Apple Pie and Mortar Explosions, Assad Talks About his Time in the Iraq-Iraq War

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29 February, 2004 2300

We got attacked tonight with about 10 mortars. I heard a muffled explosion while talking to LT Orr in our kitchen area (I was trying to convince people to eat one of the several apple, peach, and pineapple pies that Assad (the welder, AKA Mr. Maizel) brought for me from his home in Babylon. His wife made them, and some dolma (rice wrapped in grape leaves) for me too. Anyways, we heard one explosion.
“Was that a controlled blast?” everyone was coming into the TOC asking. Then another blast, closer. Then another, louder. Then BAM! BAM! BAM! I was surprised they kept firing for so long. SGM Walker ran in,
“Thompson, get the truck ready!” I ran and got my hat and video camera, got the truck ready, and soon we were suited up and flying around the camp looking for an open gate to get out of. We knew the general area the fire was coming from, and sped that way, across the river and to a suspected firing point. We were with the Quick Reaction Force. Soon, a Hummer was ramming against a cinderblock wall to knock part of it in. It succeeded, and a raid team went into the hole, but found nothing. Nothing found anywhere. The attackers got away, again. We got out of the gate fast though. Luckily no one was injured. I’m tired though, so I am going to turn BBC down low and get some sleep. I love you Spatzi, I’ll call you soon. Gute Nacht (good night), MUAH.

One day, Assad told me about a book that he had written during the Iran-Iraq War. It was a journal similar to mine. He never had copies of his handwritten notes made, and the original journal was ripped to shreds by his young children. He sat down one day, and told me about his role in the war. He was a mortar man, and to this day he still prays that he never killed anyone with his mortars. He told about the Iraqi army electrifying the marshes along the Iranian border in order to electrocute any Iranian intruders. He told about the long nights, when they could hear the battle cries of Iranian soldiers in the distance. He told me about the wild cries of “Akbar Allah!!!” some Iranian soldiers dressed in white would scream like mad as they charged the Iraqi positions. These were martyr soldiers, dressed in white – prepackaged for burial. He said the Iranians would scream terribly, striking fear into his heart. He and his fellow soldiers were demoralized, they didn’t know why they were fighting, and so many people were killed without a real reason. He lost his right foot in the war. It was blown off by an anti-personnel mine. I noticed that he walked with a limp, but never thought much about it. He would talk with teary eyes as we sat on an old car seat next to a trash dump while drinking tea.

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Date Sandwiches in Qatar and Brit Pop a al Arab Record Store

28 February, 2004 1100

Spatzi, we talked last night for 2 hours or more, and it was great. I love you.
Well, to continue my story about Qatar, Nixon and I were at the supermarket. We went to the spice section, and there had to be about 100 or more bags of spices. It was awesome, and the smells were so rich. I had never seen so many spices! I guess we don’t use that much spice in the West. I would like to learn how to use them in rice and main dishes. I bought some bread and dates to make date sandwiches like the one I had on the farm in east Baghdad. When we went to check out, I noticed an Arab man placing his wife’s groceries in a bag. That was new, the man helping the woman! You don’t see that too often in Arab society. Nixon and I walked around a bit more and I bought you a box from Iran.
I found a music store, very simple and dark, full of British music. I noticed Muse playing overhead and Charlatans UK on the shelf! I couldn’t believe it, I loved it! Of course I find this perfect little record store in Qatar. I noticed some Arabs, four of them, standing around the register counter flipping through CD cases. ‘Do you have any more Muse?’ I asked.
“Nay, we are all sold out, mate,” the young Arab store manager said.
‘Wow, Muse sold out in Qatar, it barely sells anywhere else,’ I thought to myself. I thanked them and all four said goodbye in a friendly way. Nixon and I rode the bus back to the base. Dido’s “White Flag” was playing as I starred out the dark window as lights passed and I felt alone in the world – because I missed you so.

On the Lookout for IEDs, Discovering the Operation Iraqi Freedom Media Stage, Uncomfortable Encounter with Some Friendly Arab Girls

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27 February, 2004 2200

I love you Nora. MUAH! You know sometimes life seems mundane, but all I have to do is think about our love and all that led to our love, and life is really something so sweet. Foley and I just finished watching the movie Love Actually. I really enjoyed it! It made me miss you so dearly, but also reminded me of how special our love is. I thought about our holiday in England in 2002, and the train ride from London to Wakefield. So awesome. I love you Spatzi! I can’t wait to get home to you. I love you.
Today I was at the airport with SGM Walker to pick up our new Command Sergeant Major, CSM Brown, a tall, skinny, focused-looking black man. I say “black” only to describe his appearance, the color being otherwise unimportant. He was in Afghanistan last year for two months or so. There were also two other sergeants. One, a big black guy – again, color unimportant – seemed a bit nervous. We’re so used to the ‘Rack that we forget new people are sometimes terrified to come here. As he sat behind me in the left passenger seat, I gave him some advice. ‘Master Sergeant,’ I said to get his attention.
“Y, Yes,” he replied nervously.
‘We like to know who’s around us at all times, that’s the most important thing,’ I explained. He looked at me and nodded with a sweaty forehead with an expression that said, “Shit.” I went on to make matters worse, ‘Know who’s coming up along side our truck, and make eye contact. Eye contact is very important.’
As we rolled down the highway, I would look back and see the master sergeant with a lost look in his eye looking straight ahead. My eyes are always all over the place as we drive, scrutinizing every tin can or tire scrap for wires or fuses. I actually drive sideways, sitting, that is. That’s better for seeing the median, side mirrors, and to catch shrapnel to my front. There is no protection on the sides of our vests, so metal shards can enter under the arms. You sit sideways at 45˚ to increase your survival chances. I also have a piece of scrap Kevlar armor I put along the inside of my door for protection. The threat is real.
At one point coming back today, I saw a van parked under the highway overpass on the opposite side of the highway. Two men were sitting in it watching our trucks pass – but I saw an antenna, like a remote control between them. ‘Slow down,’ I said on the radio to our escort.
“What’s wrong?” SGM Walker asked.
‘Possible observation, saw an antenna and two males in parked van, just a precaution.’
“Roger,” he said. We went along paying extra attention to the road. We made it safely to our camp.

