Israel's Next War

by Martin Archer

  It’s almost as if they think I’m here to brief them on what America and Israel’s intentions will be after the war. I’m in over my head here.

  The Turkish briefing about the Kurds outside of Turkey was short and not very informative. It was conducted by one of the few people present who was not in uniform. We didn’t learn much.

  Basically, according to the briefer, the Kurds in the countries adjacent to Turkey are a minority in each country and in an almost constant state of strife and rebellion in an effort to establish a separate Kurdish state. The only way for them to accomplish their goal, the briefer suggested, is for the Kurdish regions outside of Turkey to stop being part of the three Shiite-dominated countries where they live and rejoin the Turkish Empire as autonomous provinces.

  Okay. That’s the official party line and it is certainly one point of view. Actually it’s pretty close to what the boss says he thinks the Israelis have in mind for after the war. Have the Turks made a deal with the Israelis?

  The Turkish Army, the briefer explained, will take us to a relatively safe border crossing whenever we wish to go. After that we will be on our own in extremely dangerous territory. Not a word was mentioned as to whether we should go armed or the uniforms we should wear.

  “Do you have any questions for us?” inquired the briefer.

  “Yes sir. Thank you for the briefing. We appreciate it. I do have several questions. First, how do you think we should explain ourselves to the Kurds we meet as we travel to Mosul and Kirkuk?

  That led to a lot of discussion with all sorts of conflicting suggestions. We were getting nowhere. So I finally pulled out something I’d written on a piece of hotel stationary and read it out loud to the assembled officers.

  “Major Duffy and I are American officers; these two men are Israeli officers; and this man is a Turkish officer. I am a lieutenant colonel and the other men are majors. We are an international liaison team en route to Mosul to observe the Israelis who are bringing tanks, helicopters, APCs, and other arms to the Kurds.”

  It touched off a heated discussion. Some of the officers, probably half, seem to be upset by the notion that the Israelis were going to provide arms to the Kurds; the other half didn’t like the idea of an autonomous Kurdistan.

  Okay. I get it. Everyone wants to go on record as being tough on the Kurds and warning of the dangers in case the deal falls through or we get hurt.

  Finally I sort of waved towards my team.

  “I really wish we could explain our countries’ positions on the arming of the Kurds after the war and their subsequent relationship with Turkey. But that’s way above our pay grades. We’re just low level officers working as observers for an American general, General Roberts. But one thing I can tell you for sure is that General Roberts is a good man and he has an affection and great respect for the soldiers of the Turkish army with whom he served in combat.”

  Then, after a pause for the translator to repeat my words in Turkish, I began asking more questions.

  “But we do have some questions for you about what clothes we should wear; what, if any, weapons we should carry; and how we should explain ourselves to any Kurd or Arab who inquires.”

  There was a lot more discussion, almost two hours of talking, and a lunch break. During the lunch there was more talking with officers who had obviously been selected to sit with us because they had studied or trained in the states. Then two Turkish army sedans carried the five of us to the American embassy on Ataturk Boulevard. Unless the CIA convinces us to the contrary, everyone except Anil will be going across the border wearing Israeli battledress and we’ll all be carrying AK-47s provided by the Turks because those are the weapons the Kurds tend to have. Anil will wear his Turkish battledress with its very different camouflage pattern and colors.

  At least that’s what we’ll do if the Israeli fatigues arrive from Israel in time.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Vehicles are not generally allowed through the gates of the embassy unless they have diplomatic plates. So the Turkish Army sedans stopped in front of the gates, temporarily blocking the entrance. We got out and the five of us walked over to the kiosk by the gate. It was manned by a bored looking Marine corporal reading a magazine and a couple of Turkish policemen. The corporal got a little less bored when the policemen jumped to attention and saluted Anil when they saw his uniform.

  “We’re here to see Bill Dorsey, the cultural attaché,” I told the Marine lance corporal as he pushed a sign-in clipboard towards me with an inquiring look and asked for my ID. He promptly picked up a phone and reported our arrival as we took turns showing our IDs and signing in.

