’t have anything to do,” another sergeant said. We all shook our heads in the dark, cold rain. Just this morning, LTC Jagger asked me, as he does every day, “Are you going to make some more dice?” He’s talking about a set of dice I made that make fun of ridiculous reports we get from regimental headquarters like, “we’ve got a white car in Baghdad with a bomb.” Really? Well let’s look for it right away! So, one dice says on it an object like “car” or “donkey cart” or “bearded anti-American man.” The second dice says what the danger is, like “IED” or “weapon of mass destruction” or “broken tail light.” Anyways, LTC Jagger asked, “When you going to make more dice?” I thought to myself about all I’ve been doing lately and responded,
‘Sir, I’ll make them as soon as I get a vacation.’ All the screw-ups get to go home because the real workers are too critical to let go. LTC Jagger said,
“Oh, oh. I thought you already went home.” I just wanted to walk away. I’m just ready to get this over with. I’m not going to make any dice.
“Fuck this, I quit!” Specialist Stuart said to me when I asked what was wrong with him. He was sitting at his reception desk at our office building looking pretty angry. Most of the time, he’s jolly and talkative – a good natured and intelligent black man in commo (communications) section.
‘What are you talking about?’ I asked a bit perplexed.
“Fuck the Army, fuck getting sergeant, I quit Thompson, I’m not doing anything anymore,” he said publicly and angrily. I saw he wasn’t joking. If Stuart was upset – then something must be wrong. “All these people are selfish, looking out for themselves. We don’t get a break!”
‘I’m not the only one ready to get out of here,’ I thought to myself. I didn’t want to encourage the anger though, no matter how much I could relate to it, I reminded him we’d be out of here soon – while trying to believe myself as I was saying it. I can’t wait to get out of here
Well, tonight as we left Saddam’s palace for our camp, we drove hunkered down in our armor and headed into the heart of Baghdad, canyons of grey buildings, grey at night, shadows of burnt buildings hid young men with head dresses covering their faces. The city takes you in and holds you in its jaws and razor sharp teeth. You just hope it doesn’t chew on you. I was trail vehicle in our two vehicle convoy. Is this city dying? We drove back safely to our camp, constantly scanning for IEDs. The sergeant in the lead, SSG Monroe from Apache blue platoon – a black, very professional sergeant, and I talk on headset radios just between each other. We made it safely back.
Two nights ago or so, A-14 tank[1] (M1A1), the same one I was just writing about getting hit with an RPG, was struck with an anti-tank landmine on the highway at exactly the same spot where it was shot with an RPG. I just finished dinner with Hayder and Ali and Tariq when I saw some soldiers running around. I knew something was wrong, so I went to my office and radios were blaring. I heard someone say “skirts blown off” and “track split,” so I realized a tank was hit. Everyone on the tank survived. The next day, I went to see the tank and was surprised to see the extent of the damage. Some metal was torn, metal was bent in places I never thought could bend, and a set of wheels were blown off. A set of protective shields, called “skirts” were blown off. The biggest skirt is about 5 feet long and a ton or more. It was blown off and laying 25 meters away.
The tanks are out on the highways to make sure people don’t put bombs out on them. Lots of G.I.s were dying needlessly on our roads, so finally we did something about it. IED accidents have decreased, but obviously the terrorists are frustrated, because they are shooting at our tanks now. Everyone thinks that’s a good thing. That means they are desperate and the tanks are a barrier to placing bombs. Hopefully we’ll keep up the momentum and motivation to prevent bombings. It’s such a challenge to maintain momentum.
Well, finally, I need to go to sleep. The helicopters are out tonight even though it’s storming out. We are in the flight pattern for the helicopter troop here (probably why we haven’t been attacked at our side of the camp – even though anti-aircraft missiles were found alongside the riverbank behind us, probably pre-positioned for an attack by SA-7 shoulder-fired missiles). The drone of helicopter rotors close overhead is non-stop. I’ll never forget it. Even from our first day here, all you noticed were helicopter noises. At night you had to get used to it before we got windows. Now it’s commonplace, almost comforting to hear. Goodnight Nora, I love you so dearly and long to hear the beating of your heart again.

