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crossed the bridge as they watched. The convoy closed on the bridge. Five or six men sat in a circle on a large carpet on the ground next to the bridge, some papers and small items assembled between them. Making tea perhaps. The convoy continued past.
    Another bridge ahead.
    “Man on the bridge,” Turnbeck radioed.
    “He’s shooting me a bird.”
    “No he’s not.”
    “Maybe he wants to.”
    “Maybe he doesn’t.”
    “Watch it. Watch it,” said Wynn, to end the bullshit chatter.
    “Pedestrians on the right side,” Turnbeck announced.
    “Guys wading in the canal.”
    A canal now paralleled the right side of the road. One guy stood in the water up to his waist. Further down, a boat with two men inside it floated in the middle of the canal. Probably fishing, Wynn thought. Three people stood next to a concrete slab bridge. No side rails on the bridge.
    “Surprisingly deep.”
    “What’s he fishing for?”
    “A way out of Iraq.” Laughter on the net. This time Wynn laughed too, and ignored it.
    The Wolfhounds drove at 45 miles per hour on open road for a couple of minutes. They passed several cars. Then they passed another car. This car drifted about, as if driven by a drunk. Apparently he hadn’t noticed the Americans. D23 blew its horn and the Iraqi driver jolted erect. He looked like a thief caught in the act, or a man chastised by an infidel.
    “Highway railings left and right.”
    “Picking up speed.”
    IEDs had been hung on the side railings. Consequently, over the last year, most of the railings were removed. But the vertical supporting beams remained in the ground. Driving by, several men stared, wondering if the beams were big enough to hide bombs.
    Wynn noticed a woman and a small child walking along a freshly cut irrigation ditch that ran from the canal into a field. Other than the concrete and electric pumps used in the canals, he thought the basic irrigation design couldn’t have changed much since biblical times. Vegetation growth lined the belly of many canals. From the air, during the dry season, the canals looked like giant green serpents.
     
    When CPT Baumann came on the company radio in a net-wide call, his voice sizzling with anger, Wynn knew instantly that something serious had happened.
    Wynn answered first, and the two other platoons just after. But the voice coming from the 3rd platoon was that of the radio operator, not 2LT Ray D’Augostino.
    “Get me ‘Actual,’” Baumann responded firmly, unsatisfied.
    “Wait one, over,” came the response.
    The company net went quiet for a long moment. The radio operator must have gone looking for D’Augostino.
    Baumann rarely talked to the entire command team on the radio. He preferred dealing with them one by one. That was his way: direct and targeted. The last time he radioed everyone, 3rd platoon had been hit by an IED, and one of their men had been killed.
    More minutes passed. Everyone hung on their radios, waiting for D’Augostino to get on.
    Wynn detected the increased density of buildings as they entered the W3 sector, the most populated area in 2nd platoon’s battlespace. Hundreds of people lived inside the housing to his left and right. What did they think of Americans in gun-trucks?
    “Dog Six, this is Dobbie One-Alpha.”
    “This is Dog Six,” Baumann responded.
    “Dobbie One-Actual is two mikes out, over.” D’Augostino would be available on the radio in two minutes.
    “Roger, have him come up on the net then. Out.”
    Wynn saw the message-received indicator flashing on D21’s Blue Force Tracker. Wynn clicked the inbox.
    “What’s up?” said a message from Pit Bull One, 1st platoon leader, 1LT Evan Smith.
    Wynn typed a reply, “Don’t know,” and sent it.
    The rest of D21’s crew had heard the radio traffic on the company net. They couldn’t see the computer texting, but Wynn could sense their anticipation.
    “Dog Six, this is Dobbie One, over.” D’Augostino finally came on the air.
    “Roger, over.”