Princes of War (30 page)

The platoon had much to talk about. He tried putting it all together neatly in his mind, but it didn’t work that way. Their work left minimal time for detailed reflection. Much of the thinking Wynn did, he did on the go. He never did only one thing. The Army called it multi-tasking. If he took too much time thinking over past things, he’d get the sense he neglected something emergent, or wasted time, and it left him feeling unprepared.

Undoubtedly, the recent days had been particularly difficult. No way around that. The best thing so far—probably the most important thing—was that none of his men had been hurt. The reaper stalked. Ramirez’s death still felt like yesterday and each man knew other soldiers who had died or been badly wounded. He owed it to his men that they hear from him in a little more formal setting, something unhurried and serious, where communication of the essentials was the core message: the mission and their protection of each other, as opposed to the usual businesslike discussions and orders. Where to start this time? The car bomb today. The sniper threat. The warehouse. The dead Iraqi boy. The census.

He had to do what he could to keep the men confident about themselves and their mission. That was basic leadership. He remembered classes back at the Tank School Officer Basic at Fort Knox. One instructor had called it Buffer and Boost. The two Bs.
Buffer
his men, as in protect them from unnecessary stresses, things he could deflect, like shielding them from the higher headquarters pressures.
Boost
was all about building morale and personal pride, keeping his soldiers positive about their jobs and mission. In theory, a well-led man with sturdy pride could stay resilient in all kinds of circumstances.

Cooke had already assembled the men in the usual semi-circle, with the T-wall behind them. Most sat or knelt on the ground. Several sat with their backs to the T-wall, hats cocked at weird angles. Although it was dark, in the night light Wynn still caught the range of looks in many of their faces as he walked up. He noted the weariness, but also the defiance and stubbornness. Cooke signaled for the men to get up on their feet as Wynn approached, the traditional respect due an officer. But Wynn raised his hand, indicating they should stay seated. He was long past being concerned about such courtesies. He stared at his men like a coach admiring a winning team.

All of his men wrestled in their own way with difficult circumstances. Moose had that deceitful passivity, like a watchful bobcat resting on the branch of a tree. Turnbeck, edgy and distracted, but still alert and ready to execute any order without complaint. Kale, stamped with a worried longing look, unsure of himself, like a dog begging for petting. Wynn made a mental note to ask Cooke for an update on Kale. Cuebas stood against the wall, nearly invisible, surly, rustling with something in his hand. A cigarette? He didn’t remember whether Cuebas smoked.

“Steak and Lobster for chow tonight?” Wynn started with a light question, trying to break the ice.

Soft chuckles all around. The men would have eaten already. Wynn had not had time.

Cooke commented, “Sims here tells me he means to have the big Filipino gal behind the messhall counter. The one with the dimple on her cheek and thunder thighs.”

“Naw,” hollered Sims.

More laughter tumbled around the group. There was no shortage of food or of thoughts about women.

“Saw something the other day,” Wynn said, “saying that it’s shocking how many guys go home from deployments having gained weight. We’re eating too well!”

Chuckles translated as it “ain’t gonna happen to me” rumbled between the men.

Again Cooke followed, “Sir, that’s true. But some of these jokers are gaining muscle. Getting much too much time in the gym.”

A low boo of dispute came from a few in the crowd. Cooke wasn’t serious. Not about the too much time, anyway.

Wynn, never one to consume time unnecessarily, moved to the more serious matters. Afterwards, he asked himself whether he’d dropped the small talk too abruptly. It was not that he didn’t know it was important in human relations to personalize things, to try to convey empathy, but at the same time he couldn’t quite bring himself to let his guard down. He’d always had trouble with that. That cloudy distance between natural self-protection and building firm connections to others wasn’t easy to navigate. Many stayed lost in the gap.

Moose watched Wynn talk. The lieutenant stood erect, straight-backed, right thumb in right pocket, left hand on left hip, one foot slightly ahead the other. Moose thought Wynn stood somewhat stiffly, like a referee after a questionable call at a ball game. Nevertheless, Wynn could talk in a way that made himself heard. The men admired that. The young officer was not afraid to speak his mind, or to act. Moose respected that. Wynn had demonstrated that many times in the last few months. The action part was the more important. Talk meant nothing in the end. There was another interesting thing about Wynn. He had a way of conveying much with little, and a steadiness when steadiness was the main thing needed.