Rest and Relaxation leave was a topic that would get my blood boiling in Iraq. The program morphed into several different animals while I waited to go home for a brake. I was nearing complete mental collapse. At first, it was determined that all soldiers would be put on a random list. Then, Sanders decided that married soldiers would have priority over the single soldiers. Every few weeks, the list would change and reflect a different order. Then, leave became a coercion tool. Soldiers were told that if they reenlisted, they would be allowed to go home. I decided that week that I would never reenlist, no matter what.
Sweeny swore that he needed to complete his divorce from his estranged wife – a wife he used to feed MREs to in housing. Despite his disciplinary problems, he was allowed to go home on leave. Of course, being the compulsive liar he is, he didn’t go home. He went to Germany, picked up his girlfriend, and headed for the snowy slopes of the German Alps. It was there that he suffered a suspicious snowboarding accident that made it impossible for him to return. I thought it was too suspicious. Others would do anything to get on leave, make up stories, make up a crisis, or cry and plead, saying that their girlfriends would leave them forever if they didn’t get home. As usual, it was left to the professionals to hold the fort, while all the others went off to forget about Iraq. I’m convinced that is why the Army retention rates are low, and the quality of personnel is low as well. I was consoled by the fact that LTC Jagger and Major Stanton didn’t take leave, unlike many other leaders. As you can tell, the leave issue was a bitter one for me. It still is when I think of it.

[1] A-14 refers to a tank in the first platoon of Alpha company.

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SAS Wipes Out Terrorist Cell in One Swoop, The Duce Hooks Up Special Forces with a BMW

