Day Three

…Day Three
29 July 2007

The guy who was supposed to wake me up failed to do so, which resulted in a rude awakening at 0630. Luckily, I had pre-packed everything but my pillow and poncho liner (makes a great sheet!) so the mountains were loaded by 0640 and the search for the convoy departure point begins.

The directions are straight forward enough. It’s the roads we have trouble with. They don’t seem to match up with the directions very well at all. The post is so small, however, that by just after 0700 I was staging my bags and settling in for a long wait.

“Wastin’ away again on FOB Warhorse.
Sittin’ on my packed duffel bag.
Some people say that Mister Bush is to blame,
But I know, it’s al queda’s fault!”

This is the little tune running almost constantly through my head during that first hour. I know some of you self proclaimed political analysts might disagree with that last line, but I don’t give a damn. I’d be happy to discuss the matter further, so give me a call when you get here and we can chat in the Dfac. Let’s move on.

The mountains are split between two vehicles with plenty of cargo space and all the hooah gear (body armor, helmet, etc.) goes on. After a year of being a “fobbit”, I’m finally leaving the wire. Riding through the civilian streets of a war torn country. Where do I look? What should I feel? This is all new. The two hundred pound, foot thick, armored door closes surprisingly gently. The metallic clicks and scrapes confirm the combat locking system is engaged. The dust clouds rise with our departure. This is all new.

Like the first time on a roller coaster. Come on, you remember. It seemed like such a good idea from the ground. The seats are solid. The belts secure. The track is clean and shiny. Then the coaster is moving forward with a crazy clicking noise that almost sounds like an evil laugh. “HAHAHA Gotcha now, sucker!” Then that nice firm ground is getting further away. The clicks continue to taunt as you start to think these seats are kinda loose, the belts are frayed, the track is rusty and dirty from the rain. And all the time that big chain pulling you higher and higher is looking weaker and weaker. You know for certain that all of those other people who rode this death trap before you were lucky to make it alive, and your luck has run out. It’ll derail, or get stuck upside down, or just fall apart; I mean just look at all those rusty bolts! As the last car gets pushed over the peak, a rush of incredible acceleration announces your imminent death. Then you’re gliding. “Am I an angel? Did I die? Why am I flying?” The world snaps back into perception as you clear that first loop that had briefly taken you from gravity’s firm grip. As you look down the track and see the series of twists, turns, and loops that are in your immediate future, that old feeling comes back. This was a good idea. I wonder how the rest of this ride is going to feel. The doors are combat locked. The armor secure. The track, well, it’s going by too fast to see now. But it’s there and will be there, and so will I. No matter how it tries to scare me away.

At first there isn’t much to see. A lot of fencing topped with razor wire. Signs promising death to those who wander too near. The roads are like any other, except maybe with a few more potholes. Some patches of high weeds demand attention with a shock of vivid green against the bland tan background as we approach an intersection.

This area is full of people walking with what appears to be everything they own on big carts drawn by donkeys. Some carts were piled high with colorful, but dusty, carpets. Some had teetering towers of boxes with random household objects jutting out in random places (a bulb-less lamp here, a torn umbrella there.) There were those that looked like they had just raided a junkyard full of half assembled appliances, over used electronics, and just plain broken furniture. And then there were those that were almost empty, save for a small bag of what looked like sun dried vegetables and old, dented, label-less cans. Some of those carts weren’t even pulled by donkeys. Instead, they were powered by groups of children taking turns on the handles and trying to trip one another for a laugh.

There are buildings here and there along the road. I call them buildings because I know people live there. Otherwise I would say there were large piles of broken stones and rubble here and there along the road. None of them are completely protected from the elements and all of them housing human life. These are the victims. These are the ones for whom life is a daily experience in survival. Here they are. Not on a television screen. Not in newsprint. No, here they are. And here’s the thing that really got to me about these people: they were cheering us on. Big toothless smiles, gnarled fists pumping the air, hearty clapping; it was all there. Yes, there were some jeers, too, and that is completely understandable (people need to point blame somewhere, after all). But those were greatly outnumbered by our fans! I mean, here they are living everyday in a way that would make either you or I cry for our mothers, propaganda pumping through their streets claiming that the pain they feel is the American’s fault, family dying before their eyes, witnessing horrors beyond our imaginations, and still they have the presence of mind, the trust in right and wrong, the fucking balls to know that we are there to help. These are people to respect and they deserve to be freed from this horror. I’ll end this tangent here, but I cannot stress enough that the Iraqi people are incredible and “worth” just as much as any American.

Further along, the road opens up and there are more and more vehicles lined up. Small cars with mismatched, faded paint and vans packed with people. There are some work trucks, too, with faded advertisements spray painted on the sides, perhaps it was graffiti. All of these are lined up and not really moving. There are some bicyclists pedaling by them on bikes with rusted chains and mismatched wheel sizes. A couple miles down the road I discover the back up is caused by not one but a series of road blocks manned by Iraqi Army (IA) forces. It’s good to see that they’re at least taking care of their own streets.

