Authors: Claude Schmid
A few weeks before joining the Army, he’d quit a dead-end job at Benson’s body shop because the owner promised him a three-day weekend for the opening of hunting season, and then reneged. Then 9/11 happened. The following week he went to the nearest recruiting station. No terrorist was going to attack America and get away with it. Fourteen weeks later, he started basic training. Now, almost three years later, Moose was in Iraq.
He thought of the United States Army as an adventure club—the biggest and strongest club of all, with common ideas and principles and a shared purpose. He was young and unconquerable and wanted his war.
1LT Wynn was meeting with an Iraqi Sheikh inside one of the houses while the rest of the platoon provided security outside. Each of the Wolfhound trucks were manned by four or five soldiers. Their plan positioned one truck and crew at the far end of the street and a second truck at the other end, about 75 meters away from Moose. Two Humvees, including Moose’s, parked adjacent to the meeting house. Two soldiers went inside with 1LT Wynn, providing close security.
Moose didn’t understand why the lieutenant thought they needed to sit and talk to so many locals. They did this almost every day. Leadership called it engagement, designed to help community relationships. This policy sounded too much like politics. Moose wanted more fighting and less talking.
Glancing around at the other Humvees, he could see two of the other three turret gunners. Specialist Ulricht hunched low in D22, his gloved hands gripping the truck’s .50 caliber. Ulricht had ears big enough to fly with, and he acted as if talking were a sin. He was the quietest man in the platoon. He scrutinized his zone, an I’ll-kill-you-fucking-now look stamped on his face. D21’s gunner, Sergeant Singleton, bulging with body armor, his chin firm with resolution, scanned a distant intersection like a hawk watching for ground varmints. Moose wondered whether Singleton was listening to music. He took it everywhere, even to the latrine. Every Wolfhound did his job; they’d be fearful of letting their buddies down if they didn’t. They could be me, Moose thought, as if a mind-weld took place, an invisible solder joining each man to the other.
He and the others had left the civilian world far behind. The Army’s world was different, both more constrained and wilder. Wartime service in Iraq magnified those differences. Here, you could get rimmed out one minute for not sweeping out your living trailer, but be expected to crush an insurgent’s Adam’s apple the next. Here the soldiers kept the beasts inside them close to the surface, but let the Army maintain the keys. Extra deprivation—no tenderness, no love, no freedom—shaped and toned the men, their combat experiences and isolation intensifying their connections. Some men felt closer to each other than to their own families.
Moose’s eyes again swept the area before him, his mind continuously processing details of what he saw. An old pickup truck loaded with butchered lamb carcasses stood in an alley about 30 meters away, blood dripping through holes in the truck’s rusty bed onto the street. An open sewer bisected the street. A dozen or so thin mattresses with colorful slipcovers were stacked on the curb beside the truck. Must be an Iraqi version of a mattress sale, he thought. Instead of a man in a funny costume swinging a sale sign, they just stacked the mattresses outside. Nearby, a boy swept the curb with a bundle of dried sticks.
A few Iraqis walked the street, some alone and silent, others in small groups, talking. Their clothing varied from western-like business suits to traditional Arab dishdashas, loose flowing garments which some of the soldiers called tents.
A big truck loaded full of decorative tile, with five laborers in the back, drove through the intersection in front of Murphy, shaking up another cloud of dust. A dog ran after the truck. One man threw something at the dog.
Moments later, a mosque began the call to prayer. The muezzin’s high-pitched passionate voice carried into the neighborhood like a metaphysical mist. Moose didn’t understand the prayer. Whatever was said stilled the anxieties of some, admonished others, and had little effect on many more. Moose accepted the barracks’ view of Islam: the religion was a cover for politics and the purpose of politics was power. Religious leaders in Iraq were deep into the contest for power. Most folks just struggled to survive, to feed their families, to live in security, hoping to prosper.
The mosque—small, well-maintained, and crowned by a lean and elegant minaret—looked surreal, an architectural jewel suggesting improbable affluence, glorifying the skill of man as much as the purposefulness of Allah.
