The Galli Report

BAQUBAH, Iraq — As the day ebbed soldiers gathered in the gym at FOB Warhorse, where the basketball court had been converted into a temporary chapel. They were there to say goodbye to Sgt. Iosiwo Uruo, a Guam native, 27 years old, who had been killed while on patrol in Buhriz, Iraq.

Men who knew him spoke about him warmly; chaplains uttered benedictions; and then a ritual many generations old was performed. A soldier rose and in a loud sure voice called out his name:

Uruo!
Uruo!
Sgt Iosiwo Uruo!

It was Sgt. Uruo’s final roll call. Because he was not alive to answer, his service in the Army had formally come to an end.

The guns fired their volley, taps was played, and fellow soldiers lined up to pay their respects. Alone or by twos or threes they approached a display containing Sgt. Uruo’s rifle, helmet and boots. All saluted, some knelt to pray, some left mementos, and a few touched the helmet with an open, gentle hand.

EARLIER IN THE DAY Captain Jan Rose, an Army nurse who had entered military service when she was 48 years old, started on a mission to the Baqubah Hospital, Because of sectarian strife and a generally high level of indiscriminate violence, people were reluctant to use the hospital. They were afraid that they might be killed there, or kidnapped. Capt. Rose was going to try to assure people that the hospital was safe.

She didn’t make it to the hospital this day. While driving the usual route, near a traffic roundabout, a notoriously dangerous place, a rocket propelled grenade struck her Humvee’s door, in line with her midsection. The armor held, but the terrific explosion buffeted Captain Rose physically and emotionally.

As usual, her Humvee was traveling in a convoy with several other heavily-armed vehicles, each carrying four seated soldiers and a turret gunner. They took defensive positions around Capt. Rose’s damaged Humvee, and executed a secure withdrawal back to the base.

Not a drop of Captain Rose blood was spilled. The event was probably not noticed by anyone other than the soldiers who were with her that day, and the hundreds of others who would learn about the attack before da’s end, before they filed into the gym to honor a less lucky American named Iosio Uruo.

EARLIER THAT SAME MORNING, soldiers from the 431st Civil Affairs battalion and others were ‘geared up’ and waiting by their Humvees and Strykers, anxious to start a mission outside the wire. It was a fearsome display of military force.

Their mission was to provide security so that fresh water could be trucked into a local community wracked by drought. An Iraqi contractor was being paid to supply the trucks and drivers for the water; and the Army was providing muscle and steel to make sure the water got through.

The mission was to kick off at about 10 am, but the water trucks didn’t arrive on time. The mission was tentatively rescheduled to 10:30 but didn’t go off then either.

The soldiers baked on the hardpacked dust, sometimes sitting in their machines, sometimes walking to keep loose. They drank gallons of water, some officers made phone calls, and everyone tried to imagine a reason for the delay. Eventually the mission was called off. The Iraqi people who were hoping for the water would not get it this day, and the American soldiers who had been ready to risk their lives to bring it did not know why.

The thirsty town that these American soldiers were trying to help this day was Buhriz — the town where Iosiwo Uruo had died.

It might not have been the contractor’s fault. Perhaps he or his family had been threatened. Perhaps his men at the last minute had backed out of the assignment. There might have been good reasons why his water trucks did not arrive — and why he failed to tell the soldiers who were baking in the sun. Perhaps some day the Army would learn what those reasons were, forgive the contractor or find a new one, and gear up once again to complete the mission. Perhaps, put in context, the cancellation of the water mission was just an isolated, insignificant backstep in Iraq’s steady forward surge.

But an outsider unaccustomed to the rhythms and vagaries of this frustrating war, and not compelled to make excuses at the end of this particular day, found it impossible to hold back from keeping score:

One dead American, one nearly killed American, and one Iraqi no-show.

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This story is part of a series featuring the Army’s Civil Affairs mission in Iraq.

Richard Galli served as an interpreter in an Army Civil Affairs unit in Vietnam (1970-71). He is in Iraq as an embedded freelance journalist.