Victory: My Complete Surrender

It seemed like two minutes. But I’d been asleep for three hours when the phone rang. “Time get up. Time get up.” Click. Guess that was the wakeup call. I packed away my still-wet socks, and gathered my bags. We met in the small conference room, bleary yet nervous. “I want to emphasize that Ramadan is still in effect. You will not be allowed to drink, eat, or smoke in public. Ladies, you must cover your arms.” I look around: we all have our long sleeves on except Toni, the truck driver with the perpetual harem of men surrounding her and seemingly endless supply of NYFD 9/11 commemorative T-shirts. Figures.

Simon sits next to me, popping. I look at Jeff; he laughs as I motion for him to swap seats with Simon. “I’ll take your itineraries now. Please bring them to the front of the room. We also need your passport, travel letter, shot record, and military ID. Ladies, we will be inspecting your clothing to ensure that it is acceptable for Ramadan” Fashion police in Sharjah! I examine my shirt, asking Simon “Do you think the neckline is too low?” He shrugs. The process begins as we file one by one towards the front of the room. “When you have had your documents checked, go to breakfast. The bus will load at 5:30.”

Breakfast was a dizzying array of meats, pastries, cheeses, and faux western fare. Simon pulled aside the waiter, asking for something in French. The waiter disappeared. “Excellent croissants.” “Yeah, these are pretty good.” Simon jumps up and fills two napkins full. “Might be a good idea to take some food.” He drops one of the napkins on the floor, spilling six croissants in a crumbled mess onto the clean rug. The waiter returns with a different coffee pot and pours a thick, syrupy brown liquid into his cup. “Now this is coffee!” He carries on with the waiter, louder with each sentence, swapping between French and broken Arab. Finally, he hands him a napkin. The waiter writes something down, then disappears back to the kitchen.

“I got his email address. I made a friend!” “But Simon, why would you want a hotel waiters email address??” I am curious. “He said I could stay with his family if I came back.” Jeff bursts into laughter, “Simon, you wouldn’t really go to his house, would you?” Someone else shouts “I could just see that…” “Simon would be the dinner.” “…no, Simon would be the entertainment…” Simon shakes his head. “But I made a friend…”

Down in the lobby, we have piled our luggage near the door. The doorman looks nervously around. The morning prayer was now blasting from the mosque speakers. Jeff is still kidding Simon, “You asked him out, didn’t you.” “Jesus Christ!!” Simon responds in a loud voice. A man rushes toward him “Do not say that! Have some respect for where you are!” Simon cowers a bit. “Sorry.” The man disappears back into the crowd. I think it was the same guy that was hiding a bottle of water yesterday under his shirt when the rest of us were being chastised for drinking water in public. I say nothing.

The door is swung open, and three small men start loading what must be two tons of luggage onto the truck. Finally, the doorman looks around outside, then motions us to start loading the busses. Jeff swiftly gets lost in the line, leaving me with Simon. We load onto the bus, our laps filled with our computers and other carry-ons. The route is reversed back to the airport: the same careening ride, the same abrupt lane changes-only now in daylight so we can easily see how close we are imminent maiming.

We pull up to the curb, and a man hops onto the huge mound of black suitcases in the luggage truck. One by one, he starts throwing the suitcases to another man on the ground. Sometimes the man catches them, sometimes not. People are rushing in to grab their bags, but are being knocked out of the way by more flying bags. “Oww.” “Ughhhh.” “Jesus!” I see mine cocked and loaded on top of the truck, I dive forward just as it hits the ground, pulling with all my might to get clear before the next one lands on me. I see Simon’s huge bag next. “Uffff.” “Shit.” It has landed on his feet. “Aaarr.” I lean forward, helping him to drag it backwards. “Shit, what have you got in here?” “I have enough clean clothes for a month!” “Jeez, Simon…”

Inside, we are ushered through immigration and out to a gate. No one else is there. I look up at the flight board, but there is no information posted. There are no flight attendants, no customer service reps at our gate. And it is segregated-there is no foot traffic through this part of the terminal. I wander into the duty free store. I pick up some perfume, desperate to smell better than I do after traveling in the heat in my lovely long-sleeved Ramadan outfit. I spray towards my neck, and feel nothing. I spray again. Nothing. I look down to see that it has blobbed an oily, perfumey mess all over my shirt. At least I smell better.

