December 12th 2008 | home
Sandbox 1
BAGHDAD, Iraq — Christopher Schrieks got a promotion of sorts when he left Lodi earlier this year and journeyed to this war-ravaged city as a soldier in the New Jersey National Guard.
Schrieks, a captain in the detective bureau of the Lodi Police Department, suddenly found himself three months ago with the new job of the security chief in Baghdad's Green Zone, the 6-square-mile patch that is home to the U.S. military and diplomatic corps as well as numerous international representatives and several thousand Iraqi citizens.
In plain language, Schrieks is now a police chief. But he's not the only New Jerseyan with a key job here.
When 2,800 soldiers from the state's National Guard units deployed to Iraq in September, Pentagon military planners assigned a select group to run Baghdad's governmental services in the Green Zone, formally known as the International Zone.
"The best analogy is that we're a small city government," said Maj. Jon Powers, a spokesman for the Guard in Baghdad and a detective for the New Jersey Attorney General's Office back home. If a pothole needs fixing amid the rubble of a Baghdad boulevard, someone from New Jersey gets the call. The same is true with fixing electrical outages, unclogging muddy sewers, signing construction contracts, overseeing payroll budgeting — even retraining Baghdad's firefighters and chasing down undocumented workers.
While mundane perhaps and hardly akin to the tough combat of a hot war zone, the role for the state's National Guard could not be more critical, nor come at a more sensitive time. With the signing of a recent agreement to downsize the U.S. military presence in the coming years, American authorities have speeded up the transfer of civil power back to the fledgling Iraqi government. For the New Jersey National Guard, this means serving on a new kind of front line.
Now, not only do New Jersey's citizen soldiers have to run a piece of Baghdad's government, but they have to teach Iraqis how to take over. The task requires that they carry a gun — and act like a diplomat.
"This is a very important, strategic time to be here as we turn over operations of the country to Iraq," said Col. Steven Ferrari, the overall commander of the state's National Guard in Iraq. "It's a delicate line of security and sovereignty. Everything we do, we have to be very careful."
Adds Maj. John Tumino of Emerson, an FBI counterintelligence agent back in America and the coordinator of government ID badges in the Green Zone: "We're nation building."
"It's not revolutionary," said Tumino. "It's evolutionary." And sometimes, this evolution can have some surprising results.
Recently, the New Jersey National Guard upgraded street lights for a small corner of Baghdad that was used as a staging area for combat patrol teams. What seemed like an ordinary task turned into a point of national pride for Iraqis.
The neighborhood also is home to Iraq's Unknown Soldier Memorial, so the upgrade meant Iraqis could turn on the lights at the memorial – with the help of a donation from a wealthy Iraqi. "It was a happy accident," said Sgt. Bill Addison of Brick.
But the serendipity comes with a sobering dose of wartime reality. The Iraqi benefactor did not want his name publicized. To work with Americans — even on electrical upgrades — could place Iraqi citizens in danger from insurgents who, while diminished in their lethal capabilities, are still a force, especially for those living beyond the relative safety of the Green Zone, in Baghdad and beyond.
Stories of success are greeted with a near-universal cheer by the soldiers. But even as they plan to rebuild Iraq, the soldiers are also on guard against those who want to destroy it — an enemy that wears no uniform and respects no front line. Every soldier carries a gun at all times. Every office is near a concrete "duck and cover" bunker in case of a rocket attack. Every soldier sleeps with a helmet and body armor within easy reach.
Since arriving in Iraq in September, no New Jersey soldier has fired a gun at the enemy, said Ferrari, a full-time Guard officer who lives in Berlin in South Jersey. But that is perhaps a false standard to measure safety or relative peace.
While Ferrari's primary job is to keep an eye on his 2,800 soldiers from New Jersey's 50th Infantry Brigade Combat Team, whose 22 companies are scattered across Baghdad and near the southern Iraq city of Basra, he also oversees other U.S. military units in the Green Zone.
In recent months, two Army soldiers died — one in a truck accident, the other in a rocket attack. "It's a slap of reality," Ferrari said as he sat in his office in the former Iraq Republican Guard Palace. "You greet every day and hope nothing will happen. But you have to remember this is a very dangerous place."
Few National Guard soldiers are more aware of that than Lt. Col. Christopher Schrieks. On an afternoon last week, Schrieks steered an armored SUV down a Baghdad boulevard. Around his neck, an ID badge dangled from a strap that said, "Lodi Police."
