James Aalan Bernsen

The September 11 flag

2008-07-23T18:36:00.000-07:00

On September 11, 2001, I was working as the Deputy Press Secretary for U.S. Senator Phil Gramm in his Dallas office. I woke up that day and as if my instincts told me something would be different, changed my routine. Fixing some breakfast, I had turned on the television and had just started to eat. The anchor was seated in front of a vast backdrop of the New York skyline, in which one of the twin towers of the World Trade Center was engulfed in a wreath of smoke.

As I watched in fascination, the reporter said that there was no indication that the attack was related to terrorism. At that point the source of the explosion wasn't even certain, much less the instigation behind it.

But seconds later, all doubt was removed as a massive fireball appeared on the screen and the second of the twin towers was struck. Literally as I watched.

I immediately gave up my breakfast and hurried to my truck, and drove into work, listening to the radio reports and trying not to lose my composure. Arriving at the office ahead of my coworkers, I rushed to my office, and turned on the three televisions I normally used to track the Senator's media appearances. Turning them all on different channels, I then called the Washington D.C. office and talked strategy with our head press secretary. Nothing like this had happened in America since Pearl Harbor.

With three televisions, my office soon became the gathering ground for our staff. We were gathered and watching when the Pentagon was attacked, and when a plane disappeared over Pennsylvania. And we watched in horror as first one, then two, of the twin towers collapsed.

Franklin D. Roosevelt had said after Pearl Harbor that "the only thing we have to fear is fear itself." But fear itself is hard to fight, when the true scope and nature of the threat are nebulous, the origins undetermined. Not knowing who or what was targeted, the order was given by the Senate to evacuate all capitol offices in Washington, and shortly after, the district offices as well. Soon, the staffers - mostly young, 20-something kids - gathered in the state director's office. In subdued tones, we stood in a circle and prayed. I will remember to my dying day the image of one of the girls, wiping away tears. Just the day before, she had been a carefree youth with no fear in the world. That day, I saw fear written large across her face. Across the face of a fellow American. Someone who had never done anything to hurt or oppress anyone, but was a target nonetheless, as we all were.

And then they left, all of them. Except me. I had been asked - and agreed - to stay behind to man the phones. With the D.C. office mandatorily evacuated, I became the only office contact for the senator. Throughout the rest of the day, I answered press calls and drafted press releases for the Senator in consultation with the D.C. press secretary, who gave me guidance on the phone. As he read off the Senator's words and I typed them out, the gravity of the moment was impressed on me. After finishing up the press release and sending it out, I was suddenly confronted with an aweful silence in the room. My televisions were muted and with my work done, I felt both relieved...and drained.

It was then that I began to contemplate at last the new age we had entered, and to consider what my role in that age would be. Certainly, in my job, I was in a greater position to act and shape the world than I had been in even a couple of years before as a small-town journalist. But was this a real role? Was it enough to simply type out a press release calling for a war on terrorism and leave the fighting up to other people's sons, daughters, mothers and fathers?

I felt compelled at that moment to drop everthing and sign up for the military. It was a natural, emotional reaction. But there was a catch. In two months, I would turn 30 years old, and that was the cutoff for most military recruitments. It seemed that my destiny would be to watch from the sidelines, at a great drama unfolding without me. For many, this would have been a relief. For me, perpetually inspired by heroes of older generations, it was a torment.

September 11 was a Tuesday. That Friday, I walked with a friend to the Catholic Cathedral in Dallas for Mass. Passing through an indoor mall, we stopped at a booth for the American Red Cross. They were taking donations of anything and everything. I reached into my wallet and found only one piece of currency - a fresh, $100 bill. And nothing else. After a moment of hesitation, I handed it over. The woman who received it was stunned. I didn't look rich, and despite a great-sounding job title, government work doesn't make you rich either. But it was something, and I felt I had to give. As I passed over the bill, my sense of hesitation was relieved by a growing sense that I had done the right thing. It was silly, really, to worry about $100 when so many people had lost so much.

Almost as an afterthought, the woman stopped me before I could walk away, and gave me a small plastic American flag. "Thank you, and God bless you," she said. I took the flag and carried it with me to the prayer service.

As you can no doubt guess, I have kept this flag with me throughout the years. I kept it as I made the decision to join the Navy Reserves after finding a program that would take me and let me serve despite my age. I kept it as I was commissioned, as I went through my first year of training. I kept it through my second and third years as I served as a reserve officer, putting in weekends working on projects that relieved the strain on the folks on the front lines. Finally, my time came to go forward as well, and as I packed last July for my year in Iraq, I mused for a moment on the flag, hanging on my bookshelf. I pulled it down without a moment's hesitation and stuck it into my backpack.

My flag was with me through every part of my journey. It was displayed proudly in my foot locker at Fort McCoy. I carried it through Kuwait, and it was in my backpack as I boarded the C-130 to Iraq. Moving into my new trailer, I stuck it on my wall. It was there, and emerged unscathed as that same wall was riddled with shrapnel following a rocket explosion in November. Though the wall nearby was pierced, the flag was untouched.

Finally, as I left Iraq, it was with me. At my last stop in theater, at Camp Arifjan, Kuwait, I unfurled my tattered September 11 flag and snapped a picture - something I had never gotten around to doing up to that point. It's only a small piece of plastic, but it's a reminder - a bind - which ties my service today to that moment so many years ago when we all felt small, unempowered and vulnerable. And yet it reminds me of all that I did throughout those years to change from a civilian who could do nothing, to a serviceman who could do something. My role may have been small - but like a voter on election day, one person, doing their small part, can make a big difference, when multiplied by thousands.

And across America in the last few years, thousands and thousands of Americans did just what I did. They all had some experiences which they look back to, which reminds them, just as my flag does. And like me, those thousands of Americans are doing their part. As I left Iraq, I knew it was in good hands, because so many of those people had come and so many would follow. Somewhere, deep down, we all have a little flag which inspires us - a small, insignificant token which represents something greater, something noble, and something to which we are willing to dedicate our lives. And that's what keeps us going.

Back in the USA

2008-07-13T13:30:00.000-07:00

Well folks, I'm back. I plan a blog entry to tell you all about the redeployment experience, but well, now that I'm home, real life is too fun to sit around blogging. But I'll try to put something up in the next couple of days.

Random Pictures Part IV

2008-06-30T08:39:00.000-07:00

One last batch of random photos from Iraq:

An old Iraqi T-72 tank. This tank and three others were left over from the initial invasion. They had been towed into a heap and left to rot. The "hill" that this picture was taken from is actually another tank, with only a section of its top turret hatch sticking up, like the entrance to a cave.

A mosque at Camp Slayer.

That same mosque, with a civilian jet landing at Baghdad International Airport behind it.

Me and my friend from the Tongan Marines, David. David and his fellow Tongans provided us with security for the 10 months of my deployment. To all the Tongans in the world, I simply say, "Malo!"

A last farewell at the palace. Myself along with Captain Miller, Sgt. Hernandez and Major Quinby.

"I'm leaving...And I'm taking the rat with me!"

2008-06-29T21:19:00.000-07:00

Finally, at long last, the end came.

It took a while though. My last few days seemed to slow to a crawl. My work had been parcelled out to my colleagues and I was shifted from the night shift to days. My boss told me he only needed to see me once a day to prove I was alive, and outside of that, I was free.

Free? What does that word mean? At least in Iraq, it really means little. There are precious few things you can do to enjoy your freedom, and since all your friends are still tied to work, you're not really free to do anything but wander around the base alone and think. And with the weather topping off around 120 degrees, wandering around just isn't a good idea.

I did get a few things done - saw a few things I hadn't been able to see before. But in the end, I kept gravitating back to work. Some of the projects I had worked on needed to be updated, and I knew it would be too long before my coworkers could get to them. So I'd come in anyway. One project was being shut down, but I'd committed to updating it until the end of the month. That meant getting in extra work before I left, but I didn't want to go out on a whimper.

"Why are you still here?" one of the sergeants asked. "Don't you have to pack or something?"

"Already have packed," I said. I had packed and unpacked and then packed again. Then I unpacked, stuffed some of my personal things in a box and mailed it home. Then I packed again. I had traded in my guitar for a measly 4 DVDs and given away my fishing pole and tackle for free. The only other thing I could do was sit around my trailer reading a book on the Battle of Britain.

At work, I spent most of the time running around doing administrative stuff to prepare for my leave. One night a small going away ceremony was held for myself and an Army Major who was also leaving soon. After the Colonel spoke kind words about each of us, we were given a round of applause and everyone in the facility came down to shake our hands. About 80 people came by, each one trying their hardest to crush my hands with their grasp. About halfway through, I began to wish I had taken my college ring off, but it was too late, and each time a marine came up, he squeezed with a vice-like grip, grinding my ring against my fingers.

I came in for a couple of days after that, feeling like a lame duck president. But finally, my project finished and my flight time set, there was no work left to be done. The crew that I worked with - who had all come in as green novices four months ago - were now just as expert in their work as I had become before they arrived. In those days, I feared that they'd never get it right, and that things would really fall apart when the "old hands" left. But I have no such worries now.

I worked in a facility called the Joint Operations Center - which is laid out like a NASA control room. Over the last 10 months, it had become my home, and its personalities and peculiarities had shaped my experience in Iraq. Now, it was time to say goodbye.

"Alright, Sir, it's time," I said to my boss, offering my hand, which he shook. "I'm leaving...And I'm taking the rat with me!"

Shortly after the previous corps had departed in February and the new corps took over, they had banished the proliferation of personal items that had decorated desks and computers. The most devastating blow was the removal - and likely disposal - of the "JOC security rat" - a small rubber toy who had guarded the stairs to prevent unauthorized access.

It had been a stunning blow to morale, but by an odd coincidence, someone had placed a small brown beanie-baby rat on the WalMart table outside just that very day. I don't know what kind of person thinks: "How can I help support the troops in Iraq? I know. I'll send them this rat!" Nonetheless, their anonymous gift was greatly appreciated. Smuggling the rat into the facility, I placed it in a position of high importance - and low visibility - where it could stand watch, and guide us through our work. With the addition of a small wizzard hat, it became the mascot of the Intel department. When one person complained that the wizzard hat looked more like a sombrero, the rat got the nickname "Speedy" after the Looney Tunes mouse.

So, stuffing Speedy into my cargo pocket safe from the eyes of the Sgt. Major - the enforcer of the Draconian anti-fun rules - I grabbed my weapon and my hat and headed out the door. The traditional farewell in the JOC is a departing salute. My boss came up on the intercom and announced, "Attention in the JOC! Now departing for the very last time, LTJG Bernsen."

Five hours later, I was back at Baghdad International Airport, once again sleeping on the hard concrete, waiting for the morning to come, and with it, liberation from Iraq. But the airport had changed. The first two times, I'd had to sleep on gravel. The third time, I got to sleep on concrete. This time, I slept on concrete inside a tent. An airconditioned tent. That concrete was like paradise.

