AZIZ DROVE US back towards Baghdad so Nasser could tell me about the patients he’d interviewed at the clinic. With Aziz’s photos, we had the bones of a good Spyglass story. Before we reached Abu Ghraib, however, we hit a long tailback. Nasser hopped out at a roadside stall and returned with kebabs and two items of news: A fuel convoy had been attacked earlier and the main road back to Baghdad was part blocked by a thirty-foot crater, hence the holdup; and that an American helicopter had been brought down on farmland southeast of the prison complex. We decided to make a detour in search of the crash site. We chewed the chunks of stringy lamb—or possibly goat—and Aziz turned south at the mosque where we’d run into trouble earlier. Once the prison complex was behind us, we saw a reedy column of black smoke rising from behind a windbreak of tamarisk trees. A boy on a bicycle confirmed that, yes, the American helicopter, a Kiowa, had been brought down over there, Allah be praised. Boys growing up in occupied Iraq know about weaponry and military hardware just as I knew about fishing gear, motorbikes, and the Top 40 in the 1980s. The boy mimed a boom! and laughed. Some marines had removed the two dead Americans thirty minutes ago, he told Nasser, so now it was safe to go and see.
A track led over an irrigation canal, through the tamarisks and into a field of weeds. The smoldering carcass of the crushed and blackened Kiowa lay on its side, with its tail section lying half the field away. “Ground-to-air missile,” speculated Nasser, “cut in middle. Like sword.” Maybe twenty men and boys were standing around. Farm buildings stood on the far side, and machinery lay neglected. Aziz parked in the corner and we got out and walked over. The late afternoon was filled with insect noises. Aziz took pictures as we approached. I thought of the pilots, and wondered what had spun through their heads as they careered to Earth. An old man in a red kaffiyeh asked Nasser if we were with a newspaper, and Nasser said, Yes, we worked for a Jordanian one. We were here to counter the lies of the Americans and their allies, Nasser said, and asked the man if he had seen the helicopter crash. The old man said, No, he knew nothing, he only heard an explosion. Some other men, maybe the Mahdi Army, drove off, but he had been too far away, and look—he pointed to his eyes—his cataracts were clouding over.
Seeing too much in Iraq can get you killed.
Suddenly we heard the rumble of army vehicles, and the crowd scattered, or tried to; we clustered into a group again as we realized both exits from the field were blocked by two convoys of four Humvees. Marines emerged from the vehicles in full body armor, pointing their M16s at us. A disembodied roar filled the field: “Hands above your heads! Hands where I can see them! All of you on the fucking ground now or I swear, you gloating fucking Ali Baba pig-fuckers, I’ll put you in the ground!” No translation was provided, but we all got the idea.
“HANDS HIGHER!” another marine yelled at a man in a mechanic’s oil-stained overalls, who said, “Mafee mushkila, mafee mushkila,” No problem, no problem, but the marine shouted, “Don’t contradict me! Don’t contradict me!” and booted the man in the stomach—all our guts jerked tight in sympathy—and he folded over, gasping and coughing. “Find out who owns this farm,” the marine ordered an interpreter, whose face was hidden in a sort of head-wrapping, like a ninja. The marine spoke into his headset, saying the area was secured while the interpreter asked the old man in the red kaffiyeh who owned the farm.
I didn’t hear the answer because a black marine was standing over Aziz, saying, “Souvenirs, huh? This your handiwork, huh?” Fate sent a Chinook thundering out of the sun; it drowned my voice as the marine yanked Aziz’s camera off his neck with such force that the strap broke, and Aziz fell forward headfirst. Next thing I knew the marine was kneeling by Aziz with his handgun pressed against my photographer’s head.
I shouted, “No—stop! He’s working for me,” but the din of the Chinook drowned me out, and suddenly I was flipped to the ground and an armored kneecap was pressing my windpipe into the dirt, too, and I thought, They won’t discover their mistake till I’m dead. Then, No, they won’t discover their mistake at all; I’ll be deposited in a shallow pit on the edge of Baghdad.
“WHY AREN’T THEY grateful, Ed?”
A cube of wedding cake is halfway to my mouth, but Pauline Webber has a penetrating voice, and now I’m being watched by four Webbers, six Sykeses, Aoife, and a vase of orange lilies. My problem is, I have no idea who or what she’s talking about, as I’ve spent the last few minutes mentally composing an email to the accounts department at the corporation that owns Spyglass. I look at Holly for a hint, but she blanks me from behind her wronged-woman mask. Though I wouldn’t be too sure it is a mask.
