Code Name: Johnny Walker: The Extraordinary Story of the Iraqi Who Risked Everything to Fight with the U.S. Navy SEALs (7 page)

One day some American soldiers pulled up in a Humvee on a street where I and a friend were standing. They got out and entered the nearby store. The men were wearing full combat gear, and they reminded me of the heroes I’d seen in American movies. I’d never been this close to Americans, and I wondered what they were like.

For whatever reason, I felt as if I had to talk to them. So I convinced my friend to come with me. We walked over to the men who were waiting outside the store. With not very good English, I asked them for some MREs—Meals Ready to Eat, the standard American military food ration, usually eaten when in the field.

One of the soldiers, who by that time had probably had enough MREs to last a lifetime, handed over a small box.

I took it back to our apartment as if it were a trophy.

“What is this?” asked my mother as I set it down on our kitchen table.

“American food.”

“Let me see.”

We opened the package. Even I was surprised by what we found—chicken, fruit, gum, napkins.

“You know what?” said my mother. “An army with food like this? They will never lose.”

The food was surprisingly good, and not just because we were skimping on our own. And my mother was right—there was no comparison to the rations the Iraqi army typically had. In our military, it was not unusual to go completely without army-supplied food for three or four or even five days. If you couldn’t buy something on your own or get it somehow from home, you would starve. But here was a country that gave its soldiers so much food that they grew tired of it and even gave it away.

From that moment on, I wanted to work with the Americans. I realized they had money and food, two things in very short supply in Mosul, and if I worked with them, I could take care of my family.

I began seeking out American soldiers, asking who I could talk to about getting a job. Finally I found an officer who was relatively friendly. Mack—I forget his real name and even his rank, though I think he was a captain—couldn’t give me a job, but he was respectful and encouraging in other ways. When we met, he was overseeing a work unit building and repairing playgrounds around the city. I started hanging around and helping when I could, digging the holes for swing sets and then helping get them up.

My English was very, very limited. But there were no translators with Mack’s unit, and that occasionally made me useful. I helped communicate a few simple phrases from fellow Iraqis, and slowly I gained his confidence by answering questions he had about the area and different customs.

One day, I noticed a man walking toward the plot of land where the Americans were working. I recognized him right away; he was well known locally as someone soft in the head, often under the influence of drugs. No one in Mosul who knew him took him seriously.

He could, however, be very belligerent some days, and even from a distance it was obvious this was going to be one of those days. He walked up to the soldiers and tried starting a fight. I rushed over and intervened.

“He’s not in his right mind,” I told the Americans, who were bewildered by his rants. “Don’t pay attention to him. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

I pushed him away. He retreated—then returned a few minutes later, holding a hand grenade.

The grenade was ancient; I doubt it would have exploded no matter what the circumstances were. But you can imagine the reaction. I ran over and grabbed him before he got too close to the soldiers. I took the grenade away and gave it to one of the soldiers, then pulled the idiot down the street. I found his home and told his family what had happened. They saw to it that he never bothered the Americans again.

It seems remarkable now that an incident like that could have passed without grave repercussions for the man, but it did. This was a calm period of time in Mosul—there may have been some animosity toward the Americans, but if so it hadn’t been expressed in violent terms. A year or two later, a man with a grenade, no matter how old it was, no matter how crazy he was, would surely have been shot on sight. But at this point it was unusual and bizarre, very much out of the ordinary, and fortunately not taken as a real threat.

Grateful for my help, Mack gave me advice on how to find a job. He told me that the army was looking for translators and that the best way to get a position was to apply at the U.S. base at the airfield outside the city. The airport—the same one I’d seen bombed—had been turned into a large American complex, and units from all different service branches were locating there.

Mack went further than just giving me advice. He managed to get me an appointment for an interview at eight o’clock one morning. I’m still grateful for his help.

THE AIRPORT WAS
six or seven kilometers from my house—roughly four and a half miles away. The only way to get there early in the morning was to walk. And so I did.

When I got there, I saw there was already a crowd of other men outside the fence. We waited awhile, maybe a half hour, maybe an hour, until finally an American soldier came and shouted to the small crowd.

“Nothing today!” he yelled from the other side of the fence. “Nothing. No interviews.”

That was the extent of the explanation. I hung around as the others left, and spoke to the man, asking for more information. He was vague. I persisted.

“Tell you what,” he told me finally. “Come back next week. We’ll give you a test, and maybe an interview. Then we’ll see.”

Maybe he was just trying to get rid of me, but I interpreted it as a promise of success. I went home, practiced my English, and waited every day for my chance to go back.

“I am going to get a job with the Americans,” I told my family.

They were overjoyed. We would have money, food—everything we needed.

I practiced harder, as much as I could. I got up early the day of the appointment and walked back to the airport. The guard at the first gate recognized my name, and I was sent to a second spot on the base to wait for my interview.

Ten others were already there, standing against a chain-link fence, waiting. I heard them talking as I walked over, each practicing English. Every one of them spoke better English than I did.

Oh my God, I thought. I have no chance.

I waited, dreading and yet hoping at the same time. A Kurdish civilian came out and began calling names. I soon realized that he was in charge of getting people in and out; he might have been a translator himself. Whatever he was, it was clear that he didn’t come from Mosul. His accent was pretty heavily Kurdish; his Arabic seemed spotty.

It didn’t take long to see that he was favoring the Kurds who were waiting, rather than the Arab Iraqis. Just in case there was any doubt, a few men came out and were ushered inside without having to wait. As if to underline the reason for the favoritism, they joked with the man in Kurdish on the way in.

After waiting for an hour or maybe more, I finally went over and asked what was going on.

“We have been waiting a long time,” I told the Kurd as politely as I could. “What is going on?”

“Oh, nothing. You just have to wait.”

