Departure the next morning, via Black Hawk helicopter, was at 0800 from a small but very busy airfield. It was really just a place for choppers to come and go, as there was no actual landing strip. This field was populated by an interesting cross section of folks involved in the war effort – National Guardsmen (you could tell those guys by the twenty extra pounds they carried around on average), contractors (older, not in uniform), Special Forces (young, bearded, also not in uniform) and diplomats (looking as out of place at the airfield as we did).
Waiting for our ride, Donovan and I made our way up to the control tower to sign a few things for guys who couldn’t leave their post and we got a great overview of the field. A large hill in the distance had every imaginable kind of radio or cell tower on it.
“That’s an odd-looking hill in the middle of nowhere,” I mentioned to a young controller.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “That’s where they put the dirt from Saddam’s lake. Now it’s the best place for towers.”
Our tandem Black Hawks landed right around 0800. They travel in pairs as an official policy now, since the very ugly “Black Hawk down” incident happened in Mogadishu years before. Armed with what seemed like vintage flak jackets and helmets, we were ready to roll.
The UH-60 Black Hawks are amazing to watch in action. They are both fast and powerful and armed with dual .50-caliber machine guns. We wanted to watch one land in front of us, but after the first wave of dust and rocks hits you in the teeth it dawns on you why everyone turns away from a helicopter landing.
We raced to the chopper and ducked inside. These were “open” models, no glass in the windows – we were flapping in the wind. The two gunners who helped us buckle into fabric seats were all business – there wasn’t any small talk. After a few of these rides, a pattern emerged. If the pilot knew who we were, the gunners would hand us headsets as we boarded and we’d chat up the captain or co-pilot along the way. If they didn’t, we just kept our helmets on.
As we rapidly ascended, the gunners snapped up the barrels of their guns and swept the horizon for bogeys. Down below, we got a better sense of geography and landscape. Because two major rivers converge around Baghdad, the place is remarkably irrigated and it would have been a good double for Phoenix, Arizona, or San Bernardino, California.
Each of our chopper rides was ten minutes or under, as these bases were mostly on the outskirts of Baghdad. Our first landing was Nasir Wa Salam, a Stryker division. The captain who ran the base was a really cool guy – reserved, tough and smart. We found out later he got a Silver Star in a tank battle a few years before. He was the old man now, but it was clear that his guys respected the hell out of him.
Most commanders started us off with a tour, which always gave us a quick idea of the size and focus of the base. The perimeter was essentially concrete blast wall panels, fifteen feet high. The grounds were covered with four inches of river rock, so there was a maddening step forward, slide half a step back sort of thing going on. I was assured that this was far preferable to the “moon dust” on the desert floor, which permeated clothes, equipment and every personal “nook and cranny.” The rock itself was from the Euphrates River and implemented by Iraqi engineers.
Each base had a way to keep an eye on itself – literally. A tall tower at the edge of the compound provided radio and cell communications but also hosted a high-powered video camera that could zoom in to amazing detail, night or day. The young soldiers manning the cameras looked very much at home with their joystick/video game style controllers.
At JSS Yusifiya, we were asked to participate in a reenlistment ceremony. One of the recruits was reupping and the base commander was making a big deal of it in the mess hall where all the soldiers congregated. The ceremony was very sincere and straightforward. The soldier in question received a patch on his shoulder – something to add to the other patches. This was a very Boy Scout approach, where you hold ceremonies to laud the accomplishments of young men. These patches are so prolific that soldiers now have Velcro on their sleeves to more easily rearrange or change their layout.
As visiting dignitaries, we started to build our own collections of swag – not only patches but coins, too. I wasn’t hip to the whole “coin thing” when it first happened to me and I bungled it right off the bat. The idea is that a base commander or higher-up reaches his hand out to shake yours, usually accompanied by a “thank you for your support of the troops” type of thing and then he surreptitiously transfers a commemorative coin into your hand.
