One night after a regular patrol set out Kadar Al Sayer and I decided to try our luck with some freelancing by way of a training exercise for him. We crept through side streets and alleyways to a police station in a neighboring residential block where we found a couple Iraqi soldiers listlessly sitting on chairs out front, standing guard. I maneuvered us into a shadowy gap between buildings across the street. It afforded good cover and an escape route, and brought us close enough for clear shots. We took them out with simultaneous short bursts and scurried away cleanly. Salah had an Arab’s lax sense of discipline. He didn’t mind at all that we’d gone it alone and rejoiced to hear of our success. His patrol had again come up empty.
On August 16, the U.S. announced a blockade of Iraq, closing off imports—legal ones, anyhow. There’s always a black market and backdoor deals, but at least the blockade ran the costs of incoming goods and materiel up.That plus the force buildup across the Saudi border provoked Saddam to place American hostages (about 2,000 Americans were in Baghdad) at key military and infrastructure sites, making them human targets for any missiles or bombs we might send in. TV news featured a particularly obnoxious clip of Saddam Hussein, togged out in a western business suit and tie, acting the beaming, walrus-mustached uncle with five-year-old Stuart Lockwood. He asked Stuart if he was getting enough cornflakes and milk, and Stuart grimly nodded yes. Saddam ruffled Stuart’s hair affectionately and a military aide patted his neck. Stuart with arms crossed inched away from them, and Saddam recognized it as bad optics and moved on to other topics. By August 23 Saddam realized his hostage trick had aroused not fear or respect around the world but only disgust, so called it off.
On August 24 Iraqi troops surrounded the 27 Embassies still open in Kuwait, the U.S. Embassy among them. Apparently the idea was to intimidate them to close up shop without a confrontation that could lead to war. The Iraqis cut off their electricity and water, but most of the Embassies stood their ground. Meanwhile the Iraqi troops continued their determined destruction of Kuwait. And allied forces continued their buildup across the border.
We were all sitting around whiling away the time after dinner one evening, biding time until patrolling duties commenced. A couple of the others had developed a liking for Belgian beer and we were feeling mellow. Someone asked Nasr Abu Khattab why he left Palestine and settled in Kuwait.
“My friends, there is a long and strange story behind that,” Nasr said.
“We’ve time to listen,” said Salah, our host. “Tell us your story, please.”
Nasr was a handsome devil in his mid-thirties. “Very well,” said he. “Now, as you are aware, much of the world holds the impression from years of news accounts that the people of Palestine are poor refugees. That is not the case at all. There are many wealthy Palestinians. My father is such a man, the richest man in his village. I am his eldest son. I was the apple of his eye and destined to inherit great wealth when I reached a certain age. When I was twenty years old I fell deeply in love with the most beautiful girl for many miles around, and she with me, and so it came to pass that plans were laid for our marriage.
“In celebration of the upcoming wedding my father held a lavish party, to which all the leading people in the village were invited. The party had just finished a sumptuous feast and had settled down to hear speeches and tributes when, to my great shame and embarrassment, sitting at the head table in front of all the guests I let loose a thunderous fart.
“The room’s cheerful chatter came to an instant halt, then after a second resumed again as if nothing had happened. I sat there with a blank expression on my face for a couple minutes, then excused myself to my bride-to-be, rose from my seat and left the room with great dignity. I went out and got into my car, drove it to my house, packed some things and drove out of town. I drove through Jordan and thought, ‘No, it’s too near to home.’ So I continued on to Iraq. I didn’t like the look of the place, too many poor people and under the thumb of Saddam Hussein. So I continued on to Kuwait, a prosperous place where I sensed I could make my fortune. I found a position with one of the Al Sayer family’s trading concerns. The work suited me and on the strength of my talents I rose steadily in the firm…”
“It’s true,” put in Kadar Al Sayer. “He’s become our trusted director of trading now.”
“But you had such a promising future in your village,” said Mamoon Al Bahar. “Why didn’t you return there? It is natural that a man should remain true to his family and tribe.”
