Princes of War

DAY ONE-5

His platoon was expected to be as self-sufficient as possible. If other American forces came into the Wolfhounds’ area, it meant those assets weren’t available elsewhere. If he operated independently and kept the violence down, his superiors were happy. He frequently felt like a town mayor. That was fine; he didn’t complain. The independence and responsibility fired his pride. Nevertheless, the burden weighed heavily. A wag commentator had called the whole American-Iraqi enterprise “playing three-dimensional chess in the dark.”

The convoy passed an Iraqi government building. An elderly man sat on the entrance steps reading a newspaper. Wynn wondered whether anyone was working inside. Army leaders spoke like the Iraqi government was operational, but that was overstated. What local government did exist was fractious. Traditional sources of authority, like the tribes, were more important than they had been under Saddam. New fiefdoms—like criminal networks of smuggling and extortion—were active. The remaining government offices were corrupt, inactive, or worse. In Bejanas, the Coalition had attempted to set up a governing council with representatives from various Iraqi ethnic groups, more or less a mirror of what was being tried at the national level. But the council operated fitfully, lacked resources, competence, and real authority.

Wynn noticed a green crescent painted on a building, symbolizing a medical facility, similar to the Red Cross. Medical care in Iraq was very poor. Professionals throughout Iraq, including doctors, were leaving the country. Too many had been murdered, kidnapped, or threatened. One hospital on the eastern side of Bejanas was now closed due to damage and looting. Both remaining hospitals were several kilometers east of the Wolfhounds’ battlespace.

The remaining Iraqi police, whom the Americans called the IP, were largely ineffective. Many were untrained, crooked, unreliable, or all of the above. Many areas had no police coverage. The Iraqi Army, or IA, was in the early stages of rebuilding.

To his left, he noticed several green flags flying on rooftops, the flags increasingly displayed by Shia as a symbol of religious pride. Or maybe ascendency? Wynn knew his battlespace contained a cauldron of antagonistic neighborhoods: Sunni Arab, Shiite Arab, Kurds, and Christians. Some neighborhoods were clearly delineated, the locals aware of the important boundaries. In other areas, the ethnic mix was unknown and evolving. Kurds and Shiite Arabs were on the rise. The Sunni declining, retrenching; many openly admitted missing Saddam. The Americans were conducting a door-to-door census, designed by the battalion with each company responsible for their areas. Wynn’s platoon had their piece of this census and would be back at it tomorrow, visiting Iraqi households to get basic personal information from the residents. American units were assigned extra interpreters, when they were available, to assist with this work. Another objective was increasing the informant network.

The convoy drove past another small mosque. His platoon’s battlespace included three large mosques and dozens of smaller ones. Behind this mosque was an old soccer field. The stadium’s bleachers were stolen sometime after the invasion. Only the unkempt field remained.

The Wolfhounds passed a parked fuel truck. The truck had probably driven into the city from one of the refineries. Along the northern edge of the Bajanas ran pipelines from the Iraqi Oil Company and most of the pipelines lay above ground, unprotected. Terrorist pipeline bombings were on the increase, causing huge problems.

Ahead Wynn saw one of the few road signs with English translations next to a school. A group of children were lined up, probably waiting to be released to go home. Several kids carried American-style backpacks. The Iraqi public school system remained in operation in about half the Wolfhound area, but many of the schools were in poor condition. Most had no electricity. Teachers complained about not being paid. Open schools split age groups into morning and afternoon sessions, and the average school kid in the area got two hours of schooling each day.

This was all his, Wynn congratulated himself in silence. He exhaled, extending the breath, letting it drift away like unwanted burdens. Five hundred years ago, given all this, he might have been a small-time emperor. Now he led a small part of the American Army. Nineteen men, counting himself, none who had ever been in the Middle East before. None could speak Arabic. None had more than cursory knowledge of the local customs and traditions. None had been policemen, firemen, government officials, utility operators, lawyers, engineers, doctors, or diplomats. None had prior experience in war. All were young men. Only his platoon sergeant, SFC Raymond Cooke, was older than 30.

With this make-up they fought an insurgency.

The whole thing, he thought, gave real meaning to the phrase learning on the fly.

“Car parked under the overpass, three-hundred meters front,” SSG Turnbeck reported.

The convoy approached rapidly. D22’s crew scrutinized the parked car.

“Passenger getting out. Has something in his hand.”

Trouble? Anticipation ricocheted inside the convoy as the men focused on the person. It was a man. Middle-aged. Something in his hand? A phone? A book? Less than ten seconds later, the lead Humvee passed him. Still couldn’t make out what he held. The Iraqi stood too close to the road to detonate a bomb on the convoy. He got back in his car as the second Humvee passed him. Everybody looked hard at him as they passed. The man looked as if he was talking. On the phone, maybe? The last Humvee passed.

Moose, in the gun turret, watched the Iraqi the longest. Something held to his ear. Must be a phone. A minute passed. Nothing happened.

Turnbeck came back on the radio. Ahead of them, another bridge crossed over the road.

“People sitting under the bridge. Right side. Four-hundred meters; vehicle crossing the bridge left to right.”

The car crossed the bridge as they watched. The convoy closed on the bridge. Five or six men sat in a circle on a large carpet on the ground next to the bridge, some papers and small items assembled between them. Making tea perhaps. The convoy continued past.

Another bridge ahead.

“Man on the bridge,” Turnbeck radioed.

