Black Knights, Dark Days

by Fisk, J. Matthew;

  Sergeant Chen shouted from his vehicle and got the lieutenant’s attention. “Sir, Lancer Mike is asking for you.” Aguero nodded and broke through the circle of kids with whom he’d been exchanging high-fives and walked over to the radio. He took the handset and slumped down in the driver’s seat to take the call. While that was going on, I wandered over to watch Sala’am in discussion with the senior sewage man. Sala’am had a hand on the man’s shoulder, reassuring him about something. I started to move closer, hoping to pick up a little of their conversation, when Aguero bolted out of his vehicle and motioned for me. I followed him, trying to pick a semi-dry path across Crap Creek where we could confer with Swope.

  “I just got a call from Lancer Mike,” Aguero grumbled. “They said that there’s a lot of activity down by the Sadr Bureau on Delta and they want us to drive by and report once we go drop this load off. After that, we are supposed to go by every hour as long as our patrol lasts.”

  “I heard,” Swope said pointing at his own radio. “Any idea how much longer this deal is going to take?”

  Aguero fired a few epithets in the direction of the disposal crews as he estimated progress on the job. “Beats me. Maybe another fifteen minutes if it goes like it did this morning. Anyway, Sala’am says they haven’t eaten yet and they want to take a break once they drop off this load.”

  Swope gave his assessment of the situation in typical fashion. “Well, they should have sat there and frickin’ goddamn done that while we were sittin’ there gettin’ our comm squared away. How do you want to play it?”

  Aguero eyed the workers and thought it over for a few minutes. “We’ll cut them loose to eat once they’ve filled their tanks and dropped their load. Meanwhile, I’ll stop by the house of this local sheik I’m supposed to meet. Then we link up with the trucks again and they can suck some more shit. Fisk, go get Sala’am for me.”

  When I returned with the interpreter in tow, the lieutenant outlined his plans. “Sala’am, I need you to tell them that they can eat once this load is dropped off. You need to find out where to meet them. We’ll give them a time once the down-load is complete.”

  I noted Sala’am’s concern about passing those precise instructions along to the disposal crews. He tried to buy some time. “Sorry, Sir. You give to them time when they what?”

  “Once they have emptied the tanks,” Aguero said patiently.

  “Oh, yes. I will do this. But sir, the man say that some people are giving to him problems.”

  “What do you mean by problems?”

  “He say that some people are saying to them why you do this for coalition forces? Why you do this for them? It makes the man nervous to hear these things.”

  “Tell him to say that he’s working for the people of Sadr City. And not to worry; we’re here to keep him safe.”

  Sala’am trotted off to pass the word, but he didn’t seem happy with it. There was something wrong here, something lurking beneath the surface—something that did not bode well for the remainder of the day. I tried to get a grip on what it might be as the crews finished and we fired up to escort them to the dump site.

  

  The dump site was on the south end of the city within sight of the fire station that we had visited a few days earlier to retrieve expended ordnance. Lieutenant Aguero charted a course along Route Delta, which gave us the opportunity to collect some eyeball Intel for the TOC. We blew past the Sadr Bureau where there was a crowd milling around that looked to be several hundred men and boys. That didn’t seem very unusual. There were always crowds around Mookie’s headquarters. Staff Sergeant Robinson reported that several men had caught his eye and made the throat-slitting gesture. Whatever was on the minds of the people in that crowd, it wasn’t good will toward Americans.

  The contractor crews quickly pulled their trucks into the site and began pumping as we got parked and out of our vehicles. We set up our security perimeter, and I looked around trying to orient myself. We were north of Route Pluto and parked near an open field with jerry-rigged soccer nets and goal posts. There were no holding tanks for the sewage. The crews just uncoiled their hoses and let the sludge flow where gravity took it. The soccer field was going to be a very smelly place very shortly. When the download was complete, Sala’am got his orders from the lieutenant and trotted off to tell the workers where to meet us for the next run at 1430. That should give them time to get something to eat, and give us time to drop in on the local sheik that Aguero wanted to meet.

