Chosen Soldier - Dick Couch [196]
I speak often and at length with special operators returning from rotations in Afghanistan and Iraq. I spoke with as many as I could while I was in Iraq. They’re proud of their service, and they feel they’re gradually making a difference in their areas—their little sectors of the war. They believe the insurgents are, for the most part, a ruthless and foreign-driven influence, and that most Afghans and Iraqis don’t want them in their country. They don’t want us there, either, but they generally understand why we’re there and the conditions under which we will leave. More than most in our deployed force structure, our special operators often deal with the locals on a daily basis, out in the villages and towns or helping to train the Iraqi and Afghan army and police units. On balance, they are not encouraged about our efforts to counter these insurgents. In traveling about Iraq, I was not encouraged by what I saw. Specifically, I was not encouraged by the nature of our presence, our management of the war, and the restrictions imposed on our forces.
First, the nature of our presence. Our visible military presence in Iraq, frankly, borders on the obscene. We have taken Saddam’s army and air force bases and made them into gigantic logistic, personnel, and convenience centers. There are post exchanges, Subway sandwich shops, latte bars, gyms, swimming pools, miniature golf, and massive messing facilities. The contract chow halls are overwhelming. Along with a lot of overboiled and fried food, there are ethnic dishes—Chinese and Hispanic mostly—sandwich bars, salad bars, fresh fruit, and an impressive selection of pastries—not desserts, but pastries displayed in pastry cases. Two of the chow halls where, I must admit, I ate like a pig had Baskin-Robbins counters. The personal quarters for the soldiers, airmen, marines, and an occasional sailor ranged from barracks living to two-to-a-container billeting modules, all air-conditioned—Spartan, but very comfortable. The showers and toilet facilities are modern, communal, and often spotlessly maintained by contractors. Most Iraqis don’t live this well, and neither do soldiers in the Iraqi army. The bases I visited had extensive defensive perimeters that protected runways, aircraft, flight lines, motor pools, maintenance facilities, warehouses, command centers, and just about anything else you would see on a large military base in the United States. Except for the checkpoints, concertina wire, and the ten-foot-tall slabs of eighteen-inch-thick concrete used to create on-base minicompounds and contain indirect-fire attacks, these are U.S. bases. I found it troubling that these bases in Iraq have a permanent feel to them, much like the ones we have here at home.
Don’t get me wrong, some very brave soldiers and marines go out on patrol, conduct operations, stand duty on checkpoints, and put themselves at risk to provide some measure of security and stability to Iraq. Convoy duty is often combat duty. It’s hot, dangerous, dirty work, and they do it courageously and professionally. But then they retire to these huge, fortified American installations with replicated American amenities and count the days until the end of their rotation. This is a generalization, but a lot of our forces live like this. Those whose duties don’t take them off base, and there are a lot of them, simply live out their rotations in this military twilight of a reconstituted America. Those scattered forces I saw in the outlying, smaller installations live a different life. So do those who do the heavy lifting of training the Afghans and Iraqis—like the Special Forces ODAs. They live much like the men they train.
The management