The crowd grows at the gate. Still no airline posting or flight information. “Maybe they don’t want anyone to know?” Simon mumbles. I wondered if merely stating that we were American contractors would get us shot, but then dismissed the notion as obvious. Contractors were being shot every day now, and it was up to us to remain as un-American as possible. But that is never possible: our shoes are leather, our clothes are new, our hair is trimmed, we smell better than any other nationality in the world that I know of. Thank the Puritans for something, I guess. But we are American, and definitely look it. I sit down in an uncomfortable seat, suddenly aware that we are in a part of the world where people readily kill for what you are, for what you represent. We have no defense.

It is hot again, but my arms are covered. It is 7:30AM, and already 98 degrees. After an hour, I am thirsty. There is a small café nearby, but no one is in it. I slip off to the bathroom, thinking I can sneak a drink of water, but am shunned away by the cleaning man. “Down there.” He points me to the other end of the terminal, but there is no bathroom there. I lick my lips, dreaming of Diet Coke and a life far away. Defiant, I push my left sleeve up, then rethink it and slide my sleeve back down. It’s all wearing on me now.

An hour later a guard opens up the glass door to the tarmac. We line up and travel down a long, dark hallway to the outside. We load onto a bus and travel out to a plane ominously surrounded by police. There are no markings on the plane, nothing to identify it. No logo, nothing. One by one, we load onto the stairway and into the plane. We are not assigned seats, so I head for the exit row. The seat ahead of me is broken, and leans back in front of the door. I look up: the ceiling panel is cracked and stained yellow. Apparently smoking is still allowed in flight. Or maybe there has been no maintenance on this plane since smoking was eliminated two decades ago. Neither option would surprise me. The carpet on the floor is ripped; the signs at the front of the plane burned out a long time ago. The plane reeks of stale...something. I can’t quite place it. It is not good. There is no gasper air, and the hot interior has now passed 103 degrees. Is it OK to roll up my sleeves? I don’t wait to answer my own question.

Finally, the door is closed. The not too bilingual flight attendants attempt a safety briefing, but will not speak loud enough for any of us to hear them. They meekly run through the speech, but when they get to the part where they grab the seat belt buckle and demonstrate the oh-so-complicated movement of buckling it, one of them drops the buckle and does not pick it back up. Instead, she just skips over that section of instructions. Nope. No FAA here. Someone says something from the flight deck, but no one can decipher what they are saying. What? The weather in lovely downtown Baghdad is a cool 110 degrees today…enjoy your vacation? This is the flight to hell: please do not hesitate to assume the crash position at any time? Don’t bother with the seatbelts, it won’t matter anyway?

Out of the rear of the plane comes a smell. It seems vaguely curry-like, but I can’t quite place it. Curry and pate, kind of. No, curry and raisins? Curry and carrots! The cart rolls by, and the flight attendant whispers something at me. I can hear nothing, there is air leaking at the exit door. I look closely at the window and see drops of water leaking down the sidewall. I look back at her, and she is handing me a can of Sprite. At least it isn’t Fanta. I turn the lever and pull down my tray table, but it is broken on one end and sags into my lap. I lock it back up and pull down the middle one. She deposits a lunch gently on the table. It smells no better than it did when it was being warmed. I open the package, and out pops a slurry of a yellow egg-like substance filled with something brown. I suspect it is mushroom, but it is slimy and has a texture that certainly does not resemble any mushrooms that I know. I gingerly hold it up to my nose, attempting to decipher the ingredients. No luck. Finally I take a small bite. Now, I can likely stomach about anything, and by this point I am hungry, tired, and have eaten things I certainly would not have wanted to a month ago. But this has surpassed the most horrific foodstuff that has ever been served, and it remains completely unidentifiable. I spit it out, not even marshalling the pretense of manners, and wipe my lips off in complete disgust. I look at the large man sitting next to me. He is asking if there is another breakfast available. My eyes are wide. “Oh, I’ll eat anything.” He laughs. Apparently so.

