We Got Him!

by Steve Russell

  I couldn’t guess what was taking place as we touched down. Once the swirling sand settled, I saw two aviators in flight suits moving with their pistols drawn toward the two Iraqis. Suddenly, the crew chief threw open the troop door.

  “You and you!” shouted the colonel, pointing at two soldiers armed only with pistols. The two support soldiers followed the colonel as he moved toward the two military-aged Iraqi males already covered by the aviators. Whatever was about to develop, it seemed senseless to leave us on board as they developed the situation.

  “Come with me,” I ordered the only other rifle-armed soldier on board, the one who had given me a magazine. He seemed fit and perhaps able to fight.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied with energy as we left the bowels of the Blackhawk.

  Chambering a round, I approached the colonel. “Sir, would you like me to search them? I’m an infantryman. I might be able to help.”

  “Sure! That would be great!” he gushed with a look that demonstrated my presence and rank had still not been noticed. Perhaps he believed two rifle-toters had just been beamed there for his benefit.

  “Cover me from an open side, and do not let the Iraqi get between us,” I explained as I handed my rifle to an aviator and instructed the sergeant.

  “Roger, sir,” he acknowledged.

  I began my search. These were young Iraqi men, perhaps in their early twenties. Armed only with a wooden mallet between them, they appeared to be harmless. Like some characters from a Bugs Bunny cartoon, they were cracking the seals of stolen 57mm anti-aircraft shells, discarding the warheads and powder and tossing the brass into the back of their pickup truck. Spying a little teapot and two Turkish cups over a small fire, it appeared we had interrupted their coffee break.

  Some soldier had handcuffed their wrists with plastic zip ties which were far too tight. I took note of their red and white checkered headdresses lying on the ground in the blazing sun. After my search, I knew they were both clean—no weapons or other contraband. I flipped out my Gerber ”Gator” knife, a gift from the 3rd Special Forces in Afghanistan, and snapped it open. The Iraqis’ eyes widened to the size of Eisenhower dollars as I carefully worked it under the zip ties to cut them free.

  “Too tight,” I offered by way of explanation to one of the soldiers nearby. “Redo them with a finger’s width of slack to prevent permanent damage.” I stooped to the ground, grabbed a checkered kaffiyeh and tossed it to the Iraqi to cover his head.

  “Yes, mister!” He smiled, getting a modicum of relief from the heat as he reapplied it. “Thank you!” He nodded, giving a thumbs-up before being recuffed.

  Once the two Iraqis were secure, I searched their truck for weapons and grenades. Nothing. As I emerged from the cab, the colonel expressed appreciation for my help.

  “It’s good to get more ‘captives’ on the ‘scoreboard’ for the support group,” he announced.

  I listened respectfully, trying to conceal utter amazement at this corps support group commander. Are you serious? Scoreboard? What scoreboard? Did he think this was some kind of grandstanding game?

  “I called ahead for support since we are close to Tikrit,” the colonel continued. “There is a QRF (Quick Reaction Force) on its way now.”

  Thank God, I thought privately, to save us from ourselves.

  In the distance, I could see dust geysers rooster-tailing from Bradley Fighting Vehicles as they spotted our location. As they neared, I was relieved that fighting troops would be handling this “crisis” but wondered what important work they had been drawn from to do so.

  First Lieutenant Matt Myer’s platoon from A Company, 1st Battalion, 22nd Infantry had arrived. The support command colonel instructed Myer as he reported. I already liked the look of this unit. Their kit was practical; ammo was within fighting reach, their weapons were clean and oiled, and the Brads were stripped to no-nonsense fighting trim. Not yet in charge but curious about the unit I would soon command, I went to the rear of a Bradley to talk with the men. To my surprise, I saw Staff Sergeant Mark Dornbusch, a soldier I served with in Kosovo, leading his squad.

  “Welcome to Iraq, sir. We heard you were coming.” He grinned.

