Day 5: Extreme Makeover:
Saddam Edition
The next day — shadowed by the Cobras that crisscrossed in our wake like hunting dogs — we bypassed Baghdad International Airport and landed at Camp Victory, where the second-ranking U.S. commander in Iraq, General Raymond Odierno, has thrown out Saddam's crap at one of the henchman's former palaces and turned it into his military headquarters. Saddam's old digs were impressive from a distance. But once inside, the place seemed to symbolize the cruel man who slaughtered his people.
The marble interior is a thin veneer, held on by liquid nails; the massive chandelier in the entrance hall is made of Perspex. The place looks like Saddam sent a few of the Republican Guard down to the Home "Despot" to buy materials and do the job themselves. It's big, hollow, and falling apart on its foundation of camel dung. On the way up to the general's office, Inman had a senior moment and went up an extra flight of stairs, almost setting off a total lockdown. We put him on a leash for the rest of the visit.
Next, we had urgent business, the opening of a driving range dedicated to CSM Jonathan Lankford, much loved by his soldiers, and whose idea it was to give the troops somewhere to whack a golf ball. CSM Lankford died of cardiac failure at Camp Victory, leaving behind many broken hearts: his wife, 2-year-old daughter, and, judging by the turnout, hundreds of servicemen and women. Wherever we went, golf was a common denominator. Our soldiers have covered Iraq with makeshift driving ranges. They hit balls off of roofs, into blankets, into rivers. Golf is a shared language here that helps ease the stress of being far from home and in harm's way. There was a huge turnout at the range, which backs onto the house where Saddam's two scallywag boys, Hooray and Poosay, or whatever their names were, practiced their favorite hobbies: rape, torture and murder.
It seemed surreal to be out there watching Watson, one of golf's great champions, surrounded by American troops and whacking balls off a patch of artificial turf out onto a walled-in section of desert. Harmon and Lehman gave lessons, the Desert Sofa and Sprinkler hit balls, and I roamed the crowd pretending that I know Tiger. Operation Links was all but complete — but as it turned out, we had an unexpected stop to make.
Day 6: The long flight home
In all, we visited five hospitals, 11 bases, signed about 50,000 autographs and I ate 14 gallons of ice cream and discarded seven pairs of underpants. We boarded the C-130 to go back to Kuwait, and that's when it happened. "We have to pick up HR," the brass told us. "HR" means human remains. We landed at Balad Air Base, about 40 miles north of Baghdad, at dusk. Our group walked off the plane and watched from a respectful distance as six Air Force airmen stood in doubleline formation. A flag-draped casket was wheeled from an unmarked white van into their awaiting arms, and was carried to our plane with the delicacy of a funeral procession. In the background, a pilot taxiing his C-5 Galaxy transport plane saw the unfolding scene, stopped, and silenced his engines. Only the distant screams of F-16s that patrol the Iraqi skies 24/7 could be heard as the body of the fallen warrior was gently loaded onto the tailgate, slid into our aircraft, and secured to the deck, resting inches from our seats.
As it should be. This wasn't cargo. This was another passenger.
Moments later, we were wheels up, off on our 24-hour journey home. It was hard on Butch, who had seen this before, many years ago. I sat in a trance, staring at the gunmetal-gray casket for most of the trip, and the words of Baghdadi police chief Shab'an B. al-Ubadi came back to me. "The tree of freedom does not grow without the blood of sacrifice."
I wish I knew who was in that casket — one of the 3,887 Americans killed in Iraq as of December — so I could write to the family to tell them what an honor it was to be on the same airplane as their son or daughter, and to thank them. I owe a debt of gratitude to the men and women of the U.S. armed forces, not just because of what they are doing in Iraq, Afghanistan, and elsewhere, but because of what they left behind.
The insurgents they face have left one barren, theocratic hellhole to go fight in Iraq. Big deal. Americans leave behind America, the best place in the world to live. The message that Tom Watson, Tom Lehman, Butch Harmon, Howard Twitty, Joe Inman and I bring home is right from the lips of people who, thousands of miles from their families, lay their lives on the line every day to protect our way of life, and to improve it for the inhabitants of wherever they fight. The worst thing we could do is make them come home before they have had the chance to finish their job. I am proud to write their message.
About the USO
The United Service Organizations (USO) is a privately funded agency that relies on the generosity of the American public. Almost every U.S. household receives a USO mailer, so this year, please read it, or go to USO.org for details. They do great work, and they need your help. — D.F.
