Every Man a Tiger: The Gulf War Air Campaign

by Tom Clancy

  As I turn, I hear John light up a cigar.

  I stop in the head and relieve myself, then shuffle back to my room. When I get there, the phone is still resting on the table by my bed, and I can hear Schwarzkopf talking—yelling—at John. I wonder why he bothered to use the phone. All he had to do was open a window at MODA (about one and a half miles to our south) and we all could have heard him. I put the receiver on the hook, but I can still hear John answering the CINC’s questions in the living room.

  I fall asleep admiring John’s resilience and patience.

  ★ 0530 My alarm goes off, and I can hear someone making coffee in the kitchen—either John or his aide, Major Fong. My new aide, Major Mark (Hoot) Gibson, is down in the UAE flying combat missions.67

  I’m glad John has stayed over; I don’t often have a chance to talk with him.

  I hit the shower and shave there, then I’m into my desert fatigues in an instant. They are draped over a chair by the door, and I don’t change them that often. Everyone else is just as grimy, and it is a pain in the ear to put all the stuff I need into the pockets of the new uniform—billfold, security badges, handkerchief, atropine syringe—all the stuff you carry around when you are involved in a war.

  ★ 0550 As John and I drink coffee and listen to the CNN news, he goes over the latest CINC tirade. It seems that late last night, after John had left for home, Freddie Franks had sent in a message that pissed Schwarzkopf off. John explains both sides of the problem and how he is going to take care of it.

  It seems to me that John has two problem children, Fred and the CINC, and as a result, he isn’t having much fun.

  ★ As far as I can remember it, the crisis that night had to do with Fred’s attempts to get the reserve force assigned to him (the First Cavalry Division—the force that was to be kept available during the opening of the ground war if anything went wrong). Fred felt that he needed the reserve from the start, to ensure that the main attack went well. The CINC wanted to keep it under his command until he knew that the attack on Fred’s right flank (the Northern Area Corps—the Egyptians and Syrians) was going okay; then he would give it to Fred to reinforce the main attack. Schwarzkopf was worried that an Iraqi counterattack into the Egyptians and Syrians could create problems that the reserve had to fix, in which case Fred would have to go it alone with his VIIth Corps and the British (that in fact should have been enough).

  I’m guessing at this, but I suspect that Fred sent out a message to Third Army (Yeosock, his immediate boss) explaining that he needed the reserve forces assigned to him immediately—a perfectly reasonable request. Unfortunately, VIIth Corps messages too often had information addressees that included the Department of the Army, the Joint Chiefs, the commanders in Europe—a whole host of people who would like to second-guess Schwarzkopf.

  In other words, it wasn’t Fred’s reasonable request that sent Schwarzkopf through the roof; it was the broadcast to the whole world of his case, when in fact the CINC had already told him that he would give him the reserve when he wanted him to have it.

  ★ It’s always good to talk with John, even when cigar smoke, like now, hangs from the ceiling down to maybe a foot off the floor. We don’t see everything the same way, but our perceptions and views are complementary. I have it easier than John does. My problems are shot-down planes, which targets to hit next, getting the ATO out on time, and the evening meeting with Schwarzkopf.

  John’s biggest problem is the wunderkinds—people like Gus Pagonis, the Army’s logistics wizard, or Fred Franks, a genius at fighting armor (and there are others). All are superstars, the best at their professional role. Each appears to think that his is the most important role in the war, that he is the one person who’ll be responsible for winning the war, and they each play a key role. Major General Gus Pagonis was a special challenge. On the one hand, he was everywhere, solving huge problems—working miracles moving the two corps to the west, while keeping them resupplied with food, water, and fuel. On the other hand, he had an ego as large as George Patton’s. If anything he was involved with was going good, he made sure the CINC knew it; and if anything was going bad, he told John just before the CINC found out and called.

  After we talk for a time, I lie on my back under the blue haze with a bowl of cold cereal on my chest. John is in a chair, and we both watch some heroic reporter on TV describe his narrow escape from last night’s Scud attack. God, what guts!

  Shortly after 0600, we both leave.

