Crude Reaction

In the days following the fall of Baghdad two years ago, our greatest threat came from vandals and looters. For those of us in the invasion force, there was little to do. Our goal of winning the land war was achieved, and we began to think of the inevitable trip home. But as days pressed into weeks, we grew restless and combated boredom by going on foot patrols with the infantry. Since we spoke Arabic, we weren't just a welcome addition to the team, but a valuable commodity that our host units grew to rely on.

In Baghdad, the patrol route traced a path between the various petrol stations in our area. Although abundant in crude, the country lacked (and still lacks) the proper infrastructure to refine it. The resulting gas shortage caused long lines and chaos anywhere petrol was sold. A black market quickly emerged wherein scalpers would fill jerrycans that they would resell at extraordinary prices. This racketeering was deemed a threat to stability, and our job was to crack down on it.

On foot, it was simply impossible. The young Iraqis would drop their jerrycans and bolt. Of course we would give chase, but - burdened by body armor, weapons and ammunition - there wasn't one of us who could keep up. It left the patrol spread out and vulnerable to snipers, so confiscating their fuel cans was our sole claim to victory. Once, though, we chased a scalper who refused to part with his fuel. With the playing field evened out, we were able to make good our chase. We followed him into an alley, and watched as he entered one of the houses.

Anytime the patrol would stop for any reason whatsoever, it would immediately attract attention. Empty streets would suddenly come to life if a soldier so much as bent over to tie his laces. The longer the halt, the larger the crowd. As we waited for everyone to catch up, people had already begun to gather. Our lieutenant was young and scared, and he knocked on the door with the authority of someone trying to hide both. None of us were expecting what happened next.

The door was answered almost immediately by a slender young lady in her mid- to late-twenties. She was dressed traditionally, and her gesticulations were consciously feminine, her movements graceful. She was angry, and the emotion belied her delicate features that stood out in contrast to the poverty that surrounded her. She was yelling at us, and I was caught so off guard by her apparition, that it took me some time to realize that she was speaking English. Perfectly. The Queen's English, albeit with only the slightest hint of an accent.

"Why are you here? Iraq is a sovereign nation, and you are not welcome!" She went on for some time in that vein while everyone stood there, transfixed by the rage she communicated so eloquently and conclusively. Drawn by her shrieking, the crowd had grown much larger and outnumbered our patrol by at least three-to-one. Worse, they kept inching closer to us until they were among us, and we them. Finally, an awkward silence had fallen; the girl had stopped screaming, and everyone - myself included - was staring at our lieutenant. Whether it was because of denial or legitimate miscommunication, her words were not registering with him. After a pregnant pause, he turned to me and demanded, "Goetz! What's she saying?"

All I could manage was an, "um". He asked me again, yelling this time. I was scared. I could feel the heat from the bodies of Iraqis pressed against my own, and I suddenly became very conscious of the rifle in my hands. "I think she wants to know why we're here," I admitted. He thought about this, and yelled, "tell her we're here for the gas! We just want the gas!" Expectations mounted, and they were all pointed in my direction. "Goetz! Tell them we're just here for the gas!"

Finally, I blurted out some Arabic. Formed under the spur of pressure, my translation was flawed. I screamed it to hide the fear in my voice. It had a strange effect on the crowd. A murmur of understanding passed between friends and neighbors, as if to say "oh, so that's it". They began to disperse. The young lady was caught off-balance from an unexpected response. She surrendered the fuel, which we dumped in order to finish our patrol. Later that night, someone asked what I had said. I responded honestly that I had said by accident, "we are just here for your oil!"