Wednesday, March 31, 2004

Dinner Parties in Baghdad, Putting My Life on the Line for Bullshit

American, Interrupted is the longest, most complete account that exists about Operation Iraq Freedom by a soldier. Learn more about it at www.American-Interrupted.com.

31 March, 2004 2400 (Actually 1 April)

Another day in this wounded country. Tonight we (SGM Walker and CSM Brown) drove to CPA to the “Freedom Rest” compound (former Republican Guard resort) for yet another sergeants major dinner. I encountered another reason to stay out of the Army – why the hell am I putting my life on the line just so a bunch of enlisted good ol’ boys can all hang out and smoke cigars?! What is wrong with these people? They do more “dinners” out here than they do in Germany – and we’re engaged in a Guerilla war here. It’s not right. There’s nothing to celebrate. I’m tired and going to sleep now. I’ll call later. I love you!

After many of the units in Baghdad settled in, there began a trend of hosting and attending a multitude of special events. That could be a goodbye party for some high ranking officer or NCO, an NCO gathering, a cavalry get together across town, a Christmas party, a spur party, a promotion dinner. It seemed there was a dinner every time a high ranking person farted. This is not the case in garrison. There are dinners in Germany, and NCO gatherings every now and then, but nothing like the volume we had in Iraq. What angered me about it was that the soldiers driving and guarding these high ranking people were putting their lives on the line so, for example, a bunch of West Point alumnus could get their picture taken under the crossed sabers on Founder’s Day or something. There was a greater, more important task at hand, one greater than us – one that self congratulating could never help. There was no reason to celebrate, no reason to party, because outside of the walls of our compounds, a rebellion was brewing. It would be a rebellion that no amount of fake beer and Hajji steaks could wipe from our wishful thinking.
The end of March also saw the death of Alistair Cooke, a BBC writer and broadcaster whom I respected greatly. I was able to hear his essays more often while living in Baghdad, where the BBC broadcast the World Service on FM.


American, Interrupted is the longest, most complete account that exists about Operation Iraq Freedom by a soldier. Learn more about it at www.American-Interrupted.com.

Friday, March 26, 2004

The Luckiest Soldier in Baghdad, Rocket Attack Laughs, and Cheating Death as Combat

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26 March, 2004 2130 Butler Range

“BOOM!” an explosion rang out two nights ago as I listened to BBC in my room and prepared to write you. Immediately when I heard the nearby blast, I knew it was an attack. I went straight for my rifle and video camera, but by then, two more loud explosions went off next to my building. ‘That is close!’ I realized with a great deal of seriousness. I ran downstairs to the command center room. I needed to get off the second floor because a round could penetrate the roof – and the rounds were targeting our camp for sure. I don’t know why, but it was almost exciting – for nearly everyone – like a hurricane party or something. No more explosions occurred. I counted 3 explosions.
I went down to the entrance of our building and noticed terrified soldiers in PT uniform running for cover or running into our building. I stood with some other soldiers and everyone was joking around. I noticed Sergeant Marshal come in looking upset. His hand had some bright red blood on it, but not too much. ‘Are you OK?’ I asked immediately.
“Yeah,” he said with an air of disbelief. “I was on the roof, talking to my wife on the phone, and all of a sudden explosions start going off around me, sparks flying, everything! ‘What was that?’ my wife asked, hearing the first explosion on the phone. ‘Nothing,’ I said and hung up the phone.”
It was indeed an attack, but the missiles landed outside the perimeter fence and into the river. All except for one.
The “Knight Bordello” is a house on our part of the camp that we spent $10,000 renovating for entertaining guests, incoming replacement soldiers, and soldiers needing a break. I don’t think the “giving soldiers a break” plan lasted too long, and the house remained vacant the majority of our time here. Some called it the “Knight Whorehouse,” not because it harbored women – it didn’t, nor did it ever, but because it was so gaudy and seemed shady just by virtue of its existence – how do you justify $10,000 on such a project? A project seeming fit for the mafia (joking). It was actually a nice place – that is until a 127mm rocket flew through one of the bedroom windows, disturbing not a whore, but an Army captain from his relaxing reading on his bed. The missile entered his window at the foot of his bed, passed only a few feet away from him through the opposite wall, going into the reception area of the house and plowing into the floor. The tail section snapped off and flew like a saw blade through a wooden door leading to the living room, into the living room, through an easy chair, and exiting the opposite wall of the house leaving a messy exit wound. When I got into the house with my camera, the smell of gunpowder or rocket propellant was still strong, and a smoky haze filled the house and a ghostly mist surrounded the house, illuminated by the house floodlights, the wiring unaffected by the missile. I went inside and was amazed at the way the missile buried itself into the concrete floor – even after punching through a wall, with the other half ripping through everything in it path. I couldn’t believe that the 1st CAV captain was in the bedroom that the missile flew into! It was amazing!
The captain walked around wide-eyed and dazed. It was the same 1st CAV captain I was talking to the anti-climatic nighttime operation called “Operation Iron Promise” on the streets of east Baghdad (more on that later). I found him in a state of disbelief. He recognized me right away. ‘Hey Sir, now you can sew on your combat patch,’ I said. He laughed. He should have been dead though. Strange…in other “wars,” you usually were rewarded for valor and units engaged the enemy and overcame. You come to Iraq and you get respect for surviving attacks. Yeah, catching bad guys is good, but a rare event. So, it’s not “How many bad guys did you get?” but “How many times have you been shot at, or blown-up, or hit with a grenade?” and so on. You get a combat patch for cheating death, you get a Combat Infantry Badge for getting shot at, and (rightfully so) you get a Combat Medical Badge for pulling smashed bodies from the U.N. building or taking Sergio de Mello’s last words as he dies. I don’t know if that is combat, it’s just survival. Anyways, the captain was lucky to be alive, and God smiled on the Knights – again.
The Australian bomb team came to the house and began to investigate the scene and the crater in the floor of the house. “Um, everyone out!” the Aussie said suddenly and nervously. He, while digging into the concrete floor (exposed under the wall to wall carpeting) with a pickaxe, hit the warhead section of the missile. When the missile impacted, the explosive failed to detonate, and instead dug itself into the floor of the house. The missile was a dud. 5 missiles were fired – 4 exploded, 1 didn’t explode. Luckily, the captain’s missile didn’t. It’s more than luck though. 1st CAV still has 12 months to go. Welcome to Baghdad.
Tonight , out at the range, the night was beautiful, an Arabian night. You can see clearly the belt of the Hunter, and the Big Dipper. It’s an amazing night. I can’t wait to be under these same stars with you Nora. I love you so, and I am thinking about you always!


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Monday, March 22, 2004

Assad Professes His Love for Bush, I Review My Criticism, and IED Maker Confesses to Knight 2 that He Kills "...because God tells me to kill you."