Now to continue from where I left off on the 26th of February. When the SUV convoy arrived in the inner compound, Nixon and I noticed body guards, of a type we were familiar to seeing in Baghdad. A short man stepped out of the middle SUV in a grey PT jacket. That’s the new fashion trend amongst visiting dignitaries – the U.S. Army physical training jacket, a grey, ugly, and confused rag. Bush sports it, Rumsfeld sports it, Cheney sports it. I liked the ol’ leather jacket thing myself. We never figured out who it was, but it was late, about 0100, so he must have just arrived. A few days later, when we left Doha, Nixon and I noticed a 737 with the Air Force 1 paint job on the flight line. I wonder who it was I saw. Qatar was a well kept secret though, and would make a nice little pit-stop for a government official.
I walked into one of the many huge storage warehouses to call you. Inside each warehouse were office rooms built into the buildings. While walking behind one large storage area, in a large open part of the warehouse, I noticed wooden closets with German TV stickers on them, like ZDF or Das Erste and so on. Then I noticed where I was. This was the stage the world turned its eyes to during the war last year. That smart sounding general, I forget his name, from Central Command presenting the clean war to the world. All of that drama unfolded in the now boring warehouse I was now in. The stage was dusty, the million dollars spent to construct it leaving only wood and curtains and a fancy sign saying, “Camp Al-Salmonella” or something like that. I remember seeing that sign on CNN during the conferences, I remember watching the general speak and contemplating the loss of life, the terror, and the destruction going on not too far away. Almost exactly a year later, I was in that same press room. Sure, it was just a stage – but to me it was the setting to a tragic drama of real life.
I called you, and the connection was great. I was a bit more relaxed, so I could be more like myself, and we laughed so much. I missed you so much, even more in Qatar, because I felt even farther from you. I went to my bunk that night and slept in.
The next day I was supposed to go fishing in the Persian Gulf, but not enough people showed up to go. Almost everyone had a hangover. I was up and ready to go, even excited. I ran around trying to get last minute travelers added to the list, but everyone was drunk. I was disappointed, but accepted my fate, a fate attached to the whims of my fellow soldiers. It would be OK though. I could go back to the mall at 1200 on a tour bus with the other soldiers. So, Nixon and I did just that.
The mall was the same as before, only emptier. We went to the fast food area and got some Hardee’s to eat. I looked around and was amused to see Arab women, children, and sometimes men eating Mc Donald’s. I had to chuckle to myself. What really made me smile was a huge “ninja woman,” faceless, of course, with a westernized-looking child in tow, carrying a Dunkin Doughnuts bag. Now that is freedom! Oh yes, there is hope for the Middle East! All we have to do is make them just like us! That’s the key!
Nixon and I walked around aimlessly in the mall. We went to Carrefour “Hypermarket,” I guess that means super, super market. It was like K-Mart or Wal-Mart. I was amazed at how normal, even American it seemed. Nixon and I were looking at some date cookies when two girls about our age walked by. They didn’t have their faces completely covered. “Hello!” they said very friendly like.
I froze up! Don’t make eye contact! Don’t speak back to them! We were told, and have always been told not to talk to them or look them in the eyes. I didn’t have to be told, as I knew this was their culture from reading I had done, so I respected their culture. It was no big deal. BUT, Muslim girls are not supposed to talk to us, especially in Qatar. So I was astonished to hear them say anything to us. ‘Look straight ahead, do not speak, it is not allowed,’ I thought in a near panic.
“Hello,” they said again.
‘Again?! Don’t be rude, say hello back and be a good citizen of the world. I shouldn’t be so unfriendly,’ I thought to myself. ‘Hello,’ I said back in a nervous, uneven voice. It was more like a ‘Hello, now go away.’ They smiled seemingly delighted and amused, and walked away as quick as they came. I guess in their world, Nixon and I were cool because we were from the West or foreigners, or they wanted to use some English (although saying hello twice isn’t exactly college level English) they learned in school, or maybe they were being good, hospitable Qatar folk. I felt dumb for being so nervous about the encounter afterwards. I am supposed to be the one open to the world and new people, and two little Arab girls have me worried for a few seconds that I may start an international crisis. I think it’s funny now. Well, I’m going to bed now. I’ll continue tomorrow. I love you Nora, I belong to you.

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Reflecting on Qatar, Ukrainian Piano Girl Stuns All, Special Forces Gets Hit in Fratracide Incident, NCO Party Gone Wrong

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26 February, 2004 Observations from Doha, continued.

After dinner at the Doha Golf Club and a cool summer-like night on the club patio, Chris, Nixon and I got into the brand-new SUV Chris was issued by the Army and headed towards the city center. We didn’t head towards the city, we flew into the city recklessly. I was pretty nervous because of the way Chris was driving, but we made it safely to Doha Mall.
The Doha Mall is amazing, and it’s even more amazing such a place exists in the Middle East. I remember clearly seeing a pair of clear cut Arabs in their long, flawless white robes and red turbans, glide across a home electronics showroom. There was a wonderful contrast between old Arab dress and an ultra modern electronics showroom back-lit by neon blue lights and silver flooring.
I thought about the Arab world as a capitol of astronomy, mathematics, and trade. That was in the golden age of the Middle East. What happened? Why is the Middle East such a dump now?
At the mall, you realized one thing – almost everyone there is wealthy. They are wealthy from oil money. All they have to do with their money is buy luxury cars and luxury goods. I wonder why these rich nations like Qatar aren’t involved in reconstructing Iraq? They seem to be enjoying wealth and peace.
Chris, Nixon, and I walked around the grand mall. The architecture was amazing, the glass dome over the ice skating ring, the stair cases, the 4 floors of western stores. The young Arabs would walk past us and nod, or casually glance past us. Now, I was a minority in a foreign land. Of course, in Iraq I am a minority too, but a minority in power, so you don’t even feel like a minority. In Doha, I had no power, I was simply a white person from the west. I felt comfortable though, and safe. I noticed some African families walking around together, shopping, apparently affluent. The fathers were dressed in white gowns and a white head-wrap. These were a Middle Eastern people, an African people, and in some cases, an Asian people all living in a civilized manner, within an eastern, Islamic context. This was in stark contrast to the image of the Middle East we see on TV. It was encouraging to see.
At one point while walking around the mall, we came across a raggy-looking American, about 27 years old or so, who knew Chris. He had curly hair, a face a bit wretched – like a Canterbury Tales character, shorts (which we were told were not allowed off base), and flip-flops without socks (also forbidden, or so we were told). He was pushing a baby carriage along with his short, Asian wife. He seemed very docile, yet positive. It turned out he’s an American working in Doha as a civilian contractor. He and his family settled down in Doha, an unlikely place. Doha seemed tolerant though.
At one point, I had to go to the restroom, so I walked towards the restroom signs near a hallway. I made a left into a corridor and found two double doors – one female, and one male. Nearby, some Asian janitors started to chuckle a bit. I noticed this and looked at them for a moment. They smiled and pointed towards the opposite end of the hallway, from which I came. They nodded as if to say, “Go there, go there!” Slowly, I turned around and went to where I began. There, an old Arab man smiled and laughed in a good natured way. I looked up at the sign over my head. It depicted a crescent moon and an arrow pointing to the place from where I just came. It turned out, I was about to go into the prayer room instead of the bathroom! The old Arab man must have read my face as I realized this. I looked down and saw him chuckling. I smiled back, thinking the blooper funny myself. The man pointed to the restroom doors, and I proceeded into the men’s room. ‘Nice people,’ I thought.
After a while, Chris, Nixon, and I got into the SUV and rolled out of the mall parking deck. Within moments, we were driving calmly down the waterside main street. The night was lit by Christmas lights – like displays of shells and palm trees. The Persian Gulf reflected the lights of the high rises and Christmas light displays. Families walked along the sea, markets remained open at night, and cars went by revealing babies looking very peaceful and comfortable. Not dirty and shoeless like those in Iraq. I missed you so much, I wanted you to be there with me. I leaned my head against the passenger window and took in the view. ‘I can’t believe I am here.’ Evanescence’s “My Immortal” was playing on the radio at one point, and I missed you so dearly. I gazed unfixed out of my window, in a bit of melancholy. I love you.
We passed the emir’s palace and noticed it was small compared to Saddam’s palaces. What a peaceful place Qatar seemed to be though. “What do you guys want to do tonight?” Chris asked. “I can probably arrange some Russian girls for you.” Nixon perked up and looked interested in the proposal.
‘Nixon, do you really want to do that?’ I asked concerned. He looked at me like I was stupid for asking.
“Uh, YEAH,” he answered.
‘I don’t know, whatever,’ I said. I didn’t want to hang out with any Russians though. Nixon and I were tired, and I knew Chris must have recognized this as boredom. We weren’t bored though.
“Well, let’s go get something to drink,” Chris said. We went to a café, and I immediately noticed some British people there and later some French. We took a seat at a table next to a woman playing a piano. Chris explained that this café sometimes had belly dancing, but it didn’t seem to be scheduled for this night. I wasn’t disappointed. Chris then went on to explain, “The piano player is on my target list,” he said with a smile. “I keep coming in here to see her. If you don’t mind, I’m going to try to talk to her,” he said. Nixon and I just looked at each other and smiled. We just wanted to drink. It seemed like Chris was saying, “I can see you aren’t party animals, so I am going to try to meet this girl before we have to go.” The woman played the piano well, but it was Wild West style saloon music that I found gaudy. Mustafa, our waiter, came up and asked what we would like to drink. Nixon was sitting next to the box-end of the piano, and that explained why he yelled,
“I want a JACK AND COKE AND A CAPTAIN MORGAN!!!” I looked over at Nixon wide eyed as if to say ‘HUSH!’ He was already drunk.
“Don’t you think you should order one thing at a time?” Chris asked. Nixon just smiled wide and was loving the fact that he could even order a Jack and Coke and Captain Morgan’s at the same time.
‘I’ll take a Foster’s, please,’ I ordered.
Chris continued to talk to the piano girl. She turned out to be from Hungary, 27, and just completed music school, 8 years of it. Chris was trying to talk to her while she played. I was almost embarrassed for him. I felt so lucky to have you and not looking for love in smoky bars. I love you.
“Do you sing?” Chris asked her.
“I don’t understand,” the Hungarian replied shyly.
“Sing, with voice, words,” Chris clarified in a “I can’t believe I am doing this” attitude.
“No, I do not do this,” she said, with a thick accent typical of Hollywood Russian.
“I want to hear your voice,” Chris persisted. The Brits looked at our table curiously. I could imagine what they were thinking.
‘I’ll take another Fosters, please’ I ordered. I needed it to entertain me, since the love story unfolding before me was ultimately depressing. It was the same old “Yankee trying to get a piece of ass” routine. I sipped my Fosters, just happy that I could drink a Foster’s, and a bit proud that I wasn’t drunk yet – even after 3 beers. There ya go Dan, you’re a real man. I looked over at Nixon and he smiled like a baby – happy and drunk. I looked over at Chris, and he was staring dreamy-eyed at the piano player. I looked at the piano player and she smiled. I smiled politely in return, but more out of sympathy. To be eastern (former Soviet-bloc) and a woman damns you to an image of an object or worse.
“Do you play classical?” Chris asked.
“Mmm, yes, some,” she replied. She went on to play “Für Elise,” and it was flawless. How sad, I thought. You encounter that in life sometimes, the atmosphere seems so fake or superficial – and then something beautiful rises up, like a hand reaching up to life from under a stormy sea, or Christ’s last breath on the cross. I was stunned.
‘If I could make any wish for the whole world come true – I would wish for everyone to be happy. Not just happy, but at peace with one’s soul, and living the way they want to,’ I thought. I wished Nixon was at home, I wished Chris had a girlfriend, I wished the piano girl was not the piano girl in Doha, and I wished I was at home with you. ‘I’m so happy to have Nora, to have the home we have.’
The piano player continued to play and we all clapped at the end of each song. It was a polite gesture, and appreciated. I focused my attention to the surrounding bar. On the walls were black and white photos from the 1920s or so. The waiter wore a maroon bellhop-looking suit, Mustafa was his name. Mustache and all, all he was missing was a fez. Palms were inside the bar too. The atmosphere was something out of “Casablanca” or “Indiana Jones.” I sat back in my chair. ‘How did I end up here?’ I smiled and thought about you.
Chris didn’t succeed in winning the piano player’s heart, I didn’t succeed in getting drunk, and Nixon just didn’t care. All three of us walked out to the SUV outside of the café. We had to be back to the base before 2400 hrs. That was OK with me, I was tired, and I wanted to call you so badly.
We sped back to the military base at an alarming speed. I was almost about to ask Chris to slow down. We pulled into the high security entrance of the camp gate just as a sandstorm began to kick up. The security arrangements at the camp are pretty impressive.
Chris checked us back in to the sign-in building and Nixon and I thanked him for the good time and exchanged e-mail addresses. I know we must have been a boring bunch – but that was OK. I talked enough about you to impress upon Chris that I am faithfully engaged to you and not up to any nonsense. Nixon and I were tired, we’d been in Baghdad for months without a break. We said goodbye to Chris.
Nixon and I walked back to our large hangar-like complex which housed youth hostel-like rooms inside. On the way, we noticed a convoy of dark SUVs speed into the gated area we were in, the inner complex.

