“Veterans of Saddam’s army have joined Daesh, so they have good tactics,” Zrar says.

The Islamic State has also adapted to the airstrike threat. They now wait to launch attacks on days when it is raining or cloudy—weather that makes it more difficult for U.S. and coalition warplanes to find targets. And they hunker down in caves and underground tunnels, constantly shifting their command posts to elude aerial surveillance.

Yet, many peshmerga soldiers also claim ISIS is on its heels. They say coalition airstrikes have had a devastating effect on their enemy.

“The airstrikes have been crucial,” Hassan, the Kurdish colonel says. “We’re very grateful for the U.S. Air Force.”

Zrar claims the May 3 Islamic State attack was done purely for propaganda value, part of the group’s desperate attempt to rejuvenate recruitment, which at about 200 new fighters a month is now less than one-fifth the pace of last year.

“It was the last drop of blood in their body,” Zrar says. “The attack was for propaganda, to show they are still strong. It was also to make the coalition worried about taking Mosul.”

‘Used to War’:

Most of the peshmerga soldiers in Unit 48 are not young men.

While the youngest soldier is just 18, the majority are middle aged or older. Some have gone completely gray. Many of the older soldiers have combat experience dating from the 1980s.

“We know how to suffer,” Hassan says.

Life on the front lines is Spartan for peshmerga soldiers, with little financial reward or recompense for their service.

At night on the front lines in Gwer they sleep atop goatskin rolls either laid out in a ground floor room or on the roof—a common practice in the Middle East to escape the heat. Yet, due to the constant threat of ISIS attacks, the Kurdish soldiers often stand guard through the night.

A normal peshmerga soldier makes $300 a month and is responsible for buying his own weapon, ammunition, and clothing.

Currently, there is a three-month backlog in pay. Consequently, most peshmerga soldiers have a second civilian job, which they balance with their military service. They rotate home about every five days and spend half of every month on the front lines.

At the Gwer front, none of the men have body armor and they are short on food and medical supplies. Unlike U.S. soldiers who carry individual first aid kits called IFAKs, this peshmerga unit has a communal supply of medical supplies with which to treat the wounded. It is a 30-minute drive to the nearest hospital.

Despite the lack of equipment and weapons, the Spartan way of life, and two years of constant combat (preceded by decades of genocide and bloodshed), the peshmerga’s morale appears robust. They seem animated, energetic and sociable. They pass time playing dominoes and drinking tea. Few appear forlorn, or are seen sitting alone or idle.

“Kurds are used to war,” Zrar, the Kurdish general says. “So our morale is high.”

Modern War:

As is the case at other contemporary battlefields, such as the one in Ukraine, the front lines in northern Iraq offer a bizarre juxtaposition of ancient fighting methods cast against the trappings of modernity.

Coalition fighter jets and drones orbit overhead, using laser-targeted munitions to snuff out Islamic State fighters hiding in caves. Meanwhile, peshmerga soldiers in World War I-style trenches and atop ancient hilltop forts, wielding World War II-era weapons, observe the technological might of modern air power.

Most of the older peshmerga soldiers wear a traditional outfit called a “sal u sepik.” It consists of baggy trousers, a waist sash, and a V-necked jacket. They also wear a checkered turban and some keep a curved dagger sheathed in their waist sash. Many thumb prayer beads as they stand watch.

Except for the Kalashnikovs slung over their shoulders, they wouldn’t look out of place among Kurdish warriors from hundreds of years ago.

The younger soldiers, however, prefer modern military fatigues. Some wear T-shirts with “U.S. Army” embroidered over the breast pocket.

Keeping with Kurdish culture, all of the men are neatly groomed with fresh haircuts and combed hair. Those who wear mustaches keep them trimmed.

The soldiers smile and crowd around for the camera. The older ones stand tall and at attention for photos. The younger among them flash peace signs and give a thumbs up.

There is spotty cellular Internet connection here, and some soldiers troll Facebook on smartphones during downtime. They also use Facebook to verify the credentials of the foreign correspondent in their midst.

Asked what his men needed most, Hassan promptly replies “ammunition.”