Across the street from the mosque was a large empty lot that had once been a block of homes. Saddam had razed the neighborhood because a family living there was implicated in a plot against his regime. Then he ordered the homeowners to haul the broken remnants away. Rebuilding had been forbidden. Yet signs of returning life could now be seen around its edges. It had taken nearly a year after Saddam’s overthrow before Iraqis got up the courage. Poor Kurds were moving in and building modest homes—often shacks assembled of uncemented concrete blocks, cardboard, and scraps of plastic and sheet metal. Chunks of brick held down the tin roofs of several shacks. Others had tarps for roofs. Some sported a faded UN logo.
Moose looked again at the upscale house where Wynn was meeting. Moose’s family’s Kentucky home would have fit inside it. Four round columns held up a portico, and vertical strips of colorful tile highlighted the façade. Ornate molding trimmed the flat roof. Many houses along this street had small courtyards and gardens. The immediate area seemed miles away from the neighborhood Saddam had destroyed, but wasn’t. In every country one finds sharp contrasts between the haves and the have-nots, he thought.
Wynn sat so close to Sheikh Amir that you couldn’t run a pencil between their arms. He sat close by design, wanting Amir to know he wanted to be on good terms. Without a personal connection, cooperation from any Iraqi would be fragile or non-existent.
Amir had just returned from praying in another room while Wynn had waited. As a senior sheikh of the Joubari tribe, Amir was an influential local leader. Though Westerners often viewed tribes as relics of antediluvian social networks, Arabs considered tribes a kind of extended family.
As they talked, Amir periodically touched Wynn’s hand. Physical contact between men was common in the Middle East, the act of touch enhancing human connections and facilitating trust, like two dogs sniffing.
The contrasts between the men were sharp: Wynn, at 25, stood nearly six feet tall, fit and wiry with a runner’s build. Short curly blond hair and almond skin gave him a from-the-far-north appearance. He had thin lips, a strong high forehead, and an angular face. His eyes were most striking, set deep in his face like small turquoise stones.
Years of adversity and responsibility had stamped Amir’s face with an abundance of terrain. Probably 60, he had old boot-leather skin, dark and tough and worn by heat, moisture, time, and more time. Coarse tangles of hair advanced aggressively from his ears and nostrils, like wild vegetation. He had wire-brush salt-and-pepper hair and a big mustache and a large plow-shaped nose. His eyes were coal black, as impenetrable as a collapsed tunnel.
Next to Sheikh Amir sat one of his key assistants, a man named Haider. Haider was tall and dour-faced, not a man you could see leading any revelries. His right hand had been mangled, reportedly in a childhood farming accident, leaving him with a stubby fingerless palm and a long thumb shaped like a chisel. The Americans nicknamed him, “Mr. Thumb.” He rarely spoke.
Wynn had an interpreter—a terp—named Cengo with him, who sat to his right. Cengo, 20, looked older than his years, and permanently tired. Wynn constantly reminded himself not to look at Cengo during the dialog but to keep his focus on Amir, as he’d been taught by the Army.
Amir, animated and generous, appeared to relish the meeting. Wynn could tell the Iraqi felt possessive of Wynn’s time and interpreted these meetings as giving each man part ownership in the other.
“America is strong country,” Cengo said, translating Amir’s latest statement. “America rich. This make America strong. This good, Amir say,” Cengo said in a clipped voice, sounding like an airport announcer.
Amir again leaned closer, his face brightening as if he was about to share an exclusive insight, and spoke. Both men waited for Cengo to translate. Amir’s eyebrows arched like stretching caterpillars.
“We Iraqis are old people. We have long history. Arab people have great education from this long history. It make us wise. We want help America by teaching her about our country. We good people. We want help you, Sheikh Amir say,” Cengo translated.
“This is helpful,” Wynn commented. “When we work together, we can accomplish a great deal. Americans are good people too. They want to help Iraq.”
“It good that American people want help Iraqis, but how you think I can help you?” asked Amir, through Cengo. “I have nothing to hide. We good people. We want peace.”
Wynn answered. “But Sadi,” addressing Amir with the Arabic word for sir, “you know some Iraqis don’t want peace. Some are committing acts of violence. They want to undermine the new Iraqi Government. They attack Americans. They attack Iraqis. If you can help us with any information on insurgent groups, we would greatly appreciate it.”
Amir turned briefly and spoke firmly to Cengo.
“These people foreigners. Not Iraqi. No Iraqi people,” Cengo translated.
