Tales from the sandbox - Army News | News from Afghanistan & Iraq - Army Times

Tales from the sandbox

Military Times staff writer Gina Cavallaro and photographer Rick Kozak covered U.S. military operations in Iraq from the middle of January through the third week of March of 2005. Please feel free to e-mail her with your thoughts.

Losing a friend

Ramadi, Iraq —March 21

This is a column I hoped I would never have to write. It’s about the death of a soldier who, like so many I’ve met on my four trips to Iraq to ride along with and write about soldiers, became a quick and loyal friend during the short time I knew him.

I’ve known people who have been killed here. And I’ve certainly seen death in my personal life. But I had not had the misfortune of having to witness a mortally wounded soldier try to hang on to life.

I grieve for this fallen soldier as I know his buddies do. And now I understand what it has been like for thousands of others who have seen tragedy here in Iraq.

His name was Spc. Francisco Martinez. He was 20 years old and a forward observer in 2nd Battalion, 17th Field Artillery. But when I met him, he was temporarily attached to a scout platoon in Alpha Company, 1st Battalion, 9th Infantry Regiment, a common practice among maneuver units.

The scout platoon conducts raids and dismounted civil affairs and reconnaissance patrols through dangerous neighborhoods. Martinez told me he really liked doing that job because it meant going outside the wire where the action is, instead of sitting guard on a gate somewhere.

I went on my first foot patrol with that platoon March 16, and Martinez became my shadow, a little brother who watched out for me in the two or three hours we walked through the Tamin area of Ramadi. He had that spunky, gregarious kind of personality that entertained the other soldiers; a broad, ready smile of gleaming white teeth and a “hey, look at me, I’m a warrior and I love it” attitude.

I never talked with the other soldiers about him, but I could tell he was well-liked. I liked him a lot, too. He was one of those very young, super capable guys, and his confidence made me feel safe.

We talked about Puerto Rico where his family comes from and where I grew up. Occasionally our conversations lapsed into Spanish, and we laughed about things unique to the island territory, like the fiery political scene and the fervor with which Puerto Ricans celebrate Christmas.

He seemed as if he was having a good time being a soldier on duty in Iraq. Maybe the fact that he came from another culture helped him accept the Iraqis more easily.

Like everyone else, Martinez was sure of himself on the dismounted patrol, shielded by his body armor and carrying a powerful rifle to fend off trouble.

But on March 20 that wasn’t good enough.

It was my last day in Ramadi, and I opted to go on one last patrol with Alpha Company. As with the first one, Martinez was by my side the whole time, just walking along with me, asking me personal questions and what it was like to work for Army Times.

As Martinez and I walked together, we chatted about different things and goofed around with some of the Iraqi kids who were following us. It was a routine patrol, like dozens of others they had already done. Martinez never let his guard down, and we were surrounded by his fellow soldiers, field artillery and infantry guys on foot and in Humvees.

Part of the reason for the patrol was to find a sniper who had already killed three soldiers and wounded a few more. The soldiers hadn’t had a lead on the sniper in weeks. They checked the location where they hoped to find the guy, but he wasn’t there.

But instead of heading back to post, the soldiers decided to do a reconnaissance through the neighborhood, a historically bad area called Five Kilo just outside their post on the west end of Ramadi.

Around 3 p.m., that routine patrol turned dark with a single shot.

We were about 45 minutes into the patrol and stopped in front of a house where the company commander was inside talking with some locals.

Standing about six feet in front of Martinez, I had just taken a picture when I heard a shot ring out. It was close.

I turned around and there was my buddy lying flat on his back in the street right in front of me, his legs outstretched and his arms by his sides. Horrified and completely incredulous, I screamed his name out, “Martinez!” The whole world seemed to have been upended.

I didn’t believe what I was seeing.

“No, no,” I heard myself saying, “not Martinez.” I was told to take cover, but I couldn’t figure out how and I didn’t want to take my eyes off my friend.

