BORDER PATROL
[Due to security and Internet restrictions, I have been unable to send regular posts from the U.K. military base at Basrah Air Station, where I've been partaking of the Crown's hospitality for the last 10 days. This entry is actually entitled May 10th, but since it gives something of the flavor of the British experience in southern Iraq, I've decided to post it anyway--and with a minimum of editing to keep the freshness of my observations--despite the fact that it is over a week old. Most regular posts to come.]
Dear Lisa,
Embed duty!
Checked out of the funduk at noon today and had Sa'ad pilot me over to the Shatt-al-Arab, where the British Consulate, a.k.a., "Basrah Palace" is located. The plan was to kill a few hours, until the Brits were ready to chopper me over to the Basrah (I'll maintain British spelling here) Airport about 30 kilometers away. While I was waiting at the BP, however, a convoy of three "Snatches"--lightly armored Land Rovers, what the U.K. generally uses to move its troops around, rather than Humvees--was leaving for a media event on the Iran-Iraq border. Seems the MNF (as in "Multi-national Force," the preferred term these days for the "Coalition") was turning over a newly-refurbished border fort to Iraqi control and did I want to go? Sure, why not, throwing on a blue helmet and flak jacket, `s only gonna take an hour or two, right?
Off we go, crowded into the back of the third Snatch--Emile, a civilian media coordinator for the military, and three soldiers, Roger, Joan and Marcia (all names have been changed), while up front is a driver and another Tommie in the shot-gun seat. The only air circulation comes from a laughably ineffective a/c system and a open portal in the vehicle's roof which is usually filled by a couple of soldiers standing up and scanning the surrounding environment for potential bad guys. (These Land Rovers evidently proved useful in Northern Ireland, where they allowed the British to patrol streets without appearing too aggressive, as they might in U.S.-style Humvees. As one English officer explained to me, "We've had decades of experience in this sort of thing.")
We bounce north, along back roads Basrah--palms, rivers, cows, goats--the scenery looking a bit Vietnamish here--grassy fields, irrigation ditches and small villages producing streams of children scampering out to wave at our convoy. We cross the Shatt, see a tanker plying the gray-green waters, plunge back among date groves and crumbling hovels crowned with satellite dishes...donkeys, feral dog packs, women in abiyas waiting for a bus or taxi cab...on and on...gets hot crammed in the back of a Snatch, jouncing on the pitted roads, the soldiers beginning to sweat from the kilos of equipment--or "kit"--they carry...
On and on. And on. It soon becomes apparent that the British are, well...lost. Several times the convoy pulls over, middle-of-the-roadway conferences, maps pulled out, soldiers pointing in various directions, squinting in the blazing sunlight--Emile and I, civilians, cannot dismount and instead remain roasting in the vehicles, the sun beating fiendishly down through the open portal--
And it's about to get worse. Evidently re-discovering their bearings, the Brits turn from the plush Shatt scenery and careen east into the desert wastelands toward Iran. Now it really gets hot, the Snatches churning up dust and sand, obscuring the roadway as we bounce and sway into divots and ruts. On either side, flat, dun-colored earth, with a few scrubby plants, hardly a rock to break the horizon. Occasionally, we pass a destroyed tank, its barrel erected in a kind of permanent impotence, or rusting tangle of barbed wire, reminders that here some of the most ferocious fighting of the Iran-Iraq War took place. (Under the earth, of course, lay untold numbers of unexploded land mines, making the terrain impassable to all but the most knowledgeable and fearless smugglers.)
On and on. Through the windshield of the Snatch, I see the lead two vehicle enveloped in clouds of grit and sand and for a moment almost sense what it was like when the Monty's 8th Army chased--and was chased by--Rommel across the trackless marches of North Africa. At last, humans--a checkpoint, three soldiers in russet-on-beige desert cammies beside a Swiss-built APC--we wave, pass through, grind further into the wasteland. Another checkpoint, more soldiers, these irregularly attired, wraparounds, fingerless black gloves, tatooed biceps bulging out of olive green t-shirts, a khaki bandanna tied pirate-style around a shaven pate--Special Ops guys, it seems like, appears we're getting close--and finally, there it is, our destination--the "Zaid Iraq Police Border Station." "WELL-COME," a banner reads, affixed to a wall.