When it first happened to me – when my hand touched a strange, cold object – I impulsively yanked my hand away, thinking it was a joy buzzer and launched the sacred coin into the air. Every war-hardened soldier in the room winced at the gaffe and you can bet your bottom dollar that I never dropped another coin. The trick, upon shaking, is to turn the officer’s hand horizontal and let the coin simply drop into your hand.
Sure, I know that now …
Food on these forward bases was all over the map, quality-wise. Nasir Wa Salam had easily the worst food I’ve ever eaten – certainly top five. It was a buffet layout of brown, deep-fried food. Some visiting soldiers knew better and went straight for the “meal replacement” drinks instead. A smaller base we visited a few days later was ten times better because their food wasn’t provided by outside contractors – they had their own cook. There we dined on prime rib, mashed potatoes and green beans.
Each base did what it could to create a sense of normalcy. The smallest base, Aqur Quf, kept three dogs. One of them was white but was so covered in dust they called it Dirt Bag. Another pooch, who slept all day, was aptly nicknamed Duty. The third dog, Courage, ran away anytime you tried to pet it. The familiar sight of these friendly canines really did have a positive impact. It made your mind jump out of a concrete and river rock encampment in a generally hostile foreign country to a sleepy fishing hole in rural Georgia, where you and your mutt, Blue, are angling for catfish on a lazy summer afternoon.
Sprawl of Duty.
In a war zone, there are a lot of fully automatic weapons. FOBs were no exception – these men and women were armed to the teeth. Donovan, Don and I were invited numerous times to “pump a few rounds” and we never turned them down.
Shooting live ammo isn’t that much different from shooting blanks on a film set – both are extremely loud. The difference is that when firing fake bullets you don’t inhale a steady stream of gunpowder residue and you never see the effects of your weaponry, like the side of a dirt hill being shredded in front of you.
Each FOB had a history. Some of them were chosen for strategic placement (there were dozens around Baghdad alone) and others were selected because the owners of the land were willing to cooperate. One base had previously been a farm, but with several tall structures and a two-story farmhouse the place was ideal for a base. The Pakistani farmer agreed to a $70,000-a-year deal and only stopped by a few times a year to get paid and check on the place.
Greeting soldiers on duty posed slightly different problems because sometimes you had to figure out how to get to them. The young recruits on lookout duty at this former farm were stationed at the top of a concrete grain silo. To reach them, we had to make our way up a jury-rigged series of wooden ladders and platforms – not unlike a tree fort.
Our visit to Sheik Amir culminated in a pickup game of basketball. I can’t personally recommend this activity – at least not for an out-of-shape middle-aged guy playing against war-hardened twentysomething studs in the desert. It was a fast track to humiliation. When a soldier yelled, “C’mon, Ash, suck it up!” it was the one time I couldn’t tell him to shove it up his ass – mostly because I didn’t have enough wind to speak.
It was always fun rounding out our FOB visits with a trip to the communications area, where scores of soldiers on these remote bases could Skype live with family members or shoot off an e-mail – on a daily basis. God bless technology. This type of direct communication has got to be better for the families and tr
oops than during the Vietnam war, as an example, when soldiers still relied on excruciatingly slow “snail mail.”
Jeffrey and I enjoyed interrupting sometimes “romantic” calls between a soldier and his significant other on the other end of the line. These remote wives or girlfriends were often wearing very “relaxed” clothing and some of them weren’t wearing much at all.
The morning after our six FOB visits, I awoke feeling like hammered dog shit. I felt extremely hungover and there wasn’t an ounce of alcohol involved. I assumed that it was a combination of shockingly bad air quality, dust inhalation, stress and the fact that a thunderstorm in the middle of the night sounded like we were under direct attack.
Jeffrey felt like crap, too, while Don, Mr. War Torn, chuckled at our state. “It’s a war zone, guys – it’s natural to feel like shit.”
