Naturally, the looters worked best while smoking during all this hammering of live shells and pouring of powder. After cracking the seals, they emptied the powder pellets into bags, stacked the brass, and then bagged the warheads to be vended to a local bomb maker. The warheads were the type often used in roadside improvised explosives. The fast-burning propellant was used to make other types of bombs as well. To ensure that nothing was wasted, the brass was melted down into ingots and sold to teapot and plate makers. The proceeds supported local terrorists.
The enemy knew that we had insufficient manpower to cover the vast ammunition depots and bunkers. Consequently, the IED war manifested itself significantly in our area. Because we were killing the enemy in direct firefights in the city, they were forced to find other means of attack. They could salvage munitions north of the city with minimal risk of encountering our patrols.
I assigned the task of ending this operation to Captain Cecalupo’s C Company, 3-66 Armor. Although not a tank mission, we needed the manpower, and this was his area of operations. Jon, the son and brother of infantrymen, aggressively put his talents into the task and established a series of ambushes with his dismounted tank crews.
Each night for a month, a “cat and mouse” war developed. The insurgent-paid looters would come into the perimeter, most of the time armed, to set up shop for the night. Business was brisk. In about thirty days, Captain Cecalupo’s men had engaged literally scores of the enemy. They had killed five, wounded sixty-five, and captured more than one hundred. For every night of bloodshed, a new day of replenished looters awaited them. It seemed like we were just shoveling fleas.
Concerned, I met individually with the tank men performing the grisly work of separating the stupid and lawless from the living and breathing. What I found was yet another example of how professional and dedicated our soldiers were. The men assured me that they fully understood the mission. For every bomb material supplier they killed or maimed, one less bomb would be on the road. They were exactly right. At the end of a month’s hard fighting, the battle of the ammunition supply point appeared to be won in the region north of Tikrit. Nevertheless, the bomb war continued to be waged in the streets and supply routes of Tikrit and its surrounding villages.
On August 29, we patrolled the streets of Tikrit, much like any other night. Long shadows stretched beyond the pale streetlight while wild dogs roamed about in packs, eager to begin patrols of their own. About 11:30 p.m., as we turned onto 40th Street, a pack of dogs assaulted us in an impressive wedge formation, all barking in support as they pressed to within five feet of our vehicles. While we were admiring their aggressiveness and disciplined formation, a violent brown explosion silenced their barks and our thoughts as a concussive blast washed over us. What was that? I thought. An acrid stench filled the hazy air. I could only vaguely make out the canines as they made hasty retreats.
Attempting to assess the situation, I swiveled to catch a glimpse of the trail vehicles. They appeared to be unscathed. In fact, we all seemed to be unharmed. Instantly we turned the vehicles around, covered both double lanes of traffic, and headed south back toward the enemy. Reaching the approximate point of attack, we bailed from the vehicles and sought to engage him. Once again, we shouted taunts at the enemy and attested with oaths and epitaphs to their incompetence. This time, none answered our challenge.
On the west corner curb, the precise location on which I had been attacked in July when Phillips was wounded, was evidence of the explosion. A vegetable oil tin, packed with what we determined to be ten blocks of TNT and a hand grenade thrown in for good measure, was the basis of the bomb. Clearly legible on a piece of the ruptured metal were the ironic words “A Gift from Sweden.”
A gift indeed! Due to poor wiring of the explosives, the bomb did not have the force it should have. I was not complaining. The grenade and two blocks of TNT detonated, but the other eight blocks lay scattered around us like playtime at a nursery. Our dispersion and tactics had lessened the effects, as the timing of the blast occurred between my vehicle and the one behind me.
A curious man, unrelated to the incident, observed us with amusement from the balcony above his well-lit restaurant. He seemed to be mocking us. Not knowing his intentions, red rifle lasers lined up on his man dress and he, like the dogs, beat a hasty retreat to safety. The attacker could be any one of several thousand people concealed in nearby houses and apartments on 40th Street. There was nothing to do but resume our patrol. I thanked God yet again for sparing our lives.
