Palaces

Al Faw Palace

Most of the so-called “palaces” are government buildings. You know, offices. The Ministries of Finance and Health are in “palaces,” as are the US Embassy and the Army HQ. I think it’s mostly a status designation more than anything. Some of these are truly awe inspiring from the outside, but, like everything else here, they are mostly rotten on the inside. The workmanship is horrible, and in some instances I am amazed that the buildings are even standing. The Al Faw Palace is over on Camp Victory. It’s our headquarters, and is still quite grand on the inside. They have partitioned much of it, but the central court has been refurbished and looks like the inside of something from a fairy tale. The Iraqi Ground Forces Headquarters (their equivalent of a Pentagon) is small by comparison. I wonder if that fact could be taken as a comment on the war as a whole.


Al Faw exterior


US Embassy

Shit Soup (No, Kraig, this isn’t another culinary experiment)

We have a lot of narrow streets around here. I don’t understand this, because the Iraqis drive the same sized vehicles as we do in the States, and they seem to have even more large trucks on the road than we do! So I was walking down a one-way street and there was one of these big (I mean really big – it practically takes a ladder to climb into the cab) trucks broken down and two guys were trying to push it out of the way. It was one of those tank trucks with a built-in pump – we call them shit suckers because they are used to suck all of the effluence out of the porta-potties that dot the various bases.

Well, these guys were really getting nowhere, but believe it or not, after considerable straining, the three of us were actually able to move the truck and park it on the dirt so that it was not an obstruction to traffic. And just as we were edging it into place, one of the guys slips and his hand hits a lever. Out from this fire-hose sized spigot gushes a veritable flood of liquid shit – it got everywhere!! The other guy managed to shut it off real quick, but not before the first guy had slipped and fallen into the mess. God, did it stink – and it was one of those nasty, internal-smelling, liquid fart stinks I don’t know how else to describe it). I suppose I was lucky to have gotten away with brown-covered boots and poop splashes on my trousers.

So I walked back to the hootch, undressed to my tidy-whiteys in the walkway, and went in to grab a towel and some new clothes before showering. It’s a good thing I live in an all male section. The boots and trousers were later ceremoniously wrapped in plastic and delivered as an offering to the Dumpster God. Phew!!

Perfume palace

We have three palaces on Slayer. The compound that most of camp occupies was called the Abu Ghraib Presidential Compound, but I am not sure of the original name for the palace that I work in. It was a combination meeting center and resort, so far as I can tell. There was a full size (30,000 gallon) indoor pool on the first floor, which we decked over & now use as office space. The pool itself is our basement, and is used for storage. The Americans have dubbed this place with the rather unmilitary moniker of “Perfume Palace.” Also on the compound are the former (bombed out) Iraqi Baath Party Headquarters and convention hall, a number of smaller offices, and some barracks and residences.

I work on the first floor and walk along this canal every day to get to work.

By the Rocket’s Red Glare?

They threw a couple more rockets at us yesterday. One was an air burst over the palace (I wasn’t there at the time, but I wish that I could have seen it) and one went over the base to the far wall. As usual, no one was hurt.

I am not aware that air bursting is a regular tactic of the Muj, so I tend to believe the damn thing just blew up in flight. We are lucky that rockets are fairly inaccurate by nature, and I don’t really think the average Muj is all that well-trained. Actually setting a fuse is probably beyond them.

This has become so routine that I don’t even look outside to look any more when I hear the explosions. Well, so long as it’s not close enough to knock anything off of my shelves, that is.

Sand Storm 2

Sand Storm

I have been told that there is an actual sand storm season here, but I am not sure if we’re in it or not. But I can say that it’s an awesome sight to behold.

Baghdad is usually a fairly smoggy city. Add to this the smoke from several piles of burning garbage and at least one of two car bombs per day and you get the idea that a clear view over here is a rare event. But yesterday I could actually taste it coming – like the playground dirt you used to get in your mouth when wrestling as kids. Or the dust when you slam shut an very old book. In fact, you can even feel it in your lungs, which is a slightly claustrophobic sense.

