“New palm trees in the median.”
“Ayeee. They need water,” Cuebas said, mournfully. “Maybe a gift from Puerto Rican taxpayers.”
“The whole country needs water,” Ortiz said. “Let’s spit on them.”
“Be quiet. Here we go,” Cooke said, as more traffic coalesced.
“Obstacle ahead,” Turnbeck reported.
Someone had pulled a big piece of bent metal out on the street to constrict traffic. It looked like a section of guardrail or materials torn off a metal building. The convoy slowed down. Next to the piece of metal was a civilian dump truck. The truck was packed with thin twisted strands of something in the back bed. Soldiers looked as they passed. Dried vines? Metal wires? Maybe that metal piece had fallen out of the truck. Nobody knew.
The convoy moved stop-and-go through the slowed civilian traffic. No way to get around. Two- and three-story buildings paralleled the roadside. Moose continued his regular scan and swivel with the .50 caliber. He could see the gunners in the three trucks ahead of him scanning.
“Move. Move!”
Cars inched out of the way.
The Wolfhounds cleared and moved on, the Humvees groaning angrily.
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“Go baby, go.”
A large pool of water filled the road ahead. Probably a leak somewhere. “Water flooding the road,” said Turnbeck. Most of the platoon saw it.
“Push through,” Wynn commanded.
“A little shit-water never hurt anybody,” Singleton commented.
They drove through the water, picking up speed. Ahead, up on the left, a field spotted with clumps of dying grass bordered the road. Two goats and maybe a dozen sheep grazed, tended by a small boy.
Moose felt an urge to snarl at the boy, to let the boy know he was not from here, that he was a mean, powerful American who could do as he wished.
They drove fast again on open road. Even with his head exposed out of the turret, Moose could feel the brutal temperature enveloping him in an insidious cloud. A man could easily fall asleep in this heat. As hot as it was, if he closed his eyes he could pretend he was drunk and home in the States. But the image wouldn’t last. He didn’t want to be home anyway—he was happy right here.
7
After getting underway, Wynn, needing assurance, did some self-examination. Most men had the same questions about themselves, he believed. They always did. Once basic survival was secure—not a big issue anymore for the typical American—more complex motivations such as personal desires and ambitions became drivers. Wynn’s own life had led to the Army. But why?
Arlington National Cemetery had made a big impact on him. All his converging inner impulses and interests, the military readings, the talks with his grandfather, all those had moved him in the direction of the military. So he’d joined ROTC the last two years in college.
A weekend trip to DC had been crucial. He and three or four of his fraternity brothers at Temple used to go down to DC once or twice a quarter during their sophomore year. One of his fraternity brothers’ father owned an apartment in Georgetown. The night before they visited Arlington had been one long party. The bars and girls of Georgetown had kept them up much too late. Wynn and Phil Craven had run track back then, and both loved running along the Potomac River. Morning came too soon, but out they went to run, still half-drunk. Seeing the famous cemetery up on the high ground on the Virginia side of the river while running, they decided to visit Arlington later that day.
After a late breakfast, the four of them walked to Arlington from the Lincoln Memorial, across the Arlington Memorial Bridge. On the way they had talked about the usual things young and virile college men talk about when their worries are little and their responsibilities even less. He remembered passing through the cemetery visitor’s gate. Soon the clean rows of white stone markers welcomed them like an audience of honored souls. The boys quieted, each retreating to his thoughts. Wynn felt that he’d suddenly come under intense scrutiny. Each way he turned were hundreds of grave markers. Sleek and silent, uniform and restrained, these markers spoke for thousands and to thousands daily: row after row of thin white stones equally spaced on green lawns and low hills, some shaded by grand trees, some near larger monuments. He was among heroes. He wanted to take that feeling with him the rest of his life. The best response was silent reflection. Silence meant more than words.
