Baghdad blues, p.15
Baghdad Blues, page 15
“Your English professor sounds like someone I would very much like to meet.”
“Yes, you both have much in common. Doctor Kincaid wanted us to think critically, abstractly. He wanted us to think bigger and years ahead. He asked the class, ‘Would you rather peak when you’re young or when you’re older?’ Most of the students were in their teens. They looked at him confused. Why wouldn’t you want to peak as soon as possible? ‘If you peak early, will you truly appreciate your accomplishments?’ he asked them. ‘But when you’re older and backed by more life experiences, won’t you cherish and relish your success that much more, rather than taking them for granted?’”
“I agree. And what about you, Sergeant? Your experiences here are probably more insightful and eventful than what most people will ever know in an entire lifetime.”
Sergeant K chuckled. “Yes, some of them certainly have been interesting to say the least.”
“You love literature and books as much as I do. Maybe you should write one yourself. I bet you have many stories to tell.”
“I’ve thought about it … well … actually, I did start one but never finished it.”
“But why?”
“Why? Because I became a father. And my wife resented me ignoring her by going into my office to read or write. When we were dating she admired my interest in literature and writing. I was in graduate school, and I had a story published in the school’s English lit journal. Nothing great, but one of the first stories I’d written. On my birthday she gave me a gift—a beautifully framed picture of the cover of the journal and the first page of my story. Below was a caption in bronze: ‘The First Among Many.’ But the ‘many’ never happened. Instead, I was expected to focus solely on her and the family. My books became a threat. I held out for a time, but I got tired of fighting her and gave in. I sold some, others went into storage.”
“But you are not married now. Why not finish your book?”
Frowning, he said, “Because once you start a novel you should never stop because you’ll move on and never complete it … and I moved on.”
“Yes. I understand. But a man’s wishes may not always determine his destiny. Perhaps there are other determining factors at work,” he said looking directly at him. Sergeant K wasn’t satisfied with the answer he’d given, and he knew he had good reason not to be.
***
When Sergeant K’s patrol returned to Camp Striker that evening, they found Peter back from his emergency leave. Sergeant K didn’t feel comfortable asking him why he left so he said nothing. But during their patrol the following day he was aloof and distracted. Peter held no overt animosity toward the Sunni but expressed no interest in co-mingling with Walker or the other inhabitants. He’d hoped they’d become friends but that was unrealistic—the world they both lived in was still too raw and divisive.
Peter was sitting in Sergeant K’s Humvee reading when he walked up after having hung out with Walker. “How do you like The Great Gatsby?”
“It is very good. Gatsby. I do not know much about 1920s America, but the characters are similar to people I have known.”
“Like whom?”
“Like my father.” Peter had never mentioned him before, but his tone made it clear their relationship was a contentious one. “He was much like Jay Gatsby. He grew up poor and joined the army to help feed his family. Most of my father’s friends were rich. He watched them get everything they wanted, and he resented them for it. When he got out of the army, he was determined to use what money he had to become rich like his friends. He never explained how he acquired his wealth, but I am sure it did not come from ‘honest’ means—he made it too quick for that. Within 10 years he owned five businesses, a large home, three cars, and was able to send me to England to study. I have three sisters and I am the only son. I had a very comfortable life growing up. Maybe too comfortable. And I am now paying for it.”
“I’m sorry, Peter.”
“Yes. So am I. My father was a Christian but many men who claim to abide by the Ten Commandments are far from God. Those who leave this world without knowing who they truly are, or what they want, have no freedom in this life or the next. St. Paul said it best. ‘We reap what we sow.’”
“My mother died when I was five and my stepmother took advantage of my father,” Sergeant K said. “Used him for his money. They lived in an expensive condo on the beach—not for the view—but the status she believed it would give her. And the respect she craved from her friends and family.”
