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I
showed up at the passenger terminal at 0445 for my
flight into Baghdad. I've been working nights since
I got here, and although I tried to sleep last
night, I had no luck. It's going to be a long,
tiring day. The passenger terminal is a Quonset hut
with a canvas roof. The floor is plywood.
Every
square inch of wall is covered with writing - the
names of people who've passed through here, their
hometowns, units, and whatever else they wanted the
world to know about them. It used to be you could
buy life insurance as you waited in line at an
airline counter. Now, you ensure your posterity by
writing on a wall.
Aside
from that, I'm in what would be immediately
recognizable as an airline waiting area. The same
chairs in orderly rows facing each other. Of course
these are covered with the ubiquitous layer of
dust. I talk to the airman first class behind the
counter. She is not the average 19 year old. She is
closer to 30, I'm guessing, and has a strong
accent. I try my one or two words of Russian on her
and she responds in kind. Of course I don't
understand a word of what she says. She is
Bulgarian, a legal immigrant to the United States,
and she is earning her citizenship by serving in
the Air Force. She speaks several languages and is
well-educated, but she is proud to be an Airman
First Class, proud to be a legal immigrant, and is
looking forward to claiming her citizenship. This
is some country we've got.
Having
checked in, I set my ruck sack in a chair and
trudge 1/2 a mile to the armory. Nobody walks or
strides or anything else here. We trudge. Anyplace
not covered by drifts of sand has been layered in
several inches of gravel. This keeps the area from
becoming a mud pit when it rains, but in dry
conditions we are not likely to appreciate this.
Walking in deep gravel is hard work. As I make my
way, a few heavy rain drops spatter the dusty
street. The predawn sky is fleeced with low clouds,
lit from below by the orange glow of our sodium
vapor lamps.
At
the armory I check out a Beretta 9mm pistol with
two 15 shot clips, a sleeping bag, and a flak vest.
The vest, heavy to begin with, becomes even more so
when I am handed the two ceramic plates that fit
inside it. The plates are 1/2 an inch thick and
concave. They slide into pouches in the front and
back of the vest like plastron and carapace.
Disturbingly, the plates are marked "Handle with
care." Somehow, they will stop a 7.62mm round, but
they can crack if you drop them.
I
carry my new treasures back to the terminal and
search in vain for a dust-free spot to reroll my
sleeping bag. (Off the rack, they are rolled
loosely. If it is to fit in my rucksack, it will
have to be rolled more tightly.) It's going to get
dusty anyway, so I roll it on the floor. This
doesn't take nearly long enough to occupy the 3
hours I wait in the terminal. Young soldiers pass
through, answering calls to board aircraft for
dangerous places. Their faces are unlined with
worry. I wonder, if I should see them again, if
they will still look so innocent.
Finally
we board our plane. The C-130 is the VW micro bus
of the air. Durable, charming in its ugliness, and
contrived without thought to its passengers'
comfort. We stumble over roller tracks and cargo
buckles on the floor and strap ourselves into web
seats. Everything inside the plane is utilitarian.
Brackets, hooks tubes and wires protrude from every
surface, conspiring to snag on your uniform or
raise a lump on your head. The ride is bumpy and
loud, and the plane varies back and forth from too
hot to too cold. Still, I am dozing from the moment
I buckle my seatbelt. I am well established in my
nightshift habits now, and it's time for bed.
I
sleep only in dribs and drabs though, and it is not
a restful sleep. At one point I am awakened by a
crew chief who taps me on the knee with a
clipboard, attached to which is a handwritten note.
(It's too noisy on the plane to converse.) The note
says, "Lost an engine. Returning to base." I look
at my watch. By the time elapsed, I figure we can't
be more than 20 minutes from Baghdad. I turn around
and crane my neck to look out the portal behind me.
Sure enough, the propeller on the number 3 engine
is not turning.
And
so back to where we came from. When we land we are
confined to the airplane for some time, because
there is lightning in the area, and then we are
allowed to get out while they repair and refuel the
plane. We stand, baking on the tarmac. We reboard
and head back to Baghdad. I am so tired at this
point that I can hardly stand it. Still, I manage
only brief naps in the air.
