When the IP arrived, Wynn showed them the bodies. Cengo translated. The Iraqis appeared nonplussed. Whatever thoughts they had they kept to themselves. Wynn asked what morgue the bodies would be taken to.
The platoon departed at 1830.
15
Back on the FOB, Wynn briefed Baumann. Baumann was pleased. After discussing the find at the warehouse for 45 minutes, Baumann shook his head. “This is one fucked up country.”
It was now 2110. The heat broke against the coming night, and gradually retreated.
Half of the Wolfhounds sat outside around the trailer area on the folding chairs they took outside. The men had unwound, temporarily shaking off the horrors and exertions of the day. But sleep had to wait—the platoon was scheduled to depart the FOB again at 2330 for a night patrol.
Wynn, after consulting with Cooke, had decided to visit the Bawa Sah neighborhood again tonight, to make another attempt to engage with residents since they’d hadn’t been able to go during the day. He still held out hope that their repeated presence in the area might encourage an Iraqi to come forward with information on the sniper.
Before departing, Wynn wanted to tell Amir about what they found at the warehouse. He called Cengo over.
“Let’s get Sheikh Amir on the phone.”
“Yes, Sir.”
While Cengo dialed the number, Wynn wondered whether the materials the Wolfhounds had brought back from the warehouse would be helpful. Clearly some kind of insurgent cell had used the building for torturing people. Who were they? Criminal groups had set up shop for purposes of kidnapping and bribery. But this horrible torture was definitely different. It had to be an extremist group.
Cengo was now talking on the phone in Arabic. He paused, and looked at Wynn.
“This his brother. They get him,” said Cengo, referring to Amir.
Wynn didn’t know if the beheaded corpses could be identified. The bodies were now at an Iraqi morgue. Many families with missing relatives regularly visited morgues, hoping to resolve mysteries. Sometimes hundreds of people came to look at a single unknown body.
Cengo said, “It’s him,” and handed Wynn the phone.
Wynn took it and said loudly, “Hello Sadi. I want to tell you about what we found at the warehouse. It was ugly. Very bad people there. Cengo will explain.”
“You find prisoners?” Amir asked.
“No.”
Wynn gave the phone back to Cengo and told him to translate. Wynn explained what they found at the warehouse. Amir said little, but asked where the bodies were taken.
“Sheikh Amir will tell his doctor-friend where to look for son,” Cengo explained.
Wynn, remembering that MAJ Alberts had told him that Amir had recommended Manah for the Bawa Saw School project, asked if Amir had heard about the sniper shooting.
Cengo asked the question. Amir replied that he would talk to Manah.
By 0015 the platoon was back in Bawa Sah. Wynn directed one truck to both ends of the street, about 125 meters apart, and kept the other two near the dismounted patrol. He had two of the trucks park. The other two positioned at the opposite ends of the street. Wynn had decided on the split in order to increase places and opportunities for the locals to approach.
SSG Pauls and the others walked the ground. About halfway down the street, Pauls signaled for Kale to climb to the roof of a home. Kale knew Pauls wanted one of the men to be able to see all four of the Humvees and watch the street. “And don’t lose sight of us,” Pauls ordered.
Kale climbed a low wall, and then scaled another to climb up on the roof. Once there, he looked around. He could see all four Humvees. He sat down, momentarily winded from the climb. He got up on a knee, but it was all he could do to keep his nerves from extinguishing his ability to think.
Pauls’ team moved on, 25 meters down the road. For several minutes, Kale watched and listened to his surroundings. Nothing appeared to move, or even be alive. Despite the others being near him, he felt incredibly alone. All the horrible events of the previous days climbed on him like maggots on a dead animal. Seconds slipped by and he felt increasingly disconnected. Darkness obscured everything and he heard nothing. Silence, a deep, dead silence, had enveloped the landscape, as if leaving the restless world to contemplate in isolation the next. It was anything but quiet inside him. Then he heard the muffled singing of night insects. He welcomed the outside noise as confirmation of life. Pressure grew in his stomach. He couldn’t be still. He kept touching his stomach, scratching it as if he had an irrepressible itch. If only he could push a release button to make all these unwanted feelings disappear.