All this way for..well, it looks rather like the grand opening of a White Castle burgateria in Queens--the qasr (fort) sparkling white with four crenelated towers and a festive string of multi-colored triangular banners and little Iraqi flags. At the same time, though, there's enough firepower around to support a border incursion into Iran--Iraqi, British, Danish soldiers, Special Ops teams and Aegis private security guys as big as ambulatory refrigerators. Along with this weapons-bristling crew are uniformed personnel from the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, who actually refurbished the joint--along with Iraqi contractors and a gaggle of PR flaks shepherding military reporters and camerapeople around.
Unfortunately, due to our GPS-free desert detour, we missed the opening ceremonies--which included, I gather, the ritual sacrifice of a goat, a small puddle of its purplish blood staining the rock-strewn esplanade leading up to the fort...seems its an Iraqi tradition to slaughter a goat, lamb or other suitable barnyard creature on auspicious occasions.
Such as this. The transfer of border forts to Iraqi control is an important sign of their increasing sovereignty and they seem proud and excited by the event. I mull this over standing of the roof of the outpost--squint, and you can imagine Beau Geste--looking across a water-filled canal and pee-colored weeds toward an yellowish blockhouse--it's the Iranian equivalent to Qasr Zaid, staring at us across a muddy no-man's land. "Anybody home over there, you think?" I ask an Army Corps of Engineers photographer. "I would think so," peering into her lens, snap, snap, "kinda defeats the purpose of a border fort if its empty." Practical-minded people, these engineers.
Iranian border fort
Downstairs a typical multi-course Iraqi feast is underway, lamb and chicken (fresh goat?), rice and salad, fruit and sweets presided over by a bulky Iraqi general wearing a maroon beret and epaulets with enough stars to comprise an additional zodiac. Whoof, the smell of the akil sits unwell with my overheated body, so I wander outside to sit in the shade, take some photographs and wonder what, exactly, the men stationed here will do for entertainment, beside shout dirty Arabic limericks at their Iranian counterparts. Within a few moments, Roger comes to usher me back into the Snatch,and soon, we're churning dust again, thumping and rocking toward Basrah Air Station.
During the return trip, I consider the passengers in our merry little caravan. The soldiers impress me with their high level of pride, professionalism and morale--in fact, all the Tommies (are they still called that? Forgot to ask...) I met during my10-day stay seem "switched on," as Brit parlance has it. There's a kind of managerial sense to everything--many of the soldiers, especially officers, see the military as a kind of scaffold for their personal goals, whether it be a future in photography, environmental work, language skills and whatnot. It's the same with the U.S.--along with increasing humanitarian work and nation-building, these vast, powerful killing machines called modern armies double (triple?) as corporate-like career advancement programs for adventurous men and women.
Still, they are soldiers. Back in Basrah--five hours and a couple of Tommies who succumbed to heat exhaustion later--the Brits have to clamber out of their Snatches each time we stop, the idea being they present a tempting target when halted in traffic. (Emile and I, however, have to remain in the vehicles, giving me a whole new appreciation of the term "sitting duck.") This means for Roger, Joan and Marcia its out of the Snatch, back in, out, back in, out...it's hot, they're tired and lugging kilos of kit, nary a gripe or complaint, I try to work the back door a little to help them out but fear I'm only getting in the way...
And indeed, they are soldiers. A 16-year vet, Joan, for one, has been all around the world--from Iraq to Afghanistan to tsunami relief work in the Indian Ocean. At one point in our sojourn, I was telling the soldiers about how the religious fundamentalists have seized control of Basrah (restricted to base except on patrol, the average Tommie is rather ignorant of political life in the city)--noting, for example, how they've targeted hairdressers for assassination. With this, Joan grunts, "I hate hairdressers." I give her a quizzical look and she adds by way of explanation, "My ex-husband ran off with a hairdresser when I was in Bosnia."
"Usually its the other way `round," Emile replies, expressing my thoughts exactly. Joan gives an ironic smile, takes a swig of water through the tube connected to a canvas canteen attached to her back and shrugs.
This is the army, Mrs. Jones...
Yours from the Queen's own gender-neutral armed services.
May 10, 2005