20 January 2004

I love you! I told you about the stop loss after getting news that I would be staying here for sure. I felt so horrible about telling you I wouldn’t be coming home. It tears me to bits, it breaks my heart, but I’m going to make sure we stay as positive as possible through this. I won’t be able to come home on vacation because I am critical to our staff.[1] I just feel so exhausted, and I know you do too. I just ask God for strength, and I know all will be OK. That is the most important thing to remember. I talk to you all the time though, especially when I see the stars at night or birds in pairs together. My heart really aches, I feel it in my chest, and it’s the fire of true love and longing. I am going to be so overjoyed to come home to you.
Things here in Iraq have been relatively calm despite a large bombing at the CPA at the same entrance I ran through after the grenade attack in October. 24 dead, 2 of them Americans. Last night, one of our tanks that was set up on the 6-lane highway to deter people from placing roadside bombs (IEDs) was hit by an RPG (rocket propelled grenade) from a car parked on an overpass. The bombers are having a harder time placing bombs, so now they are resorting to firing missiles or guns at our units directly. That is actually a good thing, because it means the terrorists are having a harder time hitting Iraqis and Americans. The RPG fired at the tank exploded and only scratched the tank. Nothing big.
Over the past few days, we’ve been working more with Task Force 141 (the British Special Air Service SAS) and U.S. Special Forces. The Special Forces guys are on our camp training the new ICDC recruits – not out going after the bad guys. They’re getting a little bored though, so now they are working with us in their spare time. Now, we are conducting more precision raids and getting better information about foreigners in our areas. We have spies that work for us as translators (I say “spy” because they go to mosques and observe the services and messages and gather information on target houses). They are just common people though. Now, we are getting support from real spies and informants who are providing some amazing information. I support this, because gaining more information means less false raids and wrongly accused people taken into custody or being killed.
“Here they are,” CPT Guerin (our intelligence officer) said as he handed a set of keys to our special operations operator, named “Dave.” Dave is an “operator,” or spook. The first thing you notice about him is that he doesn’t have a military appearance. He looks like a hiker, with longer hair than is normal, a skinny build, a relaxed expression and stony eyes under heavy brows. You wonder if those eyes are stony and weary of being here in Iraq, or of seeing death – or dealing it. He walks around with his hands in his pockets and seems like a civilian in a rag tag uniform. CPT Guerin handed him the set of keys.
“What do we have?” Dave asked.
“BMW 7-series, black,” CPT Guerin responded with a hint of satisfaction.
“Nice! Thank you,” Dave said with a surprised grin. “Where’s it parked?”
“Oh, out back,” CPT Guerin responded. I smiled to myself and thought about those James Bond movies where Q tosses the keys of some exotic car to James. Who would have thought our bulky armor unit would be working with the CIA, SAS, or Special Forces? Dave has another operator working with him. He’s a short guy that looks like a disco kid and wears a wavy, dyed hair do. It’s not like Hollywood – these guys are not Arnold Schwarzenegger. They don’t even fit the description of a soldier. That is probably a good thing, and they are smart enough to get the job done right. Now we’ve got a “smarter” team working in our zones, informants gathering information – and sure enough – people are being identified as planning attacks and links to terrorists in Yemen and Syria are being made. We also have technical support in monitoring telephone calls on satellite phones and taking satellite pictures of target houses where the terrorists are living. The pictures are so good, you could spot a dog in the back yard. A few months ago we had intel about an ambulance being modified into a bomb at a certain location. After a few hours, we had a satellite image of the house, spotted the ambulance in the backyard, and then began to put plans together to raid the house. The ambulance was captured.
The SAS, or Task Force 141, seem to be a bit darker than our Special Forces. I remember sitting in the dining room at the Al-Rasheed Hotel a few weeks ago when we went to the CPA. We were sitting eating, and I could hear all kinds of conversations around me. You find people from Special Forces, CIA, FBI, SAS, all kinds of people. There are also a lot of admin Army soldiers there living it up and flirting with all the young Iraqi, British, American, etc. women. All the nonsense away from the realities of the city. Anyways, one SAS team was sitting next to me.
“He’s wa’ up ewl’ nite play’n Ghost Recon, that one level,” the Brit said in a thick accent. He’s talking about a popular video game where you fight terrorists.
“Aye, room clearing just isn’t realistic,” said one of the other guys. He was talking about when you go into a house or building to secure it. They then went on to talk about an operation they were carrying out that night. It was kind of weird hearing SAS guys talk about playing a video game about war and catching terrorists when they’re doing the real thing every night. I looked across to another table and a big man, probably FBI or with some civilian security organization, was very conspicuously starring at an Iraqi woman’s ass only feet away. He had a big American flag on a badge on his chest, a redneck moustache, Harley Davidson baseball cap, stylish extreme style sunglasses, tattoos, big muscles. Next to him was a similar looking bonehead, also starring at Iraqi ass. The Middle Eastern woman who was sitting at the table pretended not to notice their behavior. I looked over at SPC Forrest, and he saw what I was seeing too and started to laugh.
“Thompson, I know, I know.” I smiled back and was thankful I wasn’t the only one who found Al-Rasheed living a joke. We then went outside to the pool and looked at the damage caused by an earlier rocket attack. A lieutenant colonel from The Citadel died in that attack.
Well, going back to the SAS, two nights ago, they conducted a raid on a house that was housing three men identified by intelligence as being responsible for killing Santos from our unit right after Christmas. The SAS went to the house at night very secretly. Our tanks were on standby just in case something happened, and the SAS won’t explain what they are doing. They don’t have to. The team went into the house and killed two men immediately. One man ran from the back of the house. He was tracked down and killed in the street and the SAS called our tanks and then disappeared. When our guys showed up, they found dead bodies, grenades, and one body in the road. The house was not searched by the SAS – it seems they went in and killed everyone. Aggressor Company (A Co.) got the Iraqi police to get the bodies, and then searched the house. Papers were found that indicated the men were from Egypt. Explosives and military equipment were found in the house. “I don’t know if it was them (the bombers who killed Santos), but if it was, they’re dead now,” an NCO from Apache Troop said in the TOC after hearing the news about the raid. Word is getting out that people are disappearing at night from their homes or being killed by invisible men.
Last night there was another raid. Dave was going to help – all dressed in an Iraqi army uniform and bullet-proof vest with gadgets on it. I was going to be supervisor during the operation so the less experienced guys could get some practice. Before the 0100 raid, I looked through our target packages (folders with information about the people we were going to catch, satellite pictures of their houses). Some were suspected of funding attacks on Americans and police. One was a known terrorist with ties to Yemen and a brother in Al-Qaeda. The intelligence on the 6 or so men was pretty complete. Listed below their names was their position within the terrorist cell, their schedules, meetings at mosques.
Going after bad guys like them is a good thing. Last night, six separate houses were raided at the same time. “Shots fired!” one patrol said on the radio with us.
‘Sir, shots fired at team,’ I said to Sergeant Major Walker. It was a shotgun blast. From one of the houses, a man ran from a house into another house. Another blast went off.
“We’ve got one male barricaded in a house.” A few minutes later, that male was captured after giving up. “Gunman captured! WIA, wounded with sucking chest wound,” the patrol reported. Medics began to work on the man.
“Fuck him, he’s shooting at troops,” some people were saying in the TOC. It later turned out he was a Christian man, the father of his children and a husband, who thought bandits were coming in his home, so he shot at the intruders. He didn’t know what he was starting a shootout with the soldiers. He was taken to the American field hospital and is OK. He’s got a bad wound – but he’s going to live. He was just defending his home. It turned out we raided the wrong house. The target house was actually next door. So, the team went next door and captured some men who were actual targets. One was a known terrorist.
During the raid, everyone stayed calm and we spoke very mechanically. “Target 1, clear. Target 2, clear. Moving to target 3.” Very methodical and clean. Our raids don’t get on the news, even though 3-32 AR has conducted so many raids and caught a lot of bombers and bad people.
Today I went to the interrogation of the terrorist. Sergeant Daniels did the first interrogation. He just said the f-word a lot and said some things in a country accent that the Iraqi interpreter couldn’t understand. The Sunni Iraqi man didn’t seem scared. Even at the end, the man teased SFC Daniels saying about his face, “You beautiful face.” The man laughed and SFC Daniels left. He wasn’t even worried.