Two hours later the plane suddenly lurched to the left. I’d heard about the ‘unusual approach’ into Baghdad. It was the stuff of new-hire folklore, passed down through the extensive rumor mill in orientation.

“Yeah, one guy said…” “Well, I heard…” “I know a guy that just came back, and he said…” We were all waiting, breathless, not sure whether we should fear it or just start finding the Lord right now. The plane straightens out for a moment, then turns again, this time more sharply. I look out the window, “My God, we’re right over the airport!” I searched my brain for some sort of flight pattern where the plane can land at an airport while still being at 2,000 feet. I could find nothing. “It’s called the military approach,” someone behind me said.

“What’s that?” “A corkscrew.” I looked across the aisle. Some were smiling, some were hunkered down deep into their seats. We turned left again. We were now perpendicular to the runway, and still turning. “Jesus Christ.”

The plane groaned and flexed with each turn. The stow bins rattled, their doors flexing and banging as the g forces increased. The ceiling panels moved, the curtains-or what was left of them-swung back and forth. The air leak at the exit door had now reached a shriek, and water dripped onto my leg a steady stream. The window in the door fogged over as I was pushed back into my seat by another turn. We were now going straight in, but we were still at 700 feet. OK! So this is it! All this, and this is where my life ends. For some pimply fuck up there with a few thousand hours of flight time and not-so-jaunty hat. Yes, he’s probably having a great ole time, slamming us to the side of the plane, then dropping straight out of the sky. Yee-haw. I look across the way at Toni the truck driver, and she is smiling some sort of goofey ‘yeah, man this is waaaaay cool’ smile on her harsh, too tanned face. Yup. We’re going to die.

The plane slams onto the tarmac and taxis across the runway. There are only two other planes at the airport: another white anonymous one, and a Jordanian Airlines. I look out the window at the terminal: Baghdad International. There is no need to pull into ramp since there is no other traffic. Wouldn’t matter anyway, since there is no power to move the ramps. We exit the stairway down into what feels to be an oven. The temperature is 101 degrees, and we head for the terminal entrance. Or at least what appears to be a doorway. A man with a gun looks at us suspiciously, and points us inside. We enter a nearly dark terminal and form three lines. There is no air conditioning, and the heat inside the terminal is beyond oppressive. I have never felt heat like it: a heavy blanket that makes it hard to breathe and even harder to move. Still, I cannot push my sleeves up until we are on American soil. That will be hours from now.

There are only a dozen employees still working at the terminal. We are told that they have not been paid in months. Three of them are inside plastic, bulletproof cages and appear to be the immigration officers. Not too much demand for their services these days. If you are not a contractor, you do not fly into Baghdad anymore. One by one we file up to them, and produce our passports and travel letters. He knows who we are, yet asks a few perfunctory questions. We are interrupted by an Iraqi man gesturing wildly, yelling at a man who appears to be the immigration manager. They seem to be trying to throw him out of the airport, but he is not leaving. Their yelling gets louder, and their arms are flailing mere inches from each other’s face. Finally, the man leaves. He will not be entering Iraq today. I will.

We are routed over to a dark area where the baggage belts are. But the belts are not running, and only a few lights are still on. I look around: the airport is frozen in time. This is an airport that just shut down, out of the blue. People escaped, fleeing from Americans descending with bullets in the darkness. There was life here then: flights, employees, travelers from all over. Now only three light bulbs are still on, baggage belts are still, electric doors no longer operate, the bathrooms are cordoned off and have not been cleaned in months. We can smell the stench from three hundred feet away, the heat baking the remains into a putrid gas stinging our eyes. Flight numbers from long gone flights remain on the baggage boards, ghostly reminders of when this was a functioning cog in the Iraqi machine.

