Colonel Don Campbell, 1st Brigade Commander for yet a few more days, proudly marched our small command element to the colors. Major General Ray Odierno surveyed this minute component of his vast 4th Infantry Division with a look as reassuring as his commanding presence. I was not nervous. I felt ready, as though my whole life had been preparation for this moment. The moment would begin now. In the short span of an hour, we would resume our current operations. We were, after all, at war, and there was a war to be won.
With short recitations of orders, the battalion colors marched forward. Command Sergeant Major Pete Martinez forcefully snatched them from the soldier, as is the custom. Every soldier knows he must not waiver when the Sergeant Major grasps the colors. Martinez faced about and presented them to Lt. Col. Woempner. “It’s been a pleasure, sir,” Pete intoned in heavily accented English.
Mark’s last act of command was to hand them to Colonel Campbell who praised him for his successful command. Campbell then entrusted the colors to me with this charge and encouragement: “A lot of people expect great things from you, Steve. I wish you every success.”
So I took the colors under which tens of thousands of men have served in its rich history. Over three thousand American soldiers had died under these colors. I was determined that no dishonor would ever befall this banner. Not on my watch. Following a short march past the reviewing officers, the formation returned to war.
HIGH POWER
His face was framed with an intelligent brow, short, thick black hair, and a neat mustache. There was a trustworthy look in his eyes and facial expressions. He spoke with sincerity and gentle force.
“We face many difficulties,” declared Major General Taha Achmed Mezher al-Ganaim, the Salah ad Din Provincial Chief of Police. “I have few vehicles. Much has been pilfered. We have to rebuild everything. Everything. I have few weapons. My police, some of them patrol with no weapon at all. You must help us.”
I reserved judgment, knowing that there were always two sides to every sad story. He did indeed have challenges, but weapons were not typically in short supply in Iraq. Yet, I sensed he was being truthful. His appraisal actually was possible in that we had already intercepted many caches of weapons from raided armories. I knew I would have to earn Mezher’s trust if this liaison was to be successful. In the spirit of T. E. Lawrence, I was prepared for the moment. Lawrence knew the importance of playing to the Arab sense of honor and penchant for display without belittling the essence of the people. Still, I never imagined the opportunity about to avail itself as two kindred spirits pondered the impossible security challenges facing my troops and his police in the city of Tikrit.
“I don’t even have a weapon,” he insisted with a shrug of his shoulders and open palms extended for emphasis. “I gave it to one of my men,” he said with overemphasized resignation.
Looking to the ground and holding up my hand in an exaggerated gesture to stop, I interrupted, “Wait, you have no weapon?”
“Yes, it is true.” He nodded, placing his right hand over his heart.
“I can fix this now. Please, take my pistol,” I commanded as I unholstered a Beretta 9mm handgun, offering it to him, butt first.
With a shocked and puzzled look he insisted, “No, I cannot take your own pistol. What will you have to defend yourself?”
“I have my rifle,” I answered, patting my M-4 carbine. “Besides, I have an entire battalion of soldiers. I can get another pistol, but we cannot get another Chief of Police.”
General Mezher paused. Our eyes locked. I could detect a slight moistening in his as he realized that I was totally serious. “Please, General, we have a long road ahead together, and you must be protected. I will try to work on the other issues as well.”
“Thank you, Colonel Rasool,” he articulated in his best English. With a sincere nod he added another: “Thank you.”
Thus began my long association and friendship with General Mezher. He didn’t know the pistol I gave him had been captured from a Baathist big shot. It was identical in appearance to our own service pistols. I had grabbed it that morning for the change of command ceremony as Mark was still assigned the one that would become mine upon his departure. I had not foreseen giving my pistol to General Mezher that morning, but it was a most fortuitous opportunity. (It also protected some good soldier from the temptation of sneaking home a pistol identical to ours, thereby escaping scrutiny upon redeployment—whenever that might be.)