The base that we were living on in east Baghdad was rarely the target of attack. Many other bases had been mortared and rocketed. I think we were spared because of the constant presence of helicopters above our camp. The buildings belonging to our battalion were within the landing pattern for the local aviation unit. The bumblebee drone of their rotors was an omnipresent sound. That was a blessing.
Around this time in January, a nighttime mission was being conducted. The mission was to capture insurgents. While our units were out in zone 23 creeping around in alleys and along walls, an Iraqi man spotted the dark shadows of our soldiers. He believed they were thieves in the night. He grabbed his shotgun and initiated a firefight with the soldiers. I remember the soldiers reporting that they were in contact. After several minutes of intense exchanges, the gunman was captured. It turned out he was only protecting his home. He was a Christian man, and he had a sucking chest wound. He was brought to the Army hospital and treated, but treated as if he was guilty, as if he was an insurgent. In Iraq, the innocent are treated guilty – because they are Iraqi, they are the reason we are here.
“So many nights I would sit on my tank during a raid and think, ‘This shit is wrong, it’s illegal,’” Sergeant Gonzales said one night while eating Ramen noodles.

[1] Sometimes vacation was given out as incentive to reenlist. If you reenlisted or showed intent to reenlist, you increased your chances of going home. I was not able to be too far from the TOC because I could be needed at any moment. Many times, the vacation system was simply corrupt and subject to arbitrary change.

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A Truly Heartbreaking Goodbye to our Fallen Sergeant Major

7 January 2004 2200

Another challenge has appeared on the horizon. I found out today that the Army is putting a freeze on people leaving – called a stop loss. I am affected by this and now must stay beyond March 20. You were right – you can’t trust the Army. I tell you, this has been a trying time – I know it is for you equally. I love you, and I just can’t wait to get home to you. I just want things to be the way they were when I left. I feel so close to you and I don’t want to lose you. I know this news will be disappointing, so it’s going to be difficult to let you know about it. I love you, and I trust God that all will be OK.
You know, the feeling of my numbness and resignation has grown lately. The “adventure” is over. I just need to get home with you – my best friend.
I look back on the past few weeks of violence and become more quiet. I went to the memorial service for CSM Francis at the Martyrs’ Monument. At first, I didn’t want to go – just as I have no desires to go to funerals. I went though, and sat on a ledge looking down in a theater in the underground complex. There was a harp player, row upon row of visitors – among them were Major General Poncho, the ADM of 1st AD and other famous military personalities. The presentation was very nice and respectful. When the slide show started and the music started playing, I became extremely upset, because he was a great guy and loved by his soldiers.
Slowly but surely, my nose became stuffy and eyes began to water. As the guest speakers spoke and also became emotional, I thought about all the reasons for us being in Iraq, about the expressions on his face that seemed to show a hidden knowledge of his fate. I thought of his wife, how she’s all alone now and a widow. A tear rolled down my eye. I just looked on and rested my chin on the butt stock of my M-16 and stared into space, or at CSM Francis’ picture projected on the stage. At one point, a captain played bagpipes a few feet away from me. I thought I had to be the only one with tears rolling involuntarily down my cheek as I stared straight ahead. Then I noticed sniffling and teary eyes all around. Everyone was touched. Taps was then played and I just wanted it to stop. It’s a painful, final thing to listen to taps playing. After the first few notes, it’s so painful to hear - I just wanted it to stop. After the ceremony, I went down to his rifle, boots, and helmet and waited to get in line to pay my respects. A lieutenant colonel said, “Go ahead corporal,” and in a friendly way gestured for me to go in front of him. I noticed when soldiers were walking away from Francis’ articles – they were in tears. I stood up in front of his boots, helmet, weapon and saluted.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered. I then dropped my salute and walked for the exit. I like others, broke into tears and tried with all my might to hold back. I walked passed CSM Sanders and CSM Fleischmann and they all were comforting. Fleischmann saying, “Calm down, it will be OK.”
I’ll never forget, an Iraqi family standing in line in front of me. A woman dressed in black, her 16 year old son, and docile-looking husband all stood sad eyed. They stood in front of CSM Francis’ things and said a prayer as a family. I’ll never forget seeing that. Iraqis have been victims of this war, and American soldiers too. Many of the emotions that I felt that day are gone with the ceremony – maybe hidden inside, or put away in conclusion. I don’t know. I decided not to go to PFC Santos’ memorial service a few days ago. I didn’t want to hear taps again. He was a kid from Mexico. I’ll never forget him or SGM Francis – ever.
I need to go to sleep now. I love you Nora. I need you, you are my reason for living.