It was around this time that I had a dream that I was part of a State Department delegation to North Korea. We were there to negotiate a breakthrough deal of some kind. When I woke, I thought about the possibilities of working for the State Department, and if that was my true calling.
Life in the TOC was bordering on the insane sometimes. I walked into the office only to see some of the S-3 soldiers vacuuming chairs in our break room. You would think we were in the Pentagon or something. Barton would later confide that vacuuming chairs in a war zone was the last straw, and he would leave the Army as soon as legally possible. Foley then made my day by reminding me that I had outlasted all the NCOs in the operations section. He was right, I was the only one remaining from our original group. All the others had been sent away, transferred, or politely excused.
The economic situation in Iraq became clearer for me during this time as well. I was standing at the back gate talking to some children (these were the days before the frequent suicide attacks) when a man approached me. He spoke very good English and was dressed quite well. I greeted him customarily and he then went on to ask about working for the Iraqi police. He handed me a resume and copies of his university degree. He was an engineer. I was humbled and thankful at the same time. I was humbled that an engineer would be so respectful to me, a dirty soldier. I respected him. I was also thankful, because I remembered how lucky I was to be American, and to have God’s blessings.
Another event took place that never got much press, if any. Colonel Leroux was en route to another battalion dinner at our base when his vehicle narrowly escaped an IED attack. This time, the attackers tried to employ white phosphorus explosives. The standard procedure for responding to an IED is to exit the kill zone and secure the area. He didn’t have time for that, so his security team radioed in the incident and continued on to our base. See, had he been killed, he would have been killed while en route to some catered dinner party. That’s not what would be reported though. It would have been reported that the colonel was killed while conducting combat operations in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. He wasn’t killed, but something else did happen.
A security team went out to secure the bombing site and search for other explosive devices. They set up the standard road blocks on the four lane freeway. Soldiers stood around and waited for EOD to arrive. No one would be allowed to pass. All of a sudden, a black Toyota truck appeared and sped towards the soldiers manning the roadblock. After yelling some warnings, the spooked soldiers fired several rounds into the truck – the appropriate response. I don’t know the exact details about what took place following the shooting, but what I do know is that the black truck was part of a U.S. Army special operations unit. The truck obviously needed to get past the roadblock, but the soldiers didn’t know the unmarked civilian truck was manned by two American soldiers. The driver was critically wounded, with a bullet stuck in his throat, and the passenger, a medic with no special forces training, was also badly wounded. The truck was brought to the base. I went to look at the truck, and found it smeared with blood, American blood. It appeared that the passenger returned fire at the soldiers on the checkpoint through the windshield with an MP5 submachine gun. While all of this went on, the colonel ate a catered meal with our battalion’s NCOs and officers. I don’t know what the SF guy was thinking when he tried to run that checkpoint.
Special Forces operated pretty well in our sectors. Much of the recon and intelligence they collected was accurate and reliable, as opposed to that gathered by our own guys. There was an incident in zone 23 where our SF guys were sitting in a car conducting recon. Within moments, the car was surrounded by local Iraqi men who forced SF guys out of the car and onto the street. With weapons pointed at the SF personnel, the men demanded that they surrender their weapons and leave the area for good. The local men were concerned that the SF would attract trouble to their neighborhood. Trouble that could turn their streets into shooting alleys between terrorists and soldiers.
The SF guys complied and surrendered their weapons. Shortly thereafter, a sheik came to our base to return the M-4 rifle, complete with optical laser sights. He was returning the U.S. property the Iraqi men had confiscated.
This is not to say that Iraqis were keeping armed groups out of their neighborhoods. There were several instances where Iraqi farmers accepted money in exchange for bombers being able to place bombs along Canal Road on their plots. Sometimes leaflets and flyers were distributed to warn locals about an imminent attack, specifying a time range and general location. One of the most frustrating things for me to read, was a report that several Iraqi homes along a stretch of Canal Road had taped up their windows to prevent glass from shattering. A soldier noticed this after an IED had exploded in the area. The Iraqis living in the homes had obviously been warned about the bomb.

