Two new arrivals to our task force accompanied us on this raid. Brian Bennett from Time magazine and world-renowned photographer Yuri Kozyrev joined our battalion for a few weeks for a feature story on our Saddam hunt operations. Brian was a remarkable and relatively young man with whom I would form a deep friendship as time passed. He was of average height and build and looked somewhat like Johnny Depp when Johnny Depp was trying to look like himself. Brian was a reporter of the highest caliber who soon earned our respect. We considered him friendly forces.
Yuri was simply incredible. An award-winning photographer and veteran of countless wars, Yuri would march to the sound of the guns all over the globe to capture amazing pictures. With more lives than a cat, he would later snap incredible shots of our fire-fights. So it was, this unlikely assembly set out in the early morning hours of July 8.
Saddam’s cousin, much to our disappointment, did not occupy the house we raided but had been there recently. We discovered this only after a grand entrance provided by Mark’s “Gators” of A Company. Unable to gain access to the single entry behind the plush house, the men of Matt Myer’s platoon, armed with a 10-pound sledgehammer, wailed on a system of sturdy anti-theft bars protecting the door to the kitchen and all the windows. After four minutes of sweaty work, the soldiers decided to use a door charge of C-4 explosives, using the “P for Plenty” method of measurement. The resulting blast remodeled the kitchen with a nice open-air view to the bluffs on the Tigris. It rearranged the dishes in the cabinets, as well as the cabinets themselves, and provided open windows for all of the rooms on the ground floor.
A continued search of the house revealed important documents, photographs, and small amounts of explosives. Hidden in the yard was a cache of RPG launchers, ammunition, a machine gun and several AK-47 rifles. Our mission was complete in a matter of hours, so we picked up our “Regular” navy from the Tigris and moved with the entire task force back to Tikrit. It was a remarkable testament to the flexibility of our soldiers and showed the versatility of infantry when properly equipped and led.
Back in Tikrit, we started what became known as the “Graffiti Wars” with the enemy. We wanted to counter an array of absurd and poorly written Arabic slogans that prophesied the return of Saddam and called for death to Americans and those who collaborated with Americans. A silhouette of Saddam’s head often accompanied these slogans. We initially simply painted bayonets stuck in the Saddam heads, some even adorned with blood spurts or an eyeball popping out to incite effect. We also posted news that a $25,000,000 reward awaited the captor who brought him in, dead or alive.
Stirring a hornet’s nest of sorts, we augmented our information campaign, thanks to Specialist David Haggerty, with whom I had served in Kosovo, with neat stencils and Arabic writing propagating the “Down with Saddam” theme. About this time, Greg Palkot, from Fox News, accompanied our task force and reported on our combat operations live from Tikrit. Fox News, Time magazine, and Stern magazine all began coverage of our operations.
The news people seemed to be amused and intrigued with our graffiti campaign. I assured them that we had not lost our minds. We simply refused to allow the enemy even the slightest advantage, not even with their slanderous graffiti. To prevent the opponent from returning to his venomous wall themes, we had snipers fire warning shots nearby. These slogans and symbols were the insignia of the Saddam Fedayeen, a silhouette of Saddam’s head surrounded by the words “God, Country, Leader.” The Fedayeen were the revolutionaries we were beginning to fight in large numbers in street battles and they were clearly marking their territory.
Some territory was more important than other territory. We wrapped concertina wire around one major sign along the main highway and placed magnesium trip flares within the wire so that if the Fedayeen pulled the wire away to alter our handiwork, they got the scare of their lives. The graffiti campaign produced results. We noticed that more and more people cleaned it off their walls or replaced it with tasteful murals or professional signs. Either way, we won.
By July 12, we saw some Iraqis were targeted by hostile forces for working with us. The attacks were mostly threats, but some improvised explosives were thrown at people’s farms. In one such case, a Pepsi bomb sizzled in a sparkly arc into a man’s courtyard and rolled to a stop. His curious cat spotted it and immediately pounced after it. Its paw was raised for action just as the bomb detonated. I guess the old saying is true after all.
