We Got Him!

by Steve Russell

  “What?” I queried, stunned at the news. As I grabbed my gear and rifle, Bryan further informed that they were en route to the aid station.

  I ran to our combat aid station praying along the way. God, don’t let him die. Please, God. Give Tim strength and save him. I arrived just as Tim was being brought into the compound. Staff Sergeant Sean Bach and the other medics grabbed the stretcher supporting him and lifted him gingerly from the Hummer-turned-ambulance.

  “Aaahhhh. Aaaaaahhhhhh,” Tim moaned. “Ohhh, it . . . hurts.”

  Doc Bill Marzullo sprang into action. His surgical scissors sliced deftly through Captain Morrow’s uniform, exposing two AK-47 bullet holes in his chest. Needles, morphine, IVs, blood, pain. Looking at the exit holes in Tim’s chest, even I knew it didn’t look good. A thousand questions were racing through my mind. Why were his wounds there? How did the rounds get through his body armor? The answers would have to wait.

  I prayed as I prayed each time I was near any of my guys who went down. I begged God to intervene. Doc Marzullo was the best, and nothing was too hard for God. I had to let Doc work his magic and God work His miracles because there was absolutely nothing I could do. I felt utterly helpless, and in that operating room, I was. Now it was time to find out how this happened—and why.

  “Werts!” I called as I motioned for Specialist Jason Werts outside the aid station. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, sir. We were coming in under the bridge when they opened up on us. We never saw them. I couldn’t make out where it was coming from.”

  “What were you doing?” I continued.

  “We had just finished a leaflet drop,” he explained, “and were on our way in. They just opened up on us.”

  After checking a little further and talking to my sergeant major, I started putting the pieces together. I still did not understand the earlier reports of insurgents in a Toyota, but with Steckler’s report and the location of Tim’s wounds, it was becoming obvious that a terrible, terrible tragedy had taken place. Good men. Good mission. Tragic timing.

  Armed with more anger than information, I examined the situation. Tim had not been wearing his body armor in order to facilitate his disguise while driving. He had positioned it behind himself in the seat and leaned back against it. The unworn body armor absorbed two hits, but it might have prevented the ones that penetrated his chest had he been wearing it.

  Back at headquarters I ordered Bryan Luke to my hooch. I was furious. I blasted into him as I never had before or since. I demanded to know who authorized the mission on this night.

  “Sir, he went out on his own.” Bryan tried to respond. He was more than a little shaken to see a side of me he had never witnessed. “He coordinated with the sergeant major while we were out.”

  “All right,” I said, still worked up. “All right, I got it.” Then recovering somewhat I offered, “Sorry, Bryan. Let’s sort this out.”

  I ordered an immediate commander’s inquiry as it looked like a possible—no, probable—fratricide. Even if that was not the case, we needed to ferret out the truth. I called Colonel Hickey and gave him the few details I had. He informed General Odierno. We were able to piece it all together, and while communication with the native levies could have been improved slightly, it was just one of the catastrophic consequences that occurs when men try to manage violence against an enemy that hides among the civilian population. Ryan Steckler did nothing wrong. Tim Morrow did nothing wrong except make a foolish and costly decision about wearing his body armor. The situation was complicated when the leaflet droppers unwittingly and coincidentally replicated the enemy’s earlier actions of the evening in a vehicle very similar. Sadly, it was what it was.

  I was devastated. Captain Morrow was an intelligence officer of the finest order, the kind not likely to be replaced. While my prayer was that he would recover fully, I now had a gaping hole in my team when we were making so much progress on the enemy insurgency, Saddam’s network, and the association linking them.

  Captain Mitch Carlisle called in a nine-line medevac procedure that resulted in fluttering Blackhawk blades whirring near our aid station. Tim was encased on the stretcher in a heat blanket, accompanied by IVs and medics. The high pitch of the Blackhawk engine announced his departure as he was rushed to emergency surgery at the 28th Combat Surgical Hospital on Camp Speicher, located north of Tikrit.

  “I got him stabilized, sir,” reported Doc Marzullo as he peeled off the garments of his trade. “He’s lucky they got him here when they did. He’s still got a chance.”