If there were only half a dozen decent, honest men in Iraq, Mezher was surely one of them. I would meet others, but my first day in command was rewarded with a bond to the provincial police chief that would have incalculable impact on future operations.
By the time the meeting with General Mezher was over, sweltering heat that can only be simulated by sticking your head in an oven had engulfed the area. I patrolled our area and checked the various companies, static points, food warehouses, and key public works in the city. Eventually, we made our way to the cluster of government buildings housing the Salah ad Din Provincial government.
While the security outside was unimpressive, the small personal bodyguard of Governor Hussein al-Jabouri was intimidating. Several fit and intelligent young men armed with MP-5 submachine guns looked more than capable. We had soldiers in the area, and the brigade had a liaison of soldiers on site as well should there be trouble.
Hussein al-Jabouri was an odd combination of former general, smiling politician, and tough soldier. Unlike his contemporaries, he made no attempt to blacken his thick silvering hair, but the obligatory Arab mustache was darkened so drastically that it lent a Groucho Marx-like appearance to his face. His smile was stretched but sincere.
Translating through his doctor, Ali, we carried on a remarkable conversation that drew me to the governor in short order. He hated Baathists. His tribe, the Jabouris, had a long-standing grudge with the Nasiris who were the tribesmen of Saddam and most of his henchmen. The Governor warned of certain locals trying to impersonate government officials and gave us a list of names to monitor. He linked a few of them with other names to flesh out more detail.
Soon a tray of shot glasses appeared. They were filled with two-thirds hot tea and one-third sugar. After engaging in this custom, we were offered what appeared to be canned Pepsi with Arabic lettering. An average-sized man, with many scars and eyes that bored right through a person, entered the room and joined the conversation. Colonel Mohammed Jassim Hussein was introduced as the governor’s head of security. He offered his services, of course, as a matter of protocol. Only later would we realize what those services could deliver. After some business, he asked for a pistol for himself and his assistant. Not to be excluded, the Governor, of course, needed one as well. “High Power,” he specified, referring to the superb Belgian 9mm Browning handgun.
My, how quickly word travels! At least they were not asking for U.S. service 9mm Berettas. Still, loyalty through firearms was a prospect we could probably maintain. They wanted legitimacy. We wanted loyalty and cooperation. A stockpile of captured handguns might put us on the same page.
Making my way back to headquarters, I checked with the ops center for the pulse of things. Their read was similar to my own observation on the ground. I passed on the Governor’s list of names to Tim Morrow, my intelligence officer, and then prepared to attend a dinner hosted by Governor Hussein al-Jabouri in honor of Colonel Don Campbell, our brigade commander. The location of the banquet was an isolated farm in an area known as Allum.
That evening, the cooler air gave respite from the oppressive heat of the day. Our open-topped hummers magnified the breeze even further. One of my first acts of command was to strip our vehicles like a chicken bone—no canvas, no doors, no encumbrances. If called to fight, split seconds mattered. These changes allowed us to see in all directions and allowed us to provide cover with our rifles as we traveled.
My eyes were on heightened alert as we followed the narrow dirt tracks leading to the Governor’s farm. If we were ambushed he
re, there would be no room for a maneuver of any kind. Thick green brush and tall monkey grass lined much of the path, gapped only by farm entrances. It was noticeably cooler here in the bottomland near the Tigris River. Ahead, guards and a few familiar faces from earlier in the day greeted us. We steered our vehicles into the Governor’s fields and made our way to the first of many feasts we would dub “lamb grabs.”
Transitioning from combat patrol to dinner party, we crossed a plush, green lawn that was garrisoned by the ubiquitous, white plastic chairs. Always, the white plastic chairs. I became convinced there were more of them in Iraq than there were Iraqis. They doglegged from a large communal table, completing the arrangement. Lamb, fowl, fish, various vegetables, nuts, and fruits crowded the table. Bare hands reached into bowls and deposited generous portions onto plates. Noticeably absent was the fine instrument known to us as the fork.