“Yes I wholeheartedly agree,” said Nasr. “I share those feelings too, and after ten years in Kuwait, having secured my fortune, I made inquiries. I learned that my bride-to-be had never married and still pined for me. So I drove back there to assess the possibilities of returning. When I arrived in my village I stopped in a café for a cool drink to refresh myself. Near my table sat a man and his young son, and I overheard their conversation. The boy asked his father, ‘When was I born?’
“The father replied, ‘My son, you were born in the very same month that Nasr Asad Khattab farted at his wedding feast, just two days later.’
“I had become a date in my tribe’s lore, and for that reason I could never again live in that village. So I got back in my car and returned to Kuwait where, I must tell you, life has been bountiful for me ever since, Inshallah.”
“Nasr, my friend, perhaps you can answer a question that has been long troubling me,” put in Haroun Al Sabah. “We Kuwaitis have all along been steadfast supporters of the Palestinian cause against the accursed Israelis. We have taken in their refugees and given them employment. We have contributed billions of dinars to help them. We without fail vote in their favor at the United Nations. Yet Arafat, their leader, and many of his followers have rejoiced in Saddam’s victory. Can you explain this contradiction?”
Nasr thought for a moment. “Perhaps there is no contradiction. Recall that we all are descendants of desert tribes. Has there ever been a desert tribe that did not feel whatever good fortune befell them was theirs by right as a gift from Allah? So we feel gratitude toward Allah, not toward the instruments of his will. And has there ever been a desert tribe that felt the neighboring tribe did not have more camels than they needed? Iraq’s incursion into Kuwait is but a modern raid, not for camels but for oil fields.”
“Ah, it is so, it is so,” sighed Salah Al Sabah. “This story of yours reminds me of a tale of another man who traveled in pursuit of wealth and his good fortune. It seems that in a time several generations ago, the Emir went on a hunting trip in the desert…”
“Do you mean Emir Sheik Jaber Al Ahmad Al Sabah, our ruler in exile…?” asked Kadar Al Sayer.
“No, this happened many years ago in simpler times, when the Emir still lived in a mud-brick palace. On this hunting trip he killed a gazelle and left his retinue to clean it. While doing so a man came out of the desert on an ass. Not recognizing the Emir, he stopped to observe him at his task. After a time the Emir asked him, ‘Where are you going?’
‘To see the Emir,’ the man replied. ‘I have an early crop of the finest cucumbers, and I mean to sell them to the Emir, who is known for his munificence.’
‘And what do you expect to get of him?’ the Emir asked.
‘One thousand dinars.’
‘And if the Emir says that is too much…?’
‘Then I will say five hundred dinars.’
‘Supposing he says five hundred is too much?’
‘Then three hundred.’
‘And if still he says that is too much?’
‘Then two hundred.’
“And so it went until finally the man said, ‘If I quote him thirty dinars and he will not accept that, then I will get back on my ass and return to my people, disappointed and empty handed.’
The Emir laughed and bade the man farewell. He returned home to his palace and told his chamberlain that if a man with cucumbers came to the door, to admit him. Pre
sently the man arrived, was brought in, and did not recognize the Emir as the man he had met in the desert. He explained his mission, and the Emir asked, ‘How much do you want for your cucumbers?’
‘One thousand dinars,’ said the man.
‘Preposterous. That is far too much.’
‘Then five hundred.’
‘For those cucumbers? Impossible.’
‘Three hundred, then.’
‘Do you take me for a fool?’
“And so it went until the man reached thirty dinars. When the Emir again declined, the man exclaimed, ‘By Allah, I will not go lower than thirty. The man I met in the desert assuredly brought me bad luck. I will return to my people with my cucumbers. My ass is tied up at the door and ready to depart.’
“Then the Emir laughed until he fell on his back. He instructed his chamberlain to take the cucumbers and give the man a thousand dinars, plus five hundred, plus three hundred—in all, two thousand one hundred and eighty dinars—and to leave the ass where it was. Thus we learn not only of the generosity of that Emir, but also of his fine sense of humor.”
