conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide a description for a book titled The Ragged Edge about Simon, amp, Schuster with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Literary.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Simon &amp; Schuster, 1965. First edition, hardcover with dustjacket. Published in England as "A Wrinkle in the Skin." A post-apocalyptic science fiction novel, the story of a natural catastrophe that wipes out 10,000 years of human history overnight...and what happens to a man who searches this shattered world for his lost daughter.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Ragged Edge
  The senior adviser explained that this Corporal Nawaʾal had to be punished because he showed up his sergeant. Other enlisted Iraqis saw him do it. I agreed; punishment was necessary. But more than that, the senior adviser explained that he wanted to demonstrate to the Iraqis what real military discipline looks like. It was fairly clear that they didn't understand our version of it. Two weeks was a very long time for a military officer like the senior adviser to put up with failure among these Iraqi men who reported to him, these men for whom he was responsible, these men whose success or failure reflected upon him in the eyes of his own superiors. The senior adviser had had enough.
  His plan was to put on an NJP—carry out a nonjudicial punishment. Such proceedings are like a snap hearing. They involve direct questioning of the relevant parties, followed by a quick judgment by the officer in charge. They're provided for by article 15 of the US Uniform Code of Military Justice.
  The other party to the NJP, the Iraqi sergeant who had been disobeyed, was dark, of middling height, and wore a uniform that was too taut across his belly. His mustache lay thick and black on his lip. He looked like he was in his forties, which meant he was probably in his thirties. He cut a figure like a small-town cop who's accustomed to scaring the local teenagers.
  The senior adviser's show didn't go as planned. He questioned the corporal, then the sergeant. They each took turns making accusations against the other. All of this was in Arabic, of course. The interpreter tried repeating everything for the Americans in English, but it got harder for him as Corporal Nawaʾal and the sergeant began making hurried counteraccusations while the Egyptian American was still translating the last thing that was said. The two men yelled directly at each other in Arabic.
  The senior adviser looked at one of the Iraqi officers for help as the interpreter conveyed the message in Arabic to the corporal and sergeant. The Iraqi officer shouted an angry command at the corporal and the sergeant that none of the Americans save the interpreter could understand.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide three more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Abdelhodi was right about how long it took. He had not calculated the great weight of the ammunition in the back of the new truck, however. None of us had. The dirt road had been dry the day before. This morning, it was waterlogged. The ground beneath the truck gave way as the heavy ammo went in. The new truck sank in mud to the axle. Abdelhodi organized men to do the filthy work of digging it out. Iraqis of superior rank watched him. But the problem was too much for him.
  Mud-splattered junood rocked the truck. The replacement driver eased his clutch. The engine wailed. Time strode on. My head thudded. A vision leaped into my mind's eye of a jundi on the slick ground diving headfirst under a gargantuan tire before it rolled back again into the trough. The young American first lieutenant who commanded our escort stood with me, and I could feel him thinking something similar. I called Saʾad over. I told him we were getting nowhere, that he should order the soldiers back to their trucks.
  We finally left at 10:30 AM. All told, we didn't have to travel far—about forty-five miles. Our route of march called for us to head south on Freeway 1, roughly parallel with the Tigris. We would enter the western part of Baghdad and switch onto the Abu Ghraib Expressway at a big interchange. From there, we would head due west and pass Abu Ghraib prison about halfway between Baghdad and Fallujah.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Abdelhodi was right about how long it took. He had not calculated the great weight of the ammunition in the back of the new truck, however. None of us had. The dirt road had been dry the day before. This morning, it was waterlogged. The ground beneath the truck gave way as the heavy ammo went in. The new truck sank in mud to the axle. Abdelhodi organized men to do the filthy work of digging it out. Iraqis of superior rank watched him. But the problem was too much for him.
  Mud-splattered junood rocked the truck. The replacement driver eased his clutch. The engine wailed. Time strode on. My head thudded. A vision leaped into my mind's eye of a jundi on the slick ground diving headfirst under a gargantuan tire before it rolled back again into the trough. The young American first lieutenant who commanded our escort stood with me, and I could feel him thinking something similar. I called Saʾad over. I told him we were getting nowhere, that he should order the soldiers back to their trucks.
  We finally left at 10:30 AM. All told, we didn't have to travel far—about forty-five miles. Our route of march called for us to head south on Freeway 1, roughly parallel with the Tigris. We would enter the western part of Baghdad and switch onto the Abu Ghraib Expressway at a big interchange.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: To be sure, some of the Iraqis did want an Iraq that looked more like America. Like Arkan. Even some of the deeply religious ones bought into what we were preaching, like Zayn. Maybe some do still. But it's not possible for a nation of people to adopt a new way of living, embracing it as if they come from within a vacuum. They're bringing their own culture and assumptions with them. Acknowledging that lesson was hard for me. It is hard for a lot of Americans—most will never learn it. And our great, flawed experiment was very hard indeed on regular Iraqis.
  I would like to write here that on that last day of February 2005, I shared a thoughtful, reflective good-bye with Zayn. I did not. I want to say that we commiserated on our tragic, shared journey. We did not. I am ashamed and still confused about why, on that final day, I did not even care very much whether I said good-bye to Zayn at all. I can't explain it. I can make excuses, but I can't explain it. What I can say is that our final moment was more fitting for that world anyway, more in keeping with the impromptu, unpredictable nature of that country and my friendships there.
  He had come at a run. His narrow face was twisted with grief. He sobbed uncontrollably. I pushed up off the seabag on stiff legs, and he came at me with long, quick strides, arms outstretched. He almost knocked me over. Zayn gave me three kisses, alternating on each cheek in the Arab tradition. His tears were hot on my neck as he sobbed into my shoulder.
  And then, as if he could not bear being close anymore, he pushed away. He faced me for a moment: the man who more than anyone was the human face of everything I hoped for from my mission in Iraq. Then he turned and ran back around the corner to the waiting convoy. He never looked back. Those were the last words anyone from Fifth Battalion spoke to me.
  I put my head into my hands and closed my eyes. For the first time in more than a year, I felt alone. Truly alone. I would feel that way for a long time.