“He’s shooting me a bird.”

“No he’s not.”

“Maybe he wants to.”

“Maybe he doesn’t.”

“Watch it. Watch it,” said Wynn, to end the bullshit chatter.

“Pedestrians on the right side,” Turnbeck announced.

“Guys wading in the canal.”

A canal now paralleled the right side of the road. One guy stood in the water up to his waist. Further down, a boat with two men inside it floated in the middle of the canal. Probably fishing, Wynn thought. Three people stood next to a concrete slab bridge. No side rails on the bridge.

“Surprisingly deep.”

“What’s he fishing for?”

“A way out of Iraq.” Laughter on the net. This time Wynn laughed too, and ignored it.

The Wolfhounds drove at 45 miles per hour on open road for a couple of minutes. They passed several cars. Then they passed another car. This car drifted about, as if driven by a drunk. Apparently he hadn’t noticed the Americans. D23 blew its horn and the Iraqi driver jolted erect. He looked like a thief caught in the act, or a man chastised by an infidel.

“Highway railings left and right.”

“Picking up speed.”

IEDs had been hung on the side railings. Consequently, over the last year, most of the railings were removed. But the vertical supporting beams remained in the ground. Driving by, several men stared, wondering if the beams were big enough to hide bombs.

Wynn noticed a woman and a small child walking along a freshly cut irrigation ditch that ran from the canal into a field. Other than the concrete and electric pumps used in the canals, he thought the basic irrigation design couldn’t have changed much since biblical times. Vegetation growth lined the belly of many canals. From the air, during the dry season, the canals looked like giant green serpents.

When CPT Baumann came on the company radio in a net-wide call, his voice sizzling with anger, Wynn knew instantly that something serious had happened.

Wynn answered first, and the two other platoons just after. But the voice coming from the 3rd platoon was that of the radio operator, not 2LT Ray D’Augostino.

“Get me ‘Actual,’” Baumann responded firmly, unsatisfied.

“Wait one, over,” came the response.

The company net went quiet for a long moment. The radio operator must have gone looking for D’Augostino.

Baumann rarely talked to the entire command team on the radio. He preferred dealing with them one by one. That was his way: direct and targeted. The last time he radioed everyone, 3rd platoon had been hit by an IED, and one of their men had been killed.

More minutes passed. Everyone hung on their radios, waiting for D’Augostino to get on.

Wynn detected the increased density of buildings as they entered the W3 sector, the most populated area in 2nd platoon’s battlespace. Hundreds of people lived inside the housing to his left and right. What did they think of Americans in gun-trucks?

“Dog Six, this is Dobbie One-Alpha.”

“This is Dog Six,” Baumann responded.

“Dobbie One-Actual is two mikes out, over.” D’Augostino would be available on the radio in two minutes.

“Roger, have him come up on the net then. Out.”

Wynn saw the message-received indicator flashing on D21’s Blue Force Tracker. Wynn clicked the inbox.

“What’s up?” said a message from Pit Bull One, 1st platoon leader, 1LT Evan Smith.

Wynn typed a reply, “Don’t know,” and sent it.

The rest of D21’s crew had heard the radio traffic on the company net. They couldn’t see the computer texting, but Wynn could sense their anticipation.

“Dog Six, this is Dobbie One, over.” D’Augostino finally came on the air.

“Roger, over.” The company commander, after pausing a few seconds, said: “All Dog elements, acknowledge readiness to receive the following transmission, over.”

All three platoon leaders confirmed they were on the horn. Then Baumann continued.

“At 1422 today, Charlie Company reported a KIA. Subsequent traffic confirmed KIA from sniper fire. Incident took place in the W17 area. Soldier killed while standing outside his Humvee. No other small arms fire. Break.”

The radio went silent for several seconds.

“Damn,” Wynn muttered. He sensed the crew’s sudden gut-check. W17 was about four kilometers away from the Wolfhound’s present location.

Baumann continued: “All elements will ensure that all Soldiers dismounted take appropriate evasive actions. Stay mobile when possible. Stay in vehicles when possible. No f*****g lollygagging on the street.”

Lollygagging? Had the soldier been lollygagging? Regardless, it had been a helluva bad day for that soldier.

Baumann did not identify the KIA. That information would be kept close-hold for a while longer; more details would follow. Baumann ordered all to acknowledge receiving the message. All did.

At first, Wynn said nothing to his truck’s crew. Silence seemed the right response.

Somebody back home would be getting that impossible visit, hearing that impossible news, having to deal with something they would have been telling themselves every day would not happen to them. Another terrible day back home for a mother, a father. Wife. Kids.

Wynn didn’t tell the rest of the platoon anything over the platoon net, worrying it would affect their concentration. He’d tell them back on the FOB. About a month ago, another soldier was shot through the neck by a sniper. Fortunately, that soldier survived. That shooting, which happened while the soldier was talking to a shopkeeper, took place in another battalion’s battlespace, about 40 to 45 kilometers south. Had enemy sniper activity increased?

To his own crew inside D21, he said: “That’s why we can never ever let our guard down. It can happen anywhere. All we have is our equipment and our vigilance.”

His crew kept quiet, each probably digging in his own mind for impossible solutions. Wynn knew that Specialist Lee, the medic in D21’s backseat, would be asking himself whether he could have done anything to save the victim. Singleton would stare harder into the forbidding landscape around them, stroke the big .50 caliber, and want to shoot somebody.