  “Ranger Dornbusch!” I exclaimed. “Great to see you. Staff Sergeant, is it? Wow! It was private the last time. Thanks. It’s good to be here. These guys don’t look like much of a threat—just a couple of coffee-drinking looters melting down brass to make plates and teapots would be my guess.”

  “Roger, sir,” replied Mark. “We’ll take care of them.”

  I then talked with Lieutenant Myer briefly and asked him for a general update on his platoon. Speaking with confidence, he gave me a very thorough rundown of his mission.

  “We’ve been guarding these ASPs (Ammunition Supply Points) out here,” Myer briefed. “Tons and tons of stuff, sir. It’s all pretty dangerous if it falls into the wrong hands. Every type of ammunition imaginable is inside these bunkers.”

  Matt said there had been some small arms contact with factions attempting to raid the ASPs. He told me his company was positioned in the village of Auja (“OH-juh”), the infamous birth village of Saddam Hussein, several kilometers to the northeast. A platoon had been rotated to this location to provide security.

  “Do you have mortar support?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so, sir,” he replied. “But we are within artillery range of the 4-42 across the river and attack helicopters.”

  Good answer, I thought. A stray platoon out here in the desert was a disaster waiting to happen without proper indirect fire support. As we talked, I realized I had served with Matt’s father, Colonel Steve Myer. Suddenly, I felt old.

  Not wanting to miss my ride, we parted company. I walked back to the bird with a very good first impression of the battalion I would soon grow to love in ways only soldiers can understand.

  WAKE-UP CALL

  Dust clouds billowed from the Blackhawk, sand-blasting the infantrymen who I am certain had nothing but “praise” on their lips for this unimpressive, ragtag element they had come to rescue. I mused at the whole thing, thankful we had encountered only coffee-drinking pot-makers.

  The Tigris rose up to our right, connecting us to the village of Auja. Spectacular housing and palaces linked Auja with the city of Tikrit. Ornate mosques sharply contrasted with the squat, blocky, communist-style architecture below. Alongside the river to the right was a sea of military vehicles and a few helicopters on well-manicured, palm-lined avenues within an enormous, walled palace complex. To the left, the city sprawled in a crescent shape, each tip connected to the river.

  The choppy sound of changing rotor pitch signaled the end of our journey. We landed on a flat, paved surface that made a decent airfield. To the east, several lines of 5-ton “expando van” trucks marked the headquarters of the 4th Infantry Division.

  Duffles and kit in hand, sweat dripping from nose to kneecap, I made my way toward the vans to find a ride to the battalion. I recognized a few faces from Ft. Hood and was soon greeted all around. Someone made a call to the 1st Battalion, 22nd Infantry. They would come get me. I wandered toward the division operations truck for an update while I waited. Lieutenant Colonel Mark Woempner, the current battalion commander, soon greeted me.

  “It sucks to meet my relief,” he asserted. “I’m glad it’s you.”

  “I won’t get in your way, Mark.” I offered. “You’re still in command. I would like to get around to the units, though, as much as possible to make my own assessment.”

  “Whatever you need, Steve,” he replied. “You are welcome to come with me or have the run of anything in the battalion.”

  I felt like my entire life had been preparation for this moment in Iraq. While I could never have imagined the events to follow, I could sense something significant was taking place—an opportunity to shape events for the good of our nation and perhaps even the world. It was surreal.

  One of the first things I did was get acquainted with the environment. I wanted to see wha
t we were up against in the city and how our soldiers interacted with local Iraqis. I had the opportunity over a couple of days to do just that. The city struck me with a mix of sights, sounds and smells. Communist overengineered, square, squat, pre-fab apartment buildings sprouted above the flat-topped, Arab houses. Hanging laundry flapped with companion swirls of dust and fluttering trash. Rivulets of filth and greasy sewage kept company with dingy yellow and white candy-striped curbs. The burnt smell of diesel fumes mixed with other assorted odors. Young Arab men haunched everywhere, busy at nothing. To the casual observer, it appeared that the national occupation must have been sitting.