With unusual efficiency, I was aboard a C-130 by 9 a.m. As the back hatch slowly closed with a high-pitched whine, the little line of bright sunlight pinched and then vanished. Turning to the little round window next to my head, I gave a last look at Iraq. As the plane began to rumble down the runway, I turned back around and breathed a sigh of relief. In just over an hour, I would be in Kuwait, and Iraq would be behind me. Forever.

Flintstone Village

2008-06-29T04:23:00.000-07:00

Saddam Hussein was a sick, evil bastard, but there's no reason that sick, evil bastards can't love their grandkids too. Hitler loved children, or at least that's what the propaganda photos always showed - Hitler shaking hands with little German girls in dirndls and starting a "youth club" for the little boys. How charming.

Hitler's bizzarre mountaintop retreat at Obersaltzburg was kind of an adult fantasyland, complete with strange pagan and medival imagery and castle-like construction. Perhaps the builders took an idea from the not too distant Neuschwanstein Castle, where the Mad King Ludwig of Bavaria had built his astounding fairy-tale fortress which became the inspiration for Disneyland.

It finally occurred to me that that's what this whole palace complex where I live is: a fantasy get-away place for the old Iraqi elites. And like Hitler's cronies, who built a mountaintop dreamland (for a guy who was notoriously afraid of heights), Saddam's cronies built palace after palace to glorify their leader and his triumphs, real or imaginary.

But Saddam didn't want to live the big life all by himself, and built palaces for his sons and friends. He had grandchildren too: precocious little tykes who liked cartoons, sports and games.

He must have thought them charming, suspended in that little naive world of youth - you know that time before they grow up to run rape rooms and torture cells just like daddy and grandpa.

And one thing that these kids really, really liked was "The Flintstones." That's right, the 1990s spinoff movie of the old classic 1960s cartoon. These kids must have devoured the show, because one year, for their birthday or something - it probably wasn't Christmas - Grandpa Saddam told his architects to take time off from building some of his numerous palaces and had them build something entirely different - a perfect replica Flintstone Village.

And so, the architects of the tyrant turned away from their marble columns, monumental arches and intricate mosaics and turned to something totally new. How strange was this building? It was like no government-built building in the entire country - it did not feature either the image or the wise sayings of Saddam Hussein. What? A building in Iraq without Hussein's face or name stamped all over it? What blasphemy!

And so they set about designing the replica building, complete with fanciful cave-like dwellings, odd-shaped windows and terrifying precipices that any normal parent would never conceive of incorporating into what was to become a child's playground.

One can almost imagine the wonder and joy of the children when they first saw their new fantasy land. I could just hear them shrieking and yelling as they bounded up the stairs.

The building is not just eccentric on the outside, it features tons of little caves and maze-like walkways, as well as funny little playrooms:

It must have been quite the playground back in the day, but after four years of neglect, it's now a shell of its former glory. Years of soldiers, contractors and others passing through have left their marks, in ubiquitous graffiti. A touch of Disneyland meets a touch of the Berlin Wall.

The graffiti shows the wide diversity of people who have passed through. Americans from just about every state. Texans, Californians, and some very proud patriotic Hawaiian who took the time to sketch their unique flag. Certainly a few proud Marylanders must have come through, but they didn't bother trying to do their complex, gaudy flag.

Australians are well-represented, as are troops from El Salvador and other coalition countries. Indians, Pakastanis, Fillipinos and other contractors have all come by to tag this place.

As someone who is averse to graffiti on principle, I nonetheless make exception for symbols of oppression, be they in Baghdad or Berlin. Seeing good ol' American obscenities painted all over this place actually warms me up inside.

It is impressive on its face, but like many places around here, the construction is rather shoddy. In the palace where I work, the beautiful marble is a fake facade. Once the marble panels - about half an inch thick - are removed, the concrete beneath is appallingly-poorly made. In fact, it's not really concrete, but more like adobe. While I'm sure the structural beams are stoutly-built with rebar, elsewhere the only support in this cheap concrete is some kind of chicken wire.

The Flintstone Village is no different. Walking along the walkways here, you see dozens of places where the fake walls have simply caved in, leaving gaping holes that you could easily step into and fall through.

And when I say fall through, we're not talking a little drop to Pebbles' playroom below. How about a 40 foot drop through iron girders and concrete supports to the rancid lake muck? Perhaps we could have disposed of Saddam quicker by simply exporting to him our legal system and then unleashing the tort attorneys.

In other places, whole sections of the wall have fallen through, as if the Flintstones' pet tyrannosaur had come through here smashing and stomping in full Godzilla roid-rage style.

Perhaps this is what happens when Fred doesn't give you your Dino crack.

One only wonders how much damage is a result of the Occupation or perhaps soldiers knocking a chunk of the plaster off for souvernirs. But the advanced deterioration of this less-than-a-decade-old structure is really just par for the course for Saddam Hussein's Iraq. Everywhere I turn, I see this ostensibly oppulent facade is really just rotten through beneath. A kind of Costco version of Versailles.

Right across the lake from this faux attempt at Americana is, ironically, Saddam Hussein's unfinished meglomaniacal masterpiece, the "Victory over America" Palace. Like the builder of Versailles, Saddam Hussein lived in a dream world of his own overblown importance. "L'Etat est moi," he seemed to be saying, and he figured that if you can't beat 'em, build a palace and claim you did anyway.

In the end, Saddam's dementia offered nothing to his country but disaster and gaudy monuments to ego. And years on, that's all that's left. He thought he was a new sun king, but ended up little more than a half-baked Ozymandias.

Perhaps the final statement on Saddam Hussein's Iraq can be summed up with this image. Standing and surveying the wrecked America palace is Staff Sgt. Billy, an Oklahoman on his third tour in Iraq. Sgt. Billy's a simple guy - a hard-working American Indian who does his job and never complains. Humble and good-hearted, he's the antithesis of the egoism reflected in the design of the palace before him. Saddam Hussein thought of himself as one of the greatest conquerors and historic figures of all time, but in the end, he was toppled not by generals or presidents or even high technology.

Saddam Hussein was toppled by an army of Sgt. Billys.

A Visit to Camp Slayer

2008-06-26T19:55:00.001-07:00

I took a trip recently over to Camp Slayer, another massive base on the same complex as Victory. Like Victory, Slayer is built on a former Ba'ath Party playground - a resort that looks more like a water park than the home of an oppressive regime.

There are palm groves everywhere here. They're really quite beautiful, except that beneath the trees and the reeds is just more and more of that almost sickly Baghdad sand. I seriously think we should import several tons of Astroturf to Iraq so that they can put it down and pretend they have grass. I think there's a direct relationship to the amount of grass a country has to how violent and repressive they are. I mean, look at England. They've got tons of grass, and they haven't launched a war in a century.

The lake, like that at Camp Victory proper, is surrounded by Palaces and offices of the Ba'ath Party. When Gen. Tommy Franks referred to the "Oil for Food" program as "Oil for Palaces," he wasn't kidding. Saddam built them with a manic obsession, even as his people were starving.

This palace appears to have a little bay where a large boat could be brought in. On the other side of the lake, half sunk, there's a large houseboat which looks like it would have fit perfectly in this bay. The left section of the palace in this picture must have had some significance - it was probably one of Saddam's many bedrooms - because we sent a cruise missile into it.

This massive palace was never finished, and sits abandoned. It is a testament to Saddam's meglomaniacal powers of self-delusion called the "Victory over America" Palace. Yes. In addition to the Victory over the Persians palace, he had to build a monument to his collossal 1991 Gulf War victory, in which he lost a mere 20,000 soldiers to our 100 or so. He also valliantly sacrificed thousands of tanks (as opposed to the clearly vanquished Americans, who lost fewer than a dozen) and the entire Iraqi Air Force was blown to oblivion or - in a show of tremendous courage - flew to Iran and hid. Yet, the one thing that was important to Saddam Hussein - his own skin - was preserved. Therefore, for him, it was a victory.

There are at least two others on base that were in the middle of construction when the war kicked off. We're just letting them rot. The Iraqis can figure out what to do with them when we give them back.

The lake here is dotted with a lot of small islands. Some have houses and long bridges out to them. Some just appear to be there for looks.

A small villa on one of the islands. Saddam's friends and relatives all had their own little batchelor pads here. His evil sons Uday and Qusay also had houses, which supposedly have some very disturbing mosaics on the walls.

Another Villa.

And another.

A drawbridge on one of the roads, for passage of some of the large boats that once plied these waters.

The most impressive palace at this complex is what's known as the Perfume Palace, which was a favorite hangout of Uday and Qusay, who maintained a brothel here. It is said that the smell of the perfume of the...employees...was so strong that it could be smelled for years after they had gone. On my one trip inside this palace, I saw some amazing art, including a fascinating bas relief depicting scenes from the Iran/Iraq war and an astounding chandellier...but no perfume.

But perhaps the most strange thing on this base is something not even I would have ever expected to find. I'll save that for my next post.

Two days and a Wake-up

2008-06-25T20:06:00.000-07:00

That's the unique expression folks use around here to keep track of their time. The "wake-up", of course, being the day of your flight out.

This place reminds everybody of a prison. One in which the inmates are armed. When I arrived, I had 300 days, give or take, and a wake-up. Now, that time has dwindled down to less than 1 percent, and it's hard to imagine that I'll soon be going home. In a lot of ways, I've become accustomed to this place. Never enjoyed it, just used to it. Kind of like the old baseball glove you've had since little-league, which doesn't fit, was never comfortable, but you just kept using it and can't imagine ever throwing it away.

Only there won't be any nostalgia to hold me back from my flight. That's why I've taken so many pictures and written so many stories. If one day, deep in the future, I look back and naively imagine that this place was all fun, I have the stories and the pictures to remind what it was really like. Sure, there were lots of fun moments, and there were even times that I thought about extending here for a few more months. But in the end, what this place is and what it has represented for me is something I can never put into a photo, but perhaps can someday put into words: exhausting, hot and confining. Only now, with two days and a wake-up to go do I realize that I've had - other than leave - only two days off in the last 300. How I managed to get around and take so many photos, I can't even figure out myself. But when I could steal away time to do that, it certainly has helped me get through this process.

There's so much more I could do or see if I had more time, but right now, it's two days and a wake-up. That's all the time left and that's all the time I want.

Graveyard of old T-Walls

2008-06-25T19:05:00.000-07:00

Among the most ubiquitous things on a U.S. base overseas are security barriers. They range from the lowly sandbag wall to the low, but more stout Jersey barrier to the massive T-Walls. They're used on our bases, out in town to protect Iraqi neighborhoods - everywhere. In fact, the concrete wall-building industry is one of the biggest industries in Iraq right now.