“Yes and no,” Wynn replied gently. This was one of the important questions, he realized. How much of the insurgency was homegrown, and how much was done by outsiders?
“Not Iraqis.” Amir shook his head, as if reading Wynn’s mind, struggling to answer in English.
Amir spoke in a voice heavy with caution and reputation, like a man never hurried, like a man always heard. As a sheikh, he had the luxury of talking only when he wanted to. He said a little or a lot, depending on how he assessed his position.
Wynn visited Amir because he wanted information and cooperation. After seven months of being in the country, and months of preparing, Wynn knew this war was more about accurate information than about firepower. Counterinsurgency theory required they act like doctors: treat carefully and do no harm. This sounded fine, but no one considered it easy.
Amir wanted security and money. Money meant power and influence, the ability to have his way, to sustain his authority.
The discussion continued. Amir said he took great risks by meeting with Americans. Wynn didn’t doubt this. By now the whole neighborhood would know about this meeting. A neighboring tribal sheikh had recently been beheaded for reportedly cooperating with the Coalition, the title given to the allies fighting in Iraq. Before killing him, terrorists had visited the sheikh one night and warned him to stop talking to the Americans. He said he would but didn’t. Though dangerous, cooperation with the Americans tempted prominent Iraqis for financial reasons. Americans brought projects and money. The Takfiri—the name Iraqis used for terrorists—brought intimidation and death.
Double-dealing was as common in this part of the world as sand. Amir would be tempted to cooperate in as small a way as he could and still get what he wanted. Later that night, Amir might also be cooperating with Takfiri. The tactics would be similar. Give as little as possible to get more in return. These were rules of survival in a dangerous world.
So far they’d been sitting in a small room on western-style furniture. Now a young Iraqi boy, age maybe 14, came into the room and walked over to Amir and whispered something. Amir looked at Wynn and said, “We eat.” He led the way to another room.
“Iraqi food good. Very good. You must eat,” Amir said with pride, looking back over his shoulder at Wynn.
“I know, Sadi. I enjoy it.”
The group of seven men—four Iraqis and three Americans—entered a long narrow room. A thin carpet bisected the room, and seating pillows lined the walls. Amir motioned to the party to assemble in two rows, separated by the carpet.
“Sit down, please.”
Everyone sat, Amir directly across from Wynn, and Mr. Thumb to Amir’s right.
Within minutes, several large metal pizza-like plates loaded with food were carried in and placed on the carpet. Custom called for the meal to be served family style. No one had individual plates. The largest plate, placed between Amir and Wynn, was piled high with a mixture of rice and raisins and pieces of roasted chicken and lamb. Smaller plates held cold vegetables and flat bread.
Amir, sensing Wynn’s hesitation, picked up a piece of flat bread with his right hand and, using his hand like the mouth of a pole digger, plunged the bread into the huge mound of rice and meat. Rice and other pieces of food fell off indiscriminately as he scooped up a handful and ate.
The meal was a gesture of hospitality to the American guests. Amir orchestrated everything. The Americans drank cans of Turkish soda while the Iraqis drank bottled water—the Americans avoided most local bottled water because the bottles were often reused and refilled from questionable sources.
Wynn enjoyed the meal. The food was fresh and each man took what he wanted. Of the vegetables—probably washed in unsanitary water—he ate a few, not wanting to appear to his host as ridiculously careful.
Amir wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and picked up a particularly juicy piece of meat with his hands and put it on piece of flat bread before Wynn.
“Eat. Eat,” he said. Wynn smiled.
As they ate, the conversation sparse, Wynn studied Amir, keenly aware of the differences separating them. Different worlds made them; that indisputable fact lay in the room like a carnivore. One man grew up in a life dominated by past glories and what it had once again released, looming dangerously over the present. The other came from a new glittering and diverse place, bred on confidence and exceptionalism, yet constantly bumping into hard realities. Although he wanted and accepted the hospitality of the older man, Wynn felt as if he was being feted by an anachronism. Part of Wynn hoped that one way or another the modernity and power of America would make everything about this old man irrelevant and absurd, that newness and youth should triumph. Another part of him knew better. Nevertheless, he hoped the pragmatic nature of Americans gave them a solid chance to succeed.