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Reflecting on the Good in the World, Donnie Rumsfeld Visits; We Leave in a Hurry

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19 February, 2004 1130 Saddam’s Secret Police HQs

There’s no other place I would rather be than with you right now. We had a long talk last night about the future, about what course we should take. It’s a trying time, but we have to move forward regardless. I love you so truly, so completely, so endlessly, I will work hard for you Nora. We’re so lucky to have the love that we have, and I’ll work hard for it – you deserve that Nora, you deserve the best from me.
I want to do something for peace, for something positive and honest, contribute to my community. I don’t want to change the whole world, but I see a lot of things and problems that are universal in every country or culture I’ve been so lucky to encounter. For all the evil in the world, it is still true that love and goodness is all around. It doesn’t sell movies or captivate TV viewers of news, but love is all around. I would like to be a “soldier” of good will. We need strong and sincere and wise leadership more than ever, and I would be so happy to help bring the world together. There’s something I can do, I feel it inside of me, I feel a sense of clarity and desire to take on big challenges and create real solutions – because I believe solutions are very possible to many issues of our day.
Most importantly, I value our love beyond measure, and it’s the most wonderful accomplishment I’ll ever have, it’s the most wonderful gift of my life, and you Nora – you make me alive. That’s not some empty romantic speak. It’s very true, an absolute truth. When you come into a room, I see a beautiful woman, a beautiful person, the woman who I belong to, the woman created out of the dusts of time into the most magnificent miracle I have ever known. You’re my soul mate, my partner in everything, my true love. My destiny is intertwined with yours, and that’s a destiny I am so happy to be part of. Nora, I love you, and I’ll support you always! Ich liebe Dich, Dein Dan.

Donald Rumsfeld came to our base shortly after this journal entry was written. I remember seeing his helicopter swooping in over our compound. Word was out that a major VIP would be in the area, and thus many soldiers were tasked with tidying up for the visitor – just in case he came to see us. Not too much effort was exercised though. What was amusing though was the rush of some personnel to their vehicles to conduct “patrols” off the base. Since Rumsfeld would be on the base, the base gates would be shut to incoming and outgoing traffic. All traffic – soldiers included. Many patrols mounted up so they would not be stuck on the base during their scheduled patrol times. Others mounted up to avoid Rumsfeld all together. I had to laugh at this. It was nice that Rumseld thought to come to Baghdad, but it did create a headache for the guys just trying to do their jobs without having to worry about a celebrity interrupting the daily grind. Many units would call in asking, “Is he gone yet?”

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Spotting a Potential IED, Last Minute Bomb Exposal Expert Will and Seagull Shit

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17 February 2004 1605 Martyrs’ Monument

It’s a cool day, and a busy day at that. We were supposed to come here to the monument for a meeting at 1500, but we were delayed. I spotted a cinderblock with wires around it and another block with a wire sticking out of it. We were close to the monument when I spotted it. The enemy is now putting bombs in concrete blocks to hide them, and making them remote controlled detonating. They are pretty common now. I spotted the blocks on my side of the truck in the median of the road. When you drive here, you sit sideways 45º in your seat. You look at the vehicle in front of you, the median, and your side view mirror. I closely scrutinize every bit of debris in the median. When we passed the blocks, I noticed the wires, so I told SGM Walker on our personal intercom radio headset. We turned around and went back to the spot where I found the blocks. We parked about 200 meters away and Sergeant Cole and SGM Walker went near the blocks and confirmed wires were coming from blocks.
We had to block traffic on both sides of the road (a freeway called Palestine Road). We called the bomb disposal team. This was the second time this month SGM Walker called the bomb squad for suspected IED. I’ll get to the other time later. You know you’re better safe than sorry. A lot of traffic had to be cutoff. Carwash boys stood along the side of the road trying to look in my truck. I gave a few some soap. None of the Iraqis in traffic or along the side of the road seemed too angry about the delay. We made hand gestures to them to indicate a bomb ahead.
The bomb guys showed up and got a robot car out and a remote control in a suitcase. They sent the robot down to the cinderblocks and investigated it with the remote camera. They decided it looked like a bomb, so they brought the robot back and hooked an explosive in a water bottle to the robot. The water in the bottle would explode out and break open the concrete block hopefully showing the contents. So the robot went back to the blocks with the waterbomb.
The waterbomb exploded, and the nearby Iraqis cheered. The robot went up to the blocks and investigated again. The block only cracked. So, the bomb team decided to destroy the blocks completely. The team brought the robot back to us and the bomb guys out 2 pounds of C-4 explosive in the robot’s claws (it has an arm with a claw). The robot drove back to the blocks and the team used the camera and remote control to put the explosive on the block. Then the robot backed away and we prepared to blow the blocks.
“FIRE IN THE HOLE!” the Sergeant yelled.
All of us took cover behind our vehicles.
“BOOM!” A huge explosion went off and all the Iraqis fell down or ran away frightened. The explosion was enormous, and you could hear it rumble and echo all through Baghdad. It’s amazing so little C-4 can explode like that. It was the same kind of explosion that went off by my truck back in December in the IED attack. After the smoke cleared, there was nothing left at the spot. It all disintegrated.
Now, one of the team members would have to investigate the remains of the suspected bomb. One sergeant got suited up in a heavy bomb suit. As he got into the suit, it looks like a space suit, he took his watch off.
“Who’s got dibs on my watch?” he asked. “In case I don’t make it, you can have it,” he said, handing it to another soldier.
“Any last words?” an assistant asked. The spaceman murmured something I couldn’t hear.
“If anything happens, you come down to get me,” he said to the assistant sergeant.
I guess in this month alone, bomb squads have lost three men. I was surprised to hear how fatalistic they were. They’ve been destroying roadside bombs for a while now and seen plenty of real ones – even complicated bombs with remote, timed, and secondary bomb capability all in one.
The remains were examined and it turned out it was either a fake bomb put there to agitate us, or concrete blocks with thin wire sticking out, and wires wrapped around them. Better safe than sorry. I love you Nora. No one knows why we are here, why we came, or where we’re going.