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22 March, 2004 2205

“Thompson, I thank God for you, I thank God for Mr. Bush, God protect Mr. Bush,” Mazin (Assad’s brother) told me so sincerely as the nearby mosque echoed evening prayers. “Thompson, really, God bless Mr. Bush,” he said. I suspected the prayers triggered his thinking, because he started speaking of being thankful as soon as the singing of the Koran began. I felt so conflicted, because I know Mazin like a brother and I know he’s got a huge heart. He’s poor as dirt too, but speaks such good English and is always positive. He’s got a wife and kids and he’s living in an abandoned Army building. My problems are so small compared to his struggles, struggles he shrugs off. Somehow he makes ends meet. I felt conflicted because I don’t agree with how Bush is executing the war on terrorism. I think it’s out of touch with the realities on the ground that no politician or military minded person can assess and understand. Wishful thinking is dangerous. I would rather deal with reality, and get real results. I believe it’s how you do something that can ensure long-term success. Something deep in my soul says we did something the wrong way. Even on the anniversary of the war, I see images of the war, and I am totally disgusted with that period of time. It’s then I remember 100% why I need to get out of the Army (aside from never wanting to leave you again because it physically hurts my heart). It’s murder – war is murder.
After leaving Mazin for the evening, I thought about what he said while I walked back to the headquarters. Who’s right? Who’s wrong? These people are liberated, no doubt about it, but it’s so dangerous – it’s not safe for Americans or Iraqis or anyone else except the extremists – because everyone is afraid of them. Some mindless Texan who happens to be president is surrounded by calculating, cold, power players who possess an air of infallibility and wealth – and he says he believes in fighting terrorism and creating a free Iraq. Maybe he does, ask Mazin, and he’d say Bush is certainly succeeding. Ask almost any Iraqi. Does this end justify the means – those means having made many people with Republican ties rich, resulted in innocent blood being spilled everyday, soldiers getting killed by $10 roadside bombs?
The question is, was Bush right to do this? I believe he is president, and he took us to war saying Iraq was an arsenal of weapons of mass destruction. We found no WMD. That was why we went to war – regardless of mass graves and cruelty. I expect my president to hold the highest standards – we are America – not Haiti or China. The world looks to us for leadership, it’s true. We said Iraq had WMD, we put the reputation of the U.S. intelligence agencies (feared and respected worldwide because of Hollywood and all that the agencies “hadn’t” done – whether real operations or imagined). It was a weapon (intel agencies) – perception. Perception was a powerful weapon, because we all assumed it worked flawlessly, as it never really failed on the world stage.
As the war progressed, no WMD has been found, and many of the promises Bush made about capturing Osama Bin Laden, about arsenals of WMD are all proving fruitless. Not only that, but the invincibility of the U.S. forces seems less so with each highly publicized attack on sitting duck soldiers in soft skin vehicles. The CIA, the FBI…well, they don’t seem so scary anymore. How big is their budget? Surely the CIA had the technology to track WMD sites and movements. I’m not so sure now, neither are our European neighbors – and they didn’t believe the evidence shown to them by the U.S. We still haven’t found any WMD. Our reputation has been damaged as a nation, and even though it’s naïve to think the government will always be honest, I expect more from the leaders of the U.S. government than to squander our prestige in front of the whole world. Now, it would be different if they made a clear case based on concrete or readily available reasons, of which there are so many other than WMD. Our national security is wounded. Not because of September 11th, but because our security net seems to be guarded by paper tigers.
I sincerely believe this whole war on terror could have been executed differently, but a chain of poor decisions have been made. Bush may truly believe in what he’s doing, and Iraq may be free now, but it will be at the expense of U.S. homeland security. We must reckon with reality and move thoughtfully. Statesmanship is an art – not a football game, and we need men of extraordinary intellect and experience. Leaders should be extraordinary. All of these concerns I have about Bush I would have expected to feel about a Texas governor – not the most powerful man in the world. It’s time for change, I don’t know if Kerry is the best man…personally, I don’t trust him – BUT I’ll give him a chance – because I don’t doubt he loves America – because it’s a great nation after all.
I love you Nora, I can’t wait to come home to you.

Two Iraqis were found by a patrol placing a roadside bomb at night. We had never caught anyone in the act of placing a bomb. One of the two was zip stripped by the neck to the dashboard heater grill for the ride to our detention facility. They were lucky nothing more happened. IEDs were feared and hated, and here are two people placing these horrible things! Did they not deserve to be shot on the spot? Those were the feelings some of the soldiers there must have had. During the interrogation of one of the bombers, it was revealed that they were placing the bombs to earn money. There were service fees paid to interested volunteers, $20 for placing a bomb, $50 for a successful kill, etcetera. The other bomber had more personal reasons for placing the bomb. When asked why he did it, he responded, “Because God tells me to kill you.”


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Thursday, March 11, 2004

Finally Catching the Bad Guys, Discussing Islam with Tariq, Listening to Tunes in the New Car Stereo Installed in the Hummer

