We Got Him!

by Steve Russell

  It is an honor for me to introduce this personal memoir by one of the finest battalion commanders with whom I have served. His story captures the human dimension of this awful thing we call war, not often seen in the media accounts during the 24-hour news cycle, and usually overlooked during the search for the sensational. The brave and heroic actions of his soldiers, along with the countless sacrifices and actions by so many like them, have forever shaped the future of the world in which we live. It is humbling to serve alongside them and has been a distinct privilege to command them.

  General Raymond T. Odierno

  Chief of Staff

  United States Army

  PROLOGUE

  After a wild ride spanning half the globe, the 1st Battalion, 22nd Infantry Regiment mobilized from Ft. Hood, Texas, in late March 2003 to deploy to Iraq in mid-April. I would join them in a few more weeks after a wild ride of my own. The original assault against Saddam Hussein and his army was to have been launched from both Kuwait and Turkey. The plan called for the 4th Infantry Division (to which the 1st Battalion, 22nd Infantry belonged) to attack northern Iraq from Turkey, but the Turkish parliament reneged and denied entry just before any equipment arrived. As negotiations waned, the war started without the 4th Infantry Division.

  Their heavy equipment had bobbed on scores of vessels from the Gulf of Mexico across the Atlantic Ocean and finally to the Mediterranean Sea. The divisional army’s “navy,” larger than that possessed by many countries, now charted a new course south through the Suez Canal and the Red Sea eastward to the Indian Ocean and north through the Persian Gulf.

  Porting in Kuwait, they off-loaded the ships and raced north. Their heavy mechanized and armored units churned hundreds of miles of Iraqi dust on roads and dunes. They bypassed the 3rd Infantry Division and Marines already fighting in Baghdad and other Marine elements that had briefly occupied Tikrit. Company A split off the battalion to join a tank unit supporting the 101st Airborne in Mosul as the race continued toward the original objectives in northern Iraq.

  Finally getting into action about the time Baghdad was secured, the remainder of the battalion fought the last vestiges of the Adnan Republican Guard Division near Tikrit by the end of April. The bulk of those remnants had collected near the village of Mazhem, wedged between the Tigris River and their home base known as the “Tikrit Military Complex,” which headquartered the Republican Guard I Corps and the Iraqi Army Tank School. The 1st Battalion, 22nd Infantry fought some fierce battles from 26 to 29 April. Tragically, First Lieutenant Osbaldo “Baldo” Orozco, a fine officer and collegiate football star, was lost, and several more were wounded in an assault of a farm holdout near Mazhem cleared by their C Company and Scout Platoon. Lieutenant Orozco was the first casualty of the 4th Infantry Division in Iraq and, in an odd repetition of history, from the identical company of the division’s first casualty in Vietnam.

  Following these engagements, the battalion was given orders to occupy Tikrit around May 1 and relieve the 8th Infantry’s 1st Battalion, also from the 4th Infantry Division. The 8th Infantry had relieved the Marines. Now the 22nd Infantry would take up residence for the occupation.

  It was during this brief respite that I joined the 1st Battalion, 22nd Infantry Regiment, “Regulars, by God.” The regimental moniker originated in the War of 1812, as described in the “The U.S. Army in Action” series from the Center of Military History: “The Battle of Chippewa—Chippewa, Upper Canada, 5 July 1814. The British commander watched the advancing American line contemptuously, for its men wore the rough gray coats issued those untrained levies he had easily whipped before. As the ranks advanced steadily through murderous grapeshot, he realized his mistake: ‘Those are regulars, by God!’ It was Winfield Scott’s brigade of infantry, drilled through the previous winter into a crack outfit. It drove the British from the battlefield; better still, after two years of seemingly endless failures, it renewed the American soldier’s faith in himself.” One of the regiments in Scott’s brigade was the 22nd. The name stuck and the uniform was adopted for West Point cadets in 1815. Thus began the long tradition of fighting excellence for the 22nd Infantry, a unit celebrated from Cuba to the Philippines, Normandy on D-Day, the Hurtgen Forest, the Battle of the Bulge, at Kontum, Suoi Tre and Tet in Vietnam, in Somalia, and soon—Tikrit.

