Princes of War (12 page)

The two census teams focused on completing the questionnaires. Wynn dug deeper when necessary. Cooke was in charge of overall security with the remaining members of the platoon. Two men, Cuebas and Mongrel, took dismount positions on the roof of a specified building. This gave the platoon one higher vantage point from which to overwatch the area. Because of the dismounts necessary for this mission, two trucks were manned by only two people: the driver and gunner.

Kale was one of two security escorts accompanying Wynn. He felt uneasy, even more anxious than usual. Maybe Wynn had picked him for a reason, as a kind of test. Kale didn’t like that. With them were Cruz and Cengo. Wynn had Kale and Cruz wait by the Humvee while he and Cengo went to talk to the IP. The two census teams had already started visiting residences.

After he finished with the police, Wynn started walking down the street, Kale a few steps ahead of him. Kale scanned the street to their front, scrutinizing any objects on the road, and shifting his gaze side to side, from doors to windows to roofs and entries on either side of the street. He moved like a man walking through a forest full of wolves.

Wynn carried an M16 and a 9mm. The pistol was holstered. Kale and Cruz carried M16s. Cengo had no weapon; the rules prohibited it.

Two Iraqi policemen followed about 20 paces behind Wynn’s group. The other IPs remained in their vehicles. Kale could see two civilian cars parked on the right side of the road. Why only two? Shouldn’t there be more in a populated neighborhood? His anxiety started pulsing like a ringing phone. His whole body was already damp from perspiration. As he wiped his forehead, Kale noticed a person sitting in one of the parked cars.

Cengo walked over to get beside Wynn, who walked eastward.

“Check why he’s in the car,” Wynn instructed Cengo, who then walked over to the vehicle. A moment later he came back.

“He waiting on his mother. When she come out from house, he leave, he say.”

Finding no reason to be suspicious, Wynn changed his focus, and walked to the other side of the street.

Kale was relieved. Then, a bit further down this side of the street, next to building corner, he noticed two men standing by the road. Other than the man in the car, they were the only adult civilians on the street so far. Wynn noticed the men too, and walked over. The children who had chased the Wolfhounds now jostled around the Humvees, making a lot of noise. They looked like a gang from a Charles Dickens’ story. When they got too aggressive, either the IP or soldiers chased them away.

Wynn and Cengo talked to the two Iraqi men at the corner. The older Iraqi did the talking. He was stoop-shouldered, of medium height, and had white hair as fine as a rabbit’s pelt and a thin white mustache. Spiderwebs of wrinkles surrounded his eyes. Wynn asked the standard questions. Who were they? Did they live here? Was the area safe? The Iraqis’ answers, not surprisingly, were cordial, if not overly friendly. The older man appeared to welcome the attention.

Wynn made small talk, letting the Iraqis do most of the talking to minimize the intimidating impression of an armored man with a weapon talking to an unarmed civilian. He inquired about conditions in the neighborhood and asked about positive or negative trends. The older Iraqi talked for a minute or two, then asked about jobs, saying unemployment was the biggest problem in the area. Jobs and security were topics frequently mentioned. Because unemployment was high, many families pooled their income. Recent job growth was in the various Iraqi security forces, the new army and police. Iraqis knew these were well-paid jobs and often asked for American assistance in getting employment. A new policeman or soldier made approximately $400 a month, more than twice the average income.

Kneading his hands as if he were making bread, the older man spoke. “Jobs very important. Help many problems, he say. Impossible to live without job, he say,” Cengo translated.

“I know,” said Wynn. “Ask them for suggestions on how we can help.”

“He say his younger brother lost his job and have no job for eight months. He himself too old to work again,” Cengo answered.

“Where did his brother work?” Wynn asked.

Unemployed men were vulnerable to insurgent recruitment. Transporting or storing weapons or explosives, assisting in surveillance of targeted areas, initiating explosive devices—any of these activities could lead to a payoff of hundreds of dollars, a lot of money in Iraq. Murder for hire was another available trade. The payoff for a simple murder was less, reportedly under $100.

The man with rabbit-hair spoke again. As he waited for translation, Wynn looked up and down the neighborhood street. He noticed the extreme dustiness of the neighborhood, as if someone had sprayed the whole area with fire retardant. Cengo explained to him that this man’s brother had worked at a sewer processing station. The sewer company let him go because it could not pay him anymore.

As the group talked, the unemployed brother suddenly walked up, Kale letting him pass when it was clear the other Iraqis knew him. Immediately the brother confirmed he’d lost his job. After Cengo translated this, Wynn repeated politely his recommendation that the man contact the Army or Police, or look for work with Iraqi contractors doing jobs for the Coalition.

Wynn closed his conversation with the three Iraqi men by thanking them for their time and information. He realized they wanted more tangible assistance, but he had nothing more to offer.

Wynn walked around for another 15 minutes, observing the census teams coming in and out of residences, greeting pedestrians, and assessing the surroundings. More adults, having heard the Americans arrive, had come out to the street. Most just stood by their houses and watched, not wanting to get too close or appear too curious.

The radio on Wynn’s vest crackled. “D21, this D24, over,” called Cooke.

“This is 21, over,” Wynn responded.

“All good, 21?” Cooke asked.

Every five minutes or so, Wynn and Cooke exchanged a few words over the radio, confirming everything was OK. Wynn answered affirmatively, as he noticed Pauls’ census teams walking towards the next residence. Based on where they had started, Wynn estimated the team on the north side of the street had by now completed maybe seven or eight residences.

He decided to walk over to Pauls’ team to check how the work was going. Just as he turned to go, he heard the sharp cry of a woman. Then she cried again, louder—a horrible screeching sound, like that of a threatened bird.

He spun toward the noise, which had come from behind him on the same side of the street. He saw her. She and two other women, now about 50 meters away, hustled toward him. The woman shrieked from deep within her black clothing, her stressed white face glaring out of her
abaya
like a lantern in a cavern. She had come out of nowhere.

Was she attempting to speak between cries? Was she hurt? Screamers had been used to hide insurgent actions and reports described female suicide bombers feigning injury. But others, many others, were terrified witnesses and victims of this war. He washed the three women with his gaze like an antiseptic.

The women had captured everyone’s attention, soldiers and civilians. Now many eyes watched them. Wynn hesitated. He didn’t want this scene to divert him from noticing other developing threats. He ignored the women for a moment and did a slow visual sweep of the surroundings. This interruption was an ideal time for insurgents to send a VBIED their way, or—like what had happened yesterday—a sniper taking a shot. He looked back at the women, eyeing them suspiciously. They closed with him fast. He saw no signs of physical injury to any of them.

He checked the soldiers close to him. Distraction haunted everyone; tension was ratcheting up. Kale was blanched with apprehension. Both Kale and Cruz had raised their weapons. Any situation making a soldier distrustful of a crying woman was ugly, but war forced different thinking.

She was supported on either side by other women. They, too, were cloaked in
abayas
. The wailing woman, her face glistened with tears, radiated the pain and turmoil of the whole country.

“Should I stop them, Sir?” Kale yelled, over the cries.

Then two IP moved between the women and Wynn. This was positive. The police had responded properly; he wanted to remember to commend them later.

Kale also moved between the women and Wynn. His heavily armored body, helmet, and weapon stood like a shield separating his leader from the distraught women. Wynn, suspicious, again tried to ignore the women and scrutinize the surroundings. He saw his vehicles. Saw nobody suspicious on the road or the roofs. Saw a few other civilians watching the scene, but they didn’t seem connected. He checked the men in his view. Nothing yet looked wrong.

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.