  We left the sewage crews and rolled into a tightly packed neighborhood a few blocks south of Route Gold. That’s when the streets got seriously narrow and crowded. Our drivers were forced to slowly thread through a maze of squalid alleys and backstreets. What made it tougher on them were the long lines of dilapidated or abandoned civilian vehicles parked haphazardly all over the area. The slow speed and jerky maneuvering made us all nervous and kept everyone scanning high for snipers or random grenade throwers and low for signs of IED.

  Several times during the trek, Chen—who was gunning the lead victor—had to climb out of his turret and clear antennas from low overhead wiring. Normally, our antennas could be secured in a low position using tie-downs provided with the vehicle. Our tie-downs were missing, naturally, so Chen had to hold both antennas down by hand which left him only one hand free for the machinegun—and a .50 caliber can’t be fired accurately with one hand. It was an aggravating situation, but Chen never bitched about it or swore. He just grimly put up with it, hopping in and out of his turret, managing the antennae, and clearing low-hanging wires until the lieutenant indicated that we’d reached the location he wanted.

  When we stopped, Aguero checked the grid he’d scribbled in his platoon notebook and motioned for us to follow him. Sala’am and I trailed him while he walked up to a door and knocked. After several minutes, a young man in his early teens cracked the door and Sala’am asked to see the Sheik. There was a conversation that told us the Sheik was elsewhere and would not return that day. Aguero took it stoically and began the standard game of 20 Questions regarding how the young man thought things were going in his neighborhood. He knew where all this was going. He’d have to come back tomorrow or some other day. That was the bottom line as we went back to the vehicles and began a roving patrol of the area. There was still a good deal of time to kill before our scheduled reunion with the contractors.

  Finally, the lieutenant decided we should find some place to park and save fuel. We pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned school, and Swope got the vehicles in position to provide 360 degrees of observation and security. It was a great spot; likely the only place in Sadr City where we wouldn’t be mobbed by kids wanting hand-outs or adults wanting to give us the evil eye. We sat around smoking, joking, and looking at watches until a few local kids finally ambled up to beg for chocolate or MRE remnants.

  With nothing particular to do, I engaged the kids and practiced my Arabic. The oldest one was about ten and dressed in loose, dirty garb that looked like it had been plucked from a rag pile. I ran out of vocabulary in about 30 seconds and we defaulted into the standard Mistah, you giff me routine. I tossed them a roll of Charms, an MRE confection with a passing resemblance to candy, and then chased them off. We got no further visitors, and the lieutenant finally ordered us to mount up for the meeting with the sewage trucks.

  They were waiting for us at the designated time at a little open-air restaurant on the far west side of Sadr City. We got some interested looks from civilians sitting at white plastic tables, eating or smoking, but the crews were aboard the trucks and ready to roll. We jockeyed for position a while and then led the jet trucks toward our next assigned area. That turned out to be a return to the area that we’d been working before lunch.

  We pulled the vehicles into position around the designated cesspool and sat scanning the surrounding buildings as the sewage workers went right to work. There were a few locals who sauntered by to observe, but none of them approached or
showed any particular interest in the trucks or their American Army escorts. I didn’t much miss the standard good, good, Mistah. I was getting more than a little tired of that. I felt that if I could make an effort to learn a little Arabic, the locals could do the same in English.

  Ignoring the images and the stink, I stood behind the open door of our vehicle which I thought might provide some little protection if somebody took a shot at us. Lieutenant Aguero sat inside, scribbling in his notebook with the radio mike held against his ear by his helmet chinstrap. Behind me, I heard a commotion and spun to see what was happening out in the center of the sludge pool. The Iraqi workers were furiously retrieving their hoses and packing up gear. I glanced at my watch and noted that we’d been onsite less than ten minutes. The cesspool was still at a reeking level with no signs of decrease.

  “Hey, Sir…” I tried to get Aguero’s attention and let him know the contractors were about to bail, but he was listening to the platoon net with a look of shock on his face.