August 30 dawned with yet another bomb on the streets. Infantry from C Company discovered this one constructed of two sticks of C-4 hooked to batteries and tied to a bottle of diesel fuel. Our soldiers called the explosives experts to detonate it. Later that afternoon, not far from the bomb locale, a C Company patrol dodged a volley of RPGs that missed widely. One crashed into an Iraqi house, horribly wounding a two-year-old child. Our soldiers immediately responded and saved the life of the terrified girl. She was stabilized and transported to the local hospital. It was a scene of heartbreak and suffering, enough to kindle the desire to slaughter every insurgent and terrorist in Iraq with the same insensitivity.
Even as this drama unfolded, we received a tip regarding a weapons cache of RPG launchers on yet another farm. We made haste to the residence of the alleged farm owner. He was not home, but a relative answered the door. On gut instinct, we advised him that there would be no trouble if he led us to the farm and disclosed the weapons. He complied. His brother was already in jail, and this man wanted no trouble with us. He pledged to help. He did.
After a ten-minute countryside journey, the man escorted us to a deep irrigation ditch and pointed to a pile of cut hay at the bottom. As we extracted six sacks of weapons, we realized that we stood little chance of ever finding these weapons without informants. We returned to headquarters with no fewer than twenty-six RPG launchers. It was one of the single largest RPG hauls we had ever seen.
The enemy attempted to keep up the pressure. Over the next few days, our soldiers handled an attack on the Governor’s building and more roadside bombs. September 2 was particularly noteworthy. It started with a chilling discovery on the northern highway bypass. Several large caliber artillery shells were “daisy-chained” together behind the guardrail. Each had been mounted and concealed from passing drivers. Connecting each heavy artillery shell was detonation cord, allowing every shell to explode instantly and simultaneously at eye level upon detonation of a single device. It was a macabre and deadly ambush-in-waiting. We disarmed the shells immediately, thankful once again for having been spared from disaster.
We soon tore down every guardrail in the city but new innovations took their place with increasing frequency. I assessed the situation my command was facing and did not like the conclusion I reached. The enemy was clearly on the offensive now in a lethal roadside bomb war. While we had gained the initiative in direct fights, we struggled with the indirect nature of roadside bomb attacks. Even worse, these attacks were camouflaged in broad daylight by innocent civilians.
With the guardrail ambush effectively thwarted, C Company patrols discovered two additional bombs in northern Tikrit and detonated them both. At the southern highway bypass, a patrol from Mark Huron’s 299th Engineers discovered yet another. We were thankful. As long shadows signaled day’s end, a convoy from our support company carrying both supplies and soldiers returning from emergency leave would most certainly have traveled directly into the path of this bomb. No matter. Another one awaited it.
First Lieutenant Chris Eagling led the convoy in Hummer A44. He had already survived one ambush when his Hummer was blasted in the CMIC attack in June when Halling was killed. On this day, the enemy would get a second chance. Positioned behind the driver, Eagling saw an object in the road. That object was a tire concealing a 152mm heavy artillery shell packed into a sack of ball bearings and connected to a blasting cap with a cell phone to dial up the explosion.
The Hummer and its occup
ants were suddenly consumed in a brownish cloud of sand, flame, and shrapnel. In the right front seat, Second Lieutenant Ali Adnan felt a sharp pain in his right knee and arm as he was blown horizontally into the center console. Adnan was a brand-new officer only recently assigned to our support company. It was a rude welcome to the unit. The soldier seated behind him fared no better. Thumbing a ride on our battalion’s support convoy for his return trip from leave, Sergeant First Class Charles Chenault from A Company was thrown laterally into the middle of the Humvee. Shrapnel lacerated his neck and fragmentation peppered his body. Welcome back to Iraq.
The Hummer was not the only victim. The concussive mixture of brownish cloud, flame, blast, shell fragmentation, and flying ball bearings lashed into cargo truck A181A as it trailed them, cutting tires, metal, and flesh. Seated and on guard in the back of the truck’s cargo area, Specialist Michael Regehr from our support company felt a deadening pain to his face, head, and shoulder. Blood poured from his gums where several of his teeth had once been. Another soldier, Specialist William McBroom, facing the back, felt fragments slice through his left foot and suffered abrasions to his face. Amazingly, no one was critically injured.