“We have experience fighting in the mountains for hundreds of years,” Hassan says. “We are warriors. We can deal without food and water. But we can’t fight without bullets.”

Enemies: 

For the peshmerga, the fight against the Islamic State is an existential struggle to defend their homeland and their families. There is no question about the war’s necessity or the justice of their cause.

Part of their motivation stems from the savage brutality of the enemy they face.

“It inspires us to fight when we see the terrible things Daesh has done,” Hassan says. “And it should inspire the world to give us more help.”

“Daesh’s cruelty inspires me to be more passionate about fighting,” says Awat Abdul Rahman, 29, a peshmerga soldier. “Their cruelty makes me more aggressive, it fuels my hate.”

Abdul Rahman joined the peshmerga in 2004, the year after the U.S. invasion to topple Saddam Hussein. He was 18—the minimum enlistment age.

“Of course I’m still a little afraid before combat,” Abdul Rahman says. “But it’s normal for me now. I’m professional enough to deal with it. And I know why I’m fighting. Daesh doesn’t know about human life or religion. They’re not a part of humanity.”

Even with potentially bloody battles like the one for Mosul looming on the horizon, the Kurds say the Islamic State’s downfall is inevitable.

The greater unknown, however, is what happens after ISIS is defeated. Simmering tensions with Iranian-backed Shia militias, which reflect long-standing sectarian tensions in Iraq, have many Kurds anticipating a civil war.

“The Shia militias are our enemies,” Hassan says from the front lines in Gwer. “Iran created them. They are enemies of Sunnis too, not just of Kurds. We never thought they would be our allies.”

Many Kurds believe they have done the heavy lifting in the fight against ISIS and have proven themselves as the most effective ground force in Iraq. Thus, they say they will have earned their long-awaited independence from Baghdad after the Islamic State’s defeat.

“I want to bring freedom to my country,” Abdul Rahman says. “I’m not only fighting for my family. I’m fighting for my land, for Kurdistan.”

The looming campaign to liberate Mosul could be a tipping point in the war against ISIS. While U.S. President Barack Obama has said Mosul could fall to Iraqi forces by the end of the year, most military analysts and many U.S. and Kurdish military personnel in the field say the siege will likely have to wait until 2017.

Yet, despite the mounting anticipation for the Mosul campaign and its potential to deal a lethal blow to the Islamic State, many rank-and-file peshmerga soldiers consider the city’s liberation to ultimately be Baghdad’s responsibility.

They feel betrayed by the Iraqi central government’s stalling on weapons deliveries tagged for the Kurds. The Kurds also have low regard for the fighting will and combat skills of the Iraqi army.

“Up to here we are on Kurdistan land, and any further is Arab land,” Hassan says, pointing toward Mosul. “And that’s Iraq’s responsibility. We tried many times to coordinate with the Iraqis, but they never helped us. So now we are only fighting for Kurdistan.”

“But if Barzani tells us to attack, we will,” Hassan adds, referring to Masoud Barzani, president of the Kurdistan Regional Government.

Shoulder to Shoulder:

The peshmerga lines stretch for more than 200 miles across northern Iraq from the city of Sinjar in the north near the Syrian border to the outskirts of Kirkuk, 100 miles southeast of Mosul.

The peshmerga front is divided into eight sectors, each with a local commander. The northernmost permanent Iraqi army positions are in Makhmour, about 40 miles southeast of Mosul.

The process for the peshmerga to call in coalition airstrikes is laborious. Coalition military personnel say the convoluted chain of approvals prevents civilian casualties and compensates for situational awareness shortfalls due to the absence of coalition troops on the ground.

To call in an airstrike, a peshmerga soldier first radios a Kurdish command post behind the front line. The Kurdish commander or officer in charge then contacts the Kurdistan Region Security Council operations center in Erbil, where the request is then walked over to an adjacent coalition operations center. A U.S. military member trained to direct airstrikes from the ground, called a joint terminal attack controller, or JTAC, reviews the request.

From there, the request is passed on to an operations center in Baghdad and the Combined Air Operations Center at Al-Udeid Air Base in Qatar. At that point, if the airstrike is approved, the coalition tasks a warplane (manned or unmanned) to conduct the mission.