After a satisfying “finger-licking” meal, the Governor made a presentation to Colonel Campbell. A barely translucent black robe trimmed in gold embroidery was set on the colonel’s shoulders, and a red and white checkered headdress with goat hair ropes capped the presentation. Several of us were ceremoniously awarded a similar headdress. Instruction on application of the headgear followed, with smiles and laughter all around.
Before the evening was over, Brigadier General Abdullah Hussein Mohammed, former tank commander in the Iraqi Army, engaged me in conversation. He immediately struck me as intelligent, refined and altogether decent. His English was impeccable. As we discussed our backgrounds, I learned that he was a graduate of the Indian War College and had also been educated in Europe. His children were of similar age to mine. He was slightly older, about the same age as my brother. I discovered that he was fluent in German and our conversation drifted naturally to that language that I learned as an exchange student to Germany in high school. In time, this quite remarkable man would help us immensely and would become a close personal friend.
One had only to meet such individuals as Mezher and Abdullah to recognize the undeniable hope for Iraq’s future. Men of influence, education, and intelligence with a genuine concern for the future of their families and country abounded. Our task was to ensure this hope prevailed through the nurture and encouragement of these honorable men. It would not be easy.
3. TIPS
WE HAVE SOME INFORMATION
“Mister, I must see Colonel Rasool,” he said with a friendly face. His brother stood nearby, nodding and smiling.
“What is your business?” asked one of my soldiers at the CMIC.
“I heard the Colonel is here; we have some very important information.”
So it was always “Mister, I must see . . .” or “Mister, I need . . .” or some such demand or query. The CMIC, despite its battered façade from the firefight a week before, appeared to be serving its purpose. Nevertheless, many Iraqis were fearful of initiating an encounter with the Americans, terrified of being branded as collaborators. Some countered this with the assertion of Arab tradition for “baksheesh,” the cultural habit to demand favor and get it from those who have it.
I had already determined to not spend much time there, other than to check on security. Unlike Mark, I felt that we must secure the city before worrying about local relations. I believed the real key to local security was contending with emerging government, civic, and tribal leaders rather than broken window complaints, but I also recognized that the CMIC was needed as a place for Iraqis to redress grievances. I would grow to hate it and call for its abandonment in time, but for the present it served a purpose.
“Sir, sorry to interrupt but there are two guys out here demanding to see you,” informed the sergeant, drenched in sweat.
“Yeah, I bet. Them and everyone else,” I answered begrudgingly, also miserable in a sweat-soaked uniform.
“Sir, I think they are serious. They don’t look like the others we’ve had here today,” speculated the sergeant. “When I told them to pass the information to me so I could get it to you, they refused. They said they would leave first.”
“All right,” I surrendered. “Bring them in after they’ve been searched.”
I was naively oblivious to the significance of this moment. Afterward, I felt completely stupid for nearly missing something so major it could have changed the course of history.
“Colonel Rasool,” they smiled with extended hands. “We have heard so much about you. My name is Ahmed, and this is my brother Nahed.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you.” I smiled and shook their hands. “How can I help you?”
“Please, Mister, can we go someplace private? We have some information.”
I had seen it all before, but these two intrigued me. There was something about the look in their eyes—a warmth, an honesty. It was hard to describe. “Yes, please, of course. Come this way.”
We sat on battered furniture scavenged from buildings in various degrees of ruin. I called for drinks, mindful of the Arab tradition of hospitality. After learning more about them, I was curious about what they would tell me. The brothers were businessmen with a penchant for survival. They lived in Al Auja, Saddam’s birth village. They were once landowners and men of influence, but Saddam had killed their father and seized their land for the village as it now existed with its well-appointed houses for Saddam’s closest cronies.
“They leave us alone now,” explained Ahmed. “We stay by the river. We have a business in Jordan also, so we travel and are able to get by.”
