Sunrise Over Fallujah

by Walter Dean Myers

  Corbin, from Third Squad, had to stay with our vehicles, which were parked together. Marla gave him Captain Coles’s sandwich.

  “We’ll bring you something from inside,” I said. “Maybe some camel ribs, or whatever they’re having.”

  “I’m down with camel ribs,” Corbin said. “And see if they got any potato salad.”

  There was a six-foot gate around the tent and the Iraqis had guys standing near it. Casually dressed, they looked to be eighteen or nineteen years old, but with mustaches and AK-47s. We smiled at them as we went in and they smiled back. They weren’t wearing uniforms, but the weapons told me all I needed to know.

  The table was placed in the middle of the tent. There was a rug on the floor, and from the edges I could see there was matting under the rug. The sheik was in his fifties, a smallish man with neat, graying hair. He wore a traditional Iraqi garment—the long flowing djellaba with the embroidered front that richer men wore—but I could easily imagine him in a carefully tailored suit. He sat at the head of the ornate table and four of his people, two on either side of the table, sat with an empty chair between them. Major Scott and Captain Coles sat at the other end and the guys from our CA unit sat in the open chairs. Major Scott spoke Arabic but Ahmed, who had come along, sat close to him to help translate.

  We were given a bowl of fresh fruit and raw vegetables, served by young women. None of the Iraqi men seemed to take notice of Marla, but the women did, and I saw one of them smiling.

  At first the talk was all polite and nice with Major Scott and Captain Coles talking about how beautiful Iraq was and the sheik talking about what a wonderful country America was. I was surprised how good his English was.

  “I asked myself what did Adam know of paradise?” said the sheik, who told us to call him Hamid. “He woke up one day and found himself in the Holy Garden and he had never known anything else. That’s what I think has happened to America. You are a young people. What have you known but the paradise of peace and security and wealth? It makes your thinking different from the thinking of my people.”

  “I think most people want the same things from life,” Major Scott said. “We want freedom, we want love, and we want a chance to go to heaven when the time comes.”

  He didn’t sound sincere.

  “So, you like my country?” Al-Sahad continued.

  “I’d love to come back and take a vacation here one day,” Scott said. “After things are stabilized, of course. And that’s where I think we, you and I, as equals, can make a contribution. Cooperation.”

  The sheik spoke to his people in Arabic and they all nodded politely.

  “Sometimes,” the sheik said, “it’s better to abandon modern words. When a word falls out of the mouth today it can mean anything. It takes years and sometimes generations for words to be chiseled in history. So, when you talk to me about cooperation between our countries I have to ask myself—Hamid, what does a man who has a thousand jet planes mean when he says ‘cooperation’?”

  The conversation was getting interesting and going faster than I thought it would.

  “It means I will do as much for you, to make your life better, as I can, and in return, you will do the same for me,” Major Scott said. “In America we say ‘one hand washes the other.’ ”

  “Have you eaten food from the Middle East before?” the sheik asked, changing the subject.

  “No, I can’t say that I have,” Scott said.

  “Any of your people have eaten food from the Middle East?”

  Scott looked at us and we all shook our heads no.

  “Well, then I’m pleased that I’ve introduced you to the world’s best food.” Hamid smiled broadly.

  “Where have you been in the United States, sir?” Marla asked.

  “Washington. New York. California. Once I was in Scottsdale, Arizona. You have a beautiful country. And beautiful people.”

  “Birdy here is from New York,” Marla said.

  Hamid spoke to the others in Arabic and they turned and looked at me. One reached out and said something in Arabic as he shook my hand. I felt stupid just smiling and nodding. He could have been calling me a jerk.

  “The thing I love most about America is the weather. Here it is either hot or it is raining. My cousin went to live in Chicago for six months,” Hamid said. “In six weeks he wanted to come back because it was so cold. He said he watched people standing in the cold looking at the holiday lights and he could see their breath freezing.”

  “Well, that’s Chicago for you,” Major Scott said. “But let me ask you, sir—and I don’t mean to be rude—but are you still making up your mind about cooperating with the Coalition Forces?”

  “Making up my mind?” The sheik turned and spoke in Arabic to nobody in particular and a girl came in, from the next room. Hamid spoke to her briefly and she left quickly. I got the impression that she was just outside the door waiting for him to speak to her.

  “When you speak of cooperating,” the sheik spoke slowly, weighing his words, “I think you mean helping each other in a common cause. Two strong men can lift a heavy rock.”

  “Exactly.” Major Scott hadn’t been eating much, and now put down his fork.

  The rest of us had been scarfing down the food big-time and it was great. I was concentrating on eating slower than Jonesy because the Iraqis had hardly touched their plates.

  “In this…operation, and you know we call it Operation Iraqi Freedom,” Major Scott said, “we are in what we call the Security and Stabilization Phase. And there are people out there who don’t want that stabilization to work. I’m sure you know that as well, sir, as I do. We can provide additional security for your people, and with that security comes stabilization as we turn over all the operations to the people of Iraq, but to do that we need to free up some of our men from searching for the major weapons systems that we are pretty sure exist. And what I’m saying—”

  The sheik had held up his hand for Major Scott to stop. “You mean the weapons of mass destruction?”