In some ways, Schrieks, 42, was using the same kinds of skills he developed patrolling the streets of Lodi. Only these streets of Baghdad have up to three security checkpoints every half-mile and row after row of "blast walls" — 15-foot-high concrete barriers that essentially turn every road into a corridor. Schrieks slowed as he approached a checkpoint, manned by Peruvian security guards hired by a contractor. He looked left, then right. Just as he might as a cop back in Lodi, he was looking for anything suspicious — a man trying to hide or perhaps a box or backpack left untended. "There are still bad guys around," he said.
Across town, Capt. Joseph DeSantis from Glassboro works amid the daily reminders of just how evil Iraq was under the dictatorial boot of Saddam Hussein.
DeSantis' assignment is to coordinate the rebuilding of a portion of the notorious Baath Party Headquarters, the seat of power under Saddam. And for that job, DeSantis may be one of the most skilled soldiers in the National Guard. Back home in New Jersey, he oversees insurance contracts for construction projects. Even so, in New Jersey he never faced a task even remotely similar to his job in Baghdad. In March of 2003, the Baath headquarters was rocked by two massive, U.S. laser-guided bombs in the "shock and awe" bombardment that signaled the start of the Iraq war. Indeed, the bombs' guidance systems were so precise that the holes where they punched through the building's roof are only 6 feet apart. Standing on that roof a few days ago, DeSantis scanned the various corners of Baghdad. He pointed out the "Love Palace" of one of Saddam's sons. It was destroyed by American bombs. He pointed to "Prosperity Palace" – also hit by bombs. He pointed to a street – still pockmarked with bomb craters. He pointed to row after row of grey blast walls that seemed to stretch for miles. "Here, you can see what we're going through," DeSantis said.
Downstairs, teams of Iraqi workers hired by DeSantis slapped yellow paint on walls, installed door locks and adjusted ceiling lights. But these jobs could only be completed in a handful of floors in the Baath headquarters – and only in two wings. The center of the building was blasted beyond repair by the bombs. So DeSantis will leave knowing that he could do only so much – not a complete job, but something in between. That's enough for his Iraqi assistant, Rasha Mahmood. "I want my country to be a good country," she said. "We have a good heart. I want my people to feel good. I want us to return to a normal life.
But for now, that good life is still far away. And no amount of paint and new lighting can erase the infamy of the Baath Party headquarters.
After leaving the roof, DeSantis walks down a series of stairs – to the building's basement and the steel-doored rooms that are believed to have been jail cells for Saddam's political prisoners. "This is where we think they tortured people," he said glumly.
To work amid such sordid history is difficult, DeSantis says. And for his part, he tries to find solace and pride now in small victories.
The other day, he took time to explain to Iraqi electricians the need to adhere to strict safety codes.
"Their idea of an electric code is to put a plug in the wall and see if it works." DeSantis said. "They have no idea that you can burn down the building if you don't wire it correctly."
It's the kind of attention to detail that DeSantis learned back in New Jersey as an insurance adjustor. Several blocks away, Maj. David Melendez tries to teach the same concept to a different Iraqi audience – firefighters.
Maj. Melendez, a New York City firefighter who joined the Jersey Guard because he liked the unit's camaraderie, has become an ad-hoc fire chief and training director for Baghdad's fire department. And like DeSantis, Melendez found the Iraqis he was working with enthusiastic but lacking basic standards.
"They're good firefighters," Melendez said. "But we're teaching them basic rules."
Many National Guard soldiers speak of a mix of realism, hopefulness and resignation. Life is punctuated with the occasional thud of a distant bomb, and the inviolate rule is that you never go anywhere without the company of a "battle buddy." They hope to do something significant that will draw accolades to their units. Yet, they also know there is only so much they can do in a place so badly scarred by war. "Sometimes it's a bit surreal to be here," said Capt. Christopher Ortiz, a New Jersey state trooper who is overseeing the refurbishing of Saddam's "Prosperity Palace." To walk through the palace today, you hardly feel a sense of prosperity. Huge cracks run down the walls. Dust and dirt sit in corners. Walkways are covered with rocks. "This was one of Saddam's pleasure palaces," said Ortiz, who lives in Hoboken. "But there is no room that is unscathed."
Nevertheless, Ortiz's soldiers are making the best of their surroundings. For a communication's center, they found the best space turned out to be a large room with high marble walls – one of Saddam's hot tubs. Today, a communications desk, covered with radios sits in the middle of a waterless tub where the late dictator is said to have relaxed.
The other day, Ortiz walked into the room, looked at the marble tub and the desk – and smiled. "Sometimes this is surreal," he said.