This Past Week at the Bridge

We’ve just completed our final week of guard at the Tigris for a while. All of us are glad to be giving it up. It will be another three months before we have to return. The less time I spend sitting on top of a tank guarding something is a good thing.

I watch the Iraqis passing by for four hours during my day shift, and see nothing but darkness during my night shift. The day is always more fun, for no other reason than things are happening around you and it makes the time go by faster. You never know what you may see during the course of those four hours during the day.

Most people come through and wave and smile as usual, but others just look at you blankly or don’t even turn their head. It’s almost like some of them just refuse to acknowledge our presence in their land, and I can’t really blame them. I don’t think they hate us, they probably just want to see us gone. It’s fun to try to wave to them anyway, especially the kids. A lot of cars will pass by us that are packed full of kids and adults. I always wave to the kids. They usually wave back, even when it looks like the adults are telling them not to.

The other day I saw a car drive by with its trunk open. A little boy and girl were both sitting in the trunk. The girl waved to us and the boy gave us the peace sign. Peace, something these kids haven’t experienced much of during their young life. I couldn’t help but think how much trouble the parents would get in if they were to be caught letting their kids ride in the trunk back in the States. Later the same day I saw a man riding in the bucket of a big front end loader. The tank on the other side of the river called over the radio telling me to get my camera ready, that I was about to see something that even out here would qualify as odd. It was more funny than odd, and the man seemed to be enjoying himself as I took his picture.

It’s still early April and already signs of the oppressive heat of summer are upon us. I’ve already experienced two summers in either Iraq or Kuwait, and I’m hardly looking forward to another. The heat in this land drains your spirit, leaving your body void of any energy. The necessity of water is paramount, a commodity more precious than gold. This leaves me wondering why the Iraqi Army guys show up for their guard without bringing this simple necessity. It’s worse than if they showed up with no weapon.

“Meester” they call incessantly, peering up at us from beside the tank. Why do they call us mister? The term mister is wearing on our nerves. Call me dude, man, Michael, American, or soldier, anything other than “Meester”or “Mista.” I try not to show my impatience with them as I respond to their call. “Meester, you have Wata,” they ask for the thousandth time? Are you kidding me? How can they show up for a 24-hour shift with no water? I know they have access to water. Why wouldn’t they bring a jug or some other container full of water from home? “We have no water,” I lie and feel cruel in the process. For it is a lie, but one I must tell. We have water. I have a big bottle sitting next to me, but it’s for me, for us, for our platoon. I felt like an uncaring ruler sitting upon my tank throne as they walk away dejectedly.

We are no longer allowed to give them water, a temporary shortage the last time we were here brought about this cruel rule. I used to give out water like candy, not thinking that our endless supply might possibly come to an end. But it did, and for a day we had to ration what little water we had until we could be re-supplied, causing us to ask passing convoys for any water they could spare. It was almost embarrassing to have to wave down a passing convoy and beg for water.

My conscience won’t let me be. I must at least try to get them some water. I call up the TOC and ask them if they can pass over some water to the IA, knowing what the inevitable response will be. The Lt. gets on the radio to respond. Apparently he must display his authority on the matter. With compassion in his voice he explains to me that we can’t afford to give them any water. I already know this but had to ask anyway, especially because of the heat. He tells me to ask them if they have any containers with them that we can fill with water from our water buffalo. This water is potable but not the bottled water they crave. Beggars can’t be choosers. They look up at me helpless as I ask them for some sort of container in which to fill with water. They have none, imagine that. I call back to the TOC and tell them that they have no containers. A minute later I can see over the barricades into our compound as the Lt. himself walks out with three empty water bottles. He fills them with the water from the buffalo, the same water that supplies our shower water. He then carries them over to the wall and passes them over to the soldiers. Mission complete, my mind rests a little easier as I swallow lukewarm water from a bottle, trying to replenish the fluids draining from every pore.