We stand in front of the baggage belt, expecting it somehow to creek to life again. It does not. A half dozen Iraqis are bringing in all our baggage through a back door, and piling it into a heap on the floor. Our NBC bags, the ones with our biological suits, helmets, and flak jackets are brought in by small boys staggering under their weight. They are thrown onto the heap of suitcases. Just as we begin the formidable task of sorting out all the bags, the lights go out. We had heard rumors that there was a car bomb at the airport entrance the day before, and someone was killed. When the lights go out, the Iraqis run for the nearest door, leaving us in the middle of the baggage terminal in the dark, confused and not quite knowing what will come next. One man hits the floor, covering his head. I look around, no one else is moving. We stand, paralyzed, waiting for something to happen. Nothing does.

Thirty minutes later, the Iraqis return to the terminal. We are still in the dark, wide eyed and waiting for imminent death. Slowly, we begin to sort through the huge pile of black bags-hundreds of them. The NBC bags are all identical, and Jeff and I had the brilliant notion to mark our bags with orange duct tape so we could find them with ease. However, we had not planned on attempting to locate them in complete darkness, and our prodigious idea is thwarted. We are thrown into the heap of people, amidst the heap of luggage on the floor. Almost an hour later, we emerge with all our luggage. As we do, we are approached by a fleet of Iraqi baggage handlers who are now making a great living in the new Iraqi economy separating American contractors from their money by hijacking their bags and placing them on the four remaining luggage carts in Baghdad. I hand a dark, hairy man $2 for taking my bags-admittedly very heavy-to the curb. Simon hands another man a ten, and seems concerned that this amount is not sufficient. I explain, “Do you know that their average salary before we came here was around two grand?” Simon does some quick calculations. “I guess I overpaid…” Jeff shakes his head.

We are warned that we must quickly get on the bus, that remaining at the curb-or what is left of it after several car bombings-makes us a target. Our group rushes, but is caught in another luggage cluster next to the bus. Several Iraqis offer to help, for a price, but are shooed away. Thirty minutes later, we are loaded and on the road. None of us is sure of our destination, only that the bus is not armored and we are scooting along at a pretty good clip. There are huge holes in the roads, charred barriers, and no buildings with any glass left in the windows. The landscape is sparse, brown. What plants were once living are long dead now. Someone has sprayed “Texas rules” on a wall, punctuated by mortar holes. There are no people walking, no vehicles. It is simply a ghost town.

We weed along barriers, and approach a barrier. Two Marines approach, guns drawn. We hold up our military identification as they circle the bus. We are waved through, only to approach another checkpoint. Heading up a long road, and I finally understand our seemingly circuitous route has only been a large rectangle. Now on the opposite side of the airport, we move toward the entrance to Camp Victory, then up another long road. We are stopped by a traffic jam and get in line behind assorted strange looking military vehicles, purpose unknown to me. On the route, the curtains in the bus were closed to prevent anyone from seeing a bus full of Americans, but now the curious are opening them up to look around. We are on a road between a large field and a barrier wall. We sit for twenty minutes, then run out of things to talk about. The bus grows silent. Military vehicles are now speeding past, some turning around after getting to the front of the line, which we still can’t see. Finally a truck driver behind us gets out and walks forward. Ten minutes later he returns. “IED on the road.” Someone asks, “How long before they clear it?” The man in the front passenger seat says, “…could be hours.”

We stir. Our legs have long ago lost feeling. We’ve been stuck in this bus for nearly three hours, and someone finally suggests that we turn around and go back to the DFAC to get something to eat. The driver agrees and begins the maneuver. We return past the last checkpoint and make a turn. We stumble out of the bus and approach a tent. “I have no change left, I gave it all to the luggage man. Do we have to pay?” I laugh, “Simon, they feed us for free. Just pick out what you want.” We enter into a long hallway into a sea of khaki uniforms. “Jesus. They’re kids.” I can’t even remember being that young.

