Princes of War

by Claude Schmid

  Kale, still between Wynn and the women, looked as if he might shatter from tension.

  “Stay calm!” Wynn admonished. Not easy to be calm in a storm of screams, he knew. Kale gripped and regripped his rifle, as if steadying himself.

  “Easy, easy,” Wynn said, extending his arm, palm down, as if scolding a dog for jumping.

  Somehow the women knew that Wynn was the man to see. The IPs restrained them about 25 meters away from him and their crying moderated a bit. Slowly, Wynn grew less concerned that this incident was a planned diversion.

  Kale relaxed a little too. Wynn had yet to move, continuing to assess the situation.

  “Find out what’s happening,” Wynn directed Cengo, who stood beside him.

  Maybe the IP and Cengo could sort it out. Wynn now walked over to where Pauls, leading one of the census teams, had exited a residence.

  “How goes it, Sergeant Pauls?” He kept an eye on the crying woman. The quality of the census work would hinge on the attentiveness of his soldiers. They had to keep focus.

  “Eleven so far on this street, Sir. Eleven houses, I mean, Sir. Think we got….” Pauls paused to recount, and looked at his paperwork. “…sixty-two people so far, supposed to be living in those. No one’s given us any trouble with the paperwork, Sir. Don’t know, of course, if they’re really telling the truth,” he said, with an undertone of resignation.

  The Iraqi woman’s muffled cry continued in the background, now sounding more like an animal whimpering in a cage, as she spoke to Cengo and the IP. Wynn looked again. Cengo was nodding his head rapidly, pleading with her, moving his hands like a traffic cop.

  “Make sure to clearly identify the house on the paper,” Wynn said to Pauls.

  The house numbering had been done properly so far. He handed the forms back to Pauls. Wynn then moved to within ten meters of Cengo and the women and waited on his report.

  The women, seeing Wynn approach, again surged towards him, but less aggressively this time. The IP held them back.

  Cengo met Wynn halfway.

  “They say…,” Cengo hesitated, unsure how to summarize what he had heard “…the middle woman is mother. Her son taken by American army, she say. She say he innocent. She say he good boy. She upset about that. Want you help her find him.”

  It was not an uncommon request. Many Iraqis thought Americans knew where their missing children were.

  “You think she is telling the truth?” Wynn asked Cengo.

  “I think so, Sir.”

  “They all claim their boys are good. Ask her what else she knows.”

  Cengo went to ask.

  “Everything OK, 21?” Cooke voice sounded from Wynn’s radio.

  From where Cooke was, about 150 meters down the street, he likely could see the ongoing commotion. Wynn glanced towards Cooke’s truck as he answered.

  “OK. We’re talking to this woman. She’s got an issue with her son.”

  Cengo came back frazzled. The distraught woman was getting to him.

  “She say he 17. That he good boy. That he do good always. No problem. She very sad and she say she sick, Sir. She need help to find him. She begging.”

  “What was he taken for?” Wynn asked his original question again. He needed more information, if the woman had any.

  “She not know. She say he innocent.”

  “Get his name. Her boy’s name. The full name. We can check with the detention folks. We’ll see if they have him. So she knows nothing about why or when? Can she at least tell us when he was arrested? Does she know where, or what unit took him?”

  She probably didn’t know the answer to those questions, but he needed as much information as possible. He would call it in. With the man’s name, Wynn might be able to find out if he was in the FOB detention center, or ever had been. But the name might not be enough. Knowing the arrest date would help. Sometimes captives gave false names. Most had little meaningful identification, or what they had was old and illegible. The previous American battalion in this area had tried to establish a new ID card system, but had finally given up when it became impossible to produce anything permanent or get the Iraqi infrastructure in place to manage it.

  Cengo came back again, shaking his head. “She not know. She not know unit. She think maybe beginning of the month he arrested. She not sure where or what day.”

  Little rivulets of sweat streamed down Cengo’s face. He continued, “She no news from him. She give name. Mohammed Aziz Alkieri.”

  “Is she sure we arrested him? If she doesn’t know where or when, how’s she sure?”

  “She say yes. She say Americans take him.”

  “How does she know?”

  “She say people tell her.”

