Cultivated countryside dwindled to desert south of Diwaniyah. It had taken us four hours to reach there from the Embassy and we were well due for a break. Grotesqcu pulled off the main highway and hunted up a functioning marketplace. He’d laid in some field rations, but you always eat fresh where you can, saving the canned stuff for emergencies. The stretch of Highway 1 south to Nasiriyah traversed less cultivated and sometimes barren land for another 120 miles. Heavier military traffic and more frequent air raids slowed us down more than in the morning, leaving us crossing the broad, slow-flowing Euphrates River toward dusk. Abruptly we found ourselves in palm-tree lined marshland.
“This is the region of the Marsh Arabs I’ve heard about?” I asked.
“We’re on the southern edge of it. The Tigris and Euphrates Rivers come together at Basrah. This is nothing compared to the swamps closer to the Iranian border. It’s a completely different mode of life and a thorn in Saddam’s side.”
“The Sunni / Shiite thing?”
“Essentially. Saddam’s ruling Ba’ath Party is Sunni, as is Saudi Arabia, but Shiites are the majority in Iraq and feel kinship with Iran, also Shiite. It’s a schism throughout the Arab world, like your Protestants and Catholics, or our Stalinists and Trotskyites. In every case the doctrinal differences amount to little. Here it’s not really a battle to the death over who succeeded Muhammad, but like the other schisms about who’s going to be on top. Power struggles pure and simple.”
Straddling the river, Nasiriyah was a full-fledged city with a modern business district and some broad boulevards. But as darkness fell the city stayed dark. “Your jets have been knocking out power plants all over Iraq,” Grotesqcu observed. “Hearing it reported in the news it may seem like just one of those things, but you’d better hope it never happens to America. These people modernized recently enough that they still can struggle along at a more primitive level. If some enemy disabled 90% of the power generation where you come from, your way of life would be doomed.”
We drove around town until we found a marketplace operating by kerosene lanterns and gas generators. It teemed with families whose houses no longer had power and couldn’t cook. Fortunately we weren’t the only well-dressed civilians there, nor were we in the only expensive car, so except for being infidels we didn’t stand out too much. What with all the chaos and lawlessness about, we thought the safest procedure was for Grotesqcu to fetch the food from a food stall. I sat waiting in the car, Uzi at the ready between my legs. The locals paid us only glancing attention as we ate the kabobs and rice he’d bought. A number of Iraqi soldiers were mixed in the crowd. They looked lost, desperate, dirty and armed, and some of them took an interest in our car. We stared them down if they came too close, figuring they’d not try anything in the midst of the marketplace crowd.
“We’ve five or six more hours, minimum, to reach Kuwait City,” said Grotesqcu. “What do you think?”
“We’d be driving in the dark, and night vision detectors can’t tell that we’re civilians. What say we put up here for the night and get an early start?”
“Makes sense,” he concluded. “With the war on and the power out, there’s no way we’re going to find an operating hotel with rooms for infidels. I’ll hunt up a secluded spot where we can sleep in the car. We’re near the university. They’re usually pretty quiet settings.” He circled around the university grounds until he found a parking lot with a smattering of cars in it next to some darkened buildings. “How about this?”
“Looks as good as anywhere,” I said. Night had long since fallen, the time approaching ten p.m. He took a spot distant from other cars with clear access to the road and shut off the engine. “One sleep and one stand watch?” I suggested.
“Suits me,” he said. “How about I sleep first? I’ve been driving all day, and in these conditions it’s wearying. Wake me up in four hours?” He laid his seat back as far as it would go and soon was out. I sat there with my Uzi in my lap. As the evening progressed two cars left the lot. Another car rolled slowly through, paused nearby us, and then drove on. It didn’t seem to be an official vehicle, so I paid it little attention. I nudged Grotesqcu awake at 0200 hours.
“Thanks, Jake,” he said. He straightened his seat up and fished his Uzi out. I put my seat back down and dozed off.