The wall of sand came from the East. At first I couldn’t see downtown Baghdad, and then I couldn’t see Baghdad at all. From afar it looked like a menacing brown cloud, but as it edged closer I could see it was a wall with a very distinct demark between those areas already enveloped and those about to be. It continued to advance until I could not even see the hill, and then the east wall, or even my trailer. It was almost like the first snowfall of the year, where everyone in the office goes to the window to take a look, except the first snowfall always brings a smile to my lips and thoughts of Christmas. This time I merely wondered if this would mean a quiet night for a change (it didn’t).

Well, far be it from me to let a little sand in the eyes stop me from going out. Luckily, it was really more of a dust storm than a “sand” storm, because after two minutes I could only imagine how uncomfortable it would be to be pelted in the eyeballs by those little grains of sand. As it was, I was out about six minutes and when I arrived at my destination I was all one color, covered in the gunk. Next time I will wait it out.

Happy Birthday

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Dad, I love you.

Mark

Light Pics

George and Friend


Breakfast

Firefight at Harithiya

I am not sure I want to write about this. I am not sure I want to remember it, or even if what I remember really happened the way I remember it. But I remember a man going down, over and over and over, like when coach Sahadi would stop and rewind the game tape at a really good hit and show it again and again. Only now it’s not a game

We had left Slayer four and a half hours ago, but already it seemed like we’d been on the road for days. My uniform is soaked with sweat and covered with the fine Iraqi dust that gets into everything - I can even taste it in my mouth. As we approach the FOB, I notice that the road leading to the gate is cluttered with the litter of incinerated car parts… a twisted drive train, blackened engine blocks, unrecognizable twisted metal. A very bored sentry casually cradles his AK as he waves us through.

The base itself is fairly primitive, not like an American base. Mostly an open expanse of dirt, packed hard with a layer of dust on top. The perimeter consists of 8 foot high concrete barriers, dressed and aligned as if on parade. Each is spaced so that there is a gap of several inches between it and the next in line – just enough for a rifleman to fire through. The wall is topped with concertina wire… the grey cement monotony broken only by a guard tower about every one-hundred yards or so. The motor pool is off a ways, its dirt parking lot empty except for a few pick up trucks and a Red Crescent ambulance - our interpreter tells us that the vehicles get very little use because the soldiers are afraid to take them outside of the wire. Several unpainted cement block barracks buildings and a couple of scraggly date palms complete the scene.

The Iraqi commander greets us. ISS-mee Ra-id Muhumad, ISS-mee Major Binkowski Yes, yes, welcome, welcome. Air Force? You are welcome here, my friend. We exchange platitudes as I wonder what it is the commander is thinking he can get out of the rich Americans. He’s obviously surprised that I am Air Force, and not Army. In the distance we hear some shots. It is nothing, my friend. Just some shooting outside of the walls. But as the staccato reports increase in frequency I wonder whether it would be better to move inside. Our conversation is strained. No, nothing to worry about, my friend. The sound of gunfire is louder.

The men are running now, running to the wall. Their boots thump on the ground. To the wall and the sound of the fighting. The familiar sound of AKs rip through the air closer now ratatatata POP!; I can see little puffs of dust where they strike the tower. I can’t find the commander. More men are running, the Iraqi Sergeant of the Guard with his red sash is shouting. More shots. I am thinking that the sash looks like something a small town homecoming queen would wear, except it’s wrapped in plastic to keep it clean. It’s funny the different things that pop into your head when time slows down like this. Remember Jack when he first learned to ride his bike? Christ what if they blow the wall? They did that at Abu Ghraib. Concentrate. The PK finally opens up – it sounds like one of those machine guns in the war movies. Pop, pop rata thumpa-yhumpa-yhumpa Concentrate. What are you supposed to do? More shouting. CLICK I take my pistol off safe. Shit, we only have one rifle between us. Pop pop I’m not coming out here again without a rifle get the damn civilians in the building should I fire oh God what if they sent some of our guys out there do the Iraqis do that? Daddy when ‘you comin’ home / son I don’t know when BAM!!! BAM!! But we’ll have a good time then JACK!!! BAM! Fuck! Where’s my fuckin vest? Thumpa-yhumpa-yhumpa-yhumpa what in the hell are they saying? WHAT ARE THEY SAYING??!!

