Strykers take students on search for explosives

On cue, soldiers of 2nd Battalion, 8th Field Artillery Regiment, form a defensive ring stretching through crocodile-scaled trunks. Some preserve energy on this 115-degree day standing in shadows cast by palm fronds high above.

Placing his helmet under an arm, the 26-year-old captain chats with the imam. From what anyone could see, a guy with absolutely nothing pressing.

Santiago eventually refastens his helmet, signaling it's time to move. "I don't know if you know," he says, turning back to the imam. "But we got the other canal going again. This one will be next."

The platoon rejoins Iraqis searching for concealed explosives.

Commanders are still "putting boots on the ground" in the village of Saysabani and other areas of Diyala Province, a region scarred by combat as recently as spring. But current missions taking Santiago's men and other 1-25th Stryker Brigade soldiers outside the walls of Warhorse, the largest U.S. base in Diyala Province, rest less and less on firepower, casting soldiers in unfamiliar roles as community problem solvers.

Col. Burt Thompson, self-proclaimed "wolf " of this 1-25th Stryker pack, recalls warning troops as they packed last fall they'd find this battlefield confusing ways few could imagine. "You are going to be required to do everything from washing windows to pulling the trigger. And you can do it in the same day. You can do it within the same hour. You can do it in the same city block."

Tea tables and bomb sweepers

It's not quite 9 a.m. Soldiers, wearing full "battle-rattle" armor throw open the rear hatches of cooled MRAP transports, landing in a sauna so dry the transition is jolting. Three of the desert yellow mine-resistant ambush-protected vehicles remain idling by a walled compound. Santiago leads his platoon strolling through the gates of an Iraqi Army station.

Iraqis flock toward the Americans in the courtyard.

Santiago and Staff Sgt. Marcus Hamby follow an officer inside. Others in the platoon take positions in the courtyard. One tosses a magazine on the ground and shows uniformed Iraqis how to find it using a metal detector.

Inside the station, Santiago settles into a white plastic chair. Placing his helmet on the floor and tipping his rifle muzzle-down on its stand, the captain banters with a trio of IA counterparts, all of whom sport vintage U.S. uniforms.

At first, Hamby stands behind Santiago, rifle held in the low ready stance. After a while, he ducks out, leaving the captain to his diplomatic maneuvers.

"How do you like the cot?" Santiago asks, leaning forward over a coffee table as he refers to a recent gift.

The recipient nods vigorously. "Very good." Through words and motions he indicates the captain ought to bring more like it.

A translator working for the platoon relays polite comments. Iraqis light cigarette after cigarette. Smiles are wide. This goes on a while until Santiago spreads a map on the coffee table.

The officers bend over the map discussing "Lion Pursuit 9." It's a joint mission in which Iraqis are to clear improvised explosives from several palm groves near Saysabani, a village of about 2,000 people. Today Americans are here solely as observers and, if need be, trainers.

"Sometimes you guys go too fast and miss something," Santiago stresses as the meeting breaks up. "Just slow down."

Fielding expectations

Houses nest in and around the palm groves. Residential clusters and larger compounds host extended families, according to Santiago. The mukhtar, a local man elected as Saysabani's contact with the government, meets the procession as it gets underway.

His village needs "a lot of money," the mukhtar tells the captain, speaking through a translator. "The first thing they need is water."

He joins soldiers tramping toward towering palms.

At nearly every house, children watch from rooftops, or peer through gates. Many wave at the gun-toting parade. The mukhtar moves from family to family, explaining the presence of the two armies in their backyards.

Santiago pauses whenever locals came out to talk. Often he sheds his helmet and cradles it under an arm, listening respectfully to the comments relayed by his translator.

Kids take these pauses as invitation to gather around. At one house, two boys fetch the mukhtar a liter-sized bottle of cola. He has them pour the captain a glass.

Near some groves rivulets of water feed healthy crops. More common are the withered or weedy rows, left untended. Here puffs of dust mark every step.

Leaning on a cane, 70-year-old Mohammed Raddam Hrinee watches soldiers pass through a field sprouting leafy green and flowery plants. He urges the visitors to provide water for his barren acreage. He complains about losses. "I had five chicken coops," he says, speaking through a translator. "Now none."

"We think that when the coalition goes into Iraq that everything is better,' adds the man in the flowing headdress, "but nothing is better."

A large man reputed to be a former general tells Santiago what the village needs is a better road. A paved road. He makes the point loudly and with forceful gestures.

A son and grandson of soldiers, the Georgia-born captain simply listens.

"That guy was sooo backwards," Santiago says later. "You need the water first." After a pause, he adds, "He must have a really good well."

Training replacements

Two weeks earlier, according to the mission brief, an IA sweep of the area turned up an IED nearby. The detonator consisted of a card, attached to a trip-wire, separating a magnetic trigger. The army neutralized the bomb without incident.

This mission reflects the brigade's belief that IA sweeping techniques needs refinement. Americans urge the Iraqis to use the metal detector systematically, and widen the ground covered by each soldier.

The temperature keeps rising. Instead of taking the lead, IA soldiers begin sitting down whenever Santiago talks to locals. More and more are falling behind when the 2-8th platoon leader resumes his march.

Both ends of the operation give Staff Sgt. Marcus Hamby trouble.

"Tell these guys the whole point is for them to walk in front," the sergeant barks at the translator.

Later, when he catches up to Santiago, Hamby says politely, "Thank you, sir, for slowing down. The whole point is to get these guys doing it."

Santiago, whose father and grandfather served, employs more than charm supporting the day's mission. The platoon leader has his MRAPs pacing soldiers as they move through the groves. From time to time, the captain draws on the trucks for bottles of cold water. He also coordinates with air support. Helicopters begin rattling the sky about mid-way through the mission.

The complexity of it all makes this army stronger, contends Thompson. "When I was a young captain, we didn't have these skills."

Of course, success on the battlefield did not traditionally saddle commanders with managing urban sewage and trash pickups, power grids, let alone spraying date trees to revive the local economy. These lessons crucial to restoring order need passing down, says the colonel, and that starts with mentoring the private who signs up for what he envisions a big video game. "He comes over thinking it's going to be hugely kinetic," Thompson said. "He's going to be fighting. Doing all those mental images of warfare. He gets over here--and he's guarding the platoon leader while he's having tea with the sheiks."

Young officers, he said, lead by explaining those shifting wolf pack tactics.

Word comes back that America's eyes in the sky have located a suspicious hole up ahead.

The news adds new gravity to the mission. Soldiers, dripping now, tramp past their idling MRAPs on down the road toward a circling helicopter. Noon catches the combined forces a dry canal away from tombs, apparently untouched by the war. Men press on and the graveyard fades from view. A dust devil swirls and skips away.

Soldiers skid and slide down the canal's side. It's deep, perhaps twice a man's height. Strong hands reach out, lending assistance. Even so, some soldiers tumble back down, unbalanced by their armor and guns, drawing hoots and laughs.

The job of inspecting the suspicious hole falls to the Iraqis. The IA soldiers, finally in the lead, huddle near the site. A U.S. handler leads a bomb-sniffing dog forward.

Santiago and his platoon, meanwhile, bask in soothing shadows provided by smaller bushy palms. Groves designated for inspection in Lion Pursuit 9 are behind them. The mission, completed.

The supposed explosives cache holds, well, nothing.

"It was basketball sized," the captain says, looking sheepish. "Just a hole."

All in a day.

O'Donoghue teaches journalism at University of Alaska Fairbanks. This month he and three students are embedded journalists in the 1-25th Stryker Brigade Combat team in Diyala Province, Iraq.