Parental Advice: Don’t bring your kid to war.

So, you would think that the title of this story would lend itself to some basic common sense. But here in Iraq, where common sense isn’t the lay of the land, I watch with open-mouthed astonishment as events I have witnessed in the past year unfold before my eyes.

One of the Generals that we follow around has an eight year old son. His son sports a little Iraqi uniform, wears the rank of a General, and acts like he runs the division. In short, he is a little shit that mirrors the behavior of his father.

When the General is in a meeting, his son is attended to by the guards standing post at the entrance of the building. The guards patiently tolerate the shin kicks and stomach punches that the pint sized dictator likes to hand out. After all, his father is the division commander and no one wants to end up in jail.

As we follow the General on his combat patrol, his son jumps in the back of an up-armored SUV next to his dad and straps himself in for a day of war. The thought of such bonding brings a tear to my eye. The SUVs armor is thick enough to stop bullets and small IEDs but is not really designed for combat operations. There’s nothing quite like risking the life of you and your son.

They patrol the streets, go to sheik meetings, inspect check points and on occasion, they stop for ice cream. Really…stop laughing. Imagine 30 Iraqi and American Humvees surrounding the Generals SUV while the General and his son by a couple of ice cream cones.

After a day of patrolling in the hot son, Junior follows us into our office and graces us with his presence. Sitting in a case on the conference room table is a chrome-plated AK-47 machine gun. He barks orders at us in Arabic which none of us understand. When we give him the, “what the hell could you possible want from me” look, he walks over to the AK-47 and takes it out of the case. Our lesson begins.

As he makes gestures with this left arm indicating that it was blown off, he grabs the AK-47 with his right hand, lifts his foot and puts it on the charging handle, cocks the weapon and, “Voila!” With your arm blown off, you can now kill the Infidels. Ah, youth.

With the lesson complete, I escort the young war fighter out of the office back to his keepers. The Jinood (Iraqi Soldiers), roll their eyes and a couple of them scurry away. As I leave, the little General sneaks in a sucker punch to my gut and tries to run away. I grab his arm, pull him back, and pick him up over my head.

He freaks. Apparently, heights are his Kryptonite. He calls the names of a couple of the guards. It was almost cartoonish: Something bad happens, no one cares, everyone turns around, puts their hands in their pockets and whistles a tune.

I put him down; he yells something in Arabic and runs inside. The Jinood giggle, say something to me, laugh. I shrug my shoulders and walk away. Is it wrong to feel good about that?

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