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Still
in Taqadam:
By
the time I'd wandered back from the MiG, a small
group of Marines had gathered around an open-backed
humvee. "Hey sir," they shouted, "Want to go to
chow?" I did.
I
clambered into the back with everyone else, and we
headed across the sand, leaving a billowing dust
plume behind us. We drove about five miles, at
times through deep, soft sand. The humvee wallowed
slightly, (pleasantly) and then dug in, powering
past the soft spots. Up and down through little
wadis and over dunes, we plugged along through
terrain that would have stopped most vehicles.
These humvees are great.
We
got to the chow hall covered in a protective layer
of dust. Who needs sunscreen? We brush off what we
can at the sinks before we enter. (The chow halls
all have sinks outside, where troops are detailed
to make sure everyone washes up before they eat.) I
don't want to impose my company on the young
Marines I arrived with, but I'm pleased when they
all bring their trays and sit next to me. In
another place, I might not be convinced that some
of them are old enough to drive, they look so
young, but after listening to them a few minutes I
realize their looks belie their age. These are
battle-tested troops, all of whom have been wounded
in Falujah. They've received medical treatment and
are all anxious to rejoin their units and get back
in the fight.
They
are at once, the most polite, and most profane
people I have ever met. They "sir" me to death,
while at the same time using language that would
shock a hardened prisoner. Beneath the language
though, are compelling stories. They tell me of
their friend who, during house-to-house fighting,
is seized with the need for a bathroom. He has
barely enough time to drop the gear he's covered
with, let alone find a real bathroom, so he squats
against a wall in a narrow alley. As he answers
nature's call, he hears a clunk, and looks up to
see a grenade hit the opposite wall above him. The
spoon of the grenade lands at his feet, but the
grenade itself bounces off the wall, back from
whence it came.
They
tell of another friend who dived on a grenade,
covering it with his helmet. He saved the lives of
his brother Marines, but died a short time later.
They tell me too, about the sniper who'd been
active here at Taqadam. He killed three Americans
and wounded a fourth before a Marine sniper team
arrived. "Give us four days," they said, and then
took turns acting as decoys. When the sniper rose
to take the bait they found him and dispatched him
before he could kill again. As promised, it took
them four days.
These
are good stories, but they lose much in my telling.
To have the full effect, you need to hear it from
these kids, one of whom still has a bandaged arm,
all of whom are chomping at the bit to rejoin their
units, to close with the enemy and destroy him. It
breaks your heart to see men so young exposed to
such dark truths; at the same time, it fills your
heart with hope, because, far from being driven by
hatred of the enemy, these boys are motivated by
love, the kind of love that equips them to
sacrifice for each other, and for their
country.
After
lunch I prowl around the populated end of the base
for a while, looking for someplace where I can use
a computer. There is a morale center where
computers are available, but it is closed for
repairs. I catch a humvee back to tent city, and
just before I get there, I see a collection of
deserted buildings set back off the road. I ask the
Marine who's driving whether the area is off limits
and he assures me it's not. Now I know how I'll
spend my afternoon.
Like
everything else in the desert, the buildings looked
closer than they really were. The hidden distance
contained a couple dramatic arroyos, where flash
floods have scoured away the loose sand and left
behind bedrock. The floods have also dragged with
them a strange assortment of plastic bags, scraps
of paper, and bits of Iraqi uniforms.
As
I get closer to the first building, I realize the
patch of green surrounding it isn't grass. It's a
carpet of foot-long 37mm antiaircraft casings, the
brass corroding in the elements. There must be
thousands of them. Inside the building are piles of
canvas pouches, web belts, and combat boots, all
gnawed by rodents and disintegrating. I also find
thick pieces of steel, slightly curved and
jagged-edged. These are the remains of a bomb
casing, which probably explains the absence of a
roof on this building.
I
pick my way out carefully. I'm aware that, having
found an exploded bomb already, it's possible that
I might find one that hasn't yet gone off, so I
watch my step. My vigilance is rewarded. I find two
unexpended 37mm shells lying in the dirt where I'm
about to step. I cast around for some way to mark
the location and find the ends of an iron bed. I
lean them against each other over the shells, note
the location carefully so I can describe it to an
explosive ordnance disposal team, and then I walk
back out using the footprints that brought me in.
When
I get back to tent city I notify the duty NCO. She
makes a phone call, and pretty soon I'm telling a
Marine captain about my find. He drives around the
base and picks me up, and I show him where the
shells are. He tells me that hundreds of tons of
munitions have been found lying around. They
dispose of it as they find it, but every time they
think they're done, somebody finds more.