Hesco barriers. A frame of wire and cardboard filled with sand. These are portable, easy to put up and you just add sand. They're better than nothing, but certainly not ideal.

Over in a far corner of our base - so close to the edge that you can look over the wall into a Baghdad neighborhood - is a place where T-walls go to die. Or at least to wait. Most of the early T-walls are about five feet tall and built with long horizontal bases. These served lots of purposes, but they were far from perfect, and were less than ideal when it came to force protection - see my post on the rocket shrapnel that hit my trailer. The military decided, perhaps to the taxpayer's chagrin, but definitely to our relief, to build tall, vertical T-walls that reached up 12 feet or more.

T-walls of the larger variety. These have become such iconic symbols of life in Iraq that generals give miniature replicas out as departing gifts to their subordinates.

But though the trend is moving towards the larger T-walls replacing everything, there are still tons of other kinds around. Many folks have taken to decorating them. At the Baghdad International Airport, there's a row with a T-wall painted with the flag of each of the 50 states, and signed by soldiers from those states. Some of the drawings are crude, but most are elaborate and well-done:

A close-up shot of the previous one.

This one is at the base you enter and leave through in Kuwait. I hope this will be the last T-wall I ever see.

Another one from Kuwait.

Here's a T-wall from the airbase in Qatar.

Back in Iraq, the Military Police do a good job on their T-walls.

More T-walls over at the M.P. compound

But, as I said, T-walls outlive their usefulness at some point. With the Hesco barriers, it's easy. You just dump the sand - which they do over on the golf driving range - and then send the barrier frame to be recycled. T-walls, however, are a different problem, hence the graveyard:

It's not exactly China Lake, California and B-29s, but these desolate remnants to our military past will be a reminder long after we're gone of what it was like at the peak of the war. Walking to lunch one day, an Army captain friend of mine nodded to some of the barriers we passed on the way.

"What do you think will happen to these things when we're gone," she asked.

"I don't know. Maybe they can lay them on their sides and use them for road beds. Or for canals," I said, not too convincingly.

The truth is, there probably isn't any good use for them other than making walls, and hopefully, Iraq will one day get to the point where walls aren't all that necessary anymore. Still, they're big, they're heavy, and there here, and they will likely still be here for generations - if not centuries. Kind of like the Marsten Mats I kept running across in France that were left over from D-Day, T-walls will endure long after the American military is gone.

The Green Zone

2008-06-23T23:57:00.000-07:00

A little while back, I had the opportunity to travel to the International Zone - better known as "Green Zone" - in the heart of Baghdad. The former home to Saddam's government, it now houses most of the foreign embassies, many new Iraqi government buildings and many reconstruction programs.

The place certainly is befitting its name. As I stepped onto the grounds of the former presidential palace, my eyes were greeted by a stunning and unexpected surprise - grass. Tons of it. And green too. For someone whose trod on nothing but sand and rocks for the last few months, it was a stunning sight to behold. I wanted right then to just rip off my combat boots, run out into the brilliant, inviting green stuff and...frolic. Maybe jump in it and make a grass angel, like a snow angel.

(Here are some of my photos. So many of the green zone's locations are off-limits to photography, but I figured if CNN can do live shots here, I can take a few photos at this spot.)

The green zone has a lively, decisively non-war lifestyle. Civilians in suits walk around along with contractors in T-shirts and jeans. There are Iraqis everywhere - working and even living in the Green Zone. There's a pool, where military and civilians take a dip to cool off of the brutal afternoon sun. The shops are also nicer, and you can get everything from hookah pipes to belly-dancer outfits to leather holsters for your sidearm. They also have a few artists, and for a small fee, they'll do you up a traditional Arabic hunting scene. They could probably put you in it too, like Lawrence of Arabia.

The nightlife is also pretty busy, although I didn't get to experience much of that. They have parties and such at the pool and there used to be something akin to a bar, although I could never verify whether it was shut down to make the Iraqis happy or got hit by a rocket. One of the two, I'm told.

For much of the duration of the insurgency, the Green Zone has been an area of relative peace and calm within Baghdad, although it got hit multiple times in March and April. Things have gotten quiet now, and when I was there, the alarms only sounded once - for a shot that missed.

Among the sights you see in the Green Zone is this strange tree, which has brilliant red flowers growing on it. I noticed this while walking when I nearly stepped on some of these flowers which had fallen from the tree. Then I looked up and was stunned to find that they did in fact bloom right on the tree.

Back in the old days, of course, Saddam Hussein had his image everywhere, such as the above likeness of himself as an Arab warrior (picture from the Internet, not mine). Of course, like Lenin and Humpty Dumpty, Saddam had a great fall, and now his statues lie in an equipment yard, where I found them, facing downward to the earth where he now dwells:

I'm not sure who this guy is, but somebody clearly didn't like him any more than Saddam. They painted his eyes and mouth the color of blood:

Many of Saddam's palaces and government buildings are now in use by the coalition, but others are used by the Iraqis. Some are ruins. This one took a few too many cruise missiles:

Finally, my tour of the Green Zone complete, and with visions of the lovely green grass still floating blissfully in my head, I climbed back aboard the Rhino for the trip back to Camp Victory:

A few of my photos along the way. It's hard to be a tourist and watch for vehicle-borne IEDs at the same time, so these were quick and not particularly aimed:

Fishing in Baghdad

2008-06-23T16:42:00.000-07:00

There's really not all that much to do for fun around here. There's a movie theater - movie room actually - but I've only gotten to see half of one movie in nearly a year here. There's the MWR, but there's only so much to do there.

As you learned in my last post, this complex is practically teeming with fish, and naturally, I have been taking advantage of this opportunity as much as possible. There are at least a dozen lakes, multiple canals and lots of little pools. All of these were intentionally stocked by the Ba'ath Party folks to give the elites of the old regime a place to relax.

Naturally, all of this is still here. Some of the infrastructure is crumbling. Many of the elaborate aqueducts and water lifts and piping are damaged or abandoned. Algae and weeds proliferate - especially in the summer when they bloom in the ever-present sunlight.

And in this environment, the fish live and thrive. As you saw in my last post, the Saddam Bass - the aggressive breed of carp that live over by the palace, grow to very healthy proportions indeed. Elsewhere, the fish are generally smaller, but in a few areas, they're actually bigger. One photo that's going around via email shows an Army Sergeant man-handling a massive fish whose head alone is a foot long, and when stretched out, is as tall as he is. That fish was caught at Camp Slayer, a few miles away. Judging by the hefty fish-hanging hooks left over from the old antebellum days (below), there used to be a few of those around this base too. Most of the giants, however, are gone or too crafty to be caught by the likes of me.

I generally go fishing with my friend Chris, who is a Marine Captain from Montana who works with me. Here he is trying his luck on a pond on the Northwest side of the base. This particular spot was not too good for us. We saw a couple of big ones - leaping out of the water to catch a bug or swimming close to the shore in a clear area. But they didn't bite.

The fish, it seems, are very smart, and since these waters are so full of pollutants and bacteria, Americans only play catch-and-release with them. Thus, many of the bigger fish have likely been caught more than once and thrown back. Perhaps they learn. I would.

The Camp Victory fish seem to have very little interest in lures. I've caught a few at a place called Lost Lake with them, but outside of that area, they simply don't bite. I've watched my lure cross right in front of the nose of a two-foot carp and he simply ignored it and kept on about his merry way.

So Chris and I have scouted out dozens of locations (Chris looking for a new spot above) and tried a variety of baits to get them interested. There are no worms in sand, so that's out. I've seen a grand total of about 2-3 lizards ever, so that's out. Chris even had his dad ship him two kinds of special bait from back home. Neither seemed to work.

What does work, as I learned eventually from talking to the old-timers around here, are pop tarts and bacon. This we grab on our way out of the dining facility after breakfast and then go in search of a good watering hole.

This was the first fish I caught, back in April.

Chris caught this fish by the Al Faw Palace. Directly behind him is the bridge where the "Saddam bass" (see previous post) go to feast.

Fishing should never be about catching fish unless you're trying to live off of them. For the most part, fishing is about getting outside, relaxing, taking your mind off of work and just watching the wind blow softly across the water and the birds sweeping by from palm tree to palm tree. Chris and I generally talk politics or history. Very rarely do we talk about work or the war.

Fishing is also a good excuse to visit parts of the base we never see. This place is so big, and has so many hidden spots, that even though I've been here for 10 months, I haven't seen 75 percent of it. Going to work, or the gym or the chow hall, you just kind of see what's on your way. Walking around, looking for fishing spots, we find some pretty interesting places. At one hole - which a British soldier had pointed out to us, we found a small golf driving range. But this wasn't your ordinary range. A few spots were set to tee off and the targets were in the middle of the lake.

The first target was a small platform about 3 feet by 3 feet, set off about 15 yards from the shoreline. Jutting out from the middle of this setup is a small Australian flag. Strewn about the platform are about two dozen golf balls, testifying to the fact that some people can actually make the shot. I grabbed a club - not being a golfer, I can only say it was the kind folks use in sand traps - and tried my luck. I took a couple of practice swings, then dipped my hat into a chest full of golf balls and brought out a dozen or so. I tried and tried, but never could quite hit the island. A few of the balls came close, but plunked wide right mostly. Some skipped across the lake. One I hit so hard it skipped three times, then went right up onto the small island behind, slapped across the driveway and struck the small building. No one came out to look, so I was safe.

Out at a considerably-larger distance was another small island just like it, this one with a small American flag flapping away from it. Probably 50-60 yards off. As one might expect, the number of golf balls aboard this island was considerably smaller - two or three. I took a couple of shots at it, and seeing they were futile, then selected a driver and aimed my club at the tower over at Baghdad International Airport - about two miles off. I hit about a dozen balls and watched gleefully as they skipped across the water. With amateurish form, half the balls were duds, but one or two seemed to sail on forever. Didn't strike any airplanes, I'm sure, but it was fun.

Caught this guy with a pop tart. Blueberry.

This little fellow, I caught with Corn Pops.

I usually go fishing on Monday mornings, when I have a little time off work. Back earlier in the year, you could go fishing in the afternoons, but with the heat of the summer bearing down on you, you really don't want to stay outdoors too long once the sun climbs up to its mid-day peak.

One day, before things got too hot, however, I did go out and planned to stay around until noon. It was good to see the sun. Working nights, I never see it, and I need that Vitamin B. Or D. Or whatever.

It was a beautiful day with relatively low smog...for Baghdad. It was a pleasant, relaxing time: Helicopters flying overhead as I'm casting towards a small island holding a palace that was blown apart by cruise missiles in 2003. There's no action here now, but there are pillars of smoke rising off in the distance in Sadr City, and the sound of F-16s overhead give me a clue as to the cause.

