I Dream of Iraqi Sheep

I DREAM OF IRAQI SHEEP

by Robert S. Strength

Photos taken by author. 

Panoramic of Motorpool 1-41 '04

Life with the Roadhogs 1-41 INF

    I suppose that readers will want a war story. I am a veteran and I guess I should write some of my experiences down. I'm not going to talk about the bombs or mortars, gunfire or lost heroes. Those moments are like snapshots of a movie that I wasn't paying attention to. It was all fear and confusion and ducking. Lots of ducking.

Instead, I would rather write about something that conveys the very lifestyle of a wartime convoy gunner/driver. I was a member of a support platoon. Support is not supply. They are close to the same, with one big difference; we hauled the stuff that blows up, right to the edge of the battle. We supplied the fighters with fuel and ammunition, as well as medical supplies and other wartime needs. During the invasion in '03 we stocked our trucks with gas and ammo and drifted out on the far edge of the battle. During the occupation a year later, things were different. We delivered supplies from one base to another and assisted in patrols and general operations. It was a good job, even though the enemy tried to blow us up a few times. They shot at us now and again, but mostly it was long hours riding through a foreign nation. Sometimes we would be stuck in traffic for hours, sometimes we would roll along like a road trip. During the occupation we would return at night to an astoundingly civil Camp Liberty. The Burger King Trailer was across the plaza from the Bazaar, which was filled with local merchants granted permission to ply their wares inside the gates. My home was a trailer style structure with three rooms, each with its own doorway and air conditioner. I shared my ten foot by ten foot air conditioned room with a peer and friend, Graser.

We did not run a convoy every day, but most of my time was spent on the road. I would drive large cargo trucks down the highways and compete in the snarls of traffic for a spot for my dangerously over-sized vehicle. I would sit in the gunner seat on other missions and try not to pass out from the heat. It is a full-time job, as many gunners will agree, to simply stay watchful for so many hours while staring at the radiant sands and desert roads, watching fretfully for signs of bombs or ambush, all the while soaked in the raw sun. The wind may seem as if it would provide some respite from the heat, but air temperatures as high as 135 degrees Fahrenheit do not cool your skin. The arid wind strips any precious sweat from your skin and leaves you exposed and unable to cool yourself off. There was an ever-present threat that in the midst of a 10+ hour trip, sweating still and so weak I was tempting sleep, our convoy might have found ourselves ambushed or bombed. My job as driver or gunner was to resist the rigors of the desert and be ready. With our superior firepower, training, and readiness we had such a powerful advantage that I could reliably survive. I only needed to wait, ever so patiently, for that moment to arrive.

Operation Sheep Ninja

(Not the actual name of the operation.)

The story I want to tell is about a midnight mission. I was lying in my room on a base near Sadr City, the huge slums of Baghdad. It's where most of the population lives, and it is poorer and more desperate than any ghetto in America. When we arrived in country, there was a street in Sadr City with a busted sewage line that poured the foul waste from millions of people onto the street. The people of Sadr City, unable to fix the problem, had used plywood and scrap to contain the flow to one street.
I was in my room in the barracks that we had acquired from the local college, watching Sopranos on a bootleg disk purchased from the Bazaar, and there was a knock on my door. My superiors regularly came by with news and mission changes, and so I took no special note. I answered the door in my shorts and a smile. On the other side of that door was my Company Commander. Cpt Stubenhofer was fully dressed for a mission, with a rifle in hand. He recognized me as a driver and nodded as if making a decision. He said, "Suit up. I need a Humvee driver."
One fact about the military is that your plans can change very quickly. I did as I was told. It was very unusual for the Commander to come get me directly. I rarely dealt with him, though I knew him through work as the man who's signature I needed.
I was outside as quick as I could get dressed and ready. I had no clue what to expect. We never did convoys at night, because of the added risk. This mission was different.
Outside was a group of armed and ready soldiers who I knew by name but rarely worked with directly. They were standing near Humvees in a loose circle, listening to the commander explain the mission. I came in on the briefing and learned what I would be doing that night. I was going to deliver sheep to some hungry Iraqis.
I had seen the sheep for several days in the motor pool. We had built a pin from pallets and put about 30 sheep inside. I had no clue at the time I was building the corral that I would be delivering the sheep into Sadr City. It was a worthy mission, but I couldn't help wondering why were we doing it at such a late hour. Sadr City was not a place for a midnight drive. The standard dangers of city combat were complicated by the darkness. We had spotlights and night vision, but those amenities are no substitute for the sun.
The reason for the night run was that we were delivering sheep to the people, and not to the priests who controlled food distribution. Even among the people who were happy to see America take down Saddam there was a deep sense of religious separation. The different sects of Islam were in such a state of feud that priests would horde the food for their own sect, letting the other starve. Imagine a world where neighborhoods purposefully starved each other.

