'05-'06 Bagdhad

The images are still there in my mind. The person that viewed them isn't.


In combat, differentiating one day from another becomes a daunting task. They run together, separated by visceral things, such as if it was 130 degrees outside that day, or if you remember the particular stench of an area or an image that you can't ever forget. It was late summer in 2006. This day separated itself from the blur of sweat, dust, fuel and the whine of the Abrams engine early. There were streams of dark blood snaking through the dust and dirt on the streets.


We had a mission to infiltrate and lock down an area of southwest Baghdad called the "Doura Market". Unbeknownst to us, a tank company with an attached infantry platoon, we were part of the spearhead for the "Surge" of 2007-2008. Al Doura was actually a neighborhood just outside of the "Sunni Triangle", also called the "Triangle of Death". There was a large outdoor market situated in the middle of towering apartment complexes and shops, giving this area the Doura Market nickname. On this day the market was deserted. That's not to say there weren't people out. There were hundreds of people out. Maybe thousands. They were lining the sides of the streets, carrying everything they could find on their backs or in makeshift carts. Men with lined faces that looked years older than they actually were, veiled women, and children, all moving in endless lines to nowhere. Some of the kids understood, and trudged along sharing the load and the looks of disdain and despair on their parent's faces. Others were oblivious, hopping and playing with their siblings or others around them, having not lost the innocence and hope they were born with. They were fleeing. As imposing as we were, thundering around in our 60 indestructible killing machines in displays that would actually register as a small earthquake, they weren't fleeing from us. We had seen this before in the rural area where one of our outposts was located. We knew what was happening. These people were Shi'ite people, fleeing ahead of the Sunni thugs-the Al Queda we were looking for-that were threatening their lives. The Shi'ite people had their own thugs, called the Mahdi Army, and they were lead by a man named Muqtata Al Sadr. Invariably, both were what waited for the Coalition forces in every deserted alley. We were a target of opportunity in a war for control of a collapsed country.


We were assigned as security for the door-to-door clearing mission our grunts were undertaking. We would patrol the streets, block by block, and scoop up any threats. Military doctrine used to say that tanks are ineffective in urban areas. We rewrote the book. I was inside the turret, peering through the sites coupled with the 120mm main gun and its coaxial machine gun. I could see what brand cigarette someone was smoking two blocks away. I could also belch out a burst of 7.62 from that coax with enough accuracy to take cherry off the tip of that cigarette. With the flip of a switch even more terrible things would happen if I pulled the trigger on my "Cadillac" handles. Sitting inside the breech of the main gun was what was called a "canister round". Basically, a 120mm shotgun shell with 3000 pinball-sized orbs of tungsten. When it was fired, targets literally ceased to exist, having been so thoroughly shredded that no remnant of them could be found. One of my best platoon mates was above me in the commander's cupola directing the tank. Beside him was our medic, resting in the loader's hatch, and below in the belly of the tank, called the hull, was my barracks roommate and the best damn tank driver that had ever chewed Copenhagen.


During this time and in this place it was not unusual to hear explosions and gunfire often. It was a war zone...I remember our dark jest when hearing a particularly large explosion. "Somebody's day just got f*cked up", we would say, grinning not because it was funny, but because in our minds this somehow lowered the chances that our day was the one being f*cked up. Soldiers at war tend to develop as sense of humor that is just as dark and hopeless as their surroundings. We were laughing about some lost macabre joke as we transmitted to each other from tank to tank, in between short spot reports and decisions on where to turn next. I was concentrating on scanning with the turret. As we rounded each corner the barrel of the main gun was the first thing anyone would see. By the time the body of the tank was in view it was pointed directly at wherever the tank was headed. I wasn't participating in the radio chatter. To be honest, I wanted a kill. I visualized some thug, trying to get a shot off with his RPG and duck back into an alley, not knowing how quickly he would be sawed to bits by the accurate fires of my coax. I was hyperaware, even though I was soaked in sweat and suffocating in the my airless hole.


Gunfire rang out often, and sometimes it was only one or two blocks over from where we were. Radio traffic dictated that it wasn't our guys. We headed in the direction of each burst, and just as we arrived it would seem like it moved either to where we just were, or to the next block over. Welcome to the Iraq war, where you never see who you are fighting. Something new was on our next street. As we turned the corner I noticed two people laying behind some rubble. There they were. The dumbasses that were actually going to give it a shot. I broke in to radio traffic reporting what I was seeing. There was no RPG, though. Not even an AK. And they didn't seem to be looking at us. Maybe they didn't see us? It was a possibility. One of the first things I learned about fighting "insurgents", or any other enemy in Iraq for that matter, was that when it came to combat they were hopelessly inept. They could generate casualties with their IED's and ambush tactics, but most of the times their plans were shoddy, and their will to carry them out was even more defective. Most were horribly inaccurate with any weapon system they used, and they were just plain lazy. On top of that, their equipment was outdated and dilapidated; remnants from the USSR's military monster of the 70's and 80's. I respected their resourcefulness, and recognized their equipment issues, but they were not a dedicated enemy. I read books about wars often, and had read several about Vietnam. The Viet-Kong...that's a dedicated enemy. Not these guys. We slowed to a crawl, with 20 weapon systems poised to annihilate what appeared now to be a man and a teenage boy laying on top of one another behind the rubble.


