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Bobby Calvan's web page is back on line. I hope he continues to update frequently. Honestly I think it will be a worthwhile read.
But Bobby Calvan wasn't the first reporter to try and "throw his weight around" in Iraq, and probably won't be the last. So I offer some post-Calvan advice for reporters in Iraq.
Once upon a time, on my last visit to Iraq, an unauthorized vehicle accessed and attempted to cross the airfield that is the center of a very large military installation here. This caused some degree of concern among folks whose job it is to kill people who do things like that. However, instead of killing them from a nice safe distance, they elected to intercept this non-descript vehicle and force it to stop.
I suppose I should explain the key word "airfield" in the above paragraph. This doesn't mean a "field full of air" that Republicans have designated for their own private use, it's actually a "field" where airplanes land and takeoff. It may not seem fair, but we generally don't let cars share this pavement even though it's quicker to drive straight across than to go around and this hurts women and children the most.
Anyhow, there were two passengers within, who claimed to be in the employ of a very famous television news organization which I will not identify beyond saying it's named after a small furry animal. One (henceforth "the talent") was, in addition to being exceptionally qualified, a fabulous babe - what we used to call a "Fox". But I honestly can not recall her name. (If anyone can tell me the identity of a fabulous babe reporter for a news network named after a small furry animal who was in Iraq during the late fall/early winter 2004-2005 that would prob'ly be her.) She sat quietly and behaved herself during the ensuing adventure. (I mention the fabulous babe part because although I can't confirm it I suspect that her sitting there quietly being a fabulous babe might have saved her companion from eating sand. Life is funny like that.)
The other (henceforth "shotgun" though he was actually driving and unarmed) who worked for the same organization as the fox talent chose to play the role of designated jerk (that might even be his job - or perhaps he thought this would help him score with the talent) in this story. He informed the ignorant, uneducated but uppity sunsabeyatches who had the audacity to halt his progress that by God they had a deadline to be on the other side of the compound for A VERY IMPORTANT EVENT FILLED WITH VERY IMPORTANT PEOPLE and that driving around the airfield rather than straight across it would make them late and by the way do you have any idea who I am and who I know because the answers are "somebody" and "everybody" and now get the hell out of my way.
It would be fun to say he woke up a few seconds later face down in the sands of ancient Mesopotamia, but that didn't happen. He was allowed to strut and mutter and explain to some of the lowest ranking enlisted GIs in Iraq how he was going to make their lives miserable as they verified via radio contact whether he should be shot or arrested. For some reason, the process took an extraordinary long time to complete. But ultimately they were identified as relatively harmless twits, then they were politely escorted off the flightline and pointed in the right direction for the long trip around the perimeter.
Anyhow, moral of the story: Do not attempt to convince a low ranking GI in Iraq that you have life or death power over him. In addition to the fact that the reverse is true, there are at least two other reasons to avoid this approach:
1. Somewhere behind him is a guy with one more stripe than he has who actually has that power, and that guy loves nothing more than clobbering people who eff with his troop. This is true up the chain of command. He knows this. He is laughing at you.
2. Even if there was some weak link in that chain where your influence is that great, the low ranking guy is in Iraq. In fact, there's a saying here: "What are they gonna do? Send me to Iraq?"
Still, I suspect that as they drove away, dipstick was probably bragging to the talent (and making a mental draft of a letter to the suits) about how he had delivered them from the morons.
And by the way, don't even think about threatening me to get me to reveal the name of the news network involved in my story. It ain't gonna happen.
Next: Change in the Weather