To regain control he tried concentrating on a distracting detail, on the toes of his feet curling inward and downward inside his boots. Then, deciding no one could see him anyway, he plopped down, emotionally exhausted, and leaned against the wall along the edge of the roof. He no longer watched his surroundings. He became a beaten animal and hugged his knees. Fear invaded him, taunting his soul.
All his life he had admired courage above all things. He despised himself because that which he most wanted chose this time to abandon him. It was as if his greatest wish mocked him. No. Not you. You shall not have it; you are not worthy. Courage was like a god to him, and because he worshiped it, its absence now hung as heavy as a tombstone on his heart
Another immensely heavy minute passed. Finally, overwhelmed by an accumulation of personal pressures, Kale cried, the tears burning his face like acid. Why was this happening? Why could he not be what he most wanted?
A reflexive survival instinct smacked him and he kicked both feet out. He seized the hard plastic stock and hand guard of his M4 rifle and gripped it like an escape ladder. He tightened both hands around the weapon, angry and desperate—making hatred of his own self-pity a physical thing he wished to crush. He closed his eyes so hard his cheek muscles swelled. If he wanted to rebound, wanted to prove himself and claim a piece of that true courage that he aspired for, he had to do it now.
Then he heard voices. Kale jumped up on one knee, back in his position, looking over the wall down the street for the other dismounts. In that instant, pulling himself together, he thought he had avoided the abyss, giving himself another chance to claim his right to courage. Ambition pushed fear out of the way, at least for now.
He had another opportunity.
Two hours later, Wynn saw the lights of FOB Apache ahead, the bright glow making it look like an airport back home. It had clearly been another difficult day and he knew his men would be bone tired, aggravated because it would be hard to call the day a success. The Wolfhounds hadn’t made progress in finding the boy’s killer. The last trip back to Bawa Sah had turned up nothing, and Wynn had conflicting emotions about the warehouse. He was proud of his platoon for having taken the place down, but since they had captured no one alive, part of him now questioned whether they’d acted too hastily. Perhaps if they had put the building under surveillance rather than searching it immediately, they could have detained someone. Of course putting a surveillance team quickly in place would have been hard to organize; not enough Coalition assets were available. He had made the decision. CPT Baumann approved it. Here, no decision ever seemed completely right or wrong.
He had not heard back from Amir. Had the sheikh’s friend identified his son?
DAY FIVE
16
Moose woke to a bright blue morning and an electric alarm clock that read 0730. Cooke had told the men they didn’t need to be in the motor pool until 0900. More census work was scheduled, but Cooke, because of the late night, wanted his men to get enough rest.
Moose felt good, strong, vindicated. He had replayed yesterday’s action multiple times overnight and he believed he’d done everything right. It was bizarre: he’d killed a man and was satisfied with it. The violence was right and necessary. Pulling the trigger was merely the climax of an inevitable chain of events. It put him in a special club. He was now somebody who had killed
in combat and people back home would think he was a bad-ass son-of-a-bitch. It felt great.
Similar thrills came during football. When as a linebacker—in the heat of a competitive game back at Mountain View High—he would lunge off the line after the snap, breathing hard, adrenaline pounding, hands reaching out to clinch the ball carrier, and, if he made the tackle, he’d feel exhilarated and totally unconstrained. Then, if another play followed, it would start all over again.
Yesterday’s killing was hardly like that. Killing wasn’t a game. For his opponent yesterday, play was over—forever. Still, he felt damn good.
Before heading to their trailers the night before, Wynn and Cooke had reviewed plans for today. Orders from higher headquarters required continued census work. After that they planned to visit the northwest of their battlespace. A week had passed since the platoon was last there. Generally, they tried to visit each major part of their battlespace weekly. Nobody knew whether this really made a difference, and they had no specific leads prompting a patrol, but counterinsurgency theory stressed the importance of frequent presence.
