Friday, March 31, 2006

Bad Drivers



I’ve spent the last week in Bayji, Iraq with the 1-187 Infantry known as the “Rakkasans.” When we arrived last week, not only were we greeted with our own “Chu,” a one room aluminum apartment, but we were also given an old beater humvee to make our way around camp. I was just learning the intricacies of turning on the headlights and parking brake and Gina and I had plans to decorate it with an Army Times logo but before we could do so, the vehicle was “appropriated” in the middle of the night and we haven’t seen it sense. Oh well, easy come, easy go.
Bayji is a Sunni town with an oil refinery near the northern tip of the infamous, “Sunni Triangle.” I’ve been going on daily missions here which largely amounts to overseeing the Iraqi Army and Security Forces. It appears that, at least in this area, the U.S. is stepping back and letting the Iraqi’s deal with their own problems and I am told that most of those problems are a result of the corruption and organized crime in the form of extortion.
The greatest threat to our troops here, as in so many areas of Iraq, are the roads. Those nasty little Improvised Explosives Devices (IED’s) are prevailant here, as are mines and the occasional suicide bomber. Soldiers wear full protective gear which not only includes their helmets and body armor, but ballistic eyewear, fire retardent gloves, and even earplugs to preserve hearing in case of a loud boom. Things have been so bad here that the gunner that usually stands up with his head out of the hatch, stays crouched down until he needs to man the gun. As they drive, everyone in each vehicle constantly scans the road for any trash or pothole, or greesespot or anything outside of the norm that might be an IED. The problem is, trash, and potholes, and greesespots are EVERYWHERE and the soldiers try to remember whether that particular piece of trash was there yesterday. This makes any drive off the base a nerveracking endeavor.
Here in Iraqi, when coalition forces travel the roads, the locals know to stop and pull over to show they are not a threat. So, as you advance through a town it appears you are riding in a funeral procession or an ambulance as all approaching vehicles pull over to the shoulder while you pass.
At sunset yesterday, I was with A Company, in the lead vehicle on our way to visit an Iraqi Army checkpoint. We were cruising along with lights flashing and sireen wailing. Cars were pulling off the road in front of us until we hit a long straight stretch and I watched the small white dot of a sedan grow larger and larger in the wind shield. As the car got closer I noticed that I could only see one head in the car. A vehicle that fails to stop and only has one person inside is the common profile for suicide bomber. On my last trip here I got a chance to see them and their results numerous times but back then, I was riding in a large, heavily armored vehicle. This time, I was sitting on top of the fuel tank in a Humvee and time seemed to slow. I felt the gunner tense and then straighten in the hatch. I gripped a camera in one hand and the complicated door release in the other, my knuckles white. I think I stopped breathing as I watched the car get closer and closer without slowing. I voice in my head was commanding, HE’S TOO CLOSE, SHOOT! but it seemed like an enternity before our vehicle commander finally shouted the same order, “SHOOT, SHOOT, SHOOT” and the gunner up top began firing his M-4 on the approaching car. It always amazes me how much can go through your mind in those seconds. I saw the sparks of bullets richocheting off the ground in front of the looming vehicle. As it reached us I thought, TOO LATE! THIS IS IT, WE’RE DONE. The gunner continued shooting. Seven shots in all as it passed us and there was no explosion. We got out of the humvee and the soldiers cautiously approached the car now sitting beyond us with four flat tires. As I crouched near the back of our vehicle shooting pictures, I was alternately still expecting an explosion and dreading seeing the bloody remains of the driver when he emerged from his car with his hands up. He was untouched by the bullets which had cut a neat hole in his front bumper and pierced his tires. He explained through the interpreter that he was driving into the sun and therefore didn’t see our Humvees and that his music, still blaring an Arabic ballad, prevented him from hearing any sireen. Our platoon leader called for help to repair the vehicle and we waited for it to arrive in the form of Iraqi Police. Then we loaded back up and continued on the mission, Alpha Company’s evening just getting started on the roads of Bayji.

