Princes of War

by Claude Schmid

  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 fucking 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.

  “Bastards!”

  Gung spit the word out, shaking his head rapidly side-to-side, as if he’d just resurfaced from underwater.

  Arriving at the FOB�
��s entrance, the Wolfhound convoy pulled into another circuitous arrangement of concrete barriers and entered the Bravo gate. Dirt blast-barriers bordered the concrete jersey barriers. From outside the gate you could not see inside the FOB. It looked like the entrance to a mine.

  A series of fences enclosed the FOB. The perimeter fencing consisted of an outer belt of triple concertina wire, and inside of that a chain-link fence crowned with another coil of razor wire. This fencing spread out from the gate area like an industrial scar on the ancient land, running 400 meters west before it turned northwest and continued almost a kilometer and a half before turning again southeast and completing the encirclement of the base. More dirt berms shielded the inner camp. These berms prevented a potential car bomber from crashing the fence and penetrating the inner camp.

  Wynn saw a dozen Iraqi civilians waiting at the pedestrian gate. On some days, 50 or more waited here. Most wanted work on the FOB. Every day except Friday, Islam’s Holy Day, Iraqi laborers entered the FOB to take care of menial work such as cleaning and minor construction projects. Before entering, laborers were thoroughly searched. Those chosen made a few dollars a day, more than most had ever earned. Today, a half-dozen Iraqis filled sandbags for an upside down U-shaped concrete duck-and-cover bunker designed for mortar and rocket protection. The base was alive with constant construction. A new Dining Facility—called a DFAC by the Army—was nearly complete. On the other side of the camp, a company had started a new detention center.

  Other than the Iraqi labor that came daily from town, more than 100 civilian laborers lived and worked on the FOB. Most were foreigners, Indians and Pakistanis and Filipinos, not Iraqis. These workers lived in a special camp on base. They’d been imported by KBR, the big multi-national services provider with the massive contract to support many bases.

  All the activity left the impression that America had come to stay.

  The Wolfhounds had arrived in the motor pool behind their block of living trailers. While the soldiers did post-operation checks on their equipment, Wynn met with his senior NCOs: Sergeants Cooke, Turnbeck, Pauls, and Singleton.

  Wynn knew he looked into the faces of men forged hard in war: men who had seen things that should not be seen, who had by now spent enough time around death to know it from the inside. Yet he saw a strange contentment, an acceptance of the task at hand, and no regrets. Every human being carries burdens and doubts—nevertheless, the men who stood before him were all can-do men: bold, ambitious, wanting to prove something. None of them wanted to be anywhere else than where they were right now.

  These NCOs were his platoon's leadership. And all good men. SFC Cooke was senior. Cooke never thought big picture, but possessed all-important street smarts. SSG Turnbeck kept to himself. You had to pry opinions out of him, but he had an unmatched sense for what was important in the field. SSG Pauls, who had been a high-school swimming champion, kept the tightest crew and truck in the platoon. SGT Singleton, reliable and unassuming, provided ballast to Wynn’s crew in D21. They were the gears in the motor. Without them, the platoon couldn’t function. Before speaking, Wynn paused a little longer than he should have, looking around carefully, locking for a second or two into the eyes of these three men, hoping to reinforce singularity of purpose. Their cooperation and support were crucial to his success.

  After Wynn spoke a few minutes, including telling them what he knew about CPT Baumann’s sniper report and the KIA, Cooke proceeded to talk the group through the next 24 hours. Wynn added occasional comments. He was glad for Cooke’s years of experience to help guide him. Because of his shared enlisted rank and experiences, Cooke was better than Wynn at getting the other NCOs to speak candidly. They would tell him what the soldiers were thinking and offer their interpretations. Just as senior leaders filter what junior leaders needed to know, Wynn knew that juniors filter for their seniors.

  Minutes later, SFC Cooke called the rest of the men together out in front of their trucks. Wynn repeated what he had said to the NCOs about the sniper attack. He asked for a moment of silence for the victim, and as each man reverted to himself, a chill of solemnity embraced the group.

  “When I get more details, I’ll put them out. Let’s not let the next one be one of us,” he concluded.

  Cooke spoke for a few minutes, reviewing the completed patrol, making both positive and negative comments about the platoon’s performance. Then he thanked them and encouraged them to talk further among themselves about anything that needed tightening up. Cooke closed by reminding the men to take care of their personal needs in the next 12 hours: laundry, haircuts, writing or calling home. He next told SSG Turnbeck to reiterate the guard duty schedule.

