Princes of War (15 page)

Paps had said one time that men’s experience with women had something in common with fish: “Even if they shake it free, they never forget a hook in the mouth.” Here in Iraq was the wrong time to think much about serious romance. He tried to shut it down.

A few moments passed before he finally closed down his mind and went to sleep.

DAY THREE

9

At 0615, Cengo stood alone outside the Company CP, reflecting on the many strange things around him as he waited for the Wolfhounds to pick him up. Even after working for the Americans for more than a year, this place, the FOB, still felt like an alien camp, an incredible foreign creation inside his own country. What the American Army had constructed was a miracle. These people were rich, so very rich. And everything organized. Exact rows of olive green tents set on wooden floors. Neatly arranged square metal boxes all over the camp funneled electricity for America’s Army. Hundreds of new same-sized rectangular metal living trailers, all with hinged doors in the center and two windows spaced equally on each side of the door. Cengo had never lived in a home with a glass window. Planning and order meant everything to these Americans, these masters of the material world. Allah had blessed them beyond anything Cengo thought possible.

Nothing in Iraq was the same. Everything was different. On this base, at least, the old Iraq seemed irretrievably gone. He’d heard stories—mostly horrible stories—about executions and tortures, including torture of children on this base in Saddam’s time. The base had originally been built when Cengo was a small child. His father helped build it, having worked many years as a brick mason until his hands were dry and hard like bread crust and always getting infected. The Americans said that was because the Iraqi brick masons didn’t wear gloves, so the cement ate his father’s hands.

Whenever he was on FOB Apache, Cengo could feel relentless intensity and change. This was how creation must have felt. Sometimes, inside the base, he would feel strange tremors, little vibrations of power from all that America possessed and did. Because so much was new, and so much activity resulted from it, a mysterious power resided here now, dominant, magnificent, and inscrutable to outsiders like him. Part of him was afraid of its power and part of him envied it.

Yet Cengo ran with the Americans as a dog runs with a shepherd. He was loyal—but not completely. With his job as an interpreter, he supported a family of 13. Collectively, the other 12, including six adults, earned less than what Cengo made with the Americans. This made him proud, made him an important man.

When he’d started English classes eight years ago, his family was elated. They told Cengo that God had chosen him to learn English. But there was a more worldly reason. Later, he learned that he’d been chosen because his father had once saved the life of a senior Peshmerga officer wounded during a fight with Saddam’s soldiers. Cengo’s father had carried the wounded man on his back for 16 hours to the nearest medical care.

After health, wasn’t education God’s greatest gift? A basic education in English opened doors for young Kurds. That school was more than an hour’s walk from Cengo’s home. For four years he went twice a week. He’d quit in the fifth year after Saddam’s agents had discovered that the Peshmerga sponsored this school and shut it down. He could still remember the way to the school and the landmarks along the way. People would speak words of encouragement to him. On some days the old woman who ran a date fruit stand in the marketplace would give him a single date. He prized the sweet chewy fruit, and would immediately eat it, as if he was afraid to lose it. She rarely spoke, but would give him a toothless smile, as if she confirmed a private confidence. They knew why he passed their way. This made him a privileged person, so they treated him as such. Sometimes, on the long walk home, he dreamed of being a Dragoman to a great Caliph, an advisor to a supreme ruler.

Now he worked for the Americans. True, they had invaded his country. But it was to remove Iraq’s ruler, and Iraqis hated Saddam and the Kurds hated him the most. Cengo’s people were accustomed to fighting and knew it would continue.

Wynn neared the motor pool. He could see a few of his men in the distance. He stopped at the entryway of the T-wall separating the living trailers from the parking area and watched them.