Listening to Counting Crows and AC-130 Gunship Fire

2 January 2004 2206

I’m listening to Counting Crows right now, and loud explosions are banging the window in front of me in my room, and you can hear “THUD! THUD!” and “BRRRRR!” “BOOM!” It’s an AC-130 gunship pounding some targets nearby. It’s strange trying to act normal, listening to Counting Crows, and the sounds of guns. You wonder how many enemy will be killed with each “BOOM!” or “GRRRR!” or “THUD!” Hopefully they’ve got good intel on the targets. I’ve seen after ops videos on infrared of target ops. It’s not a pretty thing.
We just talked on the phone too. Your voice sounds so wonderful – it really is the most beautiful sound. You’re in Italy, you feel comfortable and secure – so I feel better. I love you Nora.
Back to the story I left on last time, the Apache IED, it happened on HWY 5. Some kids yelled at the patrol saying there were guns and explosives somewhere. They probably were paid to say this. The Apache patrol went to investigate and then the bomb went off. Sounds like some Vietnam stuff. You could imagine how frustrated the guys were in Apache after getting hit twice.
There are some interesting things I wanted to catch up on. One was about an incident that claimed 14 Iraqi lives. It happened a few miles north of BIAP. (I’m listening to explosions from my window now.) A patrol was going through the town, and was attacked by two men with two grenades. The grenade throwers were sighted and detained. When the patrol arrived at the Iraqi police department, the building came under mortar attack. When the patrol went back into town, they started getting shot at from a building. The M2A2 Bradley traversed and started firing main gun rounds. After the incident, the area was sealed and a house to house search was conducted over a large part of the town. 14 civilians were found dead. A few days later, a CH-47 Chinook was shot down in that same general area. 16 dead U.S. soldiers. They were going home for vacation.
Around the same time some Iraqi mortar men were striking the CPA with mortar rounds. I could hear the explosions and figured it was CPA getting attacked, so I put on one of the radios on the CJTF frequency. Well, our radar acquired the origin of the rounds and that grid location was sent to the Apache helicopters that were providing security. Within two minutes, the helicopters spotted a truck with several men stowing something in the back. The gun helicopters opened fire (this was in the city, north bank of the Tigris) and hit the truck. The accompanying truck also drove away, but the other helicopter chased it into a checkpoint where it was detained. I was listening to the ground unit report their findings.
“We’ve got two mortar tubes, mortars, and mortar equipment. 2 enemy killed. Several wounded – now being detained.”
‘Holy shit,’ I thought. That was fast. In a separate incident during this time period (around October 29, 2003), 2 Iraqis were killed by Alpha Company. They were killed by the same sergeant who’s already shot several other people and is known to be a hothead.
“It’s easier to shoot a whole can of ammo. That way you already know the round count,” Ween said. Each box contains 200 rounds – and that’s exactly how many rounds were fired at the Iraqi car in a neighborhood in A Co. sector. The car drove past a checkpoint and fired a few rounds of AK-47.[1] A Co. felt threatened and returned fire. 200 rounds.
“200 rounds? That’s bullshit!” CPT Nash said in the TOC (it was at night). “It doesn’t take 200 rounds to disable a vehicle.” One man was killed instantly, and his girlfriend was struck several times and seemed brain dead. She was evacuated to the American hospital where she later died. “How many bullet casings were found?”
“Um, we don’t know, some kids picked them up,” A Co. said on the radio. Well, after a few more minutes passed, all of Baghdad erupted in gunfire. Conroy was out with the major and they actually ran from their Hummer to seek cover. He got pretty scared. There was such a large amount of fire.
“What’s going on?” CPT Nash asked.
“Looks like we’ve got some celebratory fire,” units were reporting. A little while longer, regimental HQs notified us that Iraq beat South Korea in a soccer match.
“Oh shit,” CPT Nash said, “I hope Aggressor (A Co.) didn’t just shoot those people when they were only celebrating.” The problem was ultimately that they shouldn’t have had a gun in their car in the first place. What should you think?
Well, it’s 0100 now, and I need to get some rest. My roommates and I just got back to our rooms. The whole camp had to go search all bags and vehicles for a lost rifle. Some soldier just came back from 2 weeks of leave and needed his weapon back. Well, it couldn’t be found. Well it’s still gone. They’ll probably find it soon. I’ve got to go, but I can’t forget yesterday. That was a total gift from God following these tough times. The day ended with a long flight, very low and fast, across the Iraqi countryside, across the Tigris and Euphrates, and during a spectacular sunset. I haven’t seen a sunset as this one in ages. When the helo dropped me off with my documents, I turned around and watched the Blackhawk climb and hover perfectly for a moment, with the sunset in the background. It was a picture perfect image – and I was aware of how fortunate I was and how perfect that sight symbolized that. I’ll never forget that. New Year’s 2004 – alright by me. Now all I need is to get home to you. I love you, I can’t wait to build 2004 with you!

