Copyright 2003, Roadracing World Publishing, Inc.

From a U.S. Army Captain we know in Iraq, who will remain anonymous:

Hello from Mosul.

Not a lot has happened since I last corresponded with everyone, they have me on the night shift this week. All the captains are taking turns rotating through the night shift each week. Starting to get really hot here, 104 by midday. We try to run just as the sun comes up, ’cause shortly after that it is too hot to do anything.

It’s kind of funny, but no one admits to being a former Iraqi soldier until money is involved. We are hiring ex-soldiers to do certain things around the area, but you can’t find any until you mention the word money. Then they come knocking your door down. It’s even more funny when they think that their rank means something. Like ex-Iraqi generals–they are about a dime a dozen, and they really like it when Americans tell ’em to ‘pound sand, chief, you’re in my world now, grandma, and we ain’t doing it like that.’ They get flustered for a second or two, then they realize we were kicking their butt up and down the desert floor a few short days ago.

Some more stories–seems that the Iraqis think some far-out things about U.S. soldiers. Rumor is you have to eat one of your own relatives if you are in an airborne unit. They see your jumpwings and get scared big time (especially if you’re in the 82nd).

They also believe we have X-ray goggles and our cameras can see their thoughts. The more patches and badges you have on you the more fearsome you must be in their eyes.

One of my old Sergeants from Crusader battery is from Lebanon and speaks Arabic fluently. He is our COL’s personal translator, and having been one of my NCOs for a year always comes downtown with me. He’s handy to have around – like when kids come and gather around your vehicles. I say the arabic word for “go away” but they won’t budge, then he starts rattling off stuff and they run away screaming. I ask him what he says, he just smiles and says “I love kids.”

He’s even better with food bargaining. He found the head guy who controls all meat that moves in and out of Mosul — I guess its sort of a mafiaso thing, but he got us two of the best sheep he’d ever seen. When he saw the sheep he started squealing for joy, and 15 minutes later he bagged enough meat to have two lamb kabobs per soldier here. Then we invited the Division band to come play at our meal.

So picture this: 110 guys sitting about 50m up on a bluff above the Tigris River having a lamb-kabob barbeque with the Division band playing a light jazz number in the background on what used to be the back porch of Chemical Ali’s house overlooking Mosul, with a couple of ammo caches still burning from where we destroyed them that day. Now I am not saying that we are living well, but for a few moments we were kings. That sort of thing doesn’t happen every day – I promise.

Mail and packages seem to be flowing at about a 2-3 week pace. So soldiers can’t complain and nor can I. Thanks for all the mail and packages. Trust me, everything gets used or eaten or read or whatever the case may be.