“She sounds like my father,” Peter said. “He believed money would bring respect and did not appreciate what he had, like his family. His businesses, homes, and cars—all for show. But joy and fulfillment do not come from outside. They come from within.”
“Do you get along with your father now?”
Peter shook his head. “No. When he could no longer pay for my education in England and I had to return to Iraq, he was humiliated. America’s invasion ruined his businesses, and when the Sunni insurgency and al-Qaeda appeared in Iraq, Christians were targeted. He lost everything. When I signed up to be an interpreter, we had a huge fight. He was embarrassed to have lost his wealth and status, but to have his only son work for the Americans? It was too much for him.”
“I’m sorry, Peter. I haven’t seen my father in years. But I read somewhere that new lives—new futures—can spring from sons who serve greater goals. Maybe with time and when things are better, he’ll see things differently.”
Peter looked at him intently. “No … he won’t. My father killed himself last week.”
Chapter Fourteen
Green Zone
“First Sergeant!” Sergeant K shouted.
He was livid. His flight with Schmidt to the Green Zone was leaving in less than an hour and First Sergeant Clearwater hadn’t signed the orders approving their pass. Clearwater been napping and he was not amused by his forgetfulness—especially when it involved two days away from BIAP and a pool full of bikini-clad women.
“You need to sign these papers,” he said, trying not to be too disrespectful, even though he had no respect for the man sitting up on his cot groggily.
“Oh, right. Sorry, I forgot.” He handed him the orders and a pen.
Watching Clearwater flip the pages ad nauseam to find where to sign was as painful as listening to Corporal Gates’ 80s hip hop. Just when he was about to reach out and strangle him, Clearwater said, “Ah … there it is.” Even watching him sign was interminable. Snatching the paperwork, he walked as fast as he could to the company TOC where Schmidt was waiting impatiently.
“Dude! Where have you been? Our flight leaves in 20 minutes.”
Shaking his head, he said, “Let’s go. I’ll explain later.” Manning drove them as fast as he could over to the airfield. They made the flight with only minutes to spare, the helicopter’s rotor’s spinning with four other passengers already buckled in. Within minutes they were airborne. From his seat inside the UH60 Blackhawk, Sergeant K looked down at the sprawling metropolis of Baghdad. The flight to the Green Zone was only minutes but it was the fastest and safest method of transportation. The Tigris River meandered slowly through the urban sprawl below and as they began to descend the lavish palaces that once belonged to Saddam Hussein stood in exaggerated opulence—four square miles of villas, palaces, monuments, memorials, and statues—many honoring Saddam’s “victories.”
But all of that changed when the 3rd I.D. fought its way into the Green Zone with heavy loss of Iraqi life. The once privileged residents fled in haste, emptying compounds and palaces that were tailor-made for American use. Establishing America’s power in the Green Zone gave the average Iraqi the impression that Saddam may be gone, but America was taking his place. Staring intently below, Sergeant K recognized the tomb of the unknown soldier in the shape of a traditional shield dropping from the dying grasp of an Iraqi soldier. And then he spotted them. A double set of gigantic, crossed swords on the former parade ground where Saddam reviewed troops from an outdoor air-conditioned stand. Landing at the airfield minutes later they were driven to the Republican Palace where they checked in and were given their room. Constructed by King Faisal II in the 1950s and refurbished by Saddam, the Green Zone developed around it with the palace serving as headquarters for the American occupation. The U.S. spared it during its bombing campaign believing it held valuable documents, as well as the Baathist HQ and Uday’s personal residence—all surgically hit but left mostly intact for the post-invasion occupation. Private apartments, rooms at the Al-Rasheed Hotel, the palace’s Olympic-size pool, all renovated for foreign diplomats and staff—an American oasis in the heart of Iraq.
“Now this is how you fight a war, Schmidt.” He dunked his head under water and ran his hand through his receding hairline. “I just wish we had some beers.”
“It would be even better,” Schmidt said nodding at a group of women, “if we had two of those smoking hot girls.”