Evening
finds me heading toward the hangar, admiring the
way the deep blue of the sky overhead gives way to
pink on the western horizon. I sign in and am
weighed with my gear. As many times as I've flown
on this trip, this is the first time I've been
weighed. I've been curious to know how heavy my
pack and flak vest and weapon are; now I know they
add up to 100 pounds. I feel a little better about
how tired I get lugging it all around.
I'm
in the hangar two hours before my flight is
supposed to depart. I have a book to read but I'm
so tired I can't see straight. I'm sitting in a
folding chair with my feet up on one of two crates.
A group of Arabs wearing mismatched parts of
uniforms of different nations arrives. They are
discussing where they can play cards, so I offer
them the crate I'm propped against. They accept
gratefully, and ask me to sit with them.
They
tell me they are playing "American Spades." They
explain the rules to me, but while I'm following
their Arabic, I'm too tired to comprehend the speed
with which they play. I sit and watch instead,
which is fine with me. We talk a little between
hands and they tell me they are Jordanian. They
tell me their home towns and are astounded that
I've been to each of them. One is from Jerash, and
I mention the Roman ruins there. He is very proud
that I know about his town. He explains that he and
his friends are contract workers. They spend
several months at a time in Iraq and save all the
money they make. Then they head home for vacation,
carrying their savings with them. They were headed
home when I met them, and they were clearly excited
about it. I think about how badly I miss my wife
and kids, and I know exactly where they're coming
from.
A
couple more anxious hours pass while I wonder what
has happened to my flight, and whether I'll make it
out of there tonight. Finally a Marine corporal
tells me it's inbound. I carry my gear outside
where two Chinooks are squatting on the tarmac. One
has its ramp open and I head for the pale green
glow coming from inside.
I
doze during the flight.
I
remember waking at one point, disturbed by the odd
way the Chinook maneuvers. Because they have rotors
providing lift at both the front and back, the
plane can be nose or tail-high, regardless of
whether it's climbing or descending. As I woke, we
were climbing rapidly to clear a power line, the
towers of which I could barely pick out in the
darkness. We were climbing tail-high though, which
I found very disorienting.
We
land (again in complete darkness) on a rocky field,
roughly the size of a soccer pitch. How the pilots
manage to fit both helicopters on that small piece
of real estate is a mystery to me. So is the
location of the people I need to find. I'd hoped to
let them know what time I'd be landing, but I'm
beginning to realize that these night flights
conform only roughly to a schedule. Even if I had
known exactly when I was going to land, there was
no secure phone by which to notify anyone, so
nobody is waiting for me when I arrive.
No
matter. I figure if I can get across the landing
pad without killing myself on the protruding rocks
I can do just about anything. I seem to be right
about this, as the first person I find takes me
directly where I need to go. Lately a couple of you
have asked what, exactly, I'm doing over here. This
seems as good a time as any to explain (inasmuch as
I am able to) my mission.
The
jet on which I fly (in normal life) has many roles,
one of which is providing support to ground troops.
When faced with the prospect of deploying again, I
had a choice. I could fly as a crew member, as I
did the last time I deployed, or I could work as a
liaison officer. I chose the latter. The drawbacks
of the job are long shifts, twice the deployment
length, and only getting to fly one or two times a
month. The advantages are what I'm writing to you
about &endash; the chance to travel in Iraq, while
meeting with the ground troops we support. I meet
with them, learn about their missions, and teach
them what our aircraft can offer them. I also teach
them how to request our support, and I spend a lot
of time guiding those requests through the large
bureaucracy that prioritizes and approves them. In
short, I'm an errand boy, teacher, and go-between.
And
the people to whom I play that role this time are
the members of the Marine Expeditionary Force
(MEF). As I said, I manage to find someone who
knows where I need to go. He leads me between rows
of parked humvees and trucks, and under drooping
camouflage netting. An occasional light stick
reveals strands of concertina wire, antenna guy
wires, and other hazards as we pick our way along.
Finally we find our way into a small palace, where
I locate the people I'm looking for. I'm beat, but
this may be my only chance to talk with their night
shift people, so stay with them and we talk until
it's time for the midnight meal.
After
that a lieutenant takes me to another palace, to
the room where I'll spend the night. My eyes are
adjusted to the darkness now, and I can see that
this building has sustained serious damage. I think
we're heading past it, but we go inside. My room is
what used to be the banquet hall of this (Qusay
Hussein's) palace. Instead of a dining room table
though, there are a dozen or so bunk beds in the
room. Clothes lines and makeshift bookcases are
everywhere, and most of the beds have tent like
structures from which hang blankets and towels
&endash; anything to give the occupant of the bunk
some privacy.