The distant battle aside, it was a pretty calm and quiet day in my little bubble of a world. I was close to the wall and there was an Iraqi neighborhood just a couple hundred yards away. I didn't even have a watch to tell the time, so I just idled the time away blissfully until I heard the call to prayer from the nearby mosque. I knew then that it was lunchtime and packed up my gear. As I walked back down the powdery sand trail, I heard the Imam singing in his warbly tunes. He was calling on the faithful to pray and reflect on life. They were shuffling towards his mosque, and I was shuffling away. Sorry man. I just got done fishing. What better way is there to reflect on life?

Palace Wildlife, Part II

2008-06-23T04:49:00.000-07:00

The Palace complex features a dozen or more interconnected lakes, canals and other waterways. Half the water in Iraq must be here. The largest of the lakes, however, is the one that surrounds the Al Faw Palace. Big enough to go water skiing on, it must have been some recreation spot back in the day.

Saddam Hussein's cronys who built this place also stocked the lake with a unique breed of very large, very aggressive fish. Specially bred, I'm told, they're called "Saddam Bass" though they appear to most off us to be some kind of carp. They range in size from the young about the size of your hand to monster adults the size of a human's leg. The larger ones are surprisingly large.

When you come to a particular spot along the bridge, the bass come running. That's because every day, around breakfast, lunch and dinner, the Americans come. Like Pavlovian dogs, the bass know what that means. I don't know if fish salivate. Maybe they blow bubbles instead. Either way, these fish are clearly excited.

A few of my friends - two contractors and an Air Force gal - feeding the Saddam Bass. Passers-by bring a variety of food for the fish - mostly cereal and bread. Like the geese of the Al Faw palace, the Saddam bass will eat just about anything.

The fish slowly circle, eyeing their benefactors on the bridge above. Occasionally, they poke their heads above the water and make a gasping sound, as if pleading for the succulent morsels of waffle bits, Corn Pops and Count Chocula. As excited as they become, you would think it nothing short of ambrosia that awaited them.

The food is thrown into the abyss and for a brief moment there is a tense, suspended air about the lake. Within a second, however, the still waters of the lake are transformed:

Leaping, darting, thrashing and biting, the Saddam bass tear into the precious few drops of food. The scions of a dictator's hubris, they are remoresless, brutal and violent. Breaching from the waters over the backs of slower fish, or shoving their way through the crowd like a grandma on a shopping spree, the fish zero in on the food.

The frenzy reaches its climax and the thrashing of the water is loud and constant. A lone goldfish - a foot long and sluggish - is swamped by the more aggressive Saddam bass, who push him, struggling, to the bottom, like the fat kid with glasses who perpetually receives the tormenting blows of a bully. The scene is so primitive, so viscerally brutal that first-time viewers are taken aback and stunned by the suddenness by which the placid lake is transformed into a scene from a horror movie. Pirannahs, one would think, might go hungry here.

Indeed, the very nature of Saddam's rule makes one wonder just what exactly these fish were eating before the Americans arrived. Did Saddam - whose favorite movie, by the way, was "The Godfather" perhaps feed these fish himself? Seeing the brutal carnage, one can imagine Saddam standing over a trembling, terrified minion who had displeased him. One imagines Saddam holding out a cigar cutter and asking for the man to stick out his fingers.

Haunting, disturbing perhaps, but that's the image that one of my friends called up upon seeing the Saddam bass for the first time. We laughed at the picture, but then the more we thought about it, it really didn't seem that improbable.

Either way, these fish are one of the most unusual and entertaining things in this dismal, dust-filled oven known as Baghdad. And as this diversion runs its course, we turn our backs on this acquatic "Lord of the Flies" and go back to work.

Random photos, Part III

2008-06-22T07:15:00.000-07:00

Once again a few random photos...

Why does Saddam's architecture always look like a bad set design from a Conan the Barbarian movie?

A close-up over the window. This looks like a quote. Probably from Saddam, since nobody else is worth quoting in Iraq, apparently.

What in the world could be cooler than a concrete swan?

Except, perhaps, a concrete chicken...

This is the abandoned mosque on base. Something blew it up between the first time I went by it in October and now. Most likely a rocket, and it was probably months back, since we've had I think two rockets on the entire base in the last two months. Good work Jihad Joe. I think if you blow up a mosque you pretty much ruin your chances of getting into paradise.

The Rhino Runner making its morning trip. I've done this a few times, and fortunately, it was a quiet ride.

When we just drive around the compound, however, we use more conventional transportation: a Ford Ranger or Ford Explorer. The next few pictures are from a trip we made to another base also in the compound.

If you don't have access to a vehicle, there are bus lines.

The roads are pretty poor where they are actual roads. They're constantly working on them, and we often have to take a detour through sand. Fortunately, they've finished this section here.

But they aren't going to make progress if the Pakistani guy is sleeping on the job. To quote Blazing Saddles, "It can't be more than 114!" Actually, I checked about an hour later. It was 113, but that thermometer was in the shade.

Our truck, by the way can cool the air down with its A/C unit down to about 105 before it gives up.

Oh, those nice folks in the Army safety office really know how to give you nice happy thoughts. This sign reads: "Narrow Roads + Fast Driving = Death!" Thanks. Happy happy, joy joy!

On the other side of the wall, there's a billboard for the Iraqis, which is at least more inviting. Beautiful blue skies and clouds and a green blob of Iraq. I'm sure it probably says something like "Calling in the tip line and reporting evil men will make Iraq a happy place again. With fairies dancing and lollypop trees!"

A bunch of MRAP Vehicles. These are some mean SUVs. They crush lollypop trees.

Wind + ubiquitous trash + miles of barbed wire = a fenceline strangely reminiscent of a Mexican border town.

I say, anyone for tea?

Sorry, no time for it. These guys are about to go down IED alley with nothing but up-armored Chevy Suburbans. The next time you hear some politician going nuts about how much contractors make in Iraq, ask them if they'd like to put their faith in an up-armored suburban. When your gun turret is an open hatchback, you know you've got some serious intestinal fortitude to ride in one of these things.

One Week left!

2008-06-22T07:11:00.001-07:00

I'm now down to one week until I depart Iraq!

Lots to talk about, and lots to do. But my boss has already parcelled out my work to other folks (I do not have a replacement, a tacit nod to the success we're having and the drawdown of the surge). The good news is that I will now have time to do stuff outside of work, and catch up on all of the many topics I've long wanted to address on this blog.

Because my work is so sensitive, I knew there wouldn't be much about it that I could discuss in a public forum, so I didn't know how much interesting happenings I could find to put on the blog. I thought that I would be pressed to find enough to write about. On the contrary, there is always lots to write about and just not enough time.

I'm going to try to catch up in the next few days with some of the things I've really wanted to address. So check the site frequently.

Iraqi Soccer, cheerleaders and the Civil War

2008-06-15T05:36:00.000-07:00

It's been very quiet in recent days. So quiet, in fact, that one would hardly think there's a war on. At least around these parts. Nonetheless, that doesn't mean the place has gotten entirely safe. Forget the insurgency, an entirely new danger faces us: Iraqi Soccer.

Last night, the Iraqi national Soccer team faced its biggest challenge yet. The team, whose dramatic rise to greatness despite the war and violence, faced a team that on paper should have destroyed them: China. And as they have done so often before, the Iraqi team rose to the challenge and defeated the Chinese in a stunning upset.

I was at work at the time this happened, and the first I knew was when an Army Sergeant came into the office.

"I nearly got shot this morning," he said.

"Really?" I asked. "Where were you."

I thought he'd been on a patrol in West Rashid or Karkh.

"In my trailer. Sleeping."

Yes folks, Iraqis know how to throw a party. In perfect East Houston fashion, their ubiquitous way of celebrating victory or weddings or just about anything is to raise their guns in the air and fire away. Thus, somewhere probably a mile beyond our wall, some excited Iraqi soccer fan stuck an AK-47 into the air and let loose a torrent of metallic exuberation. Miles away, the sergeant was sleeping in his room when a loud slapping sound echoed across the room. He woke up briefly, decided he imagined it, and went back to sleep.

Unfortunately, another soldier not far away was not so lucky, and got a bullet through his shoulder. Not a life-threatening wound this time, but stray rounds have been known to kill. There was one at the gym a few months back. A guy sleeping in a tent. One soldier was hit on a treadmill and another in the shower. Fortunately those two lived.

But, so far as I know, the minor wound in the shoulder was all we got courtesy of the Iraqi soccer team. Nonetheless, the MPs took precautions and went trailer to trailer to ask if there were any injuries. That was when they woke up the Sergeant in our story. He answered the door, said that they were fine, then turned on his lights. Little chunks of the ceiling were strewn across the room, and there, in perfect condition, a sharply-pointed brass 7.62 round lay on the floor. It was this he later showed to me at work.

It was rather bizzarre that the bullet was not deformed. Normally, when a bullet strikes something - anything - it changes shape from a point to a kind of mushroom-like shape. That's what happened to the bullet that Maj. Q, my boss found, earlier this week.

"I walk the exact same route home every day, without fail," he said. "And then, yesterday afternoon, as I walked home, I found this."

He produced another round - also a 7.62 AK-47 round. Although this was flat and mashed, with the brass jacket pealed away to expose the silvery lead beneath it. Maj. Q said he was going to try to get it home to show his kids.

"Not much of a war story," I said. "You need to spice it up. Tell them that you dodged it."

"That wouldn't be true," he said.

"Of course it's true," I replied. "You just dodged it by 6 hours."

He thought this was funny and put it into our growing quote book.

-------------

Why do I always miss the cheerleaders?

This is becoming a major annoyance for me, and is seriously hurting my morale. I arrived in country about two days after the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders were here. I saw pictures, but it's not the same thing. And then, the Washington Redskins Cheerleaders arrived, and I was at work and couldn't get away. Leaving for lunch, I was barely out the door as they climbed aboard their bus and drove off.

Earlier this week, it was a new batch. I think it was the Philadelphia Eagles cheerleaders. The guy who told me about it wasn't quite sure. He seemed to recall every detail but that. Anyway, they came to visit us at midnight, which was great because the night shift always gets short shrift. Unfortunately, I arrived at work 30 minutes past midnight, and well, they were gone.

Yesterday, however, I arrived at lunch to see several very nice looking young women in the dinining facility. Wearing matching black outfits, they were signing autographs. I stopped by the table on my way out and discovered that they were in fact the dance team for the Seattle Supersonics. They gave me an autographed picture, but their performance wasn't until 8 p.m. that night. When I'm sleeping of course. And on another base down the road.

Typical

-----------

So, knowing I couldn't make the dancers' performance, I walked over to the MWR center to go use the Internet. Out of curiosity, I poked my head into the little movie theater we have here. The movie - which was just about halfway through - was "Gods and Generals." It's a very historically accurate - if slow developing Civil War drama, and I've seen it many times. I dropped onto a couch - it's been two months since I sat on a couch - and watched the last part of it.

