The Embed Equation

It’s taken a while to write because I’m just not sure what to say these days. I’m embedded with the 515th National Guard unit in Iraq, stationed at Log Base Seitz, a 2.5 square mile patch of dirt just west of the Baghdad airport. There are 625 people at this base, 55 of whom are New Mexican. The base is mostly logistical, dealing with supply issues and transportation, supporting the war effort from “behind.” Only there aren’t any behind and front lines in this war, so Log base is in the thick of it. Things have been quiet since I arrived and talk is of the next imminent attack, wondering where it will be and hoping it won’t be as bad as some, as the unit has already lost six people with dozens more injured. The calm days make people almost more nervous than when there are attacks, because, as one NM guardsman put it, “At least when they mortar you, you know they’re executing a plan. But when it’s quiet you know they’re plotting.”


The other reason for the delay in writing is that I have to admit I sunk into a kind of depression after the Tidal wave hit. I wasn’t able to tear myself away from CNN reports and feeling progressively more sad and helpless as the death figures rose. I even spoke to the People bureau about sending me over, but they sent a staffer from London instead. I felt a bit better after interviewing the Sri Lankan kitchen workers and talking to the commander about taking up a collection for their families. The other depression was realizing that I wouldn’t be working with, much less seeing, Iraqis on this trip. Even contacting the friends I met here in the past feels like it puts them in danger.

The worst times are when I stand and listen, over the generators, trucks and soldier noise, to the call to prayer outside the base walls. I can’t reach that Iraq right now, and I know that no one inside could even understand why I would want to. “Sometimes that call to prayer is so angry,” said one soldier who saw me paused in front of the chow hall listening to the faint call. They have no understanding of Iraqis or Iraqi culture outside of framing them as killers and “heathens.” And why would they? For the most part, the only Iraqis they have a chance to encounter are trying to kill them. In turn, Iraqis see Americans as people who hate them. This is what breaks my heart most, and why I think we have a very long road ahead of us.


When I first arrived the unit was on Amber alert, which meant we had to wear full body armor and helmets everywhere. The heightened security followed the attack on Mosul, plus they had “credible intel” that suggested a holiday attack was imminent. This made for an absolutely exhausting first few days. But as time went on I got used to it and by the time we were relieved from wearing our armor on base, I decided to keep mine on. I’ve gradually loosened my own requirements but donned full gear for my first venture back to the Green Zone, which I did with a unit delivering medical supplies to the hospital there. The place is an absolute fortress, even moreso than last year. Concrete barriers line almost every road and checkpoints run throughout. The US embassy and its annex have completely taken over Saddam’s huge palace and I not only couldn’t get in but couldn’t even get near to ask a visa question. “They’re treating you like a foreigner, aren’t they?” said one soldier who accompanied me on my short jaunt. I had to smile.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.
It was Captain Chris Garcia from Santa Fe who picked me up at the airport the day I arrived. He grabbed my arm as I passed and asked if I was indeed “Ms. Pollon, the reporter.” He admitted later that my helmet gave me away. I bought the piece of equipment for $130 my last night in Turkey. The transaction not only cost me an arm and a leg but almost cost me my flight; I made the plane five minutes before gates closed. But the moment I walked onto the C-130 I began to get comments: “Ma’am, where exactly did you get that?” They called it a training helmet, plastic, worthless. Once I arrived on base, and the men knew with whom they were dealing, the comments got even more ruthless: I could use it for a washtub or even a pisspot. The helmet couldn’t stop rain, one Sgt. told me, much less mortars. It became a piece of show and tell in the commander’s office. All in good fun they’d say. And it was, particularly after they offered me a replacement helmet for the duration of my stay.

Capt. G warned me that the Lt. Colonel of the base, Richard Rael, could be a prankster but that he could also be pretty rough when it got down to brass tacks. “I like things to be relaxed here,” the commander told me at our first meeting, “but I’ll come down hard if someone gets out of line or breaks the rules.” Sounded good to me, so we were off to a good start. In fact, we’ve all taken to each other to each other extremely well. It’s definitely a nice and interesting experience having a bit of New Mexico – accents, habits, expressions – here in Iraq.

The “beaners”, as they jokingly call themselves, pretty much stay together as a unit, and when Christmas came around, I felt I was invited into the quarters of a tight knit family. Dinner was a round of red chile enchiladas, carne adovada, sopapillas and beans and rice. Food hadn’t tasted so good in weeks! One of the most striking things I noticed about the unit is that the men, though crude at times (stress relief, I know), have a warmer, more friendly way of dealing with each other. They joke and prod like the best of them (throw Christmas trees at each other and pack each others’ beds with crushed Pringles, etc), but there’s a sweetness that I don't often see from white boys in the military. It’s been a saving grace. In general, the folks here have been incredibly kind to me and sometimes I forget that our outlooks on life, politics and this war can be vastly different.

The head of the medical team is still one of the coolest people out here. She’s the Wisconsin ball buster I mentioned last time who can criticize a rule when she finds it absurd (Every once in a while she reminds me of Monica, so Obviously, I love this gal.). No one would dare challenge her though, because when the casualties come in she runs the tightest ship around, and at Log Base Seitz, dealing with casualties is unfortunately a big part of the experience. So, yeah, about those mortars…

Log Base Seitz was established when relations between Americans and Iraqis were still good enough that soldiers wandered into the town of Abu Ghraib for supplies, they ate in Iraqi restaurants and talked to Iraqis on the streets. Those days are long gone. Now the logistical base is considered by some disgruntled soldiers as a mortar magnet and a buffer zone for the much larger Camp Victory right next door. People have asked to be moved into the perimeter of nearby Camp Victory but apparently there’s no room on the enormous base. So instead, the supply group has suffered 84 separate mortar attacks, with more than 60 wounded and as I said, six dead. Their delivery convoys have experienced near daily attacks, some as minor as small arms fire and as major as IEDs, rocket grenade launchers and land mines. (An article on this is next in line.) Colleagues had warned me about the lack of distinction between rear and front line these days in Iraq. Here at Seitz, it’s pretty clear. But as I said, I haven’t seen any of it, and with some luck, never will.

I haven’t yet settled into a rhythm here, or found a focus for my longer-term projects. In the meantime I’ll wait, witness and take notes.

So here’s wishing everyone a happy and PEACEFUL New Year.