During the time we were stopped on Palestine Road, Major Ramirez and his crew were blocking the traffic on the opposite side of the road. This was to keep anyone from getting killed or interfering with the bomb disposal. We could see his vehicle about 200 meters or so away from our position. Oddly enough, when the first attempt to destroy the cinderblock failed, the explosion attracted quite a number of seagulls. I don’t know why. Maybe they know to follow the smoke plumes in Baghdad because they lead to meat in some cases, like a morbid treasure at the end of the rainbow analogy. They were there though, nonetheless. As they circled, you could hear their shit splattering on the hot pavement. One bird scored a direct hit on Siegel’s rifle, and the white crap dripped down his rifle. He didn’t know it until Foley pointed it out to him.
EOD had been losing a lot of people around this time. I would sit down and read the nightly reports from around Iraq almost everyday. One report said that an EOD soldier approached a roadside object in his suit. They had already attempted to destroy the object using explosives, but it remained. While in his suit, he walked up to the object and sensed a ticking sound. Trusting his instincts, he immediately turned around and tried to run (the suit is heavy and cumbersome though). He was able to escape only a few meters when the object exploded and threw him to the ground. He survived. Others didn’t though. Techniques became more complex, and the terrorist would place dummy bombs to lure EOD specialists within range of other bombs placed to harm the soldiers securing the dummy bomb’s perimeter. Another increasing trend was the use of “daisy chain” bombs, that is large artillery shells linked together for simultaneous detonation. Multiple artillery rounds could destroy a heavy tank.
Haider and I would sit at dinner, picking through the dish of chicken and rice that his mother made. He asked me once, “Why Americans always think of sex and money? Why they do this? I don’t like this man.” The only exposure he had to Americans were the soldiers that he saw everyday (many of whom were not model people) and the constant live satellite television feed of music videos from the states. Of course, he began to see the U.S. as a godless, decadent, hedonistic society. He saw the soldiers looking at porn, he saw the hip hop videos with all the half-naked (or naked) women dancing around while some bejeweled thug sipping on gin sings something with “bitch” here and “dick” that. Brittney Spears came out with a new video that revealed most of her body, and Beyonce was in a video walking around on all fours like a dog. This was extreme to most Iraqis. It made them suspicious. I sat up many nights explaining to Haider and others that the entertainment industry does not represent American values or culture. It is simply one part of it. Moreover, it is an industry like any other, and one operated to generate money – and sex sells. Girls walking on all fours generate dollars and beeeeatches dancing naked for some black idiot sipping gin and dancing in rented jewelry and a rented house – it sells. It made me wonder though, how should we market America to the world?
Haider told me one night, “If Iraq and U.S. go to war again, and we are enemy, I would kill American soldiers. But Thompson, if I saw you, I would not kill you, even if I would die.” Abbas once told me,
“When Americans came to Iraq, Iraqi people thought we learn something from them. But, we learned Americans should learn from us!”

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Another Memorial Ceremony, Baghdad Rotting, and a Dark Prophesy that does indeed come true

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16 February 2004 1430 BIAP 1-4 ADA Palace on Marsh

About to leave palace grounds from memorial ceremony. Just saw General Amoretti. Here for 1-4 ADA soldier who got blown-up.
0100 (Now 17 February) – Just got off the phone with you. We’re both so tired and sound sad. I love you so much Nora – more than love.
I’m about to fall asleep. I’ll write about the palace tomorrow. Tonight I was driving down the back streets of East Baghdad with SGM Walker, as we do almost every night now. No gunshots to-night, like two nights ago – twice attracting gunfire. Same old shining lights at people (hardly any people out tonight). I’m still amazed how trashed the streets are, some even overflowing with raw sewage and human waste. Trash and rotting food is everywhere. Something needs to be done. This city needs help, or it is going to slip into death. I love you Nora. I can’t wait to hold you again.

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Owning Baghdad's Streets, High Speed Chase and Tracers in the Night

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10 February, 2004 2409 (Actually 11 February now)

I’ll continue with Qatar observations, but first I’ve got to tell today’s (or tonight’s events). I love you! Today I slept for most of the day, and it was great. I do hate being back here though, working with these kinds of people. It’s good to work with professionals, not these children and scatter brains! Oh well, it’s up to me to do better. Today I got my rifle back on the range to shoot 10 rounds. You have to do that just in case you forgot how to shoot when you left. So Nixon and I shot some plastic bottles really quick. My sights are still good. The bottles jumped around in the air. I keep my sights on and my rifle clean – because unfortunately, it could save my life. Tonight I drove for SGM Walker, my normal job now. We went out into town and looked at the tanks that were observing the streets to make sure they were awake and paying attention. Some fireworks were going off too. I guess it’s a Muslim holiday. Lots of banners were up too. During our patrol, the lead scout vehicle crossed the median to turn around on a freeway. He didn’t bother to look first, and ended up pulling right in front of a taxi. I watched the taxi slam on the brakes and run into the side of the Hummer. The front end of the taxi was smashed, but the Hummer was OK. “Keep going,” SGM Walker said, “he should have been paying attention. Unless you want to stop and see if he’s alright.”
“Na, he’s alright, isn’t he?” Cole said.
“Yeah, he’ll be OK.” So we left the taxi behind and kept moving. We stopped a little down the road to push a car out of the road that was in front of the police station. The taxi driver followed us and went up to SGM Walker after we stopped to move the car.
“Mister, my car!” the driver said.
“Yeah, we’ll be there in one minute,” Walker said. We moved the car and got into our truck.
“Go ahead,” Walker said. We drove right past the taxi driver. I just felt ashamed, part of a failing idea or machine, chained to a 500 pound drunk gorilla. It was wrong, what we did, but it happens all the time. We’re not out here keeping the peace, we’re out here exercising our power, satisfying our egos, exerting our authority. Doing all the things that one would never think of doing normally. Every night we go out, it’s just shining lights in people’s faces and going down major roads, but there’s no plan. We drive right by suspicious vehicles, cars going down the wrong way down the road, and we never drive without headlights (bad guys can see you coming from a mile away). BUT – we drive around pointing lights at people (kids, old people) and don’t do anything effective. THEN – when we so see something suspicious, I say something and it feels like they are too scared to check it out. They would rather play policeman than be policeman. So you’re pretty much out there waiting to get shot, and while you’re blinding some carload of women and kids, some busload of terrorists is driving by. We won’t stop a bus though, that would be too complicated. I tell you, this war is bullshit. We like to pretend we’re effective, then act shocked that violence continues. We are fully capable of catching a lot of bad guys here – but we’re too lazy and use wishful thinking all too often. I can’t believe I’ve been here for almost a year, and Baghdad looks the same as it did when we got here – some parts even worse. I can’t believe the lack of mission, other than “free Iraq!” well, no shit, that’s a pretty big mission! Do you mind setting up a step by step process? Maybe our leaders aren’t smart enough to do that. And that wouldn’t surprise me. While soldiers are getting killed on our roads, instead of staying up all night and putting together a plan to stop bomb placement, our leaders play video games. Not until month 8 and over 50 bombs on our assigned roads alone, did we come up with a plan. How many soldiers died on our roads before then? How many Iraqis?
Very few people take this mission seriously; almost no one sees it as a historic moment. Everyone just sees it as an opportunity to make money, to be someone and exercise power (when they’ve never been in a position to do so all their lives). Like a loser pot-head who never got respect in high school is now a soldier in Baghdad pointing his rifle in someone’s face or ransacking someone’s house, or beating someone, or ramming their car – just because they can. Iraqis I know say, “Yes, but you expect this from soldiers, all soldiers are like this, because all soldiers are stupid. It doesn’t matter what country.” I just wonder how much patience they have here. They aren’t stupid. We cannot afford to alienate people here. We suffer most from our own mistakes and lack of insight. All the munitions we failed to secure early on – some were used to blow us up. A lot of effort we put into finding bad guys went into wrongly capturing good people (or killing good people). For so long, we would go out of the gate and just react to fire – not try to prevent it. We worked dumb. Only now things are starting to get a little better with planning. If I were a battalion commander in this historic moment, I would have done a lot more for these people, and for our soldiers. I see so clearly how it can be done too. No one gives a shit about finding solutions though. Well, sometimes, like when a soldier gets killed. Then everyone cares about preventing it from happening again for about 24 hours – maybe 48 if whoever died was important enough.
Tonight I spotted two suspicious cars on a road stopped. It was near a spot where bombs are known to go off, including one that went off early and blew up the bomber.”
‘Got two cars on the left, very suspicious, so you want to get them?’ I asked SGM Walker. He paused and said nothing.
‘Do you want to?’ I said again.
“Um, uh, Sergeant Cole,” he said on the radio, “do you see those two cars?”
“Roger,” Sergeant Cole (who’s already killed one person and likes to kiss Walker’s ass all the time and show off by harassing Iraqis) said.
“Do you want to go after them?”
‘Just freakin’ get em!’ I thought to myself. I’d rather get real bad guys than drive in circles getting shot at and shining flashlights at kids and scared shop owners.
“OK,” Sergeant Cole said, and the two cars spotted us. They quickly pulled away and sped down the road. We chased them, but got a late start trying to decide if we wanted to go after them. They (us) really seemed scared! I would rather catch a damn terrorist and save a life than pretend to provide security.
We started flying down the road after them. We were doing about 65 or 70 mph down the city street. I could see one of the cars flashing his headlights frantically so cars would let him pass. They were definitely trying to get away. Who knows why. Then, they turned a U-turn, and the hummer in front of us turned and dropped an $80 spotlight in the intersection that was promptly run over and destroyed. We all stopped, and the two cars got away. It almost seemed like everyone was glad they got away so we wouldn’t be in danger. All these soldiers like to play the power game – but only when they can see for sure that they’ll win. I think that is bullshit. I was angry about our ineffectiveness. Every failure to intercept the bad guys is a victory for them – and “they” are only going to bring Iraq trouble and instability – for Ali, for Haider, for Tariq and their families. For me, for our kids, for the future. This is serious business. I believe that.
As we headed back to camp. I saw a tracer bullet fly right over our truck, and then another over the lead truck. I wasn’t worried.
‘This city is in turmoil’ I thought. I’m back safe and sound now, I love you, and I can’t wait to get home to you. I need to go up the ladder so I can influence events like what’s going on (or not going on) on Iraq. I realize more and more everyday that all these “great” leaders are just plain men with faults like any other. They’ve just got gold in their pockets, golden tongues, and fancy clothes. That’s enough to help the world we’re in now. We need more. Nora, I love you so dearly. I want a better world for us. I love you.