[1] A story later circulated that they weren’t sure if shots were fired from the car or not. A weapon was produced though, but its origins were questionable.

Read more at http://www.american-interrupted.com

Taking off in a Blackhawk as the Ball Drops over Times Square

January 1, 2004 1300 Baghdad International Airport

It’s New Year’s Day, and I flew into Baghdad International Airport in a Blackhawk at 0800 – right as the ball was dropping in Times Square in New York. The flight was amazing, with a stop at the former personal helipad of Saddam at his main palace along the Tigris. We had to drop some crewmen off at the 28th CAS main hospital. I never imagined I would be doing that on New Year’s. After stopping there, we continued on to BIAP. Now I am at the soldier support center relaxing a bit. I’ve got to pick up some items from division intelligence to take back to Rustimiya on a flight at 1630. I’ve done a lot already today – but the most important was calling you this morning to let you know I had a safe flight. Last night I went to bed early so I could call you at 2400 your time. At 0200 I was awoken suddenly by yelling and screaming. Sergeant Marshal got up out of bed just as I did to see what was causing all the commotion. Just then I looked at my clock and it was midnight – New Year’s in Baghdad. From our window, you can see the Baghdad skyline. “POP POP POP – THUD! POP!” Thousands of pops of AK-47 fire and larger caliber machine gun fire were suddenly erupting. Tracers were flying through the air, like red beads climbing skyward.
“Holy shit man,” Sergeant Marshal said, “you hear all that gunfire?”
‘Yeah, it’s unreal,’ I said.
“That’s a lot of firepower. They could have gotten rid of Saddam if they wanted to. Hopefully they’ll shoot off all their ammo. Man, makes me want to go upstairs on the roof and pop off a few rounds!”
I was even tempted to get my camcorder out and record it all, but it was dangerous to get on the roof when so many rounds were going off. I stared out the window at the sky lit up by tracers and flares and explosions and popping and cracking gunfire. I lay down and thought, ‘all is well as long as they keep those guns pointed skyward.’ Then I fell asleep.
A little while longer, I woke back up to call you at New Year’s, your time. I called and was so happy to hear your voice! So we got to spend New Years together in our own way. You were at Hans-Jurgen’s with the family. It was good to hear everyone say hello. I miss you so much. Yesterday I was walking and suddenly felt emotional about missing you. That happens, there is a sudden surge of sorrow and longing that you can’t repress, but it surfaces for a few unforeseen seconds and you hold back tears. I love you Nora. I love you Nora, and there remains only one holiday – Valentine’s Day – to go until I get home. It’s going by fast. I need to catch up on events of the 28th of December.
Sergeant Siegel and I were sitting in the kitchen eating breakfast when I heard a frantic voice on the radio scream, “WE’VE BEEN HIT! 15 CASUALTIES!!” I tore out of the kitchen into the radio room and looked at SPC Nixon.
‘GET SOME PAPER!’ The TOC was erupting in yells.
“GET THE COLONEL (LTC Jagger)!” CPT Smalls yelled. I confirmed the casualties. It was an IED.
“WE’VE GOT 1 KIA, 1KIA!” came screaming on the radio.
‘Shit,’ I thought.
“T, go get the colonel, I’ve got the radios!” Sergeant Siegel said. I took off. I looked for the colonel, but couldn’t find him. So I looked into Major Stanton’s room.
“Yes,” he said when I knocked on the door.
‘Sir,’ I said seriously, ‘Apache just got hit with an IED. 14 casualties.’ I didn’t mention the KIA. He got up from behind his desk and came into the TOC.
“Knight 6 (the LTC) is probably in the internet café.” Sergeant Siegel and I went (ran) over to the second floor of Apache’s HQs where the internet room is. I saw LTC Jagger sitting behind a computer and realized he had no idea about the bad news we were about to give him. We lost our first soldier. But we still didn’t tell him. The first report said the KIA was from the ICDC, but it was still unsure. I ran back into the TOC.
“We’ve got Valentino going into shock!” The screams on the radio were terrifying. The commander of Apache got on the radio,
“I know you’ve got one KIA, but calm down, we’re sending medivac!”
“We need a fucking helicopter, we need air medivac!! AIR MEDIVAC!” the soldier was screaming – begging for an air medivac. It was a foggy, eerie day, and no air evac was available. All was grey and visibility was only about 100 meters.
“There’s no air medivac available, it’s too cloudy,” the battle captain said. “We’ve got field ambulances on the way!”
