Remember back before I left I had to explain to everyone that no, even the hide-bound, bureaucratic U.S. Army (quick joke: soldiers stationed at Camp Victory in Baghdad think they are deploying to a war, but find a garrison instead – the joke is that you have to have a spring-loaded right arm, since there’s so much brass around you salute two dozen times just on the way to the chow hall…) wouldn’t send a 42-year old intelligence specialist out on patrol. A ridiculous idea, yes?
Well, that’s still true. But what happens when he volunteers?
Yes, I did a bad thing.
A British Sgt. Major, a Navy lieutenant and an Army lieutenant (note order of precedence) arranged for a helicopter ride over to Shaiba at 0530 a few days ago, so I tagged along, fully understanding we were going to get a briefing or two and then go off with the British on a presence patrol in a southern Iraqi city. I know I told my Mom I wouldn’t do anything stupid, but I couldn’t help it. I rationalized it by saying “When will I get another chance to do that?” and “I shouldn’t be a complete fobbit” and "yeah, situational awareness, cool."
We flew over to Shaiba in a Sea King helicopter, which was much narrower than expected. It also has a rounded fuselage, so from the inside it has an “insect” feel to it, like some passageway out of the movie “Alien.” Per usual it was too dark to see much of anything at first, but then an eerie orange glow lit up the door gunner as we flew near an oil distribution point, a huge, slowly rippling banner of flame roaring in the sky. I fancied I could hear the sound of the fire over the thrumming chop of the helicopter as we banked around the mini-sun. I’ve used this reference before, but it reminded me of Saurons’ CGI generated tower in “The Lord of the Rings” (I don’t know what it is, full of movie references today).
We landed at Shaiba, walked across the dusty field to a waiting land rover and met a Sergeant from the Devon & Dorsets, a very old infantry regiment with a lineage dating (I think) from the 17th-century. At one point we walked down a hallway and saw the regimental colors, with battle patches from all over the place – the siege of Gibraltar, lots of places in France, but I really noticed Afghanistan in 1879-80 (I think) and Mesopotamia 1915-16. The sad thing is that they are being amalgamated soon and will lose their name, becoming the 1st Rifles or some such, and their colours will be interred at the regimental chapel. I wondered aloud if regiments are ever, like Lazarus, raised from the dead (if they are needed again), but no one knew the answer.
After a few briefs on the city (mostly Shia, friendly to CF, low risk environment) and the patrol mission (escorting some vehicles into the city, a visit to a clinic and then back out), and a few jokes about trigger-happy Americans, they hand us radios and say, “lets’ go.” I carefully climbed into the back of the second “snatch” – the armored land rover – and stand up in the overhead hatch, taking a top cover position alongside a British soldier.
I begin to regret the whole idea when we roll out the gate, past some Danes guarding bulldozers that are clearing trash from the area, and cut cross country through the desert. The tracks are mere ideas of a road, and we bounce and jostle and bash across the hard-packed sand. We cut through some berms, around some wadi’s and wind our way across the sand, piles of ruins and wreckage and garbage dotting the plain with nary a tree in sight. By the time we reach the outskirts of the city, I’m feeling pretty cooked.
Actually, now I really start to worry as I scan for IEDs and begin to understand just how difficult that can be, particularly with garbage and rubble strewn everywhere. The bad guys know this too, which is why they can be effective. Oh, did I tell you that even though I got in the second vehicle, it turns out it was really the first? So I’m in top cover in the lead vehicle? Yep, I know how to pick em (sigh).
We slowly cross the rural-urban interface, cutting across and then driving on paved roads into a crowded, third-world city. The buildings are all brick, cement or cinder-block (or all three) – which is apparently why the city is friendly, it has lots of brick and building material factories so there are lots of jobs, and people with jobs tend not to be foot-soldier terrorists – and is a mixture of falling down ones, rebuilt ones or brand new ones. Trash lies everywhere, of course, and the roads are full of potholes, and we start seeing people working on houses or walking down the street. Some wave and smile, others do not, I try out my one or two words of Arabic “marrhaba” (hello) and “zayn” (good), and they say “good morning” and “ok” in return. People wave a lot, though often only if I wave first. There are also lots of thumbs up (basically giving us the finger) and a few other obscene gestures (mainly from teenagers, which is probably the norm everywhere).
