Sunday, October 26, 2003
David Irving
comments: Fisk --
one of the greats MEET Robert Fisk
-- consistently one of the world's
greatest and bravest writers. Unlikely to
win the Noble Prize for Literature or any
other "meaningful" award; but able, I make
so bold as to say, to sleep with his
conscience untroubled each night.
A few months ago
he spoke at a university in the United
States. No US newspaper (to my knowledge)
carries his despatches, and yet over a
thousand students turned up to meet and
hear the British journalist in person.
What does that tell us about
the growing might of the Internet? And
about why the traditional enemy is taking
frantic steps to control it? 
David
Irving starts a new US tour this
Fall 2003. Locations include: Atlanta, New
Orleans, Houston, Arlington (TX), Oklahoma
City, Albuquerque, Tucson, Phoenix, Los
Angeles, San Francisco, Portland (Oregon),
Moscow (Idaho), Sacramento, Las Vegas,
Salt Lake City, Denver, Chicago,
Cleveland, Cincinnati, Louisville. The
theme is comparisons -- Hitler, Churchill,
Iraq, war crimes law, and Iraq.
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interest]
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Eye
witness "They're getting
better," Chuck said approvingly. "That one hit the
runway" Running
the gauntlet of small arms fire and
rocket-propelled grenades after check-in at
Baghdad airport By Robert Fisk YOU need to take a military
escort to reach Baghdad airport these days. Yes,
things are getting better in Iraq, according to
President Bush -- remember that each hour that goes
by -- but the guerrillas are getting so close to
the runways that the Americans have chopped down
every tree, every palm bush, every scrap of
undergrowth on the way. Rocket-propelled grenades have killed so many
GIs on this stretch of highway that the US army --
like the Israelis in southern Lebanon in the
mid-80s -- have erased nature. You travel to
Baghdad airport through a wasteland. Heathrow it
isn't. "OK folks, now you can leave your bags here and
go inside for your boarding passes," a cheery US
army engineer tells the first arrivals for Amman.
So we collect slips of paper that show no flight
number, no seat number, no destination, not even a
take-off time. There's a Burger King across the
lot, but it's in a "high-security zone" which mere
passengers cannot visit. There's no water for sale.
There are so few seats that passengers stand in the
heat outside what must be the biggest post office
in the world, a vast US military sorting hanger
with packets of mail for every one of the 146,000
troops in Iraq, standing 30ft high in racks. But take a look at the passengers. There's a
lady from the aid organisation Care heading off for
a holiday in Thailand, and there's the Bishop of
Basra in his black and red robes and dangling
crucifix, and there's an outgoing television crew
and the International Red Cross representative with
a little Red Cross plane to catch to Kirkuk.
There's also a British construction man up from
Hilla who spent the previous night under fire with
the local Polish battalion. "Rocket-propelled
grenades and heavy rifle fire for two hours," he
mutters. Of course, the occupation authorities
never revealed that. Because things are getting
better in Iraq. Behind us, a series of giant four-engined jets
are climbing in circles into the hot morning sky,
big unmarked jobs that fly 180 degrees to the
ground in tight circles to take off and land, so
low you'd think they would trip the runway with
their wing-tips -- anything to avoid the
ground-to-air missiles that America's enemies are
now firing at aircraft in the "New Iraq". "It's
routine," one of the American engineers confides to
us. "We get shot at every night." Among the other passengers, there's a
humanitarian worker who's clearly had a nervous
breakdown and some rather lordly Iraqi ladies
escorted to check-in by an RAF officer with too
much hair over his collar and, across the lot, a
squad of American Special Forces soldiers enjoying
the sun, heavy with black webbing, automatic rifles
and pistols. Why do they all wear shades, I ask
them? One of them takes off his sun-glasses. "What
girl would look at us if they could see our real
faces?" I agree. But they're an intelligent bunch
of men, heavy with innuendo. Yes, they've got a
safe house near Fallujah and combat casualties are
sometimes "contained" within road accidents or
drownings. 
A GUY called Chuck wants to confide in me. "You
know the most precious resource about this country,
Bob?" he asks. "It's the Iraqi people. There's a
lot of protoplasm here." I was contemplating the
definition of protoplasm when the first mortar came
in, a thundering roar that had the passengers
ducking like a theatrical chorus and a big white
circle of smoke rising lazily from the other side
of the runway. There's a whizzing noise and another
clap of sound.
"They're getting better," Chuck tells me. "They
must have put that one close to the runway." The
other Special Forces lads nod approvingly. Another
tremendous explosion, and they all nod together.
Another big white ring rippling skywards, as if a
giant cigar addict had sat down for a smoke by the
runway. "Not bad at all," says Chuck's friend. "We used to have a five-mile safety perimeter
round the airport," Chuck says. "That's now down to
two miles. The max anti-aircraft range is 8,000ft.
So two miles is on the edge." Translation: US
forces used to control five miles round the airport
-- too far to permit a man with a hand-held
launcher to hit a plane. Ambushes and attacks on
the Americans have reduced their control to a mere
two miles. On the edge of that radius, a man might
just hit a plane with a missile range of
8,000ft. The Americans say there are two planes flying to
Amman, at 10am and noon. Then another mortar round
explodes in front of the hangars on the far side of
the airport. And another. "This," the Bishop of Basra sermonises to me,
"is the continuation of our 22-year war." I call a
colleague in Baghdad. Airport under mortar fire, I
helpfully report. "Heard nothing about it, Bob,"
comes the reply. "How many mortars did you say?"
But the Special Forces men are enjoying themselves.
An Apache helicopter races over us to strafe the
Iraqi guerrillas. "Some hope," says Chuck. "They've
already pissed off." Technicians in guerrilla
warfare, the Special Forces men are coolly
appreciative of anyone's professionalism, including
that of the enemy. An American engineer pops up. If the TV crew
will buy his guys Cokes, they can visit Burger
King. A crackle of rifle fire from way beyond the
airport perimeter. There must be a movie here, Walt
Disney meets Vietnam. The Airbus belongs, incredibly, to Royal
Jordanian, the only international carrier to risk
the run to Baghdad once a day. At the steps,
there's a squad of Jordanian security men in white
socks -- Jordanian and Syrian plain-clothes cops
always wear white socks -- and they insist, right
there on the runway, in checking over all our gear
again. Computers turned on, computers turned off,
cameras opened, closed, notebooks out, even a sheaf
of readers' letters to be prowled over. The Apache
flies back, rockets still in their pods. Take-off is rather faster than usual. But
there's no steady climb to cruising altitude. The
Airbus turns sharply to port, G-forces pushing us
into our seats, and there outside my window is the
tented prison-camp city where the Americans keep
more than 4,000 of their Iraqi prisoners without
trial. The tents start to spin as the plane twists
to starboard and then to port again, and there is
the same prison camp outside my window, but this
time upside down and turning anti-clockwise. I look
around the cabin and notice fingers dug deep into
arm-rests. The Airbus engines are howling, biting
into the thinner air, and our eyes are searching
for that thin trail of smoke that no one wants to
see. Then the pilot levels out. A Royal Jordanian
stewardess in a bright white blouse arrives at our
seats. Things are getting better in Iraq. "Juice or
red wine, which would you like?" she asks me.
Reader, which did I choose?  
... on this
website
Comments by Stephen Sniegoski: 
The hunt
for weapons of mass destruction yields --
nothing-
Official Is
Prepared To Address Issue Of Iraqi
Deception
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