They watched a group of bikini-clad women bob around and splash each other. Jesus, steaks on a grill, barbecue ribs, burgers, and hot dogs. Hip hop music blaring loudly. Am I really in a combat zone? Two buff tanned guys picked up a young girl and threw her into the pool like they were at a frat party, her screams echoing across the pool area. An overweight man did a cannonball dive at the deep end, splashing water on his friends. Beer and liquor flowed freely—a full-blown bacchanal in a combat zone. Three soldiers in combat gear passed enroute to something more serious than applying sunblock, their weapons and uniforms looking ridiculous among dozens of half-naked men and women. The contrast between the civilian embassy staff and the American soldier who went outside the safety of the Green Zone was remarkable. Sergeant K laughed to himself—I might as well be in Daytona Beach.
“We might not be able to have a beer,” Sergeant K said watching a man drinking deeply from a bottle of Budweiser. “But at least they have better cigars here.” He retrieved his from the edge of the pool, took a deep puff, and blew a huge cloud of smoke into the air.
“Are we seriously sitting in a pool that once belonged to Saddam Hussein, surrounded by hot women in bikinis smoking Cuban cigars?” Schmidt asked. Both men laughed. After five hours at the pool and fearing a sunburn that might require a medivac, they retreated to their room for a shower. After eating at the mess hall that was even more lavish than the one on Camp Liberty, they considered what to do next.
“We have to get a picture in front of the crossed swords,” Schmidt said. “Everyone who comes to the Green Zone does.”
“Okay. I’d hate to be a non-conformist.”
Built to commemorate Saddam’s ‘victory’ in the Iran–Iraq war, construction of the massive swords had started two years before the war ended in a stalemate. A placard said that each sword was 140 meters long, weighed 24 tons, and was gripped by a fist modeled on plaster casts of Saddam’s own hands. They were designed supposedly by Saddam himself using metal smelted from the armor and weaponry of dead Iraqi soldiers. Hundreds of Iranian helmets—many cracked and riddled with bullet holes—hung in nets below the swords.
“The new Iraqi government wanted to destroy the swords as they did the statues of Saddam, but they were so popular among visiting U.S. officials and the American military that they kept them,” Schmidt explained.
“They do make for the perfect photo op.” Sergeant K took his digital camera out. They were surrounded by a dozen other “tourists.” He asked a young woman to take a picture of them. Both posed with cheesy smiles.
“I met a guy a couple of weeks ago in the chow hall,” Schmidt said. “He was with the 3rd I.D. when they took the Green Zone. According to him they killed hundreds of Iraqi soldiers. When the fight was over, they were left with the corpses. A call went out for family members to identify or collect the bodies, but most sat decomposing. They buried them in a mass grave and paved it over for helicopters to land.”
“Great,” Sergeant K said. “Maybe one day they’ll do one of those ‘Ghost investigations’ type shows where they’ll look into how haunted the Green Zone is.” The following day involved much of the same. They relaxed by the pool and tried hitting on some girls. That endeavor failed miserably, but at least for a brief time they were able to relax and put the events of the last few months aside, however, the real war was still only a short distance away.
***
Iraqis called it Death Street. To American soldiers it was “I.E.D. Alley.” Code named Route Irish by the U.S. military, the 12-kilometer six-lane expressway arcing eastward from the Green Zone to BIAP was considered the most dangerous road in the world. Flanked by mainly Sunni Arab neighborhoods, the area was an insurgent stronghold and a ready-made shooting gallery: suicide bombers lurked at on-ramps waiting for American convoys to pass; insurgents in cars with darkened windows mingled in traffic waiting to fire bullets at unsuspecting vehicles; men disguised as construction crews buried artillery shells and various explosives. The road serviced Western coalition staff, supply convoys, businessmen, journalists, and coalition and Iraqi military patrols. Security for Route Irish was reserved for members of the 3rd I.D., whose engineers drove up and down clearing the road of IEDs.
