His grandfather—Paps—had made his own flies. He liked red and green feathers best. “Good fishing requires attention to detail,” the old man would say. “That starts with first-class flies.” Attention to detail was critical for progress here in Iraq as well.
The other two soldiers got up from their table, their pizza and drinks finished. They glanced at Wynn, probably recognizing him as an officer. Did they wonder what he was thinking about? They would never guess “fishing.”
The cabin up in the woods where his grandfather did most of his fishing had a thickly shellacked oak countertop. Paps treated the countertop like an altar. On that countertop, always clean and polished, he did his fly prep. Everything in fishing had to be well thought out. He’d described fishing as an intricate conspiracy of man and water, requiring the smooth blending of delicate motions and an artful lure to secure the strike, make the catch, and get a win for the hunter. Maybe what the Wolfhounds were trying to do in Iraq was not too different.
“Fish are smart, boy. You can’t fool a fish with a bad fly,” Paps would say.
Across the room from the cabinet where Paps kept his fishing supplies was another small cabinet he called his old war chest, where he kept some other things important to his world—and to Wynn’s. Sitting on top of it was a Korean War Chinese Army helmet. The star on the front of the helmet still held flecks of red paint. Paps had taken the helmet as a souvenir during the fierce fighting in January 1951 that finally blunted the Chinese intervention. Too young for World War II, Paps had joined the Army four months before the North Korean invasion. He’d enlisted to get off the farm. Paps never talked much about the war, said no good came from talking about it. What he didn’t say had spoken loudly enough. Even on all those fishing adventures, Wynn had been conscious of the fact that his grandfather had experienced combat. Over the years, Wynn had read books about the Korean War, and other wars. All that reading and thinking and dreaming had surely been stepping stones to where he now was in Iraq.
Also inside the old war chest were a few notebooks documenting Pap’s military service and a shoebox full of other memorabilia, such as his service ribbons. And his medals. The Bronze Star meant the most. The accompanying citation and its crowning words—for conspicuous bravery—rung in Wynn’s ears all through his adolescent years, and even now. He never understood why Paps hadn’t framed any of these things and hung them on the wall. Paps never satisfactorily explained to him why a man shouldn’t take maximum pride in the things he deserved. Paps’ pat answer was that he was “beyond that” or that it was in the “distant past.” Wynn’s feelings about that now was that you never got beyond or past certain things.
Paps was done with making fishing flies. He had died of cancer three months after Wynn’s last visit to the cabin, four months before the Wolfhounds deployed to Iraq. Arthritic hands had not prevented him from making that last fly. Would Paps be proud of what his grandson was doing in Iraq?
Wynn timed his dinner so he could go straight over to the HQ after chow for his weekly meeting with the battalion S2, the unit’s Intelligence staff. So he lingered alone a few minutes more in the DFAC, enjoying a double scoop of Baskin Robbins ice cream. He looked around at the soldiers. Many faces had that youthful, cool, cocky look, a look that shouted “I’m indestructible.” That mindset that proved indispensable when old men sent young men to war.
As he waited, he thought about what he would tell the S2. Everyone said Intelligence was the key to this war. The S2 asked him and others to share more about what they saw and heard outside the wire. HQ wanted to cull more than the abbreviated material the platoons sent up through channels in their normal reports. In past S2 debriefs, Wynn had tried to add context to operations in his platoon’s battlespace, elaborating on anything the Intel analysts were curious about. He knew the idea was that their info would help build the overall Intel picture. He checked his watch: 1904, time to go. The sun lingered stubbornly, the evening sky the translucent blue of the Caribbean Ocean.
After a short walk, he entered the fenced-off inner compound of the Battalion Tactical Operations Center, passing a guard station at which he had to show his ID card. Pictures of battalion soldiers at work hung on both sides of the center’s hallway, shots the Public Affairs guys had taken from all over the unit’s battlespace, showing daily soldiering in and outside of the wire. No Iraqis in any of the photos. As Wynn approached the S2’s office, Sergeant Rais, an S2 NCO, came out, saw him, and said, “We’re running behind, Sir. One of your fellow LTs is still at the dance.” Rais suggested Wynn come back at 1915.
