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Qatar:
This
career of mine sometimes seems like a never-ending
series of goodbyes. I said the latest in that
series to my friends in Baghdad. It's hard to
imagine that being stranded there could have been
so pleasant, but with their helpfulness, their
sense of humor, and their hospitality, they made it
so. I left them with promises that, if they find
themselves down here, I will return the
favor.
I
was delayed several hours at Baghdad International
Airport. I'd hoped to catch a ride on a C-17, a
cargo jet that would be relatively luxurious
compared to a C-130, but that plan fell through,
leaving me to wait for a later C-130.
The
waiting tent was full of travel weary soldiers,
some sleeping on cots along the wall, and the odd
assortment of scruffy-looking civilians one sees
around these places; journalists and contractors.
Some carried weapons that seemed incongruous with
their blue jeans and sweaters.
I
was talking to some Air Force helicopter pilots
heading to Balad when we were approached by two men
who seemed to be trying to ask for directions. I
say seemed to be, because it was hard to tell at
first, with of the roar of helicopters and C-130s
outside, and because the one who spoke did so very
quietly. I leaned forward to hear him, and noticed
he was small, with short dark hair and a nervous
manner. The same description applied to his silent
companion. Their flight was supposed to have been
met, but nobody was there for them, and they did
not know what to do.
The
spokesman was having a terrible time with English,
so I asked him where he was from. "Jordan," he
said. That made things easier, as I was able to
understand his Arabic better than his English. I
took him and his colleague around, looking for
anyone who might be looking for Jordanians, but we
found no one.
There
was something else amiss, which took me a minute or
two to understand. Someone, the little man told me,
had taken their bullets from them when they boarded
their plane, and they wanted them back. I hadn't
even considered that they might be armed.
Eventually we saw a man carrying a small, knotted
yellow plastic bag, which my Jordanians recognized.
He happily handed them their bullets, but he knew
no more about who was meeting them than we did.
Eventually, I was called to board my flight, and I
had to leave them in the care of one of the airport
workers.
Before
I did, I arranged for them to get some food and
water. I wonder what they were doing there. They
might have been private security contractors.
That's big business these days. Hopefully they're
not still waiting there.
As
I gathered my gear I heard the TV in the waiting
area droning on about celebrities in the news. I
have never felt less connected to anything in my
life. I wondered in what kind of world such things
could be of interest to anyone.
The
half-dozen of us stood for role call in a
cordoned-off area behind the tent. The moon was a
fingernail trimming surrounded by a halo of mist.
It occurred to me that it was the same phase then
as it was my first night there, a lifetime or so
ago. We piled our things into the back of a small
pickup truck which went ahead of us to the waiting
plane. We walked along behind it, while a company
of soldiers marched by, having just deplaned. I
stopped a minute to watch them pass, ghostly
figures in the darkness. Their packs and helmets
changed their outlines, made them look less human.
That seemed sad to me. They fell into formation in
the pool of light we'd just left. I felt like I
should have said something to them as they filed
by, but words failed me.
We
reach our plane, lift our things from the back of
the truck, and pass them to the loadmaster, who
straps them to the floor of the aircraft. Then we
board and strap ourselves into our seats. One of
the crewmembers gives us a safety briefing, but I
am too tired to make the effort to listen. Tired,
and beset now by a feeling of sadness. Where can
this be coming from? I should be happy to be
heading back, but I find that I am not.
Because
of the delay, there is no one to meet me when I
land. I am almost glad for this. I'm not in a mood
to talk, and besides, the walk, which seemed so
long in the opposite direction, seems no big thing
now. I reach the armory, turn in my sleeping bag,
flak vest, and pistol. Walking to my squadron
building now, I feel lighter. My right arm swings
closer to my side as I walk, not having to clear my
holster. It's almost 5 AM. The sky is overcast with
heavy clouds, pinkening almost imperceptibly in the
east. It is the same sky under which I started this
trip. It seems for a moment as if I never left, but
I know this can't be true. I feel too much changed
for this to be the case.