I remember the shouting. The sound of firing comes and goes in waves. Peering through the spaces between the concrete barriers it seems quiet out there now. OH THERE’S TWO GUYS RUNNING, running, thumpa popopopoppop!! Shit here we go are they firing back? What if they have an RPG I need to get to a tower to see what’s going on stay away from the tower this isn’t even your fight BAM! WHERE’S THE TRANSLATOR???! Fuck. Pop BAM! Popopop. I am shaking. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I never saw bullets that close before what if I got hurt? Jack is crying now, as Lisanne holds him next to her. try to concentrate. Where is everyone? I scraped my knuckle. God I am thirsty.

A million years pass by in a second. Peering out, I see two bodies in the dirt. Fuck the sweat stings my eyes. I don’t think he’s moving. POP! a splash of dust in the distance. POP! what in the hell are they still shooting at? They’re not shooting at those guys are they? Did I just see someone shoot a wounded man? No, they’re dead. They’ve been dead. I didn’t see them die but I see them dead. I need to sit down.

Later I asked the Iraqi warrant officer what would happen to the bodies? He shrugged and said “we leave them.” “You just leave them?” “Someone will come out at night and take them.”

Gaffiti

Iraqi propaganda mural outside of Camp Slayer.


Saddam Portrait with graffiti.


Saddam in tile.

Numbers

It’s sometimes hard not to adopt a prisoner’s mentality over here. The base itself, although protecting us, is a type of prison, surrounded by walls with barbed wire and guard towers. We are almost completely isolated from the world “out there” - the world of mothers caring for their children, of shopping at a fruit market, of people mostly just trying to live their lives. For the most part, it’s a closed environment - despite all of the talk about interacting and winning hearts and minds, I’d bet that a majority of the folks here never leave the FOB for their entire tour.

Like most prisons, life here is arranged around certain fairly fixed routines. I get up at the same time, dress in the same order, go to breakfast at the same time, and eat the same thing for nearly every day. I look at the same pictures of my family, clean my weapon, count my rounds, and check on the guys – only the specific details vary. And, also like prison, life here can be somewhat dangerous, although I don’t suppose there’s much chance of my being emasculated by some guy named Bruno (thank God - but the mortars have been particularly active lately).

And with the prisoner’s mentality comes the fixation with time and numbers. You see it all the time, in references to “how long are you here for?” or “only 134 groundhog days left.” I find myself compelled to keep a calendar, counting down the days until parole… er, leave. Every day I check to see how many days I’ve been in country. Counting, even counting for itself, becomes an obsession – it’s nine hundred and thirty-four, thirty-inch steps from my hootch to the palace; it’s one hundred and twenty-three steps from the beginning of the stairway to the third floor; it’s sixty-six steps to the bathroom. I’ve even tried counting my steps while running up the hill, but I am always distracted and lose count. Anything to make the time go even a little bit faster - anything to make me forget how much I miss my home and my family.

I used to think that I owed a lot to the Air Force. Now I think we’re even.

Stone Soup

In light of Kraig’s inexplicably disparaging comment concerning chicken, tomato & cheese omelets, I thought he especially would appreciate the following.

It was about 2:00 am one night not too long ago when I awoke with the munchies. There are no 24-hour Taco Bells within driving distance (although I hear there is one in Mosul), so I decided to make do with the ingredients at hand. A quick inventory determined that the sum total of those ingredients included one can of anchovies (which I think Lisanne stuck into my bag before I left as a joke), one packet of Gatorade powder, one packet of powdered Ichiban soup base (type unknown), one small can of green beans, four peanuts in their shells, and half a canteen of water.

