Warrior Pose (18 page)

We return to the border before nightfall, passing the same guard, who apparently lives in a nearby shack and is the only one here. In the media camp, we reveal our crossing point to no one. I only let
our producer at our Turkish base camp know that I've discovered a route into Kurdistan and am going back the following morning. I quickly send one of NBC's Kurdish assistants for beer. He has to travel more than a hundred miles north to the Turkish city of Diyarbakir to buy it. When he returns, I take the beer and make a bargain with the American soldiers: beer for MREs. They love this deal and I'm quickly stocked full, ready for my road trip, with more than a few extra beers stashed in the camper for myself.

The next morning at dawn, I give the border guard another crossing fee plus a six-pack of beer, just so we can stay friends. Despite my generosity and thoughtfulness, he still won't return my smile. My cameraman and I pass through Zakho and drive into the expansive valley beyond. Here we film deserted villages, destroyed Iraqi vehicles, huge caches of abandoned artillery shells, wooden crates of ammunition, and empty Iraqi bunkers. I walk gingerly toward each bunker, carefully inspecting the dirt pathways and occasionally spotting a trip wire. These must be connected to small explosive devices, so we get off the trail and approach through the brush to reach the bunkers and film their contents.

I'm on high alert every moment, scanning the horizon and scrutinizing every road. Iraqi troops are still in command of certain areas, and if we're discovered before we can hook up with American or British troops, my best guess is that they will take us prisoner, interrogate and beat us, accuse us of being spies for the CIA, and ship us south to a Baghdad prison or even a public execution. It's hard to describe what a rush it is having this story all to myself, danger all around us, my heart pumping like a piston. I feel like I have to keep proving myself to the network again and again. Stay ahead of the pack. Get the exclusive story. Push forward and then push and push some more, hiding the back pain all the while.

We're gone for days, winding through an ancient and now abandoned land as eerie and silent as Zakho. Signs of war abound, with destroyed trucks and automobiles lying by the roadsides, many flipped onto their sides and riddled with bullets. I have to periodically siphon gas from one of these wrecks to keep the camper going. Whenever we stop to do this, I make a perfect target for a sniper,
so I'm on even higher alert, ducking down and concealing myself as best I can.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” A heavily armed convoy has suddenly appeared from a side road and stops us dead in our tracks. I can't believe I never heard or saw them coming, and I'm profoundly relieved when I spot American soldiers holding M60 machine guns at the ready.

“I'm American, and I have I.D!” I say quickly and loudly as I fumble for the pool reporter badge I still keep in my canvas shoulder bag along with other essentials. “I covered the war. This is my cameraman, and he is Turkish, not Iraqi!”

It takes a few minutes for trust to be established, but soon we shake hands, everyone smiles, and we join the soldiers as they continue to secure the countryside. It's still a powder keg, with occasional tense negotiations and verbal conflicts between the advancing Americans and reluctantly retreating Iraqis. But the Americans clearly have the upper hand. Whenever an Iraqi commander refuses to withdraw his men farther south, an A-10 Warthog fighter jet is radioed in. It screams over our heads at the lowest possible altitude as a reminder of who has supremacy in the region. The aircraft got its name because, like a warthog, it is loud, ugly, and dangerous. The flyovers work every time.

After a few days, we sneak back across the border into the media camp and file our reports. Stocking up on more Army MREs and grabbing more beer for the border guard, we head back into Kurdistan as quickly as we can. Tonight, an ancient village called al-Amadiyah has become our safe haven. It's perched on the flat top of a high, rocky mountain rising majestically from the valley floor. My Turkish cameraman tells me that, with a history dating back more than 5,000 years, al-Amadiyah was once home to the priests of ancient Persia known as the Magi. The most notable Magi were the Three Wise Men who made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, taking offerings of gold, frankincense, and myrrh to Jesus Christ shortly after his birth.

Given its unique location, al-Amadiyah has long provided great security for its 6,000 residents, but, like everywhere else here, it's
been overrun by the Iraqi military. The city is intact, but the stores and homes have been looted and al-Amadiyah is deserted, except for a few free-roaming chickens pecking in dirt yards by dusty clay homes. We've run out of our pasty army rations and can find nothing to eat in the looted stores, so I've been trying to catch a scrawny chicken all morning. I'm dreaming of gutting and plucking it, cooking it on my camper stove, lathering it with a one-ounce bottle of Tabasco that came in an MRE, and devouring the bird like a barbarian.

It's amazing how our perspectives can shift: what becomes important and what lacks significance in circumstances such as these. Three of my most precious possessions are the tiny Tabasco bottle, a roll of thick twine I use to replace my worn-out boot strings, and my Swiss Army Knife. The comforts of home we cling to, the overflow of possessions stored in our cupboards, closets, and garages, are utterly meaningless to me now. My belly is screaming, and all I want is a meal. Despite my desperate efforts, I can't catch the damn chicken, and my back is killing me from the attempt.

“Thok-thok-thok-thok-thok.”

I suddenly hear it. The distant sound of a helicopter. Louder now. As I head toward my camper, an American Blackhawk helicopter swoops overhead, creating a huge dust cloud as it lands in a nearby field. I forget all about the chicken and hurry over as General John Shalikashvili steps out of the Blackhawk and walks toward me. With his oversized glasses, short stature, and pepper-gray hair, the general looks more like a fatherly librarian than a commander, but he is a born leader with an amazing life story.