THE STRONG MAN
Constant movement and action from our task force characterized the days that followed. We planned, assembled, raided, exploited, reassembled, and set out again for the next operation. An area to the east of the Tigris, known for its love of mortars and an enemy willingness to use them, was the initial focus of our operations. As our soldiers moved through the farms and fields, fanning out across a wide area, we noticed little things that caused us to take a closer look. Before long, the farms and fields yielded a bounty from a different crop. Soldiers with minesweepers and shovels soon harvested rifles, weapons, and RPG launchers. Farmers claimed innocence but could neither explain the weapons nor their lack of weathered hands and feet that betrayed their disguise. They soon became unemployed.
Our operations continued with our mechanized infantry delivered to their objectives in Bradleys, trucks, V-hulled boats, and helicopters. We remained versatile, and the impact on the morale of the soldiers was very positive. Many of them had never used these techniques before, at Ft. Hood or any other location in their military careers. I saw them as infantry and employed them in the most effective means possible to accomplish the mission. And accomplish it they did. The impact on the enemy became steadily measurable, and we continued to impair him.
Our goal was to press the enemy until he realized that he could never sustain his operations, be as flexible as we were, match his will against ours or, most importantly, defeat our forces. We had to show him that it was better to abandon the Saddam legacy and align himself with the new Iraq—even in Tikrit. We were already beginning to see a lack of popular support for our enemy among their own population. I believed that the Sunni Arab would side with the strong man. If we showed ourselves to be tough and strong, they would cast their allegiance accordingly. If we showed ourselves to be weak, they would counter us. If we could contain the Sunni Arab resistance, I believed, the rest of Iraq would likely follow.
That was the hope for the future. For the present, the enemy clearly had fight left in him, and it was growing. He began to take advantage of our American code of ethics and honor. Not only would he hide behind his women and children, engaging us from multi-family dwellings, but he also attempted to kill those who cooperated with us, including the old and indefensible.
One such target was a man named Nathem who had worked with our forces since our arrival. He was the owner of the curious cat. On July 14, he was visiting his son’s auto parts shop in downtown Tikrit. Four men came into the shop and began to threaten and argue with the 55-year-old man. Weapons were soon exposed. Nathem pulled a pistol and fired near the attackers to ward them off. He quickly emptied his pistol. When he was out of ammo, he was surrounded and shot point-blank, once in the head and twice in the chest.
Nathem’s two sons came running to his aid. The younger one had an AK-47, which he promptly emptied into the man who had just killed his father. He then used the empty rifle to club another man senseless. His older brother, armed with only a hammer, nailed away at the head of the third attacker. Two of the four escaped. The engagement was effectively over, but nothing could bring back Nathem. He lay in a pool of blood next to his weeping sons before our soldiers were able to identify the direction of the gunshots and rush to them.
Nathem was a hero for the new Iraqi nation. He took a stand when others would not. Two days before he died, this man gave us information about activity in a village to the north of Tikrit. We used that information to target a series of selected farms and maneuvered our forces by tank, Bradley, truck, scout Humvee, and even
boats in the Tigris River to access the banks of the village. Within four hours, our men had unearthed over 250 AK-47 rifles, 56 crates of Composition 4 (C-4 plastic explosives) totaling over two and a half tons, eight crates of blasting caps for the explosives (25,000 in all), surveillance equipment, and a variety of military goods and wares. The men felt proud, especially the brave tankers who discovered the largest cache, to have found a way to honor Nathem’s death. We were all saddened by the loss of this poor, honest, and decent man. Their numbers were too few in the godforsaken town of post-Saddam Tikrit to lose even one.
But lose one more we did, a local national whose English skills made him an effective translator. He was a simpleminded, strong, humble man in his forties who had a penchant for the bottle. One night he drifted away from his dwelling. When his body was discovered floating in the Tigris River snared in the nets of our military float bridge, we recognized signs of a major struggle and a severe beating. No doubt he was rolled into the river to finish the brutal attack on his life.