Well this was a promising start. I mixed the soup base with the water, but it didn’t want to dissolve all of the way. So I switched the air conditioner to high heat and tired to heat it up, but this started to heat up the entire room so I switched it back to AC and ended up just stirring the soup for about ten minutes until the powder chucks finally dissolved. Actually, even at this nascent stage it tasted much better than I thought it would. I added a couple of beans so the soup wouldn’t look so thin, but I thought it still needed something. As I looked around my eyes spotted something… the anchovies! The whole tin went in, followed by all four peanuts, suitably crushed.

That hit the spot. By 2:30 I was satiated, and I still had the Gatorade left over for tomorrow!

MNF-I Army Patch

This is Mark's Multi-National Force - Iraq, Army combat zone patch that he wears on his uniform.

My PT Goals:

- 66 push ups in 2 minutes
- 72 sit ups in two minutes
- 2 mile run in 14 minutes

One-Shoe George in the Humvee before a trip to the Red Zone. Screen Blue Force Tracker in the background.


Both of George's shoes - safe and sound

Good things happen

Some people tend to always look at the good side of things. Those people annoy me. But I was lying in my rack the other day thinking of the good things that have come out of this deployment. And here they are:

- I can run 2 miles in 16 minutes
- I have done things and faced situations that I had always wondered how I would handle, and I have handled them well
- I have found a deep sense of renewed commitment, despite the geographic distance, to my relationship with Lisanne
- I have gotten closer to my brother Kraig
- Anais has opened up and, I hope, made me a part of her life again (she signed her last letter “I’ll always be your little girl”)
- I have reconnected with Marc Lutz, my roommate from California (he’s a doctor now). And several others too.
- I have discovered that you can have too many chicken, cheese, and tomato omelets
- George the teddy bear

Signs, signs, signs

Behind the convoy.


Mural inside one of Saddam's palaces.


Monument at the top of Comms Hill.

The big boys

I have heard the bloop of outgoing mortars (in Tiktrit), but anything incoming is usually way too far away to hear. My limited experience with mortars is that they fall fast and explode with a loud pop or bang, rather than a drawn out explosion like on TV. 60mm mortars are pretty short ranged (about half a click), with the distance increasing with the caliber (82mm, 120mm, 160mm).

Rocket-propelled grenades are different than rockets, despite the name. The most common RPG is the Russian RPG-7, which is 85mm in diameter (larger than a hand grenade). They are really little more than large grenades flying slowly through the air, and leave a smoky tail behind them (really neat to see at night). They make a whoosh or shoushing sound, and can land somewhere near where they were aimed at ranges up to about 500m.

Rockets are the scary ones. They sound like a metallic, clangely, freight train coming in, if you can imagine that. They don’t sound anything like what you’d imagine a streamlined object on a pre-determined ballistic path would sound like; more like a kitchen sink with all of the plumbing just tum-tum-tumbling through the air. Rockets come in sizes from 107mm to something over 300mm, and have pretty long ranges (just over 8,000 meters to something near 300 kilometers!). We’ve been hit by rockets a couple of times, but I was only close enough to hear them once.

The Muj does not have artillery, so far as I know. Although there was a battery of US Field artillery dug in at Tikrit, I never saw (or heard) them fire. I have also never heard a tank fire.

A Present from Anais

I found it very touching when Anais wrote that whenever she and he friends go to the mall she is inexplicably drawn to the decidedly un-cool Sears entrance. This is where I always go in because it takes you through the oh-so-enticing SEARS TOOL SECTION (come on now, is there really any other reason to go to the mall?).

