Caught in the Draft
The American Armor rolled across the Middle Eastern desert virtually unchallenged. The “mother of all wars” that Saddam promised had turned into a joke. The Iraqi tanks and armored vehicles had proven easy targets for the Allied Aircraft. To the American pilots flying the A-10 Warthogs, it was like shooting sitting ducks. Eventually, the crews of the Iraqi Armored Divisions started leaping out of their vehicles waving white flags as soon as they saw approaching aircraft. The result was that the biggest problem facing the Americans and their allies was finding places to keep all their prisoners-of-war.
Sergeant Butler, riding high atop his Bradley armored vehicle with his hands on the butterfly handles of the .50-caliber machine gun, was the lead scout for his armored column. Looking ahead across the barren Iraqi Desert, he could make out something in the distance that looked like a ravine.
At first, he thought he was seeing a mirage caused by the desert heat waves shimmering upon the hot, dry sand. But a closer look through field glasses convinced him there was movement along the banks of the gully ahead. Keying his radio microphone, he warned the following vehicles in the column to “Stay alert, there might be an ambush ahead.” Then he ordered his driver to approach with caution.
As Sergeant Butler and his crew approached the desert ravine, they thought they were ready for almost anything, but what they weren’t ready for was a company of starving Iraqi soldiers that threw away their weapons as they climbed up out of the dry gully to greet them.
It was obvious by looking at them that they had suffered greatly from lack of food and water in the dry, desert heat. Their supply lines had been cut as soon as the war started, but they had been poorly supplied to begin with. As the Iraqi soldiers approached the armored vehicle they pushed forward one dusty, half starved young soldier in an ill-fitting uniform to the front.
Smiling beneath his dark mustache, he waved a white flag made from a dirty handkerchief tied to the end of a crooked stick. Looking up at the Americans on top of the armored vehicle he said, “Boy, am I glad to see youse guys.”
Sergeant Butler and his men looked at each other in surprise. Finally one of them asked, “What did you say?”
The Iraqi replied, “I said I was glad to see youse guys. You can’t believe the crap I been through. This has been the worst vacation I ever been on.”
Sergeant Butler, with a look of disbelief said, “Vacation?”
The Iraqi replied, “Yeah homey, I was just visiting my grandparents when they drafted me into the Iraqi Army.”
The vehicle’s driver asked, “Who are you, and where the hell are you from anyway?”
The Iraqi gave him a bigger smile. “Hey brother, my name is Ahmed Ali, and I’m from New York. Back in Brooklyn everyone just calls me Double A. My family owns Ali’s Electronics Superstore on 6th street in Brooklyn.”
Sergeant Butler slowly shook his head. “New York? So how the hell did you wind up in New York?”
“My parents moved there when I was a baby,” Ahmed replied; “Hell, I can’t hardly understand most of what these dudes are jabbering about.”
For the next two weeks Ahmed Ali became a sort of mascot and half-assed interpreter for the men of the Armored Company. After carefully checking his story, Ahmed was sent home to Brooklyn where he lives his version of the American Dream and gives a discount on electronics to anyone in a military uniform.
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