He was surrounded immediately by soldiers who took his vest off and tried to move him toward the closest Humvee. I felt panicked and began hyperventilating watching his uniform turn crimson and a pool of his blood spilling onto the dusty pavement.

I saw the commander running with a group of soldiers toward the area where a car carrying the likely shooter was seen pulling away when someone yelled for me to get into the Humvee. Relieved to have been given an order I could follow, I jumped in behind the driver. In the other seat was Pfc. Michael Johnson, helping to get Martinez in, bunching up his limp legs against the back of the seat.

Martinez was soaked in blood, and some other soldiers were still struggling to get his shirt off. I reached over and helped pull it off, only vaguely aware that we were already speeding toward the base.

Somehow, even with the vest on, Martinez had been hit on the right side of his back.

Smashed into the small space behind the front passenger seat, Johnson held Martinez’s body with all the strength he could muster and applied a bandage to the wound while I worked to get Martinez’s drenched T-shirt up over his head and off his arms.

Johnson yelled for me to look and make sure he had the bandage on the wound. He did, and a stream of blood coursed down Martinez’s back as I handed Johnson a replacement bandage.

Slumped in a fetal position in the seat, Martinez said he couldn’t feel his legs. I took his right hand in mine and told him, in Spanish, to squeeze it, “aprietame la mano.”

To look at me, “mirame.” To not fall asleep on me, “no te me duermas.” To keep breathing, “respira, mi amor.”

Martinez kept responding, but said he was having trouble breathing. Johnson also pleaded repeatedly with him to keep breathing, as he continued to apply pressure to the wound.

I stroked Martinez’s jet-black hair and held his chin up so he could get a better air passage. His skin was damp with perspiration, and I ached to do more for him.

The trip to the aid station seemed to take forever, but it probably took only about seven minutes and Martinez started to fade by the time we got there.

I didn’t want to see him die. I just didn’t want to see him die.

He was so brave and strong about it, and I could tell he didn’t want to give up. I stared, paralyzed, as medics carried Martinez to the aid station. Blood poured from his body through the mesh stretcher, creating a dark red trail in the dust. I watched the doors close behind them.

Johnson and I hugged and trembled together for a while. Then we all walked around in circles waiting for news of Martinez’s fate. I wondered what it felt like for all the soldiers having me around, an outsider with my arms and hands painted in their buddy’s blood. Martinez, the medical team told me, was probably going to make it. I resolved then and there to visit him at Walter Reed and connect with his family.

I learned later that soldiers had caught up with that fleeing car, killed the driver when he refused to stop, and detained two others who had gunpowder residue on their hands. But by that night, they still hadn’t determined whether one of those men was the one who shot Martinez.

I walked away after the medical evacuation helicopter took off, stunned and thirsty. It wasn’t the exclamation point I wanted at the end of my trip here.

An hour later, I learned Martinez had died.

I cried like a baby.

A dog’s life in Iraq

Ramadi, Iraq —March 19

There are packs of wild dogs here and they’re dangerous because they’re feral, they’re sick and they’re hungry.

The Iraqis don’t view dogs the way we do in the United States. They seem to allow dogs to be around in certain places. For instance, on a farm you’ll see dogs that bark when you approach because they’re scared. They’re not necessarily attack dogs, though, and they have weak, scratchy voices. You could be standing right next to a farm dog that’s barking and it will sound so muffled you’ll think it’s coming from a dog across the way.

Like everything else in Iraq, the dogs are covered with dust and even though at times they may look cute and you instinctively may want to pet them, you don’t because they’re filthy.

Dogs are generally not allowed on the military properties and many have been shot and killed as a force-protection measure. But occasionally one gets adopted and lives secretly among a select group of soldiers.

I met one of those, a brown and black puppy, and, for obvious reasons, I cannot divulge her location. Her name is Chinook, she wears a red collar and leash and is being trained not to bite.