  1. TIGRIS

  Qais (“KAI-iss”), whose full name was Qais Namaq Jassim, settled down for a quiet evening. The air cooled slightly as long fingers of waning sunlight filtered through the trees in the orchard. He liked this time of year with its forgiving temperatures, blooming desert, and rich growing season. The citrus trees and towering date palms were laden with their bounty. In the near distance, the gentle ripples of the sun-dappled Tigris signaled a powerful undercurrent as the river swelled with winter rain. The fishing would be good.

  There was still some work to do but the evening promised to be a pleasant one. He needed to prepare a meal for his guest now. That was his job. Qais and his brother, both caretakers who had served him for many years, enjoyed conversation with him, but were acutely aware of the need to be vigilant at every moment. The American patrols could appear at any time. Several close calls had taught them that seconds counted. In the last few months, the Americans had materialized undetected on his farm hut patio several times but had found nothing. They had been lucky thus far.

  He was confident that their contingency plan was far too clever for the Americans. They would never find the guest. He looked weary. Still, there was a quiet strength in the guest’s demeanor. He might have looked like a farmer with his common attire and unkempt beard, but one look across the river toward Auja was a reminder of his importance. Down at the riverbank, one could still glimpse the magnificence of his mansion standing stalwartly, even majestically, on the distant hillside.

  Not even the American bombs could bring it down. Certainly it had been damaged. Even so, it remained. Just like their guest. The Americans had tried to break him for decades and could not. Now, though they occupied the entire country, their search for him had been in vain.

  Qais was glad that, since their guest had begun life as a humble farmer on this land, the hardship was not intolerable for him. He and his brother could prepare meals and tend to their guest’s needs until things got back on track. The setbacks were many, but they were substantial for the occupiers as well. Soon, they would leave, and their leader could restore power. He had endured similar hardship in 1958 under parallel circumstances and escaped from this very farm. Fate had brought him back. He would survive again.

  With the setting sun obscured, the lights of Ad Dawr to the south and Tikrit to the north framed the horizon. As Qais prepared for the evening, the electricity failed. Again. This was not at all unusual, but it did cause him to wonder. Canting an ear to the distance, he could hear the low rumble of approaching vehicles. He strained his eyes through the latticed fence toward the wheat field to the east but could see nothing. Still, he didn’t like the sound of things. He could hear too many vehicles in the distance. He began to hear what sounded like . . . helicopters!

  Qais’ mind began to race. (Quick! No time! Hurry! The carpet. Move it. Get the ropes. Please hurry! Be careful. Are you OK? Take this pistol. Get down. Brother, we must get this covered. No! They are coming! They are coming here. Run! Run!)

  Qais and his brother snapped through the palm fronds and small branches lining the orchard. The sound of their crackling footsteps in the crisp evening air was muted by the rising furor they heard in the wheat field and over their heads. Propelling themselves forward at breakneck speed to avoid capture, they ran through the trees to the north, hearts pounding in their ears, every breath a painful gasp. If they could just get some distance from the hut, then maybe . . .

  2. TOWNS

  TREK TO TIKRIT

  The Blackhawk helicopter blades fluttered with a breezy high-pitched clamor as I approached. I talked my way into a ride on the bird with a local and reasonable Air Force sergeant who did the manifesting.
It had one seat. The other seats on the bird were filled with support troops. Support troops. Leaf-eaters, we called them. Though we gave them a hard time, we really did love ’em. They did the vital work of supplying meat-eaters everything they needed—everything but ammo in Kuwait, apparently.

  “You can get it when you land north,” a sergeant back at Camp Doha informed me. “If you draw it here, it comes from accountable stock. You will have to sign for it and return it.”

  All I needed was ammo for my passage north into a combat zone. I suppose in the sergeant’s mind, a colonel had no need for ammo anyway. God help us! At what point did reality and regulation meet? To the admin types, they might as well have been as far away as the east was from the west.

