MOSUL — On the second floor of what was once a school in east Mosul, an Iraqi Army medic stuck his chin out a hallway window and shaved over the courtyard. On either side of him in the dingy hallway light, detainees sat facing the wall, blankets cast over their heads. The Iraqi Army had brought them in on a tip from a man they caught with bomb making materials, and a U.S. Army platoon had just arrived. As the medic flicked his razor and turned his small mirror, the American soldiers stood the detainees up one by one, scanned their retinas, took their thumbprints, and photographed their faces. ‘We got a hit,’ exclaimed the soldier with the scanning device. ‘Be careful that this one cannot see the other when he stands,’ said the platoon’s Kurdish translator, pointing to the detainee. ‘This is very important.’ The translator is called Ricky, but this is not his name. None of the mostly Kurdish interpreters for the U.S. military in Mosul use their real names. Tagged on their standard issue camo shirts, Abdul becomes Mark, or Pablo, or Bill. Ricky chain-smokes and sweats heavily; earlier that day he had shown […]