Luckily, Peter’s younger brother and best man, Lee, comes to my aid; his “core competence” may be “tax evoision” but that doesn’t stop him being an authority on international affairs too. “Iraq under Saddam used to be a concentration camp aboveground and a mass grave below. So us and the Yanks, we come along and take their dictator down for them, gratis and for free—and how do they pay us back? By turning on their liberators. Ingratitude is deeply, deeply, ingrained into the Arab races. And it’s not just our lads in uniform they hate; it’s any Westerner, right, Ed? Like that poor reporter who got offed last year, just for being American? Grotesque.”
“You’ve got spinach stuck in your teeth, Lee,” says Peter.
Of course Aoife asks, “What does ‘offed’ mean, Daddy?”
“Why don’t you and I,” Holly says to Aoife, “go and see Lola and Amanda at the big kids’ table? I think they’ve got Coca-Cola.”
“You always say Coca-Cola stops you sleeping, Mummy.”
“Yes, but you worked so hard being Aunty Sharon’s bridesmaid, we can make an exception this once.” Holly and Aoife slip away.
Lee still hasn’t caught on. “Has the spinach gone?”
“It has,” says Peter, “but the tactlessness is still there.”
“Huh? Oh.” Lee does a contrite smirk. “Oops. No offense, Ed. Imbibed too freely of the old vino, methinks.”
I should say, “No offense taken,” but I just shrug.
“Thing is,” says Lee in a let’s-face-it tone, “the invasion of Iraq was about one thing and one thing only: oil.”
If I had a tenner for every time I heard that I could buy the Outer Hebrides. I put down my fork. “If you want a country’s oil, you just buy it. Like we did from Iraq up until Gulf One.”
“Cheaper just to install a puppet government, surely.” Lee pokes out the very tip of his tongue to show how provocative he is. “Think of all those lucrative oil contracts. Favorable terms. Yum-yum.”
“Maybe that’s what the Iraqis object to,” says Austin Webber, father of Peter and Lee, a retired bank manager with drooping eyes and a fascinating forehead like a Klingon’s. “Being governed by puppets. Can’t say I’d relish the prospect much, either.”
“Could we please let Ed answer my questions?” Pauline says. “Why has the Iraqi intervention gone so horribly off script?”
My head’s humming. After Holly’s ultimatum last night, I didn’t sleep so well, and I’ve drunk too much champagne. “Because the script was written referring not to Iraq as it was, but to a fantasy Iraq as Rumsfeld, Rice, and Bush et al. wanted it to be, or dreamt it to be, or were promised by their pet Iraqis-in-exile it would be. They expected to find a unified state like Japan in 1945. Instead, they found a perpetual civil war among majority Shi’a Arabs, minority Sunni Arabs, and Kurds. Saddam Hussein—a Sunni—had imposed a brutal peace on the country, but with him gone, the civil war reheated, and now it’s … erupted, and the CPA is embroiled. When you’re in control, neutrality isn’t possible.”
The band at the far end of the hall strikes up “The Birdy Song.”
Ruth asks, “So the Sunni are fighting in Fallujah because they want a Sunni leader back in charge?”
“That’s one reason, but the Shi’a elsewhere are fighting because they want the foreigners out.”
“Being occupied’s unpleasant,” says Austin. “I get that. But surely Iraqis can see that life’s better now than it used to be.”
“Two years ago your average Iraqi—male—had a job, of some type. Now he hasn’t. There was water in the taps and power in the grid. Now there isn’t. Petrol was available. Now it isn’t. Toilets worked. Now they don’t. You could send your kids to school without being afraid they’ll be kidnapped. Now you can’t. Iraq was a creaking, broken, sanction-ravaged place, but it sort of, kind of, worked. Now it doesn’t.”
An Arab-looking waiter fills my cup from a silver pot. I thank him and wonder if he’s thinking, This guy’s talking out of his hole. Sharon, meanwhile, a girl happy to discuss Middle Eastern politics over her wedding cake, asks, “Who’s to blame?”
“It entirely depends who you ask,” I reply.
“We’re asking you,” says Peter the groom.
I sip my coffee. It’s good. “The de facto king of Iraq is a Kissinger acolyte named L. Paul Bremer III. On taking office, he passed two edicts that have shaped the occupation. Edict number one ruled that any member of the Ba’ath Party above a certain rank was to be sacked. With one stroke of the pen Bremer consigned to the scrap-heap the very civil servants, scientists, teachers, police officers, engineers, and doctors that the coalition needed to rebuild the country. Fifty thousand white-collar Iraqis lost their salaries, pensions, and futures and wanted the occupation to fail from that day on. Edict number two disbanded the Iraqi Army. No back pay, no pension, no nothing. Bremer created 375,000 potential insurgents—unemployed, armed, and trained to kill. Hindsight is easy, sure, but if you’re the viceroy of an occupied country, it’s your job to possess foresight—or at least to listen to advisers who do.”
