I hadn't brought anywhere near enough fast-ties. Those are basically big cable ties that are used for temporary handcuffs. I hadn't planned on fighting a large force much less capturing a good bit of it.
So we had to go to "special special" protocols.
The enlisted non-hardcore were the most numerous. They always are. They're cattle. Middle Eastern units, by and large, are conscription units with low-morale conscriptees. They don't give their captors trouble. We put them out in one field with a couple of Strykers on guard and told them to get their clothes back on. They were given shovels and told to dig latrines and given some rations and water. They were told to stay in a bunch, don't try to wander off and they'd be fine. Best we could do for them at the time.
(Oh, explaining the latrines is always fun with guys like that. They think they're digging their graves. It gets explained.)
The officers, about twenty, were marched down to Khuwaitla. They were run into a barn and told to hold there. Guards were posted including a Stryker. They were given food and water. One tried to escape. He got shot. Must have missed a hardcore.
The hardcores, a fair number (about a hundred including some "officers" and such-like), were marched into a field. They were spread out. They were told to put their clothes on and sit. Do not stand. Do not talk. If you do either, you will be killed.
Some of them didn't believe us. One stood up.
Had Nepos watching them. Why? Nepos are very interesting when it comes to human life. They take it as a dishonor (they got this from Samad and Ghurka stuff) to kill a true noncombatant. That is, a woman or a kid or an old guy. Even an unarmed male who is not a combatant.
They also don't torture. Don't believe in it. Consider it dishonor. Don't rape.
Combatants? You'd better do what they say or you're fucking dead. And they sort of enjoy it.
Guy stood up. Two .50 calibers opened up. He was hit. Guys on either side were hit. Guys behind him were hit. Some just wounded.
They screamed and bled out. The Nepos giggled.
U.S. troops might have hesitated. Should have, probably would have, gotten eaten up by it. Sure, they're hardcores, they're the core of the terrorist motherfuckers we've been fighting since the taking of the U.S. embassy in Iran. They're the guys that flew into the Twin Towers. But they're humans.
Nepos don't think that way. There are targets and non-targets and they don't care what happens to a target.
We get along great but we're not exactly alike.
That wasn't all that was going on.
There were still forces in Mosul. I punched the remaining tanks and Scouts up to the pass. They found the Paladins that were still intermittently firing. Captured them. (A Paladin has a .50 caliber on it and their guns can be lowered to direct fire. They're there if a group of infantry hit your unit. If you're a smart Paladin commander, however, when a Main Battle Tank comes calling you surrender. Quick.) More prisoners. Dispatched a couple of trucks with Nepo guards and some guys to drive the Paladins back.
We "consolidated" on Khuwaitla in the meantime. Gathered wounded, redistributed ammo, reammoed. Ran a supply truck up to the guys on the Pass. No movement in the direction of Mosul they could see.
We did what we could for the wounded. I'd brought a plentiful supply of medical stuff with us and picked up more in Baghdad. Most of what was wrong, though, the medics could barely touch. Horrible burns on a couple of guys. One amputation from a tank round. Shrapnel. One of the Nepos, who had been hit on the head so hard a chunk of skull was missing, wanted to go back on duty. We sedated him.
The Kurds in Mosul had a doctor. He was short on medicines. I had lots of medicines. As soon as things were stabilized it was time to link-up.
So I had somebody go get the commander of this ratfuck.
Yes, he'd survived. Got picked up from the "truck" group. Was in a wheeled mobile command post which had stopped and everybody bailed when the Strykers hit. Smartest thing they could do.
He was alive. He'd gotten his clothes back on. He was turning the rank tab over and over in his hands when I walked in.
Decent looking guy. Clean shaven, good haircut. Uniform wasn't tarted up with medals. Smart eyes. Not glaring, just smart.
"Captain Bandit Six," he said very dryly in really clear English. "What a surprise to see you up here."
We talked. He didn't do the usual Arab thing of beating around the bush. I got out a bottle of hooch from the Iran LOG base. He didn't turn down a belt or two.
Turns out he was a "real" colonel. Sunni but American trained and hadn't been part of the Resistance. (Not all the Sunnis were.) Survived the Plague. Kept some people together. Family, some guys from his unit.
Bigger fish took over in most of Baghdad. Not military, a Sunni mujaheddin type. Not even from Iraq, an Egyptian. Grabbed the LOG base. Colonel joined forces with the bigger commander. Fighting would have been stupid.
He was pretty good. Experienced. School trained. (Command and General Staff among others. Guy was better trained than me.) Things were quiet in the south. He was dispatched with most of the combat forces around to go up and take the oil fields from the Kurds. Well, beating up on Kurds was just patriotic duty to any Iraqi. Kurds were mountain raiders, ground-mount Vikings, barbarians. Well-known fact. Been that way since time immemorial. The guys on the plains get raided by the Kurds . . . Go back to that bit and read it. Then take it from the POV of the guys in the "empires." "Fucking Kurds."
Couldn't hold fighting the Kurds against him except they were my allies. The Kurds were bastards to the Iraqis and vice versa.
"By the way, wiped out the other armored force down in Baghdad."
"Yes, I was told." Very dry again. "Actually, I found out through sources. What I was told was somewhat different. I was also told you were on your way to Syria. That I shouldn't worry about you."
"I tried very hard to give that impression," I admitted. "So what do I do with you? You know all the laws and such. And, trust me, I'm down to basic law not regs put on top. Not even basic law to tell truth."
What I was saying was, I no longer felt constrained by the Geneva Convention. Easiest thing was to shoot everybody out of hand.
"Believe it or not, I actually have Kurdish POWs," he replied. "I am keeping them as well as I can."
What he was saying was he felt constrained by the Geneva convention. Fucker.
On the other hand, if he was willing to play by the rules . . .
"Parole?"
Parole, in military terms, means that the officer and his unit agree to no longer engage in combat against a particular enemy. So he couldn't be used to beat up on the Kurds or us. But he could be sent down to watch the Shias or whatever and free up forces from down there. I'd take that.
"If I give my parole Mullah Hamadi will have me killed," he replied, smiling. "And find an officer who is willing to lead this shattered force. I will give it, but you might as well shoot me."
Fuck.
"I don't suppose you can get the forces besieging Mosul to surrender?"
"Probably not and if I could I would not give the order."
Honorable bastard.
"What if you agree to remain under parole here," I asked. "Until the local issues are decided?"