The group discussed a reoccurrence of radio fill problems. Across the battalion over the last couple of weeks, several units had lost secure radio contact because of a technical malfunction with the encryption loaded into their radios. Fortunately this hadn’t happened to Wynn’s platoon. But 1st platoon had been affected for one day. Then Vallison reviewed new facts on the sniper killing of PFC Dwayne Holden four days ago. When shot, Holden had been standing in his Humvee’s turret during a routine stop at a checkpoint, and was not dismounted as originally reported. The bullet had entered the base of his neck and clipped his spine. He’d died instantly. When standing in a Humvee turret, the upper body of the average man would extend above the armored cupola. Standard operating procedures required that turret gunners remain seated when possible. When standing up, they exposed their upper bodies. But this posed a classic dilemma for leaders. If a turret gunner was seated, he couldn’t adequately see his surroundings, moving or stationary. If a gunner could not see properly, he couldn’t contribute quickly and effectively to the fight. Self-protection could not be the sole consideration in a combat zone. Easy answers were nonexistent.
Baumann spoke up, exasperation in his voice. “Do it like this. Have your gunners sit down at halts. Direct them to get up when necessary, like when moving through a busy urban area, so they can see. But, if you’re stopped, have them sit down. Damn. This is fucking serious. From what I understand, four soldiers have been killed by snipers in similar circumstances across the theater over the last three months. We’ve got to do better taking care of our gunners.”
“Roger, Sir,” Vallison responded, “I wanted to add that there’s discussion going about a new turret kit coming that would offer higher and thicker armor, and overhead protection and camouflage for the gunner’s position. The idea being if they can’t see the guy clearly, they can’t aim at him.”
“Speaking of snipers,” Baumann continued, turning to look at Wynn, “we got interesting information out of those documents you guys seized in that torture warehouse, Christian. The Intel boys translated stuff saying the bad guys have a female sniper working in the area. A Chechen female to top it off. Can you believe it?”
The lieutenants winced simultaneously, surprised. A chill of disbelief circulated inside the room. Could that be true? A female sniper? From Chechnya?
Baumann paused, waiting for a reaction from Wynn. Wynn was mute.
“This may be what we’re dealing with,” the commander said. Everyone in the room realized Baumann was also considering the dead Iraqi schoolboy.
“Seriously?” D’Augostino hung the question out there as if he hoped somebody would say it wasn’t so.
“They say the warehouse documents confirmed it—ah, that she’s here. Documents said they waited on her arrival here, and confirmed it. Also the Chechen connection,” Baumann explained. “Reports for months have said that Chechnya opened a pipeline of jihad fighters to Iraq. Also, other documents seem to confirm that this warehouse gang is part of Purifiers for Allah, the group we call PFA. This information would be the first confirmation that PFA has a constant presence in our area.”
Wynn remembered Petty bringing up PFA. Now his mind buzzed with speculation, rewinding through the events at the school. Was this group behind the school shooting? Was it plausible that a female was killing kids? Chechnya was a long ways away. Yeah, they had problems with Muslim extremists too. But a female?
“Fucking A!” exploded Vallison, “this is unbelievable.” He said what everybody else was thinking and mumbled more expletives under his breath.
“I was going to bring it up in a few minutes anyway,” Baumann continued, “when reviewing pending operations with you guys. But with Vallison discussing the Holden shooting, I decided to tell you now.”
“Do we think it was this bitch that shot Holden?” D’Augostino blurted.
“We don’t know. Perhaps.”
Holden’s killer had not been captured or killed, to the best of their knowledge.
“Multiple groups have claimed responsibility, but we have no reports confirming anything. As far as I know, no one has claimed credit for the Iraqi boy so far,” Baumann added.
In addition to official channels, the headquarters monitored open net sources, including extremist web sites. Often groups like Al Qaeda took credit for attacks. Sometimes more than one group took credit for the same attack.