  Women occasionally appeared but were always busied with some task. How they maneuvered in their black burqas while carrying loads in the oppressive heat was a great mystery. The locals believed the rumors that our sunglasses were x-ray capable, angering the men as they mentally accused us of lusting at their women. (Even if we possessed such technology, nothing could seem more repulsive to us than to ponder what lay beneath a few of these well-filled black sacks bustling their way along the sidewalks. Perhaps their modest attire was a merciful benefit to all.)

  Men, young and old, wore kaffiyehs. A square yard of soft cotton, linen, or silk was folded diagonally and then turned and twisted to suit their various stations of life. The still-thin, young working men twisted it turban-like around the head. Sometimes one corner would be pulled across the nose to filter the dust, revealing only dark brown eyes. Those holding some tribal station in life framed their faces with the cloth in a neat arched fashion, topped with double ropes made of goat hair. If they held some special tribal importance, the ropes might be square instead of round with tassels dangling to further denote magnificence.

  From the neck down on most men, a shirt of their favorite pale blue or cream color flowed down to near the ankles. We dubbed them “man dresses.” Their feet were shod with flip-flops of varying simplicity, but some of the younger men wore tennis shoes. Some middle-class men wore pants and shirts, and some of the administrative and government types appeared in their best polyester brown or blue suit with a few daring to sport a Western trademark tie vice the open collar.

  Kids, nearly all of them beautiful, were adorned in bright red, orange, yellow, and green shirts and pants. Some wore shoes. Many did not, but it seemed more a function of youth rather than lack of availability. They appeared smiling at the portal of every gate, allowing a glimpse to their houses within. Walls of cinder block and mortar, some finished and painted, some not, garrisoned the yards from the streets and public. Scuffed, underinflated soccer balls rested nearby. Standing vigil over the kids between gates and walls were the piercing but almost welcoming eyes of their mothers, tracking us as we passed.

  These were the daily scenes of the city and surrounding villages of Tikrit, Iraq, as well as a thousand other cities, towns, and villages. Tikrit was where Saddam Hussein was spawned, its notoriety secured by a man rather than by important geography or natural resources. This made it an interesting place to secure, as many “diehard” old-regime loyalists populated nearly every section of the city. Most of their neighbors were not as committed but played the game with true Arab flair and deception. Many, regardless of loyalty, appeared to welcome our soldiers but their eyes betrayed this. They feared that their neighbors would kill them for desiring to work with us or for living privileged lives under Saddam. Consequently, nearly all wore a façade of hate as we occupied the city and surrounding desert villages.

  In the brief span that followed, I also talked to hundreds of my new soldiers. Information was water, and I was a sponge. I scoured the countryside, absorbing the sights and sounds, looking for subtle nuances of trouble or opportunity as I considered how our soldiers would mesh with this city. In a few short days, I would shoulder the responsibility of nearly a thousand troops. I prayed that God would give me wisdom, confidence, protection, and clear thinking.

  The phase of war unfolding before us seemed to be an insurgency. I noted in my journal how the signs of danger belied the false sense of calm governing the actions of many commanders in the division. The current discussion was focused entirely on submitting “wartime” awards. The cutoff was May 1, the date President Bush had declared as an end to major conflict. Plans and talk centered on governance, reconstruction, schools, and public works.

  Mark Woempner presented a good assessment of his command team. I agreed with most of it. The Command Sergeant Major, Salvador M. “Pete” Martinez, was everything one could ask for in a battalion’s top soldier. Pete was not built in the typical form of most modern infantry sergeants major, the type that usually comes with youthful, square-jawed seriousness, a great physique, lots of “scare badges,” but not much experience. Pete was older and baldheaded. He sported a thick graying mustache and a thicker Puerto Rican accent. Having encountered nearly every situation that could come his way, he was an outstanding sergeant major, akin to the old regimental sergeants major of World War II. He had already been a brigade and battalion sergeant major. Rather than wait for a brigade when he was reassigned to Ft. Hood, he asked instead to return to the Regulars. Since he had been a platoon sergeant and first sergeant with the 22nd Infantry in previous years, some might view the move from brigade to battalion as a step down. Pete would tell you it was a step up. He preferred life with the troops.

