MOSUL 19JAN09

I’ve been unable to find time to write any entries over the past few days. We have been very, very busy. But after finally catching a few hours of sleep (I actually couldn’t remember when I had last taken a full three-hour sleep cycle) I’m back up and even have a little spare time on my hands. Couldn’t be happier. Because of this recent spate of activity, I have quite a bit to report and comment on, but I’m honestly a little fuzzy on what happened on what day. The last few patrols have all blurred together in my mind. The key point remains, however, that we have yet to take (serious) contact, are still engaged in constant area reconnaissance in our AO, and are still working with the same National Police forces.

First, a brief letter to whom it may concern. Dear Iraqi Man in the vicinity of the traffic circle: I saw you pee last night. When you thought no one was looking, around midnight, and stepped outside to relieve yourself on the street corner, I was there. When you glanced furtively around you, checking to ensure that nobody witnessed your act of public urination, I was there. I observed you with casual interest from only a few dozen meters away. Your urine glowed bright green in my night vision. So, in short, you have been caught in the act. We know what you did. An entire platoon of American forces witnessed the act. Our surveillance drone witnessed the act. I would not be surprised if our satellites did not also peek in. When you approach street corners in the dead of night, we get apprehensive as to your intentions. We like to watch. And while countless insurgents all over the city were probably simultaneously laying IEDs at every other traffic circle in the city, all our assets were there with you. Watching. Judging. Evaluating your performance. Quietly whispering our suggestions as to how you should relax more, lengthen your stance, and in general stop urinating on traffic circles. Think on that for a while. Big Brother is watching everything… except for the important stuff, apparently.

As for yesterday, I am quite frankly amazed that I did not get shot. Or any of us, really. We did the most fantastically ridiculous thing. An Iraqi Army General, his staff, and about a fire team of American Colonels decided that they would like to conduct a market-walk in my AO. They wanted to dismount, go straight down the main avenue, and talk to everybody along the way. Get a feel for the area. And Blue Platoon was tasked to escort them on this walk. I would like to take this opportunity to make two points. First, while I appreciate that higher command has taken an interest in seeing how our operations affect the daily lives of the populace, I would presume to remind them that they would be better suited in their efforts if they coordinated their intents through the unit that actually owned that battle space and had conducted similar patrols a dozen times. This means that when we make tactical suggestions we should not be completely ignored. When we tell them that we can’t take Bradleys and MRAPS down certain routes, they should probably take heed. When we tell them that we need to minimize our vehicular presence in order to provide actual tight local security instead of just the illusion of security, we would appreciate it if they listened. The second point is that, while their confidence in my platoon’s ability to maintain their personal safety was encouraging, they should be more realistic in their expectations. And more sound in their own tactics. Just because a perimeter has been established doesn’t mean that the interior is secure. Not in an urban environment. Especially when they don’t want to disrupt the flow of individual or vehicular traffic. So when you see a six-lane intersection, please don’t stop and stand in the middle of it for half an hour while you tell the Iraqi private in the tower how to arrange his sandbags. Two sub points here: first, you are a general. He is a private. There is a chain of command for these things, and you do not need to concern yourself with—let alone personally supervise—the disposition of his six sandbags. Second, you may have noticed that I only have one fire team and myself deployed forward of your position. There are six lanes on this intersection and only five American soldiers securing them. The tower would have been able to cover down on the last lane, but as you may know you had completely diverted his attention to the crucial matter of the sandbags. Insurgents of Mosul, you may never have a chance like you had yesterday. I will never understand why you didn’t strike. We were a perfect target. One suicide vest would have knocked my entire battalion combat ineffective. Why? Because all of these colonels and majors were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, clustered together, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MARKET. I’m not angry, I’m stupefied. I’m stupefied that we would even do something like this, and I’m stupefied that the enemy didn’t take advantage of us. And I’m even more stupefied that we tried to do the same thing today. Thank God for last minute cancellations—not because they recognized it as a horrible idea, but because the official party of VIPs was late in arriving. So here’s to not getting shot while pursuing incredibly foolhardy and misguided schemes.

And on the subject of disrupting vehicular and individual traffic: I have nothing but awe for the patience that the people of this city have developed. Whenever a Coalition patrol approaches, all local nationals must stop their vehicles on the side of the road and turn on their hazard lights. And if we stop to check something out, they stay there. Until we leave. And sometimes we’re there for hours. We are a serious disruption in their lives. And it isn’t just the roads; the schools, the banks, the markets—everywhere we go, we stop business as usual. And we’re spread out all over the city. Granted, business as usual is marked with explosions, executions, theft, and extortion. So they have a choice to make between security and freedom. Most seem to have embraced (or at least resigned themselves to) security, but I wouldn’t be surprised if more than one donation to the insurgency was a result of a six-hour traffic jam.