Although Wynn initially intended to continue investigating homes around Bawa Sah near the school, Cooke had persuaded him to let it rest for a day. So after the morning census work, the Wolfhounds would patrol the northwest, and then follow that with a visit to Sheikh Jassim. CPT Baumann had reminded Wynn about Sheikh Jassim, reportedly an influential figure around Bawa Sah. He might have information on the attack and might know the families of the slain boy, Baumann speculated.
At the school, Wynn wanted to talk more with Schoolmaster Albadi to see what he had heard from the families, and whether he had learned anything new about the shooting. Jassim would sent a representative to meet the Wolfhounds at the school and guide them to his home. At the very least, Wynn hoped Jassim could assist finding the family. Late in the afternoon, Wynn planned to attend a meeting the S2 had scheduled with Mr. Manah, the school contractor, on FOB Apache. They hoped Manah might now be more forthcoming with any information he had about the shooting.
Another day of tight schedules was inevitable. 24 hours in a day weren’t enough.
“We’re moving,” shouted Turnbeck from D22.
The lead vehicle pulled out into the road in front of FOB Apache and immediately drove over a bumpy patch of holes, rattling everything inside the vehicle, the radio handset cables swinging back and forth and, Ulricht, the gunner, seesawing in the turret’s seat.
The time was 0938. Radio chatter started immediately.
“Pedestrians on right.”
Two high school age girls wearing western clothes walked ahead on the side of the road. “I want some of that,” Halliburton snorted, and shuffled his paper wad to the other side of his mouth.
“Let’s ask them if they want to build a Walmart here,” Ulricht responded.
“I’ll take them shopping,” Halliburton said.
Into the city the Wolfhounds plunged, navigating the arteries and veins of this steaming habitat of Mesopotamian humanity like a miniature robotic machine exploring the vascular system of a giant behemoth.
“Lots of vehicles ahead,” reported Turnbeck over the radio.
“Oh, how I love to hear that,” Ortiz said.
“Bullshit,” said Cooke, “the only thing you love is your momma.”
The traffic thickened as the platoon approached the first IP checkpoint. Up ahead they could see the police checking IDs and a line of civilian cars waiting to pass. The platoon slowed and moved to the left around the queue.
“Ayeee, might be a shaaake down,” Cuebas speculated.
“Toll collection,” Ortiz offered facetiously. “Looks like Haji’s going to lose his pocket money.”
The IP at these checkpoints sometimes required small bribes to allow passage.
“Balcony—9 o’clock,’ Turnbeck barked.
Eyes looked that way immediately, hungry and searching, like skeet shooters hunting clay pigeons.
But seconds later Turnbeck came back on the radio and reported what he’d seen was clothing hung out of a window.
“That’s only mommy working,” Ortiz commented.
A few minutes later, Turnbeck reported an Iraqi car stopped in the median about 300 meters ahead with its hood up. The convoy closed rapidly with it. No occupant visible. Then, spotting someone bent over the engine compartment, Turnbeck reported it. “LN next to car on the road.”
As the convoy passed this car, each gunner swiveled his machinegun towards it, then returned to his original position. The face of the man bent over the engine was smeared with grime.
“Ayeee. Fucker probably shit his pants seeing all those guns trained on him,” Ortiz said.
The traffic thickened again on their side of the road. A sputtering green Kia caused a slowdown. “Kimchee car,” said Cuebas.
Ortiz pressed hard on D24’s horn. The traffic jammed sharply, and the convoy nearly stopped.
“Swimming,” commanded Turnbeck again.
The convoy followed D22 over the dirt median, cutting through a gap in partially crushed curb, and drove against traffic.
“Four through,” announced Cooke as D24, the trail truck, crossed over.
The traffic was lighter on this side of the road. The oncoming civilian cars moved hastily to the side to avoid the American convoy. Minutes later, the Wolfhounds switched back to the correct side of the road.