  The Marine listened intently for a couple of seconds, said “Yes sir” a couple of times to whomever he was speaking with, and nodded his head towards the rear door and the embassy entrance as he hung up. The air smelled like coal smoke as we walked up the sidewalk to the embassy.

  A young American girl met us with a smile in the embassy lobby and led us to the elevator. “Push three,” she told us. “He’s in room 312.” We rode up with her and she walked us to the door.

  ******

  Room 312 was easy to find. Bill Dorsey, the embassy’s assistant cultural attaché, met us in a little reception area. There is a desk for a secretary but it doesn’t seem to be in use. “Hi, I’m Bill Dorsey,” he said with a shy smile as he shook hands with everyone. James Bond he was not. He was a skinny little guy with white hair and a short white beard. He couldn’t weigh much over a hundred and twenty pounds.

  “Come on in,” he said as he motioned us into his rather Spartan office and pointed to a coffee pot and some cups on a window sill. “Help yourselves to some coffee while I get some more chairs out of the closet.”

  I don’t know what I expected for a CIA office but this wasn’t it. All this guy’s got is an office with a battered metal desk with a desktop computer on it, a couple of metal filing cabinets, and three wooden chairs.

  Sixty minutes and a very thorough briefing later we had a much better appreciation of the CIA and the situation on the ground over the border. According to Bill, the word is out in Iraq’s Kurdish territories about the outcome of the war. They know the Israelis have defeated Iraq and the Islamic Coalition. As one might expect, he told us, the Kurds and other minorities are elated; the Arabs are more than a little upset.

  What is not generally known, according to Bill, is that the Iraqis may have figured out what the Israelis intend to do. Yesterday they reached out to the Kurdish leadership offering them more money, a partial withdrawal of the Iraqi army, and two virtually autonomous Kurdish provinces if they stay loyal to Iraq.

  So much for secrets; I wonder how the Baghdad government found out about what the Israelis intend to do so quickly?

  “Baghdad’s problem with the Kurds is fundamental. The Iraqis have a history of viciously repressing the Kurds and relocating Arabs into the Kurdish cities to replace them, particularly in Kirkuk and in the oil fields and villages around it. The Kurds don’t trust the Arabs, and rightly so. They have good reason to expect any concessions they get from the Sunnis now running Baghdad are likely to be reversed as soon as Iraq rebuilds their army and we send more planes and helicopters so they can start attacking the Kurds again.

  “Your problem is basic—Baghdad has an extensive intelligence operation in the Kurdish territories along with army units President Majid has there to keep the Kurds in line. He held several of his most trusted battalions out of the fight with Israel because he and his cronies are in constant fear of the Kurds declaring independence. Now that the war is lost Majid and his Sunni cronies are desperate because they face the very real possibility of being replaced by a government of Shiites, particularly if the Kurdish territories and its oil revenues are also lost. So you better be damn careful. There are a lot of Arabs and Iranians where you’re going and they are likely to kill you if they catch you; neither the Shiites nor the Sunnis want anyone to help the Kurds.” Iranians? Did he say Iranians?


  We shook Bill’s hand and thanked him profusely as we left his office to get a taxi back to the hotel. He’d been helpful and certainly given us some things to think about. As he walked us to the door he added something that convinced us he was indeed the CIA station chief.

  “Oh, a couple of other things, Colonel. An El Al courier delivered your field gear and weapons to your hotel a couple of hours ago. And you, Major Hassan, need to call General Polat and let him know Baghdad sent a message this morning to both of the major Kurdish political organizations in Iraq saying it is okay if they accept military equipment from the Israelis and offering them money and more autonomy if they stay loyal to Iraq. I personally don’t think the Kurds will take the deal or that the Arabs will actually remove what’s left of their troops from Kurdistan if they do—but money talks over there so you never know.”