  ★ 0605 I am ashamed to admit it, but I am wearing a bulletproof vest and carry a 9 mm pistol under my fatigue jacket.

  It is cold and clear as I walk the dark path from my apartment building past the small shops that had housed the barber, cleaners, and recreation services before the fighting started seemingly years ago. As I reach the hole in the ten-foot-tall cinder-block wall that divides the USMTM compound from RSAF headquarters, I speak to the guards so they won’t shoot me in the dark. By now we have an RSAF and USAF military policeman at every checkpoint. That way, each side knows what is going on. (For the most part, our two peoples have been working well together and bonding.)

  A path has been worn in the desert sand from the hole in the wall to the covered car-parking area behind the RSAF headquarters. Because the dining hall vents are located nearby, you can smell the pleasant odor of food. Meanwhile, cats are busy rummaging through the dumpster for the remains of last night’s dinner. Hope they like chicken and rice. They don’t have much other choice.

  ★ 0610 I walk upstairs. After I enter the building, the mosque is on my right. Early prayer is in session, but attendance is low, since most are at their duty stations. You can tell how many are at prayer by counting the boots and dividing by two.

  I walk down the pink and green marbled hall and take the elevator up to the third floor and my office. The night clerk tells me that there is nothing hot on my desk. Whatever else is there, George Gitchell, my chief of staff, will want to see first, so he can make sure it is thoroughly staffed before I sign or okay it. I go into my office, hoping a letter from Mary Jo came in during the night. But no such luck. You live for mail from home, and sending letters without postage is truly one of the most appreciated perks in this war.

  I take off the fatigue jacket, pistol, and bulletproof vest and stow them in my desk. Then I pick up the “Read File,” go to the stairwell, and descend the four flights to the basement.

  ★ 0625 I walk down the basement corridor—bare cement with guard posts roughly every hundred yards—past the computer room. Things are quiet there for now. A few airmen are sitting at consoles typing in the routine events that appear in the ATO; technicians are working on terminals that need fixing. After that comes a room that is used in peacetime as the RSAF command post but has now become the area where they do administrative communications with their bases. Next there’s a small makeshift plywood and curtained shelter in the hall where the airlifters have a small office that’s used to coordinate the TACC with the Airlift TACC, which is still upstairs in tents on the parking lot. There just isn’t enough room to collocate them together. Upstairs, they plan and publish the ATO for airlift—primarily those C-130s that are now busy moving the XVIIIth and VIIth Corps to the west, landing on desert strips and highway—an untold story.

  I enter the TACC and stop at the Air Rescue Coordination Center to check on downed pilots. No bad news. In fact, the news is almost good: an A-10 pilot previously listed as MIA has turned up in Iraq, as shown on CNN. It’s not good that he’s a POW, but it’s better than being MIA.

  I stop to talk with people along the way to my place, to see how things are going. Nothing much to report.

  When I reach the commander’s table at the front of the room facing the big-screen display, Tom Olsen is sitting in my chair, and Mike Reavy and Charley Harr are to his left. They are probably discussing a request to divert an F-16 package to another target.

  I stop by Intel, but there is nothing exciting on their displays. I don’t stay long there,
as they are working feverishly to finish some viewgraphs they will use in the changeover briefing at 0700.

  Meanwhile, the room is full, because both shifts are there. People are explaining what has been going on and what needs to be taken care of as the day progresses. The night-shift people, who will be back in eleven-plus hours, are looking forward to getting out of the basement and into the open air and riding the bus back to Eskan Village and bed. They will probably stop for breakfast at either the RSAF or the village mess hall before they turn in.

  Before I take my place, I look over the “doofer book”—the log—a plain notebook with a green hard cover that is always left on the commander’s table. The only thing I find is a debrief from the F-16 LANTIRN pilots who were orbiting eastern Iraq when the Scuds were shot at Riyadh last night. There had been a low overcast, and the missile came roaring up out of it about fifteen miles to their south. Though they tried to work down through the weather to look for the mobile launcher, the cloud bases were too low for them to muck around under. They never have much time, since the Iraqis pack up their launchers and get the hell out within ten minutes of their shoot. It is frustrating for all of us.

