The Good Soldiers by David Finkel Read Free Book Online Page B

directed the convoy now, to the spot where this had happened, so he could show the neighborhood how the United States of America was capable of responding. “Deny sanctuary to insurgents,” it said in the field manual, which was what Kauzlarich intended to do as the convoy eased from Pluto into one of the AO’s nicer neighborhoods and rolled to a stop by a fresh hole in the ground, caused by the IED. “Let’s go clear,” Kauzlarich said to his men, and soon twenty-three heavily armed soldiers were walking the streets and randomly searching houses.
    They came to a house with laundry hanging in the courtyard and a neat row of shoes by the front door. Without asking permission, some of the soldiers went inside, through the first floor, up the stairs, through the second floor, into the closets, into the drawers.
    They came to another house with a fruit tree out front, and a small metal tank for storing water that struck a soldier as peculiar. In silence, the family that lived in the house watched as the soldier unscrewed the cap of the tank and inhaled to make sure it was in fact water in there, and now watched another soldier reach up into the fruit tree and begin feeling around. He swept along one branch and then another. He stood on his tiptoes and felt among the leaves until he found what he was looking for, and as the family kept watching, he brought a ripe piece of fruit to his mouth and took a bite.
    Each search took a few minutes at most and constituted the entire relationship between the Americans and the Iraqis. Unlike the riskier operations that occurred in the middle of the night, in which soldiers broke down doors as they went after specific targets, there was a businesslike feel to these searches: Into the house, search, ask a few questions, out. Next. In, search, out. Not that there wasn’t risk—they were here, after all, because someone had tried to kill some of them with an IED. And snipers were a risk as well, which was why soldiers walked with their weapons raised as they approached the next house, outside of which stood a man who invited Kauzlarich inside for some tea.
    This had never happened before. In all the searches Kauzlarich had done, people always had passively stepped aside as he and his soldiers entered their houses, but this was the first time someone had invited him in.
    So he went in, accompanied by an Iraqi national who worked as his interpreter. Four of his soldiers assigned to guard him also went in, while two other soldiers remained in the front courtyard as the first line of defense in case of an ambush.
    The man led Kauzlarich past his surprised-looking family and motioned him toward a chair in a spotlessly clean living room. There was a table with a vase filled with artificial flowers, and a cabinet that was stacked with fragile dishes and teacups. “You have a beautiful house,” Kauzlarich said, sitting down, his helmet still on, his body armor still on, his handgun within easy reach, and the man smiled and said thank you even as circles of perspiration began to appear under his arms.
    Off in the kitchen, water for tea was heating. Outside, other soldiers continued to clear houses of neighbors who had seen this man ask an American to come inside. Inside, the man explained to Kauzlarich why Iraqis were hesitant to cooperate. “I’m afraid to work with the Americans because the militia threatened me. I have no money. I wish I could,” he said in Arabic, pausing so his words could be translated by Kauzlarich’s interpreter, and now he switched to English to better describe what his life had become:
    “Very difficult.”
    The two of them continued to talk. The man said he was sixty-eight. Kauzlarich said the man didn’t look it. The man said he had been in the Iraqi air force. Kauzlarich nodded again. It wasn’t a hot day, but the man’s perspiration stains were growing. More than five minutes had gone by now. Surely the neighbors were keeping track.
    “If people ask me