Why is it we are who we are? Moose asked. He weighed maybe 50 percent more than Wynn, and could probably bench press twice as much. Yet it was the young officer who stood before them right now who could and would say what he wanted. Somehow, officers were different. That Moose knew. Not better or worse, but different. Moose, especially after this week, felt he could fight with the best of them. He’d earned his right. Nobody could take that from him. If they could measure guts, his would be as tough as anyone’s. Yesterday he’d shot and killed that man without flinching. But Wynn had something extra too. Whether it was talent or good fortune, Moose wasn’t sure. The heavy responsibility of leadership, more than anything else perhaps, set Wynn apart.

After the introductory comments, Wynn reviewed the platoon’s actions over the last few days and talked about the progress of the census. Estimates indicated they had visited 15 to 20 percent of the homes in the W14 & W15 areas. He spoke shortly about Iraqi perceptions. The people here are different, Wynn said. The same, but different. How we value or emphasize certain things is heavily influenced by culture and experience. Soon, he believed, they would increasingly work with the new Iraqi Forces as time and situation allowed. Eventually local forces would have to do the heavy lifting, if the mission was to be successful.

Moose listened and remained watchful, attentive, fixed by all that had transpired, spoken and unspoken, between the men in the platoon and their leader. He felt the inspiring warmth that came from being part of a team. And he felt satisfied with his role.

Wynn continued. “OK—now to the last few days. It’s been a damn rollercoaster. You guys have been doing great work. I’m proud of your efforts.”

He shifted hands. Left thumb in left pocket. Right hand on hip. “I know you are tired and beaten up. When you see the things that we’ve seen, day after day, it’s not easy. I know that. Each of you never stops asking the permanent question: why?

“How can someone use an electric drill on another human beings’ legs? Why is it that children cannot even be safe at play?

“I don’t know. I wish I did. But what I do know is there’s evil in the minds of some men here. Our job remains what it has been—not to figure out why, but to stop the bad things we can stop.

“I’m convinced the average Iraqi doesn’t support that kind of behavior. To the average Iraqi, just like an American, that kind of behavior is barbarous. I’m sure of that. Extremist behavior will convince more of the Iraqi population to help us help them.

“And that is what is happening. The calls coming in to HQ with tips are increasing. During the censuses, Iraqis are talking. We’re gaining more informants. Weapons cache discoveries are up. As I’ve told some of you, the tip on the warehouse came to us by cell phone. I feel, as does the CO, that our efforts are paying off.

“Now,” Wynn paused briefly and glanced at his feet. Then, looking at the men, he let another long moment of silence hang, as if judging his audience. “I heard something this evening from the CO about the information we seized from the warehouse. Folks have been going through that stuff, translating it, looking for important information in the documents we found. And guess what they found?”

Wynn let this question penetrate. He watched the men for reactions.

For a second, Moose thought Wynn was preparing a joke. Then he saw something like an apology come up on Wynn’s face. Wynn went down on one knee. Both hands rested on his horizontal thigh.

Wynn continued, “Believe it or not, some of the documents suggest that there is a female sniper from Chechnya operating in the area. And if so, she may be the one who shot that Iraqi boy. Supposedly she’s working with a group known as PFA, short for Purifiers for Allah.”

Heads lifted. Moose heard grunts of disgust, and men exchanged disbelieving glances.

“No shit,” someone said.

“Ayeee!”

“Turning things on its head,” another commented.

“Doesn’t matter whose head,” Cooke said, “we want it.”

Tyson, Moose, Cuebas, and Gung sat talking on the deck of the company orderly room. Now almost midnight, the night air remained warm and stagnant, enduring evidence of the sun’s assault earlier in the day. Stars salted the black sky. Power generators hummed monotonously in the background, oddly reassuringly. A few minutes earlier they’d finished watching a
Seinfeld
episode on the DVD player inside the orderly room. After getting a dose of comedy, the group agreed to go outside and return to the questioning, blustering, and speculating that filled up most of their idle time.