  “I do,” Major Scott replied.

  “Go on, sir.”

  “If you help us find these weapons, we will be able to divert men away from that operation to providing security for your people.”

  “Major, may I tell you a little secret?” the sheik asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Sir, the war you began is over,” the sheik said. “That war you won. It was not beautiful in the end—there were no violins, no birds singing in the sky—but it is over. What is going on now is a completely different war. In this war you merely stand on the side and hold the coats. This war is not about you or America.

  “You are trying to stabilize a government in Baghdad. But there are others who are creating—how do the English put it? A shadow government?—and which government in the end will rule the Middle East is the new war. Look around you; it is my people who are being killed in the streets of Baghdad and Fallujah. Yes, yes, I know. They kill one or two Americans to make it look good, is all.”

  “When the insurgents shoot at us we think they’re meaning to kill us,” Major Scott said. “But I can appreciate your concerns about your own people and we’re certainly trying to stabilize things here.”

  “Do you really think that we have the problems that your papers are reporting?” Hamid asked. “Do you think that people who have lived together for more years than your country has been in existence suddenly find it impossible? That the hatred has grown so quickly between Sunnis and Shiites that we must shoot each other and bomb each other? No, my friend. Everyone knows that eventually you will miss the warmth of your own bed, the blue eyes of your own wives, and then you will go home. Then who will rule Iraq?”

  “It won’t be Saddam Hussein,” Major Scott said.

  The sheik closed his eyes and bowed his head toward Scott. But for the rest of the meal, there was very little said except by Major Scott, who kept insisting that the coalition forces would provide more security if the local people helpe
d us find hidden weapons.

  The woman who had come in before returned with two men who served an entire second course. One of the Iraqi men saw me smile and smiled at me.

  The dinner ended with the sheik saying that he would do his best and Scott saying that was all that he wanted.

  “Sir, what we can accomplish together, the coalition forces along with the goodwill of the Iraqi people, will astound the world,” Major Scott said as we stood outside the door. “We’re going to have some of our people work with yours tonight at the hospital. We’ll assess the needs there and do what we can.”

  We mounted up and started toward the hospital. Captain Coles rode with the major until it was time for us to split from them, and then he came over to First Squad.

  “So what did you think?” I asked Coles.

  “I think Major Scott was right in the way he handled it,” Coles said. “He had to pin the sheik down into actually doing something. The different factions over here all want our goodwill but they don’t want to actually do anything to get it.”

  “I think the sheik is just one of them uptight dudes,” Jonesy said. “You know the type—bomb them once or twice and they get a chip on they shoulder.”

  I didn’t know what weapons Major Scott was looking for. The army hadn’t found any big stash of chemical weapons, although they had to be somewhere because they had used them against the Kurds.

  There were marines in Fallujah and they were on edge big-time. A marine captain met up with Coles and shook his head slowly back and forth as Coles explained that we were going to assess the needs at the hospital.

  “Fallujah is the body-bag capital of the region,” the captain said. “Don’t spend any more time there than you have to. And don’t trust anybody. They killed some contractors here and burned their bodies. Keep that image in your head.”

  “How do you keep your guys safe?” Coles asked.

  “By killing everything that ain’t smiling, and half of everything that is,” the marine captain answered.

  Captain Coles’s mouth tightened as he nodded.

  We got to the hospital and it looked like crap. There was barbed wire around it and Iraqi guards. We rolled up and a guy came out and directed us toward what looked like an ambulance entrance. I was nervous as Jonesy drove in.

  “Hamid called and said you were coming,” the man said. “Let me tell you my situation. You are Americans. I am Iraqi. Just talking to you could get me killed. I have to send my people out and say that I am getting supplies from you that will save Iraqi lives. Otherwise I will be attacked for cooperating with you.”

  “You give us a list of supplies you need,” Miller said, “and we’ll try to see that you get them. We can’t guarantee anything, but we’ll try, sir.”

  “Talib Al-Janabi,” the man said. “Do you know anything about hospitals?”

  “I’m a Physician’s Assistant,” Captain Miller said. “I have a degree in biology and enough military training to qualify me for most medical positions.”

  “Then you don’t need a list,” Talib said. “We have next to nothing here. We are down to washing bandages. Anything that you can get for us will be appreciated.”

  We heard mortar fire; Coles called the marines and found that there was fighting in a nearby cemetery. A marine officer told us to stay put and he would try to get us an escort out of the city in a few hours.

  Marla found a bathroom and we took turns, all except for Captain Miller.

  “I’m going to look the place over with this guy,” she said, indicating a heavy man in a nearly white coat. “I’d like to get an idea of how bad it is away from the Green Zone.”

  “You’re not allowed to treat Iraqis,” Captain Coles said.

  “I’ve got a few rolls of clean bandages and some antibiotics,” Miller said. “I don’t think it’s going to make a major difference in the war.”

  “And you know the patients here aren’t the enemy?” Coles asked.