She also wrote that shopping is hard when you’re broke, and that “Mom isn’t quite as willing to share as you are,” which I found humorous and sad at the same time. How many times do I remember going to Abercrombie or American Eagle just to buy this or that, but then of course you need something to go with it, and, well, wouldn’t that belt just make the entire outfit, Dad? Oh Neecy, I promise we’ll go shopping when I get back and I’ll buy you a great outfit, and then maybe we’ll all go to play laser tag or out to eat. There are so many things I want to do with you before you grow up completely and get married and move away.

She also sent me a beautiful rose she’d made out of clay with sparkles mixed in. It was wrapped very carefully so that it would survive the trip and it arrived in perfect shape. I have it on my desk now, next to the ceramic fairy (?) that Jack sent to “protect me.” But what my children (my smart, sweet, wonderful children) don’t realize is that they are my present – the drawings and fairies and roses are merely artifacts that remind me that I already possess the most valuable thing in the world – their love.

I wonder if Lisanne realizes how many times a day and how many different places I stop and silently thank her for giving to me the greatest gift of all.

Painted Jersey Barriers and Barricades

Troops in Baghdad

Man, troops are just pouring into Baghdad. They called up the Ready Brigade from Kuwait, and the 172^nd is coming down from up North. We’ve already been told that if we have any projects going on with the Baghdad Division, just put them on hold.

We’ll win this battle, no doubt about it. Baghdad will be cleared of militias and insurgents. But I wonder how many civilians will die? And how long it will be before we pull out and all of the bad guys come back?

Bombs in the Distance

Here is an MP3 made by one of Mark's guys at Camp Slayer, Iraq (Kevin Martin from San Bernardino, CA with some vocals from Terrance Wilson, Augusta, GA).

Combat Rap.

CLICK THE TITLE TO ACCESS THE SONG.

Packages from Home

It doesn’t even really matter if it’s from home, specifically; the mere physical fact of receiving something in the mail can’t help but bring a smile to the recipient. Sort of like buying something that you really don’t need for yourself at Hudsons or May Company - just a little treat. There’s not one person over here that doesn’t catch their breath when the mail is being brought in, wondering “is there anything for me?” Mail is what connects us to the real world - it reminds us that there is more to life than just work and walls, and bombs in the distance. We all need that reminder once in a while.

Quite a few folks have sent unsolicited letters or packages that have brightened my day more than a little, and I’d like to mention them by name: Aunt Carol, Nancy, Bobby and Bekki (twice!), Karl, Kevin, both Keith and Kraig, and Mom and Dad (who sent a much appreciated pillow for my birthday). Plus numerous packages from my own family in Swansea. I owe each and every one of you a thank you note, and I apologize that I have not yet had the time to send them. Please don’t think your thoughtfulness is not appreciated.

Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!

About 9:30 last night the fire department was hit by a rocket. The night before it was RPGs. This is becoming entirely too routine for me. Luckily, either the Muj are very bad shots, or their equipment is so old and worn, and therefore very inaccurate. Thankfully.

Posters and signs I have seen

I’ve always thought that besides adding a bit of local color, posters and other graphic art tend to reflect a society’s norms and values. Here are some that have made an impression on me over here.


“Do not feed feral animals”

“Do not leave safe area without weapons locked and loaded”

“Do you know who your Baghdaddy is?”

“OPSEC. Somebody’s life is counting on it.”

“Procedures for cleaning up blood and other body fluids”

“Clear all weapons before entering Chow Hall”

“Please be patient – Random Anti-terror Measures in effect!”

“Low-flying helicopters – Keep area free of antennas [how low do they fly? ed]

“Recognition Guide for poisonous snakes, spiders, and scorpions”

New regulations

They just made it mandatory that we wear our helmets and flak vests INSIDE the compound. As if one hundred and thirteen degrees isn’t hot enough. Watch out, Keith, I think I’m gonna be losing some more weight.

