The American Spectator

At the next site we have break a window and kick in a door to enter. When the women and children emerge, however, Sergeant Green recognizes a player from a soccer team the base is sponsoring. “Hey, my soccer buddy,” he says, and once again there are no arrests.

Finally, at the last house, there are three men in their 20s who automatically become prime suspects. (Indeed, it sometimes seems the whole purpose may be to round up every 22-year-old male in the province.) Again one of the young men goes limp after a few questions — a sure sign, everyone says, that he has something to hide. We take him in.

AND SO OUR NIGHT’S WORK draws to a close. As we walk back to the humvees, the dawn is breaking. Across the quiet cityscape comes the haunting ululation of a muzzein calling the people to prayer — a 5:30 a.m. ritual that begins every Muslim morning. From a house next door a cock crows.

As we head back to the police station a thought strikes me. “You know, you better be careful,” I tell my escort. “One of these nights somebody’s going to set you up a false lead and plant a land mine in front of the house on one of these dirt roads.”

“You know, the same thing occurred to me last week,” he says. “I’m going to bring it up at the briefing.”

And so the battle to win the hearts and minds of the people of Iraq continues. Progress is painfully slow. Victory is far ahead. Many more will certainly die in the process.