At
the squadron I'm received like a minor celebrity.
Even people with whom I've shared some small,
natural antipathy (No, I am not above that &endash;
far from it.) are solicitous of me. I should be
enjoying this, but I am so tired. Why now, after
weeks of sleeping briefly, if at all, am I suddenly
exhausted? I feel as if something is finished, and
as if some force that had been sustaining me for
that purpose is gone. I make polite responses to
peoples' questions. They want war stories, but I
demur. I think I would give anything to be just
such the center of attention (I'm not above that
either.) but right now I don't want to be looked
at, don't want to talk. I'm offered a ride to the
compound where we live, and I gratefully
accept.
So
now a day has passed, and I've slept. I'm less
tired, but not less sad. Isn't that stupid of me?
I'm out of danger. I have hot showers readily
available. I should be thrilled to be back. I've
returned just as most of my squadron mates are
finishing their rotations though. They are
outprocessing, cleaning their rooms, buying
presents. In order to ger a job that would get me
into Iraq, I've taken a double rotation, so their
leaving marks just the halfway point for me. But I
don't know that I'm sad about that really, or if at
all, not nearly as much as I am about no longer
feeling so connected to the effort in Iraq.
In
some small way, I understand now why men have
extended their combat tours. I think I'm feeling a
tiny fraction of what motivated those wounded
Marines I met in Taqadam to get back to their units
as quickly as they could. There is an intoxicating
satisfaction that comes from being near the front,
from seeing the immediacy of the war. The
kindnesses people showed me in Iraq, the
camaraderie I experienced, the (perhaps illusory)
feeling that I was doing something vital &endash; I
think I'm suffering from withdrawal. Susan, before
I went into Mosul, sent me a quote from Churchill.
He said, "There's nothing quite as exhilarating as
being shot at - And missed." Maybe that's it. Maybe
I'll miss the exhilaration.
I
think though, having said all those things, that it
really comes down to this: For nearly a month now,
I've been seeing people at their best, and I've
been allowed to feel a part of that. I guess I'm
reluctant to let that go.
Give
me a couple days. I'll paint a picture. I'll get
back into my routine. I'll be fine.
Steven
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Saddam's
Babylonians
Here's an interesting bit of art brought to you by
Saddam's Baath party.
The
warriors are depicted in a style that is borrowed
from ancient Babylonian pieces of art. This is
because Saddam had a mania for Babylon, and fancied
himself a modern-day incarnation of
Nebuchadnezer.
Isn't
it interesting how many absolute dictators have
felt the need to associate themselves with either a
mythology (Hitler and his Wagnerian fantasies) or a
historical figure? Anyway, the funny thing about
this frieze is the central figure's shield. It
bears the Arabic inscription "Allahu Akbar," which
means "Allah is great". Of course there weren't any
Babylonian Moslems, but that's a technicality
nobody would have raised to Saddam.
Nor
would they have pointed out the most obvious fly in
the ointment of Saddam's Babylon fantasy; Babylon
fell because of their mistreatment of the
Israelites. Isaiah 14:4 says, "You will take up
this taunt against the king of Babylon: How the
oppressor has come to an end! How his fury has
ended!
(click for a larger image)
Date
Palm with Missiles
Here we have another frieze. In this one, the
date palm symbolizes Iraq. At its roots is a
Babylonian ziggurat, sort of a Babylonian pyramid,
(Have to get that Babylonian reference in there
somehow.) In the upper right hand corner is an oil
well. From the left you can see missiles falling
toward the palm tree. The missiles are labeled
"USA" and "UK." The point being, I guess, that the
tree of Iraq, grounded in its Babylonian history
and strengthened by its modern-day oil reserves
will prevail against the evil forces of the west.
Which
is a nice thought I suppose, except the US Army is
now using that building, so it kind of ruins the
effect.
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