“Could it have been the same shooter? It was certainly possible.”
“We get the war with the multiple enemies,” Wynn said, the first comment he’d made since Baumann broke the news.
“Yes, congratulations.”
“What the fuck does Chechnya have to do with Iraq anyway?” Smith entered the conversation abruptly, as if emerging from a trance.
No one spoke for several seconds, the silence like a wave of cold water. Minds searched.
Wynn, like the others, tried to get his mind around the incredible strangeness of the story. Her story. He would have liked to read these documents himself. He would ask Petty about it later tonight if he could; if he was still awake.
Baumann said, “Bottomline—she’s a sniper. From Chechnya. A sniper working with the insurgents. And, according to those documents, a well-regarded one at that. Part of the whole international jihad team, I suppose. It’s become almost an international business. The protective measures we need don’t change.”
“She’s come a long way looking for work,” D’Augostino offered.
“Coming to where the business is,” Wynn cracked.
Baumann added, “More will come to the surface about her. I’m sure battalion and brigade will be digging for info. It will be interesting to see how the Arab culture takes it. In this part of the world she must cut a highly unusual figure. Put it out to your people. Take care of your gunners.”
Then the commander changed subject. “Need you guys to really emphasize your census work. We need better progress. Battalion is pressuring to get the population map finished, and our company is behind. Brigade’s on our ass. Like I’ve said before, they’re anxious to splice together all the family and tribal names, thinking that with that they can more readily determine who to engage with, depending on the need.” Or who not to engage with, Wynn thought.
“Let’s do our best.”
Baumann opened the floor for questions and comments. Smith reviewed the upcoming Pit Bulls’ trip to the Iraqi hospital with an American medical team from Baghdad, scheduled for next week. D’Augustino asked about an upcoming prison release. Wynn remained quiet.
By the time the meeting ended, Wynn felt as if his brain was slowly dissolving. Maybe back outside he could think more clearly. His thoughts went back to the dead boy. This news about a female sniper had further complicated things.
When he came out of the meeting, Wynn noticed a missed call on his Iraqi phone. Walking back to the platoon area he checked the time, 2205, and called the number. After several rings, Jassim answered. Understanding him was difficult. His English sounded slurry, as if he’d been drinking. Perhaps he had. It was a myth that Muslims didn’t drink.
Jassim claimed he’d located the dead boy’s parents, and he promised he could make it possible for the Wolfhounds to see them tomorrow. The boy’s family lived near the school, he said, and they would return home tomorrow at Jassim’s request. Wynn asked where he could visit the parents. Jassim said he could have someone guide the platoon to the parents’ home, and he would participate in the meeting himself. This would make the family more comfortable.
While Jassim talked, Wynn pondered concerns. Apprehension scratched at him like a rat behind a thin wall. He remembered the trip with the Civil Affairs team and Ramirez’ death. Other Americans had died. Could he trust Jassim? He hardly knew the man, and what he did know about him was shady. Could he again risk the lives of his men following leads like this? It could be another ambush. Yet he’d asked Jassim for help. Now he offered help. And yesterday’s visit to Jassim’s had
been uneventful. Risks were unavoidable, especially in the perilous atmosphere of Iraq. But the rat kept scratching.
Since Jassim offered to participate in the visit, he appeared interested in staying involved. That was a positive. Wynn made his decision. They would go.
Wynn thanked Jassim, and asked him to again have someone meet the platoon at the school at 1030 tomorrow.
“OK. This very good. But I need something from my brother,” Jassim replied, an imploring tone to his voice, like a street vendor haggling with a prospective customer.
Wynn wasn’t surprised. This man would do business in hell.
“What?” Wynn said, after a pause.
“Please you not interfere with our benzene sales.” Benzene was the word Iraqis used for gasoline.
“What do you mean?” Wynn asked, genuinely unsure what Jassim was asking.