Sergeant Chenault staggered from the vehicle. Lieutenant Eagling joined him as they made their way forward of the blast site. They waved down an approaching MP patrol from Dave Poirier’s 720th MP Battalion to warn them of danger ahead. The MPs radioed to our battalion and aided the wounded. Our soldiers gathered their wounded comrades and rushed them to an aid station a few kilometers up the highway. It was located at a small Iraqi auxiliary airfield dubbed “FOB Packhorse” in honor of the 4th Support Battalion’s moniker.
We raced south upon hearing the blast to assist in securing the area, equipment, and damaged vehicles. As I walked a length of Highway 1, I found chicken breast-sized chunks of the artillery shell embedded in the asphalt. The tire that concealed the bomb was a willowing array of belted cords, while loose rubber had bounced in every direction. We were able to recover cell phone parts and other key items that would help us find the bomb’s signature.
With casualties and equipment secure, we quickly recovered everything from the scene. My men knew I wanted no damaged vehicles to linger after an attack. Insurgents would never dance on American equipment. Ever. We would kill anyone who tried. I would not tolerate a burning hulk from my command being on display before a gloating enemy or illustrating some disingenuous concerned commentary from an evening news reporter.
I had clearly endured enough. We had some leads and were fairly successful in stopping the bombs, but one always seemed to elude us. Acting on our first solid intelligence on September 3, we struck back. An Iraqi informant tipped our soldiers about suspected bomb makers in Tikrit named Ibrahim and Raid Kasim Muhammed Muhammed. We hastily planned a 1:00 a.m. raid on the house located on the western outskirts of the city. As we prepared for the raid, a half dozen mortar rounds slammed into the ground near the Tigris bridge access road, riveting both thoughts and bodies. All fell harmlessly into an empty lot.
Reports from lookouts crackled over the radio identifying the location of the attackers to a field east of the river. Counterartillery radar confirmed the same location. We alerted the Brigade Reconnaissance Troop, commanded by Captain Dez Bailey, whose troops owned that sector. I could see on the FBCB2 that they were several kilometers north of the activity at that moment. With our troops being a good bit closer to the activity, I resolved to cross the river to prevent the slippery insurgents from escaping before Dez’s troops could get there. Of our troops currently out on patrol, my own command element was the closest thing to the suspected area.
As both Dez’s element and mine closed on the suspected location, I could see from my FBCB2 “fishfinder” that Dez would not make the intersection before me. We had only small arms on the convoy, and while I would not hesitate to fight, it was as if all the hackles on the back of my neck rose to the danger.
“Hold up a sec,” I shouted to Hoefer. “Let’s let the BRT catch up. We’re too far ahead, and I don’t want to blunder into something.”
To this day I still wonder what caused me to sense the danger on that stretch of road. Just a minute later, as we watched the BRT vehicles come into view, a violent firefight erupted. Their convoy came under heavy RPG and small arms fire about 400 meters to our front. Tracers shot across the sky, washed out by brilliant explosions from crashing rockets.
Unlike us, Dez was well armed with crew-served weapons. The haste of the insurgents shifting their focus from our little band of merry men to his well-armed combat vehicles gave him an edge. Bailey and his men returned a vicious fire with .50 cal. machine guns, 40mm Mk 19 grenade launchers, and rifle fire. After radioing a hasty call for Brad Boyd to bring up his Tikrit Quick Reaction Force, I put foot to pavement and ran toward the fight with a few of my men.
The brush caught fire with the second outburst. The insurgents were using an aqueduct as cover, and the flames of the surrounding grass fire had washed out our night vision as the din of machine guns mixed with the thumps of Mk 19 grenades and rifle fire. I conferred briefly with Dez on the ground to let him know that we had some support on the way with Bradleys and infantry.
Soon Brad and his men joined forces with Dez as they moved into the farmland along the aqueduct. Flames licked at the night sky, but the shooting had completely stopped. Determined soldiers and company commanders joined together to search the area. As the flames and floating sparks swirled into the air, violent eruptions suddenly showered sparks and debris over the area. Something was cooking off in the brush. It could have been abandoned RPG grenades or mortar ammunition. We may never know.
