Getting Out the Vote

Inside a studio smelling of stale cigarette smoke, the interview goes smoothly. It's a chance for Norris to introduce himself to the community. The 172nd arrived in Iraq only a month ago. He says he's from the 4-23 Tomahawks and will provide 24 hour security for the people of Mosul. In Norris's area, which covers about half of the city, there are 9 police districts, and 2 battalions of Iraqi Army. He fields a call from a local woman asking how she can go vote; he ends with a brief statement. "To the good and noble citizens of Mosul," he says, "We feel we are part of a historic moment in your election process as you are beginning to govern yourself in a free Iraq."

Before heading to Hammamalil, a relatively peaceful suburb a ten-minute drive south of Mosul, Norris stops the Stryker convoy outside the base to pick up the unit's medic. He gives the okay to start passing out soccer balls. A dozen children sprint across a field decorated with trash. The soldiers start to lob balls over the chain-link fence; the kids press up against the barrier, small hands grabbing in between the spikes on the concertina wire. They scream for more soccer balls, more candy; melees break out among the kids. Handing out soccer balls, is "both a burden and a pleasure," says Staff Sergeant Andrew Lang, 25, from Cincinnati, Ohio. "I mean, it's hell on my security. But it makes them smile." Specialist Richard Oxner doesn't think the kids are sharing; with his rifle slung over the shoulder he approaches the fence and slips the tiniest child a toy truck. "The bigger kids were taking everything, I wanted to make sure the little guy got something," he says. The convoy heads off to Hammamalil for the afternoon, to visit another police chief and to check in on newly built training facility for the Iraqi Army. Two more suicide car bombs go off in Mosul.

Wednesday goes much the same way for Norris; more meetings with local leaders, hammering out the endless logistical problems to get the polling sites ready for the referendum. Reports come in that yesterday's car bomb was carrying a woman passenger. It's the second instance in Mosul in recent weeks where the suicide bombers have had a passenger, changing their profile: no longer are bombers always single male drivers. The "no roll" policy—which forbids people from driving on the roads—goes into effect. The streets are empty, only sheeps and chicken. 

On Thursday evening, three hours after sunset, Norris steps out on the deck behind the 4-23 headquarters. He lights a cigar; from here, he can see the entire city of Mosul. He's been in the military since 1984; he started as an enlisted Marine. He fought in Desert Storm in 1991. "It was a quiet day," he says, cigar in hand, leg up on the wooden railing. "Only two IEDS."  He pauses. "Thursday nights are my quiet nights." Tomorrow is Friday, usually the day of rest in Iraq. Not this week.  

© 2005