Brendan’s phone goes off; he answers it and turns away, saying, “Jerry, what news from the Isle of Dogs?”
“If this Bremer’s doing such an appalling job,” asks Peter, loosening his white silk tie, “why isn’t he recalled?”
“His days are numbered.” I plop a lump of sugar into my coffee. “But everyone, from the president to the lowliest staffer in the Green Zone, has a vested interest in peddling the bullshit that the insurgents are just a few fanatics and that the corner is always being turned. The Green Zone’s like the Emperor’s New Clothes, where speaking the truth is an act of treason. Bad things happen to realists.”
“Surely,” asks Sharon, “the truth must be obvious when they set foot outside the Green Zone.”
“Most staffers never do. Ever. Except to go to the airport.”
If Austin Webber wore a monocle, it would drop. “How do you run a country from inside a bunker, for God’s sake?”
I shrug. “Nominally. Sketchily. In a state of ignorance.”
“But the military must know what’s going on, at least. They’re the ones getting blown up and shot at.”
“They do, Austin, yes. And the infighting between Bremer’s faction and the generals is ruthless, but the military, too, often acts as if it wants to radicalize the population. My photographer, Aziz, has an uncle in Karbala who farms a few acres of olive orchards. Well, he did farm a few acres of olive orchards. Last October, a convoy was attacked on a stretch of road running through his land, so the coalition forces asked the locals for information on the ‘bandits.’ When none was forthcoming, a platoon of marines chopped down every last tree: ‘To encourage the locals to be more cooperative in future.’ Imagine the cooperation that act of vandalism earned.”
“It’s like the British in Ireland in 1916,” says Oisín O’Dowd. “They repeated the ageless macho mantra ‘Force is the only thing these natives understand’ so often that they ended up believing it. From that point on they were doomed.”
“But I’ve been visiting the States for thirty years, on and off,” says Austin. “The Americans I know are as wise, compassionate, and decent a bunch as you could ever hope to meet. I don’t understand it.”
“I suspect, Austin, that the Americans you’ve met in the banking world aren’t high school dropouts from Nebraska whose best friend got shot by a smiley Iraqi teenager holding a bag of apples. A teenager whose dad got shredded by a gunner on a passing Humvee last week while he fixed the TV aerial. A gunner whose best friend took a dum-dum bullet through the neck from a sniper on a roof only yesterday. A sniper whose sister was in a car that stalled at an intersection as a military attaché’s convoy drove up, prompting the bodyguards to pepper the vehicle with automatic fire, knowing they’d save the convoy from a suicide bomber if they were right, but that Iraqi law wouldn’t apply to them if they were wrong. Ultimately, wars escalate by eating their own shit, shitting bigger and eating bigger.”
I can see that my metaphor has overstepped the mark.
Lee Webber’s chatting with a friend at the neighboring table.
His mum asks, “Can I tempt anyone with the last slice of cake?”
MY FREE EYE, the one not pressed into the dust and grit, located the black marine and I found myself endowed with lip-reading powers as he told Aziz, “Here’s a shot for you, motherfucker!”
“He’s working for me!” I spat out grit.
The soldier glared my way. “What did you say?”
The Chinook was moving away, thank God, and he could hear me. “I’m a journalist,” I mumbled, trying to twist my mouth upwards, “a British journalist.” My voice was dry and mangled.
A midwestern drawl above my ear said, “The fuck you are.”
“I’m a British journalist, my name’s Ed Brubeck, and”—I did my best to sound like Christopher Hitchens—“I’m working for Spyglass magazine. Good photographers are hard to find so, please, ask your man not to point that thing at his head.”
“Major! Fuckface here says he’s a British journalist.”
“Says he’s a what?” A crunch of boots approached. The boots’ owner barked into my ear: “You speak English?”
“Yes, I’m a British journalist, and if—”
“You’re able to substantiate this claim?”
“My accreditation’s in the white car.”
There’s a sniff. “What white car?”
“The one in the corner of the field. If your private would take his knee off my neck, I’d point.”
“Media representatives are s’posed to carry credentials on their persons.”
“If a militiaman found a press pass on me, they’d kill me. Major, my neck, if you wouldn’t mind?”
The knee was removed. “Up. Real slow.” My legs were stiff. I wanted to massage my neck but daren’t in case they thought I was reaching for a weapon. The officer removed his aviator glasses. His age was hard to gauge: late twenties, but his face was encrusted with grime. HACKENSACK was stitched under his officer’s insignia. “So whythefuck’s a British journalist dressed like a raghead partying in a field with genuine ragheads round a shot-down OH-58D?”
“I’m in this field because there’s news here, and I’m dressed like this because looking too Western gets you shot.”
“Looking too fuckin’ Arabic almost got you shot.”