When
we land at Baghdad International, the loadmaster
briefs us. He will open the ramp on the back of the
plane and the cargo will be rolled out onto an
unloader. After the cargo is cleared, he will turn
and give us the thumbs up. At this point we will
grab our gear and run out the back of the plane.
The engines will be running, and he reminds us not
to turn and look back, as the prop wash will carry
dust and sand into our eyes. "Oh yeah," he says,
"Have your helmets and flak vests on before you
exit the aircraft."
I
deplane into complete darkness. A handful of stars
and a sliver of moon provide the only illumination.
The entire facility is blacked out.
I
spend the night at a camp adjacent to the airport.
Camp Sather takes its name from one of our own who
was killed in action. It is a collection of dusty,
sandbag-surrounded tents presided over by towering
palm trees. The camp has such an air of squalor
that the palm trees seem to mock us. I am given a
room in transient lodging - a plywood stall in a
tent. The tents, while discouraging in outward
appearance, are air-conditioned and floored with
plywood. They are cool and dry and have cots in
them. I have nothing to complain about. I even find
a morale tent and call home. For 15 minutes I get
to talk to my wife. I feel very fortunate. I return
to my tent, unroll my sleeping bag on the cot, hang
a blanket across the doorway, and climb into bed. I
hate to sleep dirty in a clean bag, but I have only
a vague notion of where the shower trailer is, and
the sound of not-too distant machinegun fire
discourages me from wandering around in the dark
looking for it.
I'm
afraid that the word squalor in the above paragraph
gives the wrong impression. There is no trash
littering the ground. There are no signs of neglect
in the camp. It's just that layers of dust and less
than luxurious accommodations are offending my
softened sensibilities. Being overly tired and
feeling sorry for myself have something to do with
this too, I'm sure.
This
will pass when I get some sleep.
And
I sleep. There are distant explosions in the night,
and the rattle of helicopters is never-ending, but
somehow the explosions don't bother me, and I find
comfort in the rumble of the choppers.
I
wake, scrounge an MRE and eat it, take a shower and
repack my gear. I head for the billeting office
where I use the phone to find myself a ride to Camp
Victory.
From
Camp Sather I manage to get a ride to Camp Victory.
The two are hardly more than a stone's throw apart,
but because of a lake and road conditions, it takes
about 20 minutes to get from one to the other. My
driver, a 19 year old from Louisiana gives me a
running commentary on the local security situation,
how many days he has left before he goes home (home
in time for Christmas, but he'll request to come
back as soon as he can. "Why not? This is where
it's happening.") and the craziness of a regime
that builds palaces like the one I'm about to see
when the roads are in such bad shape.
At
this point we're passing the hardened aircraft
shelters where Saddam's fighters were housed. The
once impregnable-looking buildings which look
something like truncated pyramids are falling to
ruin, having been pierced through the roof with
precision-guided bunker busting bombs. "How the
mighty are fallen" is the phrase that runs through
my mind. It's not the first time today I will think
of that.
And
while that goes through my mind a Bradley fighting
vehicle passes us. He's off the road to the right,
rumbling along, rolling across the uneven ground,
the wide tracks churning up a impressive cloud of
mustard-yellow dust, which settles over us. The
image of its crew will stay with me, I think. Those
who I can see roll like sailors on a pitching deck,
accommodating the rocking of the Bradley across the
bumpy terrain. The chain gun and machine gun point
forward menacingly. They look fierce and
proud.
The
roadside is dotted with spindly dusty eucalyptus
trees, and ditches run parallel to us, crowded with
tall thin papyrus reeds with tasseled tops. Magpies
circle and wheel about over something along the
side of the pavement.
Entering
Camp Victory we see a sign welcoming us to the 1st
Cavalry Division. The sign bears the familiar
shield with the horse's head in the top right of
the field. The first cav - a storied unit. It
claimed George Custer and was selected to prove the
concept of helicopter-borne troops in Vietnam. That
operation culminated in the battle of the Ia Drang
Valley, a tremendous feat of arms, about which the
movie "We Were Soldiers Once" was made.
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