Mental I have prepared myself for my vacation with my daughter in London as I get Copenhagen to book our journey. Silo Brackets Offices under reference 4588 was no longer an active case number, and it has already lived my head while I get living-unit in Diwaniya loaded on trucks and skipped away.
It was 1 or 2 a.m. in the night.I was woken by one of the Pakistanis truck drivers who told me, that he had passed Kurts Pickup on the roadside approximated 200 km from Diwaniya. He had been involved in a car accident and had been arrested. From the spot, they already have an Indian clerk on its way to Baghdad, but the clerk had judged me from my position in Diwaniya to be the fastest to reach Kurt.
NO!NO!NO! We have come so far and avoided it. And now on doorsteps out of the country, I became involved.Silo Brackets Officers under reference 4588 was still active. Kurt was my responsibility as his driving was in connection with his effort to dismantle the camp in Mosul.
I hesitate out into the Iraqi night on a 200 km will drive to a small village in the rural area. >>What did he do there outside the main roads in the first place? Was he hurt? Has he signed any paper? Could he stand for press from the police to do so<<?; all those questions run through me.
I still have my old Iraqi map, and it does not tell you much. How I found that village, I can not explain today, but I managed to arrive and find a small square building whereupon it stood Police Station. It was not a stone building, but the wall was of clay at it looks precisely as those prisoners present in a spaghetti Weston by Clint Eastwood.
I was nervous. I was afraid of the Iraqi police, particularly in the night and alone without a witness to support me.
I knocked on the door, and it was the police chief himself who answered. I stepped straight into a Clint Eastwood movie. Alon two of the four wall there was several rooms with iron bares from roof to floor; all with a shit hole in the corner and all complete open facing the room. Noting to sit- or lay down at.
Kurt jump to his feet as he saw me, but I knew that I should be very careful, so I salute while I kip focus on the police chief and present myself.
He invited on tea of course, at his disk in the middle of the room while I try to get his permission to step over to Kurt.
I get at least, and Kurt told me that he has obeyed the pressured to sign anything.How severe the charges were against him I never find out, but now it was my turn to come under presser. First friendly, just sign here, and you can take him with you. Then aggressive, as I told him, that it was not allowed by me, and our branch manager was on his way. When we after an hour or so stop talking and drinking tea, it becomes unpleasant.
At least the door has been open again, and this time there was no knocking first. My branch manager had taken "the big gun" with him; the Iraqi layer from Sadam Hussein's Baad Party. It had a tremendous effect on his fellow citizens when they realised who he was. The Police Chief jumped to his feet and crawled for him, and the key to Kurt was hurried up and his sell un-look.
I have any interest to stay, and nobody wants me to stay, so I leave them there. Now it was my branch managers responsibility, but at least was Kurt not hurt.
5th March 1983:
I have just past the check-in in Baghdad airport and boarded my plane home and sitting there and waiting to take off, as I notice one line behind me in the opposite of the flight, the Danish ambassador and a young man in a lousy suit.
It was the land surveyor who disappeared in Erbil around 14th November 1982. His realised was only a few hours old. Four months of intensive pressured have marked him visible. I never find out the price his company must pay to PKK for his realised.