She takes turns sleeping with different people and has been given some basic shots. People who know about her have donated dog food and treats, and she is probably one of the happiest little puppies in Iraq.

Another dog I met, Frago, lives on a more rustic compound in Baghdad, the bombed-out former United Nations compound.

The 3rd Infantry Division soldiers who guard that empty former hotel like having him around because he barks at anyone who is not wearing a desert combat uniform and he patrols the front gate.

When I met Frago, he was surrounded by a litter of fluffy little six-week-old puppies, but I don’t know where their mother was. Frago wears a flea collar, gets scratched behind the ears and patted on the head by the soldiers, but he’s usually pretty busy doing his job.

The Iraqi army does not have search dogs, but I’m sure Frago would be proud to be a U.S. search dog and probably has the right stuff for the task. He’s very focused.

There are other dogs I’ve seen that are not exactly accepted — or named — but are tolerated by soldiers on guard at perimeter watch posts because they bark at anything that moves.

I heard the story of one puppy who met his demise in what could be considered an industrial accident. The puppy used to hang out with the maintenance soldiers and had a bad habit of being so happy around them that he would be underfoot and cause them to trip around. One day, a soldier carrying a heavy toolbox tripped over the puppy and the box fell out of his hands, crushing the dog.

It sounds terrible, and it probably was, but at least he had some happiness in his short life.

One time I saw a dog that was foraging for food in one of the most squalid areas I’ve visited in Baghdad. He was so dirty I almost didn’t see him. He was literally the color of the landscape, like a chameleon camouflaged against his surroundings. I saw a few dead dogs in that same area, just a few feet from the front doors of people’s homes, lying in the wet muck.

Unfortunately, the insurgents sometimes plant bombs inside dead dogs along the sides of the roads and blow them up when U.S. military patrols pass by. The soldiers have learned to watch out for those and now they’re on the lookout for a new threat — decoy dogs, a cut-out of a standing dog propped up on the side of the road, hiding a bomb.

It’s true that the arrival of the U.S. military has improved the lives of many Iraqis. But I would bet that if they can ever make enough headway to say the job of helping the people is done, the dogs of Iraq will be next.

It’s just the way Americans are and it was never clearer to me than in the admission of a soldier who said he missed his dog more than he missed his wife.

Dog power. Woof!

In ‘The Wild West,’ troops learn to live with the violence

Baghdad —March 9

Today we were awakened by the monstrous boom of a garbage truck bomb.

And that’s just what it sounded like, too. B-O-O-M!

If you could actually see the shape of sound, you could almost imagine what it would look like: a colossal, bulging orb. The magnitude of it lingers, then slowly disperses through the city blocks until everything goes silent.

Luckily, we didn’t see it and the three people who were killed and dozens who were injured probably wouldn’t describe it as an orb of sound.

It was the start of another day in Baghdad.

Later that morning the TV screen was filled with the images of the bomb’s deep crater near the Al Sadeer Hotel, across the river from the Green Zone, the secured area where the government is —which I’ve heard described many times as “heavily fortified.” That may be true to a certain extent, since you can’t go anywhere in the zone without the right badge for the right type of access. But, in January, two U.S. Embassy workers who probably had every access badge available were killed when a rocket sailed straight into their offices. And that one didn’t even detonate. If it had, it would have taken a lot more people with it.

At Camp Ramadi, in the area west of Baghdad that the troops call “The Wild West,” rockets and mortars strike like booming lightning bolts. There are sandbags and barriers to protect the buildings in which people live and work, but there’s only so much they can do. Nothing is impervious, and the bombs strike at all hours from all angles.

One day recently, during the lunch hour, we heard a BOOM! A rocket — thankfully, a dud — had blasted through three shower trailers above the protective barriers, sailing right past a soldier showering in the middle trailer. It missed him by inches.