  “What people?”

  “She not say.”

  “Ask her. You believe her? That Americans did it?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Her crying got louder again, as if she could sense Wynn’s skepticism. The other women wept now too. Their cries heated the already foul air, flowing into the streets like waves from Hades.

  Suddenly, two scrawny dogs ran up to the crying group, yelping. Cruz aimed his gun at them. An IP twisted around and kicked one dog, chasing them away.

  Wynn checked their surroundings again. Nothing seemed odd.

  After another minute of discussion with Cengo, Wynn had him get the spelling of the name. He then called Cooke on the radio and spelled the name as Cengo stated it. The translations of names into English varied. The woman might even be illiterate. Some estimates were that half of the Iraqi population was. Even common names like Mohammed were spelled several different ways.

  Wynn told Cooke to call the battalion HQ and inquire about the name and arrest in the period around the first of the month.

  Her story was plausible. Young men of that age were fertile insurgent recruiting targets. Very possibly the arrest was justified. Wynn wanted to trust Coalition decisions, but he knew lots of mistakes were made. Some units arrested first and asked questions later. The pressures of combat bred caution and aggression, leaving little time or inclination for careful deliberation. Security concerns suffocated other considerations. He would, if possible, help the woman. Locals often came to Americans about missing people because they believed that only the Americans could help. This could be true even if the son had been kidnapped by a group for ransom or arrested by rogue IP. Thousands of Iraqis had disappeared. Either way, all he could do was find out what he could.

  Several more Iraqi adults had gathered near the IP and the women. A young boy led a blind man by the hand. Wynn, still concerned about suicide bombers, scrutinized their clothing and facial expressions.

  “Tell the woman we’re sorry,” Wynn started. “Tell her we’ll check about her son. If he is in detention, we’ll try to determine why. Tell her if he is innocent he will be freed. Find out where she lives, and we’ll come back if we get information.”

  He also wanted her to leave them alone. His emotions now bordered on callousness, and he got no satisfaction from it, but without a measure of steel in his spine he couldn’t do this job. They needed to get back to the census. Cengo went back to the group and explained. The woman, her face glistening with tears, looked genuinely distressed and probably believed her own story. Thousands were adrift in this harsh and mysterious world. He could spend no more time on this matter. The platoon had higher priorities.

  Wynn looked at her. She touched Cengo’s hands and arms, thanking him, nodded her head deferentially, then turned and walked away. Assembled Iraqis started dispersing. A few continued watching with sullen black eyes.

  For the next 90 minutes, Wynn alternated back and forth between helping the census teams and engaging with other Iraqis on the street. A surly sun hung high in the mid-afternoon sky behind a thin layer of clouds, burning like a bright torch sheaved by thin curtains. An odor like dirty laundry had impregnated the air.

  8

  By 1710 the Wol
fhounds were back on FOB Apache. The drive back had been uneventful. Twenty minutes later, Kale and Moose were alone in the motor pool. While Moose cleaned D24’s .50 caliber, Kale waited for him. Everyone else had cleared out, tired from the long frustrating day.

  Moose, still up inside D24’s turret, closed the feed tray cover of the machinegun, then dismounted the weapon, ducked down inside the Humvee, and came out the open rear door.

  Outside, he cradled the .50 cal in his arms as if he was carrying a pregnant hound. Kale watched him as a spectator watches a favorite sports star.

  “I’m taking this gun over to the armsroom. Walk with me?”

  “OK,” Kale answered.

  Moose was about four inches taller than Kale, and at least six inches broader at the shoulders. Walking together, Kale wanted to understand what made Moose tick. Comparing Moose to himself was one way to do that.

  “How did it go today, buddy?” Moose asked.

  Kale hesitated. Two answers came up simultaneously inside him, both arguing for expression. One answer was part of his personal public relations campaign, what he wanted everyone to think about him. The other answer represented all his fears.

  Moose looked at him, curious about his silence.

  “Fine, fine,” Kale blurted, sensing Moose’s gaze. He said it the way a man might swat a pesky insect. He avoided Moose’s eyes. Moose’s question, though completely natural, had spun his mind.