  “They what?” he shouted into the handset and rose to look around at the sewage trucks. He was too late. Both vehicles were speeding down a nearby alley. “Hold your position,” he said to whoever was on the other end of the communication. “Hold your position! Fall in behind Davis when we pass you.” Aguero tossed the handset and signaled for us to mount up in a hurry. “Crank it up and haul ass after those damn trucks!”

  And so began the Great Sadr City Honey Wagon Steeplechase. Riddell had us rolling before I was fully seated, and I struggled to pull the door closed. Aguero apparently saw some humor in the business of Army Humvees conducting a high-speed pursuit of fleeing shit-suckers. He began to laugh maniacally.

  “They just took off!” he laughed when I asked him what we were doing. “Jesus Christ, these guys—you gotta watch ʼem like a hawk or else they’ll just up and leave.” It was the first and only time I’d ever seen Aguero laugh, and he was nearly in tears as we flew down the streets in pursuit of the shit trucks. I tried to imagine how he was going to brief this aspect of our mission to highers. “Riddell,” the lieutenant said as he tried to regain his composure. “You’re gonna pull around them and set up to block their route.”

  Specialist Riddell was into the game by now like an excited cop chasing bank robbers in some mob movie. He whipped the wheel hard right around a corner and mashed the accelerator with a big grin on his face. Chen took a more stable stance up in the turret trying to keep his balance, as Riddell shot the Humvee around slower traffic. The trucks were setting up to make another turn and Riddell made his move. The engine was screaming as he closed the gap and swung into a left turn gaining on the desperados. Aguero broke out in another laughing fit as he reported the situation to battalion. In a side-view mirror I caught a glimpse of the other Humvees racing to keep up with the pursuit.

  We were on a straightaway now, and Riddell had the victor gunning for all the engine and transmission would take. About 100 meters into Route Echo, we managed to pass the Iraqi contractors and maneuvered into position to block their escape. He swerved in front of the lead truck and stood on the brakes. I swung out the door and crouched with my rifle aiming to the rear as the trucks hit their brakes in tandem and rolled to a stop. I could see the crew in the cab staring wide-eyed as Aguero and Sala’am stormed toward them yelling for the boss man.

  Maybe I had lived a sheltered life, but I realized right then—watching the boss man climb from behind the wheel on rubbery legs—that I had never before seen another human in a state of abject terror. He waved his hands in front of his face and shouted the only English he knew. “Sir! No, Sir! Good, Sir! No, Sir!” He was trembling and on the verge of tears as he spewed a barrage of Arabic at our interpreter. Sala’am listened to the harangue for a while as the boss man continued to tell us by body language that he was scared shitless. When there was a break, the interpreter turned to Aguero with concern in his expression.

  “He say that men at that place want to kill him. They kill his family if he work for coalition forces.”

  Aguero frowned and considered the revelation. “What did they look like?”

  “He say he doesn’t know. Only that they wore black clothes and that he has quit. He will work no more today.”

  “Tell him that if he doesn’t work today, he’ll probably lose the contract.”

  “Sir, he says he does not care. He will work no more today.”

  “Tell him to wait here.” The lieutenant walked back to our vehicle and snatched at the radio handset to let battalion command know we were at a shit-sucking impasse. It took the TOC a while to digest that, and while we waited for instructions, we noticed a long line of civilian vehicles all headed south. They were full of people and giving us a wide berth, but a crowd of pedestrians was beginning to gather. These people knew a confrontation when they saw one and weren’t about to miss the entertainment. My Spidey Senses began to tingle, and I got a firm grip on my weapon as the lieutenant acknowledged orders from battalion.

  “Roger, Comanche Red One out.” Aguero just stood there tapping his helmet with the handset as he contemplated the orders he’d just received.

  “Hey,” he shouted to get Sala’am’s attention. “Just tell him we’ll escort him to dump this load and then he can go home.” The grateful Iraqi boss man vaulted into the cab and ground the truck into gear. Apparently this day’s shit-sucking was at an end.