Sergeant Cole was in Fallujah and told us stories about Fallujah from time to time. It was rumored that he had the first confirmed kill in the battalion. He told about one Iraqi that they had killed. They wrapped the dead body in a military tarp in order to transport it properly. As they rolled the body into the tarp, the corpse made a loud moaning sound – spooking one of the soldiers into shooting another bullet into the bloody burrito. Cole’s platoon, Third Platoon, had a guidon that depicted several frowning stick men with crossed out eyes, indicating that the stick men were dead. This was the platoon’s tally of Iraqis killed. Several stick men had dots for eyes, but frowns nonetheless. That indicated a wounded Iraqi.

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Drunken Conversations in Qatar, Our Nation's Chairforce Warriors, Russian Prostitutes

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February 9, 2004 2100 Baghdad, Iraq

Back in Iraq. It’s a landfill compared to Qatar. I arrived back in country today at around 1600 or so. Our departure from Doha was at 1300 or so. It was pretty uncomplicated. As soon as we got to the Doha terminal this morning shortly after our 0400 formation, we ate breakfast at the ridiculously well appointed chow hall. They had everything at the Air Force chow hall, and rumors spread that these “soldiers” were getting paid just as much as we were under the hostile fire pay provision! Qatar is not Iraq. Anyways, all of the U.S. armed forces in Qatar are living it up and cheating the system.
An infantry soldier sat next to Nixon and me. We watched the clean, neat Air Force people go by loaded down by gadgets intended for war, but unnecessary here (good only for looks). “Hey, look at this guy! He’s a real bad ass, fuckin’ pouge!” The infantryman was talking about some airman walking with his chest out in an ironed uniform. “What is this? A fucking fashion show? Let’s get out of here, these pieces of shit are pissing me off,” the soldier said as some of the airmen looked at each other, then looked at the ground. They could hear all the remarks. “Hey, nice hair! You should come up to Baghdad sometime…uh, oh, wait, you sit here in Qatar and play desert soldier while we fight the real war!”
Nixon and I chuckled at each other and then left the dining room. All the Air Force people just looked down as we walked by. I guess we are combat hardened veterans.
On thing Nixon and I noticed while in Qatar was the reaction of people who asked where in Iraq we were from. ‘Baghdad,’ I would say.
“Oh shit, you really deserve a break,” lots of soldiers would say. “I wish I was up there with you,” was another line. “Keep your head down guys. We really appreciate what you’re doing!” Or, “You’re real heroes!”
‘Thanks,’ I would say blandly, yet politely. ‘I appreciate it.’
All of us Baghdad guys figured we just got used to the danger up there, and didn’t even realize how messed up that place seems from outside.
After breakfast, we wandered over to the passenger terminal and I laid on the concrete floor of the hangar tent. Soon, I passed out. When our flight number was called, we all jumped up and slowly gathered our things. We got on a bus and went out to the C-130. We had to travel across the massive airfield, past the F-15 protective hangars and bunker structures. It looked like a scene out of Star Wars. The desert terrain is so flat and mono-color there.
We boarded our C-130. We all sat in the middle of the cargo hold on our red net seats. Soon the engines roared to life, and in minutes we were airborne. It was a 3 hour flight, but it seemed short because I kept falling in and out of sleep. We were woken up at 0300 in Qatar, and I had been talking to you until 2400 or so. We were tired! There’s no place to rest your head on a net seat, so we just leaned forward, or to the side, our heads bobbing.
We did a combat landing into BIAP, since planes are getting hit with missiles. As we started our wild descent, I made one more pita and date sandwich (I learned that from the Iraqi farmer near the missile site I mentioned at the front of the book). The landing was wild, but not as bad as I expected.
As soon as we landed, some fat Air Force E-5 was talking about “hustle, hustle,” and I about told him to shut up, but I think he knew by everyone’s reaction to him that pep talk was useless. We got off the C-130 and went to the Baghdad passenger terminal. Navy SEALs were there and the usual crowd of Special Forces or CIA types. All doing their part for Iraq. We got in our 5-ton truck, driven by our cooks. I hate riding in those trucks, especially on the highways, because they sit so high, and the person driving is usually an idiot. So you have 24 lives in the hands of 1 idiot. I’ve got to drive in the Army. I don’t trust anyone else to drive.
As soon as we got off BIAP, we were welcomed by some children who leaped from their butts to show off their middle fingers, say “FUCK YOU MISTA!” and display looks of anger.
‘Give me a break,’ I thought to myself and pointed my rifle over their heads. They immediately ran away. We continued our way through the city and people waved and cursed, smiled and frowned, or just ignored us. Our cooks were trying to weave through traffic without using the horn at all (so no one really realized the truck was there until we almost ran over them). We got on the highway and our driver kept us on the far left lane right along the median, where IEDs are usually placed. Our drivers from HHC are stupid, because they aren’t combat trained, just support people. I stuck my head into the cab. ‘Get in the center fucking lane and stay there!’ They got in the center lane and stayed.
We got back to camp safe and I went straight to my room. My skin began to crawl as I thought about going back to work with these people. I hate it, and only realized how much when I came back today. It was so good to be away and feel normal a bit again. Soon depression set in though and aggravation and the realization that I’ve felt that way for almost a year. It was an amazing and sad thought. Of course, as I was going to my room, SSG Newsome saw me. “T, how was your vacation?!”
‘It was great,’ I said without looking back and made my way up to my room. I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
I called you to let you know I made it OK. You were upset about our time crunch coming up when I get back, about studying, about what you want to do. I know everything will be OK, but it’s hard to say that when you are crying on the phone. It really breaks my heart that I can’t be there – probably more than I show. I love you so dearly though, and I want to be successful for you so we can have a stable family. It’s so difficult being away like this, you really do feel dead. I’m trying to stay positive though – I have to. I love you Nora. I don’t want to ever lose you.