Wynn, wondering if his introspection was noticed, glanced around D21. Everyone was quiet; his men, too, were in their own thoughts. After a few bends in the road, he saw a donkey tied to a wall. Wynn looked for the owner. On the other side of the wall a small boy stood behind a makeshift table. The table held three jugs of pink liquid, probably gasoline for sale. Behind him an old man sat on his haunches.
In Arlington, they passed graves with inscriptions like a roll call of America’s conflicts: Vietnam, and Korea, and World War II veterans. The order varied because of the dates of death and interment. Young veterans lay side by side with old. Navy Vets next to Army Vets. Some had spouses interred with them. The great majority of graves had the small standard white markers, their simplicity of line and shape reflecting a call to common purpose and rectitude. The same could be said for most of the inscriptions. Few had flowery rhetoric. Most simply had name and rank, wars served in, and abbreviations of awards received. The majesty of the place spoke for them all.
Wynn knew what the cemetery meant to America. He understood why so many had chosen burial here. Death has been called the loneliest place—but maybe those who have served their country can rest better in the company of those who have likewise served. That way they could never be lonely.
Turnbeck reported civilian cargo trucks parked half a kilometer down the road. It didn’t look odd. Probably the truckers had stopped to eat or something.
“Two of them,” Turnbeck said as the convoy neared.
Wynn eyed the trucks distrustfully. At first he saw no one.
“Drivers out front,” Turnbeck reported.
Wynn noticed a group of three men standing by the lead truck. These trucks, like most in Iraq, came from the European second-hand market. Still emblazoned on their sides were the German names Gasser AG and Nicklaus Bauhaus.
The convoy kept moving at a steady speed, the Humvees growling comfortably. After a while they passed another small canal in which a heavyset woman squatted. She might be relieving herself. Two naked children waited near her.
Wynn and his friends’ visit to Arlington had been before 9/11, of course. No new war deaths yet. So they hadn’t seen gravesites of anyone they knew personally. Getting the general experience of the place had been their intent. Today it would be different. Today he knew eight people buried there, including Ramirez.
Before leaving they had visited, as most do, President Kennedy’s grave. Robert Kennedy, buried next to his brother, had his own memorial. On it was inscribed, “To tame the savageness of man, and make gentle the life of this world.”
If that was the aim of service, Wynn thought it worthy. Since that visit to Arlington, he had begun associating military service with service in the broader, nobler sense. Service in arms was perhaps the most respected service. He wanted that respect, too. He didn’t know if he had been born with that desire or had caught it like an infection. Either way, he knew that was part of why he was here in Iraq. To be part of that experience—to be in that company.
As the Wolfhounds neared the objective, radio traffic intensified. Ahead, Moose saw the IP scheduled to help them. The convoy slowed and two IP trucks fell in behind them. Wynn, using the second frequency on D24’s radio, called the battalion TOC and reported that they were two minutes out from the objective. Then he radioed the platoon, ordering them to report when they had parked in their designated locations and were ready for the teams to dismount.
A few boys, shouting excitedly, ran alongside the Humvees. The kids screamed and jumped. Inside the vehicles—with engines running and head
sets on—the soldiers could not hear the children. Seconds later, their numbers doubled, and at least ten kids now ran dangerously close, all shouting—a chorus melee pleading for something: candy, toys, clothes, or even dreams of conquest.
The unit had been in this area of the city for less than a week. As the convoy made another turn, it approached the main crossroad of Abo Shabi, a primarily Sunni Arab neighborhood on the southwest side of the city on the boundary of the W14 and W15 sectors. Although local Iraqi Police were participating, for security reasons the Americans had not told them the exact location until the night before. Nevertheless, Moose suspected the children had heard from the police that they were coming.
As the platoon positioned, more children assembled, maybe 25 kids now. A couple gave thumbs-up signs. Others shouted, “Mister, mister.” A few teenagers looked more cautious, sullen.
