The back ramp of the Stryker dropped to reveal a dusty, rundown Iraqi Police station in a nondescript Baqubah suburb. We stepped out of the truck onto the ramp, and took the two foot drop to the ground in stride. Todd took off for a walk around the compound; I motioned for the rest of our squad and followed after him. The walk revealed a typical IP station, a large walled courtyard surrounding an average size building. The courtyard was filled with trash, sewage, broken generators and spare parts to nonexistent machines.
Leaning up against the back of the building we discovered half of a rusted Russian heavy machine gun, and another piece of a Cold War era anti-aircraft gun. No big deal, except both weapons had been used against our company two years prior during the retaking of the city of Baqubah. Pretending this find meant the IPs were doing their job and taking dangerous weapons off the street and not that they were the average two-faced insurgents, we rounded the last corner of the compound and headed for the front gate.
Thanks to the hand-tying status of forces agreement between Iraq and the United States, American soldiers are not allowed to operate in urban areas without having the Iraqi Police or Iraqi Army present. Exceptions apply, but they're few and far between.
By the time our squad had regrouped around the front of the building, our IA escort forces from outside the city had exited their humvees and stood around smoking and joking with each other. They were dressed in USMC desert fatigues, military body armor, and commercial tactical vests. They were also carrying clean weapons outfitted with modern American optics and flashlights. Apparently, Iraqi Army Special Forces are fairly well funded.
We passed them by and headed out the gate, since our absurdly strict platoon leader wasn't around to stop us. One lonely IP stood guard just outside the entrance to the station. He remained rooted to the ground while we moved past him and out into the neighborhood. We figured he'd count as our Iraqi escort if someone important came along. Crossing a small lot with a few scattered cars and trash piles, a pack of four or five dogs picked up our scent and barked to alert the area to our presence. We held up at the far side of the lot, less than a hundred meters from the IP station. A group of kids had been playing around in the street, but had scattered as soon as we left the station. In previous years, that was a bad sign. Kids scattered and plugged their ears before roadside bombs detonated.
This time around, it's a different war. "War" is hardly the word to describe the current situation. Anyway, the unit we're replacing didn't spend a single second of their tour mingling with the locals around this particular IP station. It had been months since the last American foot patrol through their village. They peeked around corners and out from behind courtyard gates. Families weaving around rubble and small rivers of sewage eyeballed us suspiciously, rarely returning a wave.
Two young boys crept closer, stopping about ten meters ahead of us. I motioned to them to come closer while Todd called to them in broken Arabic. Cautiously, the older of the two darted up to us. Todd pulled a pack of gum from his pants pocket and handed a piece to the boy, who looked confused but optimistic. Todd pulled out another piece for himself, and popped it in his mouth. The boy smiled and darted back to the safety of his house. When he stuck his head out a moment later, he was chewing happily and surrounded by a new group of local kids.
I motioned again to them, and a younger boy came running up over the broken bricks and dirt littering the street. I handed him a little pack of Sweet Tarts as my squad started moving back to the police station. He accepted happily and ran back to the house. I turned and followed the squad out of the neighborhood and back through the guarded station entrance, offering the lone IP a wave as he closed the gate behind me.
We walked up to the front of the building, wondering where our blundering platoon leader was. The Iraqi Army Special Forces soldiers were still lounging around, smoking cheap cigarettes in the scorching afternoon sun. Approaching them, they welcomed us with open arms and all sorts of broken English. Cigarettes were offered all around, we removed our helmets and gloves, and relaxed. The language barrier is always difficult to overcome, but through the few Arabic phrases I remember from my first deployment and creative sign language, we got to know each other. We examined each others rifles and pistols, resisted the pleas of the IA soldiers to trade watches and jokingly traded insults. An American private from Guam was played up as an Iraqi who forgot how to speak Arabic, and the sexual preference of all involved was questioned. Some things are funny to soldiers no matter their nationality.
A number of the Iraqi soldiers pulled out mobile phones with built-in cameras to take pictures with us. In true Iraqi style, they showed us pictures of their wives and children and poked fun at each other before finally settling down to pose for pictures. Todd took a few pictures with my camera, then moved into the group for a few more.
Our platoon leader emerged from the station a short time later, and ordered us back onto the trucks. We said goodbye to our new friends and loaded up into our Strykers. As our convoy pulled out of the compound onto the bumpy village roads, we offered the locals a final wave. Surrounded by young kids, even the parents waved back.
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It's scary to think the few minutes my squad spent outside the police station interacting with the local kids, showing that we're there to be friendly and help the Iraqis, and proving we're not afraid to wander the streets alone may set the tone in KBS for the rest of our deployment.
Also interesting to note: According to the interpreter we had along with us today, the citizens of Baqubah (and most of Diyala Province) fear the men who wear the patch with the Indian head and star on a black shield (2nd Infantry Division.) When asked about 5-20 Infantry, they talk of the grey phantoms (rough translation) who appear in the night, move without sound, and rain incredible destruction down upon their enemies. At the same time, they praise our battalion for driving Al Qaeda out of their city, out of their neighborhoods, and out of their children's lives.
We are respected in Baqubah. We are also feared. Our battalion has a fantastic opportunity to use these facts to our advantage and make a real difference before the withdrawal of all combat forces in the summer of next year. We made a difference in 2007, we could do it again in 2009. I fear we will not.
From Diyala Province,
Jordan