Back on the bus, we return to wait in line. Another hour and we finally move forward. Slowly, we creep up to another check point and at long last enter the base. VICTORY NORTH the sign proclaims, followed by insignia of several military groups. Looks like acronym city to me: it is all equally indecipherable. The bus passes by row after row of tents. Brown tents, rubber looking tents, canvas tents, white tents, yellow tents, large circus tents. We are told that there are thirty thousand here. We are too stunned to respond.

We pull up to a long rectangular building. “Gather your luggage over here. How many of you are destined for BIAP?” We had been tagged earlier that morning. Mine says ASA. Ten people were tagged with BIAP, and they move forward. “You come with us.” I gather with the ASA people. “Any of you destined to other locations, come over here.” Simon, Jeff, and I move toward the line. “You will wait in line and be issued a hooch for the night. Get your blanket and pillow, and check into your hooch. Report for a mandatory meeting at room 106 6AM tomorrow. Make sure you keep drinking water.” I am not sure what a ‘hooch’ is, nor why I would want to be issued one. But I am thirsty, and it is still very hot. I grab some water, finally push up my sleeves, and line up in yet another line. An hour later, I finally reach the office. I have consumed another liter of water, and now I have to go to the bathroom. But there are no restrooms in sight, and I’m not going to the back of the line. I look around the office. I turn to Jeff, “What’s a hooch, anyway?”

“It’s where you’ll be sleeping.” The sign on the door says ‘Transient Billeting.’ I’m not sure what that is, but I look around. There are piles of completely flat pillows and torn sleeping bags in wooden racks along the wall. The lady behind the desk yells, “Take a pillow and sleeping bag. Fill out your name and destination here.” She nods toward a clipboard. “Your employee number?” “Uh, I don’t think I have one.” For a moment she seems pissed, but says, “Use your social. You’ll be in A2.” I enter it in, and am waved out the door.

“Well, this is it. Do you want to go to the PX?” I ask Simon. “Sure, in an hour.” I head toward the pile of luggage. A fleet of tiny Iraqi boys follows me. The billeting lady yells across “The boys will help you, but I expect you to be good to them.” I’m not sure what that means, and briefly wonder how many American women have “been good to” these teenagers. I gave away my dollar bills at the airport, and have only a fifty left. But I have no intention of attempting to carry the dreaded NBC bag and knew that I’d have to hire them. I motion for the bags, and they pounce on them. The NBC bag is bigger than the guy that is carrying it, and the other bags are equally heavy. They struggle with them as I search for A2, my assigned hooch. I walk out to row after row of trailers. Identical white trailers, as far as the eye can see. It is hot, still over 100 degrees, and I am wandering around in the glaring sun looking for some sort of identification on these trailers. I can see none on the end where I am, so I walk a hundred yards to the other end of the row. Finally, a marking. I return with new purpose, thinking to myself that I am checking into a hotel room of sorts. A bed, some AC, some privacy after a very long day. I drag one of the suitcases up the staircase, no longer caring if it is even on it’s wheels. It is hot, and the suitcase is winning. I key the door, and throw it open. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust…the room is dark, and there seems to be two sets of beds. The Iraqi boys follow me into the room, then wait expectantly. I search for my purse, and can find nothing but change. I turn my purse over onto the bed, and dozens of coins fall out. I motion for them to take them all, and they dive forward. I am sure that I have overpaid, but no longer care. I just want them to leave so I can be alone.

As they leave, something on the bunk stirs. I turn on the light. A voice from under some blankets asks “Hi, are you new?” “Uh, yeah.” Hmmm. Apparently we are double-bunked. “How long have you been here?” “Oh, I’ve been waiting for four days to get out. I just came back from R&R.” “You’ve been in this room for four days?” I am incredulous. It is barren, with only a ceiling light, a handmade wooden bunk, and a cot by the wall. I take the cot. “Be glad there isn’t a third person in here. I’ve been through six roommates in four days…” Hmmm. “Any advice?” I ask. “Yes, get yourself a transformer, a DVD player, and start treating your feet immediately for athlete’s foot. Treat ‘em twice a day. Also, take toilet paper with you when you go back to the airport. You’ll need it.”