“Speaking of generosity,” said Siyaf Al Segar, “My family has passed a tale through the generations about a certain ancestor, Hatim, who died and was buried on a certain mountaintop at whose foot ran a stream of pure water. One time the King of Himyar came into that valley, and when he came to that stream and stopped to water his camels he heard wailing and keening. He was told it came from the tomb of Hatim, which had two stone girls with disheveled hair adorning it. So he jestingly said, “O Hatim, we are thy guests this night and we are lank with hunger.’
“Sleep overcame him, but he awoke in affright, crying out, ‘Help, O Arabs, look to my beast!’ His she-camel was struggling and struck down, so they stabbed her throat, then roasted her flesh and ate. They asked him what had happened, and he replied that Hatim had come to him in a dream and cried, ‘Thou comest to us and we have nothing by us, so he smote my camel with a sword.’ And when I awoke she was already dead. The King mounted the beast of one of his companions, and the man rode behind him. Midday they saw a man coming toward them mounted on a camel, leading another camel. The King asked him who he was, and the man replied, ‘I am Adi, son of Hatim. Where is the King of Himyar?’
‘I am he,’ said the King.
‘My father, Hatim, last night came to me in a dream and said that the King of Himyar sought the guest-rite of me and I had naught to give him, so I slaughtered his she-camel that he might eat. So take him a she-camel to ride, for in my grave I have nothing.’
“Thus we may marvel at the generosity of Hatim, both alive and dead, and at the marvelous ways of Allah,” Siyaf concluded.
“Speaking of dreams,” said Mamoon Al Bahar, “my family tells a story, they swear it is true, of a man my grandfather knew who became rich again through a dream.”
“I have many dreams but am not rich yet,” observed Kadar Al Sayer.
“Ha, says he who drives a BMW 7 Series,” scoffed Nasr Abu Khattab. “Your dreams are about fucking Sharon Stone, most likely.”
“It is my father’s BMW, not mine,” protested Kadar.
“Nevertheless, relate your story, Mamoon” said Nasr.
“Certainly. It seems many years ago this wealthy man, in truth made of money, launched some unfortunate business ventures and lost all his substance. He became so destitute that he had to earn his living by hiring out for hard labor. One night, dejected and heavy hearted, he lay down to sleep, and in a dream a Speaker came to him and said, ‘Thy fortune is in Cairo. Go there and seek it.’
“The man journeyed to Cairo. But when he arrived, night overtook him and he lay down to sleep in a mosque. By decree of Allah the Almighty some bandits entered the mosque and made their way from there to an adjoining house. The owner of the house was wakened by the noise of the thieves and cried out, and the Chief of Police and his officers quickly came. They found no one there but the man asleep in the mosque, so they beat him with palm fronds until nigh to death and cast him into jail. After three days the Chief asked him what he was doing in Cairo.
‘In a dream I was told my fortune lay here,’ said the man, ‘so I came here to seek it.’
“The Chief of Police laughed at him. ‘I’ve never met such a fool as you, to travel all this way because of something in a dream. I myself have several times been told in a dream of a house in your city, in such a district and of such a fashion, in whose garden sits a fountain, under which a great fortune is buried. But never would I be so stupid as to consider traveling to your city because of those dreams.’ He gave the man some money and told him to go home, forget the dreams and get back to work.
“The man returned home. Realizing that the home described in the Chief’s dreams was his own, he set to digging beneath his fountain and soon uncovered a great treasure, by which his lost wealth was restored in full. So we see that Allah may speak to us in dreams, and that only the foolish do not heed them.”
“How about you, Mr. Jake?” asked Haroun. “Americans must have many stories to tell that would astound and amaze us.”
You can’t even begin to imagine what I could tell you about Hollywood, I thought. I combed my memories… the tale of my pig-smuggling Serbian great-grandfather wouldn’t be appropriate… winding up in the Rangers because of streaking Dana Wehrli’s engagement shower would make no more sense to them than it did to me in retrospect… “Here is a story that may interest you,” I began. “At one time when I fought in Vietnam my unit was stationed at an outpost in the jungles of a certain province. We were a reconnaissance patrol, assigned to search out Viet Cong activity in the area. The soldiers we joined told us this story. Some time before we came, two field operatives from our Central Intelligence Agency, the CIA, arrived at this camp, Kevin and Kurt. They explained that they had come to get some hands-on experience in the field so they would have a better idea how to interpret the reports we sent in.