― Reflections on Qatar ―

I wrote earlier about CPT Chris. We stopped by his house and he led Nixon and me inside. The house was very nice and looked like something in the States. Chris handed us a beer. I already had two beers the night before, but it didn’t get me drunk at all. So Nixon and I sat in the living room and watched TV. The news showed pictures of more random violence. I changed the channel. Two civilian guys were in the living room working on a laptop computer. The two men acted like teenagers and joked with Chris about introducing us to Russian prostitutes. ‘Oh God,’ I thought. ‘Men behaving badly. American civilians away from wives and girlfriends living it up and screwing around.’ I got sad all of a sudden because, one, I knew women were being exploited by these overpaid civilian troopers, and two, because you believe in the common good of man until you run into a situation like that. So far, Qatar looked like a hidden playground for DOD bloodsuckers. We spout the virtue of this war, but so many are getting rich off of it or purely enjoying it at government expense. No thrift, no fiscal conservatism, no limits – all at taxpayer expense. I already decided to voice my disapproval of any escapades if they seemed serious enough to start partying with prostitutes. Why can’t people just do the right thing?
Chris got dressed, and we jumped in his Army-paid-for SUV and flew out of the gated compound for the Doha Golf Club. He was driving pretty fast and actually hit a sign on the way there. “Now, I wouldn’t normally drive like this if I was back in the States,” he explained.
‘I’m sure people do a lot here they wouldn’t do in the States,’ I thought to myself.
We started to go into the city of Doha, and the sun was setting. The city and suburbs amazed me. It was so clean and neat. It was modern. People drove by in fancy cars in full headcover and flawless white gowns. The women would be fully covered and veiled showing nothing of their face. “It’s so other men don’t fall in love with their wives,” Chris explained. “Some soldiers think it’s a turn on.” I fixed my eyes on the amazing skyline as the sky turned pastel red and light blue. I thought about you and bringing you to Doha one day. I missed you so much. I thought about how lucky I was to go to Doha to see something new – since it seemed I wasn’t going to get to go anywhere after they cancelled Germany. Sometimes some good can come out of a bad situation.
We started heading up the north shore of Doha. We pulled into the luxury golf club and drove up a path to the club house. It looked like an ivory palace. Something out of a luxury magazine. There was a British Airways Celebrity Open sign in the front, and British people around packing clubs into their luxury autos.
‘Why are the Brits so rich?’ I wondered. Perhaps returns on land investments or just investments in general. We went to the clubhouse and it was beautiful inside, with Arabic carvings and waterways, plants, white and gold and blue walls. It was very impressive. We went into the bar, and some Brits were there in matching polo shirts. I walked past them and onto the patio. Nixon and I sat with Chris. Several other Americans were at our table, all ex-Army military guys now working in Doha. The two civilians mentioned earlier were also there. I looked across the golf course, and it was lit up by the amazing full moon. You could see the water in the distance. There were a few pops that sounded like gunfire, and Nixon and I turned immediately. I forgot I wasn’t in Baghdad and got pissed because I didn’t have my rifle or pistol. That feeling faded over the days.
The guys there were older, and gave us their support for being in Iraq and all. They bought Nixon and I some drinks. I had a Guinness with my fish and chips. I couldn’t believe I was out of Baghdad. I watched the airplanes fly into Doha from the balcony and thought about you. I wanted to call you so bad, but I would wait until we got back to camp. The dinner was good. The reason we were there was for a goodbye party for one of the civilians (one of the two guys). After dinner, we decided to go to the mall.
The mall I will never forget, not because of its size, but because it was civilized – even more so that anything I’d ever seen. Arab men walked around very civilized and neat. Little brown children all played and laughed – even ice skated, just as kids do in the U.S. or Europe – only they spoke Arabic. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The women were faceless, but carrying bags from cosmetic stores and western fashion stores. Some whole families, husband and wife holding hands (even though veiled) pushing a baby carriage and two kids tagging along. Perfectly civilized. All were smiling. Men didn’t gawk at passing women, there seemed to be a general peace and respect there. I would say it looked like a perfect society, but then you would have to look at the immigrant service workers who looked dreary and tired and depressed. They did all the work. I noticed that in Kuwait too. The Qatar Arabs are all rich though. There’s no democracy – it’s all a monarchy, and the ruling family controls the power and wealth. Then you almost realize Iraq could have been just as nice if Saddam didn’t waste so much money on himself and war. You also realize, in a way, that wealth can buy or destroy peace. Or, a good economy makes for a peaceful society. Qatar is oil rich though, so it’s easy for them to have a good economy.

Qatar offered an opportunity for soldiers and civilians alike to unwind on the sprawling military facility. The most sought after form of entertainment was drinking, which was allowed at the base club. Drinks were rationed out to prevent severe intoxication, but mysteriously, drunkenness was on display nonetheless. It was nothing to be alarmed at, except for the mixed sex units. Many of the female soldiers were boozed and looking for some attention from their somewhat uncomfortable-looking comrades (an example of this being the Military Police unit there that had a mix of female and male soldiers). There were some civilians that would come to the bar at night and mingle with the soldiers, listening to their stories of war in the ‘Rack. I was sitting at a table as I listened to several MPs go into detail about the abduction of a suspicious Iraqi. They went on to detail how they drove him about 10 miles away from where they captured and blindfolded him. During the ride through the night, the soldiers threw punches at the Iraqi, until they stopped, and “threw him in a ditch.” One civilian, sporting a Harley Davidson t-shirt appeared to laugh – but it was a fake laugh. He then asked, “Well what did you do then? What happened to him?” One young, redneck soldier laughed and responded,
“Fuck if I know!” The civilians laughed with the soldiers, but it seemed only out of some strange politeness. Their faces betrayed concern. The Harley civilian then went on to ask,
“I heard that for every door that you kick down, you are supposed to reimburse the Iraqis for the door if they are innocent.”
“Yeah, right,” the soldier responded laughing. ‘Fuck that, they don’t deserve shit.”
I thought about what the young soldiers were saying, I watched as the drunken female soldiers tried their hardest to snuggle up to some soldiers, and I sipped my beer. I thought the stories were typical, who even knows if they were true. They were all drunk. The drunkenness didn’t bother me, but being in their company did. I thought about how good we were at waging war as a nation, and how bad we were at building the peace.
The Qatari nights were beautiful, like nothing I have ever seen in my life. The night sky was a sapphire blue, like stained glass illuminated from behind. The moon was radiant silver and the stars were intensely bright. It was amazing.
Nixon and I witnessed an interesting encounter between a civilian contractor and a Marine Corps lieutenant colonel while riding the military shuttle bus around the base. The civilian, a young, scruffy-looking fat man entered the bus and took a seat next to the lieutenant colonel sitting across from us. It was only a matter of time before the contractor started teasing the officer. Of course, being soldiers, Nixon and I thought this was disrespectful, albeit it somewhat amusing. The contractor asked rudely, “Hey sir, why ain’t you up in Iraq? Why ain’t you there instead of here? You been up there yet?” The lieutenant colonel fidgeted and looked uncomfortable with the questions. I always wondered why he didn’t immediately ask for the civilian’s information and demand the civilian cease his disrespect. That didn’t happen though, bafflingly, and the LTC answered feebly,
“I am working the logistics piece here and then I’m scheduled to go up there.”
The civilian laughed, dismissing the LTC’s claim. “Yeah, right. I’m sure you’ll make it there one day, hmm.” At the next bus stop, the LTC hurriedly gathered his things and quite literally fled the bus. As he did, the sloppy, unshaven civilian let out a victorious laugh from his barrel chest, and then looked at Nixon and me. “Just what the military needs! Another O-5 coffee maker! HA!” I was sure the colonel heard the remark. Nixon looked over at me wide-eyed. He’d never heard an officer accosted like that.