11 March, 2004 Butler Range 1900

Well, I am out in the eastern desert of Iraq, at a large shooting range called Butler Range (named after a killed soldier). SGM Walker and I’ll be here for a few days. We’re doing a gunnery here, like we do in Graf
[1], before we go home. I think it’s a bit strange doing a gunnery so soon after fighting. Even this range gets attacked. My mission for today was to find a way to call you – and I found a way.
I hope you are doing good Nora. I am feeling sick to my stomach, diarrhea and all, but no more vomiting. I wonder how I got this? Maybe Iraqi food or water. Sometimes Assad offers water, but I generally refrain.
I miss you so much over the past few days, but it is so, so wonderful to hear your sweet voice. I love you, with all I am, I love you. I am excited about coming home to you, and it’s a total dream come true that only weeks now separate us.
I never wrote about an operation a few days ago called “Operation Rhineland II.” It was really the first operation I wasn’t helping coordinate, because this time I was on the ground taking part in the operation.
The plan was to do a house to house search of ever single square inch of sector 70. Sector 70 is mainly farmland to the east of Baghdad city. It’s a large sector and probably about 300 or 400 square miles (roughly calculated). The mission goal was to find the material that could be used to attack Americans, since mortar attacks were being carried out there against our camp. We also suspect IEDs were being made there in warehouses.
The operation would start at dawn. Our battalion, ICDC, Special Operations, and a group called “OGA” (other government agency – CIA, FBI, etc.). They had good intel on a target house. SGM Walker and I got up early that morning. I called you and told you I love you before I left. I was focused and looking forward to this operation, because it was aimed at preventing attacks and not simply reacting to attacks. The terrorists are not stupid, but it was a good plan to me to wake up everyone at 0600 to see what they had in their homes. I didn’t feel too bad about doing this, because the people were just standing by and watching people place IEDs or fire mortars at our camp. Also, the point of the raid was not harassment.
Early in the darkness, my truck moved out with a platoon of scouts from Apache. We left our camp from the back gate, so no one would observe our exit. We drove south along the Diyala River and then across a steel bridge. We were taking the long way to our assembly area, where we would sit and wait to move into action. There was an eerie feeling moving in the darkness in the convoy that morning. No fear though, none at all, because at that moment I was doing what I’d done a hundred times before in Germany on training exercises. So, you’re confident, and you know everyone is on the same sheet of music. It’s a feeling of confidence you don’t normally feel on the road or stuck in traffic in Baghdad. Because we aren’t trained for that, we learned it as we got here, and often because someone tried to kill us.
As we approached the bridge by our camp where Santos was killed, all headlights cut off, and we drove fast in the blackness, seeing only two very dim “blackout” lights from the truck in front of me. Again, I was trained to do this. Some light rain was falling and clouds were low, so this increased the eerie atmosphere and darkness.
I noticed the truck in front of me slide to the left and skid. “Fuck!” Sergeant Cole said on the radio. “That’s a ditch! Almost went in the river!”
“You OK?” Sergeant Major Walker asked.
“Roger, he didn’t see it,” Cole said apologetically.
“Is that Barns?” asked SGM Walker. Barns is the driver who usually escorts my truck. I know his driving style and instincts, and he knows mine. So we always drive great together in Baghdad.
“No, Reeder is doing services on his truck,” Sergeant Cole answered.
‘So services on a truck are more important that real-world missions where teamwork communication is critical,’ I thought.
The substitute driver almost drove right into the river. We continued to move along the main road until the convoy pulled off behind a strip of roadside garages (extremely messy) and into a small field. The location was selected says earlier. We all turned our engines off and turned our radio speakers down. We were sitting in a wait position. At 0600, the operation would go into action and we would move out from our hide position. I got out of my truck. SGM Walker went to go over the operation with the platoon sergeant.
I looked around. Some houselights were on and then turned off. ‘This must be a little like the advance on Baghdad during the war,’ I thought. It was quiet out, except for the dogs barking. SGT Marshal and SGT Hugo had their M1A1 tanks there too, so we would be safe.
‘I’ve got a man on the roof, doesn’t look threatening,’ I said over my headset radio.
“Roger, I see him now,” SGT Cole answered. It was a guard or something on the roof overlooking the scrap yard. No weapon seen. It’s not unusual for people to sleep on rooftops here, but it was raining. Dogs kept barking.
0600 came around. “Short count, in five – four – three, two – one,” and every vehicle started their vehicle at the same time. That’s so no one else can tell how many vehicles we have by counting the number of engines starting. Our headlights came on, and we rolled out towards the main road.
Once on the main road, the two tanks blocked traffic and began to set up a checkpoint. We moved in on our first target house along the side of the road. Our trucks pointed hoods towards the entrance of the gated compound. By now, the sun was rising a bit.
A team of soldiers moved quietly all around the compound to see what problems may arise, and what way would be best for entering. Everything was fine until a dog came out and defiantly stood before the large, steel gate doors and began barking mechanically.
Right as one of the soldiers picked up a large brick and hit the dog with it, an Iraqi man peered clueless from behind the gate. Immediately soldiers were on him and putting him on the ground. The raid had to go now. The Hummers tried to crash the gate in, but the gate wouldn’t move. It was already broken.
The raid team moved into the small compound. In the main yard, there was nothing but chickens, and trash. We moved to the mud houses towards the rear of the compound. “BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!” One of the soldiers kicked again and again on one door. It wouldn’t give. So, a pry bar had to be used. Eventually the door broke open, revealing a small living space. The soldiers started turning the place upside down, while SGM Walker broke in the door next to the one we just opened. That too soon flew open and Sergeant Cole jumped in and cleared the room by pointing his rifle in all directions. This was a living room. It was so simple, only basics and blankets and junk. There was a new 12 inch TV still in the box though. The box was opened and nothing was found. The living room was ransacked and nothing was found. There was a cabinet there that had two compartments that were locked. They had to be opened, so, the one nice piece of furniture there was cracked open with a pry bar. Nothing found. The place was a mess.
“I don’t think ‘The One’ (a movie disk on the ground) is contraband,” the platoon sergeant said when one of his soldiers searching threw it out and onto the ground.
“Just clearing, Sarge,” he said. He wasn’t going to keep the disk or anything.
“Be sure to check all the blankets,” Sergeant Cole instructed me, “they like to hide rifles there.”
‘Roger,’ I said. I left the living room and went to the courtyard where I saw a woman huddled with her 3 young children. She looked old and dumb. I felt sorry for the kids, and as always, there was some toddler in filth, eyes rolling around. A soldier stood watch over the woman and her kids. I went back into the living room and dropped my last two dollars on the floor. ‘It’s not much for compensation, but it’s all I got,’ I thought.
“Nothing,” said the platoon sergeant, “not a fucking thing, except for some wires.”
‘I found these papers,’ I said, handing some papers to the translator.
“What is it?” the sergeant asked.
“It says he is applied for a job with the ICDC,” the translator said.
“Aw fuck, that’s great,” the sergeant said. Everyone was looking at each other grinning. “Guy’s looking for a job with us, and we kick his door in, ain’t that some shit!” The sergeant shook his head in disbelief. “Get him up off the ground, let him go.” The soldiers took the chrome handcuffs off the man, who was on his knees, awkwardly leaning against the mud compound wall. He started speaking through the translator.
“I am just a guard. I am getting fired and must leave this week because I failed to get the gate fixed,” he said.
‘How can you live like this, you’ve got a family,’ I wondered. Many men here are lazy and keep making kids, but don’t work hard. The translator explained this compound was a place to be rented out to store vehicles and things. We released the man, and he waved goodbye surprisingly, but in an uncomfortable-looking daze.
We moved on to the next target, a small mechanic’s yard and concrete manufacturing yard. The guards were up and awake this time. They thought it was amusing to be detained by Americans, of course, their families were there too living with them. So the men and boys had to be separated from the women and girls. They all cooperated. “Do you have any weapons?” the platoon sergeant through the translator.
“No mista, no, no,” they replied. The scouts went into the raggy home and began to tear it to bits. A woman stood by waving her hands, asking, “Why?!” Her kids stood by her side. I tried to convey in my most sincere and compassionate facial expression that everything would be OK, that this was bad, but all would be OK.
“Found an AK!” A soldier found the rifle under some blankets. “No AK?” the platoon sergeant asked the group of Iraqi males. “You’re a bunch of fucking liars.” We kept the AK-47. If they only said they had the AK, they could have kept it.
“It’s suspicious that they have so many DVDs, but no DVD player,” Sergeant Cole said.
“Na, na, here it is,” another soldier said after finding a DVD player in a box.
The woman seemed frightened that we found the AK, but there was nothing to worry about if they had nothing. I went to my truck and got a little plush toy doll you sent me and some candy. I went back to the woman and her kids and gave them each one of them something. The kids smiled in their pajamas. The mom smiled too, “Shokran,” she said.
[2] I nodded to her and left.
We continued to search, and I found some Austrian plastic forming machines – used to make plastic cups and plates. All this equipment was very raggy. “You think they make plates out of plastic explosives?” one soldier asked half-joking.
“That would be cool,” another answered. We continued to search and found nothing but a safe.
“If you don’t have a key for the safe, we’re going to blow it open, and that will destroy any money inside,” the platoon sergeant said through the interpreter.
“They say they don’t have the key, only the owner, who comes in at 0800,” said the interpreter.
“OK, I’m going to blow it,” the platoon sergeant answered. He never blew it.
“There goes the bolt cutters,” a soldier said as he tossed a broken set of heavy-duty bolt cutters to the ground. They had finally been used on their last raid.
“Remember to get with the S-4 when we get back to get some new ones,” the platoon sergeant said.
