We Got Him!

by Steve Russell

  Up north, Brad Boyd and his soldiers encircled the large student group attempting to join the “ladies.” By carefully maneuvering his men and machines, he herded them into a dead end. Soon, the scratch of concertina wire could be heard surrounding the trapped troublemakers as Brad’s soldiers uncoiled the wire stowed on the front of every Bradley. His men had already gained moral dominance by heading directly toward the angry-faced ringleader and proceeding to subdue him soundly with a couple of axe handles. Once this was accomplished, the crowd became benign but, encircled as they were by the wire, had no place to go.

  Handing the downtown situation over to the “Gators,” we headed toward the “Cobras.” Brad had the situation well in hand and the police chief, General Mezher, arrived to support us. We were able to resolve the situation and agreed to relinquish the student leaders to the Iraqi police. The remainder were searched, given a reprieve, and sent on their way. Both groups had one thing in common—local educators had organized the demonstrations. I found that very unsettling because the action had clearly been conceived in defiance of the new government. I intended to reinforce this with the governor the next day.

  That evening we reviewed our procedures for crowd handling. Under Saddam, no demonstrations of protest were ever allowed and, under the new government, they still were not allowed. No matter. I refused to have our supply routes cut off by demonstrators and emphatically advised my men that demonstrations would absolutely not be tolerated. When a peaceful democratic country was established, Iraq could worry about the democratic rights of peaceful demonstrators.

  After reviewing our actions and plans for heightened violence, I traveled to report the situation face-to-face with Colonel Hickey, who had returned from Baghdad. He had gone there to brief Lieutenant General Ricardo Sanchez and dozens of others prior to the capture announcement. After informing him of the new demonstration activity and the expectation of violence to follow, we took a needed pause and just relaxed awhile. I took the liberty to reflect a bit about the past six months.

  We had both come so far since that first meeting over steaks at the Texas Roadhouse in Killeen, Texas. After the ambushes and street fights, the raids and the successes, we experienced dark days wondering where all this would lead. Colonel Hickey had remained resolute about Saddam. Although I had the same resolve, even I had moments of doubt wondering if we would ever see the result that had just happened.

  “Sir, you remember last August when we were trying to assess the enemy insurgency and our impact on Saddam’s inner circle?” I asked. “You said at that time that you thought we would have him by Christmas.”

  “I said that?” Colonel Hickey responded.

  “Yes, sir, you did.” I affirmed. “I know we all believed in different outcomes as we pressed forward, but I just want to say thanks for keeping us focused. When we took a number of casualties in October, it was hard not to be overly focused on the street fight and miss the bigger picture, but you kept us on track. I appreciate that. If I never get the chance again, I just want to say thanks now, sir.”

  “Steve, the world will likely never know what we achieved,” he reflected. “You and the Regulars have been at the front of this fight, and our entire brigade has done remarkably well. Our work with John and Jack’s men will also probably escape notice. But we are accomplishing our missions, and I knew that if we kept up the momentum, we could make an impact.”

  “Well, we’ve certainly done that, sir.” I replied.

  “We still have work to do,” he reminded. “We have hurt the Baathist-led insurgency severely. It remains to be seen what direction the resistance will go now. We have to be on our guard and stay on the offensive.”

  With the dawning of December 16, we anticipated more demonstrations and actually expected to find even larger crowds. At about 10:00 a.m., we received reports of a protest forming north of town. Captain Boyd loaded up his Hummers, proceeded toward the reported location, and called forward one of his platoons to follow him. Traveling north along the “Birthday Palace” boulevard known as “Saddam Boulevard,” he spotted a white Mercedes near one of the drains alongside the road. The Mercedes masked the drain and then accelerated sharply. Sensing instant danger, Captain Boyd turned to his driver, Specialist Miguel Romero, and yelled instructions that were never heard or followed.

  A deafening roar accompanied concrete, smoke, shards of glass, and a concussive blast. First Sergeant Mike Evans, in the second of the three vehicles, witnessed a billowing smoke cloud engulf the view to his company commander’s Humvee. The smoke expanded until it reached the other side of the four-lane road. The sound of small arms cracked in the midst. Specialist Romero could not tell if Captain Boyd was firing, receiving fire, or both.

  Evans hoped that the lead vehicle had passed before the bomb detonated, but he soon discovered that was not the case. He pulled his Hummer off to the side, and they immediately dismounted. Hearing the gunfire, he noted a few insurgents near a dump truck. Evans and his men opened up with their rifles to suppress the enemy in the distance. In the haze, he could see that Boyd’s vehicle had drifted into the next lane, stricken and punctured. He thought he could hear rifle fire stemming from it.

  Staff Sergeant Patrick McDermott, sitting uninjured behind Romero in the stricken Hummer, was already at Boyd’s side assessing his condition. He ordered Romero to nurse the vehicle out of the kill zone area across to the other lanes, which he did.

  First Sergeant Evans and the other soldiers continued to fire in support of their commander, in the direction of the Mercedes and at the source of enemy fire. Insurgents taking cover behind the dump truck fired shots at Evans and the other soldiers but broke contact when Sergeant First Class Stephen Yslas spotted them from his trail Hummer and suppressed them with his M-16. The white Mercedes, racing away, faded into the more urban part of the city. Suddenly, the firing stopped.