The most intense part of the movie encompasses the Battle of Fredricksburg, which was fought between the Union and Confederate Armies from Dec. 11-15, 1862, and the Battle of Chancellorsville, which followed it.

It was interesting, as I sat there with the other soldiers, wondering who in the room would have been fighting on the opposite sides. One guy, based on his accent alone, would probably have been wearing a blue uniform. I myself, and a few others, would probably have been wearing grey. And we would have stood there in rows and loaded and fired muskets at each other. But that was the past, and today we wore the same uniform and serve in the same army.

The other thing that struck me, while watching this, was how vast a difference in the nature of war had occurred, and how little perspective Americans have about it. At Chancellorsville, the Union Army had in one battle in one small town in Virginia almost as many soldiers as the U.S. Army has today in the entire country of Iraq. The Confederates, whose forces were half as large, actually won both battles.

And the total casualties in those two battles (less than a week of fighting) were actually greater than all of the casualties in Iraq. After five years of fighting here, 4,000 Americans have died. In those two battles alone, 5,000 Americans died. And those were just two of dozens of brutal battles in that war.

It is true, as Robert E. Lee said at Fredricksburg, that "war is so terrible." But the scope and nature have changed dramatically. Back then, 2 out of every 100 Americans died in a war. Today, that number is barely 1 in 100,000.

An interesting, statistic. But in the interest of leaving on a happy, optimistic note, as good as that is, it's getting even better today. Whatever you're seeing reported in the news about the vast improvements of the surge, let me just add this: It's better than anybody is reporting. In fact, I've noticed about a month or two lag in media coverage. So if they're saying back home that things are getting better, let me just assure you that things are getting incredibly better. Not perfect, of course, but far better than I myself (an optimist, even) would have ever predicted nine months ago, when I arrived.

Even then, attacks were headed down, as the effects of the surge and some new counter-insurgency strategies began to take hold. But the drop in violence - as big in terms of qualitative, as much as quantitative, violence - has been stunning to behold. And there came that Eureka moment when the Iraqi Army actually realized that all that painstaking training their American counterparts had given them works. Suddenly, rather than going into battle hesitantly and fearful, they started going into battle ready to rock and roll.

The writing is on the wall, and though the terrorists will continue to attack, and continue to kill (mostly innocent Iraqis who get in their way), they no longer have the ability to control the outcome of the fight.

So, with my time here coming to a close in just over two weeks, I can look back with immense pride on what we've accomplished. The great majority of the credit, of course, goes to those hard warriors who load up, sector up and get out into the thick of it every day. If I've done something to help them do their job better - or give them the tools they need to do so - then that was my mission, and that's what I will wear with pride for the rest of my life.

27 days left!

2008-06-09T00:51:00.000-07:00

Getting close...

Middle Eastern Night at the MWR

2008-06-05T04:17:00.001-07:00

The MWR is where soldiers and others on base go to relax, sit on real, authentic couches, use computers, play pool and watch television. Although the television's almost always tuned into wrestling, so I don't think you could call it relaxing. MWR stands for Morale, Welfare and Recreation, and every base has one of these places that ostensibly gives us a chance to unwind and take our minds off the war.

Not that you really have much opportunity to use one when you're on a 12-hour shift like me. Generally, if I'm not working, I'm sleeping or working out. But I do get over there to do a few things on the Internet that I can't do at work - such as writing on this blog, for instance, or watching videos on Youtube.

They've also got a host of activities going on over here all the time. There are volleyball tournaments, for example - Woe be unto anyone who challenges the Tongans. There are horseshoe stakes too - I'd love to play, but who wants to put their hands on a steel horseshoe when the ambient air temperature is 115? They also have evening events, from Karaoke to dancing. There's a salsa night and a country and western night. But the other evening, when I came by to check for an email I was awaiting, I stumbled upon "Middle Eastern Night."

I've always been of the opinion that the more traditional, the more authentic a form of music is, the more vibrant, exciting and lively it is. It's a product of evolution, not marketing, and I think that there's something special about it. When I was living Southwest Texas just after college, I used to go to a lot of Tejano dances in little dance halls in places like Uvalde or Crystal City. Places where the only Anglo folks in the whole crowd were me, my date and the Sheriff. But the music was fun, and no one cared.

I'm also a big fan of the blues, and folks like Muddy Waters or Robert Johnson. Rock and Roll in its early days still had some of that buzz, that vibe, that energy. Jerry Lee Lewis was fun. Chuck Berry made you want to get up and dance. And it sounded real, uncontrived. Not like the crap they put out these days.

The same is true of older country - the kind of Bob Wills, Ernest Tubb, Lefty Frizzell type of stuff - which is so much more fun and full of soul than "She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy." Bottom line, if you need to do a poll or ask a focus group to tell you what good is, then you're not playing good music. And the music doesn't have to be old or dated, to have this energy. It just has to be true.

So as I came into the MWR the other night, I was greeted with the fun, exciting beat of the latest - but authentic - hits of the Arab music scene. Mostly the work of Egyptian pop stars - I watch them on MTV Arabia at the barber shop - it's got that unique beat, pulse and rhythmic singing that just makes you think of the Middle East, the desert, caravans and that kind of thing.

So I found myself typing away at the computer, matching time with my keystrokes t0 the beat of the songs. After a while, I finished what I was doing and came out into the main room to watch. There on the dance floor was an odd mix of people. Two obviously Middle Eastern women - probably translators - were the center of attention. One, wearing a short sun dress and high heels, was probably the best-looking woman I've seen in Iraq, or at least the best one outside of the Australian Air Force. The other wore tight jeans and a white blouse. Dancing to the beat, they raised their arms, lifted their heels and swayed around. You could almost imagine them in belly dancer outfits like some scene out of Lawrence of Arabia. Gathered around these women were an odd assortment of U.S. soldiers wearing their Army PT shirts and shorts, male translators wearing 1970s-looking button down shirts and Iraqi soldiers, who kind of hung off at the side of the room watching, not sure if they wanted to go into such debauchery as actually dancing within 10 feet of a woman.

The Egyptians and Lebanese men, of course, didn't care, and they were out on the dance floor in all their uncoordinated glory, having a good time. The dancing, of course, was tame by modern Western standards, and most of the time, the men and women didn't even touch. The one exception was when they gathered together in a line and danced together, kicking their feet out and yelling. Kind of like an Arabic version of the Cotton-Eyed Joe. My Arabic is limited, but I think I heard something like "Bull Shit!"

It was a fun time, and everyone was happy. These are good times. Our base hasn't been hit by a rocket in nearly two months (they used to hit us twice a week) and everyone here seems to have a bit more of a spring in their steps. Of course, there's still work going on outside the wire, and all these people had long hours ahead of them - pouring over captured enemy documents and translating their contents for the Americans and their allies - but tonight they could relax, let their hair down, and do what people all over the world all like to do - have a good time.

DUMBO MUST DIE!

2008-06-02T04:36:00.000-07:00

The whole palace compound here is full of some pretty strange art. There are these life-sized stone chickens over by one of the buildings, but there's a photography ban over there, and I can't show them. Over in another palace, with a similar ban, there's a large bas relief of a kind of sylized Iraqi eagle and a battle scene.

But the weirdest piece of art is on a small side building along the lake. I call the piece "Dumbo Must Die!" Picturing an idealized Arab hunting scene, it shows several brave, courageous, tough Iraqi warriors taking down what is obviously merely a baby elephant. Worse than that, the elephant's already on the ground, his legs crumpled. Not only have they clearly exhibited manly prowess by taking down the most helpless and cuddly of pachyderms, but one of the hunters - with evident glee - is in the process of stabbing poor little Dumbo in the eye with a spear.

To give you perspective, this building has two large reliefs. The first is the ancient hunting scene, which one must assume was to tout traditional Arab fighting skill of the past. The second, is a modern counterpoint, which features the brave Iraqi soldier of the 1980s, charging into war against the Iranians. Led by a soldier who has just fired off a Rocket-Propelled Grenade, and exhorted by another who is wielding an AK-47 in one hand and shaking his fist, they charge off against the modern equivalent of dumbo.

It all looks kind of silly and hokey, and becomes a parody of the great virtues it's trying to portray, kind of like really bad art deco of farm and factory scenes in an old post office.

Today, after my shift was over at work, I went fishing in the lake with a buddy of mine, a Marine Captain from Montana named Chris. We stopped by the Dumbo palace and took a few photos.

Chris and I posing with the life-sized Iraqi soldiers. Just above the first, kneeling soldier, you can barely see the depiction of a Mi-17 helicopter. Ironically, about 20 minutes before we took this photo, we were buzzed by just such a helicopter - part of the new Iraqi Air Force.

Strangely enough, almost all of these soldiers bear a strong resemblance to Saddam Hussein.

DUMBO MUST DIE!

Palace Wildlife I

2008-06-02T03:49:00.000-07:00

I work at the Al Faw Palace in the middle of what was once a gigantic hunting preserve/resort complex for the Ba'ath Party bigwigs in the Saddam Era. Virtually all the "wildlife" that was here is now gone, but there are a few notable exceptions.

The palace itself sits in the middle of a man-made lake, which is full year-round even in this dry, desert climate. Originally filled with water diverted from the Tigris River and it's many canals, it was used for boating, fishing and recreation by the elitists of the old regime.

It's most obvious residents are two flocks of geese which live in a kind of goose paradise on the lake. Although surrounded by thousands of armed Americans, the geese are not hunted, and certainly don't lack for food. That's because, like street urchins anywhere in the world, the geese have learned to beg.

Above: Iraqi geese eye my breakfast, hoping for a meal.

Every morning, as soldiers make the trip back from the chow hall after their breakfast, the geese know the game. They swim to the mainland from their small goose island and climb ashore. Ambling over to the gate, they set up watch. Inevitably, a soldier walks by, holding a small container of Cocoa Puffs or Fruit Loops and rattles them around. The geese squawk, dip their heads and waddle over.

They're persistant too, and woe be unto the soldier who passes by them and doesn't pay tribute. One in particular - who must be a female because she never stops talking - is very aggressive, and will snap at other geese or come up behind you and tug on your pants leg with her bill. Fortunately, however, there are usually plenty of folks willing to feed them, so they quickly get their full. Many soldiers - including myself - have gotten such a great rapport with the geese that they literally eat out of our hands. Only occasionally do they bite - inadvertently - but their mud-covered bills often leave your hands dirty once you're done.

My predecessor, LT Miller, used to feed them religiously every day. One day, the geese had strayed over by the Iraqi compound. With an Iraqi soldier eyeing us inquisitively, LT Miller tore up bits of a pancake and threw it to the geese. Who knows what the Iraqi guard thought. Probably that we crazy Americans were feeding the geese better than many Iraqis are eating.

