April in Baghdad - a poetic memory
I spent a year working in Baghdad in 2008. April was particularly memorable because of all the incoming mortar rounds we took from the bad guys, right there on the embassy grounds. It was so bad, many people called it Baghdad’s Easter Offensive. We survived it, though we attended a funeral for one who didn’t. And I wrote a poem about the experience. A friend encouraged me to share it, saying nobody could tell this story like I could. So here it is (I hope to make this a part of a larger collection of poems about my travels).
April in Baghdad - Baghdad nights It was a long-assed day. We had dinner at the DFAC and returned to the office. Finally knocked off around 9pm. The mandatory protective vest weighs heavy on my already tired shoulders – while the strap connecting the two sides cuts into my waist as I try to balance their weight on my already tired hips - I lumber on to my tin-foil hootch in Embassy Estates on the Palace grounds . . . It is late. I shower and turn on Fox News, the only station that works in my trailer. “In California today, Senator Clinton said President Johnson was more important than Dr. King to getting the ’65 Civil Rights Bill passed.” Aw shyt. White House better stay white. I fall asleep reading “Certain to Win,” one of those Army War College texts from the Strategic Studies program I am falling further and further behind in with each passing Baghdad day. 2am. The witching hour. Target practice. I'm awakened by the Duck and Cover alarm. The concrete reinforced shelter is 100 meters away from my tin-foil hootch as the crow flies . . . Nope. I’ll sit this one out – and pray . . . Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! The alarm sounds. I hear people stumbling, some drunkenly staggering – to the safety of the shelter. (Did I forget to say there are at least four different AA groups in the Green Zone?) I shelter in place and start my usual prayer (I skip a lot of drills – and pray a lot - these days): “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me . . . . ” SWOOOOOOSH!!! A mortar round flies over the tin foil roof of my tin foil hootch – “. . . . lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the Still Waters . . . . –“ THUMP! The round hits the nearby ground. Maybe it is another dud. I continue my prayer: “ . . . . He restoreth my soul . . . . “ KABOOOOOM! It was not a dud after all. But I pinch myself and I am not dead. I finish my oft-repeated prayer: “And I will dwell in the House of the Lord, forever.” Back to sleep. There is still more night. And tomorrow is another Baghdad day.
This.