At least one soldier was killed on Camp Ramadi when a live rocket exploded directly in front of him in a sandbagged area.

These attacks are what are known as “indirect fire” attacks, in which projectiles are launched from outside the line of sight. From a distance you can hear the launch and then you wait. Where will it impact? Running is futile; you could easily run right into it since you don’t know where it’s going to land. The soldiers have learned to live with it and most figure they will be struck if it is their time to go. Period.

But contact with the enemy for many U.S. troops has been a lot more personal than that. Soldiers will open up and talk about what they’ve seen, what it feels like to shoot someone, to see a dead guy.

Sometimes I wonder about the violence so many young soldiers and Marines have witnessed over here. I know there are reintegration classes, and counseling is available — mandatory in some cases — for everyone. Still, the macabre images of war don’t go away, especially when they are preserved forever on laptop computers, digital cameras, video cameras and memory sticks.

In one unit stationed in north central Iraq, a casual conversation with a group of soldiers in their barracks room turned, as it usually did, to attacks they had survived, people they had killed and death in general.

Mixed in with photos they showed me of their families, pets and motorcycles, were images of headless bodies, heads with no bodies and decomposing bodies, all of it flashing by on their computer screens or cameras as they searched for, say, their unit photo.

They laughed at a photo of one soldier asleep on his bunk bed and using his body armor as a blanket. They talked about the unmistakable sound of a bullet zipping past and teased each other about the looks on their faces when mortars rained down on their building.

During another part of my trip, I talked with a battle-hardened captain who was able to describe the most violent things with the greatest of ease, but grew soft and sad talking about a dead 8-year-old boy at a checkpoint. A group of tankers told me of watching a family burn to death in their car in Baghdad. A 21-year-old Marine, a mechanic, told me of being unable to help a crying woman who came up to him while he was on guard duty, holding her dead baby in her hands. He got all quiet when he told me how pale the baby was, then puffed up a little saying it would be a cool story to tell back home.

I can only imagine what these men and women are going home with in their heads. I guess it’s the same stuff our forefathers brought home with them during the conflicts of the 20th century.

Some have definitely seen more than others, but there’s a common bond among them. The majority of soldiers I’ve asked say that the first thing they want to do when they get home is have a steak and a beer. I hope the cure is just that simple.

Iraqi kids swarm when U.S. soldiers hit the streets

Baghdad —March 5

There seem to have been many photos early in Operation Iraqi Freedom of soldiers surrounded by Iraqi children, handing out candy to them, shaking their hands or patting them on the head.

Lately there seem to be fewer, perhaps because the media covering the ongoing events in Iraq can only stray so far from the safe areas without fear of being abducted. Of course, it hasn’t been the safest environment for the soldiers, either.

With all the images of spectacular car bombs, transfer of authority ceremonies and political activity, there isn’t as much time or space for the smaller touches. In fact, I can’t even count how many times I’ve gotten an earful from soldiers of all ranks about the negative coverage of events in Iraq.

The past couple of days I went on dismounted patrols with the infantrymen and tankers of 1-64 Armor in the 3rd Infantry Division, who are back in Baghdad after 18 months at home.

Out on the streets in these impoverished areas east of the Tigris River, they are like Pied Pipers, leading a trail of dozens of children behind them within minutes of arriving in a neighborhood.

I don’t think it’s because they are special soldiers, even though their mothers would say they are. I think it’s just because they are soldiers. Period. The children go absolutely bananas over them and get so close to them in such large numbers that it almost gets scary.

It’s a mixed blessing for the soldiers. While they know the presence of the kids in such large numbers can lower the threat level, and the kids sometimes tell them where the bombs are planted, the little ones are relentlessly curious, exceedingly friendly and have no clue about personal space. It can try anyone’s patience.