  ******

  Anil picked us up at the hotel the next morning and we spent the rest of the day driving to the Iraqi border in a Turkish army van after a brief shopping visit to a local clothing store. We stopped at the clothing store because Anil thought our Israeli battledress was too foreign looking and might attract attention while we’re on the road. So we’re going to wear blue jeans and running shoes while we travel.

  And that’s exactly what we did. The result was a long and rather peaceful and totally boring drive through an increasingly mountainous countryside with two stops to use the filthy toilets at a couple of roadside restaurants. We stopped at the second restaurant long enough to get a cup of coffee and something to eat.

  The bread was great but I didn’t particularly like whatever was in my chicken sandwich; too many sliced olives or something.

  It was an eight hour drive and we were all traveling in our new ill-fitting “Turkish” blue jeans and shirts. As you might imagine, we spent most of the time talking about our experiences and mundane things such as who lives in the various villages we are passing. Only the driver and a Turkish army captain acting as our escort officer were in uniform. It was both boring to endure the drive and exciting to think about what lies ahead.

  We finally reached the big Turkish army base at Cukurca on the Iraq border as sun was going down and we were all more than ready to get something to eat. To our surprise, we were greeted as we walked into the officers’ club dining room by General Polat and another Turkish general. They apparently helicoptered in this morning to smooth our way in the event any smoothing is required.

  Why the hell did we drive instead of flying with them? Could it be the Turks were still deciding about whether to help us get over the border?

  ******

  After dark we changed into our Israeli battledress and ate a good meal featuring some of the tastiest lamb and rice pilaf I’ve ever eaten. Then we piled into the back of an army truck and spent thirty or forty minutes in the dark bumping and grinding over a dirt track to the unmarked border.

  Four tough looking and heavily armed Turkish army special operators were standing in a little group waiting for us as we climbed out of the truck in the bright moonlight. They are going with us to the border and a little ways into Iraq—just in case, according to Anil, anyone is expecting us. We jacked rounds into our AK-47s when the Turkish special operators did.

  We’d started out with the idea of going in with the short Galils that came with the Israeli uniforms. But then we exchanged them for the AK-47s at Anil’s suggestion. He thought they would attract less attention. He said he always carries an AK-47 when he’s in Iraq.

  It didn’t take long before we began to realize and appreciate the professionalism of our guides.

  About half an hour after we silently slipped under the barbed wire border fence we reached a little stream. Without saying a word, they motioned for us to stop and for Harry and Anil to hand over the backpacks carrying our spare rations and gear. Two of the Turks walked across and disappeared into the darkness. A few minutes later the other two Turks, the ones with our packs, motioned to us to stay put while they carried them across the stream and into the trees on the other side.

  When they came back one of them whispered something quietly in Anil’s ear. He pointed at me. Then they carefully carried each of us across so our boots wouldn’t get wet.

  First Harry and Anil were piggybacked over and then Sid and Solly. The Turks’ technique changed when they come back for me. They carefully and gently touch my taped ribs to acknowledge them. Then they locked their hands for me to sit on while they carried me across with my legs elevated to keep my boots clear of the water.

  I am more than a little impressed and I’m sure Harry is too—only veteran soldiers know the importance of keeping one’s boots dry if you have a long walk ahead of you.

  Brief and wordless handshakes all around and our four guides melted away into the darkness. It was almost midnight; we were in Indian country and alone under the faint light of the moon.

  We’ve got five hours to make our rendezvous.

  ******

  We made good time and when the sun came up we could see a dusty and battered civilian pickup truck parked about fifty yards off to the side of the dirt road right where it was supposed to be. We watched it for more than an hour as cars and trucks periodically traveled the road in both directions trailing clouds of dust. But something didn’t feel right about the truck just sitting there. For one thing, there was no driver.

  “What do you think?” I asked Harry as I handed Anil’s binoculars to him. The three of us were lying side by side under a big scrubby bush. Sid and Solly were on the ground about three hundred yards behind us in a covering position.

  “I don’t know, Dick. The truck looks okay from here and so does the traffic coming by. But where’s the driver?”

