We Got Him!

by Steve Russell

  Two very prominent sheiks were elected, however. Sheik Kanaan Hawas Sadeed and Sheik Najii Hussein Jabori were both head sheiks of sizeable tribes that we had come to know well already. Additionally, Ali Ghalib Ibrahim Ali, a lawyer, and Khatan Habadi Salah, a civil engineer, joined them to represent Salah ad Din in the larger government now forming in provinces all across Iraq. It was exciting to witness a new and free Iraq emerging if even in these representative, elected appointments. Perhaps this new Iraq would finally win a respite after decades of suffering.

  We would get a miniscule reprieve of our own during that period. Following the tremendous intensity of previous weeks, mid-September was eerily still. To be sure, we had whacked the insurgency with the big stick at every level in the days leading up to the calm. Jon Cecalupo’s men had killed five insurgents, wounded 27, and captured 65 in a single month of bunker operations farther north of the city. His men were acquitting themselves brilliantly. Jack’s SOF men secured important information about portable surface-to-air missiles that might be employed against our helicopters in the area. We collaborated diligently to find their location. Our informant network was becoming first-rate. Our intelligence was even better as a result. Whatever the reasons, we enjoyed three consecutive days without a single direct attack on our soldiers.

  Finding release from the conflict, I used the time to stress the urgency of leadership in the sustained daily fight to my squad leaders and staff sergeants. It was crucial to understand that they were the key to the success or failure of this campaign. I communicated that our troops and team leaders were doing well but that I felt the team leaders had more grit than the squad leaders, who needed to step up to the plate. I recounted a sequence of minor incidents across the battalion that indicated to Command Sergeant Major Martinez and me that these small unit leaders were neglecting some battlefield basics and diligence in discipline. My style was to address issues head-on but to allow the squad leaders a voice in support of their stance. The session went well.

  On the afternoon of September 18, we were returning from a visit to Scott Thomas’ B Company in Bayjii. It had been my honor to hang the Combat Infantry Streamer on the “Bear” company guidon that morning. On the way back, I was concerned with the power line area that paralleled Highway 1 at a distance of several kilometers. Looters had ransacked the electrical lines before the Coalition Provisional Authority entered into agreement with sheiks to control certain sections of the service road, for minor compensation.

  We traveled the power line road for about 35 kilometers to see how things were progressing. It was actually great fun, and my men seemed to enjoy traveling cross-country over desert sands, through mud farms, and across irrigation berms. As we endeavored to get out of one enclosed embankment, we confirmed the theory that Humvees will actually catch some air if the angle of the berm and the speed of the vehicle are just right.

  Our journey ended south of Tikrit, near Auja. Not far to the south, two Humvees and a wheeled ambulance were transporting a sick soldier north along Highway 1 to the military hospital. Little did they know that they would add war wounded to their casualty list before arriving.

  At about 4:00 p.m., as the lead vehicle neared the spiral arches on Highway 1 south of Auja, a violent blast shattered the vehicle’s windshield, front tires, and side. The Humvee belonged to a First Sergeant from 1-66 Armor who was leading the convoy. We heard the distant whump followed by a radio transmission requesting assistance. The driver lay bleeding but conscious when we arrived. The other soldiers were understandably shaken by the event. Coming face-to-face with trauma, the mind reels as it attempts to process information at supersonic speed.

  I went to the young driver laid out on the ground. His leg was mauled but not seriously damaged. There may have been fractures but no major bone crushing. His mouth and face were covered in blood. He seemed worried and was obviously in pain. Soon, the armored battalion’s sergeant major arrived, and we both reassured the soldier and told him to take a deep breath and relax. He was going to be okay. He calmed a bit and then expressed the need to spit. Blood had collected in his mouth through gaps where he once had teeth.

  The unit collected their casualties and equipment and put their convoy back together. Fortunately for the wounded soldier, he was traveling with an ambulance and medics. He was going to be fine. I assured their men that we would recover the impaired vehicle and remaining gear and return them at the brigade aid station.