  “Thanks, Doc. Thanks. Thanks for all you do. Now we can only pray he makes it,” I offered. “Keep me posted on his condition as you get news through the medical channels.”

  “Roger, sir,” Bill replied. “Sir, he’s a very tough guy. He’ll pull through.”

  Walking in the stale night air outside my headquarters, I looked up at the stars, always so bright and cheerful, even in this desolate place. I thought of Tim’s wife and kids. I thought of the calls she would get. Half a world away, she was probably having a good day. It was mid-morning in Killeen, Texas. Maybe she was with her kids. Perhaps she was shopping. She could be with friends. By the time dusk descended on Texas, her whole world would be forever changed. If only time could be frozen.

  JAGGED FENCE, CROOKED TOWN

  As Halloween approached, it was nearly time to implement the plan we had labored over for weeks. Prior to my emergency leave in September, my staff knew I wanted to resolve the problem with Auja, Saddam Hussein’s birthplace. This town of about 3,500 people continued to be a thorn in our side. Even the town’s name decreed its heritage. Translated literally from Arabic, Auja means “crooked.” Every defeated regime cell or captured insurgency funder or planner seemed to have ties to this town. Ultimately, we hoped that those making clandestine appearances in Auja would still have ties to Saddam. Catching them was the challenge.

  I analyzed the dilemma of how to thwart insurgents from “swimming” in the population at large and finding a safe harbor in which to plot their evil deeds. If there were only some way to pool them in a “fishbowl” to monitor them more efficiently, we could make them vulnerable. For the bodyguards and inner circle group, Auja certainly had that potential.

  I remembered studying Napoléon’s directives to expose insurgents in the Rhineland by means of a census. I took note of particular techniques used by the French in Algiers to expose insurgents veiled in the teeming masses of the Kasbahs. While not a perfect fit, there were parallels to be drawn from both campaigns.

  I first broached the subject with my majors. “How much barbed wire would it take to fence the entire village of Auja?”

  “Ha, that’s a good one, sir. That would be something,” they replied.

  “I’m serious. How much would it take?” I then told my staff that I wanted to fence the entire town and conduct a census as Napoléon had done. They clearly thought I had taken leave of my senses, but I knew that without a comprehensive cordon, only honest people would voluntarily appear for registration. With the town locked down, the only way out would be to register. It was a monumental undertaking but one I felt we could synchronize with our routine tasks and missions.

  There would be a multitude of benefits to be reaped from this effort. Should criminal elements attempt to hide within Auja, their movements would be disclosed or severely hampered. If they took flight, they would relinquish their base of support, number one wife, most extravagant house and all the amenities of the good life. They would be far more conspicuous and vulnerable to exposure, living in the primitive mud huts on their farms. If they opted to settle openly in town and amend their ways, well, that would result in an equally desirable conclusion.

  Mike Rauhut and Bryan Luke listened as I itemized practical ways to accomplish our objective:

  • Surround the town

  • Register every male over the age of fifteen at the police station

  • Issue photo identification cards


  • Control the single entry point

  • Utilize local police and sheiks to assist in implementation of the plan

  • Give them no alternative

  I pitched the plan to Colonel Jim Hickey. Not surprisingly, he liked it. Still, such an endeavor was bound to create a major concern. Colonel Hickey would arrange for me to brief Major General Ray Odierno, our division commander.

  Both officers appreciated the merits of the plan. It was risky, but the payoff promised to be enormous. General Odierno knew that there would be major press interest, which would likely be interpreted by them as typical heavy-handedness. While I pathetically offered that I would be the one charging forward with a plan of my own making, he just smiled and said, “I wish it were that easy, Steve.”

  Both commanders understood what was at stake. They also recognized how much ground had been gained in tracking Saddam’s henchmen and impairing the former Baathist insurgency. Taken together with the Ramadan attacks, the recent helicopter downings, and the surge of violence, this strategy had the potential to put the enemy off guard.

  “Approved,” General Odierno declared. “I want you to keep me informed at each step. You handle the operations, keep the place secure, let me know what you need, and I will deal with the fallout.”

