Portrait Of A Platoon

HOW A DOZEN SOLDIERS--OVERWORKED, UNDER FIRE, NERVOUS, PROUD--CHASE INSURGENTS AND TRY TO STAY ALIVE IN ONE OF BAGHDAD'S NASTIEST DISTRICTS

By Romesh Ratnesar and Michael Weisskopf Monday, Dec. 29, 2003
    • JAMES NACHTWEY/VII FOR TIME

    NIGHT WATCH: Sgt. Marquette Whiteside of the Survey Platoon, Headquarters Battery, a.k.a. the Tomb Raiders, on patrol in Baghdad

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    Jenks grew up in San Francisco, where he says he often heard the rattle of a drive-by shooting. He claims he had a gun pulled on him once, while skateboarding through the Mission District. "I'm not scared, I'm anxious," he says, putting on his flak vest before patrol. "I don't like to be coddled. It's like driving. You don't learn until you do it." Listening to the new guy's bravado, Schermerhorn shakes his head. "He's green," the veteran says. "He talks a lot and thinks he knows everything."

    As the platoon's three humvees pull out of the gates, Jenks' gun is turned the wrong way. "First off, you want to make sure your weapon is pointed away from other personnel," Schermerhorn says. "Watch out for other personnel at all times. Eye contact with buddies." Then he adds, "Have fun out there. No need to get your a__hole all tight." The convoy arrives at a local playground. The soldiers dismount and begin handing out candy to swarms of children. Before long, the kids are climbing all over them, asking for money, trying out the English profanities American soldiers have taught them. When Jenks gets flustered by the tumult, Schermerhorn walks over. "All you have to remember is you are in control out here. They respect you when you are in control," he says. "But most of the people here are good people. They deserve the same respect as you would give your mother."

    Back at the house that evening, Schermerhorn is still preoccupied with Jenks. "I'm worried about him," he says. "I heard him say he could handle this because he was shot at back home. Well, I was shot at when I was living in the city, and I've never felt the fear I've felt here."

    --What Not to Say

    DEC. 1: Ronald Buxton walks into the hooch and slumps onto the sofa, exhausted. "I just made the call," he tells Kamont. In August Buxton's wife Audrey gave birth to the couple's second child, Jared. Buxton was scheduled to leave Iraq this month to see the baby for the first time, but he received word in November that his redeployment had been delayed two months. Tonight he delivered the news to Audrey over a satellite phone. She and the couple's 7-year-old son broke down crying. Buxton was quiet. "I listen a lot," he says.

    Buxton pulls out his Palm Pilot, which carries a photo album of his family and a glossary of 238 Arabic words and phrases. Slight and bespectacled, Buxton is the platoon's resident egghead. He downloads daily briefings on economics and politics from the Cato Institute and practices his Arabic with the dozen Iraqi interpreters who work at the palace. Since picking up a few beginners' books in Kuwait in May, Buxton has taught himself to read Arabic, and can converse casually with locals in Adhamiya. "I can't stand to be around people I can't understand," he says.

    When they are inside the wire, Buxton and the rest of the soldiers in the platoon wrestle with how much to tell their families about the risks of life outside it. Grimes keeps the worst details out of her letters to avoid worrying her mother. The really "bad stuff" she saves for phone conversations with her dad. Buxton says his wife "knows I'm here, but she doesn't know specifics. She knows what she doesn't know." Which means she does not know any of the details of the night of Nov. 1.

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