“Up and at ‘em, Jake,” he said a little while later. It was still dark outside. I snapped awake and reached for my gun. “A couple men came creeping into the lot, and they’re right alongside us,” he whispered. I made them out in the gloom. One came over close, peered inside and banged hard on the driver’s window. Grotesqcu said something in Arabic, and the man barked an answer. “He wants us to get out of the car. He’s in an army uniform, but it doesn’t seem to be an official bust. I think they just want to steal the car. He has an assault rifle. There’s one other man, standing behind him.”
Grotesqcu pushed his door open, holding his Uzi below the window and then behind his back as he swiveled out of his bucket seat. I flicked off the safety off mine and climbed out my side of the car keeping it low behind me. We had our visitor outgunned two to one, and an Uzi beats an AK-47 at close quarters, but where would a shootout in this setting lead? We’d come in during the dark and never got a good look at our surroundings. For all I knew we’d parked across the street from the town police station. The guy gave Grotesqcu a shove and held out his hand. He must have been asking for the keys, because Grotesqcu said something and pointed at the ignition switch. He elbowed Grotesqcu out of the way and took his eyes off him for a fatal moment. The Uzi came up and the soldier found a new hole in his skull. As he toppled over Grotesqcu covered the other guy before he could raise his weapon. I went over, took his rifle and threw it aside. He was thuggish-looking, in his 20s, walrus-mustached and like his buddy togged in a reekingly foul army uniform. And at the sight of what had just happened to his pal, scared shitless.
“Can’t leave him here to tell the tale,” Grotesqcu remarked as he put a couple slugs in the man’s face. The poor bastards were just too anxious to show up back home with a trophy for their trouble. “We have to clear out of here before anyone comes to investigate,” he said. “It’s four a.m. and nobody’s about, but the shots may have wakened somebody up.” We got back in the car and he drove a distance with lights off, then turned them on and scouted around until he found another secluded spot. “Finish your nap, Jake,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
Morning came without further incident. In daylight Nasiriyah wasn’t a bad little city. It had its Middle Eastern squalor, of course, but also some green areas and nicer districts. As Iraqi towns went, decent enough. Not being heavily military, it seemed not to have taken much damage, though losing power was quite enough, thank you. We drove into the central district and found a businessman-grade restaurant where we could fit in. We got breakfast—oven-baked sweet rolls, dates and coffee—and cleaned up a little. All around us conversations buzzed and worry beads rattled. Grotesqcu listened in and told me, “It’s on the radio this morning. Saddam just gave the order to withdraw from Kuwait.”
“Our timing’s pretty good, then,” I said. “We’re arriving right on schedule. They go out, and we go in.”
“If only. Intact, retreating armies that have just been humiliated aren’t pleasant company to be driving through.”
“Say, I’ve been smelling burning oil since we crossed the Euphrates. Did you notice that?”
“Yes, and it’s growing stronger. I’d heard that the Iraqis set fire to some of the Kuwaiti oil wells to create smoke screens against the jet attacks. I don’t see how that would deter radar, but it might hinder laser beams and free-fall bombing.”
We finished breakfast and after a long search found a station selling gas out of a tank truck (petrol station pumps, being electrical, didn’t work) and topped up our tank. The proprietor may have gloated about how much he gouged us for fifteen gallons of gas, as long as he didn’t
find out that the U.S. $100 bill Grotesqcu paid him with was counterfeit. Back on the road we left the greenery of the Euphrates and found ourselves once again crossing arid desert. We made fair time down Highway 8 south of town, although northbound military traffic had picked up and we saw more evidence of jet strikes. At our intended junction with Highway 1 we hit a wall—northbound traffic was jammed and now pretty much took up both sides of the road. It was the vanguard of the evacuation, and congestion would only thicken. Highway 8 so far had less northbound traffic and southbound was relatively clear—no reinforcements headed into Kuwait now. According to the map 8 more or less paralleled 1 all the way to the Basrah connection and then continued east beyond where Highway 1 dipped south. We figured we could pick up 1 then, so stuck with 8, driving across desert from that point. The two highways veered closer together from time to time, and we could see Highway 1 traffic getting slower and heavier. American jet harassment of Highway 8 increased, but we avoided getting hit.