  ★ 0700 By now all the national leaders have wandered into the TACC and are sitting around the small table behind my chair.

  The U.S. Navy is represented by Rear Admiral (lower half) Connie Lautenbager and Captain Lyle Bien (called Ho Chi Minh by all), the USMC is represented by Colonel Joe Robbin, the Army BCE cell is fully manned, and of course there are too many Air Force people to name.

  It is very crowded, with the generals and colonels getting seats on a first-come, first-seated basis. I face the room, and the formal briefings begin. From the get-go, I’ve tried to make sure they all feel they can speak up at any time. There is no limit to the good ideas a group harbors; the problem is to get everyone to speak up and share their views. At the same time, we don’t want rambling conversations. The briefings have to be over fast so people can get to work or go home, as the case may be.

  The weather briefing is short. It’s either going to be good or not so good. But we will go regardless, changing targets based on what we can get. The weather briefer is usually a young lieutenant or captain, and he gets a lot of barbs thrown his way. If he has no sense of humor, he is dead meat. It helps to loosen up the room.

  In their formal briefing, Intel gives BDA from yesterday, unusual events, thoughts about Iraqi air defenses or Scuds, or whatever is the hottest button. We might even get some news about events outside the war zone, such as peace initiatives by Iraqi foreign minister Tarik Aziz in Russia. (Question: How did he get out of Baghdad? Answer: He took a car to Iran and caught a commercial flight.) Sometimes the national leaders will ask questions, but not wishing to seem impolite or ungrateful, they leave the barbs at the briefers to me.

  Next comes a run-through of logistics and communications, paying special attention to munitions and fuel reserves, aircraft status, and unusual transportation problems. Rider and Summers have done such a good job that they anticipate and fix problems before they become serious. It also sure helps to be fighting a war on top of most of the world’s oil supply and to have giant refineries operating near the bases.

  Though the B-52s at Jeddah are eating munitions at a fantastic rate, Jeddah is fortunately a large port, so we are able to truck the munitions quickly from the port to the build-and-storage areas. Rapidly generating the thousands of tons of bombs needed to support a high-tempo operation is no small thing. Even getting rid of the dunnage that the bombs came packed in is a major undertaking. And then specialized machines are needed to lift the bomb bodies and attach the fins and lugs. If you get careless, then you don’t live to tell about it, and you’ll probably take many of your friends along with you. Once the munitions have been built up, you have to deliver them to the aircraft and load them on the racks attached to the jets. About an hour before takeoff, the weapons troops place fuses and safety wires in each bomb.

  ★ 0730 The formal briefings are finished, and now all at the head table swivel their chairs and face the back of the room for Chris Christon’s more speculative Intel briefing. This is where Chris sticks his neck out in a thoughtful, considered way, and it is understood that he does not have all the answers, and won’t need an excuse if he is wrong. He also has a second, unofficial job—to keep General Horner awake, for I am now fighting off sleep with a vengeance. I make notes, just to keep my eyes open, but have trouble maintaining focus.

  After he finishes (and it may be five or thirty minutes, depending), all feel free to challenge him, argue, or comment. Here we do our brainstorming. Obviously the junior officers are reluctant to speak, but if there is a burning idea they speak up; and if what Chris or someone else has said doesn’t convince them, the bullshit flag is thrown.

  Now it is somewhere near 0800, and I open the discussion to the national leaders, the top representatives from the Army, Navy, USMC, and Special Ops, and my own staff leaders. Some talk a little, some say nothing, and some have long but insightful comments. Anyone who gets long-winded, we joke into brevity. When I sense all have had their say, I wrap up the meeting with some nonthreatening (but sometimes negative) feedback and thoughts about where we need to go. When I have to threaten, I do it in private and give the individual a chance to explain.

  By about 0815 to 0830 the meeting is over, and the night shift heads out. ★ 0830 Down the street, the CENTCOM staff is coming up to speed, which means that the phones will occasionally ring with their questions. Though I leave these matters to the TACC directors or my generals, I do want to know what questions are being asked, as the subject will likely come up in the CINC evening meeting, which means I have to be on top of it.