I am amazed that they can see us as humans at all. They have developed patience, yes, but some have established a degree of human empathy with us as well. This is a recent surprise for me; while beforehand I would have expected it, a few days ago I so terrified a little girl that I came to realize what we must look like to them. Blue Platoon entered the school to check security and see how they were doing. Obviously no teaching was done during this time, as the students went into all forms of different reactions. The teachers were forthright, friendly, and easily answered our questions (which I feel my predecessors have asked them repeatedly for years). But the kids are all over the map. Some stand away cautiously, some rush for chocolate or pens or goodies of any kind, but some are straight up terrified. This little girl just hid behind her teacher while I talked to him, trembling and staring with wide eyes, and I couldn’t understand. How could you be terrified of me? I’m about the least terrifying person you’ll ever meet, in my estimation. I like to think I’m pretty friendly. My eyes are gigantic and blue, my dimples are embarrassingly noticeable. Then I realized how I looked from her perspective: an armed mechanical giant adorned in Kevlar, weaponry, and communications gear. Only my mouth is visible. I have trouble thinking of my guys as terrifying, since I know them personally, but I could see how someone could envision us as a bit intimidating. How have they ever learned to live with us? We’re a walking paradox. Thirty-two tons of folded steel and bristling guns purge an exhaust of Everlasting Gobstoppers to eager children. Mechanized contraptions in the form of humans smile at families from behind shatterproof black lenses and hand out pencils carefully stored beside their ammunition, stopping occasionally to excrete tobacco spit/motor oil on the street. Immaculately armed and trained killers lift their trigger hands to their Kevlar chests and wish peace upon elderly gentlemen. Machines are trying to win the hearts and minds of people. God help us when the next line of body armor is revealed. We’ll be covering the mouth, finally, and hiding the last vestiges of humanity behind dark bulletproof glass. Our communications will be received through external computers that translate Arabic to English, we’ll mutter our answers from behind our blast shields, and a computerized Arabic translation will issue from our robotic voice box. The warrior of the future. How could people do anything but love us at first sight?

This is not to say that we aren’t doing good things here. Iraq needs to find peace, and we’re helping them get there. Mechanized soldiers might be cold, sterile, and inhuman at times, but seeing how humans can behave, sometimes it doesn’t hurt to be a bit detached from them. A baker was executed in the middle of a crowded street this morning, in my AO, for having sold bread at discount to his friends in the National Police. Four pistol shots to the head. A woman and child were vaporized when an IED detonated in a crowded traffic circle yesterday. A National Police soldier was shot in the head, execution style, when he left his station off-duty to buy cigarettes. An innocent bystander was decapitated in an indiscriminant rocket attack the day before that. His face showed no recognition of his fate, no surprise—his eyes and mouth were contorted as they had been as he walked down the street, oblivious to his impending death. If this is human behavior, then maybe we should go ahead and get the new armor. Maybe we’ll be seen as more judicious and impartial when we have covered those last few inches of human flesh. Maybe the last thing the Iraqis need is more people acting like people.

Enough waxing philosophical. Sorry you had to endure that (assuming you read this far). It was just weighing on my mind, and this seemed like a reasonable venue to vent. But we have another patrol tomorrow, which means I have to get back to my maps and my paperwork. And I’ll have to enjoy a little heart-to-heart with SSG Crunchberry and SSG Chase, who are becoming downright moody as of late. The schedule of constant patrolling has wearied them. I would be sympathetic, but those two rotate on patrols. SSG Lark and I are on every patrol. My gunner and driver are on every patrol. This is a combat zone, we are soldiers, and I honestly feel that our own moodiness should not affect our performance. Mission first. Men second. Self last. That’s doctrine. That’s how the Army works. This is not the war of the past. We aren’t under fire for days at a time, we have chow available whenever we’re hungry, we have heat and air conditioning where we sleep, we can shower every few days, and we can even call home from time to time. Maybe my interest in military history has poisoned my expectations, but I simply can’t take any man seriously when he complains that our work is exhausting him. Just drink some coffee, find some intestinal fortitude, and drive on. We haven’t come close to finding our limitations. And with any luck we won’t have to. But enough on that; I’ve got to get to those maps. I’ll write again as soon as I’m able.