The geese, of course, devoured the pancakes for a good two or three minutes. Then, almost in perfect unison, they stopped, turned, and dashed across the parking lot. There, where a small puddle of water had formed, they quickly began drinking large amounts of water. The pancakes, it seemed, had dried them out completely.

The geese are divided into two camps - which hate each other to an amazing degree. Often they will form up outside the gate and have great squawk fights, occasionally charging and driving off members of their rival group. We've taken to referring to the two clans as the Shi'a geese and the Sunni geese.

Every now and then, of course, the goose population gets a little boost, with the addition of a few new members. About a month or so ago, several new chicks hatched out. Here is one of them. He started out completely yellow and has slowly darkened, then lightened, to become more and more goose-like.

A mother goose and chick.

Two chicks at slightly different ages.

R&R in Qatar

2008-05-28T03:59:00.000-07:00

I haven't had enough rest, or so my boss, an Army major, said. Forget the fact that I went on leave just 2 months ago, and that I even had a whole day off once this month. Nope, he said, I needed to take some time off to rest and relax in the civilized land of Qatar.

I was reluctant to go, not because Qatar wasn't an exotic, fun-sounding place. The people are friendly, and think of Americans less as infidels, but more like good oil-guzzling maniacs whose driving habits have transformed the Qataris' squalid scrap of desert into one of the richest countries on Earth.

No, it wasn't that. I just didn't want to go through Kuwait. Nothing wrong with Kuwaitis either, but as any servicemember who's gone through the transit experience at a certain facility there can say, it's just about the worst thing ever.

But, as my boss informed me, the flight to Qatar was a direct one.

So the paperwork was filled out and before long, I was on my way to Qatar. The prospect of a direct flight was welcoming, as was the last-minute revelation that I would be flying on a C-17 (left), not a C-130, a smaller, older and uncomfortable aircraft.

Of course, as with all military aircraft, you're basically nothing more than cargo. But at least a C-17 has a bathroom.

In a C-130, you're so close to the folks across from you that your knees touch. Not so on a C-17 (above). Sometimes they pack you in on airline-style seats that are 8 or more to a row with no center aisle. That's really not fun if you need to get up. But if you're seated sideways like we were here, you have lots of room. This is the way to fly.

Of course, I could always hitch a ride on an old Soviet-era cargo plane like this, but that wouldn't be allowed, and frankly, I prefer those good-old fashioned American ideas like safety inspections, airworthiness certificates and sober pilots.

I had four days of leave originally, but after a few delays with aircraft and other issues, it ended up being six days. Heck. I wasn't complaining. I stayed at a U.S. base while I was in country, but we got to go out and see some of the sites. The highlight of the trip for me was a drive through downtown Doha (the capitol) and a cruise on a traditional wooden Dhow.

Qatar is basically a penninsula awkwardly jutting from the side of Saudi Arabia, kind of like the fruit on a prickly-pear cactus. It sticks out into the Persian Gulf, and except for a highly-urbanized area in the North, is pretty much entirely desert.

The Qatari national flag. My rule on flags is that if a third-grader can't draw it, it's too complicated. That's why I'm such a big fan of the Texas flag and hate the Maryland flag, which practically takes half a box of crayolas to depict. With the Qatari flag, you just need one maroon crayon and the knowledge of how to make zig-zags. Consequently, I'm sure Qatari third-graders are very patriotic.

Qatar is a relatively rich country, which I'm sure you can appreciate every time you fill up your car with gas, because Qatar, like Saudi Arabia, the U.A.E. and Bahrain, is built on oil. Although the vast sprawl outside of Doha is industrial, dusty and impoverished, the city itself is wallowing in money, and is very opulent:

In fact, if you squint and ignore the Arabic script on the license plates, it kind of reminds you of the nicer parts of Tampa.

They even have public art. Anybody who makes a 25-foot tall statue of a clam with a pearl in it is not too bad. Or random artistic pillars in the middle of traffic circles:

Of course, Tampa doesn't have a mosque on every corner:

Qatar also has some nice neighborhoods that look like they belong in Beverly Hills.

In fact, Doha is so cosmopolitan, it is in the running for the chance to host the 2016 Summer Olympics. Tie your burkas at the ankles gals, it's time for the pole vault!

The height of my trip was the chance to go out on a traditional Arab Dhow. These famous wooden ships were the standard sailing ships of the Persian and Red Seas back in the day. Most have lost their sails, but not their charms. A big fan of sailing and the sea myself, I was excited to get on one of these, but I would have rather been hauling on the tack lines, sheets and other sailing ropes than puttering along on an engine. But at least we made good time.

This dhow still has its rigging on it. Most do not.

Dhows in port.

This is more like what our boat looked like. No sails, but (thankfully) a large tarp to ward off the sun.

Doha is growing so fast, an entire new downtown, filled with skyscrapers, has sprung up on a nearby penninsula within the last decade. Most of the buildings are of modest height, probably fewer than 30 stories, but I'd be hesitant to recommend building much higher on an island made of sand. (There's a Jimi Hendrix song in here somewhere).

I really like the buildings on the right. They have open-air domes at the top, which look both modern and Islamic at the same time. Lots of billboards downtown spread the message of modernized, moderate Islam to any skeptical members of the public. "Progress, not change," they proclaim. The Qataris think you can still pray 5 times a day to Mecca, go on the Hajj and be a good Muslim without blowing up car bombs in the process. Like Turks, but with a better sewer system.

Fellow soldiers enjoying the cruise.

Swimming in the Persian Gulf.

Below: me swimming in the gulf. It's a lot more salty than the Gulf of Mexico.

Downtown Doha, reflected in the window of the Dhow.

Outside the wire

2008-05-26T00:58:00.001-07:00

Note: The following was not a sight-seeing trip, so none of the photos below are actually mine, but are taken from unclassified sites on the Internet.

On a mild Spring morning a while back, I climbed into an armored vehicle and took up my seat. With my body armor wrapped tightly around me and my Kevlar helmet firm about my head, I took my seat inside what is known as a Rhino - a fortified bus. But this was no ordinary morning commute. At a final stop before passing through our gates, we were told to load our weapons.

There are many people who come over here and never once leave the confines of a fortified military base. In fact, the number of such people would be astounding to most un-initiated. Many jobs simply don't require it. A vehicle maintenance crew doesn't need to go "outside the wire" - as it is called. The vehicles damaged by Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs) are towed back to base and worked on there. Helicopter ground crews, similarly, have no need to leave the base either.

That isn't to say that life isn't dangerous on base. When you're in a base inside a major city like Baghdad, you can be attacked with indirect fire - mortars or rockets - at any time, day and night, and there's not much you can do to prepare. It's not like when you hop into a Hummvee and go out locked and loaded, keyed up to a pitch and ready for anything. When you're on base, an attack can come at any time - when you're at breakfast, reading a book, sleeping, working, or in the shower. Those are some of the places I've been when the alarms went off and everyone got down and hugged the ground for a few tense moments as booms shattered the air around us.

That being said, for Camp Rats, Bobs on the FOBs, REMFs and others, nothing we do quite compares to the dangers faced by those outside of the wire. The soldiers who go out every day on patrols put their lives on the line far more than the rest of us ever will. And the dangers are wildly disproportionate. The vast majority of patrols never even see an IED, never get attacked with small arms fire, and never face a suicide vehicle. We literally send out thousands of vehicles each day, and recently, only about 15 a day have been hit by any kind of attack.

Some roads have very little activity, and are considered relatively safe. But even on these roads, the occasional IED can still be encountered. Other roads are known hotspots. The route names with the most danger are as familiar to soldiers as the staunchly-defended cities of Germany were to Allied Airmen in WWII. When a soldier finds he is to travel down one of these roads, he says an extra prayer, or writes an extra letter back home.

So it was that as I pulled my pistol from my hip holster and slapped a magazine home, I looked with aprehension on the trip ahead. I was traveling on one of the most notorious of Baghdad Roads - Route Irish.

Route Irish - named, like many other routes, for a sports team - is a terrorist's dream. Between the Baghdad International Airport and the International Zone, it's a short, narrow lifeline between the two most important outposts of American and coalition forces in the entire country. This 2005 article declared it "The Most Dangerous Road in the World":

http://www.smh.com.au/news/World/The-worlds-most-dangerous-road/2005/06/07/1118123840061.html

That article was before the height of the violence in 2006-07, when the route became a key focal point of anti-Iraqi forces. Both Sunni and Shi'a insurgent groups had strongholds nearby, and both groups hit it daily, hoping to score a high-profile propaganda victory.

By the time I was ready for my ride across Irish, things had improved dramatically. First of all, attacks had dropped by over 60 percent in Baghdad. Sure, there had been a recent flare-up about a week before, but that was in Sadr City, across town. The last major spurt of activity on Irish itself had been over two months before.

The Rhino, from Wikipedia.

I sat on the bus with an odd assortment of passengers, a kind of surreal greyhound. There were a mix of Army, Air Force and Navy personnel, along with a number of contractors. All wore body armor. One of the contractors was a bearded guy with all black body armor and an all black Kevlar helmet. His armor had a big yellow Batman logo across the front, and that apparently, was his nickname. We all chatted as we had waited in the assembly area for the bus to arrive, but as we got on and neared the gate, all chatting stopped.

I sat on the left side of the bus, which in theory would be the safest, since the right shoulder is closer to the vehicle and most IEDs are buried or concealed in trash along the side of the road. But insurgents have learned to vary their attacks, and we've learned to drive in the middle or even on the left side of the road, and the upshot is there is no safe place to be. The turret gunner on all the vehicles is in the most danger, and the first and last vehicles get hit the most. Other than that, all bets are off.

Beneath my window there was a small hole, with a steel plate covering it. You could slide the steel back like a vent. A little sticker was placed above this. It was like those stickers for airbag safety, only this one said something to the effect of, "In case of direct fire, open this and shoot back." I had a little laugh imagining myself sticking the short nose of my 9mm pistol out of this hole and plunking away as I tried to aim from behind the bullet proof window. I figured if it really came to that, I'd let one of the enlisted guys with an M-16 slide up to the window and take his chances.

After a series of checkpoints I won't describe here, we finally faced open road. With a pair of Humvees in front and a pair behind, our driver gave it some gas and the Rhino - the aerodynamic equivalent of a brick - surged forward. Topping out around 40 mph, we began the 12-mile run to the International Zone.