  This is also a good time to chat with the national leaders, since they tend to leave during the day to visit their forces, or perhaps to escort some bigwig from their home country or grab a nap.

  Tom Olsen has gone to bed. He is tireless, but getting on in years, and the night shift is a strain for him.

  ★ 0900 I go for a cup of coffee at the snack bar just off the right-hand side of the TACC toward the rear, over by airspace management. The cookies are abundant, and I take too many for my own good. The American people have kept us in goodies at a staggering rate. No wonder morale is so high. We know that our people at home are pulling for us and proud of us . . . so unlike Vietnam, so different.

  I take my coffee and chat with the AWACS and Patriot teams, then pass by the Scud warning lady (since it’s daytime, she won’t have anything to do and can safely read her mystery or romance novels), the airspace management team, the duty officers on my left, the admin section on my right, and out the rear door. On good days, I make it without spilling any coffee.

  Now I stroll down the hall past the ATO room, which is going full speed in mass confusion, and into the Black Hole for the daily strategy meeting. I will take what comes out of this to Schwarzkopf that night. Inside the Black Hole, Glosson, Tolin, and Deptula are drinking coffee and arguing about how the war is going and what we ought to do next. Though doctrine writers wax eloquently about this level of strategic thinking, as always it is coming down to people who don’t have a clear understanding of what exactly needs to be done yet are far from blind, since they have intelligence not available to others, etc.

  For my part, during the run-up to the war, I had read all I could about Saddam and the history and culture of Iraq. Dick Hallion, the USAF historian, had flooded my office with books on these subjects, which I’d devoured, sometimes reading more than one a day. It’s funny how focused you get when final exams are approaching. This is the final exam of my military career.

  As soon as I wander in, Dave Deptula, Buster Glosson, or Tony Tolin goes to the wall where a map of Iraq is stuck with colored pins indicating various category targets (blue might represent air defense; red, leadership; orange, NBC facilities; and green, Scud-related targets), and we discuss what needs to be done two days from now. (Sometimes when I am busy with
a crisis, they do this without me; sometimes Buster comes down to the TACC and kneels beside my chair, and we go over what he is thinking.)

  After we discuss the so-called strategic targets I move to the next room, where Bill Welch and Sam Baptiste will be dealing with long lists of targets nominated by our land force brethren. Fred Franks’s VIIth Corps worked this list hard, both because they believed it was their duty and responsibility and because they believed air would be wasted going after targets that didn’t matter to the real war if they didn’t. XVIIIth’s list was much shorter. Gary Luck had fewer Iraqis in front of him, and he would not get into the heavy stuff until his divisions had wheeled to the right along the rivers and attacked toward Basra. I also believed that he figured we knew how to do what was best and if he needed help he could count on us. In fact, I never got the impression he felt he was going to need any significant help. Walt Boomer’s list was not as short as Luck’s but much shorter than Fred’s, perhaps because he figured he had his own Marine Air Force at his fingertips if he needed it. That was true in some ways, because the Harriers were thought of as CAS aircraft and really couldn’t go very deep, due to range and vulnerability considerations. On top of that, the Marines will be loyal to one another in ways the Army and Air Force may not. (Neither Walt nor I have this attitude, but it may have influenced his iron majors and kept them from submitting long lists of targets in order to make sure they got their fair share of airpower, whatever that is or was.) The Northern Area and Eastern Area lists were submitted by Colonel Ayed al-Jeaid, the RSAF representative working in the C31C at MODA.

  In fact, few specific targets came out of any of those lists, partly because we had adopted the kill box and level of effort concepts for attacking targets in the KTO, but mostly because Schwarzkopf really called the tune on this part of the ATO. Thus at the evening CINC meetings, the KTO targets would be briefed as 200 sorties against Iraqi divisions in this area and 150 sorties against divisions in that area. And every day, a Republican Guard division would be the “target du jour,” and we would devote a great deal of effort to it. So every day we would work up a target list and present it to him; but each night he would to some extent redistribute the air level of effort. Though he was just doing his “land component commander” thing (as was his right and duty), in truth which targets we hit didn’t really matter, since we were going to get them all before we started the ground war.