*
We covered 100 miles in a little over three hours. It wasn’t as bad as other drives I’ve taken in war-ravaged countries, for example crossing Cambodia in a beat-up VW. Compared to that we rode today in regal style. We passed by the heaving derricks of the vast Rumaila oil field. The sky grew visibly heavier with oil smoke the further southeast we drove, but it wasn’t emanating from Rumaila.
We reached our intersection with Highway 1 just short of Az Zubayr to find that no civilian traffic was allowed south on 1. We had no choice but to continue east on Highway 8. Attack jets buzzed around seeking targets as retreating traffic thickened. Past Az Zubayr, roadblocks shunted us up into Basrah, ensnarling us in a creeping traffic jam. Basrah was a huge city, Iraq’s second largest, with over a million in population, and the place swirled in turmoil. It had been Saddam’s military headquarters for the Kuwait invasion. Now troops and vehicles had overrun it, grateful to be out of Kuwait but desperate for coherent instructions, eager to clear out of Basrah and seeking every possible exit. We sought to find refuge in a quieter suburb where the local gentry lived and our Mercedes wouldn’t seem out of place and invite a carjacking. Power was spotty in Basrah, but we still had a little daylight. We found a marketplace where we could get coffee and something to eat, and took stock of our situation.
“It’ll be at a snail’s pace from here on,” I said.
“We’ve no chance at all on Highway 80,” said Grotesqcu. “It’s the most direct road out of Kuwait, and the bulk of the retreating army will be on it, slouching their way north. What we could try is follow 8 to a lesser road, 26, going south to Um Qasr at the border. That’s Iraq’s main port, in fact its only port, the terminus for Highway 1. Highway 26 will have some traffic, but probably not as bad as 1. From there the road continues south around Bubiyan Island, then connects with 801 along Kuwait Bay and into Kuwait City. There’s no way we can reach Kuwait City tonight—the going’s too slow. But if we can find a place to put up in Um Qasr overnight we ought to make Kuwait City by midday tomorrow.”
“Well, let’s try that and hope for the best,” I said.
Famous last words.
Tuesday, February 26, 1991
We finally reached Um Qasr later than we’d thought, and we’d thought we’d be plenty late. The going got slower, and the oil smoke grew thicker as we neared the Kuwaiti border. Um Qasr, being Iraq’s only entry port, had been hit hard by the jets. Docks, loading equipment and storage buildings lay in still-smoldering ruins, and we saw collateral damage aplenty. Grotesqcu didn’t even look for a market place. He parked in an open storage area with good visibility all around. An Iraqi came out of a shed on the periphery and asked our business. Grotesqcu said we’d like to park there overnight and handed him a bunch of dinars. He counted them, thanked us profusely and went away. We pissed behind a big heap of rubble, then broke out some food he’d brought along and washed it down with bottled water. We slept soundly with no disturbances.
We rose at daybreak next morning and downed some more canned stuff. With an early start we hoped to cover the ground to Kuwait City by noon, which was more time than it took Saddam’s tanks to arrive. Today it was my turn at the wheel. “One problem I foresee,” I said as we careered along, “is that my passport went missing at Abu Ghraib. The staff took it when I checked in, or maybe the guards ripped it off. They took off with my wristwatch too, so why not the passport? An American passport’s worth its weight in gold around here.”
“No problem,” Grotesqcu said as he unbuttoned his shirt and reached inside. He pulled something out of a hidden interior pocket and handed it to me. It was an American passport…mine! Not exactly mine, for it had to be a forgery, but a very good one. It showed years of use and had all the proper stamps in it, plus a few more besides.
“Where’d this come from?” I asked.
“The KGB forges passports all the time; no one can beat the quality. Owing to past experience—you’ve been separated from your passport how many times lately?—I thought I’d bring it along just in case. I’ve used it several times myself, with a different photo, naturally. You’d be surprised at some of the shit you’ve pulled around the world in recent years. Adds to your legend, ha ha.”
Our planning seemed well-founded. The Kuwait border wasn’t far south of the city. The land to the east and south was mostly empty, and it hadn’t figured much in the invasion. Exiting traffic didn’t seem heavy, but smoke in the air was. Border control let us through based on our western passports, our elegant appearance and another of Grotesqcu’s counterfeit Benjamins. Relatively few vehicles headed south on Highway 801, compared to those coming north. As we neared the Sabriyah Oil Field the oil smoke got worse. We passed it several miles to the east and could make out leaping columns of flame throwing off big black clouds. We heard a series of explosions and saw new flames and billows burst forth. The skies filled with a smudgy black blanket.