The Iraqi soldiers ask us for other things as well. They’ll ask for your watch, some trinket on our vest’s, chem-lights, always chem-lights, food, and our torch. Torch, as if we are cavemen from a prehistoric age. Which isn’t that farfetched when you consider that some of the people here live as though from prehistoric times. Torch is what some of them call flashlights. We need our flashlight’s, so we won’t soon be giving those up. I’ve had Iraqi’s in general ask me for just about everything on my person, including my wedding ring. They might as well ask me for my soul. It’s become a running joke among us that one day we might indeed be asked to give up our soul to these people. Always give me. “Give me _____”

I’m not disturbed by them asking me for water or other things so much as I am the greater problem I see in this. They want handouts. Maybe they’re used to us giving them too many things over the past couple of years. Maybe they’re accustomed to getting handouts from a dictator that gave just enough to meet their needs. Therein lies one of the many problems of a totalitarian or dictatorial regime. Those subservient to Saddam’s tyrannical rule were kept in submissiveness by his meager gifts. They tolerated him because within his iron fist he also held the food and other necessities which would sustain them. This as in communism creates an indolence within a population that can be much more dangerous than the dictator in whom they serve. They lose any desire to better themselves or their situation in life. Why try to attain something better when all you ever needed was handed to you.

We give and give and give some more and with pleasure, but at some point they are going to have to produce for themselves. This is essentially the most important issue facing them and us, especially in the case of the Iraqi Army, whose job it will be to secure their nation once we leave. They have to learn to stand on their own without our help and guidance. I’m personally very optimistic on this issue. From what I’ve seen they’re off to a good start, but there’s still work to be done. Like any organization, there are good people to be relied on, as well as those that contribute nothing to the greater good. I firmly believe that the vast majority of the Iraqi soldiers are good decent men that are proud of their country and want to see it prosper. These men will be relied upon to lead the others. I hope and pray they’ll accept this responsibility.

The other day, the same day that our Battalion Commander visited us, a long convoy of Iraqi troops crossed over the bridge. You should have seen them. This group of soldiers gave me pride as I watched them pass by. They had obviously been outfitted with brand new equipment and were wearing it with pride. Each of them had new helmets, bullet proof vests, weapons, and uniforms. They were even riding in new vehicles. Each vehicle was proudly displaying the new Iraqi flag, and as they passed, each man looked at us on the tank, and with the simple gesture of a wave, conveyed the silent respect that each army has for the other.

The young entrepreneurs that live close to the bridge have begun swimming to fight the warm weather. The strip down to their shorts, walk out onto the bridge or one of the pontoons supporting it, and launch themselves into the cold Tigris flowing beneath. I got caught up in their reverie and walked down the riverbank to take their pictures. The sight of me and my camera only added to their adventure as they rewarded me with more daring leaps. The river’s strong current would propel them down river as they swam for the shore. The goose bumps on their skin as well as their shortness of breath indicated how cold the water really was. Once ashore they would run to circle around me in the hopes of viewing their acrobatics on the small screen of my digital camera. With excited voices they would watch as I scrolled throughout the pictures, smiling and pointing to the camera when they saw themselves in flight. Each of their heads was dripping the surprisingly cold water onto my hands as they would say thank you whenever seeing their image. It was funny to me that they would say thank you. As if their image would be forever remembered from this day forward. I found myself wishing they had email addresses that I could send these pictures to. These images emboldened them even more as they ran back onto the bridge to jump again. Each one would yell to me before they jumped, making certain that I would capture their image again. I didn’t care. I was funny to watch, and my camera can hold hundreds of pictures. This cycle continued another five or six times before the cold water or the thought of lost money brought them back up to the road to continue hawking their wares.