  I had scrounged an unclaimed rifle back in the arms room at Ft. Hood. It was a good one, an M-4 carbine that came in after the guys shipped out. I felt good about not pulling a rifle off the line. I had a pistol, but my first time in a firefight with one was the last. That’s why I found a rifle.

  It was in my hands now, muzzle end down with butt end braced between my legs, as I sat in the troop seats on the bird. Even though the rifle was empty, it was an old training habit to position it this way on a helicopter. It would be disastrous for a stray round to fire into the engine and rotors above. I tried to make myself as comfortable as possible on the cruel netting braced over aluminum that masqueraded as seats. I’m on my way to war again.

  My mind raced back to the events that led me to this journey. Although slated for command in June, I had not been released from my previous job at III Corps Headquarters in time to deploy with the 22nd Infantry in March. Consequently, I took an “interesting” commercial flight from Ft. Hood, Texas, to Kuwait City some six weeks later. From the airport, I proceeded directly to Camp Doha in need of ammo and transportation, but was told that would have to wait for processing. Suddenly feeling very tired, I took advantage of the wait to get some rest. There was no time for administrative games, so I drew no linen and filled out no forms. I had my orders and I simply wanted to get north to my unit. I slept on my kit with a cap shielding my eyes from light in the cooler outside air. It sure beat sleeping with 600 of your closest friends in a hot tin warehouse.

  Hurry up and wait—that’s the army tradition. I tried to play by the book but found no one to comprehend the urgency of getting me to my unit. Taking matters into my own hands, I bummed a ride the next morning to Ali Al Salim airfield in Kuwait. I had stowed away from there many times before in my treks to Afghanistan. Something had to be flying north. I was in luck. A corps support commander had come from Tikrit to check on the flow of supplies into Kuwait, and I was just skinny enough to wedge myself and my kit onto his bird for the return trip. Now here I sat with blades whirring.

  I could not help but think of that fast and furious last day at home. The uneasy sinking feeling began to come back to me. I never could understand it. Regardless of how often I reminded myself that things were usually better than the mind portended them to be, I found little solace. My mind blurred with the million little things that I might need, or might encounter, or might leave undone at home before I left. At the end of it all, I realized, as I always did, that I would just have to do the best I could and trust that things would turn out all right.

  Goodbyes were always hard. This one was no different, but unlike the previous wartime deployment goodbyes, my wife and I both knew that the stakes were much higher and that my trade as an infantry commander put me at more risk than normal. I had just about packed up everything I needed. Then I added the toiletries and small comfort items that I held out for use that morning.

  It was time to go. I hugged my five kids one by one. Hard. I smelled them and embraced them in the hopes of remembering their every detail. I knew from previous deployments that it was actually possible to forget the sharp details of what my loved ones looked like.

  I shouldered my rucksack, tossed a duffle bag on top of that, carried another in one hand, and grabbed my assault pack with attached Kevlar helmet with the other. Burdened with the weight of my gear and of leaving my family, I shuffled out to the car. Since I was deploying after the main body of my troops to take command of a unit already there, I had to go to Ft. Hood and pick up my rifle and pistol for the flight. It always seemed odd to me to fly commercially with a weapon—and to war for that matter. Now, my M4 carbine would be neatly and innocently packed in a locked Wal-Mart black rifle case and put in the cargo hold of a commercial jet. What if this gets lost? I thought.

  When I went to the 1st Brigade headquarters to get my rifle, I had a message to see the rear detachment commander, who had been the adjutant before the deployment. What he said made me angry. He asked me to carry a very large framed print with me to Iraq.

  Are you out of your mind? I thought and then followed verbally with something very similar. “I have tons of gear and am deploying to a war,” I countered.

  “It is for the brigade commander,” he offered pathetically. “It is his going-away gift.”