Keeping a sharp eye out for threats in my sector, I cautiously eyed everything that went by. Irish at this point is a divided highway, with a large sand median between the lanes, big enough to fit a soccer field into. Weeds, reeds, trash and palm trees were scattered throughout. Old abandoned billboards - mostly painted with new propaganda messages calling for Iraqis to unite against violence - stood, wind-battered and silt-covered. A few abandoned cars were there too, and I wondered if they could possibly be Vehicle-Borne IEDs (VBIEDs), but then this road was cleared every day by route clearance teams, and any IED that had been placed between then and now was likely small: a 155mm artillery shell wired to a cell phone or a disgarded milk jug or two - harmless trash at first sight - that was filled with homemade explosive and rigged to a wire strung across the road. The worst, of course, are EFPs - Explosively-formed Projectiles - which are designed specifically to target up-armored vehicles like the one I was riding in.

It seemed impossible that anyone could spot anything in all that mess, but the truth is, more than half of the IEDs that coalition forces encounter are spotted and cleared by the Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) Teams without exploding. Iraqi tips, vigilance and continual pressure on the insurgents which prevents them from spending the time necessary to elaborately conceal their bombs all contribute to this astounding level of success.

When an IED is spotted, of course, movement comes to a halt, and this is perhaps even more dangerous. An obvious IED or a hoax - a dead dog with wires stuffed into his mouth, for example - can be placed to stop a convoy at a precise spot in order to get the vehicles into a "kill box" where hidden secondary IEDs can be placed to maximum effect, often "daisy-chained" off the same detonation wire. Or an IED could halt a convoy in a pre-determined ambush spot for insurgents armed with heavy machine guns or RPGs. Or it could be a combination of both.

But neither we nor our escort vehicles spotted anything and we continued on our way. We passed depressing appartment complexes with cracked-plaster walls the color of sand, their laundry flapping in the morning sun, narrow alleys filed with filth that reminded me of Matamoros, Mexico when I was a kid. Cars minus their wheels, propped up on cinder blocks. The same, but without the cinder blocks.

There were overpasses which rose up in front of us. In some cases, a kid will stand on one side of the overpass, waving cheerfully, while subtly timing the vehicles and giving a signal to another child on the other end, who will drop a grenade, hoping to make it into the exposed hatch of a gun turret. The kids, if they're successful, are paid a pittance by their brutal terrorist handlers, and if our troops fired back and killed the kids, the terrorists win double - they make us look brutal and they don't have to pay the kids. But these particular overpasses had their sides lined with a wire fence to discourage such attacks. We scanned the bottom of the overpass - a difficult spot to emplace an IED, but it was known to happen. Nothing. We continued on.

We passed across an overpass ourselves, with torn and twisted guardrails and on the other side, huge holes in the ground where previous IEDs had exploded. As we drove onward, we were leaving the suburbs behind and entering the heart of Baghdad. More appartment buildings, but now some shops and actual pedestrians, just off the road, behind a metal wire fence. Some odd, smelly smoke seemed to come out of some holes in the ground. Burning trash, perhaps, or a fire in part of the sewer.

Finally, we entered a stretch of the road surrounded by massive concrete blast walls, 12 feet high. A line of cars waited ahead - Iraqis working in the area waiting to have their cars searched. Off to the side, a similar group of pedestrians. Just before this checkpoint there were a few clever hawkers, running the Iraqi equivalent of roadside Taco stands to sell breakfast to these Iraqis, who were taking their lives into their own hands to come and work for the Americans or the Iraqi government in the IZ.

Finally, after an agonizing wait as we passed the cars - and wondered whether any were filled with hidden explosives waiting just for our vehicles to pass by, we entered the safety of the International Zone. As we drove into the massive area of Baghdad, we saw old bombed out Iraqi palaces, the famous crossed swords at the Iraqi Army parade grounds (below) and - to my utter surprise - more neighborhoods where Iraqis lived and raised families inside a secured U.S. base.

The return trip the next day similarly went without incident. If I didn't know what I know about Route Irish, I could almost think that it was an ordinary drive across an ordinary third-world country, not the 20 minutes of adrenaline-filled suspense. But within a few days, I heard of another attack on the road. Still a vast improvement from the heyday when it was attacked two or three times a day, but not a Sunday drive either.

Driving across Baghdad is not the everyday life for me, because like those mechanics, that's just not my job. And if I made it sound overly dramatic, that underscores just how much in awe I hold those soldiers who go out, day after day, and put their lives on the line on these roads. 30 percent of the soldiers in Iraq probably face about 90 percent of the danger. For them, the soliders who daily face danger on Route Irish, Route Pluto, MSR Tampa, or the many dangerous roads of Iraq, we should all be in their debt. They're paving the way for a different kind of Iraq. Their sacrifices have made the surge work and have made major strides in this country.

For them, every day is a drive out on the highway of hell, and every day brings new risks and new rewards outside the wire.

Letters from Kids

2008-05-18T04:31:00.000-07:00

We get lots of letters over here from random people that we’ve never met. It’s humbing and gratifying, but sometimes overwhelming. I wish I could respond to them all, but I have a hard enough time writing the people I know. I keep reminding myself every day to write a letter to those nice folks at the VFW who mailed me a care package, or for my aunt, who sent me molasses cookies.

But among all of the letters and packages we get, the most entertaining are those from the children. Countless schoolkids sit down and write a soldier. In poor grammar, but with heartfelt emotion, they tell us what they think. Sometimes they can make soldiers cry. Other times, we just smile. Most of the time, though, they make you laugh.

So this week, I’ll give you a taste of what the kids are saying. Here are some of the highlights of the letters to soldiers that I’ve come across. Some are touching, some are funny. Some kids are a little too gung-ho. Most letters are simple, on paper. Many more have drawings with them. Some are nothing but drawings. Some even have elaborate pop-ups.

One picture had a very crude - but accurate - drawing of a Rottweiller, wearing a collar that said, "Army Strong." Below it, he wrote "“America You is brave." The card below has an image of what looks like an insurgent in the back of a pickup truck, shooting a heavy machine gun. Right over the cab, the kid wrote: "Don't worry about this." Ha. Thanks kid. I'm perfectly at ease now.

Most articles are filled with misspellings, like the Letters to Santa you used to always see in the local paper. It makes them cute, and brings a smile to your face. A few examples:

Dear soldier,
My name is Aaisha. Wot is yor name? im in kinder. Thank you for fiting for my kuntree. Wut do you like to do.
Love Aaisha

Other kids write so well, you’d think a parent or teacher was dictating over their shoulders:

Dear Military personnel
I appreciate all you’ve done. My grandfather was in World War II. I’ve heard his stories and he’s brave. My point is you are also being brave by protecting us and sacrificing your time. This makes me proud! This memorial weekend, I will think of you. Thanks for every-thing.
Sincerely, Avalon

Seriously. Avalon? Is she some kind of elf? And why do I get the idea that Avalon will be a valedictorian one day?

Dear American Soldier,

Hello, my name is Megan B. I am 9 1/2 years old. My favorite thing to do is travel and go outside to play baseball.

Well, technically Megan, that’s two things.

Thank you for fighting for our country. I wouldn’t want to go to war. Thank you for keeping our country safe. I really wish we wouldn’t have wars. Thank you for protecting our country.

Why do you wear uniform that’s green? Do you like your job, fighting? What’s your favorite part about America? Is it hard to be a soldier? Do you ever take a brake?
Megan B. California

No brakes. No shock absorbers either.

Dear American Soldier,
I want to thank you for fighting for more freedom. And you are very brave. And thank you for everything. What kind of clothes do you wear? What kind of food do you eat? How is it like in the war? And how do you think about Iraq?
Emily P. California

Emily, didn’t you read Megan’s letter? We wear green. Well, the army and Air Force guys do. Navy guys like me wear tan and brown. But there’s a tad of green in there somewhere.

It's a small world after all:

Dear soldier, ples shar with your frends you can see it to all you have done a wondrfull job. Have you hrd of ellin’s sistr? She is a soldier. I am happy you are (illegible).
--Love Isabella

Ellen’s sister? Of course. By a strange coincidence, she’s right here next to me! Imagine that. Out of all 130,000 troops!

<--This kid says, "Live Long and Prosper. By Mr. Spock."

Some of them are a little confused about what exactly soldiers do:

Dear soldier
I hawp you dot get hrt and you get saf sow you wud bring fod to pepl that are really hungry.
Love Melody

This one was on a nice card with a picture of a soldier and a flag:

Dear U.S. troops. Thank you for keeping us safe from the Iraquis. I honor you for protecting This country. I hope you come home safe.
Thank you for all your support.
By Benjamin V.

Well, Benjamin, technically we’re not fighting the Iraqis, just the bad Iraqis. There are good ones, you know, and they’re our friends. I ran into a few the other day armed to the teeth like Rambo in the meanest, most pimped-out Humvee you've ever seen. They had two extra machine guns welded onto the tailgate. If they hadn't been good guys, I would have been screwed.

Of course, that letter was not quite as funny as this kid, who really didn’t get the concept:

Dear soldier. I hope you’re getting your revenge on the Iraqis.

Another wrote:

"It must be hard killing people all day."

Sorry kid, I've been here 9 months and I haven't fired a single shot from my weapon.

One girl drew a picture of a stick girl and a guy in camouflage. Underneath it, she wrote the words “Me and soldier.” It was touching and reminded me of something my niece Abby would do. Here's what she wrote inside:

Dear soldier. I likes you saving us. Do you like saving us? I like you watching us. It is fun. I like soldier because you sav me.
Love Elane.

Of course, Elaine, I’m not “watching” you, because you are a U.S. citizen. That would be in violation of the Posse Commitatus Act and several congressional laws on domestic spying (and not even the Patriot Act changes that). So when you look out your window and see someone staring at you, that’s not a soldier. That’s a creep. Call the cops!

“Thank you for everything you did for saving the world.”

Saving people seems to be a common theme. But I thought we were saving the Iraqis from tyranny, and implicitly saving Americans from terrorism in a convoluted way. But, as Aurelio informs me, the things I’m saving are clearly definable:

Dear soldier
Thank you for saving many people in Donald L. Morrill (elementary school). We thank you for helping us and other people in America…I have one brother and two birds and a mom and dad. My dad is good at using a yo-yos.
-Aurelio

Really? Two birds?

This one was written on construction paper. The cover featued a cartoon. One soldier stood by a cannon and said, “Ready men, fire!” Another soldier stood holding a flame to a cannon, which fired an old fashioned Bugs Bunny-style lit cannonball out the other end. Inside, it read:

Dear American Soldiers,
My name is Jessica V. I’m nine years old…I have a sister who is five, but she sometime mean. Thank you for all the things you have done. You have been fighting so you can make law fair. Also thank you for save USA. What do you eat there? Is there girls in the army? What kind of guns do you have?

Jessica V.

Well, Jessica, there are girls in the army. Lots of them. I have two guns. An M-16 and a M-9 pistol. I prefer the girls.

A lot of kids don’t understand what military life is like:

Dear Soldier. I hope you are enjoying your summer vacation.

Here's a gem:

Dear soldier. Thank you very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very much.
--Caleb

I bet Caleb gets in trouble a lot. He seems to be familiar with doing lines.

