Former Iraqi soldier describes the day the Americans came

2007-04-05 14:13:17 PDT BAGHDAD -- On April 5, 2003, American forces fighting their way up to Baghdad arrived at the city of Aziziyah in southern Iraq, home of Nizar Latif, then a 22-year-old member of one of Saddam Hussein's militias. Now a correspondent for the Chronicle Foreign Service, he writes about the events of that day four years ago.

The war had been coming for a long time. We could hear its approach from afar, like a distant tidal wave heading inevitably in our direction. We had been listening to the radio; heard the Americans and the British crossing in from Kuwait, landing in the port of Umm Qasr, fighting their way north. One day they were 100 miles away, then 40.

It was at 2 a.m on April 5 that the wave finally broke on top of us, American planes attacking the Iraqi armored units and troops that were dug in on the outskirts of town. Everything evaporated under the bombs. The steel of tanks and artillery pieces disintegrated, the people atomized. I watched in mute amazement as a tank was hit by a missile; nothing was left behind, not a scrap.

The air strikes continued for hours. I worried about my family but more than that, I was scared for myself, I wanted the ground to swallow me up, to take me from that place. The bombardment finally stopped at 7 a.m., leaving us stunned and disoriented. I walked around, surveying the damage. I smelled the burned corpses before I saw them, less numerous that I had expected. I don't know how many people had died that morning. No one does.

I was 22 years old and, together with many of my friends, had been forced into service as a member of the so-called Jerusalem Army, a badly organized, poorly equipped and trained militia. We were the second line of defense for Aziziyah.

First was the regular army, positioned in front of us. To our rear were Saddam's fanatical, murderous Fedayeen, a unit that had been shipped in from Ramadi. More than fighting the Americans, they were there to impose discipline on the rest of us. We had no intention of defending Saddam - the man who destroyed our country, who slaughtered our people -- and he knew it. The Fadayeen were there to stop us deserting. If we tried to run, they had made it clear they would shoot us. Between a rock and a hard place, we expected to be killed either by the Americans in front the Saddamists behind. So we did the only thing possible -- we stayed and we tried not to die.

At 11 a.m., U.S. ground forces attacked. Under cover of helicopters, they advanced at great speed. Some Iraqis tried to defend our lines, using rocket-propelled grenades against the oncoming armored vehicles. A few were hit and destroyed.

An American helicopter came in low as I watched the machine-gunner firing out of the door at a group of fleeing Iraqi soldiers; they had dropped their rifles, stripped off their uniforms and were in their underwear. All of them were cut down by the bullets.

At that point the Fedayeen -- supposedly willing martyrs in Sadddam's cause -- began to abandon their posts. It was chaos, everyone suddenly trying to get away. I also ran. I tore off my uniform and threw away my weapon. In my underwear, I slipped away from what had been my fighting position.

Down the road I found an empty house and hid inside for a few hours. I ate some food and found some clothes. They didn't fit but I wore them anyway.

Once again, the sound of helicopters and shooting. From the window I watched an Iraqi standing in the open, firing a machine gun up into the air. Three helicopters circled overhead, pouring tracers down at him. For seemingly a long time he didn't fall, but then he was gone and the helicopters left. In the silence I started to walk home. To my relief

I found my family -- they had all survived.

At 4 p.m., the first U.S. troops arrived in the centre of Aziziyah, saying hello. They were all very nice and I remember that we were surprised. They gave sweets to the children. We hadn't expected that, hadn't expected politeness. Some of the townspeople waved at the troops and one of the soldiers asked if anyone spoke English. I did and was pushed forward. He politely asked me if I knew where any Iraqi soldiers were hiding. I had no idea and told him so. Then he asked about the Fedayeen and I told him they were from Ramadi and had run away. He thanked me and went off.

An hour later, the Americans found the town police station and broke open the locks. Iraqis followed them in and began looting, taking anything that wasn't bolted down. The Americans waved the mob through, laughing at the spectacle.

As night fell, a deep blackness engulfed the city and consumed our hearts. Terrible things happened in Aziziyah, things that still make me feel sick and ashamed today. Under the cover of dark, normal people hunted down the Baathists. These men had ruled by fear, they had condemned brothers and sons to death, they had made our lives an exitless hell. We all hated them. That night, they were murdered. All of those who could be found were shot or stabbed. At least 35 corpses were added to the country's growing pile of dead.

I saw one man, screaming with grief, take a knife and plunge it again and again into a Baathist officer's chest. He had lost a brother to Saddam's regime, and shouted: "You murdered my brother and tore my heart apart. This is how it feels, this is how it feels." He kept slashing at the body long after the life in it must have departed.

That was four years ago. We thought we had been liberated. Americans could walk through our city in total peace, without weapons, without fear or fighting. Now, all that has changed. U.S. soldiers are not welcome here and they do not come. Liberation is not a word anyone uses. It is not a word we understand.