[Peace-discuss] Things are getting better

[C. G. Estabrook]

[The Sunday Washington Post contains an amazing op-ed written jointly by a
guy from the American Enterprise Institute and another from the Project
for a New American Century -- neocon propaganda outfits with much business
money.  They are calling (seriously) for a Vietnam-style
counter-insurgency campaign in Iraq -- but of course without the
"mistakes" made in Vietnam.  The thing has to be read to be believed.
Meanwhile, here's an account of how things are at the center of the
American occupation, form the redoubtable Robert Fisk.  --CGE]

	The Independent
	10/26/03
	They're Getting Better
	Running the gauntlet of small arms fire and rocket-propelled
	grenades after check-in at Baghdad airport 
	By Robert Fisk

YOU need to take a military escort to reach Baghdad airport these days.
Yes, things are getting better in Iraq, according to President Bush --
remember that each hour that goes by -- but the guerrillas are getting so
close to the runways that the Americans have chopped down every tree,
every palm bush, every scrap of undergrowth on the way.

Rocket-propelled grenades have killed so many GIs on this stretch of
highway that the US army -- like the Israelis in southern Lebanon in the
mid-80s -- have erased nature. You travel to Baghdad airport through a
wasteland. Heathrow it isn't.

"OK folks, now you can leave your bags here and go inside for your
boarding passes," a cheery US army engineer tells the first arrivals for
Amman. So we collect slips of paper that show no flight number, no seat
number, no destination, not even a take-off time. There's a Burger King
across the lot, but it's in a "high-security zone" which mere passengers
cannot visit. There's no water for sale. There are so few seats that
passengers stand in the heat outside what must be the biggest post office
in the world, a vast US military sorting hanger with packets of mail for
every one of the 146,000 troops in Iraq, standing 30ft high in racks.

But take a look at the passengers. There's a lady from the aid
organisation Care heading off for a holiday in Thailand, and there's the
Bishop of Basra in his black and red robes and dangling crucifix, and
there's an outgoing television crew and the International Red Cross
representative with a little Red Cross plane to catch to Kirkuk. There's
also a British construction man up from Hilla who spent the previous night
under fire with the local Polish battalion. "Rocket-propelled grenades and
heavy rifle fire for two hours," he mutters. Of course, the occupation
authorities never revealed that. Because things are getting better in
Iraq.

Behind us, a series of giant four-engined jets are climbing in circles
into the hot morning sky, big unmarked jobs that fly 180 degrees to the
ground in tight circles to take off and land, so low you'd think they
would trip the runway with their wing-tips -- anything to avoid the
ground-to-air missiles that America's enemies are now firing at aircraft
in the "New Iraq". "It's routine," one of the American engineers confides
to us. "We get shot at every night."

Among the other passengers, there's a humanitarian worker who's clearly
had a nervous breakdown and some rather lordly Iraqi ladies escorted to
check-in by an RAF officer with too much hair over his collar and, across
the lot, a squad of American Special Forces soldiers enjoying the sun,
heavy with black webbing, automatic rifles and pistols. Why do they all
wear shades, I ask them? One of them takes off his sun-glasses. "What girl
would look at us if they could see our real faces?" I agree. But they're
an intelligent bunch of men, heavy with innuendo. Yes, they've got a safe
house near Fallujah and combat casualties are sometimes "contained" within
road accidents or drownings.

A GUY called Chuck wants to confide in me. "You know the most precious
resource about this country, Bob?" he asks. "It's the Iraqi people.
There's a lot of protoplasm here." I was contemplating the definition of
protoplasm when the first mortar came in, a thundering roar that had the
passengers ducking like a theatrical chorus and a big white circle of
smoke rising lazily from the other side of the runway. There's a whizzing
noise and another clap of sound.

"They're getting better," Chuck tells me. "They must have put that one
close to the runway." The other Special Forces lads nod approvingly.
Another tremendous explosion, and they all nod together. Another big white
ring rippling skywards, as if a giant cigar addict had sat down for a
smoke by the runway. "Not bad at all," says Chuck's friend.

"We used to have a five-mile safety perimeter round the airport," Chuck
says. "That's now down to two miles. The max anti-aircraft range is
8,000ft. So two miles is on the edge." Translation: US forces used to
control five miles round the airport -- too far to permit a man with a
hand-held launcher to hit a plane. Ambushes and attacks on the Americans
have reduced their control to a mere two miles. On the edge of that
radius, a man might just hit a plane with a missile range of 8,000ft.

The Americans say there are two planes flying to Amman, at 10am and noon.
Then another mortar round explodes in front of the hangars on the far side
of the airport. And another.

"This," the Bishop of Basra sermonises to me, "is the continuation of our
22-year war." I call a colleague in Baghdad. Airport under mortar fire, I
helpfully report. "Heard nothing about it, Bob," comes the reply. "How
many mortars did you say?" But the Special Forces men are enjoying
themselves. An Apache helicopter races over us to strafe the Iraqi
guerrillas. "Some hope," says Chuck. "They've already pissed off."
Technicians in guerrilla warfare, the Special Forces men are coolly
appreciative of anyone's professionalism, including that of the enemy.

An American engineer pops up. If the TV crew will buy his guys Cokes, they
can visit Burger King. A crackle of rifle fire from way beyond the airport
perimeter. There must be a movie here, Walt Disney meets Vietnam.

The Airbus belongs, incredibly, to Royal Jordanian, the only international
carrier to risk the run to Baghdad once a day. At the steps, there's a
squad of Jordanian security men in white socks -- Jordanian and Syrian
plain-clothes cops always wear white socks -- and they insist, right there
on the runway, in checking over all our gear again. Computers turned on,
computers turned off, cameras opened, closed, notebooks out, even a sheaf
of readers' letters to be prowled over. The Apache flies back, rockets
still in their pods.

Take-off is rather faster than usual. But there's no steady climb to
cruising altitude. The Airbus turns sharply to port, G-forces pushing us
into our seats, and there outside my window is the tented prison-camp city
where the Americans keep more than 4,000 of their Iraqi prisoners without
trial. The tents start to spin as the plane twists to starboard and then
to port again, and there is the same prison camp outside my window, but
this time upside down and turning anti-clockwise. I look around the cabin
and notice fingers dug deep into arm-rests. The Airbus engines are
howling, biting into the thinner air, and our eyes are searching for that
thin trail of smoke that no one wants to see.

Then the pilot levels out. A Royal Jordanian stewardess in a bright white
blouse arrives at our seats. Things are getting better in Iraq. "Juice or
red wine, which would you like?" she asks me. Reader, which did I choose?

***