COMMAND AND CONQUER
Our next stop, after mingling with the troops, was to visit the administrative/support side of the war, which was a huge part of the equation. In our random sampling of troops at signings, we were amazed that about two-thirds of the folks we polled were not actively in combat. Their support came in the form of transportation, communication, information technology, logistics, medical and engineering. It’s the lopsided nature of modern conflict – the roots of the warfare tree run deep and broad.
I finally got to see for my own eyes that big-budget action movies aren’t all full of shit. Giant command centers in auditoriums the size of a top-ten college lecture hall, boasting easily two hundred HD monitors, do exist. The setup provided Operation Iraqi Freedom with its eyes and ears. In addition to the myriad of small screens, averaging five to a person at smaller stations, a screen worthy of a high-end movie theater anchored the room, where desired images could be magnified for all to see in incredible detail.
This made me recall the white blimps we saw floating above the city of Baghdad. Initially, I thought it was odd that they were not moving around or advertising anything – until I was informed that those blimps were wired with digital cameras and audio sensors. From their multiple fixed positions around the city, the blimps could triangulate the location of, say, a random gunshot. Scary cool.
Brother Don about to say “fuck you” to the vanquished.
I’ve always found it amusing that invading or conquering troops always base out of the former headquarters of their opponents, as a way of saying “fuck you” to the vanquished. I guess that’s why German and American troops alternated use of the finest European chateaus and castles during WW II.
The notable thing about Saddam’s palaces was the smoke and mirrors aspect: They looked impressive as hell from a distance, but upon closer inspection most of them would be condemned for shoddy construction. A sweeping second-story balcony overlooking the “lake” Saddam constructed was breathtaking until you inspected the many elaborate columns, which were crumbling and packed with dirt. There was no “solid” granite or marble anywhere. Even the world’s largest chandelier, hanging in the grand entrance hall, was made out of plastic, not crystal. I couldn’t help likening Saddam’s palaces to Las Vegas casinos.
That was mostly the topic of conversation when we dropped in to meet the military brass – in this case, two-star general Joe Anderson. General Anderson was very gracious as he welcomed us into his expansive office, which was part of a huge administrative complex based out of Saddam Hussein’s largest, most impressive “hunting” palace.
“This is my army-issue boomstick!”
I’d been in the world of make-believe as long as General Anderson had been in the ultrareal world of waging war, so I wouldn’t say we shared the “tons in common” award. Mostly, Donovan and I marveled at the size and scope of the operations General Anderson and his troops had put into place and how impressed we were with the quality of the personnel along the way.
In turn, while General Anderson most likely will never see Evil Dead II, he certainly appreciated that actors help entertain and/or distract his soldiers when they are not on the battlefield, bringing a little cheer into their overstressed lives.
The next morning, our last in the war zone, I sat down outside the palace and jotted some Baghdad musings:
Hard to believe I’m in a war zone. Sunrise over Saddam’s palace is, dare I say, bucolic. Cool breeze, lovely cloud patterns – all the more deceptive.
In reality, after only four days in this city, I’m very ready to leave. I believe I’ll be kissing the ground upon return. The air sucks and there is a faint gloom slathered over everything. The soldiers seem as well adjusted as possible, but “happy” is not a word to describe their mood.
Wars blow. The idea of a “good” war or a “just” war sounds great in speeches and on talk radio, but it halts the march of civilization, kills and maims humans and disrupts families – not to mention the god-awful cost. It really hit me that if you’re going to go to this much effort and expenditure, it had better be for a damn good reason.
RETURNING HOME
The return plan included a stop at the fabled war hospital Walter Reed (now defunct), in Washington, D.C., to visit the wounded. It didn’t seem like our troop visit would be complete unless we stopped in on the folks who really sacrificed.
Approaching the physical therapy gym, Donovan and I exchanged a wary glance. What was this going to be like? What would we say to these kids that would have any positive impact whatsoever? We decided that these kids were tough and that we shouldn’t tiptoe around what had happened. If a guy was missing his legs – there must be a story behind it and we wanted him to talk freely about it.