The platoon had gathered around D24, Cooke’s Humvee. Wynn considered for a moment what he knew about each man, and how each fit into the whole. He knew relatively little about them. As their platoon leader, he was borrowing them for a while. He had fragmentary bits of information about their pasts, their ambitions, their doubts, their fears. What he knew of them he knew from his experience with them as soldiers, and what he’d heard about them from others, and in brief conversations he’d had with them. He had been the Wolfhound platoon leader for just over a year, getting the assignment about six months before they shipped out for Iraq. Several soldiers had come to the unit after he did. His opinions of them were based almost entirely on how they now fit into the platoon, especially how they had contributed since arriving in Iraq. The months in Iraq had been harder on some than on others. Not surprising. Some men were more stable, steadier and more reliable than others. Turnbeck was wonderful. Moose too. Ulricht, like a rock. It was natural: some men, in any circumstances, were just stronger-hearted.

As the platoon’s commissioned officer, Wynn knew he was different, not just one of the men. Certain things only he was expected to do. His education, special authorities and privileges, and his unique responsibilities set him apart. They too realized he was different.

He could barely hear their voices, but listened for several minutes. Cooke talked about resuming the census work and its importance. He covered how the platoon would travel, identifying the routes and reviewing recent incidents and common enemy tactics, techniques, and procedures, known as TTPs. He reiterated salient facts about the neighborhood they would be operating in and ended by designating the four men for the two census teams.

SSG Turnbeck asked to speak. He talked about general security and safety concerns and mentioned that a Humvee had flipped over into a nearly dry canal in a neighboring battalion’s area the week before. A rear passenger not wearing a seatbelt had broken an arm. On other occasions, soldiers had drowned in vehicle rollovers into canals. Cooke reminded the group about goggles and other personal protective gear.

Wynn, pleased that the men were attentive, watched. After hearing much of the same information day after day, even if it could save your life, it was easy to become numb to the information and less alert.

Cooke talked as if he had a built-in megaphone and was addressing a group of prisoners, his right foot about 12 inches forward, his delivery rapid, looking from side to side frequently. Wynn could hear him clearly, even from 75 meters away. Cooke had a stoic’s face, etched by seriousness. He hadn’t had an easy life. His father, an alcoholic, had disappeared when Cooke was a baby. Cooke later became a surrogate father for two half-sisters. In the Army, he had made rank fast and earned respect. The platoon sergeant had seen a lot in his 32 years and was accustomed to carrying a heavy load. Fourteen of those years had been Army years, as compared to Wynn’s two. Wynn felt lucky to have him.

What did the men think about Cooke? They trusted and respected him, but occasionally felt resentment. They considered Cooke like an overbearing father, interested in what they were thinking and doing down to the smallest details. Cooke didn’t believe in privacy, Wynn knew. He had high expectations for each man. He singled out soldiers and asked random questions to keep the men on their toes. He was fond of saying, “I’m riding in your back pocket, son.” He’d ask questions a mother might: about their laundry, about hygiene, about friends, about how they were sleeping, about issues back home, even about bowel movements. “I’m making it my business,” he’d say if anyone objected. He might ask when a man had last been to the gym. He would eye their chow plates in the DFAC to make sure they ate more than just a dozen chicken wings. Gung once complained that Cooke had stopped him cold when they’d bumped into each other at the post office, grabbing him by the shoulders with both hands. Nose-to-nose, Cooke stared at Gung for at least a ten seconds before speaking, sucking in everything about him. Cooke wasn’t a reflective man. He made instant evaluations. That day, Cooke made Gung feel naked and exposed. A merging of consciousness? And after all that focus, Cooke had merely asked Gung when he’d last called his mom.

Wynn hoped Cooke was right in what he’d said about Kale. They needed to watch Kale closely, and Wynn remained concerned. The weakest men always required the most attention.

Cooke knew each man’s strengths and weaknesses. It was his objective to know every Wolfhounds better than they knew themselves. Whenever needed, Cooke goaded them, directed them, counseled them, and punished them, fully cognizant that all men move better when motivated. Fancy thinkers talk about the merits of self-motivation and self-direction, of using inner powers and feelings to decide and act. All that was fine, in theory, but not the whole truth. A good push is often necessary. Men respond to other men. They respond to the challenge and chastisement of other men. A proverb Wynn remembered said: “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.” Cooke practiced that philosophy.
      
      

Wynn walked up to his men. The group quieted when they saw him, the usual varied but observant expressions on their faces.