  “How’re things back home?” Moose looked at Kale over his shoulder the way he might take aim with his gun.

  “Going good. No issues.”

  “They still remember you?”

  “Of course.” Kale didn’t like questions. They required answers. “How about for you?” Maybe he could flip the question and avoid more answering.

  “Good, Buddy. My crazy mom still writes weekly. The place isn’t going anywhere. I’d rather be here.”

  “This census work gets old, doesn’t it?”

  “Seems a waste of time.”

  “Guess we need to learn what we’re dealing with, Moose.” Kale said it like he wasn’t convinced.

  “We know what we’re dealing with. Al Qaeda bastards. What about you; what you dealing with?”

  Kale felt like Moose had fired a shot. Taking evasive action, he said, “I’m dealing with this trash, just like everyone else.”

  He looked at Moose. Just then, another platoon’s convoy pulled into the motor pool. Their arrival distracted Moose, and big man watched them, seeing who he might recognize.

  “I heard from Baker the other day,” Moose said a minute later, moving off the topic.

  “Baker?”

  “Yeah, remember that crazy dude that was the honor grad at basic training?”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  Kale remembered Baker. Kale, Moose, and Baker, had all become friends in basic training and graduated together. In training, they’d seen each other sweat and fail, and then sweat and succeed—their friendship grew from shared experiences forged in challenge.

  “Baker said he’s going to apply for Officer Candidate School.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. The fucker wants to grow up to tell dudes like us what to do.” Moose said this as if he believed Baker was about to commit heresy.

  “Well. Who knows? He might end up an outstanding officer,” Kale answered, not sure he believed it.

  He was glad the conversation had shifted away from himself. One thing about Moose is that he functioned in his own world. He never considered anything too closely. Maybe that was a crucial part of his success.

  By 1815, eight of them—Cuebas, Sims, Tyson, Moose, Mongrel, Halliburton, Randell, and Ortiz—sat out by the Pizza Hut and vendor area. Kale had declined. The gazebo’s shade provided modest respite from the still-broiling sun. They shared three large pizzas and two large orders of chicken wings. Aaron Tippet music played from speakers hanging from the gazebo posts. A Harley Davidson advertisement promising a new freedom hung on one wall.

  Several minutes into their conversation, Moose said, “What’s the main thing you clowns will remember about this place?”

  “Jesus. Don’t ask that.” Sims replied. Sims, who was 27 and had already been married three times, was one of three Wolfhounds with college degrees.

  “Easier to tell you what I wanta forget,” Ortiz joked. He put his cigarette between his knees and pointed with both hands at an Iraqi flag under the gazebo.

  “Or what do you think you can’t forget?” Moose asked, sincerely curious about what war experiences might last.

  Seconds passed as each chewed over the question. Forget something and it dies. Of course, forgetting can be good.

  “Stupidity,” blurted Sims.

  “What?” They all laughed. Ortiz almost spat a piece of pizza out of his mouth.

  “Ayeee, some stupid bastards here.” Cuebas fondled his memory chain.

  “No, not what I mean,” continued Sims. “I mean, ah, lost opportunity. It’s stupid to fight like this. All Hajji has to do is stop fighting, we would leave, and they can have their country back. This stupidity kills. I won’t forget that. Americans don’t want this country. Now that Saddam is gone, we just want Iraq to be free.”

  “You really fucking think it would be better if we left?” Ortiz asked, incredulous.

  “Bull,” Randell said.

  “It would be for me!” Sims said.

  “It’d be better for us if you left,” Halliburton said.

  Laughter again. “You know you want some of this stuff,” Moose disputed, always ready to defend his claim to a piece of the action.

  “I won’t forget you ugly bastards,” said Cuebas. “Ayeee, been living with you nasty bastards for way too long. No kind of cleaning will rid me of that.”

  “Shit!” Randell said.

  Cuebas sounded half-serious, as if he believed his own joking. The group laughed at this too.

  “You’ll be crying your whole life from missing us, you Mex.”

  “Puerto Rican, you ass.”

  Moose started to speak again, wanting to say something important, how something was said was often more important than what was said.