I looked around and noticed all the 50 gallon barrels around the mechanic’s area. ‘It would be so easy to hide something in there,’ I thought.
“Nothing here, let’s go.” We got in our trucks and went away from the scout platoon to find LTC Jagger. Scout helicopters flew in low circles overhead. All around were U.S. and ICDC soldiers. Everything was being searched. The people didn’t seem to mind at all. The kids seemed excited and the older people smiled while opening shack and car doors.
We pulled up on LTC’s location. I noticed two Chevy Suburbans in the narrow, green alleyway. It was the spooks. An Arab-looking man with the spooks stood by with an AK-47.
I walked up the driveway and met a CIA man on the way. ‘Did you find anything?’ I asked.
“Oh yeah,” he said very clearly and in a friendly, surprisingly civilian way. He was tall, wore a Boston Red Socks baseball cap, and had khaki clothes on and hiking shoes. He went on, “We got some explosives, remote detonators, some JEEEHAD stuff.”
‘That’s great, actually got some bad guys,’ I said. It was good too, usually our raids are disappointing.
“That’s what it’s all about, catching bad guys,” he said positively.
‘Hmm, now there’s a true professional,’ I thought. Guys like him go in and actually catch killers almost every time they go out. Army guys just get killed. It was cool to actually succeed in getting some terrorists.
I walked up to the house where the terrorists were captured. It was a quaint little place, looking not too different from a country home in the southern USA. The home was also a honey farm, with hives around the home. The business (honey) was run out of the home. I walked into the yard and mingled with the CIA guys and a few soldiers and a Navy explosives expert that I’ve worked with on several occasions clearing IED-looking debris on the sides of roads. The Navy guy was fidgeting with a device. Laid out and around were RPG rounds, blasting caps, explosives and various other items. ‘What is it?’ I asked the Navy guy.
“It’s a remote detonator made out of a car alarm,” he explained, while turning a bundle of plastic and wires in his gloved hands. “See this remote control?” he asked while holding the car alarm remote control keychain controller. “This wire here is meant to extend the transmission range of the remote,” he said, showing me a long, red wire from the remote. This was the exact type of setup used to bomb my patrol on HWY 5. The actual receiver contained the receiver housing and a few AA battery housings taped together. This was one of two devices. The other similar device was taken by the FBI representative.
Nearby, soldiers poked a sand pile in the yard and heard a “CLANK!” in the sand. The explosives experts cleared the sand away and found an artillery shell in the sand. One of the men simply picked up the round and moved it to a truck. Sergeant Siegel and I covered our faces with our hands jokingly to show our unease with the bomb being handled so freely just feet away from us.
I went into the house and found myself in the living room, and it was full of women crying and chatting nervously. I presume they were the daughters and wives of the five or so captured men. Some were holding infants. I didn’t even look at them, I just acted like they weren’t in the room. I passed into the main hallway and found a group of men bound and blindfolded on their knees, pointed in various directions, their heads slightly raised in disorientation, and looking helpless.
‘You are screwed,’ I thought. Why do people feel so compelled to risk their families and future to fight “Jihad” against Americans? Yes, it is probable America is looking to capitalize on this country using its oil – BUT, I do not believe America’s mission here is completely dubious. They’re actually not looking to harm Iraq or Islam – BUT these terrorists seem willing to give up their infant sons to attack what are, at worse, schizophrenic cowboys with big hearts and big tempers. BUT, nothing to warrant Jihad. They hate Americans – more specifically the American government. I went into one of the bedrooms as one of the CIA guys and the Army guys searched the ransacked room. More wires were found. I went into the kitchen, walking and then hopping like a kid playing hopscotch through the group of captured Palestinian men blocking the hallway, so I could get to the kitchen. The kitchen looked like my great grandmother’s kitchen in Talladega, Alabama. I was taken aback for a moment and enjoyed the feeling of being in Granny’s kitchen. I stood and forgot I was in Iraq. ‘Wild,’ I thought to myself and snapped out of my daydream.
I went into another bedroom with several beds in it. CD-ROMs were laying on the floor. I was wondering why the FBI didn’t take them. I looked through the open drawers in the room. I found lots of photos of the men now bound and blindfolded in the neighboring hallway. You always hear about terrorists coming from desperate conditions, and sometimes you get that impression from photo histories in homes. What it seems though, is that these people are actually successful at one stage in their lives, and then one key event happens in their life, and for whatever reason, they start constructing bombs. These men were Palestinians that have been living in Iraq. Pictures showed these men smiling and looking very neat in western style business suits. Some have pictures of them posing holding diplomas in English language. Young scholars perhaps. I found a diploma from the Iraqi Education Ministry, and it was totally in the English language. It stated that the holder scored “excellent” in Microsoft Office Tools and MS-DOS. It was dated 2002. I saw no signs of Islamic extremism.
One of the women looked into around the corner at me as I looked through the photos. She broke out in tears and disappeared. I shook my head. ‘Why did these guys decide to kill Americans and continue to build bombs?’ I asked myself. I thought back months ago to the general’s things we captured. I looked at his pictures too. Again, photos told the story of a civilized life and good humor. But as in this latest case, something happened.
I honestly think that something could be Islamic extremism – perhaps a radical cleric plants some anti-American or Israel rhetoric in their heads. Maybe, and I honestly think this is more likely based on my personal experiences, you’ve got more young men who have studied, worked hard in university, and are on the road of success…THEN, a war begins, and the house of cards falls down. People who were not abused by Saddam and actually coexisted or functioned well in the system – even if they weren’t vocal supporters of Saddam – now hate America. Their balance, their outlook, their psychological rhythm disrupted. To have so much going your way, only to be reduced to nothing because of a war you didn’t ask for or think was needed. Maybe 12 years of sanctions and all the consequences they blamed on the Americans, whether justified or not. You never know what makes the person snap. Maybe a relative was killed in the war, maybe their car was damaged by reckless soldiers, or relative accidentally shot, or home ransacked. You never know. It seems at some point, a situation arises that strips one of their pride or sense of importance or usefulness. People react to this differently. We’ve got electrical engineers working for us picking up the trash. Why didn’t they start building bombs? Maybe they are just more patient. The trash picking electrical engineers are Shia, so they hate Saddam. But, Iran (Shia) is supporting terrorism in Iraq against the Americans. A lot of Shia are very docile and not very assertive – maybe not the rebellious types. I don’t know. The Shia are slowly getting bolder though now that Saddam is gone.
Anyways, winning hearts and minds does matter. Both sides in this clash of civilizations are afraid of each other’s extremes – even though neither side subscribe mainly to an extreme. It’s the “common man” idea I have that a lot of people disagree with me about. The working class people in the world are more similar than one may realize. I believe that. I believe it even more after seeing new cultures. There is one thing that irritates me though. When talking to an Iraqi, I often find that they have very civilized and descent morals – similar to those of westerners (in most cases identical), BUT – the moment you mention women in a relationship or in society, the uniform reaction is always backwards thinking – no matter how educated the person I am talking with, no matter how earnest and sincere – they always say women need to stay put away and hidden and quiet and not working. They consider any powerful woman or moderate Muslim woman a “bitch” (the Iraqi way of saying whore or slut). It’s so strange to encounter this attitude with otherwise thoughtful and educated men. It’s not only the religion that facilitates this attitude, it’s deeper than that. I once thought it was simply a religious issue. But, when talking to Tariq or Haider, they talk about keeping the women covered and keeping teenage girls always in the house (rarely do you see teenage girls here). They talk about the process where a wife is the servant and if she fails in that role, she is handed over to her father to be dealt with. Tariq once told me after saying it’s good the woman be completely (saying she’s a bitch if she doesn’t) covered, “It’s good for the man,” with a laugh and a wink. Same with Haider, “It’s a good thing for woman to stay covered up and stay home, it’s good for the man.” So, men here are very powerful, and they know it and feel protective of that position. To many, the woman is simply an object. There are some good Iraqi couples though, and you see them holding hands. In the city center, you see more modern Muslim men and women dressed in western attire, albeit conservative and professional-looking. It seems mainstream Muslims are a bit paranoid about women being individuals or being a bit independent. It’s almost as if the men feel insecure about their women, and react to this by or thru Islamic law and constant conditioning of the young. Some people who haven’t had these telling conversations I’ve had with Muslims, naively think, “Well, you’ve got to respect the culture.” It has nothing to do with culture. It has everything to do with male human nature and ego. That’s not healthy in a society. Maybe this results in the suppression of feelings of compassion, apathy, affection, tenderness in society. The men here overflow with brotherly love, they embrace, hold hands, and walk closely with each other – all behaviors we as westerners associate with closeness between a male and female. You wonder if they deny this closeness to their wives, except to sleep with their wives to derive sexual pleasure selfishly or to produce children. Many times, especially with the lower classes, you see the women or girls carrying large bushels on their heads as the man stands by and smokes a cigarette. Sometimes it’s revolting to see an old woman struggling to carry a rusty propane bottle down the street, while her husband walks alongside her. I’ve been told by Assad that the women are raised to work like this as servants in order to demonstrate their love for their husband. There is also the practice of marrying cousins. There is not as much freedom of choice for young men or women. I also found peculiar the practice of polygamy. How can you marry more than one woman? Again, liberal minded people from the west say, “This is the culture!” The woman can’t take more than one husband. Again though, I would hear the comment, “It’s very good for the man!” I’m sure many men would enjoy having many women sexually and guilt free (Hey! God says it’s OK to have at least 4!). Again, this sounds like lust and human nature talking, not God. There seems to be a great deal of tribal ethics accommodated by Islam and still practiced in the Middle East. You read Che Achumbe’s Things Fall Apart about African tribal life, and you see some of that behavior here in the Middle East.