The next day — shadowed by the Cobras that crisscrossed in our wake like hunting dogs — we bypassed Baghdad International Airport and landed at Camp Victory, where the second-ranking U.S. commander in Iraq, General Raymond Odierno, has thrown out Saddam's crap at one of the henchman's former palaces and turned it into his military headquarters. Saddam's old digs were impressive from a distance. But once inside, the place seemed to symbolize the cruel man who slaughtered his people.
The marble interior is a thin veneer, held on by liquid nails; the massive chandelier in the entrance hall is made of Perspex. The place looks like Saddam sent a few of the Republican Guard down to the Home "Despot" to buy materials and do the job themselves. It's big, hollow, and falling apart on its foundation of camel dung. On the way up to the general's office, Inman had a senior moment and went up an extra flight of stairs, almost setting off a total lockdown. We put him on a leash for the rest of the visit.
Next, we had urgent business, the opening of a driving range dedicated to CSM Jonathan Lankford, much loved by his soldiers, and whose idea it was to give the troops somewhere to whack a golf ball. CSM Lankford died of cardiac failure at Camp Victory, leaving behind many broken hearts: his wife, 2-year-old daughter, and, judging by the turnout, hundreds of servicemen and women. Wherever we went, golf was a common denominator. Our soldiers have covered Iraq with makeshift driving ranges. They hit balls off of roofs, into blankets, into rivers. Golf is a shared language here that helps ease the stress of being far from home and in harm's way. There was a huge turnout at the range, which backs onto the house where Saddam's two scallywag boys, Hooray and Poosay, or whatever their names were, practiced their favorite hobbies: rape, torture and murder.
It seemed surreal to be out there watching Watson, one of golf's great champions, surrounded by American troops and whacking balls off a patch of artificial turf out onto a walled-in section of desert. Harmon and Lehman gave lessons, the Desert Sofa and Sprinkler hit balls, and I roamed the crowd pretending that I know Tiger. Operation Links was all but complete — but as it turned out, we had an unexpected stop to make.
Day 6: The long flight home
In all, we visited five hospitals, 11 bases, signed about 50,000 autographs and I ate 14 gallons of ice cream and discarded seven pairs of underpants. We boarded the C-130 to go back to Kuwait, and that's when it happened. "We have to pick up HR," the brass told us. "HR" means human remains. We landed at Balad Air Base, about 40 miles north of Baghdad, at dusk. Our group walked off the plane and watched from a respectful distance as six Air Force airmen stood in doubleline formation. A flag-draped casket was wheeled from an unmarked white van into their awaiting arms, and was carried to our plane with the delicacy of a funeral procession. In the background, a pilot taxiing his C-5 Galaxy transport plane saw the unfolding scene, stopped, and silenced his engines. Only the distant screams of F-16s that patrol the Iraqi skies 24/7 could be heard as the body of the fallen warrior was gently loaded onto the tailgate, slid into our aircraft, and secured to the deck, resting inches from our seats.
As it should be. This wasn't cargo. This was another passenger.
Moments later, we were wheels up, off on our 24-hour journey home. It was hard on Butch, who had seen this before, many years ago. I sat in a trance, staring at the gunmetal-gray casket for most of the trip, and the words of Baghdadi police chief Shab'an B. al-Ubadi came back to me. "The tree of freedom does not grow without the blood of sacrifice."
I wish I knew who was in that casket — one of the 3,887 Americans killed in Iraq as of December — so I could write to the family to tell them what an honor it was to be on the same airplane as their son or daughter, and to thank them. I owe a debt of gratitude to the men and women of the U.S. armed forces, not just because of what they are doing in Iraq, Afghanistan, and elsewhere, but because of what they left behind.
The insurgents they face have left one barren, theocratic hellhole to go fight in Iraq. Big deal. Americans leave behind America, the best place in the world to live. The message that Tom Watson, Tom Lehman, Butch Harmon, Howard Twitty, Joe Inman and I bring home is right from the lips of people who, thousands of miles from their families, lay their lives on the line every day to protect our way of life, and to improve it for the inhabitants of wherever they fight. The worst thing we could do is make them come home before they have had the chance to finish their job. I am proud to write their message.
About the USO
The United Service Organizations (USO) is a privately funded agency that relies on the generosity of the American public. Almost every U.S. household receives a USO mailer, so this year, please read it, or go to USO.org for details. They do great work, and they need your help. — D.F.