We rangers never liked to have CIA operatives around, as they usually just caused trouble and inconvenience. But these guys seemed sincerely interested to learn what jungle warfare was all about, and they were so green that the Rangers felt sorry for them and decided to help them. They’d already determined that there were no VC’s close by so they gave them M-16s and bush hats, warned them about avoiding the claymore mines around the perimeter and pointed them down a trail known to be safe.
Two hours went by and then came a call on the radio. It was Kurt screaming: “May Day! May Day! Help! Help! SOS! SOS!!” They answered the call, and Kurt, panic-stricken, shrieked, “We’ve got a big problem here! We came to a bend in the trail, and we thought we heard something up ahead, so we dived into the brush for cover. Kevin tripped and fell down and his rifle went off. Shot himself in the chest. He’s just lying there. I think he’s dead.”
The radio operator said, “Calm down, Kurt, calm down. Here’s your situation. You are in no danger. There are no Charlies in your area. Depending on your location we can reach you on foot with help in less than an hour, or maybe even call in a medevac chopper if you’ve got an LZ nearby. What action we take depends on the exact status of Kevin. So the first thing to do is, you go and make sure he’s dead.”
There was a silence over the radio, and then they heard “Bang Bang.” And then Kurt came back on and said, “Okay, done it. Now what?”
Through the laughter, Haroun asked, “Are your CIA operatives really that foolish?”
“It’s a story that makes the rounds among the Rangers. Probably it is not strictly true…but sometimes you do have to wonder.”
Part 3: Kismet
Tuesday, September 25, to Saturday, September 29, 1990
The Iraqis had rolled in well over a month ago, and since then the situation had only fallen even further apart. Kuwaiti resistance fighters, however determined and steadfast some of them may have been, amounted to an annoyance to the invaders, no re
al threat or obstruction. And when it came to actual combat the Iraqis had by far the upper hand.
Urban warfare is a painstaking, dangerous, fraught and frustrating kind of fighting. Your team infiltrates a building. Then you advance floor by floor and room by room, some guys covering from around the corner, other guys busting a hole in the door or the wall and tossing in flashbang grenades. Then you storm in with weapons at the ready, having no idea whether you’ll be facing stunned enemies, a terrified family or an empty room. Or booby traps. Then repeat. And repeat.
That’s textbook urban warfare the way the U.S. Army does it. The Iraqis figured out a shortcut to all that. If a building came into question they just rolled a tank up and fired a few cannon rounds into it, demolishing said building and the people in it. The result was that Kuwait City became progressively wrecked as the weeks went on. More women, and not just halal ones, were raped. More shops and dwellings were looted. All photos and other images of the Al Sabah ruling family were torn down and destroyed. The Iraqis toppled monuments and leveled civic buildings. Parks became trash pits, garbage dumps and makeshift cemeteries. Having forced the abdication of nearly half the Kuwaitis, Saddam now sent thousands of Iraqi families down to occupy vacated villas.
On September 23 Saddam had issued a threat to attack Israel, Saudi Arabia’s oil fields, and other Gulf States, if the U.N. economic embargo continued to strangle Iraq. Clearly he felt pressured and we feared that might lead to further hardships for Kuwait. Taking stock of my personal situation, it seemed a good time to butt out. My role in the Kuwaiti guerilla force was winding down. Our cell found fewer missions to pursue, and our patrols of the neighborhood seemed to be yielding little benefit besides giving us a sense of fighting back. Iraqi soldiers rarely ventured into our territory. In the early days I’d done some combat training of our little band, but there isn’t much desert Arabs don’t already instinctively know about ambushes and hit-and-run tactics, so my teaching efforts reached diminishing returns.
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 53