Wynn left the building and walked to a quiet area with a view into the distance. To his front lay a mustard-colored landscape. The distant horizon, inexact and obscured by haze, appeared to mirror the turbulence and mystery of the human world. It made him realize how alone he was. After a few moments, he went back inside. Soon the steady rush of the electric noises of equipment around the HQ again flowed over him, and he felt reconnected. The technology-dominated mini-world the Americans had planted here could be reassuring. Millions of dollars’ worth of highly sophisticated computer and communications equipment purred, operated by trained soldiers, all installed inside a rudimentary nondescript masonry building, built 30 or more years before by local illiterate labor. Inside, the past was still present. A scent of urine suggested not everything could be erased. Iraqi plumbing, when it existed, was always inadequate.
1LT Nathan Petty, the Battalion’s Assistant S2, was Wynn’s trailer roommate and friend. Petty’s dad was a retired Air Force Master Sergeant and had taken a Korean wife. Now this officer, with 50 percent of his family heritage originating in the coastal Korean villages along the China Sea, tried to help the American Army understand what it faced here in Mesopotamia. Petty had once joked to Wynn that the Army’s multi-ethnicity represented a unique form of globalization. Wynn took a seat at a large brown table the size of something out of a Fortune 500 boardroom. Petty and a couple of S2 Analysts sat across from him.
“Hi Christian,” opened Petty, “good to see you.”
“Always a fine day when I can visit battalion,” Wynn responded.
“Glad to know you welcome the assistance we bestow,” said Petty, playing along.
Wynn grunted. “Assistance? You staff clowns run me through the wringer and call it assistance.”
Petty smiled and proceeded. “I’ve got a spiel here today that I’ve got to go over with all you guys.” His eyes glowed like a proctologist’s.
Wynn listened patiently for several minutes. The gist of Petty’s statement was that without good evidence, we can’t nail suspects. Wynn felt as if he was watching a TV cop show. Police made mistakes. Bad guys got turned loose because of lack of evidence. The Army role in Iraq was de facto police work. Get information about a crime. Go to the scene. Look at it. Gather physical evidence. Do the questioning. Assess, decide, and then make an apprehension, if possible, based upon the evidence.
“Soldiers make mistakes, too,” Petty said after a moment, almost sanctimoniously.
Then he explained that soldiers were constantly screwing up evidence. “Recently a platoon had a mission to pick up a suspected insurgent financier. They knew that finding the suspect’s cell phone was crucial to the raid’s success. They’d apprehended the target, but left his cell phone at the scene. They also left behind important documents. The papers they did bring in turned out to be nothing more than handwritten copies of a story about boating on the Tigris.” A hint of amusement crossed Petty’s face. “It turns out that the cell phone had been used to coordinate smuggling weapons, and numbers stored on the phone could have led to a breakthrough.”
Wynn sat silent. Although he understood Petty’s point, he sympathized in part with that platoon. You had a thousand things on your mind during a raid. In the field your translators didn’t have the time to review lots of documents. Details were easily missed. And every operation was dangerous, the men conducting them highly stressed, co
ncerned about IEDs and enemy gunfire. If Iraqis civilians were around, and it sounded as though they probably were, language confusion would abound. Might even be shrieking women in the house. Lighting in Iraqi houses was notoriously bad. The Americans carried flashlights and night-vision devices, but these only illuminated what you pointed at. A small cell phone was easy to hide. The platoon would have been under time pressure and probably had a slew of other worries that night. No time for a leisurely search. The phone should have been found, but he understood how it could have been missed.
Those seeking good Intel from below often have little idea of what it’s actually like out there. Most had never done that work.
Petty sensed his growing annoyance. Maybe Wynn’s eyes had a “you-fucking-do-it” look.
“I know it’s a nearly impossible task that you guys down in the platoons have,” Petty said. “Poor Intelligence is fucking us. It boils down to this.” He leaned heavily back in his chair, suggesting he was about to sum up the entire war effort.
