"Riding on the outside of a tank is a good way to get shot!", I told him.
Roscoe simply nodded. "As far as these guys are concerned, it's the price of doing business. I lost some guys, too. We make sure these guys get the same medical treatment our guys do."
I waited until the Kurds were out of earshot, and asked, "So, tell me about the Kurds. Are they any good?"
He glanced over at them and lowered his voice. "Hey, I'm just a captain, but I'd rather they be on my side than the other way around, you know?" As it was, he seemed to consider them his troops as much as any of the Americans. When it came time for lunch, they actually had a mess tent set up, and lunch was a mix of American food and some Kurdish food (lamb in a stew over rice, with flatbread.) The Kurds lined up just like the Americans; they also seemed to like Tabasco sauce, since a lot of the troops pulled bottles out and passed them around. It might not be the way it was shown in the books at Fort Knox, but it seemed to be an effective combat outfit.
I did the usual President-meeting-the-troops routine, which usually consisted of asking, 'How's it going?', 'You guys eating okay?', 'Had a chance to call home yet?', and that sort of thing. It sounds terminally trite and phony, but it's good for morale, and if there was a problem, we needed to know. Morale seemed good, for both the Americans and the Kurds. The only complaint seemed to be that too many of the MREs these guys had been sharing with the Kurds had pork in them. They swapped around as best they could, but some of the Americans complained that pork chops could get old after awhile. Colonel Jeffries commented that Natick (whatever that was) was developing halal MREs. I told him to make sure we put a rush on that, and I would check on it when we got home.
"Have you called your mother?", asked Marilyn.
Roscoe blushed. "Uh, actually, when we were in Erbil, I called my fiancé."
"Your fiancé?! You're engaged!? When did that happen?", she exclaimed, just beating me to it.
He grinned. "We've been seeing each other for six months or so. We met in Vilseck. She works on the base."
"She's a German girl?", I asked.
He shook his head. "Irish. Actually her parents are Jamaican, but they moved to Ireland, which is where she was born, and now she works in Germany. Mom knows, but hasn't had a chance to meet her yet."
"You've got your own little UN there! Well, if you can send her a message, we will be stopping off in Germany on the way back, and we'd love to meet her. Marilyn is going to talk to your mother about you as soon as we get out of here anyway." Roscoe rolled his eyes at that. "How's Tyrone doing? What's he now, first year?" Tyrone Buckminster wanted to go to West Point, and I hadn't been able to talk him out of it, so I used one of my Presidential appointments and sent him there.
"He'll be a firstie this fall."
"Does he want Armor, too, or does he want Artillery like your old man and me?", I asked.
"Neither. He wants to be a combat engineer."
I shrugged. "Nothing wrong with that. They can be useful critters to have around."
That got a laugh out of a lieutenant with the 'castle' insignia of a combat engineer. "Tell your brother that when he gets out of the Army, at least he'll be able to get a job!", he interjected.
I nodded. "That's true enough. Roscoe and me, all we learned was how to shoot things and blow them up."
At that point Colonel Jeffries told us we had to move along. The next flight would be longer, as we were visiting the British 7th Armored. I shook hands with as many people as I could, and Marilyn gave Roscoe another hug. After that it was back on the Black Hawks and a flight eastward.
For some reason, seeing Roscoe there in Kurdistan, and doing well, made the rest of the trip much more enjoyable. I visited the Brits and did a similar tour of one of their tank companies, and then we returned to Erbil. The next day was our last, and I made sure we toured the hospital set up. American casualties were relatively light, and British casualties were almost nonexistent, but the Kurds had taken it on the chin before we got there. I didn't just visit the American troops, but also stuck my head into the British tent, and then visited some of the Kurds.
The Kurdish casualties were much more severe, and the mustard gas casualties were gruesome. I was going through one ward, with some reporters tailing behind me, and my interpreter began talking to one very morose young man who was obviously missing his right leg, from just above the knee. I asked my interpreter about the young man, who looked to be in his early twenties. He said, "He used to play football. He was very good, a champion player."
"Uh ... football ... oh, yes, soccer! We have a different name in America. Soccer, running around and kicking the ball, yes?"
He nodded. "Yes, football. Difficult to do now. Inshallah!"
Inshallah – it is God's will. "Yes." I approached the young Kurd, and sat down in a folding chair next to him. "Let me tell this soldier a story." The interpreter began talking to the soldier, and I talked to him for a few minutes, stopping every few sentences to let the interpreter catch up. "I knew a soldier once, who was an athlete. He ran miles every day ... He was a good soldier, and young and proud ... One day he was hurt, and he could no longer be a soldier ... Now where he once had great pride, now he only had great bitterness and great sorrow." The young Kurd's eyes flicked down to my leg, and then back to my face. "He had many friends, however, and they told him, 'Come, join us, and we will go into business together.', and he did so for many years ... Then his friends told him, 'Come, you are wise, and you should write books to let people know what you know.', and he wrote many books ... Finally, his friends told him, 'Come, you are very wise, and you should become a great leader of our people.', and they elected him a leader of his people ... Now, let me ask you ... Who was this soldier? Was he me?", I asked, slapping my right leg with my cane. "Or was he you?"
The Kurd's eyes opened wide at this, and he talked to the interpreter for several minutes. Afterward, I said goodbye, and Marilyn and I went on our way. The interpreter told me that the young man seemed impressed, and I told him that anybody can kick a football, and that his country needed doctors and teachers and engineers even more. Before we left, I told President Barzani that the Buckman Foundation would help rebuild the country, and promised several million dollars in aid.
I was going to be out of a job in a few years. Maybe I was looking at a new job now, cleaning up the messes I had gotten the world into.
Chapter 165: Survival
From Erbil, we flew back to Incirlik, where I met Erdogan one more time and spent a last night in Turkey. We switched back to the 747. I found out that my promise of matching funds to rebuild the hospital had ended up going world-wide! In just a matter of days, the Buckman Foundation was on the hook for over $12 million for that hospital! This thing was going to be gold-plated by the time we were done. Marilyn just told me that I was rich and to get over it. Well, she was right, I was rich, so I got on television and promised matching funds for all private donations to build schools and clinics in Kurdistan as well. In for a penny, in for a pound.