  I was grateful to have such open-minded commanders as Colonel Hickey and General Odierno. Without Jim Hickey, I would never have gained an audience with the General on the matter. Hickey’s grasp of the enemy and of history was such that he was able to envision the plan immediately. He customarily approved strategy that he believed would put us on an aggressive footing as long as it synchronized with his overall operations. As we conferred daily, it was not difficult to deduce his intentions.

  General Odierno had been monitoring our tactics for some time and advocated many of our successful methods on a wider scale, urging other units to examine them with an eye for application in their own areas. Pundits and armchair warriors at home criticized him for a “mishandling” of the region that resulted in violence. Later, however, they realized that his head-on approach to defeating the insurgency in Iraq was innovative and forward-thinking. The lid would blow off other areas after the first year of the war, but much of Ray Odierno’s area had a rock-solid foundation that put it on a path to stability.

  Given the green light, we initiated the fencing effort at midnight on October 30. Rolling into Auja and up the path to a sprawling mansion, I roused tribal head sheik Mahmood Neda al-Nasiri from his sleep. He welcomed me as always but was shaken by the hour of the call. I conveyed to him our objective and its requirements. All males over the age of fifteen must register and receive a photo badge in order to enter or leave town. To secure the badge, it would be necessary to complete an information form in person at the police station. Once badged, they could move about as before but would be subject to search at a single entry point. All other exits into and out of town would be obstructed. I tried to paint him a picture of what Auja would look like by morning. He was shocked but fully compliant.

  I knew this would place the sheik in a tough spot, as the Nasiris were fellow tribesmen of Saddam Hussein. I also knew any appearance of collaboration with us would not bode well for him. In this way, he could claim forced compliance. Afterward, he could serve as the liaison empowered to represent the town’s complaints and negotiate for the removal of the fence. If, when confronted, our purpose was fulfilled, we could release the town and he, in all his sheik glory, would be the hero.

  As morning approached and an orange, distorted sun began its lazy ascent, rolls and rolls of concertina wire lay scattered along the boundaries of Auja like tossed rings. Soldiers unraveled wire and pulled security. Bradley Fighting Vehicles and a few M1 Abrams tanks scanned the corners of the town and the spaces between them. The scratch of serrated steel on pavement signaled the end of life the townspeople once knew. Pounding sledgehammers drove reinforcing pickets into the earth to form the prickly fence. From the sky, it looked as if three giant, saw-toothed Slinkys had been unrolled and stacked into a pyramid. Auja was now entirely encompassed by them. The Iraqi troops trained by U.S. forces assisted the effort with fifty additional Iraqi laborers garnered from the local “rent-a-worker” pool in town, complete with a paid contractor. Stimulating the local economy turned out to be an added bonus.

  Simultaneously, the intelligence and signal staff readied their computers with camera databases and began issuing badges. Hundreds of Aujite men arrived at the police station by 9:00 o’clock in the morning. They waited as badges were churned out and, once they had their badge, were allowed to leave through the single remaining exit leading to Highway 1. By November 3, we had badged twelve hundred men. Approximately three-dozen of those were immediately detained when their names matched our wanted list. Others were a Who’s Who of Saddam’s distant relatives and associates.

  To discover the less obvious, I followed Napoléon’s example during his Rhineland campaign. I instructed our men to ask each head of household to identify all those living in his house, as well as the houses to his left and to his right. If any registration form was later discovered to have omitted a resident listed by a neighbor, that homeowner and resident immediately became a person of interest.

  The operation amazed not only the Aujites but the international press as well. Time, Newsweek, Associated Press, Reuters, and the major dailies all seemed to be fascinated by the audacity of the move. An already active press in our area now added even more visitors. Many of them drew comparisons to the partitioning of Gaza or Jerusalem, but in reality, that had never entered our minds. Nor was it a fair comparison. For one, we had an entire rifle company (my A Company commanded by Captain Mark Stouffer) inside the wire with them. Second, we were not trying to separate one culture from another. Third, the town was not sealed—just controlled. They could still come and go at will, provided they had identification and submitted to a search.