Nahed seemed to understand English but was much less confident in speaking it. Without a translator, I had to rely on the rudimentary English skills of the Iraqis who visited the CMIC and hope for the best. In a couple of days I would make a plea to Major General Odierno to obtain a translator for my task force. Being the kind of soldier and commander he was, he gave me his personal one.
Joe Filmore was an American born in Iraq whose father was on the Iraqi Supreme Court in 1968. His family fled when the Baathists came to power, and Joe would later serve in the U.S. Navy. He volunteered his language skills when we geared up for Iraq and was assigned to General Odierno. He would be a translator of the first rank but as of yet, I did not have him. Fortunately, Ahmed’s English was excellent.
“You need to understand something,” Ahmed whispered as he scanned the room and closed the door. “Saddam is still in the area. He is being protected. They travel in cars with dark windows. You need to stop all of those cars.”
“What do you mean?” I inquired. “Who is protecting him?”
“There are many,” he answered.
Great. Here we go—more Arab histrionics about having information and elaborate tales that will send us on yet another wild-goose chase.
“There are certain families,” he declared flatly.
I was not expecting this. For the next hour and a half, the brothers explained Saddam’s pre-war security apparatus. The network revolved around five controlling families who had known Saddam since his youth, roughly since the 1950s. They had intermarried and were trusted.
“The first group is called Saddam’s Special Bodyguard,” Ahmed explained about the group composed of Saddam’s most trusted bodyguards. “There are twenty to twenty-five of them, and they are with him everywhere and every day. The bodyguards live here in white houses. We have seen them now back in Tikrit. That is how we know he is here.”
The next group was called “The Forty.” Only later did I learn that this group lived in a south-central section of Tikrit that we mistakenly called 40th Street. It was really called the “Street of the Forty,” which explained why we had so much trouble there. These were a second layer of bodyguards who served as Saddam’s functionaries, attending to his every need. They drove, cooked, gardened, machined, or attended while still being very much a group of bodyguards. They were completely trusted by Saddam.
The third layer was composed of groups known as “Saddam’s Special Soldiers Units.”
“They have maybe a thousand in each group,”
estimated Ahmed. “They go on the routes where Saddam travels and look for trouble. He may send several of the groups on different routes and then take only one.”
The meeting wrapped up with an exchange of contact information and the assurance that I would not expose them to undue danger. I realized, if this information were true, they had risked much in coming there.
As they left, I remember thinking this was either the most elaborate lie ever fabricated or that it must be completely true. Shortly, we would become thoroughly familiar with these families as names like Musslit, Hadooshi, Hasan, Heremos, Khatab, and Majid began to emerge. As we commingled this information with the intelligence collected to date, information previously lacking coherency started to make sense.
Our missions to date had been largely dictated by what was called the “Black List.” They were the names of the infamous fifty-two detailed on the “deck of cards,” that brilliant piece of public relations work whereby Saddam’s government officials and most wanted enemies were grouped together and pictured on decks of playing cards to aid in their capture. Additionally, the “Black List” had the names of those corps or divisional targets that various intelligence sections deemed important.
This was something entirely different. As I pondered the details the brothers had imparted, I began to speculate on the scope of our task by asking myself a series of simple questions I had learned to do in wars and training past: What did the enemy look like? How could he hurt us? How could we hurt him?
We knew that there were street fighters launching attacks on our soldiers. Someone had to be organizing them. I decided to reduce the possibilities in simple terms to communicate a strategy for our soldiers. I called it the “Three Tiers.” The first tier was the “Deck of Cards” guys. These were Saddam and his henchmen. The third tier I called the “Trigger Pullers,” those we were scrapping with on the streets. But who was in the middle? The brothers had not only given us the immediate answer but also so much more. This second tier I called the “Bodyguards.” They were the conduit between Saddam, his personal protection, and the foot soldiers he would inspire.
We Got Him! Page 5