Jassim reminded Wynn that in some areas the Americans were suppressing the roadside gasoline stands. Both men knew official policy protected the established government gas stations and prohibited setting up new privately owned stations. Wynn didn’t care about these roadside stands. This was one of those dilemmas where the Coalition was stuck between supporting existing Iraqi Government Policy and supporting the development of private gas sales. So much for free enterprise. Of course Jassim must have an angle to protect, otherwise he wouldn’t bring this up. Officially, all petroleum products and infrastructure in Iraq were state-owned.
“Not my decision,” Wynn finally answered. Jassim must realize that an American lieutenant would not make policy on benzene.
“But you have platoon and you must decide how to use them, Lieutenant Wynn,” Jassim added.
The Iraqi wasn’t wrong. He knew what he was talking about and Wynn knew what he meant. Just because something was official policy didn’t mean that he had to rigorously enforce it in his platoon’s area. He smiled. Nothing came free in this world.
Momentarily he considered asking Jassim to help the Wolfhounds find the female sniper. But something whispered against it, and he didn’t want to muddy the waters with a specific request like that before the relationship with Jassim had leavened further. He thought about Sheikh Amir for a few seconds, and whether he’d been able to conclusively determine anything with his friend and the torture warehouse. Wynn answered Jassim.
“Perhaps, Sadi. I don’t worry about benzene.”
Jassim acted satisfied with that answer. Wynn hadn’t firmly committed, and hadn’t said he would. He left it gray. Gray was good enough in Iraq.
20
Wynn headed for the motor pool, where he’d planned to brief the platoon at 2200. It was 2220 now. Baumann’s meeting had taken slightly longer than expected, and the call from Jassim had delayed him further. This late in the evening the heat was a light caress. The night sky was clear, luminous in half-light, filled with thousands of stars dominating the night.
He had interesting news for the platoon. It was amazing how these Islamic terrorist organizations stuck together, complex and far-reaching, like a human spider web strung between shadowy branches. He was certain all the Wolfhounds would be astounded when he broke this news of the female sniper. He knew that the men felt, as he often did, like the whole mission here was constantly assaulted by hundreds of unbelievable things, as if they were participants in a theatre of the absurd. Nothing was simple or straightforward.
Wynn passed through the gap in the concrete T-wall barrier. He looked, once again, at the elaborate graffiti that soldiers had painted on the wall. He couldn’t see the images clearly now because of low light, but knew them by heart. One wannabe artist had celebrated Midwestern pride, nicely sketching the Chicago skyline, illustrating the city of broad shoulders, the great lakes, and the bountiful farm fields far into the horizon. Above the scene was emblazoned: “This is worth fighting for.” Another graffiti artist had transformed the opening in the T-wall into a painting of a skyscraper. Eight painted American flags hung out of the windows. Whoever painted these had taken a lot of pride in the grand old flag.
The platoon had much to talk about. He tried putting it all together neatly in his mind, but it didn’t work that way. Their work left minimal time for detailed reflection. Much of the thinking Wynn did, he did on the go. He never did only one thing. The Army called it multi-tasking. If he took too much time thinking over past things, he’d get the sense he neglected something emergent, or wasted time, and it left him feeling unprepared.
Undoubtedly, the recent days had been particularly difficult. No way around that. The best thing so far—probably the most important thing—was that none of his men had been hurt. The reaper stalked. Ramirez’s death still felt like yesterday and each man knew other soldiers who had died or been badly wounded. He owed it to his men that they hear from him in a little more formal setting, something unhurried and serious, where communication of the essentials was the core message: the mission and their protection of each other, as opposed to the usual businesslike discussions and orders. Where to start this time? The car bomb today. The sniper threat. The warehouse. The dead Iraqi boy. The census.