Bayonets and of course pirated DVD’s make up most of their merchandise. You have to admire their persistence. A kid will try to sell you DVD’s until you finally tell him that you have no cash. The same kid will return 30 minutes later trying once again. Each of them will tell you they can get you whatever you want. They finally get a hint once we tell them we want a ticket home, a house in the Hamptons, a condo in Aspen, peace in the Middle East, a double Whopper with cheese, a billion dollars, and someone to pick up all the trash in Iraq. I actually don’t want any of these things, it’s just fun to sometimes watch them walk away frustrated. Why would I want peace in the Middle East, when the opposite affords me the opportunity to sit on a tank during the hottest part of the day next to the Tigris River.

Old bayonets seem to be more prevalent than the trash that litters the Iraqi landscape. There are so many kids selling bayonets that one really overzealous annoying NCO has made it his personal crusade to get rid of every one. He doesn’t seem to realize, even though our platoon Sgt. has reminded him twice, that there are no laws prohibiting the carrying or selling of bayonets. They’re allowed to carry an AK-47 for Allah’s sake, why the hell wouldn’t they be allowed to sell an old rusty bayonet.

One morning, as we were walking up to relieve this jackass NCO and another guy, I noticed a group of people standing on our side of the bridge. The jackass in question could be seen in the middle of this crowd as he hurled two bayonets in the river. God, he’s doing it again. What is it with this guy? He creates unnecessary drama everywhere he goes and annoys the hell out of everybody in the process. The poor kids crying, while his dad tries to smooth things over with jackass. Then jackass tells me before leaving to do the same if I see any. Whatever dude, just go away. After he’s gone, we call the kid over and give him five dollars a piece. This will at least cover his expenses. What jackass also fails to realize is that a lot of these kids are putting food on their family’s table by selling things like bayonets to passing convoys.

The kid is happy again, and I feel like we’ve saved at least one family from hating us. Hell, we might have even made us a little safer. I told him that we don’t care if he sells bayonets, just don’t do it when the crazy tall guy with red hair is on guard. He understood and said thank you. His dad, the proprietor of the five star Tigris Restaurant, thanked us as well and gave us a couple of cold generic colas.

The Tigris Restaurant. I didn’t know if someone had painted it on the tiny stone structure as a joke or not. It stands on our side of the river about 15 feet from the edge of the bridge. There’s nothing inside except what the man brings with him in the morning. He sells little sandwiches with lamb meat, bread, and drinks. He wasn’t open for business until about three weeks ago. The bread is good, especially if you have some peanut butter from an MRE. The generic coke isn’t bad either, but we try to stay away from the lamb meat.

This past week the Battalion Commander and the Brigade Sergeant Major graced us with their presence. I like our Battalion Commander. He played football when he was at West Point and has that football player mentality. A lot of officers put you to sleep with their speeches, but this guy actually inspires you to want to go out and kill some bad guys. He also has a good sense of humor, which seems to be lacking in the majority of the officer corps. Most officers are basically dorks. This guy is far from what I would consider a dork. He’s still built like a football player, with a compact frame and stocky build. His short, powerful physique, bald head, and boisterous voice impart an old school presence. This guy isn’t a politician. He’s ready to lead men into battle. Hollywood couldn’t produce a character like him. He’s the real deal, and no actor could ever hope to replicate his almost comic book persona. As if wanting to convey the complete image of a man not to screw with, he can always be seen with a fat cigar hanging either from his mouth or between his meaty fingers. I can’t help but smile when he ends his speech with these words, “We’re going to close with and destroy our great nation’s enemies with speed, firepower, and shock effect!” When he says it, you actually believe it and want to follow him.

The Brigade Sergeant Major showed up one day as well, complete with knee and elbow pads. Nobody wears knee and elbow pads. Maybe he’s planning on having to low crawl sometime soon. Anyway, like I said, the Brigade Sergeant Major showed up the other day. Life at the bridge, I may even miss it.

Note: I've tried unsuccessfully to post pictures that related to this post. It's diffucult because we aren't supposed to download programs to these computers. I think there is a way to post pics using the html tab. I'm thinking of starting a yahoo group where I can post pictures. Anyway, I'll keep trying.