“We’re trying to buy time for an Iraqi government to build credibility. Fuck, nobody in his right mind believes we’re here to take over this place. We came here to eliminate a perceived threat of terrorism and extremism. Then things started falling apart on us. Now violence is steadily increasing. Everything we think or do is questioned.”
Wynn listened, trying to figure out why Petty leaped from a small search failure to discussing the overall progress of the war.
Petty hesitated, perhaps sensing he’d jumped track, and started speaking more carefully. Then he looked at Wynn the way an attorney might look at a judge, hopeful his arguments were succeeding. “Violence spiraling out of control will make it impossible for the Iraqi government to get better. Don’t you agree?”
He didn’t wait for Wynn to answer. “So we have to do whatever we can to suppress that violence, suppress the groups that are behind the violence. It’s all to buy time—time to give freedom and a better way of life here a real chance.”
“Doesn’t make the work easier,” Wynn said, finally.
They both remained quiet long enough to wonder why the other hadn’t spoken.
“At least Sheikh Amir doesn’t think it can be easy for us,” Wynn added.
“See him again today?”
“Yes. I wasn’t sure whether to be thankful or wash after I left.”
Hearing that, an amused look returned to Petty’s face. “Well, he’s certainly in a position to know a lot of stuff,” he said.
“He gave me nothing worth salt, really. And even if he did, I wouldn’t know whether to trust him,” Wynn said. “It reminds me of something my grandfather used to say: ‘It ain’t just what you don’t know that hurts you—it’s what you know that ain’t so.”
“Absolutely right. I guess the key is how to connect with a guy like that in a way that it’s in his interest to be truthful,” Petty said.
“Yep, but how? I know, show him the value of cooperation. Show him better ways. Do some old fashioned win-win horse-trading. But all that’s a helluva lot easier to philosophize about than execute.”
“Sometimes the best efforts fail,” Petty said. Now he gazed at Wynn like a fan might watch an athlete. “Doesn’t mean we don’t keep trying hard as hell.”
“For sure. Nothing tried; nothing gained.”
The lime-colored tactical lights in the room made their skin look sanitized, as if they were being prepared for surgery.
They were all privileged in a way, privileged to be part of a great effort, even if it failed. Few of them had illusions it would be easy.
Petty finally asked Wynn to summarize his platoon’s activities over the last week. He did. None of what Wynn described prompted hard questions.
“Thank your men for me,” Petty said.
Wynn looked at him quizzically, surprised.
Petty continued. “What I mean is that those of us up here—up here in the puzzle place—appreciate what your guys are doing. All this is confusing crazy, ugh, hard. But you platoons have to deal in the local realities out there in the shit. And up here…” Petty did a lasso movement with his head, signifying the whole headquarters, and with his voice trailing off, “…well, we watch and study from a distance.”
Wynn shook off the compliments, but it was nice to get Petty’s praise and concessions.
“It’s our job, brother. We all have our roles.”
Maybe both of them looked for reassurance. Almost everybody in a war constantly looked for reassurance.
Wynn had about an hour to kill before his planned meeting with Cooke.
It was 2035. Cooke and Wynn sat alone together in Cooke’s trailer. It was a rare opportunity for privacy, and a place to talk about the psychological and physical health of the platoon’s men. Wynn was glad for it. Despite being with each other almost constantly, seven days a week, in the thick of their work thousands of distractions intervened, and events of the moment dominated. He worried about overlooking details. Now they could be more relaxed and candid, and he could let his guard down partially and not pretend that he, as a young lieutenant, wasn’t still learning.
Overall, Wynn felt satisfied with his men’s resiliency. Hard times in a very hard place, and still the platoon’s performance pleased him. But he had a specific concern.
“How do you know when one of the guys is not performing at his best?” He asked Cooke.
Cooke, unhurried, his broad caramel-colored face inexpressive, studied Wynn. He was by now a pretty astute judge of his lieutenant. Wynn was nothing if not deliberate, and he didn’t like idle chitchat. Cooke waited for him to continue.
“I’m worried about Kale,” Wynn said.
Wynn had been watching Kale for a while now. Not constantly, but noticing little things. Kale seemed increasingly detached, maybe depressed. He was quieter and never joked. He rarely interacted with others.