The platoon executed the security plan. D22 had already proceeded to the end of the street, about 50 meters ahead. D24 would stay back at the previous t-intersection with one of the Iraqi police vehicles. D23 would tail D21, maintaining security in the center of the street. While the two pre-designated Wolfhound teams conducted census interviews on opposite sides of the street, Wynn and Cengo, with a two-man security team, walked the street, sometimes joining one census team, sometimes engaging residents who appeared to want longer conversations.
The two census teams focused on completing the questionnaires. Wynn dug deeper when necessary. Cooke was in charge of overall security with the remaining members of the platoon. Two men, Cuebas and Mongrel, took dismount positions on the roof of a specified building. This gave the platoon one higher vantage point from which to overwatch the area. Because of the dismounts necessary for this mission, two trucks were manned by only two people: the driver and gunner.
Kale was one of two security escorts accompanying Wynn. He felt uneasy, even more anxious than usual. Maybe Wynn had picked him for a reason, as a kind of test. Kale didn’t like that. With them were Cruz and Cengo. Wynn had Kale and Cruz wait by the Humvee while he and Cengo went to talk to the IP. The two census teams had already started visiting residences.
After he finished with the police, Wynn started walking down the street, Kale a few steps ahead of him. Kale scanned the street to their front, scrutinizing any objects on the road, and shifting his gaze side to side, from doors to windows to roofs and entries on either side of the street. He moved like a man walking through a forest full of wolves.
Wynn carried an M16 and a 9mm. The pistol was holstered. Kale and Cruz carried M16s. Cengo had no weapon; the rules prohibited it.
Two Iraqi policemen followed about 20 paces behind Wynn’s group. The other IPs remained in their vehicles. Kale could see two civilian cars parked on the right side of the road. Why only two? Shouldn’t there be more in a populated neighborhood? His anxiety started pulsing like a ringing phone. His whole body was already damp from perspiration. As he wiped his forehead, Kale noticed a person sitting in one of the parked cars.
Cengo walked over to get beside Wynn, who walked eastward.
“Check why he’s in the car,” Wynn instructed Cengo, who then walked over to the vehicle. A moment later he came back.
“He waiting on his mother. When she come out from house, he leave, he say.”
Finding no reason to be suspicious, Wynn changed his focus, and walked to the other side of the street.
Kale was relieved. Then, a bit further down this side of the street, next to building corner, he noticed two men standing by the road. Other than the man in the car, they were the only adult civilians on the street so far. Wynn noticed the men too, and walked over. The children who had chased the Wolfhounds now jostled around the Humvees, making a lot of noise. They looked like a gang from a Charles Dickens’ story. When they got too aggressive, either the IP or soldiers chased them away.
Wynn and Cengo talked to the two Iraqi men at the corner. The older Iraqi did the talking. He was stoop-shouldered, of medium height, and had white hair as fine as a rabbit’s pelt and a thin white mustache. Spiderwebs of wrinkles surrounded his eyes. Wynn asked the standard questions. Who were they? Did they live here? Was the area safe? The Iraqis’ answers, not surprisingly, were cordial, if not overly friendly. The older man appeared to welcome the attention.
Wynn made small talk, letting the Iraqis do most of the talking to minimize the intimidating impression of an armored man with a weapon talking to an unarmed civilian. He inquired about conditions in the neighborhood and asked about positive or negative trends. The older Iraqi talked for a minute or two, then asked about jobs, saying unemployment was the biggest problem in the area. Jobs and security were topics frequently mentioned. Because unemployment was high, many families pooled their income. Recent job growth was in the various Iraqi security forces, the new army and police. Iraqis knew these were well-paid jobs and often asked for American assistance in getting employment. A new policeman or soldier made approximately $400 a month, more than twice the average income.
Kneading his hands as if he were making bread, the older man spoke. “Jobs very important. Help many problems, he say. Impossible to live without job, he say,” Cengo translated.
“I know,” said Wynn. “Ask them for suggestions on how we can help.”
“He say his younger brother lost his job and have no job for eight months. He himself too old to work again,” Cengo answered.
“Where did his brother work?” Wynn asked.
