Free Princes of War by Claude Schmid

were around, and it sounded as though they probably were, language confusion would abound. Might even be shrieking women in the house. Lighting in Iraqi houses was notoriously bad. The Americans carried flashlights and night-vision devices, but these only illuminated what you pointed at. A small cell phone was easy to hide. The platoon would have been under time pressure and probably had a slew of other worries that night. No time for a leisurely search. The phone should have been found, but he understood how it could have been missed.
    Those seeking good Intel from below often have little idea of what it’s actually like out there. Most had never done that work.
    Petty sensed his growing annoyance. Maybe Wynn’s eyes had a “you-fucking-do-it” look.
    “I know it’s a nearly impossible task that you guys down in the platoons have,” Petty said. “Poor Intelligence is fucking us. It boils down to this.” He leaned heavily back in his chair, suggesting he was about to sum up the entire war effort.
    “We’re trying to buy time for an Iraqi government to build credibility. Fuck, nobody in his right mind believes we’re here to take over this place. We came here to eliminate a perceived threat of terrorism and extremism. Then things started falling apart on us. Now violence is steadily increasing. Everything we think or do is questioned.”
    Wynn listened, trying to figure out why Petty leaped from a small search failure to discussing the overall progress of the war.
    Petty hesitated, perhaps sensing he’d jumped track, and started speaking more carefully. Then he looked at Wynn the way an attorney might look at a judge, hopeful his arguments were succeeding. “Violence spiraling out of control will make it impossible for the Iraqi government to get better. Don’t you agree?”
    He didn’t wait for Wynn to answer. “So we have to do whatever we can to suppress that violence, suppress the groups that are behind the violence. It’s all to buy time—time to give freedom and a better way of life here a real chance.”
    “Doesn’t make the work easier,” Wynn said, finally.
    They both remained quiet long enough to wonder why the other hadn’t spoken.
    “At least Sheikh Amir doesn’t think it can be easy for us,” Wynn added.
    “See him again today?”
    “Yes. I wasn’t sure whether to be thankful or wash after I left.”
    Hearing that, an amused look returned to Petty’s face. “Well, he’s certainly in a position to know a lot of stuff,” he said.
    “He gave me nothing worth salt, really. And even if he did, I wouldn’t know whether to trust him,” Wynn said. “It reminds me of something my grandfather used to say: ‘It ain’t just what you don’t know that hurts you—it’s what you know that ain’t so.”
    “Absolutely right. I guess the key is how to connect with a guy like that in a way that it’s in his interest to be truthful,” Petty said.
    “Yep, but how? I know, show him the value of cooperation. Show him better ways. Do some old fashioned win-win horse-trading. But all that’s a helluva lot easier to philosophize about than execute.”
    “Sometimes the best efforts fail,” Petty said. Now he gazed at Wynn like a fan might watch an athlete. “Doesn’t mean we don’t keep trying hard as hell.”
    “For sure. Nothing tried; nothing gained.”
    The lime-colored tactical lights in the room made their skin look sanitized, as if they were being prepared for surgery.
    They were all privileged in a way, privileged to be part of a great effort, even if it failed. Few of them had illusions it would be easy.
    Petty finally asked Wynn to summarize his platoon’s activities over the last week. He did. None of what Wynn described prompted hard questions.
    “Thank your men for me,” Petty said.
    Wynn looked at him quizzically, surprised.
    Petty continued. “What I mean is that those of us up here—up here in the puzzle place—appreciate what your guys are doing. All this is