“Major, would you please let that man go?” I nodded towards Aziz. “He’s my photographer. And”—I found Nasser—“the guy in the blue shirt, over there. My fixer.”
Major Hackensack let us dangle for a few seconds. “Okay.” Aziz and Nasser were allowed to stand and we lowered our arms. “British—that’s England, right?”
“England plus Scotland plus Wales, with Northern Ire—”
“Nottingham. ’S that England or Britain?”
“Both, like Boston’s in Massachusetts and the U.S.”
The major thought I was a smartass. “My brother married a nurse in Nottingham and I never saw such a rancid shit-hole. Ordered a ham sandwich and they gave me a slice of pink slime between two pieces of dried shit. Guy who made it was an Arab. Every last cabdriver was an Arab. Your country’s an occupied fuckin’ territory, my friend.”
I shrugged. “There has been a lot of immigration.”
The major leaned to one side, hoicked up a bomb of spit, and let it drop. “You live in the Green Zone, British journalist?”
“No. I’m staying in a hotel across the river. The Safir.”
“Up close and personal with the real Iraqis, huh?”
“The Green Zone’s one city, Baghdad’s another.”
“Lemme tell you the deal with real Iraqis. Real Iraqis say, ‘There’s no security since the invasion!’ I say, ‘Then try not killing, stabbing, and robbing each other.’ Real Iraqis say, ‘Americans raid our houses at night, they don’t respect our culture.’ I say, ‘Then stop shooting at us from your houses, you fuckfaces.’ Real Iraqis say, ‘Where’s our sewers, our schools, our bridges?’ I say, ‘Where’s the shrinkwrapped billions of dollars we gave you to build your sewers, schools, and bridges?’ Real Iraqis say, ‘Why don’t we have power or water?’ I say, ‘Who blew up the substations and tapped the fuckin’ pipes we built?’ Oh, and their clerics say, ‘Hey, our mosques need painting.’ I say, ‘Then get your holy asses up a ladder and paint them your-fuckin’-selves!’ Put that in your newspaper. What is your newspaper, anyhow?”
“It’s Spyglass magazine. It’s American.”
“What’s it like—like Time magazine?”
“It’s a liberal jizz rag, sir,” said a nearby marine.
“Liberal?” Major Hackensack said it like the word “pedophile.” “You a liberal, British journalist?”
I swallowed. The Iraqis were watching us too, wondering if their fates were being decided by this incomprehensible but clearly ill-tempered exchange. “You’ve been sent here because of the most conservative White House in living memory. Truly, Major, I’d value your opinion: Do you consider your leaders to be smart, courageous people?”
Immediately I saw I’d misplayed my shitty hand. You don’t suggest to a sleepless, angry officer that his commander in chief is a clueless jerk-off and that his comrades-in-arms have died for nothing. “Here’s a question for you,” Hackensack growled. “Which of those gentlemen know who shot down our helicopter?”
My feet no longer touched the floor of the pool of shit Aziz, Nasser, and I found ourselves in: “We only got here minutes before you did.” Insects buzzed, distant vehicles clattered. “These people told us nothing. They aren’t living in times when you trust strangers, specially a foreign one.” The officer was reading me as I said this; a subject change would be a good idea. “Major Hackensack, please could I quote your views about the real Iraqis by name?”
He leaned back and squinted forward: “You are shittin’ me?”
“Our readers would value your perspective.”
“No, you cannot quote me, and if—” Hackensack’s radio headset crackled into life and he turned away. “One-eight-zero? This is Two-sixteen; over. Negative, negative, One-eight-zero, nobody here but Caspar the fuckin’ Ghost and a bunch of gawpers. I’ll make inquiries for form’s sake but the fuckers’ll be laughing at us from under their fuckin’ head-towels. Over … Uh-huh … Roger that, One-eight-zero. Last thing: Did you hear already if Balinski made it? Over.” The major’s nostrils flared and his jaw clicked. “Shit, One-eight-zero. Shit shit shit. Shit. Over.” He booted a stone; it richocheted off the Kiowa’s fuselage. “No, no, don’t bother. Base admin couldn’t dig shit out of their asses. Inform his unit liaison directly. Okay, Two-sixteen, over and out.” Major Hackensack looked at the black marine and shook his head, then turned a malevolent gaze my way. “You just see a sewer-mouthed military man, don’t you? You just see a cartoon character and a platoon of grunts. You think we deserve this”—he nods at the wreckage—“just for being here. But the dead, they had children, they had family, same as you. They wanted to make something of their lives, same as you. Hell, they were lied to about this war, same as you. But unlike you, British journalist, they paid for other peoples’ bullshit with their lives. They were braver than you. They were better than you. They deserve more than you. So you and Batman and Robin there, get the fuck out of my sight. Now.”