A Tuesday morning patrol for Third Platoon brought them to what's considered one of the less friendly sections of Karadah.   The buildings are thought to house members of the Jaysh al-Mahdi, or JAM, Muqtada al-Sadr's militia unit.  There haven't been any overt problems in the area recently, Staff Sergeant Eddie Ruiz, the acting-platoon leader said—it's the countless repair shops, warehouses, and metal shops that cause concern.  

As Sergeant Jeffery Breen put it after we dismounted the humvees and began to hop-step over large puddles of oily water: "they can build anything they want here."  The worry is that what could be built here is some sort of explosive device that would eventually be used against U.S. soldiers.

On the previous night's patrol through another of Karadah's districts, the soldiers freely shook hands and joked with neighborhood residents.  Tuesday morning in the JAM area, however, the soldiers were largely greeted without emotion, or with what seemed to be a carefully feigned disinterest in their presence.  

Sitting in chairs outside their shops, or walking alongside the patrol as they go about their daily business, the people watched Third Platoon's humvees rumble by.  Overhead electrical wires sagged.  The soldiers explained these low-hanging wires are one of the reasons they can't use the much touted MRAP (Mine Resistant Ambush Protected) vehicles, which are considered the military's new line of defense against roadside bombs and explosives.  Here the MRAP's are too tall and would easily catch onto the wires and pull the electrical polls down.

Despite the weary looks of the neighborhood residents, Third Platoon remained in good spirits.  Squad leader Sergeant Jeffery Breen even managed to elicit a tight smile from a shop owner when he borrowed the man's hose and pretended to wash the shop's driveway.

Third Platoon soldiers on patrol. Photo: David Botti

A white Kia sedan screeched to a stop, as one of the humvees turned onto a main street full of early morning traffic.  The driver continued to stare straight ahead, as a soldier lifted his hand to stop the rest of the traffic.  

Meanwhile Sergeant Ruiz and the platoon translator were stopping at nearly every block to speak with someone on the street.  As Ruiz approached, the residents seemed to already know the drill.  He nodded his head respectfully towards them, and they nodded back. They shook hands with both Ruiz and his translator, and listened attentively as he began to speak.  

It usually took around five minutes for Ruiz to get the same answer he's always gotten in this neighborhood: Everything is fine.  There's no trouble, and no bad guys.

The next stop on the patrol was a visit to the nearby National Police station, a rundown three-story building with broken windows.  Protecting the building's front were white cement barriers bearing three identical stencils of red flowers with hearts drawn as the petals.  Ruiz took the squad leaders inside to coordinate with a National Police captain over logistics for his various checkpoints.

Both leaders pulled out their notebooks and begin writing down notes of their conversation.  

"What's happened in the area the past two days.  Any incidents?" Ruiz asked the captain.

The captain's foot accidentally toed an empty can of energy drink lying next to his foot. His t-shirt and trousers were both colored with the grey and white of urban camouflage.  A substantial gut hung over his belt, and he leaned on the desk looking tired and slightly agitated.

"Nothing.  Nothing's happened,"  the captain said.

"Have your men been getting water at the checkpoints?" asked Ruiz.  "How's morale?"

After a long dialog between the interpreter and the captain, the former turned to Ruiz and said there weren't enough men in that local police force.  Those already manning the checkpoints were getting tired for lack of relief on their guard schedules.  

"Well, how come they haven't hired more people?" Ruiz asked.

The interpreter continued: since the police force was cleared of corrupt officers and militia members, the selection process for trustworthy officers was taking longer.  But the men can handle it, the interpreter assured.  Last year many policemen were engaged in a large battle outside of Baghdad, and for them Karadah is an easy neighborhood to police.

Sergeant Breen, who remained quiet throughout the conversation, leaned forward slightly in his chair and nodded his head toward the police captain. 

"Just 'cause it's easy for them," Breen said, "doesn't mean they can take it easy."