Note: I’ve finally updated my web page with pictures from the first half of my trip. More to follow.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

A Desert Isle


We’re wrapping up our week here at FOB Iscan and I’ve got packing to do. All Gina’s gear is neatly stacked on her cot while mine is scattered over two cots into the little wooden box they’ve provided us here as an office. This log is an effort to avoid the monumental task ahead of gathering it all up in the most economical way to manage it between here and two helicopter rides that will take us to Baghdad and on to the 101st area of operations (AO) up north.
It’s been a good week here with good people and despite the portapotties and pidgeon droppings, I’m beginning to see this portion of the trip as easing into the war zone. In addition to doing a dozen soldier stories on everything from the laundry service to the canine unit, I’ve managed to get in some patrols in town and even take a boat ride to blow up bridges. Well, foot bridges and palm trees but they were nice explosions. Just what I needed to shake the dust off, work up a sweat and start churning out “combat photography.” About the bridges:
There is an “island” here off the Euphrates. I have “island” in quotation marks because the only thing that makes it an “island” is a canal ditch that feeds off the river and runs around it. It seems a few months ago, it was determined that insurgents were using the island as a safe haven. The place was raided and heaps of weapons an explosives were found. So, the 1st Bat. 67th Armor decided to take it over and secure it. For a photojournalist, it sounded like a classic case of “should’ve been here yesterday.” However, there was work left to be done. At least one foot bridge and a palm tree spanned the little canal and the mission of the 50th Engineers we were with was to take their boats laden with explosives to the island and blow up these bridges in hopes of making them too difficult for the bad guys to cross. It was a nice ride on the boat and I got to watch the explosives experts at work. It took two blasts to take down the foot bridge of which I have no good pictures because, I’m a wuss, and damn it, I can’t help but jump when the explosives go off. That bridge out of the way, our team hiked to the palm crossing. As they were rigging this one I noticed a shephard approaching from the opposite side with his flock. The soldiers immediately waved him off, the word “BOOM” is evidently universal language for get the heck out of here. There were oohs and ahhs and woops of success at the flash of light and the pulp that rained among us. Mission accomplished, everyone said, but as we walked away, I looked back to notice the shephard surrounded by his sheep, on OUR side of the canal. Somehow, the wiley old guy and his entire flock had managed to cross in the time it had taken us to pack up our gear. I didn’t have the heart to point this out to our team. Besides, we were late for chow.
As the light fell too low on the river for me to make any more pictures, I sat back in the boat. The wind was still, the water had turned to glass, the motor drowned all other sound and silhottes of palm trees zipped by in the blue night. For for a few blissful moments I was transported to a jon boat in the SC lowcountry, on my way to a duck blind or a fishing spot, or to watch the fireworks on the 4th of July. Many of my favorite memories were rolled into one on this foreign stretch of water.

Friday, March 17, 2006

Of Fobbits and Soldiers...


