Disconnecting the Flow

2 Jun 2004 1210 hours

(Note: I changed the Iraqi names for security reasons)

Over the past few days, I have had direct contact with local nationals. The Army pays men $5 a day to pick-up trash, fill sand bags, and place the sandbags where we tell them. Most of the Iraqis that show up are 15-18 years old. There physique is much smaller than that of the average American soldier. They have very little mass on their visually weak skeleton. I hesitate to call them "kids". There is experience in their eyes. They have seen things that few people where I come from can relate to.

Given the proper motivation and direction, they work very hard. There was one kid, Rami, who wore old sandals. One of his toenails was broken with a blood blister formed under it. He had several cuts on his feet from the jagged rocks. He asked for shoes. One of the soldiers who I assigned to supervise the Iraqis had recently purchased new running shoes. He gave his old ones, which were serviceable, to Rami. The kid told me he would come back the next day to work for us again.

The next day's batch of workers arrived in a large group. I began to search the ground, looking for the shoes from the day before. Rami was standing there, proud of his shoes, smiling when he saw me looking for them. I gave him thumbs up and pointed him into my work group. He works diligently the entire workday, only resting during the breaks I scheduled.

The first time I made contact with the workers was challenging. Every time I said something to one person, all of the workers would quickly come over and try to be a part of the exchange. But quickly another local, Dilshad, has made himself a "boss" by providing leadership. The task is simple, fill sand bags, put them on a truck, American soldiers move the truck where the bags are needed, then the Iraqis stack them where necessary. Dilshad has shown that he is capable of keeping the others from slacking off and gets the mission done smoothly. I allow him to direct the work force because he increases efficiency. Now, everyone knows to go to Dilshad if they have questions.

I brought each worker a bottle of cold water at the end of the day, and a Pepsi for Dilshad. Another Iraqi, Hassam-Sali, asked for shoes a few days ago. We only had one pair of shoes the other day; Rami's feet were in worse condition. I called Monika, my wife, and explained the situation. Most of the Iraqis wear dilapidated sandals that afford little protection for their feet. The shoes that Americans give out are appreciated, and worn on a daily basis. Several workers show up wearing old desert boots or black Army boots. I have some old shoes in the basement that she mailed out. She also called her workplace, School Age Services, in Schweinfurt and started a shoe collection program.

I showed Hassam-Sami a picture of Monika and explained that it would be a few weeks before the shoes arrive. He smiled and vowed to work hard every day. He told me that I am his friend and made the symbol with his fingers. I just want him to fill sandbags and go home. It has been over 110 degrees every day for the past week. If giving them shoes will help them work harder, by all means, give them some Air Jordans.

I drove a Hummer to the front gate yesterday to pick up my workers. My Point of Contact at the gate told me that the workers were outside the FOB and would be in shortly. We arranged for a meeting place to divide them into work groups. I saw the Iraqi dump trucks outside of the gate, heaping with Iraqi workers. It would be about 10 minutes. I informed my POC that I was heading over to the local national shop to buy a Coke, and then meet him at the exchange point. (Note: the local national shop is on the FOB; next to the "px") I turned the Hummer around and drove away. A few minutes later, I heard a massive explosion and saw smoke rising in the direction of the front gate. I headed back to the gate to see what was going on. From the safety of the FOB I saw the aftermath of the carnage. A suicide bomber drove a car laden with explosive toward the front gate of the FOB. It exploded only a few meters away from the dump trucks and ICDC personnel; many were lost. Many Iraqis were killed, including members of the ICDC, Iraqi Civil Defense Corps. As a matter of fact, only Iraqis were killed. I was informed that the total number of dead is at least 11, 32 wounded; one reliable source said that the number has climbed to 17. I do not know the exact number; I think that is irrelevant anyway. It does not matter if 1 or 10 were killed. Some of the dead were the workers coming to the FOB. What kind of sick fuck kills innocent people deliberately? The workers had been quickly shuffled into a holding area. I saw Dilshad, he approached me with wide eyes. He said, "no work today, no work today", in a voice that I can only describe as petrified. I told him that we were not going to have them work and to standby for instructions.

My heart sank as I looked at the group of young Iraqis. Their eyes did not show emotion. I expected to see fear, hate, rage, or loss in their expression. They have been through so much in their lives; they just stood still waiting to see what we were going to do with them. I was told that one of the Iraqis lost a brother in the attack. They were supposed to feel safe with us overwatching them. It was such an ugly moment; unable to change the course that evil took.

None of the workers showed up at the gate today. How am I supposed to give Hassam-Sali his shoes?

Philip Jarvis
SSG, USA
Master Gunner