Unemployed men were vulnerable to insurgent recruitment. Transporting or storing weapons or explosives, assisting in surveillance of targeted areas, initiating explosive devices—any of these activities could lead to a payoff of hundreds of dollars, a lot of money in Iraq. Murder for hire was another available trade. The payoff for a simple murder was less, reportedly under $100.
The man with rabbit-hair spoke again. As he waited for translation, Wynn looked up and down the neighborhood street. He noticed the extreme dustiness of the neighborhood, as if someone had sprayed the whole area with fire retardant. Cengo explained to him that this man’s brother had worked at a sewer processing station. The sewer company let him go because it could not pay him anymore.
As the group talked, the unemployed brother suddenly walked up, Kale letting him pass when it was clear the other Iraqis knew him. Immediately the brother confirmed he’d lost his job. After Cengo translated this, Wynn repeated politely his recommendation that the man contact the Army or Police, or look for work with Iraqi contractors doing jobs for the Coalition.
Wynn closed his conversation with the three Iraqi men by thanking them for their time and information. He realized they wanted more tangible assistance, but he had nothing more to offer.
Wynn walked around for another 15 minutes, observing the census teams coming in and out of residences, greeting pedestrians, and assessing the surroundings. More adults, having heard the Americans arrive, had come out to the street. Most just stood by their houses and watched, not wanting to get too close or appear too curious.
The radio on Wynn’s vest crackled. “D21, this D24, over,” called Cooke.
“This is 21, over,” Wynn responded.
“All good, 21?” Cooke asked.
Every five minutes or so, Wynn and Cooke exchanged a few words over the radio, confirming everything was OK. Wynn answered affirmatively, as he noticed Pauls’ census teams walking towards the next residence. Based on where they had started, Wynn estimated the team on the north side of the street had by now completed maybe seven or eight residences.
He decided to walk over to Pauls’ team to check how the work was going. Just as he turned to go, he heard the sharp cry of a woman. Then she cried again, louder—a horrible screeching sound, like that of a threatened bird.
He spun toward the noise, which had come from behind him on the same side of the street. He saw her. She and two other women, now about 50 meters away, hustled toward him. The woman shrieked from deep within her black clothing, her st
ressed white face glaring out of her abaya like a lantern in a cavern. She had come out of nowhere.
Was she attempting to speak between cries? Was she hurt? Screamers had been used to hide insurgent actions and reports described female suicide bombers feigning injury. But others, many others, were terrified witnesses and victims of this war. He washed the three women with his gaze like an antiseptic.
The women had captured everyone’s attention, soldiers and civilians. Now many eyes watched them. Wynn hesitated. He didn’t want this scene to divert him from noticing other developing threats. He ignored the women for a moment and did a slow visual sweep of the surroundings. This interruption was an ideal time for insurgents to send a VBIED their way, or—like what had happened yesterday—a sniper taking a shot. He looked back at the women, eyeing them suspiciously. They closed with him fast. He saw no signs of physical injury to any of them.
He checked the soldiers close to him. Distraction haunted everyone; tension was ratcheting up. Kale was blanched with apprehension. Both Kale and Cruz had raised their weapons. Any situation making a soldier distrustful of a crying woman was ugly, but war forced different thinking.
She was supported on either side by other women. They, too, were cloaked in abayas. The wailing woman, her face glistened with tears, radiated the pain and turmoil of the whole country.
“Should I stop them, Sir?” Kale yelled, over the cries.
Then two IP moved between the women and Wynn. This was positive. The police had responded properly; he wanted to remember to commend them later.
Kale also moved between the women and Wynn. His heavily armored body, helmet, and weapon stood like a shield separating his leader from the distraught women. Wynn, suspicious, again tried to ignore the women and scrutinize the surroundings. He saw his vehicles. Saw nobody suspicious on the road or the roofs. Saw a few other civilians watching the scene, but they didn’t seem connected. He checked the men in his view. Nothing yet looked wrong.
Princes of War Page 9