It’s amazing how fast things can change. Less than 48hrs. ago we were housed at the “Central Press Information Center” enjoying all the comforts of the “International Zone” (IZ) formerly the “Green Zone.” We had bunk beds in a “media lounge,” internet access, even a big flat screen TV. Best yet, we had clean flush toilets. One night last week, after a tough day at the hospital, we enjoyed dinner with the “Fobbits” (definition below) at the Blue Star CafĂ©. At this local hang-out in the IZ, we ate a mixed grill, drank cold Turborg beer and discussed how to right all the wrongs of the world.
Today, we’re living in the storage hanger of a maintance building on a dirty industrial complex 30 mi. south of Baghdad. Pidgeons fly over head, splattering the soldiers and marines on their cots below (the Marines don’t seem to mind). This is FOB Iscan where soldiers from the 1-67, 4th Infantry Division trudge through the wasteland of a huge power plant, the smokestacks belching black soot. No TV, no internet, and you carry your own TP to the port-a-pots. Somehow, though, I feel more at home than I did in the IZ. At least I’m finally with the soldiers doing work I can see and understand. Until now I felt vaguely guilty living the life of a “Fobbit.” A “Fobbit” is someone who never gets away from base and has little idea what’s happening “out there.” The guards, civilian contractors, state department employees and all the misc. people who keep a modern army operating, but never see the “outside of the wire.” They live a sheltered, relatively comfortable life in a war zone. I can’t blame them for trying to make their own lives as comfortable as possible here, and I have appreciated their hospitality. For me, though, that life is somehow hard to enjoy when I know what life is like for the average soldier in Iraq. So I’ve been getting soft and living in shame until now.
The soldiers here in Iskandiriyah are out in to these mixed Sunni/Shiite towns trying to tamp down violence, support the local police forces, and bring a level of civility to this tortured area. Much of the population here worked in Saddam’s military complex, either with The Medina Division Repulican Guard or in the munition factories. As a result, the local populace are now largely unemployed and desperate.
Yesterday we went with A Company to the nearby Sunni town of Jur as Sakhr where this unit is simultaniously building a little patrol base and employing some of the locals in a painting project to improve their own town. With the little U.S. sub-station in the middle of downtown, they hope to provide an additional level of security; with the white paint a job, a sense of self respect. Still, the soldiers must be on the lookout for roadside IED’s and the Shiite run police force generally refuse to enter the town. This is life in Iraq: the constant, one step forward, two back (or vice versa) struggle that continues. I’m looking forward to exploring it more in the days to come.

Saturday, March 11, 2006

Fight for Life



We’ve spent the last few days at the Ibn Sina hospital in Baghdad, home of the 10th Combat Support Hospital (CSH) where U.S. doctors and nurses fight for the lives the “fresh trauma” victims. These are soldiers and civilians, Iraqi and American, even insurgents. It doesn’t seem to matter to these docs as they are entirely focused on saving the life in front of them. I’m sitting here trying to figure out how to describe the miracle of what we’ve seen the last few days. The experience has been overwhelming in many ways: the severity of the wounds we’ve seen, the intensity of the ER and operating rooms, the delicate care in the intensive care unit. My first day here I watched a patient very nearly die from a gunshot wound to the chest and a surgeon place his finger on the pulmonary artery to keep the blood from draining a life. I saw the surgical team refuse to give up on that patient when many would have thought it hopeless. I very literally watched a life saved and realized the miracle that was being performed through the hands, hearts and minds of these care givers. These are not docs who dispassionatly run the patient through the system, patching them up and moving on. These docs and nurses follow their patients through their treatment, often checking up on them after they’ve left the trama center for further treatment. They take personal responsibilty for the lives that are saved and the deaths weigh heavily on them. Yet everyone we’ve talked to say this is the most rewarding experience lives, to be able to save life and limb and send a soldier or civilian home to his/her family.
As a photojournalist, this story seems like the opportunity on a life time on one hand, and the most daunting I’ve ever attempted on the other. Every day I’m put through the paces mentally and emotionally, trying to figure out how express the magnitude of what is happening here with my very limited tools: an eye and a camera. I have the feeling that I could spent a lifetime and never be equal to the task but I am so grateful for this opportunity and for the people I’m covering.
Last night I got the chance to talk via email to a fellow shooter, Toby Morris, who was shot in the leg by a sniper and treated at this very hospital last week. He seemed to be in remarkably good spirits though he may have a long road to recovery. Talking to him and seeing all these injuries is a brutal reminder of how dangerous it is “outside the wire.” It scares the crap out of me when I let myself think about it and there’s no way not to think about it here. Still, I feel stonger than ever about the importance of telling the stories of these soldiers.
Please keep Toby, the docs, the soldiers and all the victims of this war in your thoughts and prayers. Thanks for reading and for your support.
JLee