  The impact of the fencing of Auja proved invaluable. We disrupted the enemy’s command and control structure, confirmed by numerous signal intelligence intercepts. For those away from home at the time of the operation, we were able to expose them either in other villages or as they attempted to enter Auja. We were content to just watch other suspects. By leaving them undisturbed, they could potentially lead us to yet other suspects.

  The immediate result of the operation was the accumulation of intelligence on targets we had been seeking since June and July. A sense of excitement and mounting momentum restored our belief that we could indeed knock the supports from under Saddam’s protective circle. While we did not know the full scope the cordon would have on the terrorist infrastructure or Saddam himself, we knew it had to have some kind of impact.

  While the fence was being erected on the night of October 30, Brad Boyd’s “Cobras” and Jon Cecalupo’s “Cougars” were keeping Tikrit proper under control. Brad’s men found yet another roadside bomb and dismantled it before it could be discharged. Later that evening, several insurgents in the northern suburbs fired a 60mm mortar toward the “Cougars’” compound. Nothing was hit, but our snipers observed the muzzle flash and were able to acquire the enemy at long range. They managed to get off enough rounds to wound two of the perpetrators.

  Meanwhile, in a village in the northernmost part of our sector, a reconnaissance platoon observed several men firing AK-47s into the air. Captain Cecalupo’s men closed on the house and engaged the rooftops with small arms. Supporting Apache helicopters on patrol joined in and lit up the house with 30mm cannon fire. It turned out that several off-duty police were smoking hash on the roof of an empty house and were having a jolly time. They dove into the basement when our fire began to hit the roof and were found by our soldiers. Miraculously, they were not killed. They were reported to the police chief, General Mezher, who subsequently made them wish they had been killed.

  November 2003 opened with a combination of raids and patrols that netted some important local insurgent cell leaders and intercepted an ou
tbreak of roadside bombs, including new varieties of explosive devices. Doorbell switches to initiate the explosives became a favorite, followed by keyless locks, toy cars, and in one case, a bomb with a pressure switch. Our sweeps continued to net the majority of bombs before they could be detonated, but the types of bombs and their increasing numbers betrayed the enemy’s desperation. From a signal intercept of a cell phone, we learned that the enemy admitted, “We are losing Tikrit and must reorganize.”

  For Finar Khatab Omar al-Musslit, the situation was becoming desperate. He was now the ranking leader of the insurgency in the Tikrit area and was brought in to deal with the recent setbacks. The Americans were aware of his family’s involvement and were hunting his cousins, Rudman and Mohammed. His networks in the Cadaseeyah area of northern Tikrit were being thinned. To the south of Tikrit, Auja was fenced and cut off. Finar needed to find a way to retaliate to ease the pressure. He would make this point in one of his regular meetings with his cousin, Mohammed Ibrahim Omar al-Musslit, Saddam’s closest confidant. They met to coordinate efforts in a cement factory owned by Mohammed’s friend, Thamir al-Asi, on the main drag of Highway 1 on the south edge of the city. He needed Asi’s money and support from his cousin, Birhan, another of Mohammed al-Musslit’s brothers.

  He also needed more foot soldiers. His friends and their families were certainly doing their part, but he was losing hope. He needed better weapons to strike at longer distances. The roadside bombs were having some impact, but the Americans were discovering and destroying them most of the time. It didn’t help that those traitorous cowards in the sham police force or on the street would betray them by pointing them out to the Americans. He needed weaponry like rockets and mortars as well as anti-aircraft and anti-tank missiles. If only he had these, the Americans could be put on their heels.

  In Auja, the enemy attempted to break our siege with harassing fire and mortars. They were cheap shots—both without effect. We had anticipated as much, and an elusive hide-and-seek game developed with our men initiating or returning fire in every case. In the city proper, a black Opel or Toyota sped by and lobbed an RPG at a C Company patrol. The men returned fire, but as they did, a large Mercedes truck inadvertently pulled into our line of fire and the attackers escaped down a back alley. Other patrols netted eight mortar tubes with ammunition while my scouts, led by John’s SOF team, again raided the northern suburbs in Cadaseeyah. We nabbed the last of the Ghani brothers after having pursued them for some time. Mahmood Abdul Ghani was the brother-in-law of Saddam Hussein.