“WE NEED AIR EVAC!” the soldier said again, in denial that he wouldn’t get help from aviation. He asked again for air evac, but we continued to say it wasn’t available. “I’ve got a damn soldier in shock!” There’s nothing more we could do but coordinate the ground evac. We started getting more info, and I was tracking units on the map and passing critical info to the colonel while he was trying to get a hold of Colonel Leroux (the regimental commander).
“Well, tell Colonel Leroux I’ve got something important that just happened he needs to know about,” LTC Jagger said and then paused. “Well, I’ve got something more important than a training meeting going on…” he said after being told COL Leroux was busy.
I got confirmation from the Apache first sergeant on the casualties. 1 dead, PFC Santos, 2 critical. One with a tore up leg and one with a punctured lung. One with a torn up shoulder. All U.S. soldiers. 8 ICDC wounded, but no Iraqis critically. 2 dead Iraqi boys, torn to bits by the explosion while waiting for a ride to school.
We needed to get these casualties to our field hospital – but traffic was completely backed up on the bridge. The bridge was the one I talked about earlier that the bolts had been taken off of. The bridge was blown by the Saddam Fedayeen during the war and a temporary span was emplaced by the Seabees. The two lane, low flow temporary bridge was heavily used and a point of congestion. We needed to get casualties across the bridge – but it would prove difficult during rush hour. The scouts were dispatched, along with several other vehicles to assist the casualties and clear traffic on the bridge. Sergeant Major Sanders was on the way.
I went over to Knight 6 and told him quietly, ‘Sir, one KIA – U.S., 2 critical – possible punctured lung, one bleeding heavily from wounds. 1 torn shoulder, 8 ICDC wounded.’ He nodded and wrote down the numbers. One interpreter was wounded too, and he seemed to be going into shock. I didn’t know it at the time, but the translator was my friend Emgin. I just congratulated him too on his new job as a translator (he’d been a fighter pilot in the Iraqi Air Force before the war – then a general laborer for us, and an Iraqi police candidate). He opted out of IP training to work with our civil affairs for $15 a day. For some reason, he went out on a mission with Apache this morning. He doesn’t even work for them.
“We told him not to go out with Apache this morning,” Murphy said to me later that day. He works with civil affairs. Emgin was doing really well, climbing the ladder of success again, and always appreciative and proud when I congratulated him on his new jobs. Now he had glass in his eyes and several lacerations.
On our television, CNN and FOX news were already reporting the attack before we’d even had our casualties all back to camp. The ambulances weren’t on site yet, and it had been some time. Later I found out what happened.
“We were sitting at the camp gate, and the ambulances pulled up. Before I could tell them to follow us out the gate to the attack site, they started driving off following some truck! They were following the wrong truck!” Sergeant Lilly said from the scouts. So the three ambulances went off following this random truck they thought was their escort. “I tried to stop the trucks, I was flashing my lights, honking my horn – but they wouldn’t stop. I had to drive around camp until they finally stopped!” So, Sergeant Lilly got the ambulances organized again and then went out of the gate.
Meanwhile, another scout section was on the bridge doing everything to clear the bridge of traffic. Some Hummers had to push and ram cars out of the way. Guns were pointed, placed on “fire” at times because the Iraqis wouldn’t move (even when there was enough room). Scouts were on the bridge banging cars and pointing barrels into windows for the extra fear effect. After a lot of frustration and chaos, the bridge was cleared. CSM Sanders carried Santos’ body and placed him in a Hummer. Later, SSG Lawson recalled:
“I didn’t think he would make it. It looked like he was about to lose it… the…well, the look on his face…I can’t even describe.” Sergeant Lawson arrived at the attack scene a little time after it occurred. “We pulled up, and I thought, ‘This is bad.’ One of the sergeants was walking around dazed, starring ahead, like a zombie. It was horrible, lots of blood. There were two boys’ dead bodies in a ditch next to the explosion site. The translator got glass in his eyes, he was going into shock when I got there.”