  A hasty examination of the area uncovered the remnants of a Motorola radio bomb. These were not your average bombs. The range of these deadly devices was several kilometers. As we were in an open expanse of desert along the highway, anyone within a wide radius could have initiated the apparatus. Several non-military vehicles had also been damaged by the blast. We never learned if any Iraqis had sustained injuries.

  We returned to our command post to eat and then resumed patrols. I was in the villages to the north of the city that night when I heard some disturbing radio calls from across the river. A section of Hummers from Dez Bailey’s Brigade Reconnaissance Troop had been surprised in a nasty ambush similar to the one Dez and I fought our way out of just two weeks earlier. This, too, was a night ambush, but it was played out on the precarious dike roads dividing the flooded farm fields. The situation made maneuvering nearly impossible.

  Bailey’s soldiers were responding to reports of an RPG being fired in the area. A two-vehicle scout section moved into the hamlet and flooded area. At approximately 9:30 p.m., both vehicles were caught in a murderous fire of RPGs, small arms, and grenades. Two soldiers lay dead, and three others were severely wounded in the initial strike. The remainder of the men fought off the attackers and maintained contact with the enemy. Dez brought in the rest of the troop to reinforce them and requested immediate medical evacuation support. He said that air evac was out of the question due to terrain. If I could pick them up at the Tigris bridge, he would appreciate it.

  We immediately responded from our side of the river. I sent C Company with Bradleys and infantry to support G Troop. The wounded and dead were brought to our aid station, and though we reacted instantly, another of the wounded died. Three soldiers had now been slain in the initial ambush.

  Captain Brad Boyd supported the cordon of several farms in the area with C Company until late afternoon the next day. It was exhausting and tedious work. Colonel Hickey used whatever assets he could muster to throw up a cordon around the area to net the attackers.

  It was not in vain. Three of the six attackers were captured outright. A total of forty were eventually hauled in, and from these the other three attackers were brought to account. Even so, the outcome could scarcely remove the pain of such loss. All the dead and wounded belonged to the artillery battalion supporting our brigade and the troop. Our best comfort lay in taking it back to the enemy.

  Very late that night I made my way to the aid station to get Doc Marzullo’s report on the wounded. He believed the two critically wounded would survive. He tried everything within his power to revive the soldier who died enroute, but the blood loss was just too extensive. Two others had been killed before reaching our aid station.

  The still air was cooler now as I stepped out of the aid station and made my way to the palace porch overlooking the Tigris River. There, encased in body bags on surgical stretchers with neatly dressed American flags draped over them, lay the broken bodies of Sergeant Anthony O. Thompson, Specialist James C. Wright, and Specialist Richard Arriaga. All three were artillerists from Lieutenant Colonel Dom Pompelia’s 4-42 Field Artillery Battalion that occupied Ad Dawr. They were from his Headquarters Battery but were attached to Dez Bailey’s Recon Troop. Command Sergeant Major Martinez posted a guard to stand vigil with our brothers that night until they could be brought gently home to the country they had died to protect.

  The next evening I mounted my Bradley and led a fair portion of my battalion across the river. Mark Stouffer’s A Company and Jon Cecalupo’s tank company joined Bryan Luke and
me to patrol the entire swath of land with Bradleys, M1 tanks, and infantry from our task force. Brad Boyd got a breather. He stayed behind because he had been on duty for 24 hours solid, and I needed some force in Tikrit should trouble brew up.

  We continued to support Dez Bailey’s G Troop with a section of Bradleys and some mortars for some time afterward. In the coming weeks, the locals begged us to stop operations in the area. Captain Bailey treated them as fairly as they deserved—and captured or killed those who were undeserving.

  TAPS

  As the units belonging to Lieutenant Colonel Pompelia and Captain Bailey recovered from their losses, we prepared to pay our respects to the fallen. We were able to strike back at the enemy for the ambush that robbed the lives of three more soldiers, but it did not diminish our grief for our fallen brothers. On the eve of the memorial service in their honor (the 20th of September and my mother’s birthday), Colonel James Hickey called me. He had received a Red Cross message. I did not think this unusual as many of my soldiers had received these unfortunate messages. I, in fact, had received one when my grandfather, Ed Porter, died in July. I missed him sorely, but he went out in a style the rest of us could only wish for—active to the last in his late eighties, loading a new lawn mower in the trunk of his car.