A society where men and women are equally valued members of the society can do a great deal to promote peace. I don’t know if that change is going to occur anytime soon though. Ironically, Iraq isn’t as radical as some of its neighbors, because of Saddam’s insistence on building a secular state. He did become a more devout Muslim after the first Gulf War, even adding “God is Great” to the national flag.
My last observation (and then I’ll continue about the Palestinians) is that each family I’ve seen has many, many children. You see women pregnant and they are dirt poor. The man of the family is proud though – each child is a sign of honor – increases the father’s legitimacy.
‘How can they have a child every year and be so poor?’ I’d ask.
“Allah says not to worry about it, Allah will care for them, as he does the birds,” my Iraqi friends tell me. Of course, I feel conflicted, because being a Catholic Christian, we believe the same thing. The “Don’t worry, God cares for His living things,” is in our Bible. It’s part of the human condition to have children, and in the absence of birth control, westerners would have more children. It’s only natural to produce children, birth control is actually unnatural. Of course, that doesn’t sound too optimistic in a society that has almost forgotten private parts aren’t just for entertainment, but for creating life too. Many Iraqis think we westerners are actually the crazy ones, avoiding having children or big families. Big families are a source of pride, happiness, and help here. I don’t know, maybe that’s something we as westerners are missing out on. So, I’m conflicted with feelings of disapproval for poor, large Iraqi households and guilt from being such a snob – I talked to Hussein about it, my Sunni advisor, on confusing Muslim and Arab ways.
“Yes Thompson,” he says amused and sympathetically, “Allah says he will feed your young as he does everything in nature. BUT, God also gave me a brain and a mind to realize I should try not to have more children than I can provide for and send to college and pay attention to. We Sunni don’t have as many children, we are generally more educated,” he said in a very agreeable way. He always emphasizes the virtues of being Sunni.
You see so many children and all and you wonder if they get enough attention! I don’t know if I should feel silly for thinking maybe young Arabs don’t get enough love or affection and come to be emotionally dysfunctional. Maybe that’s a bit too much.
Haider is Kurdish, he speaks positively about his mom and doesn’t seem too deranged. What about the millions of other Iraqis and Arabs?
Back to being in the house looking at the pictures. I dropped the pictures and thought about taking some CD-ROMs to investigate their contents, but it felt wrong to take something from a stranger’s house. I decided I had seen enough, so I left, walking past the living room full of sobbing and worried women and girls and infants. I didn’t look at them at all. The prisoners came out right behind me. The women cried louder seeing their men being led out.
“I need my shoes,” one of them said as a soldier led the blindfolded and zip stripped man to a truck.
“I don’t give a fuck about your shoes,” the soldier replied as he led him past several RPG rounds that lay on the ground. After all the prisoners were put on the back of the truck, I walked over because I noticed one of them whispering to the others very secretively. I tapped him and said, ‘Shhhhhh.’ They could be putting a story together for later or discussing plans should one of them be released.
‘You need to make sure they aren’t talking to each other,’ I told one of the soldiers guarding them.
“It don’t matter corporal, they’re fucked anyways,” he answered.
‘Don’t be so naïve,’ I scolded him. The CIA and our guys finished looking around the grounds, so we all simply left. As we walked down the driveway towards the main road, one of the women sneered at us and clumsily closed the metal gate to the driveway. She loudly latched it shut in a display of anger. Her neighbors peered at us over privacy fences and looked curiously at the prisoners and the woman.
“Mista, we love you! Good mista!” the children and smiling parents said.
‘Good public reaction,’ I thought. I went back to my truck and got some plush doll you sent me for the kids and waved an on looking man over to the truck. He was holding a baby. The man cautiously walked up and the baby smiled and fumbled the doll about. The father smiled and thanked me. One of the CIA guys walked over to me.
“Hold on, we’ve got a lot of candy and stuff too we need to get rid of,” the man said from under his Boston Red Socks cap. He handed some candy over to the father. He was smiling ear to ear as if he won a lottery.
As we drove off, I wondered why we didn’t completely search the house and collect all the CD-ROMs. Moreover, I wondered what would happen to the women and children. Especially the infant. Of course, his father was killing people, while going to his nice, peaceful home after committing these acts. I can’t believe these men felt so threatened by the U.S. Now, I might have some sympathy if we were systematically destroying Iraq – BUT, it’s these people who are making matters worse. Had these men reentered civil society, they would have been OK. Now, they will spend at least 30 years in prison. Leaving families and wives and infants behind. It’s horrible.
Soldiers were everywhere, Kiowa helicopters flew over, and we drove to the local mosque. The ICDC went in and searched the small mud building with scaffolding as a minaret. The imam was friendly. I gave some kids some chewing gum. The imam’s wife hatefully motioned us to go away and covered her primitive looking face while clucking at her kids. These kids looked over at me and smiled, obviously amused to see the woman so upset at what was virtually nothing. She would look at them and tell them to give the candy back. As soon as she looked back at us, the kids chuckled behind her back and smiled at me. One teenage son did as he was told though, as I already anticipated, and collected up all the candy and gave it back to me. What made it worse was when I was tossing the candy to them, the wind caught one pack of Trident gum and hit the woman (not hard) on the back of the head. It was an accident,
but the kids laughed quietly amongst themselves. They knew it was an accident.
“Maybe it’s against their religion to chew bubblegum,” one of the soldiers said, confused that the woman refused the candy.
‘Who knows,’ I answered and gave the neighbor kids the reclaimed goods. They ate it right away. The mosque came up clean, so we went to watch soldiers clear some more buildings. Driving all over the land, I passed out more candy and toys. The kids love it. We stopped so SGM Walker could go in a house with some Apache scouts. A kid appeared on a roof and I waved to him. He waved back. The last time they had seen soldiers was during the open combat of the war. I tossed a Dum Dum sucker to the boy, and the strong wind caught it and rapidly carried it to him. He ran away frightened. A few seconds later, his head popped up again with a big smile with another boy. “Good mista! Good!” they yelled smiling.
A fat woman waddled out near to me to see what was going on. She smiled and said hello. I handed her a box of Band-Aids and soap. She accepted it gladly and smiled. Her older son came out and smiled too and said thank you. He was wearing a Notre Dame sports sweatshirt. It thought that was funny.
All of the sector was searched. No one was really irritated about it. Most everyone thought it was excited to have Americans in their homes. As the operation drew to a close, we all assembled in a field. A nearby home overflowing with children in a yard surrounded by chain link fence was only feet away from me. I got out and gave all the kids some candy. A small group assembled around me. They were cute. They laugh at every little thing you do. I went back to my truck and got some toys for the little girls and teenagers, like combs and all and a snow dome you sent me from Germany. Everyone got something, and they were very grateful for it. I gave the combs and hair ties to the man, respecting culture, he then in turn gave it nervously to the girls. At first he looked irritated because all the women and kids were lining along the fence and not cleaning the yard. He eventually relaxed and smiled. They kept trying to pass me a baby over the fence to hold. It’s an honor to hold another’s baby and a sign of trust. I politely refused because I always keep one hand on my rifle, always. So the boys brought the baby to me. That was cool. He was so tiny, and had a big head, white and warm – only slightly fuzzy with new hair.
“Oh God Thompson, you’re a fuckin’ Iraqi lover,” SGM Walker said. The Apache 1SG (first sergeant) said something I would expect from a redneck about Iraqis and I just ignored him. The baby was so precious though, and his head would bob back and his eyes would meet mine.
‘Hey little man,’ I said patting his little head. He was so precious and fragile, but beautiful. I haven’t seen anything that precious since looking into your eyes for the last time before I left. I love you Spatzi! SGM Walker looked nervously at the baby – big macho man confronted with such tenderness! It was funny! ‘You want a picture holding the baby, Sergeant Major?’ I asked already knowing an artificially coldhearted answer would follow.
“No, I’m no Iraqi lover!” he replied. I laughed and motioned to the boys to go over to Walker with the baby. SGM Walker got all nervous around the baby and tried to maintain his macho posture, but kept stepping away from the baby.
‘Ah, he’s a softy for sure!’ I laughed to myself. One of the sergeants said it would be a good picture with the kids, so I gave him my camera to get a picture taken. I really enjoyed being out there with those people. Especially the kids. I like being the “good American,” but more importantly a good brother to fellow human beings, and a practicing Christian. It does matter, even though I am told a thousand times a day that it doesn’t matter. It matters to me.
As we went home that afternoon, we listened to U2 on the car stereo I installed in the Hummer. It was the first real time since I go to Iraq that I felt a sense of accomplishment. We removed killers, and found undeniable evidence that they were preparing to kill. Innocent people would or could have died, and they have no right, no legitimate reason to execute people on their own whim. They were living nicely, well educated, and obviously living peacefully – there are thousands of people living here in filth that have experienced great loss. They have faith though, they are surviving. Saddam was far more corrupt and abusive than U.S. forces, and no one really challenged him so vigorously. If they did, they would have been tortured and killed. All these prisoners had to endure was walking to the truck on gravel, barefoot.