The next morning, soldiers found a bloody sandal in a concrete aqueduct. The charred area around the attackers’ launch point attested to the one-sidedness of the fight. The mortar launch point was confirmed, but there were no detectable blood trails to track due to the blaze. Still, it was clear that the insurgents had paid dearly for their attack while none of our soldiers had been wounded in either scrap. While proud of our soldiers’ ability to react quickly and work cohesively with adjacent units, I was acutely aware of the narrow margin by which I missed leading my little convoy head-on into disaster. I felt that God had once again preserved our lives.
Returning to my Hummer after that fight, I found an excited reporter who had recorded much of it on video. I had forgotten that Andrew Cawthorne of Reuters was with us. By this point in the war, I nearly always had a rider or two from the media. We made an effort to accommodate reporters and photographers as expediency allowed. Andrew had asked to accompany us that night, as it was his last night with us before heading to Baghdad and ultimately home. His peers from other bureaus had been less interested and had chosen a respite versus what might have been a tedious and uneventful patrol. However, when Andrew came back with incredible footage of the fight, the other news agencies were scrambling to get his story. By the time the evening news aired back in the States, the footage of our fight had been flashed around the world.
With the conclusion of that fight, we continued preparations for the raid on the bomb maker house later in the evening. Moving swiftly, we completely surprised the occupants at that hour. We netted C-4 plastic explosives, five types of propellant, sealants, clocks, timers made in China, switches, wire, grenades, and rifles. Both bomb makers were captured in that raid. If the local demand for bombs was not down, at least the supply of bombs and bomb makers would be.
On September 5, we found ourselves guarding Tikrit and its environs in a most unusual way. Our instructions were to ensure a four-hour window free of attack. No bangs, no booms, no fuss. It was a tall order but one that we clearly understood. No doubt, gunfire and bomb blasts were not the backdrop that Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld would be expecting upon his arrival in Tikrit to announce the success of Iraqi security forces and clearly visible signs of progress.
To maximize the effort, patrols were increased and made more visible. I ordered
Jon Cecalupo to bring a platoon of M1 Abrams tanks downtown. It was also the perfect opportunity to introduce the Tikriti people to our Iraqi Civil Defense forces. The effect was total.
The appearance of Iraqi soldiers on patrol in the city made quite an impact on the local psyche, even more so than our tanks. While the Iraqi native levies were not quite ready for prime time, they were more than able to make a show of force by walking alongside our soldiers, accompanied by tanks and Bradleys. The people were amazed at the sight. Only days from graduation, these young Iraqi men walked proudly on the streets of their countrymen. Bystanders gazed in amazement. One woman clutched her heart and shouted words toward the soldiers. Joe Filmore turned to translate her words: “Our army! It has returned!”
Our training efforts had been very successful in the Iraqi Civil Defense Corps. Learning from my experience with the Afghan National Army project in the spring of 2002, I had assembled a program smaller in scale but equally important given our geography and world attention at that moment. From the cadres of trainers precariously pulled from our frontline troops to the vetting we had by recruiting from the tribal sheiks, the result was greater than I had hoped. We had no problems with enemy infiltration or Iraqis learning the basics of soldiering and security.
The initial crop of Iraqi soldiers had proven worthy of the new government and was not afraid to take risks in our area of operations. While others may have experienced problems, we did not because we invested up front. A tight relationship had been established among former army soldiers, government leaders, and tribal sheiks. We backed them fully and conducted operations with them side by side. From this day forward, we would fight and bleed together.
Although we could not fully realize it at the time, this cadre of Iraqis would eventually form the foundation for the force that would be among the first in the country to completely relieve a major American base—ours. It would be one of the first to assume responsibility for keeping peace in the city that had once been so volatile. That would be in the future, but today, the day Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld came to speak of security and progress, his safety would be assured. There would be no big booms or gunfire report to heckle his remarks. His claims would be irrefutably truthful.
We Got Him! Page 17