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Feature: Burying the enemy dead By Jim Bartlett From the International Desk Published 4/24/2003 7:39 PM BAGHDAD (UPI) -- I watched a grotesque yet moving sight as U.S. troops occupying Baghdad's International Airport buried their opposite numbers -- Iraqi soldiers killed when American troops took the airport. Most had laid out for the better part of a week and in that time their bodies were decomposing at a rapid clip when I was there April 13. The sickly sweet smell is something you never get used to. It's the smell of war you don't get at the movies, now matter how graphic they are. I had been over in Charlie Company's area when I strolled over to the cemetery that had been set up. A power shovel had been pressed into service to dig holes, regulation deep, evenly spaced. A squad of engineers from B Company of the 94th, attached to 3rd ID, was standing by to receive the bodies that were coming down in twos and threes. I had the cigarettes and was quickly the welcome newcomer. It was hot and dusty, no shade. A somber, edgy energy to the place made everyone speak in whispers. Spc. Bret Johnson, from Missouri, told me about their lonesome detail. "We have been picking them up all over," he said. "We've got two coming in that we found over in a hole on the perimeter. They're pretty nasty, been out here awhile." We looked up as a front-end loader turned off the road and came towards us. It was the hearse. "Here we go," Johnson said, slipping on rubber gloves and letting out a heavy sigh. When the loader pulled up, there were two bodies in the bucket. It felt like something straight out of Terminator, this huge, heavy machine, crawling forward. But what else were they going to do? They had to get the bodies from point A to point B, and by now many were simply falling apart. Back home death is a pretty sterile thing that we are largely shielded from, but out here it is in your face, crushing in its finality, ever reminding that at some point it's going to be you. My first thought, looking into the bucket, was "Thank god I won't know that I look like this." The men went about preparing for their task, slowly. It is fairly meticulous, how the U.S. military deals with enemy dead. First, no matter how bad they are, someone will go over them looking for identification. If any can be found, that will be logged. Then the grid coordinates where they are found are recorded as well as any unit intelligence that might be had. Then they bring them to the cemetery for interment where they are wrapped in a heavy ply plastic and placed in the grave, head towards Mecca. This is very important, because they are Muslims. Pfc. George Phender, 19, was driving the loader. He looked like he should be playing soccer somewhere, not digging graves on a wrecked airfield. He had earlier tried a dust scarf for the smell, wrapped around his face, but told me it didn't do much good. In Vietnam the guys used bars of Dial soap for this, but sundry packs with such things hadn't caught up to the front-line troops yet. He maneuvered the machine into place near the holes that had been dug and the squad pulled the bodies out. They had turned a translucent black, blue and brown. One man had a grapefruit sized hole where his left temple had been. At least it had been quick. The other just seemed to be one huge collection of compound fractures, a shattered bag of mush. An Air Force bomb, no doubt. I'm sure neither knew what had hit them. These were enemy troops, guys who had been blazing rounds at Americans just a few days before. Even so, I couldn't help feeling sorry for them. Throwing their lives away for a regime that didn't even have the decency to properly equip them, despite billions in oil revenue. Despite their enemy status, death had settled their accounts. Everywhere you looked, you could see their helmets. Plastic. Useless. I'm sure that somewhere, someone was mourning them, not knowing their final fate, but somehow knowing just the same. It's odd how that works. It baffles me, dying for a regime that issued you a plastic helmet. Staff Sgt. Michael Bamba of Guam unrolled a large piece of white plastic sheeting for the bodies. He grimaced as his squad rolled them in it. The stench is something that defies description, but it has to be done. With that complete, the squad members picked up the corners and carried/dragged the first fellow to his hole. As gently as they could, they lowered him down, but lacking rope, he just sort of fell in. The bottom of the holes was muddy from the shallow water table and brackish with some sort of yellowish green growth. The mud made a splorking sound as the first corpse hit it. The men paused, gazing down. I threw in a handful of dirt and muttered, "Rest easy, mate." They dragged the second fellow over and prepared to put him in. This time, however, things went wrong. As they approached the hole and prepared to lower the body in, one end of the plastic gave way and the corpse tumbled into the mud, twisting grotesquely, facing the wrong way. An unspoken "Oh no." Silence. The boys gazed down, fixated on the spectacle. "OK, who's going in?" asked Lt. Kurt Hoch, the officer in charge of the detail. More silence. If there was ever a time to heed the old Army saying about never volunteering for something, this was it. "Who's going in?" the lieutenant asked again. The issue was that the corpse needed to be facing Mecca. After a long pause, one of the troops sighed heavily. "I'll go," he said softly. It was Spc. Johan Wissenger from Denver, a lean young man, the type who looked as if he had an easy way with horses. Alarmed, I told the lieutenant that if he was sending someone into that mess because a reporter was there, please don't. Some things can be overlooked and this was one of them. "No, this is what we do," he said as Wissenger made ready to go in. I made it abundantly clear that we could shovel this guy under, facing Mecca or not, and no one would have to be the wiser. Their squad leader, Bamba, reiterated that this was the way they did things. Enemy or not, they were going to do right by him, according to his culture. "We'd want the same treatment if that was us laying out there," he said. "It's really the least we can do for them." I don't know what emotion was overcoming me more, horror or pride. Not one of these boys looked over the age of 27, so young yet being fully confronted in the worst way with mortality. They stood up to the task like men. It was doubtful that they had had a proper shower in a month and who knew when they were going get one. Wissenger descended into the muck and started pulling on an arm. He reached under the shoulders and pulled more, but the mud had the corpse in its grip. Bamba jumped in and tried to help but it was no use. Almost retching, sweating, grimacing, they stopped. No one spoke. "Quiet as a graveyard" took on new meaning. Wissenger looked up at Hoch, shaking his head softly. Kurt told him to come up and we pulled him out. "Bring up the shovel, we'll try that," Hoch said, nodding to Phender to bring up the machine. For the next few minutes we watched as its scoop pawed at the body, slowly turning it, pushing it, edging it around until it faced south towards Mecca, mixed even deeper in the mud. "That's good," Hoch called out and Phender backed away. We all stood, gazing into the grave, the dead man now completely mixed into the mud, but facing his spiritual center. An audible sigh went up and they put the plastic top cover in place. I threw in another handful of dirt. Phender rolled the shovel unit up again and pushed piles of dirt over them both. It was done. No one said much. I was out of cigarettes and mightily regretful of it when Wissenger came up to ask for one. Silently, we shuffled away, the dust kicking up as Phender and Hoch drove off for another load. Someone said they had to clear a bunker with over a dozen more in it. As I walked back to the Charlie Company CP, I knew that whatever transpired, each of them would be laid away properly, facing Mecca. It's what Americans do. It's the kind of people we are. Even for our enemies. And so that's where they lay, those soldiers of Saddam, with a iron picket for a headstone, blown away for a guy who didn't see fit to even buy them steel helmets. No glory whatsoever. Copyright © 2001-2003 United Press International Print this story