THE RETURN
The enemy stepped up activity all around the city. Locals told us that they had been warned of Saddam’s imminent return and that cooperation with Americans would exact a heavy penalty. This grandiose return would be on July 17, the day Saddam first came to power and a former holiday of the old regime. For weeks this rumor had been brewing. Every Iraqi believed that Saddam’s loyalists might return and defeat us on this anniversary.
We first learned of the enemy’s activity in Tikrit when he spread rumors that we had imposed a curfew banning all movement on July 17. We noticed on the evening of the 16th that many of the shops were closing early. We asked the locals why and soon learned of the rumor. We immediately countered with bullhorns and translators telling the people that the 17th was a normal day and that they could move about freely as they were now a free people. Saddam no longer had the power to control them. The cheers and applause that greeted these messages could easily be heard above the bullhorns. The next day the city was teeming with normal activity.
That evening, however, the enemy attempted to show his presence. I had posted several observation posts (OPs) around the city, manned by our scouts. Our troops would be alerted to enemy activity, preventing them from moving between sectors undetected. We still did not have enough men trained, but as it happened, on this night I did have three such outposts in critical areas. In time, teams of snipers, scout- and infantry-manned OPs, and roving combat patrols would give us a firm grip on the city. At this stage, my men were not yet trained well enough to survive should an OP be compromised.
One such outpost was posted on a public building dominating the south end of 40th Street known as the “Women’s College.” It was actually a school for girls but it provided an excellent field of view at a key intersection in the inner residential district. At this particular outpost, Sergeant Jesse Sample and Corporal Andrew Brokish established an excellent OP on top of the college roof. They were in good communication with Chris Morris and the rest of the Scout Platoon and reported our patrols along 40th Street.
At 11:50 on the night of July 17, I patrolled the city in my Humvee convoy that included a 5-ton truck that was tasked with collecting curfew violators. They would be an instant labor force for graffiti removal around the city. As we cruised around southern Tikrit on 40th Street near the Women’s College, also known as “RPG Alley,” the area once again proved itself to be aptly named.
My driver, Cody Hoefer, had always been instructed to follow his gut. If something did not seem right, he should act on his instinct. I did the same. On a whim, I told him to turn right at the last minute in front of the Women’s College rather than proceed ahead. That was the exact moment that the enemy launched an ambush. Not anticipating our right turn, a volley of two RPGs narrowly missed our Hummer as they were expecting us to continue in a straight line through the intersection.
An RPG making contact sounds like a dumpster dropped from a fifty-story building. The volley struck in a prong with the left fork heading near Sergeant Sample’s observation post atop the Women’s College and the right fork just barely missing our convoy due to the spontaneous right turn. The sound was deafening as the concussion washed over us.
Sergeant Sample and Corporal Brokish were knocked off their feet by the concussion. Hunched over and skirting the rim of the building, they immediately made a run for the lower floors to link up with other scout elements.
My men and I immediately jumped the median of the multi-lane street and directed our unarmored vehicles back into the direction of the enemy. Every infantryman knows that the best way to survive an ambush is to turn into it. While not the reflexive thing to do, it may startle the enemy enough to let you get your bearings and have a fighting chance.
Our men deployed as small arms fire began to crack around us. The enemy had taken cover. I desperately tried to find the source of fire. Bullets aimed directly at a person make a distinct supersonic and deafening crack, not a “wisp” or “zip” as the movies portray. I could get a general sense of direction but not a precise location. The enemy was firing from dark rooftops and long shadows, and we were in the worst of all possible positions, a well-lit, four-way, four-lane intersection.
In a matter of seconds, I considered a hundred things. My men were behind cover, but they could not see the enemy either. I knew we could not stay there. Then the firing suddenly stopped. I was furious. We couldn’t see them. I knew we had to reestablish contact with them or they would hit us again, now or later. My troops were not hit, and our equipment suffered no visible damage. It was time to act.
Angered at this point at the enemy’s impudence, I walked out into the bright intersection and shouted oaths and epitaphs toward the enemy, taunting him to come out. “Sir, get down. You’re going to get hit,” someone called from behind.