The White Hat

No sheep were harmed!

It was a covert mission. Our truck and one other Humvee would break away from a convoy and slink into the city in black-out drive. Black-out drive means no lights. The stars and night vision goggles would be my only source of vision. I cannot stress enough how difficult it is to drive with night vision goggles strapped to your face. You have absolutely no depth perception. Everything is a slightly blurred fog of green. It promised to be a long and arduous night.
I helped load the sheep, fitting about 15 inside each Humvee's little bed. We laid a flat slice of plywood over the bed of the Humvee and lashed it down.
With no gunner on either Humvee, we were armed only with the light weapons that each soldier was issued. We left the gate with two Bradley fighting vehicles and made our way to Sadr City. It was a short ride of thirty minutes slowly chugging along behind a tank-style tracked fighting vehicle.
The roads were strangely clear that night. I did not go out on the streets often at night, and felt an eerie dread at the stillness of the dark. Cpt Stubenhoffer was my passenger sitting shotgun, and he gave me the go ahead to break away from the Bradleys once we were deep into the slums. Sadr City is unlike any place I have ever been. Click this link for a map of Sadr City, Baghdad, Iraq. The buildings seem to join and form blocks, and the alleys and pathways are unpredictable. The smell of burning tires fouled the air, and the sound of gunfire rang out in intervals through the streets.
The staccato bursts of weaponry, punctuated by explosions, would echo down the false canyons formed by the blocks of buildings, giving me the impression that the war was being fought around every corner. We slid into alleys and my commander would order me to peek around corners. We pushed across open streets, and the Humvee behind us followed closely, hugging our tail to keep our exposure low.
In the streets of Sadr City, there was fighting every night. The armored tanks and fortified positions were dangerous targets for the rpgs and light arms that the enemy was equipped with. Two little trucks without gunners was a prime target, and we knew it.
I steered the rumbling truck through the alleys in the dark. I followed every command with a pounding heart. We made it to the courtyard we had chosen to deliver the sheep. I cannot tell you the number of streets we passed. The courtyard was in the center of a complex of buildings, both businesses and homes. We pulled in and shut the trucks down. The people of Sadr City who we had come to help had been stashed away in the buildings and awnings of the courtyard, and in moments they had surrounded our vehicles. They were as eager as we were to have our business done and return to their homes. It's not safe for anyone at night in Sadr city.

The Slums of War

Blackout Drive

Cpt Stubenhofer looked at me and said, in the logical calmness that good leaders exhibit, "Keep your rifle slung, but keep it ready. Come on, let's hand out some livestock."
I opened the door and pulled my rifle from it's latch. I slung it across my back and stepped into the crowd. We had asked the people to shut off their lights to allow us the best possible shroud for the exchange, and the entire courtyard was devoid of electric light. The moon must have been slim or black, because I stood among people and could not see them. Only the whisper of black Arabic linen evidenced their presence in the dark. I walked slowly to the back of the truck. I was nervous, but they were coming up to me and touching my arms. I cannot remember the words they said, but by their tone I could tell they were saying, "Thank You."
Each sheep surely meant survival to those men and women. I pulled the plywood free of the truck and climbed up. I handed the sheep to my commander, who handed them to the heads of each household. I could hear tears and thank yous that didn't need to be spoken in my language to touch my heart.
The truck was empty quickly, and the plywood we left for whatever use they could find for it.
When we were finished, we pulled the Humvees out of the courtyard and onto the street and moved fast. Cpt Stubenhofer told me to take the larger roads and get the Humvee up to speed.
We left Sadr City a little better than we found it that night, and no worse for wear ourselves. We rejoined the Bradleys and drove back to base. Once inside the wire, I made a midnight trip to the chow hall. They always serve pancakes at midnight. It's one of life's little joys.
That night was the last time I worked with Captain Stubenhofer. I know I said I wouldn't speak of lost heroes, but I lied. My commander was shot down some time later while helping protect engineers while they fixed a gas station for the people of Sadr City. His loss is a hateful, bitter feeling. I never truly knew the man. To me he was, and always will be, the man who came and got me in the middle of the night for a crazy mission to the slums of war. He took me there to do a kindness for people we would never know. He risked my life, and I never thanked him.

Captain Mark Stubenhofer