“Just drilling the men on their duties, Sir,” reported Cooke. He said it as if it was his favorite thing to do. “As you know, we got some knuckleheads in here that need constant retelling.”

Many of the men laughed, easily, deeply, happy to be able to laugh.

Wynn went straight into the Patrol Brief: what and how they were going to accomplish today’s missions.

“There are three main parts to today’s mission,” Wynn began. “First, we’ll visit the new Bawa Sah school to check the Iraqi contractor’s work. A Contracting Officer’s representative, Major Alberts, will accompany us to check the school job. He should be here any minute. Second, we’ll visit a new police station under construction and check the progress. We’ll drop Alberts back here, and go out again to resume the census.”

Then Wynn and Cooke covered details of the day’s mission and clarified responsibilities.

Cooke reminded them to avoid looking at and talking to Iraqi women during the census taking, unless no men were available.

“I ain’t running no dating service here. And another thing. Don’t take no goddamn gifts. No time for hanging around for chai. Don’t get bit by dogs. A knucklehead in Charlie Company almost had a finger bit off. Many of these Hajis dogs have rabies. And don’t be a pig. Just because the place is a shit-hole, it don’t mean you contribute your own trash.” American trash had been used to hide IEDs.

“Also, watch out for your battle buddy. Will be damn hot again today,” Cooke continued. “Make sure your people hydrate. Also, keep in mind that roads in these neighborhoods are fucking narrow. Anybody get a truck stuck and I’m going to make you pull it out with your teeth.”

Didn’t they already know this stuff?
Wynn mused. But he was glad Cooke stressed these points. People generally had to be reminded more than they had to be taught. Lots of injuries came from stupid safety mistakes.

Cooke looked at Wynn to signal that he was finished. Wynn spoke again.

“Security, security, security. Buddy teams everywhere when we dismount. Stay alert. Think like Wolfhounds should think. Be smart.”

As the platoon drove to the school, Moose picked out one possible target after another. He ran short scenarios through his mind on how he would respond to certain contingencies or attacks.

Each man prepared silently for the increased street traffic—guts tightened, eyes widened, breathing accelerated, each man became less conscious of the other and more conscious of his own responsibilities.

SSG Turnbeck reported the usual short bursts of information from the lead vehicle, steady and concise. “Pedestrians, left and right. One hundred meters.

“Big bump.

“Motorcycle ahead. Right side.

“The bike’s just sitting. Man on it.

“Vehicle stopped. Left side.

“LNs crossing street.”

The further the Wolfhounds drove southwest the more the landscape looked as remote as the moon. An oatmeal-textured dust clung to the place like chaff in a feed mill. Anything green and alive had been banished.

After about 30 minutes of driving, they were within five minutes of the objective.

Soon they would turn north again and take the dirt road toward Bawa Sah.

“Kids on the field, left,” reported Turnbeck, breaking a couple of minutes of silence.

After another minute of silence, “Rooftop, nine o’clock. Looks like a man.”

A man stood on the roof of a two-story building across the street on the far side of the road. The building was supported by two colorful decorative columns on the outer corners. The man on the roof held his hands behind him, watching. He looked like a man staring out at the sea, Moose thought. The Wolfhounds eyed him, wondering why he was up there, but didn’t slow down.

In a few seconds, the platoon passed the building. Nothing happened.

The traffic remained moderate. Some cars were so covered with dust they looked as if they’d just driven across open desert. One man wearing big sunglasses and a bandana around his mouth drove a truck loaded with sacks of rice. He ignored the scrutinizing Americans.

“Dirty fuel truck on the roadside,” Turnbeck reported.

“Got a couple of vehicles moving slow on the right side of the road. They’re slowing.

“Pedestrians near them.

“One’s dressed up nice. A lady.”

Soldiers looked for the nicely dressed lady, but she’d disappeared behind a building.

Further on, a bongo truck waited on the side of the road. Nobody appeared to be in it. Next to the truck a boy had set up a soda stand. Turnbeck didn’t see adults. Passing, he saw a heavyset man lying on the ground underneath the truck. Moose, seeing the man, remembered laying under dozens of trucks back home at Benson’s body shop.