  I was not prepared for the news Colonel Hickey delivered. My stepfather had died only hours earlier, and my family had requested my presence. I was stunned. I was accustomed to death on the battlefront but not on the home front. I immediately missed him.

  Just days before, I had received one of his letters. In it he wrote,

  I know it seems as though the heat and the enemy will never cool down, but they will and the temperature will get to its winter mode soon. . . . I want you to be vigilant and tell all your men to do the same. Remember, he who shoots first shoots last! Remember what we studied in church today, ‘if God is with us, who can be against us?’ We pray you and your men will all be well.

  Colonel Hickey would support whatever decision I needed to make. After calling home, I knew my place was with my family. My mother had found him in bed, dead from a coronary, on her birthday. They had just moved into a new house not a week or two before. It was all so very tragic. I needed to be certain that things were in hand and he would be buried with the military honors he deserved from his Korean War service with the 5th Cavalry of 1st Cavalry Division.

  I called Colonel Hickey with my decision. I needed to go home for the funeral. He understood and supported me fully. The battalion would be in good hands with my executive officer, Major Mike Rauhut. I had an ample roster of talent ensuring the upcoming raids would be well executed. I left the next day.

  The rotor blades began their wide inertial swings as the high-pitched whine of the engine announced their movement. I climbed aboard Brigadier General Mike Barbero’s helicopter flight en route to Balad, Iraq, on September 21. Always mindful of danger, I scrutinized my surroundings vigilantly the whole way. My hands reflexively searched for my M4 carbine, even though I had reluctantly left my weapons behind in order to fly home.

  Privately, I was happy to be flying. No roadside bombs to worry about. Plus it was faster. I traveled with Sergeant Jesse Sample of my Scout Platoon who had also been called home on emergency leave. We formed a buddy team for the trip. Once we landed in Balad, we walked straight to the ramp of a C-130 cargo plane revving up for takeoff to Kuwait. At that moment, I began to relax. Months of combat tension and weight of responsibility lifted from my shoulders as the plane lifted from the ground. Moments before, I had been in charge of a thousand men. Now I was in charge of one.

  I was saddened by the circumstances taking me home but could not help feeling a measure of release to have escaped Iraq, if only for a moment. A wash of guilt immediately flooded over me. I should remain with my men as long as they were in harm’s way. This was the defense I had used with my Command Sergeant Major and my executive officer before leaving. They had given me a sound scolding, insisting that I needed to go home. They would not hear my argument. Later, my wife told me that when she heard that I was coming home for the funeral, she felt that I still considered our family more important than my career. To stay would have been so easy and the reasons all too justifiable. But how could I do that to my family? My absence during this critical time would have merely added to the hurt.

  After landing in Kuwait, we burned off about six hours waiting for tickets home. Sample and I washed away the dust of Iraq and changed into the rumpled, pathetic-looking civilian clothing each of us had deployed with for such emergencies as these. We looked as though we had slept in our duffle bags. Our hands and faces were gaunt, tan, and weathered; everything else blaze-white. What imposing figures we must have looked in our soft clothes! It felt bizarre to be wearing blue jeans, to have nothing strapped on my leg, nothing in my hands. Absent was the lung-pinching, collarbone-crushing body armor capped with a cumbersome helmet to oscillate on my head.

  Stretched between two worlds and two lives, Sample and I sipped little drinks on the commercial airline. We perused civilian pursuits in the newspaper trying to comprehend a world that cared for such things. I mostly slept on the plane, waking to eat at every offering in a hazy dream where airline food tasted good. After each catnap, I woke up in Iraq, blinking slowly to gather my senses.