She rolls back over as I begin to search for a T shirt. No Ramadan on the base, thankfully. I throw it on and head for the bathrooms. This is not what I had in mind. The bathroom trailer has twenty toilets. The shower trailer is next door, and has ten showers. Ugh. I’m dreading the morning rush hour. I feel crowded, violated. I want to find my contract and see if there is anything in it about having to share a room, a toilet, a bath. I suspect there is not, and suspect I am in for more of the same. I have no idea. An angry dialogue plays in my head: I can’t believe this. They must not know who I am. Who do I need to talk to to get a private shower? There’s no TV in my room-I can’t believe they expect me to stay there! The drone slips into the background as I realize that there is no one to complain to, that it doesn’t matter who I am, what I’ve done, where I’ve been. Nothing matters here, and we are all in the same boat. Our past successes are now meaningless, our advanced degrees earn us no more than they guy who has nary a GED. Nothing matters here. Nothing.

I meet Simon at the PX. “Do we have to pay to go in here?” I look at him incredulously, “No, Simon.” He walks up to a Marine, “Is it OK if we go in here?” I keep walking. The Marine looks confused, “Uh, yeah man.” I shake my head.

We have heard that this PX is the largest one at any of the bases, so we are eager to look around. With visions of Walmart dancing in our heads, we enter. Music is blaring, thumping. Crowds are gathered in front of rack after rack of CDs. We wander through, but are disappointed. “If this is a good PX, I wonder how bad the bad ones are?” There is a lot of stuff: T-shirts, shorts, camouflage outfits for every occasion, even camouflage chairs. Camouflage baby items to send home, “My Daddy is in Iraq” diaper covers, shirts, sweatshirts. USMC shirts, shorts, boxers, hats, umbrellas. Probably not a big call for umbrellas here. We settle on athlete’s foot powder and call it a night after finding a phone and making our first calls home. Yes, we have arrived in Baghdad. It is hot and ugly. I want to come home.

In the morning, I try to beat everyone to the shower, but there is one other woman there. I shyly undress and hop into the shower. There is no soap, and no towels. What was that he said? “They’ll furnish the soap and towels, don’t worry about that…” So here I am, drying off with a T-shirt and cussing my beloved. Different war, honey. There’s no personal supplies in this one. They’ll give me a hundred pound flak jacket that I can’t lift, but not a stinkin’ bar of soap and a towel.

Next on the list: drag my suitcases up to the bus loading zone. There is no time for breakfast, and we realize we have had nothing but water for two days. Again, we load everything on the bus for the ride back to the airport. We hear a rumor that yet another car bomb has gone off at the airport, so everyone is nervous. No one will confirm or deny: it is a trend that holds to this day.

Once at the airport, we are held on the bus until everything is unloaded. “Exit quickly and enter the building as rapidly as possible. If you drop something, do not stop to pick it up. We will get it for you.” Simon looks at me with wide eyes. The line begins as we grab our bags and file into the terminal. We are now at a different end of the terminal than we were yesterday. There are a few more lights on, but little activity. There is no departure information, no indication of any activity at all. We line up at security, which consists of three robed women and a man at an ancient baggage X-ray machine. There are no signs warning of prohibited items. There are only two walk through X-ray machines, and no requirement to remove shoes or to be wanded. I walk through, and am waived over to the ticket counter.

Two women struggle with the processing. We are told that they are new on the job, that all the people here are new on the job. The old airport employees had not been paid in months, some were killed in various car bombings and their colleagues never returned to work. So now only the very brave were working, but the turnover rate was very high. The ticket counter women could not perform even the simplest task without additional instruction-I had heard that after years of Saddam’s rule most people (almost two generations) had grown up in an environment where even simple decisions were impossible for them to make. This was living proof: “Mimi, what tag do I put on this bag?” “Mimi, what do I write for the destination?” “Mimi, where do I place the tag?”