“What about these other people you are letting in? Why are they cutting in line?”

“Oh, no, no, they have appointments.”

“I have an appointment, too,” I told him. I doubt I concealed my anger.

“You will be let in soon. I promise.”

I went back to the others. Another hour passed. I asked again when we would be seen. My Kurdish “friend” gave me the same sort of blow-off. Once more I sat with the others. Finally, I could take it no longer.

“Listen,” I told him, “this isn’t fair. All of us have families. You have to give us all a chance. We want to work.”

“I know what I am doing,” he insisted. “Just be quiet or I’m kicking you out of here.”

“Hey, I’m being respectful. Don’t tell me that you’re kicking me out.”

I could feel my anger rising inside. The man was a petty dictator, a punk with a tiny bit of power, which he was using to favor his friends. It was all I could do not to punch him through the fence.

By one o’clock, I was out of cigarettes—and had no money to buy any others. We still hadn’t been seen.

I felt my chance slipping away. I walked over to the fence and called to the Kurd.

“Hey. Give me my chance. Let me in. I’ll take the test. If I fail, then I fail, but at least let me have my chance.”

“You talk a lot,” said the Kurd, no longer even pretending to be polite. “I will tell you—you are not going to get a job with us.”

“Okay. So I have nothing to lose!”

I grabbed hold of the fence and pulled myself over in a flash. Jumping to the ground before he could react, I raced over and grabbed him. He tried to jerk away. I spun him back and gave him a head butt.

I was a wild man, as angry as I’d ever been in my life. My entire chance for a job—survival even—had been completely destroyed by this petty bastard. All my frustration went into my fists.

Blood spurted from his nose. He fell to the ground. The American guards began moving in my direction. I jumped back over the fence. I’m guessing they didn’t like the Kurd too much either, because they let me go without any trouble.

Still, in my mind, my big chance, my plum American job, had just vanished.

I sank to the bottom of a black ocean, devastated, as I went home.

HAVE YOU EVER
played old-fashioned pinball? You might get five balls for your quarter. You play the first, then the second, the third . . . finally you are on the very last chance, the very last ball, and the machine tilts.

You’re out of chances, out of money, out of luck. Done.

That is how I felt.

I spent a few days making the rounds in Mosul, visiting places and people I’d visited before, looking for work. Of course there was none. I kept asking—not for charity, not for a handout, just for a chance to work.

With no luck, I found myself one night at my cousin’s house. We talked, drank tea, smoked; finally, it got very late, time to go home. His house was far from mine. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have called a taxi to get home. But when I stuck my hand in my pocket, I realized I had only a few coins left to my name.

I took them out and counted. I had enough for a taxi.

Or lunch money for my kids.

Or cigarettes.

Not all three, or even two.

I felt incredibly poor. I
was
incredibly poor. I considered my choices. The Americans patrolled at night. No one really knew what they might do if they saw a lone Iraqi walking on the streets. It was said by many that they would they think he was a terrorist and shoot him.

I wasn’t sure whether I would look like a terrorist to them or not. I didn’t have a long beard and wore Western-style clothing, but at night these things might not be distinctive. And they couldn’t see in my heart. From a distance all I would look like was a shadow, a dark and potentially ominous shadow.

“Screw it,” I said aloud, to no one in particular. “I’ll take my chances and walk. I’ll buy half a pack of cigarettes and give the rest of the money to my kids.”

I got the cigarettes and started on my way. I was surprised to find people out here and there. I walked at a nonchalant pace; too fast might be dangerous.

I hadn’t gone all that far when I spotted some American vehicles parked on the street ahead, in front of a government building I had to pass to get home. I slowed my pace a little more, keeping my body erect and my hands at my side—I didn’t want even my shadow to cast any suspicion.

Up ahead on the street, some women were talking loudly and complaining in Arabic. They were saying bad things about the American troops, calling them occupiers and worse. I’m sure the Americans didn’t understand most of what they were saying, but the women’s voices had an angry tone, so the general gist of their displeasure was surely evident.

Just what I need, I thought. Trouble.

The Americans started moving toward the women. I couldn’t let them beat the women—no Iraqi man could allow that, not and retain his honor.

Interfering might easily be a death sentence. But to live without honor would be worse.

I crossed the street and hurried to the women. I hardly said anything before they started to complain to me.

“The Americans are kicking out all the families,” said one, excited. “They are cruel bastards!”

I gathered from what they were saying that the American troops were evicting squatters from the government building. People had taken up residence in the offices after the invasion, most because they had no other place to live. It may not have been the best place for them, and perhaps they had no legal right to live there, but for them it was a practical solution to a difficult problem.

The Americans didn’t really understand. All they knew was that the government didn’t want the people there, and they were to get them out. Certainly these troops, who would have been given orders with little real explanation of the situation, had no way of knowing how needy the residents of Mosul were.

I talked to the women for a few minutes. One or two of them recognized me from my days as a high school sports hero. They also knew my family, still deeply respected in Mosul.

“Tell me and explain the problem,” I said. “One at a time.”

“The soldiers won’t let us in, the bastards,” they complained. “If they don’t, we will force our way in. What will they do? Shoot us? Beat us? Let them!”

I put my hand in my pocket, feeling the coins I’d left for my kids. Would I even have a chance to see them in the morning?

“Let me talk to the soldiers,” I told the women. “Calm down and stay here.”

“But—”

“Don’t say anything. Let me handle this.”

“They are bastards!”

“Hey guys, let me help you,” I pleaded. “Just be calm. I will help you. I will talk to them in English.”

I took a deep breath, then went to the soldiers and found the man in charge, a Sergeant Byrd. The women gathered up close behind me.

“Sergeant, you have a problem here,” I told him. “With these women.”

The sergeant had apparently already dealt with them, and knew their anger well.