  Colonel Don Campbell, the brigade commander, was about as fine a commander as anyone could wish. He was a soldier’s soldier and a leader. I could not imagine him wanting something like this to fumble with in Iraq. Further, I also could not imagine how he could get the frame back without some degree of difficulty himself.

  “This thing could be shattered. And even if he gets it in one piece, why burden him with getting it back?”

  “You can talk to Colonel Genteel about it,” said the adjutant, retreating for safety.

  Lt. Col. Gian Genteel was a fine man and one whom I would come to greatly respect. But right now, I had dagger eyes for anyone who thought this was a good idea. After talking to him over a faint phone line in Iraq, I consented and hated myself for it. It was, in my view, dumb to send it over and dumb to bring it back and dumb to ask me to do it. I was dumb to agree. I guess that made us all even. As I fumed about it while securing my weapon, I was informed that the gift was not ready. How terrible. I was heartbroken.

  I left the headquarters, satisfied that I did not have to run that fool’s errand, and got into my car for the last time. Cindy drove me to the airport. The flight would be long. Very long. From Killeen, Texas, to Dallas to Chicago to London to Kuwait. Then I would catch whatever military transportation I could to Iraq.

  Cindy and I embraced at the airport. We had done this before. Nothing made it any easier. It was hard to watch her walk away. It was even harder through moist eyes. I felt a wash of guilt flow over me for leaving my wife to shoulder family responsibility single-handedly for months on end. Left alone with five kids, worried about my safety, and staring at a long separation, she could scarcely relate any of it to friends and family at home. Like so many military wives, it was her burden to bear alone.

  Soon the line was moving, and I had to get my boarding pass. Shuffling along with my gear, I began to focus on my mission. I braced myself for the responsibility of leading a thousand soldiers in combat.

  During the flight over, I reviewed the high points of T. E. Lawrence’s Seven Pillars of Wisdom. I found it helpful earlier when I had deployed to Kuwait and Afghanistan. But it seemed so much more applicable now. I also started and finished Alistair Horne’s A Savage War of Peace about the French experience in Algeria. Something in my gut told me that any war with Arabs was bound to have insurgent problems. Little could I have known.

  COMMUTERS AND CAPTIVES

  The high piercing whine of a Blackhawk powering up brought me back to the present. The full colonel using this bird was gracious enough to let me strap hang. Frankly, I think he mistook me for an enlisted infantry soldier. It was a great compliment. I eyed the mixture of soldiers on board wondering which of them could fight if we landed unexpectedly. Opening an ammo pouch, I brandished an empty magazine, shouting over the noise to a sergeant, “No ammo! Give me a magazine!”

  “Sure thing, sir,” he shouted back as he tossed me a 30-round mag and I tossed him the empty one. I instantly felt
better.

  Brown dust corkscrewed into billows surrounding the bird. With snout down and tail high, the Blackhawk nosed its way north into Iraq. I flipped on my handheld Garmin GPS to track our location should we go down. We crossed the big berm and anti-tank ditch Kuwait built as a barrier against another possible attack from Saddam’s Iraq. War debris littered the landscape for many miles—charred hulks, flattened cars, and buildings in ruin.

  Clipping along the Iraqi countryside, I absorbed the view. Every building was square with a walled roof, similar to those in Afghanistan but more highly developed. The entire population seemed to be clustered along the rivers and streams. Infrastructure connected the clusters in a constant flow of humanity tracking north toward our destination. Things were calmer now that the Iraqi army had been driven from the field. Still, the route struck me as risky given the ample supply of RPGs and shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles in Iraq.

  Approaching Baghdad, we veered west in favor of a less populated route. The city was massive. Millions of Iraqis, about one-fourth of the population, lived there. As our flight path took us toward more deserted areas, the silhouette of the city faded on the horizon.

  Suddenly, I heard the rotor pitch change as we leaned into a sharp bank. Peering out the Plexiglas window, I noticed two Iraqis with a pile of munitions in the back of their pickup truck. They were inside a square-bermed ammo storage bunker, one of many dotting the desert flats. The slapstick comedy act was about to begin.