  Our route to the dump site took us past the Route Georgia intersection, which featured a huge portrait of Mookie glaring directly at any and all passing infidels. We blew past a crowd gathering near the portrait and approached the Sadr Bureau where things got a little more ominous. The whitewashed building that housed the Sadr Bureau was crowded inside and out with men and boys in black uniforms. Busses and vans were arriving and departing, urgently picking groups of Sadr loyalists. Riddell crept by so we could get a look at what was happening.

  The crowd waiting for transportation looked to be about 200 to 400 people. Some radio traffic from people who had a better view said it might be as many as 1,000. As we rolled by at ultra-slow speed gawking at them, several people in the crowd gave us the two-handed shooting-you-with-an-AK gesture. A few leaders in the crowd dispatched stuffed vehicles with a resounding slap on the roof and signaled for the next one to approach. They glared at us as we rolled by the bureau.

  Like a good infidel, I just waved and smiled. When Carl Wild’s Humvee rolled past he blew a few kisses from behind the armor shield surrounding his machinegun. He caught a few rocks tossed his way but he knew—and so did the people gathered outside the bureau—that if it went any further, they would die in a hail of fire. Rocks are one thing. An M-240 machinegun is another thing entirely.

  Our orders did not include antagonizing a crowd. We did that for free and without any orders, so we picked up speed and headed for the dump site. I jotted down a few observations in my notebook, hoping we’d just leave the jet trucks to their environmental mayhem and head back to the FOB.

  Since the sewage trucks didn’t have a full load, it only took a short time for the nervous crews to empty their tanks. The lieutenant checked his watch and decided there was plenty of time left in our day. He made another try to get the Iraqi crews back on the job. It was no use. After a quick conversation with Sala’am, they indicated that they would be more than happy to suck shit anywhere we wanted, but they were done in Sadr City.

  “They just keep saying over and over that people said they were going to kill them,” Sala’am reported. “And there were guys in black making this…” Sala’am mimicked the throat-cutting gesture. “These men say to them that anybody working with the coalition was an enemy of Sadr City.”

  Swope and Aguero called the sergeants for a quick conference. I wasn’t invited, and I didn’t bother to eavesdrop. Most of us who were along for the ride, and didn’t have life or death decisions to make, understood there was something serious simmering in Sadr City. Taken out of that context, the events of a day of shit
-sucking didn’t amount to much, but when you thought about the crowds and all the anti-American attitude out on the mean streets, sometime soon unsucked shit was going to hit the fan.

  I remembered a line from Sioux Chief Crazy Horse’s biography. His tactical skill was one of the reasons that the Sioux and their allies wiped out Custer’s 7th Cavalry at Little Big Horn. The descendants of that storied unit were currently operating as a modern Army unit just across the Euphrates River from Sadr City. Our unit was part of the same division, the 1st Cavalry. I wondered if a sort of historical parallel between the Little Big Horn and Sadr City lay just over the horizon. What was it Crazy Horse said as he led his warriors into battle?

  Hoka hey! It’s a good day to die.

  

  Once the leadership had agreed upon a plan in lieu of the sewage mission, the order was given to mount up and move out. I was ready to go back, take off the gear, and grab some nasty chow. The day had grown warm and as we turned around on Route Florida, buildings drained of color flashing by outside our vehicles, and I wondered how hot it would get. Riddell had the air blowing, but it wasn’t pushing anything remotely arctic against the muggy heat.

  “What’s the plan, Sir?” I asked.

  “We’re going to do a quick presence patrol around here and then one more drive-by en route back to the FOB. Riddell, take us back out to Florida and turn left. Go to the far western edge of the city where Grizzlies intersects and come back on the other side of Florida.”

  “Roger, Sir.”

  The ordered route was arrow-straight, but I couldn’t see much beyond the first mile as traffic was stacking up in a hurry. I began to relax a bit and reconsider earlier misgivings about the situation in Sadr City. On this end of our AO, there was no outward sign that anything was cooking below the generic surface tension of a turbulent Iraqi suburb. Just another normal Sunday in an abnormally shitty city. Maybe I’d just let myself get spooked by a bunch of random inconsequential circumstances and cultural biases. I tried to think of other things as we roared through the traffic snarls and shifted around to relieve the bite of the driver’s seat frame on my shins.