A man from security approaches me. “Yours?” pointing to Simon’s large suitcase. I shake my head no, and point back to Simon, apparently caught in security for excessive change in his pockets. I move forward towards the gate. Simon is opening his very large suitcase and the entire line has ground to a complete halt. Security removes the offending spray deodorant.

At the gate, I sit in a lime green chair. The rug is lime green also, as if the room is stuck in 1972. Yeah. Flower power. There are arches across the ceiling, with free floating tubular lights hanging from chains. But all the lights are burned out now, and the overall effect is one of complete gloom. I can smell something foul, but am unable to place it. I look behind me, and there is a woman selling some sort of velour pictures of mosques and some lukewarm foodstuff from a crockpot. I decide to stick with water. After another half hour, I am looking for a bathroom. Someone points me toward one side of the building, and I enter a completely tiled room. It has two stalls. Fine, familiar enough. But there is a raised area on the end of the row of stalls. Cautiously, I approach. There is a hole in the floor, covered with excrement. The walls are covered. The tile is covered. There is a sink hose coming out of the wall, but the water was shut off long ago. My empty gut wrenches, and I recoil in Puritan horror. I grab a stall, and now understand why my room-mate told me to bring toilet paper. I thank God I did. And I thank my Puritan predecessors for making me a neurotic American. Something about this whole crapping in a hole just doesn’t seem right…

A man in a filthy uniform approaches and silently opens the door outside. We are lead across the tarmac and under an ancient plane. I try to place it…is it Russian? Yes, it looks Russian. But it doesn’t look like anything I have ever seen. Again, no markings on the plane. There is a rickety stairway in the rear of the plane, someone motions for us to crawl up the stairs. Simon and Jeff have put on their flack jackets for some reason, and I wonder if I have missed some sort of announcement. Jeff, ex-Marine, looks completely at home in his jacket, and now has gone into military mode. He wears a pair of khakis, black turtleneck, and mirrored sunglasses. The flak jacket, to him, is merely a fashion statement. He is GI Joe personified; or more correctly, a Chesty Puller incarnate. ‘Action Jeff to the rescue. He bends, he fires, he fights off entire enemy countries with his bare hands.’ The boxed set is coming out this Christmas. Simon, on the other hand, is stumbling uncomfortably in his jacket and tailored shirt, struggling with the Velcro closures and whining about security taking his deodorant. I sense he is the last one I want to be next to if gunfire were to erupt.

A rickety stair is extended from the rear of the plane. We gingerly step onto it, one person at a time so it doesn’t depart the aircraft. Once inside, we are slammed with the smell of mold, cigarettes, and sweat. The smell is so overpowering, I reflexively pull backward and pause a moment. I look up, and a youngish man with very bad teeth and even worse body odor, motions me onto the plane. I hold my breath and duck down. Inside, I move toward the front of the seats. Simon follows. Once seated, I look around. The seats are torn, the floor rugs are frayed. There are no window shades, and the signs are in Russian.

Once everyone is seated, our smelly ‘flight attendant’ quickly walks through and distributes juice. The plane is an oven, there is no air conditioning, and we eagerly take the juice. Expecting him to come back with some sort of food, I wait to open my juice. He never returns. This is apparently not the snack flight. Gotta talk to my travel agent…

Two men join the flight attendant outside near the side door behind the cockpit. For some reason, they do not want to load the luggage into the rear of the plane. Instead, they start piling the luggage in a mound behind the cockpit door. It is not restrained, and as they continue to pile it on, the top luggage starts falling back into the passenger compartment. They quickly run out of room, and decide to start moving the luggage into the first row of the passenger seats. The NBC gear bags weigh 70 pounds a piece, and all of them are piled together on one side of the plane. I do some quick calculations, and decide we are going to die.

