Random Pictures Part IV

One last batch of random photos from Iraq:

An old Iraqi T-72 tank. This tank and three others were left over from the initial invasion. They had been towed into a heap and left to rot. The "hill" that this picture was taken from is actually another tank, with only a section of its top turret hatch sticking up, like the entrance to a cave.

A mosque at Camp Slayer.

That same mosque, with a civilian jet landing at Baghdad International Airport behind it.

Me and my friend from the Tongan Marines, David. David and his fellow Tongans provided us with security for the 10 months of my deployment. To all the Tongans in the world, I simply say, "Malo!"

A last farewell at the palace. Myself along with Captain Miller, Sgt. Hernandez and Major Quinby.

"I'm leaving...And I'm taking the rat with me!"

Finally, at long last, the end came.

It took a while though. My last few days seemed to slow to a crawl. My work had been parcelled out to my colleagues and I was shifted from the night shift to days. My boss told me he only needed to see me once a day to prove I was alive, and outside of that, I was free.

Free? What does that word mean? At least in Iraq, it really means little. There are precious few things you can do to enjoy your freedom, and since all your friends are still tied to work, you're not really free to do anything but wander around the base alone and think. And with the weather topping off around 120 degrees, wandering around just isn't a good idea.

I did get a few things done - saw a few things I hadn't been able to see before. But in the end, I kept gravitating back to work. Some of the projects I had worked on needed to be updated, and I knew it would be too long before my coworkers could get to them. So I'd come in anyway. One project was being shut down, but I'd committed to updating it until the end of the month. That meant getting in extra work before I left, but I didn't want to go out on a whimper.

"Why are you still here?" one of the sergeants asked. "Don't you have to pack or something?"

"Already have packed," I said. I had packed and unpacked and then packed again. Then I unpacked, stuffed some of my personal things in a box and mailed it home. Then I packed again. I had traded in my guitar for a measly 4 DVDs and given away my fishing pole and tackle for free. The only other thing I could do was sit around my trailer reading a book on the Battle of Britain.

At work, I spent most of the time running around doing administrative stuff to prepare for my leave. One night a small going away ceremony was held for myself and an Army Major who was also leaving soon. After the Colonel spoke kind words about each of us, we were given a round of applause and everyone in the facility came down to shake our hands. About 80 people came by, each one trying their hardest to crush my hands with their grasp. About halfway through, I began to wish I had taken my college ring off, but it was too late, and each time a marine came up, he squeezed with a vice-like grip, grinding my ring against my fingers.

I came in for a couple of days after that, feeling like a lame duck president. But finally, my project finished and my flight time set, there was no work left to be done. The crew that I worked with - who had all come in as green novices four months ago - were now just as expert in their work as I had become before they arrived. In those days, I feared that they'd never get it right, and that things would really fall apart when the "old hands" left. But I have no such worries now.

I worked in a facility called the Joint Operations Center - which is laid out like a NASA control room. Over the last 10 months, it had become my home, and its personalities and peculiarities had shaped my experience in Iraq. Now, it was time to say goodbye.

"Alright, Sir, it's time," I said to my boss, offering my hand, which he shook. "I'm leaving...And I'm taking the rat with me!"

Shortly after the previous corps had departed in February and the new corps took over, they had banished the proliferation of personal items that had decorated desks and computers. The most devastating blow was the removal - and likely disposal - of the "JOC security rat" - a small rubber toy who had guarded the stairs to prevent unauthorized access.

It had been a stunning blow to morale, but by an odd coincidence, someone had placed a small brown beanie-baby rat on the WalMart table outside just that very day. I don't know what kind of person thinks: "How can I help support the troops in Iraq? I know. I'll send them this rat!" Nonetheless, their anonymous gift was greatly appreciated. Smuggling the rat into the facility, I placed it in a position of high importance - and low visibility - where it could stand watch, and guide us through our work. With the addition of a small wizzard hat, it became the mascot of the Intel department. When one person complained that the wizzard hat looked more like a sombrero, the rat got the nickname "Speedy" after the Looney Tunes mouse.

So, stuffing Speedy into my cargo pocket safe from the eyes of the Sgt. Major - the enforcer of the Draconian anti-fun rules - I grabbed my weapon and my hat and headed out the door. The traditional farewell in the JOC is a departing salute. My boss came up on the intercom and announced, "Attention in the JOC! Now departing for the very last time, LTJG Bernsen."

Five hours later, I was back at Baghdad International Airport, once again sleeping on the hard concrete, waiting for the morning to come, and with it, liberation from Iraq. But the airport had changed. The first two times, I'd had to sleep on gravel. The third time, I got to sleep on concrete. This time, I slept on concrete inside a tent. An airconditioned tent. That concrete was like paradise.

With unusual efficiency, I was aboard a C-130 by 9 a.m. As the back hatch slowly closed with a high-pitched whine, the little line of bright sunlight pinched and then vanished. Turning to the little round window next to my head, I gave a last look at Iraq. As the plane began to rumble down the runway, I turned back around and breathed a sigh of relief. In just over an hour, I would be in Kuwait, and Iraq would be behind me. Forever.

Flintstone Village

Saddam Hussein was a sick, evil bastard, but there's no reason that sick, evil bastards can't love their grandkids too. Hitler loved children, or at least that's what the propaganda photos always showed - Hitler shaking hands with little German girls in dirndls and starting a "youth club" for the little boys. How charming.