“No, let’s go,” I ordered, sternly glancing sideward. “We have to reestablish contact with the enemy.”
Suddenly, a few shots of small arms fire snapped. It seemed to come from the rooftop directly to the east. Good, I thought. They’re still here. Gaining the cover of a low and crudely laid block wall, I saw Lieutenant Colonel Dave Poirier with a few MPs in a couple of Hummers across the way. He heard the gunfire and raced to our location.
“What do you need, Steve?” he questioned across the street.
“Can you cover the main road on the east side so we can cut them off as we wedge them forward?” I shouted to him. He gave a big nod. I asked if he could drop to our frequency, and he nodded again.
This accomplished, I began to make out a couple of Chris Morris’ scout Hummers coming from the north.
“Chris, turn around and take this street back north while we go one block over, and we’ll do the same,” I ordered. “The MPs are one more street over for a backstop. We will drive them back north to the open area. Be careful. They have RPGs.”
Mike Rauhut radioed our situation to battalion and brigade. A section of Bradleys was alerted. Along for the ride tonight was Major Bryan Luke. He was visiting from division to become acquainted with his new job as our operations officer when released to join us. I was glad to have him. We now moved on a residential side street parallel with my scouts who were to the left on 40th Street.
I began to feel somewhat better. We now had some extra forces, and more were coming, but timing was critical. I didn’t want the enemy to escape. Without uniforms, it’s hard to identify them and get them to commit. We clearly had contact with a pocket of them, and I wanted them dead. As we moved north on parallel streets, we came to a cross street that, if viewed from above, would form the bar of the letter ‘H.’ The streetlight painted us all too well. Our night observation devices (NODs) mounted on our helmets struggled to identify the enemy with the bright residential lights washing them out. If we flipped up the NODs we couldn’t see anyone in the shadows. If we flipped down the NODs, we got the washout effect.
Suddenly, chaos erupted. Small arms fire chipped pavement all around us
and pocked the walls near the sidewalks. The enemy opened up with automatic rifles and what sounded like at least one submachine gun. Bullets smacked the scout Hummers, and soldiers could not see where they were coming from. It is a terrible feeling. You know you are in danger but you cannot see where to shoot back. You are not helpless because you have a weapon, but to use it, you have to find the guys who are trying to kill you before they succeed.
I could hear the deafening crack of shots aimed directly at me as pavement chipped nearby. Still not seeing the fire, I at least got a decent orientation on the sound so I took a knee and began to fire at the rooftop of a small building about 75 yards ahead.
“I’m hit!” someone screamed.
To the left, I noticed someone fall to the pavement from the scout Humvee. A medic rushed to the injured soldier and grabbed the nylon strap on the back of his body armor. The sound of a man being dragged across the concrete could be heard.
“Shoot back!” I shouted and continued to fire my M-4 carbine.
Mike Rauhut grabbed the Q-Beam maintenance light we had in the Humvee. I had ordered these when I took command. We used them effectively in Kosovo to spotlight the enemy, not unlike spotlighting deer in season. Mike began to shine it along the rooftops.
“I think I see one!” someone else shouted.
“Shoot him! Shoot the son of a . . . !”
Thunk, thunk, thunk. The Mark-19 grenades sailed through the air. The rounds whacked another rooftop to the right of the one at which I was shooting.
“I think I got him!” Specialist Felipe Lazen called out.
The fire ceased. I took a quick look around. Specialist Percell Phillips was hit. Sergeant Richard Giardine, the scout medic, said he would be all right. Phillips had been manning a Mark-19 grenade launcher from the cupola of one of the scout trucks when a bullet grazed his right temple and lodged in his Kevlar helmet. The force of the bullet “cork-screwed” him around and tossed him to the pavement. While a bit bloodied, he would be mended with a dozen stitches, leaving only a nice barroom scar for future war stories. I thanked God that he was not seriously hurt. He would return to duty in a couple of weeks.
We Got Him! Page 10