Down the road are the crumbling remains of two neighboring buildings that grabbed my attention. The first is a dilapidated old warehouse looking building with big rusty pipes poking from random places of the wall and wrapping around to the back. The giant iron gate at the front says that this is the home of Iraq’s Ministry of Transportation. The driveway is full of those donkey carts. I enjoy a good chuckle about that. Right next door to the MoT is a probably-should-be-but-probably-isn’t condemned factory lookin building with giant, gray silos looming in the background. There are big trucks parked in this driveway and an air of activity coming from the plant. The gate of this one is emblazoned with the very familiar symbol representing the drink for the new generation. Yup, it’s a Pepsi plant.

As we get closer to the city, I’m surprised by the sight of a humongous palm grove stretching out beyond the horizon. There is a mansion of a house deep within and it’s definitely not a crumbling pile of rubble. On the contrary, it looks extremely well maintained. All along the outer line of trees there are shacks set at even distances apart. The wood shacks are crudely camouflaged, but suppose they would be difficult to see if you weren’t looking for them. I could this be the place I’m going? Is that the government center?

No, of course not. The g.c. (as it’s called) is in the middle of the city. Surrounded by buildings, not palm trees. Ah yes, and here’s the city now. Gargantuan gates lie forever open next to the hasty guard posts of plywood and sandbags.

Deeper and deeper into the city we penetrate. No building has escaped partial destruction. Bullet holes and scorch marks are the only decorations at first. A little later there are vibrant, colorful signs above the war scarred shops that line these city streets. They must have been bustling at some point in the past, packed with bargain hunters looking to score a deal and kids hoping to score some sweets. But now the only thing on sale is bittersweet hope, and all that’s left to score is a bottle of clean water. Finally, when I feel like I can’t take much more of this incredible onslaught of truth and perspective, we are winding away from the main roads and slowing to a stop out side of some familiarly styled fencing and razor wire.

Wow this place is small! When they told me it was just a big building they friggin meant it! In fact, it’s not even the whole building! We only access about one third of the entire government center! Now, for OPSEC reasons, I’m not going to go into the layout, but I can tell you that we have a small but effective Dfac, a well equipped gym, and a little room with three DSN phones that work every once in a while. We share our rooms with as many people as there are beds (and some of them, like mine, have multiple bunk beds.)

The unpacked rucksack mountain doesn’t look very formidable as it rests atop my wall locker. Someday it will be full and deadly again. *shudder*

After moving the mountains up the steep, crumbling steps to the room, it’s time for lunch. Something that I think was intended to be chicken strips, but had gotten fried a few extra times, found it’s way under a slice of cheese and a slathering of barbeque sauce to become my first ever meal in Ba Qubah. And wouldn’t ya know it, they’ve got some diet Pepsis! Oh yeah! Between the unnecessarily loud crunching bites of chicken I can hear myself think, “I am going to like this place.”

After lunch, the adventure continues. Right next door to our building is the Iraqi Police and Iraqi Army building that is being rebuilt. I will be working over there from time to time so we go for a quick tour to get the lay of the land. I’m told that every time we go through the gate our weapon should be hot (magazine locked in and the first round in the chamber). “So should I grab my IBA?” “Nah, just lock and load.” “Gangsta.”

It’s a lot nicer than what I had expected. Of course, it has come a long way in a short period of time so it had only recently become this way. I meet a dozen or so IP staff and a couple of jundee (pronounced “june-dee” and is Arabic for junior enlisted soldier) that seem very energetic, even downright rowdy. I’m quickly briefed that part of our mission here is to remind these guys that they are professionals and to help them act like it. Basically be a Drill Sergeant for them. This is sounding like more and more fun every damn minute!

The convoy that’s taking the guy that I’m replacing should be leaving any minute. I hang out and bullshit with him while he waits. We talk about the daily routine for a while. Some dumb shit for a while. Just random things for a while. As all of these “a while’s” pass by, there is no indication that this convoy is leaving anytime soon. It’s already two hours later than it was supposed to be and it’s way too hot to be sittin around out here. “Have a good trip. Peace.” Of course, as soon as I left him alone out there the convoy started loading up and left a few minutes later! Ain’t that how it always goes?

At 1830 I’m lying on my bed trying to wind down from this physically and emotionally exhausting day, when the sounds of rapid small arms fire bursts to life right outside. There is no ECP test fire range here. That means that every bang, boom, and blast is one person trying to kill another person. Well, most of the time. This time I think it was celebratory fire because of Iraq winning that big soccer game. Maybe that’s just what I hope it was, but I’m pretty sure.
Later on, our OIC comes in to give up a brief. Over the next week or so, we’re gonna be expanding the information network that the Iraqis have in place. We’ve got new computers and phones coming and we’ll need to run new cables through all of the buildings. We need to draw up a network diagram showing everyone they talk to and how they talk to them. And we need an interface between civilian contractors and military personnel. Oh this is going to be a blast!

Sooner or later (and I’m guessing later) I was able to get to sleep before…