Hitler's bizzarre mountaintop retreat at Obersaltzburg was kind of an adult fantasyland, complete with strange pagan and medival imagery and castle-like construction. Perhaps the builders took an idea from the not too distant Neuschwanstein Castle, where the Mad King Ludwig of Bavaria had built his astounding fairy-tale fortress which became the inspiration for Disneyland.

It finally occurred to me that that's what this whole palace complex where I live is: a fantasy get-away place for the old Iraqi elites. And like Hitler's cronies, who built a mountaintop dreamland (for a guy who was notoriously afraid of heights), Saddam's cronies built palace after palace to glorify their leader and his triumphs, real or imaginary.


But Saddam didn't want to live the big life all by himself, and built palaces for his sons and friends. He had grandchildren too: precocious little tykes who liked cartoons, sports and games.

He must have thought them charming, suspended in that little naive world of youth - you know that time before they grow up to run rape rooms and torture cells just like daddy and grandpa.

And one thing that these kids really, really liked was "The Flintstones." That's right, the 1990s spinoff movie of the old classic 1960s cartoon. These kids must have devoured the show, because one year, for their birthday or something - it probably wasn't Christmas - Grandpa Saddam told his architects to take time off from building some of his numerous palaces and had them build something entirely different - a perfect replica Flintstone Village.

And so, the architects of the tyrant turned away from their marble columns, monumental arches and intricate mosaics and turned to something totally new. How strange was this building? It was like no government-built building in the entire country - it did not feature either the image or the wise sayings of Saddam Hussein. What? A building in Iraq without Hussein's face or name stamped all over it? What blasphemy!

And so they set about designing the replica building, complete with fanciful cave-like dwellings, odd-shaped windows and terrifying precipices that any normal parent would never conceive of incorporating into what was to become a child's playground.

One can almost imagine the wonder and joy of the children when they first saw their new fantasy land. I could just hear them shrieking and yelling as they bounded up the stairs.


The building is not just eccentric on the outside, it features tons of little caves and maze-like walkways, as well as funny little playrooms:




It must have been quite the playground back in the day, but after four years of neglect, it's now a shell of its former glory. Years of soldiers, contractors and others passing through have left their marks, in ubiquitous graffiti. A touch of Disneyland meets a touch of the Berlin Wall.

















The graffiti shows the wide diversity of people who have passed through. Americans from just about every state. Texans, Californians, and some very proud patriotic Hawaiian who took the time to sketch their unique flag. Certainly a few proud Marylanders must have come through, but they didn't bother trying to do their complex, gaudy flag.



Australians are well-represented, as are troops from El Salvador and other coalition countries. Indians, Pakastanis, Fillipinos and other contractors have all come by to tag this place.


As someone who is averse to graffiti on principle, I nonetheless make exception for symbols of oppression, be they in Baghdad or Berlin. Seeing good ol' American obscenities painted all over this place actually warms me up inside.



It is impressive on its face, but like many places around here, the construction is rather shoddy. In the palace where I work, the beautiful marble is a fake facade. Once the marble panels - about half an inch thick - are removed, the concrete beneath is appallingly-poorly made. In fact, it's not really concrete, but more like adobe. While I'm sure the structural beams are stoutly-built with rebar, elsewhere the only support in this cheap concrete is some kind of chicken wire.



The Flintstone Village is no different. Walking along the walkways here, you see dozens of places where the fake walls have simply caved in, leaving gaping holes that you could easily step into and fall through.


And when I say fall through, we're not talking a little drop to Pebbles' playroom below. How about a 40 foot drop through iron girders and concrete supports to the rancid lake muck? Perhaps we could have disposed of Saddam quicker by simply exporting to him our legal system and then unleashing the tort attorneys.




In other places, whole sections of the wall have fallen through, as if the Flintstones' pet tyrannosaur had come through here smashing and stomping in full Godzilla roid-rage style.


Perhaps this is what happens when Fred doesn't give you your Dino crack.

One only wonders how much damage is a result of the Occupation or perhaps soldiers knocking a chunk of the plaster off for souvernirs. But the advanced deterioration of this less-than-a-decade-old structure is really just par for the course for Saddam Hussein's Iraq. Everywhere I turn, I see this ostensibly oppulent facade is really just rotten through beneath. A kind of Costco version of Versailles.


Right across the lake from this faux attempt at Americana is, ironically, Saddam Hussein's unfinished meglomaniacal masterpiece, the "Victory over America" Palace. Like the builder of Versailles, Saddam Hussein lived in a dream world of his own overblown importance. "L'Etat est moi," he seemed to be saying, and he figured that if you can't beat 'em, build a palace and claim you did anyway.


In the end, Saddam's dementia offered nothing to his country but disaster and gaudy monuments to ego. And years on, that's all that's left. He thought he was a new sun king, but ended up little more than a half-baked Ozymandias.

Perhaps the final statement on Saddam Hussein's Iraq can be summed up with this image. Standing and surveying the wrecked America palace is Staff Sgt. Billy, an Oklahoman on his third tour in Iraq. Sgt. Billy's a simple guy - a hard-working American Indian who does his job and never complains. Humble and good-hearted, he's the antithesis of the egoism reflected in the design of the palace before him. Saddam Hussein thought of himself as one of the greatest conquerors and historic figures of all time, but in the end, he was toppled not by generals or presidents or even high technology.

Saddam Hussein was toppled by an army of Sgt. Billys.