My Hummer became my hobby, my diversion while I was in Iraq. I jokingly suggested that I should build a car stereo into the Hummer so we wouldn’t have to deal with the sometimes maddening silence of night patrols. Sergeant major agreed and I installed a car stereo with two speakers into the Hummer. It was great. When possible, we would drive around Baghdad listening to rock music during our patrol. It did a lot to calm my nerves and a lot to break that silence – a silence you wait to break into an explosion. The music soothed that fear. I then installed a spot light on the truck, with a toggle switch the sergeant major could control. He also had a writing board and map board build into the dashboard, along with a cup holder made of steel. I learned a lot about wiring, and I learned a lot about mechanics in general just wasting time on that truck.


[1] Graf is the short name of the Grafenwohr Training Area in Germany.
[2] Thank you in Arabic

Wednesday, March 10, 2004

Description of Middle Class Iraqi Home, Mistaken Case of Rape, Punching a Woman in the Face, and the Fallujah Resistance Mystery

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10 March, 2004 2230

“There’s some nice houses in Iraq,” SSG Sommers said. “I remember one raid when we went into the house and we felt bad about going in, it was so nice you felt like taking your shoes off! It looked like a house in the States. The kids’ room had posters of Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake, Pokemon, it’s crazy, I’m telling you. And the whole family speaks fluent English. The wife said, ‘Oh, please don’t destroy our house, we’ll show you everything,’ very nicely. And they did, the showed us everything. She kept showing us things, saying, ‘This is from my trip to America and my university days in the States,’ she said. It’s crazy man,” SSG Sommers explained, still in disbelief.
One story I heard not too long ago was pretty interesting. “So we’re up in our tank observing our sector, it’s broad daylight,” Sergeant Marshal says. “Well, we notice a car out in the distance and see a man get out with a woman. It looks like the man puts the woman in the back seat and then gets in too. So I’m thinking, ‘Holy shit, this fucker is about to rape this chick!’ So, we fire up our tanks and haul ass down the hill and to the car, and you can see this guy all over the woman. So we pull up and jump off our tank. We run up to the car, reach in, and pull the man out. ‘So you like to rape women, huh?’ we kept saying while we beat the shit out of him, and the woman starts screaming. Then she starts screaming in English, ‘NO, STOP, STOP! He’s my boyfriend!’ ‘Oh fuck,’ I thought, and we froze up and immediately let the guy go. Well, it turns out, she was a school teacher and still living at home, so they had no place to make out, so they were doing it in the car in broad daylight. The just picked a bad spot that day.”
Then there was the story about the tank car chase, again with Sergeant Marshal. “So we set up this roadblock, and this Iraqi guy goes right by. So we chase him in our tank and actually catch him by pinning him in. So, we get him out of the car and start beating the shit out of him. All of a sudden, this guy’s wife shows up all crying and she won’t go away, she keeps grabbing onto sergeant (I forget his name). All of a sudden, he turns around and punches this woman square in the face, and her whole face exploded. He ended up breaking her nose, and blood was fucking everywhere.”
Here you hear all kinds of stories. Most of them are believable. You hear a lot of bragging in chow lines or lines in general. You notice the young, redneck military police guys (and their tomboy female gunners) bragging about harassing or beating Iraqis. As individuals, they don’t give the impression of being very good people. They are troublemakers now, high on their egos, and they were probably troublemakers back in their redneck town. A lot of these young men are just juvenile delinquents. They act like hyperactive devils. They just do what they want. I remember one time seeing them go into an Iraqi store acting like children, dropping goods, or tossing them around, then stealing glasses and gloves. It’s just a shame. “Do you fuckin’ understand a fuckin’ word I’m sayin’ boy?” a redneck MP said to an Iraqi store owner (who I know, and he actually speaks fluent English) while holding up a DVD video. “DO – YOU – FUCKIN’ – HEAR – ME,” he said in a deep southern accent.
‘I can hardly understand your English,’ I thought to myself.
One group of MPs that I heard talking were saying, “So we had this guy, and we are beating the shit out of him,” a young MP bragged as I listened pretending to be impressed. “So, after we’re done beating him, we put a sandbag on his head and zipped his hands behind his back. THEN, we tossed him in a ditch and drove off. I don’t even wanna know what happened to the fucker!” And laughter erupted in the group.
Fallujah is a hot spot in Iraq. There are heavy attacks there very often, and foreign fighters have moved in and gained support there. It wasn’t always like that though. Many bathroom stall walls at BIAP read a long list of “R.I.P. PVT John Doe.” One day I noticed a second scribbling referring to 82nd Airborne in a hostile way: “Fallujah wasn’t bad until 82nd came and fucked it up by shooting up an anti-Saddam rally! Fuck 82nd Airborne! R.I.P. Fallen Soldiers!”
I thought this was interesting. I noticed even more graffiti attacking 82nd Airborne in Fallujah. I asked Sergeant Cole about it. ‘What happened in Fallujah?’ I asked, wanting to figure this out.
“Well,” he said, “82nd got into Fallujah and got all nervous. There was a rally, and 82nd felt threatened and fired on the crowd. I think about 14 people were shot dead. After that, all the people turned on us. When I was there for Operation Longstreet, people were nice, inviting us into their homes and constantly offering us food.”
[1]
There were firefights though. Sergeant Cole shot some guys. They killed one guy, “and wrapped him up in a military tarp. We got him wrapped up and a ‘UHHHHHH’ sound came from under the tarp, and one of the soldiers immediately fired a bullet into the tarp – he was jumpy and got spooked. That finished the guy off,” he told. “There was one guy we stopped on a Jawa motorcycle and we found homemade grenades on him,” he said. “He said they were for fishing. He was missing a hand and some fingers on the remaining hand. He had the motorcycle rigged up so he could drive with one hand. He couldn’t have the Jawa though (they were outlawed because they were purchased by the Saddam right before the war for the Fedayeen), so we kicked it to the side of the road and fired a few rounds into the fuel tank until the bike exploded. Well, the commander finds out about this and orders us to give the guy another motorcycle from a bunch we already confiscated. Later we search his brother’s house in a separate operation and find all kinds of explosives and RPG rounds.”

[1] Fallujah was not completely hostile towards Americans in the beginning. Problems began to develop when the Iraqis demand that a military post be moved from a school. Although it was hardly reported, several Iraqis were killed when soldiers shot them. The BBC reported the incident, but other news organizations did not. Most assumed incorrectly that hostilities in Fallujah simply grew spontaneously.