A massive sandstorm hit an hour before their scheduled return, grounding all flights. They could hitch a ride with an American patrol, but that meant a trip down Route Irish.
“Fuck that,” Sergeant K said. Calling up their TOC he explained the situation and hoped it might buy them another day in the Green Zone. He was told to wait, and they would see what they could do. A short time later they were informed that the sandstorm was expected to let up soon, but they had found them alternative transportation. An IED clearing unit was leaving in an hour and would drop them off at BIAP.
“This is bullshit, Schmidt!”
He was pissed as both got into the back of a Humvee. The sandstorm was beginning to clear but now they were stuck. Their ride consisted of a five-vehicle patrol, three Humvees, an MRAP—a heavily armored anti-IED resistant vehicle—and an armored vehicle called a Buffalo with a specially designed arm to disarm IEDs. “Why the hell can’t we ride in the MRAP or even the Buffalo?” he bitched. “This is total bullshit. They could fit us in there.”
“There’s nothing we can do man. Let’s just deal with it.”
“They better not ask us to get out and help them clear any fucking IEDs.”
He bitched even more when their vehicle took a position at the head of the patrol. Under normal conditions—meaning not during a war—the drive to BIAP should have taken only 20 minutes. Route Irish resembled most modern highways. Stretches of the road were lined with palm trees and billboards advertising everything from clothes to cameras—commercialism from the Saddam years. Baghdad, with a population of five million, was a modern cosmopolitan city. They drove under numerous overpasses—part of a larger highway network that spread throughout the city—passing through Iraqi checkpoints and cement obstacles with Bradleys and M113s sitting vigilant in the middle or off to the side of the road. Civilian traffic was heavy.
“We’ve got most of these people trained,” Staff Sergeant Stone said with a twisted smile. He was their T.C. and in charge of the patrol. “They pull over as soon as we approach. It’s the ones that don’t move off the road right away that we have to worry about.” To Sergeant K’s relief the 10 or 12 cars in front did as they were trained, and they drove past without incident. “These insurgent fuckers are smart and creative—becoming more and more sophisticated every day—adapting to whatever we put on the roads. First it was command-detonated IEDs, now it’s high-frequency radio detonation using all kinds of things like a cell phone or a garage door opener. I’ve found an IED inside everything from a trash pile, human remains, to a dead donkey. I’ve been driving up and down this road for the last 10 months. Up and down. Up and down. Twelve goddamn miles each way. Up and down. Up and down. We usually have an escort of two M1 Abrams, one in front and the other in back. But not today,” Stone said.
Naturally, Sergeant K thought. He looked into the man’s eyes—they reminded him of tigers and other big cats he’d seen in zoos stuck in small cages spending their day walking around and around. Day in, day out—around and around—slowly going insane. Staff Sergeant Stone had the same “crazy eyes.” “We’re only a few miles from the gate at BIAP but it might as well be a hundred,” Stone said laughing—a laugh that sent chills down his spine. “In my first three months on Irish I saw 14 car bombs, almost 50 roadside bombs, and nearly 80 small-arms attacks. Sixteen Americans were killed and countless wounded. I was lead vehicle once when a M1 Abrams in front of me got hit by an IED. It was strong enough to send a 70-ton tank into the air! The ground shook so hard it felt like an earthquake. The crew of the Abrams lived but the blast busted ear drums and broke bones.” Staff Sergeant Stone flashed them another twisted smile. He was clearly enjoying his recollections. “I once saw a triple stacked anti-tank mine pop a turret right off an Abrams, killing the whole crew inside! We’re starting to find propane tanks with Semtex plastic explosives attached packed with ball bearings—that shit does some really nasty things to a crew.” Jesus, Sergeant K thought. This is a fucking nightmare. Stone’s number is coming up. I just hope I don’t join him.