  From Amsterdam to the States, I had a pleasant conversation with doctors from Kansas City, Missouri, who were returning from medical missionary work in Romania. How diametrically opposed our objectives had been. They had spent the summer repairing lives while we spent it destroying them. How completely converse our callings had been.

  We landed in Dallas, eventually, and reentered civilization. It all seemed so very unfamiliar—civilian clothes, clean streets, serene activity, and nice people walking around making no demands. I had forgotten that this world existed. There my five children and my beautiful wife greeted me. Feelings I had not permitted for months suddenly washed over me. I was sad to be home for the interment of my stepfather but so very happy to see my wife and children. Mixed emotions would not escape me a single day of the trip.

  On the drive from Dallas to Ft. Hood, I saw no white taxis with orange fenders. I saw no men sporting dresses. People had different colors of hair and eyes. Roofs were angled and had shingles. Curbs were not yellow and white candy-striped. The signs and billboards were penned with letters rather than incomprehensible squiggles. There were no palm trees. There was grass. And there was peace. Glorious peace.

  About the time I made my trek from Dallas, Mike Rauhut led the battalion on a raid we had been working from a tip. It led to the capture of Saad Abdul al-Hasan, another of the “Five Family” targets who would prove invaluable on the twisted trail to Saddam.

  At home, my body completely shut down. Months without rest coupled with the weight of responsibility for other lives gave way to sleep—deep sleep. We decided to go to Oklahoma the next day, or I should say my wife decided. I would not have known if I had been thrown in a bag and carted there. I slept for a very long time.

  I woke up in Iraq. Where did it go? What is the current status of such and such? Where is the latest enemy activity? Why am I sleeping on sheets? Who painted the walls? Where am I?

  We loaded up the kids and headed north on Interstate 35. For the first time in five months, I was driving a car. I drove the 300 miles to Oklahoma City looking for tires and trash on the road and successfully dodged them all, feeling foolish each time for thinking that they were bombs. Once we arrived at my mother’s house, I quickly realized which world I was in and readjusted to different responsibilities. I was now truly home.

  On Friday, September 26, we laid Garland Dean Skidgel to rest in Del City, Oklahoma. The day was pleasant as a somber crowd of relatives gathered around the cemetery plot marked with cheap green AstroTurf and folding chairs set on uneven ground near the freshly dug grave. Relatives and friends struggled through the mixed emotions of reuniting and grieving.

  A funeral detail from Ft.
Sill, Oklahoma, stood in attendance. They noticed my weathered look and dress uniform ribboned and badged and knew that I had seen battle. They stood a little taller with our family. Matt Nichols, a Coast Guardsman and my sister’s middle son who also returned home for the funeral, joined their flag detail with me. Words were spoken in a feeble but sincere attempt by a church minister who did not know him as we did. It was hard to sum up all that the man was, but we were brightened by the hope of his faith in Christ. The detail stood as sentinels around the casket. They lifted the national colors, expertly stretching and folding it. Taps wailed in mournful tones from a bugler in the distance. A tear rolled down my face as my mother received the flag, feeling for it but not seeing it for her pain.

  A world away, my men on night patrols clashed with insurgents in the industrial area of the city. The Iraqi Police were also attacked at their main police station. The enemy strikes were anemic, and the attackers seemed content to miss and run, as if making their presence known was enough. We suffered no casualties.

  The next day, Major Mike Rauhut led the battalion on a magnificent raid into the farmlands south of Auja that once again received broad press coverage. Based on an informant’s tip, the “Gators” of Mark Stouffer’s A Company cordoned the lush, densely vegetated farm. A bountiful harvest of weapons awaited—23 shoulder-fired SA-7 anti-aircraft missiles, four RPG launchers with 115 rocket-propelled grenades, 400 hand grenades, one mortar with 39 rounds of ammunition, 51 smoke pots, and more than 1,000 pounds of C-4 explosives with 1,300 blasting caps. This deadly crop was carried away in our trucks for eventual destruction. While a great haul, it clearly indicated that the enemy continued to be well supplied and able to replenish his strength.