Who can the soldiers trust, and who must they kill? The perilous road to Baghdad is forcing troops like Sorenson to manage their darkest survival instincts. American soldiers do not aim to kill innocents, and they know that Saddam Hussein could use civilian casualties as propaganda. Yet officers are learning that too much trust can get their men killed. Enemy soldiers wearing civilian clothes and driving pickup trucks have been conducting guerrilla-style attacks. “This is like Vietnam–little skirmishes everywhere,” says Capt. Mike Pecina, a Bradley commander from Texas. “It’s hard to tell who the enemy is out here.”
As Pecina and his convoy rumble north, Iraqi civilians stand by mud-brick farmhouses. Some wave and smile. One entire family stands and salutes. Many more seem to scowl. Pecina and his troops are perplexed when some locals give them the thumbs-up sign. They seem friendly, but the Department of Defense Iraq handbook, which every soldier carries, teaches that Arabs consider the thumbs-up to be obscene (which is not true). “I’ve got the feeling nobody likes us here,” says Pecina as he guides his Bradley through palm-lined streets and sandy patches of farmland.
Incoming mortar and grenade fire do nothing to calm Pecina’s nerves. One mortar lands squarely on the tank of his battalion commander, Lt. Col. Ernest (Rock) Marcone, injuring Marcone slightly. The night before, Marcone had warned his troops to be wary. “Do not trust these people,” he told his officers. “They have been brainwashed. They have been fed propaganda. They are going to be extremely hostile. No one in their right mind would walk out to us, unless they meant to do us harm.”
The Iraqi soldiers Marcone’s troops have encountered so far seem more like frightened conscripts than bloodthirsty killers. They are poorly armed–only AK-47s, rocket-propelled grenades and mortars. Iraqi prisoners tell the Americans that they have been forced to fight, that Saddam’s ruthless Fedayeen militiamen have held their wives and children hostage. “They’ve been told we are here to murder them en masse,” says Marcone. Fearing they will be executed, some prisoners cry and others try to kiss their captors. “Goddam!” one of the grunts exclaims as a prisoner puckers up. “I get more kisses from you than I get from my girlfriend!”
And what about the civilian in the blue car who had been weaving through the convoy? Sorenson swerves to the right and chases him down. The man is running fast through a field now, his silhouette against a haze of sandy air kicked up by the tanks. Over the radio, soldiers debate whether to shoot him. Then, at the last moment, the man stops running. He makes his calculation about who to trust at the barrel of Sorenson’s gun. Outnumbered and overwhelmed, he finally throws his hands in the air, and surrenders.