We stop at a building to drop off some vehicles for a visit, and dismount while waiting to make sure everything is on track. That is really odd, getting out of the vehicle and setting up a perimeter, with people wandering by on the sidewalk and cars driving down the crowded streets, and being observed all the time. A bit of a sensory overload. The atmosphere is friendly, with people either ignoring us or smiling, which wouldn’t happen in the U.S. as we were partially blocking traffic!
Back in the vehicles and we work our way through to the other side of town to visit a clinic, where we dismount on a side street. After looking around a bit, we are suddenly flooded with kids (only about half are in this picture), who come up to me (I'm the designated kid-magnet, as there always needs to be one) and begin pestering me with questions in pidgin English – mainly what are all the things attached to my vest and can they have them. One kid almost steals my sunglasses (I took them off to be polite, so people can see your eyes), another wants to buy my pocket-knife while a third tries to pick-pocket one of my carry pouches. I should’ve brought some candy. Pretty crazy few moments. I fend them off by asking them questions about where they live and what they think of the Brits, who they mostly like. I then climb back into the snatch to get a little relief from them and that’s where I snapped the attached picture.
After we move out it gets even more surreal, as we drive up to a market area and are told, “Ok, too crowded to drive the vehicles through at more than walking speed, so everybody dismount…” (!). We end up walking the vehicles through the market (open air butchers, ice cutters, fruit and vegetable vendors, grain and rice sellers, essentially lots of bodegas), where we are right up next to people (one bit of advice the Brits gave me: “stay close to the vehicle and if anyone tries to kidnap you, give a yell and we’ll come get you” – such dry humour those Brits…). That was a truly weird fifteen minutes. Again though, most people friendly, waving, kids come up to touch your hand, others asking if we are American, a few “go USA’s” but also some frowns and glares, most likely from the local militia. The usual mix I suppose. Periodically I feel streams of sweat run down my legs into my socks. At one point I joke with a kid about how hot I am, and he tries to sell me a block of ice. Darn little capitalists, eh!
We load up and drive on, pick up the other vehicles and head back out into the desert. There is a moment of puzzlement when we drive past a guy who is taking a crap out in the desert, just alongside the road out in the middle of nowhere. How bizarre is that!? By this time my head feels like a balloon and my “brain bucket” is boiling my brain like an egg so I have to sit down in the back of the snatch to recover. We finally pull into base for a debriefing and I quickly strip off all my gear, instantly feeling sooooo much better. I probably drank three liters of water that morning.
Afterwards we get some lunch, take a short recovery nap and spend a few hours at the Danish exchange (I got some DanCon t-shirts), trying to track down one of my soldiers at the hospital (he stepped on a spike and it went through his boot into his foot) and getting a celebratory strawberry milkshake for the road. On the helo trip back to the air station we actually flew before sunset – so we could see a bit of the desert countryside – which was fun and interesting. We took a Merlin this time, and the flight was uneventful despite the dust storm that made the landing a bit shaky. Lugged all our gear home and had showered and eaten by 2000 that evening, the long 16-hour day finally finished.
On a final note, while I think I’m in pretty good shape, I now have even greater respect for the grunts who go out and do those patrols every few days. I was incredibly exhausted after just a four-hour patrol, continually pounded by the heat, sand, sun and the vehicle itself. Those guys barely looked sweaty. Maybe its’ cause I’m over forty, and also acclimatization, but it just amazes me that people can do that day after day.
And, just to reassure Mom, I will not be doing a patrol like that ever again. It was probably the most dangerous thing I have ever done. But I’m sure glad I did it once.
Fair Winds and Following Sands!
For past Brown Sand Sailor entries and pics, visit: Brown Sand Sailor Web Site