This kid had the sentiment down well:

A veridos Soldados:
Gracias por saber en la Guerra. Gracias por salvar a personas. Yo quiero hacer como ustedas. De valertes ese you quiero hacer. De valentes ese yo quiero hacer.
Jaime

Jaime! Gracias por escribame. Me llamo es Jaime tambien. Que tu quieres a ir soldado, necessitas a estudiar Ingles, porque muchos soldados no hablan Espanol, y los mandatos estan en Ingles.

Dear soldier,
You are a brave soldier to go to Iraq. Your wisdom is high. You live America.
Your friend, Austin
Earhart Elementary, Lafayette, Indiana.
(Card featured a pop-up flower and flag)

And last but not least, my all-time favorite:

Thank you for keeping us safe from Edward.

Sure. I promise that America will be protected from Edward as long as I live.

Random pictures, Part II

2008-05-18T03:56:00.000-07:00

Here are a few random pictures that don't fit anywhere else:

Cool trucks

A mosque.

Debris on the side of the road. This is actually still on our rather large base.

Above: Saddam Hussein was in the process of building this "Victory Over America Palace" when we intruded on his fairy tale and took over his country. As far as I know, it's abandoned now.

This is on a nearby base to mine. This is the intersection of "John Wayne Lane" and "Band of Brothers Blvd."

This is a CH-46. Should have made it on the last post about helicopters, but I didn't get this picture until the day after I posted.

Malu la ley...

Something blew up just outside our walls.

Abandoned old Iraqi guard towers (with some shell damage)

Helicopters and things

2008-05-11T04:53:00.000-07:00

It is a rare moment when there aren't helicopters flying overhead over here. If I'm outside for any more than five minutes, I'll see one. Since we're close to the Baghdad International Airport (BIAP), I see lots of transports taking off as well. Heck, I even saw an Iraqi Airways 737 the other day, complete with Iraqi flag on the tail.

But mostly it's helicopters. So for today's blog, I'll give you a dose of all things aviation. These are just random aircraft that happened to be flying ahead on the rare days when I had my camera with me. There are many more great pictures I missed as these beauties buzzed literally at treetop level, pounding the air mercillessly with their rotor noise.

The most common helicopter over here, of course, is the UH-60 Blackhawk. This is the workhorse of the U.S. military, just as the UH-1 was our mule of choice in the Vietnam War. It fulfills a ton of roles, mostly transport-related. It has machine guns that can be mounted in the doors, but those are primarily for self-defense.

For attack, we have two main helicopters, the AH-1 Cobra - an old Vietnam-era helicopter mostly used by the Marines out West - and the AH-64 Apache. The AH-64 is my favorite, and is equipped with the ever-versatile Hellfire missile and the most advanced gun system on the planet. We don't get too many of them flying over our particular base, but here are a couple of images from the few I've seen:

Most American helicopters are named after American Indian tribes. Blackhawk, for example, refers to the Blackhawk Tribe. Apache is obvious. The Cobra's official name is actually the Iroquois. We also have the Bell D-255 "Iroquios Warrior", the Bell 207 "Sioux Scout", the OH-58 Kiowa, the CH-21 Shawnee, RAH-66 Comanche, the AH-56 Cheyenne, the UH-19 Chickasaw, the CH-37 Mojave, the H-34 Choctaw, and the workhorse heavy-lift helicopter, the CH-47 Chinook.

But here at Camp Victory, it's pretty much the Blackhawk show, all day and all night, all year round. They fly over me at night, with their lights off, an eerie, ominous presence that you can hear but can't see. They pass over me at low level as I step out of work into the bright afternoon sunlight. They're flying over me as I go to lunch, and when I come out. When I am sleeping, they buzz my trailer - sometimes so close you'd think they'd graze the top of it with their landing wheels.

Above: Blackhawks coming over our trailers, loud enough to wake the dead, get them crying in pain, and bleeding in the ears. Still, you get used to it in time. Below: A Blackhawk literally crossing over my trailer:

Most helicopters travel in pairs, and operational note that I can divulge because every living soul in Iraq is well aware of the fact. There's a lead and a trail aircraft, and they operate much the same as lead pilots and their wingmen in World War II, with each aircraft looking out for the other. Any moron on the ground with a DSHKA machine gun or whatever who tries to mess with one helicopter usually finds himself on the fightin' side of the other one, and the result is typically not pretty for the bad guys. And if that helicopter is an Apache, it's worse than ugly.

When they come directly over you (as below), you just want to stop and stare - giddy as a kid seeing one of the world's most expensive toys. After a while, you realize that such behavior makes you stand out as a newbie, since all the old hands on base just ignore them. But when you're all alone and there's nobody around, you drop all pretense and just stop and stare, marvelling at these beautiful aircraft.

A Blackhawk sweeping over the Al-Faw Palace, where I work:

Like I said, we're less than a mile from the Baghdad International Airport, and there's always something coming and going from there. Sometimes, if you've got your camera ready, you can get a shot like this, which captures how busy things can be:

We get a wide variety of aircraft here, not just American. Here's a long-distance shot of a Soviet-era Antonov transport:

One thing you rarely see around here, however, is fixed-wing combat aircraft. We have a number of fighters in theater - the F-16, F/A-18 and the GR-4 Tornado (British). Occasionally, B-1's are also used. However, these aircraft typically fly at very high altitudes. Only once, on a very clear day - a rarity here - when I squinted real hard, could I see what I think was an F-16. Typically, however, you hear them, but see nothing.

That isn't to say that they're invisible. One morning when I was walking home around breakfast time, we had cool air at altitude that produced contrails. An F-16 was flying over Baghdad, doing some work, and left these beautiful images (those are birds in the foreground):

All and all, it's like working every day at an airshow. Except when I'm trying to sleep at 5 p.m., it's always a good thing. For a guy who grew up on aircraft, looking in the sky here never gets old.

Texas Aggie Muster

2008-04-28T04:45:00.000-07:00

I went to college at Texas A&M University - a very unique and tradition-filled place. That Aggies are different is certainly no news to anyone in Texas, but as a growing number of my readers are from outside the state, I figured I'd let you in on the secret. They often say about Aggie traditions that "From the outside looking in, you can't understand it and from the inside looking out, you can't explain it." Nonetheless, I'll try.

Texas A&M was originally a military school founded in 1876. Even years after our school was opened to the general public, we still retain a lot of our old military-based traditions. One tradition - indeed the greatest one - is something called Aggie muster.

Starting in the late 1800s, A&M students and alumni would gather every April 21 - the anniversary of the Batttle of San Jacinto during the Texas Revolution. At first it was a gathering intended to relive old days at the university with old friends. But as those initial students began to grow older, it evolved into a memorial service for those who had passed on. Eventually, it became an annual tradition (the only one of its kind in America) where the entire Aggie world - alumni and students alike - gather and honor those Aggies who have died in the past year.

As each of the names of those who have passed away is called out in a military-style roll call, someone in the crowd - a family member or friend - answers for them: "Here." A candle is then lit. It is an awesome, sobering tribute, which would be poignant enough if not for what happened one April 21, when Aggies gathered together far from home.

On April 21, 1942, America was at war. After the Japanese smashed Pearl Harbor, they invaded the Phillipines, quickly overrunning most of the islands and isolating the heavily-outnumbered American garrison. Our troops, led by Gen. MacArthur, retreated to the harbor island of Corregidor, where they held out for months despite continual air raids and shellfire from Japanese Navy ships. Hidden in caves dug into the hillsides, the troops held out against hope for relief - relief that would never come. And so it was that on that April 21, several Aggies - led by an Army general, gathered and held muster for their friends who had died in the battle. Even as air raids sounded above them, they met, and as the names were read out, called "Here."

Back home, America was fixated by Corregidor and listened daily to radio broadcasts from the Pacific bastion. When the story of the Texas Aggie muster was broadcast to the world, the nation's spotlight fell with pride on Texas A&M.

Ever since then, Muster has had a very important meaning for all of us, and like Aggies everywhere, I was convinced that I would not miss it this year. And as it turned out, I didn't. I went to this year's Muster here in Baghdad, and it was an extrordinary experience. Getting back the following day, I quickly hammered out my experiences and posted them on an A&M-related website. Then I went home and got some sleep. By the morning, my post had 7,000 views and hundreds of responses. I got unsolicited emails from Aggies all over the world thanking me for my account. The office of the Vice President of Student Affairs asked if they could post it onto their website. I said yes. So here it is:

http://studentaffairs.tamu.edu/spotlight.aspx

Gen. Petraeus, the Surge and Iraq

2008-04-24T04:40:00.000-07:00

General Petraeus and I

I have intentionally avoided going into a lengthy analysis of how the war is going. Analysis is what I do every day over here. Nonetheless, the recent appointment of General David Petraeus to be the new commander of U.S. Central Command is worth noting.

As the architect of the Surge, General Petraeus is the one man most responsible for the dramatic improvements in security we've realized in Iraq in the last year. I don't think anyone realizes back home just how dramatic the improvements have been. Attacks in the West are down around 80 percent. Violence in many neighborhoods of Baghdad are down 60 percent. Cities like Fallujah, whose very name had become synonymous with violence, gunbattles and death, are now quiet and almost back to normal. Parks are open. The Baghdad Zoo is open. In many areas, the shops and markets are full.

Certainly there are tough times ahead. No one has been more honest about this than Gen. Petraeus, who predicted a few spikes in violence even as the trends were going down. But looking at the situation with all that I know, I have to say that I'm even more of an optimist than the General himself. You see, it's not just that the quantity of violence has gone down, but the quality as well. And most importantly of all, we're winning the battle of hearts and minds. Or, more accurately - the enemy is losing that battle. Their brutal ideology of death and more death has changed many Iraqis.

None of this would have happened without the surge, and that is a credit to General Petraeus. By being elevated to his new position at Central Command, Petraeus now will assume overall authority over both Afghanistan and Iraq, and will be able to take lessons from one war and use them in another.

Lest one think that we're being left in less-capable hands, I can assure you that we're not. Because the right-hand man of General Petraeus - the man who implemented the surge on the ground, so to speak, is taking his place. Gen. Ray Odierno is a more pragmatic, nuts and bolts kind of guy than Gen. Petraeus. When Gen. Petraeus sees a glass half full, Gen. Odierno sees it half empty. But rather than conflict, the two seemed to work well together, with a yin-yang kind of symmetry.

I've worked under both of these men and have seen them in action. Certainly, if I had anything negative to say about my superior officers, I would be silent. But I do not, and I am not. I don't think that there could be a better team to take Iraq to the next level. Their experience, their institutional knowledge, will allow the lessons of the surge - good and bad - to be pushed on towards the finish. Because I read the tea leaves every day, and I can tell you that there will be a few dark days ahead, but the road is clearly downhill from here.