Intermittently during the
Seinfeld
episode, and now during the conversation, each man’s mind returned to the female sniper. Incomprehensible events can crush like a python, and no one could shake this off. The idea that a woman had traveled 1,000 miles to kill for a dream was a fundamental violation of rationality somehow.

“You know, they won’t believe this back home,” Tyson said, after a long silence. “They won’t fucking believe it. Don’t make no sense.”

Gung commented: “They don’t believe any of this shit, man. None of it. This is just one more thing.”

“Ayeee, they believe people die,” Cuebas said. “Our people; their people.”

“I don’t get how she got here.” Tyson said, not understanding it. None of them did.

“Ayeee, that’s a different country, ain’t it. Part of Russia or something fucking far away.”

“They all work together,” Moose said. “They want to kill us. So they come from all over the world to take their chances.”

“That’s true,” Gung said. “The bastards want a piece of us.”

Moose adjusted his hand on the butt stock of his M16. The barrel rested, muzzle-down, on the floor. He leaned the rifle back and forth like the stick shift of a manual transmission. He wanted to accelerate.

“Like a terrorist club,” asserted Gung. “Like a god-dammed club!”

Cuebas spoke up again. “Just face it, man, some people around the world definitely don’t like us. Can’t everybody—except me—be liked. Just the way it is. And if you’re on top of the hill, somebody’s trying to knock you down. Not much room on top.” He paused, then, “Suppose it’s always been that way.”

“Mexs are easy to knock down,” Moose swung.

“Puerto Ricans aren’t, fucker.”

“I’d like to meet this woman,” Gung said, imagining her.

They all wondered what she might look like. The flitting image in Cuebas’ mind was of a slender dark-haired woman, moderately attractive. She would not be overweight. That wouldn’t work. As a sniper she would have sharp eyes and steady hands.

“Wynn didn’t say they were sure. Didn’t say it was definite this woman shot that kid,” Moose said, as if he wanted to believe, but couldn’t.

“True. True,” Gung cut him off. “But I got a bad feeling about it, man.”

“That was done professionally, man—ain’t no fucking new shooter make a shot like that,” Tyson said, with a bitterness framed in respect.

“Ayeee. We don’t know for sure it was a good shoot,” asserted Cuebas. “She might just be a lucky bitch or might have missed one of us and hit the kid.”

“Naw man, the closest one of us was too far away from the boy,” Tyson countered.

“I hope we find out,” Moose murmured.

He had killed a man, Moose reminded himself. Would he kill a woman? Yes, he would. Holding his M16 vertical with one had on the hand grip and the other on the butt, he spun the weapon several times, muzzle rotating on the floor like a drill to emphasize the point to himself.

“Don’t matter either way. Both is fucked up!” Tyson exclaimed.

“Ayeee, somebody will talk,” Cuebas spoke louder than he needed to. He had a feeling about this. “You couldn’t hide it long. Too many won’t like it. Ugh, the average Hajji may not like foreigners here, but that don’t mean it’s only Americans they’re talking about. I’m pretty damn sure they don’t like no fucking foreigners shooting their children.”

Wynn sat in the dark at the desk in his trailer. For some reason Clare Baldwin drifted back into his consciousness. Why now? Maybe a smell or an image or a memory had coalesced in his mind. Maybe it was the craziness of a female sniper. Things were difficult enough without constantly reanalyzing past relationships. Sometimes it simply didn’t work. He pondered what Clare might be doing that moment. Had she found the right man? He could write her. But that would be crazy now, wouldn’t it, after all this time? He could ask his mother about her. No, he wouldn’t. Now was not the time to dig around in that. He was due to email his parents, but hadn’t been able. The timing wasn’t right, his mind full of other things. Perhaps later. At times he felt guilty for not communicating home more often. Maybe keeping the homefront distant was another form of self-protection.

The present clamped down on his mind again. The idea of a female sniper from another country operating in Iraq was nearly impossible to let go. It was plain crazy, something twisted beyond recognition. Could a woman really have killed that boy? Still, at some academic level it fascinated him, adding mystery to mystery, another confirmation of the innumerable complexities and irrationalities in this place. Essentially, this was not a question about war, but a question about culture and human psychology.