  “I don’t have a good answer for you, Captain,” Miller said. “But my gut feeling is that you don’t let people die if you can help it. You got a better answer?”

  He didn’t. None of us did.

  Through an open window we got a great view of an enormous moon hanging over the squared roofs of the city. Silver and white against the darkening sky, it seemed bigger and more important than anything below it.

  Some radio messages told us about insurgents in the area. We were told to stay on alert. We talked about baseball and tennis and then, as we always did, what we were going to do when we got home. I hadn’t known that Sergeant Love from Third Squad was married. He seemed like a nice guy, but maybe a career soldier.

  “You got kids?” I asked him.

  “Five,” he answered with a smile. “Joined the National Guard in Baltimore for the extra money.”

  I remembered Pendleton and asked him if he had pictures of his kids.

  “Back in my locker,” he said. “I don’t want them being captured. That’s a little stupid, right?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Maybe you’ll show them to me when we get back to the base.”

  “Sure.”

  Night came in a hurry. The moon lit up the streets and sent eerie shadows across the frosted windows. The night air in Fallujah was fresher than what we were accustomed to in Baghdad and I felt myself relaxing. We could still hear sporadic small-arms fire outside. I thought I recognized the staccato cough of a machine gun and occasionally what could have been a grenade.

  “Birdy, you look nervous,” Marla said. I was half lying, half sitting on a dark couch that looked as if it might have been a place where patients waited to be seen.

  “When the rest of the world is nervous,” I said, “you can bet that I’m still cool.”

  “Oh, you sound so brave!” Marla said. “Now Jonesy over there is fast asleep, probably dreaming about the blues joint he’s going to open.”

  I looked over to where Jonesy was sprawled out; his M-16 across his body looked like a guitar. Very cool.

  “So, what were you telling me about some foster family you were with?” I asked Marla.

  “My bios—the folks that borned me—if they were ever really together—broke up when I was two or three,” she said. “I don’t remember. All I know was that I was going from foster home to foster home. Once in a while I would be in a group home. I guess I wasn’t cute enough to be adopted.”

  “I thought that a lot of white couples wanted to adopt kids,” I said.

  “Yeah, I guess.” Marla had her helmet off and was spinning it upside down on the tile floor. “But my folks weren’t dead and they wouldn’t consent to me being adopted. I think my dad wanted to get a few bucks for me or something. I don’t know. Anyway, I knocked around in a bunch of places. Some were good and some weren’t. Then I ended up in juvenile court for shoplifting, and this black family took me in. Kept me out of juvy detention. I was with them for a little over a year. Giving them a hard time. They had a kid of their own with cerebral palsy and really wanted a companion for her. It was all good with them. At least I didn’t have to fight her husband off. He was okay. Then it was time for me to either go to college or get a job. So I joined the army.”

  “You going to stay in?”

  “No, I’m stronger now. I’ll probably get out and go to college,” she said. “I’d like to be a teacher if they let me bring my M-16 to school. Keep the kiddie-poos in line.”

  We talked a while longer and Coles came over and told us that we were going to be in the hospital for the night. I had figured that much already.

  It was nearly five thirty when Jonesy woke me to say that we were mounting up.

  “I’m glad I’m not married to you as loud as you snore,” he said.

  Captain Coles said that we were going to start out on our own but go through a part of town that was controlled by the marines. “They’ll know we’re coming and look out for us,” he said.

  We got ready and were waiting for Miller, who we fig
ured was making another survey of the place. I started thinking about the guys the Iraqis had caught and hanged in Fallujah and immediately had to pee again. I told Jonesy, who said I was the peeingist black man he had ever met.

  The bathroom we were using was down the hall and off to the right. I started walking a little faster because I really had to go. I was just about to reach for the doorknob when the door opened and an Iraqi started backing out. He was pulling something. I jumped back against the far wall. Another Iraqi had his hand over Captain Miller’s mouth and was pulling her head back.

  The guy facing me yelled something and the one nearest me turned. He had an AK-47 slung over his shoulder and let Miller go as he reached for it. I pointed my piece at him and pulled the trigger. Nothing. Safety! I pulled the safety off and shot a burst into his face. He spun away from me, his hands going to his face as he went down. Captain Miller was on her knees and the other guy was fumbling in his jacket.

  I tried to say something. I wanted to say don’t move. I wanted to tell him that it was over. Nothing came out. I pointed the muzzle at his chest and he reached for it, grabbing the barrel and pushing it up. Frantically I jerked it away from him and pointed it at him again.

  I don’t remember shooting again, or any sound the weapon made. All I remembered is the way the top of his head exploded and the way his hands, fingers spread wide apart, went to the side of his face.

  Captain Miller was shaking. Her hands were beating flat against her chest and she was sucking in air noisily. I thought she had been shot or was having a heart attack.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  She looked up at me, then at the two guys on the bathroom floor. Neither of them was moving. She pulled her pants up and buckled them. She was saying something, but either I couldn’t hear her or no words were coming out.

  The rest of the crew had heard the gunfire; later I learned they thought it was outside.

  Miller was stunned. She kept hitting the front of her Kevlar against the tiled wall.