A
single strand of Christmas lights adorns a small
artificial tree, and provides the only light in the
room. It's not much, but it's enough for me to see
that a portion of the ceiling is missing, and other
parts of it are hanging by insubstantial-looking
bits of rebar.
None
of this makes too much of an impression on me. I'm
more concerned with getting my sleeping bag out and
getting ready for bed. Before I climb into my bunk
I venture back out into the darkness. The
lieutenant had shown me where the porta-johns were,
but it takes me a while to locate them. In the
process, I step off a walkway into a strand of
concertina wire, and it takes a couple minutes to
extricate myself. From now on, no more straying
from the path for me.
It
seems that everyone in my room works a slightly
different shift, because the next morning,
everyone's alarm clock goes off at a different
time. For about two hours, not 10 minutes pass in
which someone's alarm isn't ringing. I don't know
how anyone sleeps &endash; or if they do, how they
recognize their own alarm. I remain in bed as long
as I think I have a chance of getting back to
sleep, but it isn't long before I give up. I get
into uniform and head outside.
In
the light of day I get a better look at my
surroundings. Last night's impression of the damage
to the palace was conservative. It looks like it
could topple over at any minute. I count two
distinct sets of holes where bombs pierced each
floor before their fuses detonated them at the
ground level. The resulting blasts have blown much
of the front of the palace away. I would have loved
to see the look on Qusay's face when that happened.
Before
the bombing, this must have been a lovely place.
The palace isn't as large as most, but it's on a
beautiful estate along the Euphrates. Date and
orange groves are the prominent features of the
landscape &endash; unless you count the 12
foot-high wall that runs the length of the
property. This is buttressed at intervals by thick,
tall watchtowers. The palace, wall, and towers are
all faced with beautiful yellow limestone, which
glows warmly in the sunlight.
I
head back in to where my Marines are working, and
listen to the changeover briefings as the day shift
takes over. There is a lot of activity all around
the country, but in direct contradiction to what
CNN said today (violence in Iraq increasing) there
is a sharp and well-grounded downward trend in the
numbers of insurgent attacks around the country.
I
wish you at home could hear more of what I'm
listening to. Our people are doing an incredible
job, and they're doing it with determination,
imagination, and a sense of humor.
The
sense of humor is evident everywhere. Little
examples abound, like the building next to Qusay's
palace which now bears a sign that advertises it as
the "Ramadi Inn." People here are clearly under
stress and in danger. I pass a small pickup truck,
the passenger door and quarter panel of which are
shredded by shrapnel. I see porta-johns that were
pierced all over by mortar fire - but nobody I meet
fails to offer a smile or looks like they're having
anything less than an outstanding Marine Corp day.
I
meet an Army Staff Sergeant sitting atop a humvee
reading a paperback and smoking a cigar. He's from
the 2ID &endash; the Second Infantry (Geronimo)
Division. He and his people have been running
convoys in the area ever since they got here from
Korea. I ask him, "Did you ever think, when you got
stationed in Korea, that you'd be leaving there for
this place?" He shakes his head.
"No
sir," he says, "I surely didn't." He offers me a
cigar, and climbs down to light it for me. We stand
in a pool of sunlight and talk about the war, our
kids, whatever comes to mind. Aside from the cigar,
this conversation is like a hundred others I've had
here. It is easy and natural, and I'm struck by the
fact that this is what talking to people should be
like. At home though, where nobody is shooting at
us, where none of us is carrying loaded weapons and
wearing flak vests, it's virtually unheard of to be
able to just strike up a conversation like this.
It's weird to say, but I know I'm going to miss
this when the war is over.
I
know I'm running on and on about this trip, but my
head is full of so many things I want to remember
about it, and I have the (perhaps mistaken) idea
that if I find it memorable, you might find it
interesting.
I'll
mention just one more thing that sticks in my mind.
I'm ready to airlift out of Ramadi. Again, the
night is impenetrably black. This night, a high
layer of clouds obscures the stars, so not even
their light reaches me. The choppers arrive, and as
they await our boarding, I am thrilled to see a
phenomenon I have heard about, but never witnessed
until this moment. The rotors are turning at full
speed, and the birds are barely staying on the
ground. The rear rotor of the one I'm heading for
is alive with yellow-green phosphorescence.
Sparkling light the color of fireflies is trailing
from the rotor tips. This is Saint Elmo's fire. I
am delighted, and I have a school-boy's sense of
pride that this is happening on my plane. Not for
the first time on this trip, I feel I have been
singled out for something special.
I'll
write again soon,
Steven
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Empty
rounds litter the desert buildings
(click for a larger image)
Qusay's
Palace
(click for a larger image)
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