R&R down the drain

They cancelled my R&R today. There were rumors about this coming, but I had still hoped that I would be allowed to go. In the past, some have gotten either 4 days off “in place,” (meaning they don’t go anywhere but are considered off duty except for emergencies), while others have actually been able to fly to our base in Qatar for a couple of days. Sleeping in, lying out at the pool, curling up in the library – well, it would have been nice.

I am a bit down about it. It would have been a nice way to break up the first 6 months.

Comment from Mark

I hope people don't get the wrong idea with you publishing my letters. I am no hero winning the war out here. I do what I have to do, and just that seems difficult enough at times. I don't go looking for danger, and, in almost all cases, my job isn't really very dangerous. For example, I spent all day today in the captured palace where my office is. But I write about the exciting things, not about spending the day at my desk writing up a comparison between two database systems. It is the Iraqi’s that really do the bulk of the suffering here.

Camp Slayer

Damage to slayer from recent mortar attack


Slayer guard tower


East wall from sniper alley


Outside of wall at Slayer


Damage to East wall

Mark with the Humvee

All of the rides are a little scary, to tell the truth. The humvee has 4 doors (plus the gunners hatch and a rear hatch) and each door has a little bullet proof (hopefully) window. You can still see out of the front from the back too, but it’s pretty crowded in the back because you don’t want the gunner stepping all over you.

I have fired the 240 once. But it’s not a whole lot different from the older M-60, which I fired more.

My God, What have we done?

The Israelis bomb Beirut Airport. Hezbollah rockets kill two children in Haifa. The Iraqi electrical crew we hired to install two large transformers is late again.

I am pissed. Not once yet this week have they been on time. The job is already 7 days late and half of that again will be wasted redoing their shoddy work. How can they possibly think a cable is okay when it’s rated for 30 amps and they have it connected to a 60 amp bus? Oh that’s right – they don’t read. So we have to go behind them and make a list every night of what needs to be done again. I have to admit, they are more than willing to do the work over, but it’s so damned frustrating just to have to.

And then sometimes they just go home at 3:00. Poof! They are gone! They arrive whenever they seem to want to and now they want to leave early again? So I tell them we’ll work until dinner and then go home. No one is very friendly to me after that, but they stay. About 5:00 pm we start to clean up and I tell the interpreter that they can go now. As I turn to speak to one of the escorts I hear the interpreter telling them men that they’ll be taken on the truck to the gate. There is a slight murmur and two of the guys are disagreeing. Christ, why does everything have to be a struggle here?? I let the interpreter handle whatever it is and go inside to find G-----, the inspector. I tell him I‘d like him to prepare the list for tomorrow so that we can wrap up and I can get to chow. For once I feel like we got a good day’s work out of these guys.

Ten minutes later G---- and I go back outside and I am surprised to see the Iraqi work crew still there. The interpreter comes over to me and tells me that the men are afraid to leave. That everyone knows that the men who go to work for the Americans go in at 0800 and leave work at 5:00 – just like in America. At first it doesn’t dawn on me what this means, but then one thirty-year old can contain his emotion no longer and bursts out crying. He’s literally crying, with tears running down his face, and jabbering, and shaking and the interpreter says that he says he has kids, and that he’s just trying to make money to get by. Finally I realize what it means for these guys to come to work here – In one instant these guys cease to be just another group of sweaty, uneducated men in sandals and soiled trousers, and become husbands and fathers who risk their lives every day by coming to work for the Americans, just so they can feed their families. Most feign unemployment, rather than tell even their closest friends that they work on the base - this is why these guys come in at different times, and why they never seem to work a full day. It could be very bad for them if the wrong people noticed the pattern and figured out what they were doing.

I find some stuff for them to do for another hour and a half before letting them go in small groups. And I vow to try to not be so judgmental. Didn’t have much of an appetite after that…

Combat Patrol leaving Camp Slayer

Combat patrol departing Slayer. These guys aren’t doing a recon, they’ll looking for contact. The screening on the sides of the vehicles are to cause RPGs to explode before they penetrate the vehicle.