New Mission

Lush emerald mountains surrounded the natural harbor. As morning broke, it was time to leave. We weighed anchor. All hatches and ports were closed and dogged. All hands moved inside. The ship slowly moved toward the river mouth. The boson was alone on deck at the bow, standing by the anchor. The third mate was below decks in the stern at the emergency steering station. The Captain, Chief mate and I were on the bridge with one of the able bodied seamen at the helm, a pile of flack gear heaped to his left. The green mountains of the harbor gave way to the delta. Flat stretches of paddy in flooded fields. Men and women in coolie hats worked in the ankle deep water that harbored their precious crop. Pushing rice stalks into the mud, tilling with buffalo, totally disinterested in our transiting. We passed the first check point; one of the navy’s river patrol boats with two or three sailors visible onboard the small craft and a couple of machine guns. They crackled acknowledgment over the radio, the Captain responded into the mic. We waved from inside the confines of the closed bridge and passed on to the next point; a second boat. The instructions were strict and simple; run her aground if you get hit. Get out of the channel. After we had passed out of sight of the second check point, there was an explosion on the bank to starboard, fifty yards from our ship’s steel hull. Then there was another. Smoke and dirt flew into the air. We watched and passed safely by. Within minutes, a mile across the flat delta to our port, two jet fighters dived as missiles shot out from their bellies. There was more smoke and thunder as the missiles hit their target. The fighters circled once and were gone. The next check point came into view, another river patrol boat. There were no further incidents during our journey up the river to Saigon. It was Viet Nam. It was 1968. I was twenty.

As the C-130 spiraled downward avoiding the long gradually descending landing approaches we are so used to on commercial flights, my thoughts had reflected back to my last experience in a war zone. It was a long time ago. I was much younger; the war strikingly similar. Within minutes the big, old, but dependable plane floated down to near ground level. Its tires kissed the concrete with a small squeal, then rolled down the runway at BIAP, Baghdad International Airport. But we were not headed to the modern looking terminal building. Instead, the steel gray plane lumbered to a piece of tarmac a short walk from a dust covered white fabric tent. Chain link and razor wire encircled everything in sight. And everything was covered in a layer of fine brown sand. It is like that in Iraq. Soldiers were everywhere, “M” class weapons in hand or slung by a strap over their shoulder, and pistols strapped to their legs like misplaced cowboys on an unworldly plain. It is like that in Iraq. We moved single file into the stark tent for check-in. Soldiers were barking instructions. It was an unceremonious arrival. We took seats on long benches as our paperwork was checked. The soldiers were young; young men and young women. I wondered if, while visiting my last war, I could have been as young as those fair faced boys in sand-brown camo, armed, trained, and dangerous, and in danger. Wars should be fought by old men like myself; men who cherish life and cling to it with desperation; not the fearless youth who cannot yet see over the hill where death lurks. There would be far less shooting; far less killing; far less destruction.

Our luggage was piled on pallets under a canopy covered with dust. We retrieved it and looked for our transportation. Within a few minutes Rhonda greeted us and showed us our rooms for the night. As with all housing for coalition personnel in Iraq, the rooms were prefabricated housing containers – CHUs, containerized housing units. These had their own bathrooms. Wet hooches, they are called. The personal security detail (PSD) would move us the next day at a time undetermined or undisclosed. After a dinner at a dining facility (DFAC) some distance away, we settled in for the night. I lay there wondering if the two weeks in Washington had prepared me for all of this.

Sharon and I had made the trip to Washington and back to Mississippi, Johnny Dred and the boat. It had taken us three full days, two traveling and one in Washington interviewing and seeing some of the sites. The Mall is a short walk from Main State, the main office building for the State Department where I had my interview. We visited the Viet Nam War Memorial. I found the names of former friends memorialized on the sleek black wall. I have lived a full life since they died. Nothing more need be said. What has been done is now done. We cannot change it; only learn the lessons. Every President should be required to walk the length of that wall before committing any troops anywhere.

For a week, Johnny and I had motored our little craft across two states; from north to south across Kentucky and then Tennessee and over the border into northern Mississippi. The trip was more serene than we had experienced earlier. The barge traffic was lighter; the scenery beautiful. Our first stop was at a place called Cuba Landing. The cottonmouth swimming away from the boat as we entered the marina’s basin was a harbinger of things to come. A shaggy haired, bleach blonde teen in sagging jeans named Cody met us at the dock and helped us fuel and tie off. His grandmother ran the marina store, his father was the mechanic. The restaurant was closed for remodeling, but we were able to borrow a pot from it suitable to make spaghetti for our dinner. Johnny strummed his guitar on the dock as I prepared dinner. Within moments Mark and his girlfriend came by to enjoy the music. Mark was a retired auto worker from Flint, Michigan, his girlfriend a local. He had a boat on the dock next to where we were tied. Mark lamented that he had left his guitar at home for the first time in a long time. He and Johnny sang and strummed until dinner was ready. This was the high point of our visit. The restrooms and showers were nothing less than filthy. At dawn we gladly departed.

It was an early start from Camp Klecker near BIAP. We were taken to breakfast at the DFAC and then to where our equipment was issued; pants, shirts, tee shirts, turtle necks, jacket, coat, boots, flashlight, multi-tool, sleeping bag, and of most importance, helmet and body armor. We were rushed, the PSD was waiting. We donned our helmets and body armor and loaded our luggage. As is routine, we received a quick briefing. Our guardians were young skilled private contractors, armed and ready. Michael, Khalid and I took seats in our vehicle. Moving people through the red zone areas of Iraq is a complex multi-vehicle undertaking. Lights and sirens are often used. Highways and streets are cleared of vehicles by waiving, armed guards. The vehicles move quickly. They maneuver as needed; they will shoot if their requests are not met; it is all about the safety of the principals; it is all about us. I sat conflicted by the offensiveness of the process to the locals and the need to get me to my destination safely. We whizzed down the highway, Route Irish. Cars pulled off to the side of the road. Pedestrians watched as our caravan sped past. The landscape was stark and sandy. It then turned into city. Our situational awareness training had us watching windows, people on the street, overpasses and parked cars. Our guardians were doing the same. As we passed the first checkpoint of the Green Zone, the International Zone or IZ as it is referred; there was a noticeable easing of the tension that had been so stifling in the vehicle during the twenty minute ride. The young man riding “shotgun” lowered his weapon and released the chin strap of his helmet. He relaxed and turned to tell us we were in the Green Zone. We were met at the bus stop just outside the Embassy compound by Wilson and Pat. My new Mission had officially begun.

Until Next Connection,
Dan