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Beyond Words
Something was wrong. It was a blistering June morning in 2005 when Marine Maj. Christopher Phelps led his team into the center of Saqlawiyah, a small Iraqi city ten miles from Fallujah. The place normally teemed with vendors hawking cucumbers, tomatoes and a hodgepodge of goods, but in front of the soldiers now stretched a chaotic pile of dusty rubble and thatched roofs. Fellow Marines, who thought the market a perfect place for insurgents to hide homemade bombs, had demolished it overnight at the request of the Saqlawiyah city council. Phelps noticed groups of Iraqis quietly glaring at them. He didn't like the feel of it. Neither did his Iraqi interpreter, Mustafa Subhy Abdualla. Sixty-five U.S. soldiers had been killed by insurgents the previous month in Iraq, and the marketplace was located in eastern Al Anbar Province, one of the most murderous sections of the Sunni Triangle. Phelps and Abdualla looked at each other. "Let's get out of here!" shouted Abdualla as Phelps simultaneously ordered his team to take cover in the nearby police station."Was a bomb hidden there that morning?" asked Phelps afterward. "I don't know. The point is that Mustafa and I were totally in sync. That was true in every situation, every time we worked together."
As they had come to depend on each other for their lives and the lives of their team members, the major and his interpreter had developed a communication that went beyond words. Says Abdualla, "I read his mind, he read mine."
Their friendship would change their lives in ways they never guessed. They had first met four months earlier. Phelps had participated in the 2003 invasion of Iraq and was now on his second tour of duty. Upon arriving at Camp Fallujah, he headed for the "Terp Hootch" -- translators' bunkhouse -- to meet his interpreter, who'd be crucial to the success of this mission. Phelps would be leading a civil affairs team involved in the daunting task of rebuilding the country.
On the surface, the two had little in common. Tall and gregarious, Phelps, 34, grew up in a large, outgoing family in rural Kansas and, with wife Lisa, had four young sons, ages three to eight. Abdualla, single and soft-spoken, was a 30-year-old chemical engineer, raised by his widowed mother and two older sisters in an elegant home in urban Baghdad.
That first night as the sun set over nearby Baharia Lake, a favorite vacation spot of Saddam Hussein's murderous sons, Phelps asked Abdualla one probing question: Why did he want the job? Translating for U.S. and Coalition forces involved extremely hazardous duty. Branded traitors by the insurgents, most interpreters adopted fictional names; some even wore ski masks.
Abdualla answered, "You guys came and provided an opportunity for my country. I want to give something back."
Phelps liked what he heard. "He was talking about loyalty and sacrifice and sounded like Marines I hang out with." As Phelps turned to go, he casually asked Abdualla what music he listened to. "George Strait," he replied.
Phelps blinked. "You mean the country-western singer, King George?" Abdualla smiled. "Oh man, we're gonna get along great."
For eight months, Phelps's six-member team worked to earn the trust of the citizens of Saqlawiyah and Fallujah. They spent long days talking with locals about building water treatment plants, power grids, schools and medical clinics, and explaining how to set up city councils that would represent the people's interests.
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