Shalikashvili is the son of a prince from the Republic of Georgia forced into exile when the Russians invaded his homeland. As a child, he lived through the destruction of Warsaw while his father fought against the Third Reich. At age sixteen, hardly speaking a word of English, he emigrated to America and eventually was granted the first official citizenship he ever held in his life. Then he worked his way through college and ultimately earned a master's degree in International Relations before joining the Army. An American success story, he is now commander of Operation Provide Comfort.

“How did you get here?” General Shalikashvili asks in his thick eastern European accent when he sees me. I had interviewed him in the media camp and am thankful he recognizes me.

“Lucky, I guess. Why are you here?”

“Just wanted to see this historic city,” the general replies. After looking around with him and getting an on-camera interview, I confess that I'm out of food and low on gas. “How about a ride back to the base camp?” I ask.

“Fine with me,” he says. “Hop in.”

Good things happen when you least expect them. It's why I like to step outside the boundaries and follow my instincts. The chopper is full, so my cameraman stays behind and waits for my return later that day. The general agrees to have me back in al-Amadiyah before sundown. This trip would have taken days in the camper, but we make it in just over an hour in his sleek and powerful Blackhawk. Along the way, the views of Kurdistan are breathtaking. I poke a camera out the open door and film stunning panoramas that will add great visual texture to my reports.

When we land at the media camp, reporters run through the dust cloud to question the general. There are looks of shock as I jump out first and hurry my videotapes and reports to our editing trailer, trying not to wince from the pain or look like I'm limping. I grab a handful of MREs from the stash my Turkish helper has been acquiring in my absence. There is noticeable anger from the media mob when I reboard the Blackhawk and we lift back into the sky. Every reporter wants equal access to every story. It's part of the natural competition among us, and we can get furious when it looks like someone has elbowed us out of something. I'm no exception to this rule.

The trip to base camp was a breeze, but by the time we land back in al-Amadiyah my spine is on fire again. I have burning sciatica down the backs of both legs, especially the left one. I have to steady myself getting out of the chopper and limp to my cameraman's tent to share dinner. We talk briefly about what tomorrow might bring, deciding to push farther south at the break of dawn. The sun has set quickly and it's a moonless night, but the sky is exploding with stars so bright that it's easy to find my way back to my camper.

The pain is excruciating. I pop a beer and chug it down in one continuous gulp, then roll onto my bed and unzip my shoulder bag. Before I came to the Gulf, a friend who specializes in tropical medicine put together an emergency field kit for me. It has bandages, sutures and salves, antibiotics, and antibacterials. It also contains potent amphetamines in case I'm forced to flee long distances without sleep, Vicodin pills for minor trauma, and injectable morphine for more serious wounds. These are heavy drugs. Far heavier than anything I've been prescribed.

I witnessed what hard drugs could do to people in my teenage years, so I've avoided the medications in the kit. But my prescription bottles of Valium and Motrin are empty. My circumstances pale in comparison to the wounds I've seen, but I need relief. I take the field kit out of my canvas shoulder bag and fold it open. Rolling onto my bed, I begin my own Operation Provide Comfort. Everything starts to feel like slow motion.

Don't do it
. A voice in the back of my head whispers insistently before I draw the clear, oily fluid into the syringe.
Save this in case you are truly hurt
.

I take a deep breath, cap the needle, and unscrew it from the syringe. Drop the syringe back into the kit with a soft thud. But I do open the Vicodin. It's a powerful narcotic analgesic often used after surgery. I take a double dose and swallow it while chugging down a second beer. Rolling to one side, I peer out the camper window and see the North Star shimmering in the sky. It looks to me like
a celestial beacon, and I wonder if there are any Wise Men left on Earth who might guide us out of this madness of war.

Iraqi forces have retreated to Baghdad and Coalition troops are pulling out of northern Iraq. Operation Provide Comfort is declared a success. The media has finally been allowed to cross the border, and they flood in. A United Nations refugee camp, being furiously constructed in a wide swath of open land just outside Zakho, is being established as a temporary stop for the thousands of Kurdish refugees still in the mountains. The Kurds are wary. They fear Saddam has little respect for the U.N. and will return to slaughter them once the troops depart. It takes delicate negotiations to coax them down before winter strikes.

As the Kurds finally flood into the camp, sanitation becomes a crisis. Diarrhea is epidemic and the fields are soon covered with it. A hot sun bakes the earth. Relief trucks roll in and create clouds of dust. An afternoon storm begins to thicken the air. The clouds turn yellow. They hang low and heavy, ominously filled with fecal dust kicked up by the trucks.

“Those clouds are filled with diarrhea and it's going to rain toxic soup,” I tell a few colleagues in our new location, which lies at one end of the relief operation. They laugh and dismiss the vulgar thought. But I don't think it's a joke. I duck into my camper and seal all the windows just before it rains. My windshield turns a sickening brown when it finally pours down.

A few days after the storm, there is more sickness in the camps. Diarrhea, infections, gastroenteritis, and even a few cases of spinal
meningitis. It hits the refugees like a fire. Soldiers are down as well. A number of reporters are medivacked out. Thanks to the shelter of my camper, I feel healthy and strong—at least for now. I continue pushing forward, looking for the next story…with the help of a Vicodin or two every time my back pain returns.