  The executive officer, Major Brian Reed, was second to none. Tall, laid-back and with a humorous nature, Brian was simply the best. The operations officer, Major Mike Rauhut, was the same. Although more serious, there was none more thorough or conscientious than Mike. Both were big men, with Brian standing even taller than Mike. Brian had close-cropped dark hair; Mike wished he had hair. Their long-standing relationship traced all the way back to their years at West Point. The friendship and love I would feel for these men after the trials we would face together cannot be described.

  Two of the three rifle companies were well led. Ironically, the least competently led company seemed to have the most crucial mission inside the city. It didn’t seem to me to be working. Perhaps this was allowed due to the experience of a very good top sergeant and a compensating aggressiveness found in the executive officer. Whatever the case, I believed that something had to change—the company, the leadership, or both.

  None of this was so much a reflection on Mark Woempner as a commander as it was a misinterpretation of the present situation. In May of 2003, no one in the entire command, from generals to soldiers, knew how the Iraqi people would react following the overthrow of Saddam Hussein and the defeat of his army in the field. It was assumed we would simply “transition” to better times. Neither Colonel Jim Hickey, who would soon be my commander, nor I believed the theory of better times.

  Colonel Hickey and I sensed danger lurking within the city. Perhaps it was because we were about to assume command of a brigade and a battalion. We discussed the numerous concerns we had. I noted, at the time, the danger of the stability operations or “Balkan” state of mind among some of the Army’s leaders. The people of this culture were decidedly different and would need to be handled with an understanding of their penchant for display, bravado, forcefulness, and magnanimity so common to the Arab culture.

  Whether it was the mind-set of the time or lack of tactical awareness, the battalion seemed to me to be unprepared for the current set of dangers. The mortars were not being used for indirect fire support missions, and a more incapable officer to lead them in that crucial task could not have been found. The scouts, while extraordinarily led, were not being used for reconnaissance; their mobility had been siphoned off for dubious escort missions. The battalion snipers no longer existed. They had been dispersed among the companies rather than being used with scouts and outposts for battalion ambush missions.

  The company missions were little better. The soldiers’ strength and awareness seemed to wane as they guarded schools, banks, and other important static points. Consequently, there was little movement in the battalion and many seemed vulne
rable to ambush. Some elements were assigned to guard areas beyond the range of indirect fire protection and that with only spotty radio contact. There were no 72-hour observation posts; foot patrols were lacking in the town, and many of the hasty outposts that did exist had security gaps.

  All the components for trouble were present. The Iraqi army had no formal surrender. Enemy soldiers were not officially processed anywhere. They simply dissolved into a hundred cities, towns, and villages—many with weapons carried from their armories as yet undiscovered. There had been much finger pointing in the press about the mistake of “disbanding” the Iraqi army. That was nonsense. The army disbanded itself.

  Most of the Iraqi soldiers defected to get on with their lives. In Tikrit, however, there was a high concentration of Republican Guard, and, as we would later learn, actual Saddam Fedayeen units. These soldiers remained unconvinced and had even been instructed to prepare for the defeat. Saddam had them convinced that, if they struck back as resistance fighters, the Americans would grow weary with the rise of casualties and eventually withdraw. Then he could make a play for restoration to power. Consequently, the Fedayeen and some Republican Guard loyalists were now ready to take to guerilla warfare. They were already being supplied and funded with hidden stashes of weapons and money. This small minority, clinging to the past, began to attack our soldiers. Just before I would assume command, the activity began to escalate.

  On May 25, 2003, I turned forty years old. I never imagined myself turning forty in Tikrit, Iraq. Though I no longer feel so today, I somehow felt I had been robbed of something. As the time to take the battalion colors neared, I prayed that the unit would be protected until I could assume command on June 11. Sensing an imminent threat and reading the danger signs in Tikrit as I made my way around, I worried we would be attacked before I could establish a more aggressive footing. My worries, unfortunately, were well-founded. The battalion was about to receive a brutal wake-up call.