17
As the Wolfhounds neared the designated census area, about two kilometers away a white car pulled up in line at an IA checkpoint. The white car waited behind a red van that waited behind a brown car being checked by an Iraqi soldier. Only one of the Iraqi soldiers at this checkpoint noticed the white car, but paid it no attention. A few others standing by the guard shack chatted eagerly with each other about soccer, a sport Iraqis adored. One kicked a small stone, pretending it was a ball. The others made fun of him.
An Iraqi soldier named Akmed casually checked the driver of the brown car’s identification papers. The driver of the red van waited impatiently, anxious to pass. The driver of the white car did not want to pass. He was nervous, but not impatient. He had no intention of passing the checkpoint.
Just then an Iraqi soldier named Khuder walked out of the guard hut. He wore sunglasses and glared blankly at the waiting traffic, unconcerned about the growing line of cars. Khuder’s mind drifted back and forth between the cars at the checkpoint and whether or not the girl he loved would ever notice him. So far she had not. Khuder, 18 years old, was trying to convince his parents to set up something with the girl’s family. He worried her family would think him too young and unestablished.
Khuder hadn’t noticed the white car. He wasn’t concentrating on the scene in front of him. In 15 minutes he would switch positions with Akmed. He had time to smoke another cigarette and called out to one of the others for a light.
Akmed was still questioning the driver of the brown car. He didn’t like the driver’s tribe, and this animosity had caused the excessive delay. More than ten cars now waited to get through the checkpoint. None of the other Iraqis took special notice. Khuder remained preoccupied with thoughts of his girl. No one had any idea that the driver of the white car had just made his last fateful decision. That driver said a final prayer, then blew himself up—along with his car, which had been prepared as a VBIED.
The terrible explosion sent large and small pieces of metal, plastic, dirt, road asphalt, and human flesh and bone flying in a 360-degree direction. Particles of all these shattered pieces rained down for several seconds, some landing over 200 meters away. The loud crack-boom temporarily deafened and stunned every nearby living thing. The rain of wreckage and debris made the street look as if a gigantic evil vacuum cleaner had backfired, coughing its unrecognizable contents all over the immediate area. Thick brown haze rose slowly up into the sky, expanding and rolling through the gray black smoke spewing from the center.
Amazingly, Khuder survived, hamme
r-slammed more than 20 meters away, sliding headfirst on the road as if he were on ice. A big piece of thin aluminum that had sheared off a car skidded along beside him. The blast blinded him, shattered both his legs, severed his right foot, and stripped off his clothes. Half his body was badly burned.
A smell of heavy smoke and scorched metal instantly infused the air. Everything had been blackened, charred, distorted. Three Iraqi soldiers, Akmed among them, and eight civilians were killed instantly. Many more were wounded. The homicidal driver had succeeded, and he met his maker milliseconds before those he so willingly took with him. The red van was blown to the other side of the checkpoint, looking as if it had been dropped on its end from 50 stories. The explosion smashed other waiting cars, some beyond recognition. One car’s axle was thrown at least 75 meters away, beyond the guard house. All nearby windows shattered. Four streetlights within 50 meters of the blast, hit by pieces of debris, bent over like trees after a hurricane. Yet cars and trucks about 100 meters beyond the blast center only got showered with dirt and trash.
For several minutes the sky remained a gloomy grey-brown from the residual dirt and explosion mist in the air.
It didn’t take long for the first people to walk up cautiously and look around, shocked and in disbelief. Most said nothing, as if the concussion from the explosion had destroyed their powers of speech. Soon people searched frantically for family members. The cries and screams started softly, then rose in intensity, as if the earth itself was shouting recriminations. Several minutes later the pitiful wail of a police siren sounded.
The Wolfhounds, as the closest unit to the explosion, were directed to investigate, despite the fact that the suspected location was, once again, outside their area. They hadn’t even started the census.
Princes of War Page 20