If you’ve ever wondered why petroleum fires spew all that black smoke, here’s the thing: Petroleum is a mixture hydrocarbon molecules—hydrogen atoms attached along chains of carbon atoms. Combusting in open air, the hydrogen atoms burn off first. Burning hydrogen does not make a flame. The flames you see are glowing carbon particles before they completely combust. But it takes heat to ignite carbon, so a lot of the carbon does not burn but goes off as pure carbon—soot.
You may have recently read in “climate change” news reports about a “blanket of carbon dioxide” trapping heat with a greenhouse effect. The fact is that CO2 amounts to only 0.03% of the atmosphere—300 CO2 molecules interspersed throughout one million molecules of mostly nitrogen, partly oxygen. Picture one Cheerio in a box of corn flakes. Some blanket! What we witnessed as we drove along Highway 801 was a literal blanket of pure carbon, and an evil mess it was. The Iraqis were blowing up Kuwaiti oil wells on their way out, creating a genuine ecological disaster for spite.
The Merc was a pleasure to drive, and we weren’t bucking so much military traffic. Compared to yesterday we made good time. The road took us southwesterly and swung us past a big military encampment in the process of frantically hauling total ass. This installation didn’t show up on any maps and was a complication we couldn’t have foreseen. As far as we could tell, the Iraqis had dug in and fortified the north side of Kuwait Bay to defend against the amphibious assault Uday Hussein was certain would spearhead any American invasion. Judging from the armor and artillery on the way out, had it happened that way the Iraqis would have been in the catbird seat—until the jets and the battleships zeroed in on them. Now they were salvaging what they could of a bad tactical decision and hoping to get it back to Iraq. The shortest way out was overland to Highway 80, so I imagine that vehicles operable on bare ground followed dirt tracks out. We gritted our teeth as we merged in with departing Iraqi vehicles taking the long way by highway. We tried not to bother them, and they were in too urgent a hurry to bother with us. A number of officers were exiting in liberated Kuwaiti luxe c
ars, so our Merc didn’t look too out of place in the big parade.
Our serious troubles began when we approached the junction with Highway 80 near Jahra. Movement slowed to a crawl as Iraq-bound traffic on 801 met the mob streaming frantically out of Kuwait City. It was clear that we would have no chance of going south on Highway 80. We inched along with the jam, discussing what to do next. Soldiers on foot clamored around the vehicles seeking rides—they faced a long walk to the border. They climbed atop tanks and squeezed into trucks that could make room for them. Many toted packs of booty, making it difficult to hitch a ride on vehicles already stuffed with looted Kuwaiti goods.
Movement ceased and we sat idling. A pair of red-bereted Republican Guards who’d been riding on an adjacent tank hopped off with their packs and walked over to us. One of them rapped on my window. He carried a submachine gun, so I thought it best to pay attention to him. I rolled down the window and he said something in Arabic. I shrugged my shoulders and pointed to Grotesqcu. The soldier went around the front of the car and spoke to Grotesqcu. They had a polite conversation, and then the two men opened the back doors of the Merc, dumped their packs on the seat and got in.
“What’s going on?” I whispered.
“He asked where we were going. I told him Kuwait City. He told me, no, we’re all going to Basrah. He had a submachine pointed at me. So I graciously bade them enter.”
“And…?”
“Unless we come up with a better idea quick, we’re going to join the crush on Highway 80 going north.”
I could see in the rearview mirror that our two guests were greatly pleased. Despite being cramped by their packs they eased back on the seat, fingered the soft leather and positively sighed. It’s a hard fate, after all, retreating to piss-poor Iraq after luxuriating in other people’s wealth for seven months. They’d faced a hot, clanking ride on top of that tank. Our happening along was a great windfall. One of them jabbered something. Grotesqcu jabbered back, and the soldier laughed. “What was that about?” I asked.
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 59