Cooke said, “With every man you do the same. You watch what he’s doing, Sir. You laser the man with your eyes so you pick up the changes, how he is different, ya know? Know what his way of doing things is, and they can’t hide anything from you.”
“Have you noticed anything about him?”
“None of them can hide, Sir.” Cooke replied. “They’re all naked out here. We’re all doing the same thing. Got the same shit to deal with. Working the same way. Same restrictions. Same dangers. Makes it easier for us to tell if something is outta whack. And, yes, I got my eyes on Kale.” Cooke paused and glanced down, as if he were looking for answers on the floor, then said, “His self-defenses are thinning.”
Wynn admired his stout platoon sergeant. Nothing fazed him. Cooke was not a complicated man, no inner tensions or anguish. He was blunt and honest.
“And by his ‘self-defenses,’ you mean his self-confidence?” Wynn asked, seeking clarification.
“Yes, Sir. And his smarts. I don’t think it’s gone too far yet, though. Kale’s just scared and confused half the damn time. Hell, all of them are. Who can explain this place? He’s young. You can’t send kids not old enough to legally buy a drink and expect him to be Socrates or Superman or something. This stuff we’re trying to do is fucking hard. These people been trying to figure it out since before Christ.”
Wynn cracked up, laughing hard, harder than he had laughed in weeks. First “thinning,” and now “Socrates.”
Cooke smiled, inhaled and puffed his chest out a bit, proud he’d impressed Wynn.
“I didn’t know you were a student of philosophy, Sergeant Cooke.”
“I ain’t. But I got to be a student of men to lead them, Sir.”
“Absolutely,” Wynn replied after a couple of seconds’ delay.
A helicopter flew over the trailer park behind them. The trailer shuddered as the whacking of the copter blades violently batted the air. Another flew over. Again the trailer shuddered. They always flew in pairs.
Cooke watched Wynn thoughtfully, like a baseball manager watching a new pitc
her. With his lieutenant he needed to strike a careful three-way balance between being a teacher, a confidant, and a subordinate. He had to both mentor and assist this young officer. There was more to the answer he’d given, and Wynn wanted more. He tried to explain further.
“Kale is the softer sort. He takes reinforcement to keep him strong. He took Ramirez death even worse than the rest of us. His buddies and I are watching him, Sir. Best reinforcement is the other men, not me or you. Not yet.”
Cooke didn’t want Wynn to talk to Kale. This was his business. As the senior NCO in the platoon, he ran the enlisted world. If he did his job well he could keep it like that. Let the officers stay in theirs. No foolproof way existed to help a man deal with combat stress. Nothing was simple about the minds of men.
Wynn remembered Ramirez, then pushed him out of his mind. He glanced around the room. Cooke’s trailer was as Spartan as everyone else’s. Metal bed. Metal folding table as a desk. Brushed aluminum desk lamp. Thin yellow curtains made in Turkey. Cheap Asian blankets. No unique furnishings. Little to highlight a man’s individuality.
“You know the impact the stress here can have. We need everyone operating at full capacity,” Wynn said.
“I sure do, Sir. But we also need every man we got. It ain’t like there’s a bench we can pull from. We need all playing the full game.”
Wynn noticed the family picture on Cooke’s desk. Cooke seated with his two boys, one on each knee and their mother—Cooke’s gregarious and ample wife of nine years—standing behind him with both her hands on his shoulders. A nice family. The pride on Cooke’s face radiated from the picture. Also on the desk stood the bottom half of a cylindrical cardboard smoke grenade canister, now used as a pen and pencil holder. The canister held a pair of scissors and a small American flag. Wynn knew that Cooke cut articles out of the Stars and Stripes newspaper to mark events that occurred during this tour. The hard-gut platoon sergeant was making a scrapbook. The men knew nothing about it. Didn’t fit the image Cooke wanted to project. Cooke had a green and yellow colored nerf football with Green Bay Packers markings on the table next to another small white ball. The smaller ball looked like a ping pong ball, a little larger and not quite round.
Princes of War Page 6