I hated to hear that. I can’t imagine him going into shock! It was Emgin’s first day at work as a translator. It didn’t make sense. PFC Briant was also wounded. The TOC was stirring and after everything died down and the dead and wounded were evacuated (the sun came out and the wounded were taken from our field surgery hospital, where the people from the U.N. attack were taken on our camp, and flown to the main Army hospital at Saddam’s palace). Of course, the sun came out too late for that frantic voice on the radio – I’ll never forget. A voice of disbelief, of terror, of pain. I just couldn’t believe we’d lost a man. When the two vehicles that were hit were brought in, I went out to see them with LT Rivers. Two Army tow trucks just pulled in with the Hummers. I remember the first thing I noticed immediately – bloody water in the mud. The mechanics had started to wash out the bloody truck. It pooled in the mud, Santos’ blood, that was sustaining his life, was now running into a muddy field in Iraq. The commander, CPT Peters, was looking at golf ball size piece of jagged steel that had been lodged into a wooden crate behind the driver’s seat. It had passed through Santos’ body – through a ballistic vest, two ceramic plates, and through a metal seat – finally sticking into the wood behind him. The piece was sitting, now, in a cloth. I looked at it and couldn’t believe that had done such violence. Looking more at the truck, you noticed the windshields broken, tires flat, numerous holes punched in both vehicles. All lights were blown out, instruments thrown from the dashboard. I noticed one hole about 4 inches below a rear passenger seat that would have done some damage had it only been higher up. Mechanics were already assessing what could and couldn’t be repaired.
Across the field, I could hear Hariq (Donkey Boy) yelling repeatedly from across the wire, “THOMPSON! COME HERE! THOMPSON!” about 50 times. It was getting on my nerves because he was begging for money. He continued to yell after I motioned for him to go away. It just made me angry for some reason, I could hear him pestering me in the background, while evaluating the sight before me. I calmed down and went over to him later and explained what happened. He seemed to understand, and then asked, “Thompson, please give me one dollar. My father said, ‘Go to soldier and ask for dollar. If you don’t bring back a dollar, I’ll beat you.’” I didn’t know if I could believe him – but it didn’t matter, because I had no money.
‘Go ask the soldiers on the gate, they are letting the workers out now,’ I said. He left, and I left – and I thought about Iraq as I walked back to the command post. First CSM Francis, now the ICDC platoon.
Later that night, Sergeant Marshal and I were in our room talking about all the messed up things going on here. All of a sudden, there was a large “CRACK!” and I found myself on the floor. I looked over and Sergeant Marshal was down too.
“What the fuck was that?!” he yelled.
‘Are we getting shot at?’ I asked
“I dunno, look for holes in the glass.” We were standing next to our big window before the loud crack.
‘I don’t see any holes,’ I said.
“Yeah, me neither.” We stood up and looked carefully out of the window.
“HEY!” It was Sergeant Stockton down below. He tossed a rock (pebble) at our window to get our attention.
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? YOU SCARED THE SHIT OUT OF US!” Sergeant Marshal yelled down.
“Get your stuff on. Something’s going on!” Well, something was Apache getting hit by an IED HWY 5.
“We need you in the TOC,” Sergeant Siegel came to my room and said. It was just another IED. I couldn’t believe it. I came down (it was night) and the TOC was bustling. Luckily no one was seriously injured this time. What a day.[1]
You are headed to Italy now, and I’m tired. It’s been a long day – and there’s more to tell. I love you Nora, goodnight.

I was happy to see 2003 pass. It was one of the most disturbing years of my life. When I was sitting in the Soldier Support Center, I noticed several soldiers staring at the television and talking to themselves. I wasn’t imagining things. I distinctly remember one soldier having a conversation with himself. He then got up from his seat and walked to the bathroom, keeping his finger on the trigger of his rifle the entire time. It may just be force of habit, I’m not sure, but if you looked around the room, you would see dirty, salt stained soldiers walking around with their fingers on their rifle triggers. If they had a pistol, they would be fingering the pistol trigger, sometimes mumbling to themselves. These guys were under a lot of stress.
I went to the PX, and noticed some of the soldiers and third party nationals were stealing batteries and other items, placing them in their uniforms and jackets. I couldn’t believe it. I watched one individual, a British foreign regimental soldier, walk past the foreign national security guard that was watching the door of the PX. They made eye contact and spoke a few short words and he left with his stolen batteries. I wasn’t sure who to report the thieves to, there were no American employees in sight, and the apparent guard seemed to know what was going on.

[1] Some Iraqis lured a patrol into an attack area using children to tell the soldiers that someone was in distress. When the soldiers when to investigate, they were hit.