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Tuesday, March 09, 2004

The Signing of the Iraqi Constitution, Discussing a Shia Theocracy in Iraq with Sunni Friend Hussein, Shooting a Civilian Car in a Misunderstanding

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9 March, 2004 2100

I’m sitting at my desk with a hot pot of Ahmad Tea and an uneasy stomach. I’ve been sick for a week now. I’m not sure why, maybe some bad water or something. I’m getting better though. I need to catch up though on some remarkable things. Nothing big happened today.
Yesterday I was at the Al-Rashid hotel for lunch. It just happened that the new Iraqi constitution was being signed that same afternoon right across the street. I wanted to go in to see the signing, but we didn’t have access due to the agreement there would be a low military presence. SGM Walker thought the constitution had already been signed. The night before, the Al-Rashid and CPA were hit by rockets in an attack. I ate lunch in the well appointed dining facility, and noticed the usual CPA civilian types. One woman ran in and said she saw some people running and wearing flak jackets. I didn’t hear an explosion, so I figured it was just a precaution.
I walked out of the dining facility and past a little Iraqi store (also called Hajji stores) in the hallway. I saw some Americans and Iraqis gathered around a small TV. It was the signing of the new constitution. I realized this was a historic moment. ‘If this actually works, this could be the beginning of a new era in the Middle East…if it works,’ I thought.
The Iraqis watched intently at the screen. Some American soldier with a large build and disproportionately small pin-head was blocking our view. He looked mutated or retarded. “Ha! Goddamned long ass name and he signs only a scribble, ha! Mr. Haba la-la-la,” he kept making stupid comments while the signing was going on. I ignored him, and the Iraqis tried to.
I went outside and looked at the outside of the buildings where the constitution was being signed and noticed all the TV trucks and luxury cars.
I went back to my truck and talked to our Sunni translator, I call him Hussein. I can’t remember his name, but he is the best educated of all the translators. ‘What do you think about the new constitution?’ I asked.
“I think it’s fantastic. We’ve got so many rights under this new document. You know if it works, it could be better than the United States,” he smiled.
I heard some heavy caliber machine gun fire going off not too far away. My stomach was turning in knots. I just wanted to lie down and let my stomach rest. We still had to make it through downtown Baghdad back to camp. I wonder what it was like in World War II when a soldier was extremely sick?
Hussein the translator is a Sunni, and a very agreeable person, fluent in English and educated in politics. A few days ago we were eating at regiment and got into a little discussion about the Shia practice of whipping oneself with chains. We talked a lot about the Shia. ‘Why do so many Shia have so many children?’ I asked.
“Well, many of them are poor, or farmers. The Koran says if you have children, do not worry about who feeds them – God will figure it out. But, God also gave me a brain, so I know not to have more children than I can provide for – that means college and the like,” he answered candidly. “Sunni are reasonable. You don’t see Sunnis demanding things from Americans – only Shia. You can’t trust them at all. They are backstabbers, and now they are tricking America.”
‘I was wondering, if Iraq slips into civil war, will neighboring countries absorb each sect, for example Sunni supported by Syria and Shia by Iran? I know Iran has an interest in destabilizing Iraq in order to prevent the U.S. from going into Iran (which I believe is very likely to happen unless reforms take place),’ I asked. I believe more that Iran may be sheltering Al-Qaeda or have a marriage of convenience with them to cripple American activity. Change in Iran would be good for Iraqi unity and Shia moderation – looking within instead of to Iran for leadership. Also Iraqi Shia may be more radical about their religion now that they are free to practice it after years of oppression. This works to the Iranian’s advantage. Weakening Iran or encouraging a change in government there is almost necessary to avoid civil war in Iraq and to prevent Iraq from falling into the hands of a religious leader. ‘I’m afraid Iraq could turn into another Iran,’ I said.
“Exactly, you are exactly right,” Hussein said nodding. “The Shia want Iraq to be like Iran.”
What got us talking about this was the upcoming Hussein Mosque celebrations in Karbala. Many people are flying flags. We were out in the countryside and we drove past a group of children marching from village to village, dressed in black and hitting themselves on the backs with chains. Now, I was told this isn’t really painful because so many small chains are on a handle, so the pressure is distributed. I noticed the old man leading the children and signaling with his fist when to strike themselves. Of course, he didn’t have any chains to strike himself with. He probably didn’t practice this under Saddam’s rule. ‘You teach these kids to hit themselves, but you don’t do it yourself…what’s wrong with this – am I only intolerant of other cultures?’
Later that same day, we were driving out to Butler Range, and I noticed a black BMW behind us. There was a small boy in the front passenger seat. The father gave the boy a poster to show us. I saw this in my rearview. His BMW got right on my bumper and kept trying to pass, but couldn’t get past. Then, he suddenly tore out past me even though I tried to block him. He flew past and cut off our 3 vehicle convoy, and at the same time, the boy displayed some kind of poster to us. ‘SGM, the BMW’s stuck in traffic over there,’ I said.
“Let’s stop him…Sergeant Cole, stop that black BMW,” Walker said on the radio. The BMW tried to get away, and as soon as the road was clear, he dropped into low gear and hauled ass. We turned a corner (I was the rear vehicle) and noticed the BMW pull over on the side of the road.
‘That’s good, he’s cooperating and pulled over,’ I thought with relief. Then my heart sank. ‘Oh shit,’ I whispered. I noticed two bullet holes in the rear windshield. ‘The boy,’ I thought. I jumped out with my weapon pointed at the car and went to the passenger side to get the boy. The man got out and Walker and the scouts had their weapons trained on him. Hussein and the new sergeant major, CSM Brown, stood by. I noticed the man get out shocked, holding his neck with a bloody hand. His injury didn’t seem that serious, so I continued to move closer to the car. I saw the boy and slowly opened the door. He had both hands on his lap and he was frozen solid, except for some trembling. Two bullet holes were in the front windshield. The two that were fired from the lead scout’s M-16 entered the rear and passed between the man and the boy, and exited with two holes in the front.
I lowered my rifle and opened the door slowly and the boy looked up at me shaking. I gently grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out. I knew he must be terrified. ‘It’s OK, zien, zien,’ I said. I grabbed one of the posters in the car. It showed an angel holding the body of some fairytale-looking Arab man. It was Hussein of the Karbala shrine. The following day was the festival of his martyrdom.
“May God Protect You and Keep You Safe,” the poster said in English, below the Arabic.
‘Oh shit, this isn’t good,’ I thought. I walked over to Hussein to get the Arabic translated.
“Yes, this is a sign of greeting. When he showed the convoy the poster, it was like a way of saying ‘Merry Christmas,’” he said.
‘Oh man, you’ve got to be kidding me!’ I said to him. Our eyes understood each other, and we knew this whole situation was a misunderstanding. I got the boy and made sure he was still OK. He was still shaking, but looking better. Hussein and I took over the situation after I asked Walker if I could take over the diplomatic part of saying “OOPS.” They pulled security along the road. I, the “Iraqi Lover” and Hussein listened to the man start arguing about his car.
“This is an expensive car! I was running late to prepare to go Karbala tomorrow! I didn’t do anything!” He was furious.
‘Let me see your neck,’ I said. He showed me his neck. It looked like a piece of glass cut his neck, but very minor. ‘Ask if he’s OK,’ I told Hussein.
“He says he’s OK,” he replied.
‘And his son?’ I asked.
“Yes,” he nodded.
‘Tell them we are very sorry and that you can’t drive like that because it makes soldiers nervous…BUT, we’ll try to fix the problem,’ I said.
I went over to CSM Brown (and not SGM Walker) and asked if we could pay for the damage from our battalion funds, of which we have thousands of dollars. “Yes, give him our info, and get his, we should be able to work that out,” he said helpfully.
‘Good man,’ I thought. Not the usual “Fuck ‘em!” attitude.
Hussein told me the man was pissed. I could tell because he started to yell. ‘Tell him to shut his mouth and listen to me,’ I said. ‘Tell him we are going to pay him.’ The man kept yelling. ‘Look! Tell him he’s lucky to be alive and I’m trying to help him get paid for damages…so let me fix the problem instead of crying about it. Get a piece of paper, give me your name, and I’ll give you instructions,’ I said sternly. He got quiet and got a book out. The boy looked up at me and smiled. ‘Man, you’re really lucky to be alive, I know this is messed up, but help me out here,’ I thought. I wrote instructions to him about how to contact us at our base and collect money for the windshields. CSM Brown checked the note.
“Looks good,” he said.
‘We’re sorry, and we’ll fix this,’ I said. ‘He’s got something to be thankful for tomorrow, just to be alive,’ I told Hussein. He laughed.
“I told him he’s got to sacrifice a sheep or something now to thank God – and also always drive careful around Americans because they can’t tell who’s enemy and who’s friend,” he said with a laugh.
We got back in our trucks and left. Walker was happy with all the excitement. He always says, “Let’s go out and draw fire,” and I always say,
‘SGM, you don’t want to draw fire – everyone says that until they get hit.’
We went out to the range, and Hussein and I talked some more about Machiavelli and Victorian Age literature. “Do you know Wuthering Heights?”
‘Wow, yes, I certainly do – Emily Bronte, one of my favorite writers,’ I said completely surprised. ‘I can’t believe I’m talking about Bronte out in the Iraqi desert with an Iraqi,’ I thought to myself.
“Yes, I love her writing, it’s wonderful,” he explained.
‘I love her writing too, because the way she makes you feel emotions as if they belonged to you – the human emotions most complex come alive on those pages. I’ve actually been to her house in Haworth with Nora,’ I said.
“You’ve been so many places,” he said. You could tell he found it hard to believe I’d been to Bronte’s home. I remember Emily Bronte’s small room that overlooked a dark graveyard. I miss Yorkshire. “You know Thompson, I’ve been working with Americans for a year now, and I’ve never had conversations like the ones we’ve had. You are the smartest soldier I have ever met,” he said frankly. I was stunned a bit, but humbly appreciative of his remark. I was equally impressed with him – even though he was Iraqi, he knew more about western literature and political philosophy than anyone I could think of − officer or enlisted. He’s very intelligent, many Iraqis are – but they work for us, and (that’s the nature of the situation) they have so much untapped knowledge. The engineer who runs the internet café, the electrical engineering student who mops our floor, the ex-fighter jet pilot who used to pick up trash, but now translates (Emgin). War is a horrible thing. Dictators are too.
The following day, the Hussein mosque in Karbala was attacked with rockets. In Baghdad, suicide bombers attacked the main Shia shrine. In Pakistan, Shia were attacked too. In all, over 150 were killed – the most bloodshed in one day since the end of the heavy fighting of the war. The death toll has since climbed higher. I was expecting something to happen that day. I was working on my truck and it was about 1200 when I thought, ‘I haven’t heard any explosions yet, that’s good!’
Then, Assad came to me shaking his head, “Thompson, do you know Hussein mosque has been attacked, also Baghdad. It’s horrible. It’s Sunni, they want to make war.”
‘I’m sorry Assad, I was hoping nothing would happen,’ I said sadly.
“It’s not your fault. These people are crazy. The worship the devil! I know them well. I was in Yemen in 2001, September 11. I saw on the TV the attack on twin towers and I thought, ‘This isn’t real, it’s a movie.’ These ‘Wahabees’ were celebrating! They were happy to see this! I thought immediately that Saddam had some part in this. I know he has a mass destruction weapon. He would use it. I wrote George W. Bush a letter in 2001. I send it to Voice of America radio. I ask him, why his father did not support the Shia uprising in 1991, why he did not get Saddam? Then, I was in Basra, and the secret police were just taking men off the street, even men just going to buy bread at the market, and taking them to the city center. The police would ask, ‘Are you a rebel?’ The man would say, ‘No.’ Then the police would shoot him in the head for no reason. They killed thousands of men like this. I wrote this to George W. Bush.
When the Army came to Iraq, and I saw the Apache helicopters, I thought, ‘George W. Bush read my letter.’ Thompson, your Army is my Army, the Army of freedom. I pray for you always for God to save you. You must be careful, as you see today, there are evil people out there. I am worried for Iraq, but happy you are here. You’re my brother.”
‘You’re my brother too,’ I responded in deep thought and with a strong sense of solidarity with Assad.