After ten minutes of what appears to be cussing in Russian, the three men pound the door closed. With a thunk, more luggage falls to the floor. Engine 1 starts up with a blast of black smoke, and the vibration shakes the rack above my head. No stowbins on this plane. No shades on the windows, either, just someone’s homemade curtains on a rod. I’m pretty sure the parts were never certified. The other engine starts up. There is no safety briefing, safety is irrelevant on this flight and we all know it. I look around at the interior, and am amazed that the plane is still flying. Nothing seems to work,, and everything seems to be taped together. We taxi off down the runway, and I am hoping that we go to Al Asad first since this flight will be making three stops. I figure the faster I get off, the less pressurization cycles I have to survive. Or the plane has to survive…I look out at the engine and the cowl is vibrating violently. I picture it ripping off, flying into the prop, and taking out the left side of the airplane. I eye the prop, looking for bad nick repairs. I cringe as we start our corkscrew up and out of the airport, and wait for the rip of metal as the plane disintegrates. So far, so good.

An hour later I decide to journey to the restroom. I tentatively look behind me. I can see no signs, no friendly indicator that someone is occupying the restroom. No signs even telling me that there is a restroom. But I get up anyway, and walk to the back of the plane. There is a cargo net, and what looks to be a submarine door hatch that I presume is the bathroom. I twist the lever and enter. It is small, cramped, and the Russian writing for “no smoking” was scratched off eons ago. The light bulbs are burned out, and there are cigarette ashes in the sink. There is no toilet paper, a disturbing trend. I exit the bathroom and smell smoke. Fire! Fire!! Oh, no. The loader and the ‘flight attendant’ are behind the cargo net smoking and flipping through an electronics catalogue. There are no restrictions on smoking on Scare Air.

Two stops later, and three juices, I make a return trip to the bathroom. It is occupied, and the ‘flight attendant’ motions me to sit down. I do, and idly ask him about the airplane. He says it is an Antonov 24. I say, “a 124?” He replies, “Nyet. 24.” “When was it made?” I begin to reel, to swoon with terror as he answers “Made 1965.” Yes, 1965. This plane is thirty-five years old. I didn’t know you could fly something that old. I didn’t know that an airplane that old could still fly. I’d never heard of anyone flying something that old. I’d never read about any guidance for flying something that old. I only know of the FAA’s “Aging Aircraft program,” but that is for planes that are only twenty years old. I picture the skin ripping away with the next corkscrew approach, the engines imploding due to severe metal fatigue. What was that I read about Russian maintenance being the worst in the world? Or that maintenance was sacrificed because the economy in Russia was shit? I returned to my seat, certain of our imminent death. I am resigned now, defeated.

The corkscrew begins for the sixth time, and we have reached Al Asad. I peer out of the window as we land…it is brown, flat, and extends forever. Once on the ground, the luggage is thrown on the tarmac. A bus pulls up. “Gather your suitcases and load them in the back of the bus.

Welcome to Al Asad.” We again wrestle with the NBC gear, and lift it overhead through the back window. When the last suitcase is loaded, we grimly file onto the bus. As we drive, the HR woman points out the sights: “That’s where that car bomb went off.” Simon’s eyes widen, “Car bomb?” “Yeah, the one that killed 11 Iraqis lined up at the gate waiting to apply for the Iraqi police training.” No one says anything.

The driver reaches for a radio, “Roadrunner, roadrunner, coming into tent city.” We stop in front of a container that has been transformed into an office, and get out. A man walks up, “Hi, I’m Dick, the head of HR. Let’s have everyone take a seat on the cot.” We line up and take a seat. He begins a speech of sorts, what to do, what not to do, make sure to drink four liters of water a day, blah blah. I tune out. He drones on, and I look around. Jesus. It is flat, brown, ugly. Even uglier than Texas. I am tired. I want to go home.

We are taken across the road to another container. Again, we fill some forms and are given a blanket and pillow. Dick takes me aside, “Follow me, I’ll take you to the ladies tent.” “OK.” We approach a dilapidated circus tent, “Go inside, find an empty bunk, and put your things on it.” I enter a dark tent and walk to the back. There is one empty cot, no mattress, no drawers, no shelf. Just a cot.

Welcome to Al Asad.