On one such patrol, we went into a neighborhood the soldiers call “Sh-t City,” because it is literally submerged, covered like a lake, in raw sewer water. It smells so bad there that you want to gag. Yet, here are all these children running around in bare feet after the Humvees as if they were ice cream trucks. I mean, killing themselves to catch up.

They shout “Mistah! Mistah! Mistah!” over and over again, running, smiling, waving and giving the thumbs up. The throng of children is predominantly male, because the girls mostly hang back near the gates of their homes with their mothers, who step halfway out to watch the spectacle.

These bad-ass soldiers finally stop their vehicles and dismount, pulling security on the street while their commander and his entourage go into a medical clinic to talk with the doctor there.

There they stand, tall, rifles in hand, shielded by their protective gear and dark sunglasses, scanning for danger, eyeing the men in the crowd but melting into Uncle Soldier as soon as the first kid approaches.

There must have been a hundred pre-teen children there. And, they have all these phrases they’ve learned in English, like “What’s your name?” or “Give me watch,” which they say while pointing to a soldier’s Ironman Timex. They want to know if the soldiers are married, do they have babies and are they American.

They want things, always, and they look up at the soldiers and repeat the names of what they want until they become like a swarm of flies that keep landing on your nerves. Chicken. Chocolate. Pen. Glasses. Money. Water. Camera. Chicken. Chocolate. Pen. Glasses. Money. Water. Camera.

They stand inches from the soldiers, surrounding them, staring at them and smiling, checking out their warrior gear. The soldiers try to answer them as best they can, but uttering a quick phrase in Arabic only excites the kids more. The kids comment among themselves, punch each other and laugh. And they don’t get bored. They stay and hang out, hoping to get something. They’ll even take a mark on a hand from a soldier’s pen.

When the soldier can’t take it anymore he waves his hand toward them and commands “Ishta! Ishta!” which means go away or get back. It’s like a magic wand and the kids move back in a wave. But it’s like pushing sand uphill. They just rush right back and the whole routine begins again, except now they’re laughing because it has become a game.

Everybody was standing on the block in front of the medical clinic, a piece of the street that was relatively dry, but we were surrounded by treacherous pitfalls. There was sewer water in a deep trench on one side, and a shallow lake of it on the other. On the next block was a man with a back hoe who was scooping out the foulest-smelling piles of jet black muck you could ever imagine, so everyone was concentrated on this one island of muddy asphalt when the inevitable happened. A kid went into the trench and all the other kids laughed uncontrollably.

“Oh, man,” the soldiers within my earshot muttered, and we watched the boy, who took it pretty well, try to shake off the water and the embarrassment. I guess someone must go into the trench every day. It seems unavoidable.

There wasn’t enough candy in the world to hand out to this crowd, so the soldiers left without giving them any, but the kids kept smiling and many ran after the Humvees through the rest of the neighborhood to another area that was worse.

Again, they crowded around, oblivious to the squalor around them, happy to have the U.S. troops in their neighborhood, standing too close, vying for attention.

The kids eventually do get stuff, but they don’t get it on these visits because there would be total mayhem if there weren’t enough for everyone. They will rip one another to shreds over a pen. I’ve seen it happen. So, the soldiers occasionally go out on missions where they’ll hand out things like toys or shoes.

The next day, we were in a much nicer neighborhood. Clean, dry, neat streets and tankers putting boots on the ground so they could talk to people and see how things were going. Again, the kids came out of everywhere, slowly at first, but in a short while there were dozens and they were giddy with excitement, jockeying for position to get closer to the soldiers.

“Ishta!”

But they come back. They’re hard to resist and the soldiers really do like them. One boy showed them his English study book and they read a few words together. They moved in too close and a few got slapped by other kids for reasons that are unclear to me. It was a different crowd on a different day, but it was the same crowd and always will be.

Chicken. Chocolate. Pen. Glasses. Money. Water. Camera. Chicken. Chocolate. Pen. Glasses. Money. Water. Camera.