He had to do what he could to keep the men confident about themselves and their mission. That was basic leadership. He remembered classes back at the Tank School Officer Basic at Fort Knox. One instructor had called it Buffer and Boost. The two Bs. Buffer his men, as in protect them from unnecessary stresses, things he could deflect, like shielding them from the higher headquarters pressures. Boost was all about building morale and personal pride, keeping his soldiers positive about their jobs and mission. In theory, a well-led man with sturdy pride could stay resilient in all kinds of circumstances.
Cooke had already assembled the men in the usual semi-circle, with the T-wall behind them. Most sat or knelt on the ground. Several sat with their backs to the T-wall, hats cocked at weird angles. Although it was dark, in the night light Wynn still caught the range of looks in many of their faces as he walked up. He noted the weariness, but also the defiance and stubbornness. Cooke signaled for the men to get up on their feet as Wynn approached, the traditional respect due an officer. But Wynn raised his hand, indicating they should stay seated. He was long past being concerned about such courtesies. He stared at his men like a coach admiring a winning team.
All of his men wrestled in their own way with difficult circumstances. Moose had that deceitful passivity, like a watchful bobcat resting on the branch of a tree. Turnbeck, edgy and distracted, but still alert and ready to execute any order without complaint. Kale, stamped with a worried longing look, unsure of himself, like a dog begging for petting. Wynn made a mental note to ask Cooke for an update on Kale. Cuebas stood against the wall, nearly invisible, surly, rustling with something in his hand. A cigarette? He didn’t remember whether Cuebas smoked.
“Steak and Lobster for chow tonight?” Wynn started with a light question, trying to break the ice.
Soft chuckles all around. The men would have eaten already. Wynn had not had time.
Cooke commented, “Sims here tells me he means to have the big Filipino gal behind the messhall counter. The one with the dimple on her cheek and thunder thighs.”
“Naw,” hollered Sims.
More laughter tumbled around the group. There was no shortage of food or of thoughts about women.
“Saw something the other day,” Wynn said, “saying that it’s shocking how many guys go home from deployments having gained weight. We’re eating too well!”
Chuckles translated as it “ain’t gonna happen to me” rumbled between the men.
Again Cooke followed, “Sir, that’s true. But some of these jokers are gaining muscle. Getting much too much time in the gym.”
A low boo of dispute came from a few in the crowd. Cooke wasn’t serious. Not about the too much time, anyway.
Wynn, never one to consume time unnecessarily, moved to the more serious matters. Afterwards, he asked himself whether he’d dropped the small talk too abruptly. It was not that
he didn’t know it was important in human relations to personalize things, to try to convey empathy, but at the same time he couldn’t quite bring himself to let his guard down. He’d always had trouble with that. That cloudy distance between natural self-protection and building firm connections to others wasn’t easy to navigate. Many stayed lost in the gap.
Moose watched Wynn talk. The lieutenant stood erect, straight-backed, right thumb in right pocket, left hand on left hip, one foot slightly ahead the other. Moose thought Wynn stood somewhat stiffly, like a referee after a questionable call at a ball game. Nevertheless, Wynn could talk in a way that made himself heard. The men admired that. The young officer was not afraid to speak his mind, or to act. Moose respected that. Wynn had demonstrated that many times in the last few months. The action part was the more important. Talk meant nothing in the end. There was another interesting thing about Wynn. He had a way of conveying much with little, and a steadiness when steadiness was the main thing needed.
Why is it we are who we are? Moose asked. He weighed maybe 50 percent more than Wynn, and could probably bench press twice as much. Yet it was the young officer who stood before them right now who could and would say what he wanted. Somehow, officers were different. That Moose knew. Not better or worse, but different. Moose, especially after this week, felt he could fight with the best of them. He’d earned his right. Nobody could take that from him. If they could measure guts, his would be as tough as anyone’s. Yesterday he’d shot and killed that man without flinching. But Wynn had something extra too. Whether it was talent or good fortune, Moose wasn’t sure. The heavy responsibility of leadership, more than anything else perhaps, set Wynn apart.
Princes of War Page 23