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Ultimate Road Trip


The ultimate road trip started at Camp Navistar on the Kuwait border, an interesting place some have dubbed as the world’s largest truck stop. We struck out on a convoy called the “Arrow Express” making the run of about 400 miles to Balad, just north of Baghdad. This convoy consists of miles of “white” trucks, those driven by “TCN’s” or Third Country National contractors carrying the supplies and equipment needed to maintain the coalition Army. The amount of stuff we bring in is phenomenal and it all all comes into the country through Navistar. These “whites” are unarmed and vulerable, sometimes hijacked by desert pirates in the south or attacked by insurgents further north, so the Army provides armed escort trucks called “greens” to see to it they all reach their destinations safely. It's a dangerous and unheralded job. I'm glad Gina had the idea to do this convoy and hope her story gets these drivers, both "whites" and "greens" the attention they deserve. I had the priviledge of riding in the front of the convoy for the first and safest leg of the trip. Ironically, this is when I was most jumpy, tensing whenever we met a civilian or passed a mound of dirt on Hwy 1 (aka MSR Tampa.) My driver, Sgt. Robbie Green, a 1st Battalion 12th Field Artillery soldier from Springfield, VA, as the lead “green” truck, had the responsibilty of calling out everything that could be a potential hazard over the radio which would then be relayed back to each truck in the multi-mile long convoy. I first got the sense that we were really in Iraq when Sgt. Green radioed “oncoming traffic southbound in the northbound lane, advise all trucks to stay right” just as a civlian pick-up whizzed passed us. Noticing my dismay Sgt. Green said, “oh, that’s just normal here,” and I reminded myself that it was time to start expecting the unexpected and that I was once again going in the rabbit hole.
The trip to our first stop at Scania, another big truck stop near the ancient ruins of Ur took us a little over 7 hrs. where we crashed at a little paradise of a camp during the day wanting to make the final and more dangerous leg of the trip under the cover of darkness. One day turned into two as, par for the course here, after loading back up at 1a.m. and heading out the gate, the road was closed due to firefights and IEDs (improvised explosive devises) further along the route. So we turned around to do it again the following night. The good news is that Camp Scania is a little paradise. Largely removed from the fighting the town is relatively friendly, and the camp well equipped. Even camel rides are offered at a little bizaar there. Gina and I went on a brief patrol with 167th Infantry National Guard from AL, of the town of Shumali where I showed off my grace in front of the townspeople and soldiers by falling backwards dead into the center of a huge tractor tire as I back-peddled up the sidewalk photographing the patrol. I must have looked like a true redneck reclining in an intertube. A cold beer and a slow flowing river was all I needed but I was happy to provide all with a good laugh, far beyond embarrassment at this point.
The following evening we loaded back up and this time I drew the rear “gun-truck” which was an up-armored Humvee. I didn’t know which was better. When I was in the lead I was in a big armored tractor trailer safely enscounced but I would be the first to find any hazards. I thought it would be good to be in the rear but then I remembered how fragile Humvees seemed by comparision. Luckily, the route to Baghdad was fairly uneventful punctuated only by radio reports of other convoys that had hit IED’s, and the occasional tracer fire in the distance. My gun crew joked through it all, telling stories and cranking out tunes on the I-pod hanging from the review mirror. We made it to Balad by 3:30 a.m. (about 6 hours) and caught a couple hours sleep on a cot before jumping on a blackhawk helicopter for the short flight to Baghdad at day break.
Now, here we are at Baghdad’s “International Zone”, formerly “The Green Zone.” This is another surreal place where we have received our official Press ID’s that seem to put us only a notch above Most Wanted Terrorist in the eyes of all the security here. We’re living behind giant concrete walls. Of course, I’m anxious to explore this phenomenon of a modern International walled city inside a war zone where you can drink a cappacino while listening to bombs explode in town, but I’m not to go anywhere without an official escort and by the way, “no pictures please.” Oh, well, a comfortable bed awaits and is much appreciated. Goodnight to all.
JLee