Life inside the wire

Forward Operating Base Danger, Tikrit, Iraq — Feb. 16

The first time I embedded with the Army in Iraq, I was here with the 4th Infantry Division at the sprawling, walled palace complex Saddam Hussein built in this, his hometown.

Anyone who’s been to any of this guy’s palaces agrees: They are grand and impressive, but the workmanship is poor. Everything — the walls, stairways, floors and bathrooms — is made with marble, but it’s affixed with cheap glue. And a lot of the fixtures, except for some expensive-looking porcelain sinks, toilets and bidets, are cheesy gold-toned numbers.

All that said, it’s a pretty nice place to live, with sweeping vistas of the Tigris River. The dozens of buildings on the palace grounds here have only improved in the two years the Army has been living in them. The 1st Infantry Division just moved out after a year and now the 42nd Infantry Division has taken over. The Big Red One patches have been replaced by the Rainbow patches and Forward Operating Base Danger may soon be renamed FOB Liberty.

Over time, a nice chow hall has become even better — in looks, food choices and, most noticeably, in security. There are large Texas barriers all around the facility and no one is allowed to bring any backpacks or bags of any kind inside. Actually, the most noticeable improvement as far as soldiers are concerned is the addition of an ice cream bar, which comes with a choice of gooey, syrupy, sweet toppings. There’s soup, pie and fruit, chicken wings, pizza and Mexican food, roast Cornish hens, turkey and salad. And that’s when they’re not serving lobster tails, crab legs and steak. To lose weight on your rotation in Iraq you’d need a will of steel.

Then there is the MWR building — the morale, welfare and recreation palace — which is a giant rec center. I had my picture taken at the bottom of the huge but empty indoor pool when I was there in May 2003. On subsequent visits I have seen it full of water and happy, bathing-suit-clad soldiers, and I have seen it full of water and off-limits because there were no chemicals to clean it.

Right now it is empty, and until recently there were people living in it. I saw them in there with their bunk beds and mosquito nets and we had to tiptoe through the area in case anyone was sleeping. I’m told they are going to set up a boxing ring in it, and an instructor is going to teach classes.

The building is inviting. It sits high on a bluff overlooking the Tigris — a total Kodak memory location. It also houses a beauty salon and massage parlor, a library, a gym and a large café and social area with tables and chairs where activities such as Salsa Night take place – with dance lessons. Soldiers sit in there and drink designer coffee, which they pay for, and play Scrabble, chess, cards or whatever.

Of course, there are a few TV screens around the place, and every day there is a bazaar in which soldiers can buy Iraqi military souvenirs, rugs, Saddam cigarette lighters, electronics, bootleg movies, jewelry and a myriad of knickknacks no one, anywhere, would ever need.

I tried to bargain for a painting of a camel on black velvet. It was $15 and the salesman, a diminutive young man with a wad of cash in his hand, wouldn’t budge. I was sure he’d negotiate and come down a few bucks, but the smile never left his face and I left without the painting.

On the FOB there used to be huge empty areas with the kind of dirt that isn’t really dirt. It’s called “moon dust,” and when you walk through it, it puffs up like talcum powder and your footsteps make it spit forward like drops of water on a pile of flour. Those areas have now been covered with gravel and are used as helipads. Very effective. And, no moon dust.

There is a good PX and laundry service. The water running through the pipes cannot be trusted, so soldiers use bottled water for personal hygiene, although everyone showers in it. And, there is electricity, some of it off the city grid and some off of huge generators that hum and vibrate 24/7.

I think I heard someone say there are about 10,000 people living on this FOB, but everyone takes advantage of all the amenities. There’s a tough little group of infantrymen who live in a corner of the FOB, and they pride themselves on the number of combat patrol missions they go out on, not the number of crab legs they can scam at the chow tent. They call the people who never go outside the wire “fobbits.”

But, as is the nature of Army operations, there will always be fobbits, and their mothers are really happy they stay home.