  The gym was full of sweaty male bodies and reeked of sweat and clothes that needed washing. The facility was an old Iraqi Air Force gymnasium, now filled with heavily used weightlifting equipment, both free weights and nautilus. All of it had been shipped in from the States.

  Moose believed two types of soldiers came to gyms: those who worked their bodies patiently and hard, and those, the majority, who wanted to look as if they did. He definitely considered himself in the first category. Some of the men wore the official grey-shirt-and-black-pants Army PT uniform. Others, like Moose, wore their uniform pants and the brown t-shirts and still had on their boots. Black hard rubber-tile mats covered the floor. A half-size basketball court took up the rear of the gym. The place was noisy. Men shouted and grunted, and the clanging of metal on metal rang with motivational noise.

  Moose and his work-out partner, a platoon soldier named Tyson, exercised hard for about an hour. Each looked at the other like a winning gladiator, powerful and dominant.

  The two worked out as often as their schedules allowed. Moose typically pulled Tyson along, the way a lead dog pulled a dog sled team, motivating, hot breath panting, legs running, trash-talking when necessary to keep him moving. For Moose the workout was a piece of exertion art, a physical performance. Attentive to all the exercise details, with just the right weight and form, he pushed himself until his body screamed but didn’t break. He knew exactly which machines worked what muscles and could make his legs and arms and back perform at their natural peak, but he didn’t care about the look as much as he cared about the psychological effect.

  Tyson, on the other hand, loved the look. Soldiers regularly saw him make a show in front of mirrors and say, “I love me.” He’d twist and turn, showing off his body as well as the 18-inch-long red and yellow lizard tattooed on his right shoulder.

  Now Tyson was on an inclined bench, pressing 75-pound barbells in each hand. Noticing his accelerated breathing, Moose leered.

  “OK, man?”

  “You’re killing me.”

  “Bullshit. Die a little, get stronger, live a little longer.”

  “I’m working it, man, working it hard. Cut me some slack.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “It’s all good, but you’re killing me.”

  National flags of more than 20 Coalition countries hung on the gym walls. Most soldiers noticed these and took some satisfaction in the international teamwork, but few could identify half of the flags. Even Macedonia, a new country, had a flag. All the guys in the room, however, were Americans. No other Coalition members were on this FOB, nor most others.

  “You’re a beast, Moose. Where’d ya get that stamina?”

  “Running from my old man.”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s worn out a set of boots every year on my ass.”

  A couple of civilian KBR employees manned the check-in counter and periodically policed the facilities. Against the wall by the counter stood two large white freezer-type storage units holding hundreds of water bottles. Cardboard signs taped on each of the coolers read: “Take a cold one, put a hot one in.” Somebody had scribbled, “That’s what she said,” on one sign.

  Moose and Tyson finished their workout. They signed out and walked outside, heading for their hooches. Outside of the gym,
loud electric generators drowned out other sounds. They passed four green and white porta-johns. The plumbing didn’t work in the gym.

  “What you doing after chow?” Tyson spoke loudly, to cut through the noise.

  “Got laundry to do. Machines are less crowded later. Next time I go to war, I’m bringing a maid.”

  “Want to do mine while you’re at it?”

  Both men smiled. “Haha. What’s the compensation?”

  “Compensation? How about I agree to rescue your ass if the shit goes down?”

  Tyson laughed at his own proposal. But Moose knew that if the shit hit the fan, Tyson wouldn’t hesitate to rescue him. And he’d do the same for Tyson. It had to be that way.

  Moose responded. “Who rescued who from those seventy-five-pound barbells?”

  “Just testing you, old man. Hey, some of the guys gonna sit around and shoot the shit tonight. Gonna come?”

  “Don’t think so. I’m on Sergeant Cooke’s list for 2200 guard duty. Need to fit some beauty sleep in after dinner,” Moose answered.

  “What a wuss,” Tyson scolded.

  Moose, annoyed, said, “We’ll see. Maybe I’ll take a six-pack of Red Bull from the DFAC and stash them for later. Uncle Sam’s contribution to me.”

  They passed the post office on the corner, then the finance office where they could draw a cash advance on their pay, and proceeded down the road that would take them past the battalion headquarters. The company area with their living trailers was another 400 meters beyond that. Dust as powdery as flour rose up from the road to greet them as they walked. Moose could feel the grit collecting in his saliva.