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This series of articles is based on the dialogue that I have with
a friend of mine who is currently serving in the military. It
is our attempt to illustrate a unique perspective about ordinary
people in an extraordinary situation. He has agreed to relate
this story, as it unfolds, for the readers of The Metropolitan.
At times I have known him to be drunk with patriotism for our
country, having served in two branches of the military —
but because of the nature of his predicament, he wishes to remain
nameless until he returns in October.
These stories are not an embedded reporter’s account of
the war in Iraq. Nor is it likely that you’ll find a Rambo’s
Self Help Guide for Weekend Warriors here; there’s plenty
of that out there already. What follows is just one person’s
account.
This is the twelfth dispatch in the series.
— Ian Neligh
“A guy I work with told me this story :
So there I was, downtown, talking to this French news crew. They
were asking stupid questions like:
“Is it hot in (Iraq)?” and “How do you feel
when you hear of another soldier being killed?”
So, I just looked at them like they were stupid, and I guess they
took the hint because they finally left me alone.
While I was standing there sweating, I observed this old Iraqi
pushing a younger Iraqi in a little beat-up car.
They roll past me at a whopping five miles an hour and then the
younger guy pops the clutch, trying to push start the car.
Now, this is a common practice here and I thought nothing of
it, and thought nothing still when they traveled all the way down
to the end of the street and turned around, heading back my way,
the car refusing to turn over.
After about six passes down and back in the sweltering Iraqi
heat, the old man has just about had it, but on his last attempt
he gives a mighty shove, giving it his all and sending the car
speeding faster than ever.
The kid inside must have had too much of that Iraqi hash that
day, or he was just really stupid, because instead of popping
the clutch he just stared, wide-eyed, as his car smashed into
the side of a fairly new parked pickup truck.
Like bees in a disturbed hive, the Iraqis came from the cafe
where the truck had been parked, all angry and screaming, swarming
down upon the hapless teenager.
At this I expected the old man, whom I had taken for his father
or grandfather, to come to his rescue, but his reaction was one
of awe.
He stood there a moment, watching the car smash slowly into the
truck, the force of his effort having turned the truck sideways
in its spot, and seemed to contemplate what had gone wrong. His
eyes displayed sheer disbelief tempered with the wisdom of age
in this hostile land, as he breathed heavily, his hands on his
hips.
His next action caused me some confusion. Then I understood.
He threw his arms up and waved them at the boy in a universal
sign of “fu#k it,” and simply went on his way.
As I stood watching, I thought about how friendly these people
are, and how much trouble this old man had gone to trying to help
his fellow man, — this idiot boy — whom he didn’t
even know.
“The second great happening was that one of my soldiers
almost got attacked by some wild dogs. These mutts have taken
to hanging out underneath the big five-ton trucks down near the
motor pool as of late. When this soldier went to park his vehicle,
one of the dogs came out and started barking at him.
He put a magazine in his weapon and the dog came closer.
He charged the weapon, and the dog came closer still, its friends
forming a group around their representative. My soldier knew the
time for action was at hand.
Pointing his M-16 rifle at the alpha male, he prepared to squeeze
the trigger and move Rover into the afterlife, but sensing imminent
danger the Iraqi dog barked a final bark, turned tail and ran,
his companions following suit.
Some MPs, hearing the commotion, asked my soldier:
‘What are you doing to those dogs?’
He relayed the story and the MP told him honestly,
‘I’d have shot them if I were you.’
My soldier assured me that next time he would.
“The third and final thing to happen so far today in the
little piece of the pie we grunts lovingly refer to as “my
lane” was, on the way to work I was informed that there
was a great explosion (nearby) and a fire fight. When I drove
by (the area) all I could see was an orange glow and some smoke
in the darkness. I guessed the fight was over,
I found out later that the explosion and gunfight was the latest
trend here: Iraqis on Iraqis.
That’s right, now they’re fighting amongst themselves.
And the small-arms fire was mostly where we sent a patrol to check
it out, and they shot at us. I didn’t hear of any casualties.
They’re fighting each other!
I don’t know if it was bad guys fighting bad guys, or the
Iraqi people fighting back. I would like to think it was the Free
Iraqis defending their homes.”
This is an ongoing account and will be continued in the next
edition of The Metropolitan
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