Most of the fresh patients were soldiers from Afghanistan. The casualties were from roadside bombs (the dreaded I.E.D.) or RPG (Rocket-Propelled Grenade). The damage to their physical bodies ran the gamut from mild to grotesque, but you couldn’t look away.
The first soldier I met told the story of how he lost his right arm.
“RPG tore the thing right off,” he said matter-of-factly.
“So, it blew up nearby?” I asked ignorantly.
“No, man, the rocket itself did this – just the force alone. I’m not sure where it blew up.”
Behind me, a gravelly voice called out: “Hey, Ash…”
I turned to see a soldier holding up the stump of his arm. “I could use that chainsaw right about now,” he said ruefully.
I couldn’t help but smile at the Evil Dead reference, but there was nothing funny about his wounds. You could see, from his injuries, where a bomb had impacted the entire left side of his body. His left eye was glass (which he cheerfully popped out to show me), his left arm was half-gone and his leg was a nightmare of reconstructive titanium pins.
“So, do you at least have some good days?” I asked tentatively.
“Hell yes,” he said with a smile. “I got drunk and laid this past weekend, so I’m good.”
Another soldier, who was also missing a leg, explained that everything was fine with his girlfriend, even though his leg was mangled badly – as long as he still had it. The doctors had explained that all of his complications would end if they just removed the leg. In excruciating pain, he reluctantly agreed. The good news: His complications ended. The bad news: So did his relationship, because his girlfriend couldn’t handle the new reality.
One young kid, maybe eighteen, was fresh from an Afghanistan battlefield, sprawled out in bed, tubes connecting him to a half-dozen machines. This kid literally didn’t know what hit him.
“Where were you when it went down?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, after some hesitation.
“What happened to you?”
“… I … don’t know…”
The soldier began to tear up, attempting to reconstruct the recent events and his young mother gave us a nod like “It’s time” and we moved along.
One of the striking things about meeting these young soldiers was that their number-one concern and driving motivation was to return to their unit and resume active combat. A legless so
ldier was utterly convinced that he could rejoin his unit before it came home in a couple months.
Like all wars, casualties are unpredictable and the ripple effect is wide. We visited a female reporter who was imbedded with troops when her Stryker vehicle hit a roadside bomb.
“Fucking death traps.” She scowled, looking down at her badly shattered leg. In order to get the care the reporter needed, her schoolteacher sister had to take a leave of absence and travel from another state to help out.
The saddest case Donovan and I encountered that day was the soldier who refused to see us. Every other soldier, no matter how bad off, seemed surprised and pleased to see us, but this soldier had been shot through the face and was in no mood for glad-handing. Not everything works out all neat and scripted – not even the warm and fuzzy “visit the troops” part.
Jeffrey and I left the hospital humbled and quiet. In our line of work, nobody is really in danger, our food service and workplace accommodations are off-the-charts in comparison to the average military grunt – and they’re the ones getting shot at! It’s safe to say that neither of us will complain about hot summers in Miami ever again.
16
LEGENDS OF THE FALL
When a TV series approaches its third season, entertainment lawyers and studio accountants brace themselves for a showdown. The speculative freshman first season is over and season two has helped create a momentum that both audiences and networks can respect. A third season of a TV show – or even a second season – was unfamiliar territory for me, but I had been around long enough to know that season three was when actors renegotiated their contracts.
The momentum of Burn Notice was undeniable and the cast knew it was going to be around for a while. Renegotiating my contract was practically obligatory.
ILLICIT AFFAIRS
With tradition on my side, I brazenly approached the Business Affairs team, through my trusty representatives, and said, “Hey, guys, this is a great show we’re all making. Remember that moldy old contract we signed a couple years ago? Waddya say we just throw that silly thing away?”
Hail to the Chin Page 19