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3 Days of Refuge in Qatar, Encountering Qatari Culture and Hitching a Ride to Doha

7 February, 2004 1215 Doha, Qatar

I’m laying in bed waiting for Nixon to finish taking a shower so we can go try to get a ride into Doha. Yesterday was an amazing day to say the least. Nixon and I walked around camp, I bought some pants, and we waited about an hour outside of the building where all Americans have to sign out before going off the camp. That is the only way downtown. Nixon and I asked a few people if they were going downtown, and they all said no. Finally, one guy said, “If you wait about 45 minutes, I’ll take you. We’ve got to go to a goodbye party at the golf club though. Is that OK?” Nixon and I looked at each other and said that would be just fine.
We came back 45 minutes later, signed out, and were soon flying across the desert at 140-160 km/h (around 100 mph) in a jet black Chevy SUV. The captain’s name was Chris, and Chris was driving like a madman around roundabouts. I was a little concerned about his driving.
As we started to get into Doha, it was clear this was completely unlike Iraq. All the streets and houses were extremely clean and neat, all the cars on the road were no older than 2000 model, stores, malls, American fast food chains. It was all there – and in even better shape than in the U.S.! There was landscaping, trees, bushes, grass. It was beautiful.
Our first stop was CPT Chris’s house. It was all paid for by the U.S. government. It was inside a gated community with guards. We pulled up to his house and went inside.

Combat Takeoff from Baghdad Just in the Nick of Time, Landing in Qatar, Jose or Ahmed? (A tale of mistaken identity)

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It’s been a long day, and a day that led me to Qatar in the Persian Gulf for a few days of rest. I love you so dearly Nora, and even more now that I am here. Baghdad is like a second home for me now – and it’s strange, but it feels like you are there. I love you so deeply – it’s spiritual, it’s physical, it’s mental. It’s everything to me Nora. I love you! I’ll be home soon.
Today Nixon and I waited at BIAP for a flight to Qatar. We waited alongside contractors, mercenaries, and Air Force wannabe soldier types. The camp we were at looked like something out of a Vietnam movie. It’s amazing how much material, people, and equipment is in the Middle East. At one point while we were waiting, a C-130 cargo plane buzzed our location at about 200 feet at a high speed to let the terminal personnel know they had arrived.
Eventually, our flight arrived. It was a C-130 from Pope AFB, North Carolina. I’d been there a few times as a CAP[1] cadet, and once as a VMI cadet. Anyways, right as we went to board the aircraft, a strong rainstorm moved in and drenched everything. ‘Just my luck,’ I thought. I was the first to get on and sat next to a window on a cloth net seat. I thought for a moment about surface-to-air missiles, but then stopped thinking about it because it was raining and that would deter fair weather terrorists. As it turned out, moments after we took off twisting across the sky in evasive maneuvers against missiles, the airport came under mortar attack – killing one soldier. I don’t even realize in how much danger Nixon and I were last week during the rocket attack. You get used to it. There was a mortar attack on our camp two days ago – 15 mortars struck – and I slept right through it. A few days before, mortars struck our Apache tank platoon and wounded PFC Zapata – on our camp. At any rate, today I flew frenzied over west Baghdad in a storm and over hostile territory. I love the feeling of flight, total freedom and solitude far above the world below. I love how, above the clouds, it’s always sunny. I was glued to the window most of the flight. During a lot of the flight, I read about the Selma freedom march of Martin Luther King Jr. from his autobiography. He also spoke of the riots in L.A. and Chicago. I really enjoy reading his ideas, as they reflect many of my own personal ideas. He was in fact a great man – on par with Gandhi. More on that later as well.
Qatar is flat. Like Kuwait. The air is crisp though, cool, and blue. There hasn’t been much to see thus far. I did see one of the most brilliant nights tonight, and a perfect, brightly shining, silver moon. It was full, and perfect. The sky was like sapphire, a beautiful shade of blue, deep and indigo abyss. Even at midnight – the night sky was lit in a silver blue haze. It was amazing. Hopefully I’ll see more of ethnic Qatar, and not just this military base. Nora – I am so in love with you, and I am thinking of you more than ever. I love you, and I can’t wait to marry you.

PFC Zapata was Hispanic, and like many of the Hispanic soldiers, he looked like an Iraqi. When Zapata was wounded by mortar fire on the base, he was taken to the surgical unit only a few meters away (the old Rustamiyah war college hospital). The same surgical unit provided emergency medical treatment to Iraqis sometimes, so this created a little confusion when members of the staff went to visit the wounded Zapata. He was laying on a hospital bed alongside some Iraqi civilians, causing some visitors to ask which young man was the American soldier and which one was an Iraqi – because of the skin complexion. Hospital staff quietly pointed to Zapata, the American.

[1] Civil Air Patrol

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Drawing Fire and Killing Time in Baghdad's Nights

Well, I’m about to go to sleep so I can wake up at 0545 for exercise. I wonder if they did PT in Vietnam or in the Gulf War? Tonight we were out in our zone 23 and all the streets were flooded with rainwater and sewage. Trash and other debris were all over too. We drove around and SGM Walker shined his flashlight (super bright) at everyone. So we went around and harassed locals with our bright lights. And we wonder why support for American soldiers here is lukewarm. These people aren’t stupid – they know we should be out on the highways or stopping suspicious vehicles instead of blinding them. Shots were fired tonight too, I heard at least 2 very close to me. Probably AK-47 fire. I didn’t hear and “POP” of impact or see any dirt fly up – so I don’t think we were targets. A lot happened today – but I’m going to sleep. I love you – I’m glad to live another day.

Foley and I spent more than a few nights together on mounted patrol with Sergeant Major Walker. We were a good team, and the laughs were plenty. The above journal entry was written after our small patrol drove through the market area of zone 23. It was there that we first heard gunshots. Foley was sitting in the gunner’s turret of the Hummer and scanning for gunmen on the rooftops. He didn’t see any, but we were sure someone was up there. SGM Walker insisted that we drive around the block and drive down the same stretch of road again. He called it “drawing fire.” So, we drove back down the road again. Gunfire sounded again as we passed the same point. Foley was up in the turret getting antsy. They were shooting because we were there. SGM Walker then told me to drive around a third time, down the same route. We did so, and received the same Kalashnikov welcome. Foley and I would laugh at the absurdity of our road trip, but the whole time I was seriously worried about him catching a bullet – the likelihood of that happening increasing with each ride down that same street.
We would drive around aimlessly, trying to kill time. The Baghdad nights were eerie. Driving through that night was even eerier. You knew it was a dangerous place, you knew it could take your life, but somehow you concentrated and just drove right into its night. You drove right into the place that could take you away forever – for what? We drove the same predictable routes every night, drove with the same bright headlights on, and rarely employed any kind of stealth. We were just a rolling target that you could count on being in the area between the hours of 2000 and 2300. I thought it was insane sometimes, to be rolling around like that. There was a false sense of security though, a “We own this shit” attitude that seemed to detract from the real danger. I remember one night driving down a four lane highway when I noticed a white Suburban on an overpass. All the guys in the truck trained their weapons on the vehicle. It was the middle of the night, a still night, and here was this truck just sitting on an overpass. My heart beat a little faster. As we neared the overpass, the Suburban began to creep forward. I wish we would have exited and tried to search the vehicle, because he was up to no good. But no, we continued towards the overpass. As we closed in on the overpass, the Suburban gunned its engine and disappeared. I peered into the gloomy night, a night that stank of human shit and trash, and tried to find some kind of threat. There was a reason that Suburban was there. I could see nothing among the houses in the distance that would cause alarm. All of a sudden, just as we went under the overpass – scanning the overpass diligently with our rifles – the highway lights shut off. Maybe it doesn’t sound too disturbing, but the combination of the mysterious truck, the overpass, the quiet night, and then the lights simply cutting off was enough to make my stomach sink. I think others in the routine night convoy were wary as well. There was nothing we could do about it though, we had to continue down the road. We had to continue into the darkness, even though it could be a trap. We exited at the next possible exit and began our foot patrol in zone 23. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.