  “Ayeee. Got too much wisdom,” Cuebas injected, interrupting. “Sometimes I’m surprised at all the wisdom I have from all this—being as young as I am. How will we handle this big wisdom for the rest of our lives?” He looked at the group expectantly.

  “I know one thing; I don’t buy all this combat stress stuff,” Moose started. “Hell, what they calling it now? PTSD. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Hell, you just deal with that stuff. Of course it’s stressful, but what the fuck, buddy. This is war. What I think, ugh, is that we got something—wisdom you call it—that is very powerful. We can’t share it. It’s like first learning about your cojones.”

  “You have to carry it, man,” Tyson said. “It’s a personal thing.”

  “Suck it up. It’s a mind thing,” Ortiz added. “That’s the bottom line.”

  “Wise or not, main thing is being able to look in that mirror and be satisfied—to have pride in your accomplishments. To know you did it,” Moose added, “Think of all those clean-assed people back in the world that haven’t never scraped a fucking god-damned knee in ten years, never slept in sheep shit, never seen anybody hurt more than a bloody nose, fucking don’t know what’s up. It’s unreal, man. Everything’s sugar to them. No pain. You go from one artificial thrill to another. Life as some kind of a fantasy world.”

  “A big fucking candy shop,” Tyson said, concurring.

  “History, if you think about it, is one long-ass war. Now, we’re the star players in it,” said Moose. “Can’t ever take that away from us.”

  Cuebas looked at his uncles names on his memory chain. Mongrel scratched his crotch.

  “Why you always pawing your dick?” Halliburton asked him, after spitting out a plug of paper pulp,

  “Exercise,” he answered.

&n
bsp; “Bull,” Randell said.

  “Ayeee, he’s probably got gangrene of the johnson.”

  “You’re all just jealous of the size.”

  “I’ll tell you what I really miss most by being here is partying,” Cuebas started. “General Order Number One is for the birds. Plus, in the old armies they brought whores around. Here, women are as rare as sense.”

  Several cats ran across the gravel, disappearing under the vendor shops chasing mice. Fast little creatures, with long thin legs and slim bodies, like miniature cheetahs. These cats knew their land and how to survive in it, and wanted no scrutiny or attention, wanted only to hunt and eat and be left alone. Outside the wire were feral dogs. Inside the wire were the cats. Feral men operated in both elements.

  Kale had returned to his trailer because he wasn’t hungry and wanted to be alone. Moose had tried to coax him out, but Kale shook him off by saying he had an appointment with the chaplain. Soon, having had more than enough of this place for a day and now by himself in his curtain-drawn trailer, his thoughts drifted to home. Separation from Serena and Wilson had been hard. He let his mind walk the memories of their last weekend home together. It seemed so long ago. Sometimes he would leak the recollections into his consciousness like a drug.

  He exchanged emails with Serena daily if he could, and he tried to call a couple of times a week. He was glad for that. It wasn’t lost on him that soldiers of past conflicts left much more behind when they went off to war, losing connection to home almost completely. How could men endure that? True love was a diamond-hard insurance policy, precious, sparkling, clear, and lasting. Could his survive long separation? Many relationships weren’t strong enough.

  He and Serena had planned to keep everyone happy their final weekend together. They decided to split it. He would spend one night concentrating on her, and the next night with Wilson. And that required a form of trial separation. Each had to give up something.

  Kale closed his eyes and remembered. Serena had gotten the first night. They enjoyed a wonderful dinner at Florentine, their favorite Italian place in the older part of town. They ordered the usual: she, Pasta Diablo; he, Veal Masala. Each purposefully avoided distractions, concentrating on each other. Conversation was difficult and they were quieter than usual. Neither could talk about Iraq. They lingered in the restaurant and shared dessert. One piece of coconut cake. One spoon. Two people. Eating that dessert together consummated a merger of hopes and desires and fears, an intimate demonstration of closeness and commitment. Together they licked the dessert spoon clean. She licked first. Some things are always better when the woman goes first. She started seductively, slow and serious, exactly to send a signal. The exhibitionism surprised him. Both were careful, reserved types—she even more than him. She had been flagrantly sexual. Kale loins stirred and he shuffled his feet on the trailer floor. He remembered getting home late and making frantic love, intense and uninhibited.