I remember wondering if I had ever seen a black person in Iraq. These guys were obviously black. Both of them. We halted our crawl and I was directed to inspect them closer through the sites. Neither of them moved. Their heads were turned so that their faces were away from my view. It finally dawned on me that I was looking at two dead men. It actually took me that long to figure it out. I still don't know if I understand it. Once we decided they were dead one of my buddies from another tank was ordered to dismount and get a look from the ground. The streets in Iraqi cities are strewn with wire. In the absence of infrastructure and any public works, people run primitive power lines from their houses to any active source they can find. This street was no exception. We were weary that a detonation cord could be mixed in with the masses of wires running overhead and on the ground. There was a high possibility we were being watched. Weapon systems, rifles, and sites that were all fixed on one target immediately started pointing out, scanning every window, shadow, and rooftop. My buddy inched closer, looking down the barrel of his rifle. When he got within 10 feet his tense posture eased. He circled so that he could see their faces. I could have been standing next to him, even though I was almost 100 meters away, with the aid of the sites. He gazed down for a second and dropped the barrel of his rifle down. He paused briefly, then started back to his tank. To me, this played out in silence. He knew I was watching and made a face at me as he walked back, drawing his lips back over his teeth. When he returned to the tank he informed us that they had been dead a while, and that they were black because they had been baked by the sun. He told me the face he made was what they looked like, with their lips drawn back in the beginnings of decay. He also said that the boy was probably about 10 years old, and that they both had several holes in their skulls that seemed to small to be caused by a bullet. We would learn later on that a power drill was the preferred tool of torture used by some of the ghouls that had appeared there. I remember when I watched the movie American Sniper, that part was particularly difficult for me.


We chose to move on. The gunfire exchanges were picking up and seemed to be getting closer. I was being stifled by the heat. I asked the medic in the loader's hatch if he would trade spots with me for a minute so I could come up and get some air. He obliged, and soon my nostrils were filled with the aroma of gas and vomit-the official prominent smells of Iraq. We came to an area of the sector that actually had moving traffic and several cars on the street. Our movements came to a crawl, and we searched for side roads to go around. Being help up in traffic was a bad idea if our grunt pals called for the cavalry. We peeled off left at the next alley. As we turned, I noticed that we were heading down a road with houses on either side. They had walls around them, like most houses there do, with green lawns that stood in contrast to the bland, dusty surroundings. They had elaborate gates at the front of each house, and I surmised that we were in what would be considered an affluent area. As we crawled down the street I noticed a large pile of clothes in the front of a house that was ahead and to my left. There were shoes and several robes piled on top of each other. As we drew closer I noticed the flesh of arms and legs mixed in. I was looking at another pile of dead bodies. These were much newer than the ones before, with dark crimson streaks of blood snaking away to the sides of the road.
The mass was so jumbled that I couldn't tell how many bodies were actually there, but judging from the size and counting visible hands and feet, I guessed at least four. They couldn't have died in this fashion, and had obviously been thrown on top on one another. Again we stopped. Again the call went out for a dismount to investigate. Abruptly, and seemingly involuntarily, I said "I'll go". My actual position on the tank was that of loader, and the loader is always the dismount should the need arise. This allowed it to be a viable option. I was on the ground in my green Nomex crewman's suit, with my body armor and mitch helmet on. I was carrying my M-4 carbine and 3 magazines on my vest, and I was walking down a street in arguably the most volatile part of Iraq at the time by myself. Curiosity still flickered inside me at this point. As I drew closer I saw that the thumb on one of the hands had been cut off. The meat and exposed bone caused me to hesitate. I was carrying an ICOM radio, and my platoon leader quickly came over the net asking why I stopped. I replied no reason. I raised the barrel of my rifle and crept forward in a more aggressive posture, somehow hoping that maybe it would scare away any more horrific images I may see. All of the people were women. Their heads were covered, which is why I had mistaken them for a pile of clothes. There were two more hands with the thumbs cut off. I remember thinking that it looked like they had been sawed off. Their arms were riddled with holes from the drill, especially around the elbows. I guess drilling into the joint caused the most amount of pain. I didn't want to see anymore, and started back. My platoon leader came over the net again.


"How many?"
"Four, I think."
"I need to know exact. The IP are on their way."
(IP=Iraqi Police)


This meant I would have to try to count. I walked around the pile, counting as many heads as I could see. I got to five. I also noticed something flesh-toned under the flowing part of one of the robes. Because of how it was positioned, it could not have been a part of one of the visible women. With the barrel of my rifle I lifted the cloth.


He was laying face down on the chest of a woman. His hair was caked in dried blood, and there was a drill wound to the back of his head. I saw his feet and little hands...I guessed maybe 6 or 8 months. He had on a shirt with little soccer balls on it and little jogging pants. Both of his arms were at his sides, palms up. He was dead before whoever was holding him. In the inetrest of my sanity's preservation, I like to try to convince myself that it wasn't his Mother. I exhaled forcefully, and dropped the cloth back over him. I felt like there was an explosion inside of me. Sadness, sickness, fury...My daughter had just been born months before, and I was to see her for the first time very soon.


Innocence remains in men until it is killed. Not the childhood innocence, but the hope that some things just don't exist. The ignorance of a naiveté we afford ourselves as Americans. I felt like a child who believed so earnestly in Santa Claus, only to catch his parents placing toys late on a Christmas Eve night. I knew evil was there. But I lived behind walls, and I could choose to acknowledge it or I could choose "not be so negative". I stared it in the eyes this day, and felt it's breath on my neck. When that happens to a man, some of what is good in him wilts and dies. It can defeat us. It can turn our heads from light forever. To overcome it is like beating a disease. My battle began that day.


"Six" I said into my ICOM, walking back and swallowing the feelings of what I had just seen like a huge gulp of dirty motor oil.


We found 39 bodies that day. I didn't volunteer to investigate any more. We found a man with a gunshot wound to the head tied to a pole that was still convulsing. We found a few that had tried to run and were gunned down. We found more children. The last visceral image I remember from that day was an Iraqi Police truck with all 39 bodies piled in the back pulling away. Rigor mortis had set in for many of them, making it look like a truckload of mannequins with stiff arms and legs protruding out.