  “Something just doesn’t feel right. Let’s stay here and watch for a while,” Anil said.

  We waited for over two hours. I was looking back towards Si and Solly when all of sudden Anil and I feel an adrenaline rush and jerk fully alert when Harry suddenly twitched and drew in a shooter’s breath as he sighted along the barrel of his Ak-47.

  Anil and I instinctively raised our weapons as a man stood up from behind a rock about four hundred yards beyond the truck and somewhat to our right. We watched as he stretched, bent over and picked up a coat and a weapon off the ground, and leisurely walked to the truck and climbed in.

  “Wait here,” Anil says. “I’m going to show myself and walk in a big circle around to where he came from to make sure he’s alone. Kill the sonofabitch if anyone starts shooting. Better yet. Try to wound him so we can ask him some questions. Cover me but don’t even think about showing yourselves or coming in until I signal.”

  It seems like ages after Anil wiggled backward and to the left to where he could stand up without drawing attention to our position. We watched him as he walked in a great circle over to where the man was waiting—after initially jumping in surprise and throwing down his cigarette when he finally saw Anil. Ten minutes later Anil cautiously approached the truck and talked to the man who climbed out to talk to him. From a distance it looked to be a friendly conversation since it started with a big hug. All four of us trotted up to the truck when Anil waved us in with a smile.

  Damn; it’s already getting hot.

  “This here is Rashid, Rashid Goran. I met him once before. He was being cautious just as we were. He says he stayed away from the truck because he was afraid the meeting might be a trap and an Iraqi helicopter would come. He’d heard the Iraqis lost a lot of their helicopters but he doesn’t believe it.”

  We all shook hands with Rashid and smiled at him; he smiled back. Hell, can’t complain if a guy is cautious out here. It wasted a lot of time but it’s a good sign he knows what he’s doing and won’t take any unnecessary risks.

  Goran looks to be a hardscrabble Arab farmer of about forty. He smiled broadly through his mustache and tobacco stained teeth as we introduced ourselves and shook his hand. Anil told us Goran is a Kurd who runs a little store in a village near Mosul.

&
nbsp; According to Anil, Goran is a Kurdish Democratic Party (KDP) Peshmerga, a member of this region’s Kurdish militia. Many Kurdish men and women are members in each of the Kurdish regions. They’re more like the Israelis than the Arabs in that everyone fights, even the women, Anil told us. Then with a smile he added, "and they argue a lot among themselves too."

  We knew from our briefings that there are two distinct Kurdish provinces in Iraq, and maybe three depending on whom you ask. There are, as well, several in Turkey, one in Syria, and at least one in Iran. Each region, according to Anil, has its own Peshmerga force. Sometimes they cooperate; sometimes they don’t.

  “They’re sort of like your minutemen of America’s colonial era militia and they sometimes don’t get along very well.”

  ******

  Anil rode in the front seat with Rashid and the rest of us rode in back in the open truck bed as we headed down the dirt road trailing a cloud of dust behind us. We’re mostly okay except when Anil slowed down and the dust caught up with us.

  The mountain range to our left was large and impressive with little white puffy clouds hanging over it. It runs as far as the eye can see all the way from Lebanon to Iran. It and the hilly lands that run up to it are the ancestral home of the Kurds—Kurdistan.

  “We are certain to run into road blocks. So keep your weapons out of sight; but be ready to grab them and bail out in a hurry and run for it if I give the word,” Anil suggested. “But whatever you do, don’t start shooting unless I do, even if someone is shooting at us.”

  Ten minutes later the road bent around a little hill and we reached our first roadblock. An old and rather rundown and rusty Russian T-55 tank was parked about fifty yards off the road with a couple of pickup trucks parked next to it. There was a man on the turret behind the machine gun and a couple of others standing next to the tank. We could clearly see the belt of shiny brass cartridges hanging off the machine gun. Two more pickups were parked next to the road with six or seven uniformed men standing around them. The two men nearest the road in the first pickup waved us down.