Assad would become a very good friend over time. He spoke wonderful English, he had good, strong values with which I identified with, and he was a hopeful person. He is about 45 or 50 years old, with graying hair, and gray facial hairs growing out of his round, brown face. He’s a short, but heavy man with calloused, thick hands. He’s a Shia, from Babylon, and a man who had traveled as far as Malaysia. He was outspoken when it came to matters of liberty and democracy, once telling me, “The Iraqis are like a caged bird. Their master is gone, the door is open, but all they want to do is stay in the cage.” I don’t remember what we talked about all the time, but most of the time we would spend over an hour talking about life for real Iraqi people, about their hopes and fears. We would sit while drinking sweet tea, the loose leaves sitting at the bottom of a Styrofoam cup. He talked about the Swiss manager he had many years ago, the German foreman he worked for. He loved the Europeans, he believed in liberty, and he forgave the Americans for all their mistakes. He was a dear friend to me, and not a day goes by that I am not concerned for his safety.


Read more, see video, and buy the book at www.American-Interrupted.com.

Tuesday, March 02, 2004

Suicide Bombings Begin, Sabotaged Army Fuel, and Assad Gets Paid...Finally

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2 March, 2004 2315

“Thompson, today is a very bad day,” Assad the welder said to me as I greeted him to give him $1000 for his monthly salary. I knew today was a very important day for the Shiah people in Iraq, and there would be trouble. There would be great numbers of people going to Karbala, and I suspected there would be attacks both there and in Baghdad. During most of the day, I noticed nothing had happened in Iraq, and I was almost happy about it. Then I went into the command post (TOC) and saw some pretty white boy FOX news channel reporter on the TV reporting about the bombings in Karbala. Then moments later in Baghdad, suicide bombers killed more people. Today saw the greatest number of civilians killed since the end of the war. I wasn’t even shocked, I’ve become so used to all the loss of life. I don’t like that. I think you just get in a state of mind where you get so used to counting the dead, that individuals become numbers. Sometimes reality does hit though, and my eyes fill with painful tears, and I’m reminded that I’m still alive, and my soul still feels, that I still believe in Jesus, and that I am so lucky to have your love. I sat down with Assad Maizel for about an hour and a half today talking, and each time we speak, I always find something absolutely fascinating. I need to write a few pages just about him!
I worked on my truck all day today as well. The fuel sergeant filled my gas tank as well as other vehicles with sabotaged fuel. It had a white liquid in it like milk. So, I had to drain my fuel tank and change the fuel filter and purge the system. It was interesting work.
After that, I went to get $1000 for Assad’s pay. The mechanics are supposed to pick up his pay, but they always wait a few days, or weeks, to give him the money he needs. So, I asked Sergeant Major Walker for permission and authority to handle the welder’s pay situation myself. So far, I’ve been able to solve all of the welder’s problems, been able to provide his pay and expenses, and all quite simply. I feel good about helping and solving a problem. His family is depending on his pay, and he was growing more and more suspicious about working with the Army. I want him to trust Americans. He just wasn’t getting his pay because our guys were too lazy to watch over his situation, and the welder too afraid to ask for money. Now, it’s all fixed, and he’s happy. “I love you Thompson, like my brother,” he always says. I have a lot of respect for him, and a lot of Iraqis I meet. They really are good people.


See video or buy the book at www.American-Interrupted.com.