  As the smoke began to diminish, Boyd’s Hummer was seen listing to one side, mangled, perforated, and sporting a flat tire. There were obviously casualties. Evans ran to Boyd, as Staff Sergeant McDermott tended to his wounds.

  “Sir, are you all right?” asked First Sergeant Evans.

  “My legs are . . . burning . . . I think I’m OK.” He grimaced. He was not. Blood flowed from his face. His right bicep was hanging out of his skin and the arm was covered in blood. Both legs were bloody tatters as his shredded uniform blended with his singed wounds. But he was alive. Groaning behind him was Staff Sergeant Felipe Madrid. McDermont had pulled him clear and behind the Hummer. He appeared to have sustained the worst of the injuries. A nasty hole in his face was coursing blood. His arms and legs were also bleeding.

  Private First Class Rodrigo Vargas had been manning the .50 caliber machine gun in Boyd’s truck when the bomb detonated. He was still manning it despite some light fragmentation wounds to the hands, arms, and legs. McDermont inquired of his condition, and he said he was okay but needed help with his hands. They were bleeding, as were slighter wounds to his legs and arms. McDermott bandaged his hands and Vargas stayed on the gun.

  First Sergeant Evans quickly directed his men to pull out the stretchers and called to alert our aid station. The C Company quick reaction force under First Lieutenant Mike Isbell arrived within minutes, pulled security, and recovered the battered Humvee. They also brought medics since the company doc, Staff Sergeant Madrid, had been seriously wounded.

  Specialist Brian Serba and Specialist Justin Brog had already stuck IVs, applied bandages, and administered 5mg of morphine to Captain Boyd and “Doc” Madrid. Mike Evans loaded his company commander into his Hummer, along with Madrid and Vargas, and raced the casualties to our battalion surgeon.

  Handling some coordination on operations with Bryan Luke that morning, I received the news from my XO, Major Mike Rauhut. This one hit me like a sledgehammer to the head. Only moments before, Brad and I had been talking and coordinating battalion actions with the morning patrols. I threw on my gear and bolted to the aid station, praying to G
od that these men would be OK. God, please spare them. Please spare their lives. Not Brad, Lord. Please, not Brad. We had gone seven weeks without a single casualty, and now this morning we had three.

  At the aid station, Bill Marzullo was already in action, prepped and ready to receive them. Down the hill you could hear the roaring engine of a Hummer as it approached the aid station. I stood aside, taking it in and letting my surgeon and his assistants do their job. As a fighter, I could do nothing but watch and pray.

  The scene was familiar. We had been through it so many times before. Wounded soldiers were transported into the converted kitchen on battle stretchers as their company field medics held IVs steady. Doc Marzullo, Alex Morales, and Armando Burguete shifted into autopilot, making a hundred quick assessments and giving orders in rapid succession to the medical specialists in attendance. The medical assistants seemed to retrieve everything asked for and handed it to them.

  In a twist of cruelty, Doc Madrid was brought in and laid on the table knowing what to do. Unconsciously, he was giving instructions to the other medics. This time, he was the patient and had to allow them do their job. He was in excruciating pain. I walked up to comfort him.

  “Doc, let them take over,” I encouraged. “Take a deep breath . . . you’re gonna be fine.” I held his head, trying to calm him as I spoke. Noticing that they were bringing in Brad Boyd, I withdrew my hand from Madrid’s head to go to Boyd and could feel Doc’s wet blood on it. Why couldn’t I prevent this? What more could I have done? These were my men, and I felt responsible for them. I could fight, I could kill, and I could lead them from the front lines, but now I could do nothing except comfort them and pray.

  Captain Boyd was just as tough on the stretcher as he was on the street. He was struggling through the pain and trying to report to me what happened.

  “Brad, relax! Let them take care of you,” I ordered. His six-foot-one-inch muscular frame lay splayed on the table as Doc Marzullo and the medics’ scissors slashed off his gear and clothing. Although his arms and legs were bloody, his torso, thank God, was untouched where the body armor had protected him. Now he shivered with cold. He tried to keep talking, moving around on the table attempting to be in charge, all the while suffering from shock and delirium. His wounds needed to be dressed.

  “Brad, settle down,” I assured him. “Let the docs help you. These aren’t your medics. They’re mine. Listen to them! They have to dress your wounds.”

  “Roger, sir.” He smiled through a blood-smeared face. He began to grow calm. It is difficult for a commander at any level to relinquish control of any given situation. Brad began to let go. We even found a few moments of humor together there in an awkward sort of way as only soldiers can understand.

  It was hard to hold back my emotion, but I did out of sheer necessity. Specialist Vargas was in the corner getting his hand wounds dressed as orderlies cleaned the superficial fragmentation from his legs and arms. I could distinguish the nature of their wounds and knew that they were going to be fine. I breathed a sigh of relief while every side of our little aid station was overwhelmed with purpose and activity.

  As the docs continued to work, one of the special operations soldiers entered the aid station. He said nothing. He simply walked in, snapped on some rubber gloves, and quietly began to work. I don’t think any of us even knew his name, just that he was one of us.

  Mike Rauhut had already prepped a ground medevac to transport our wounded to the 28th Combat Surgical Hospital located at Camp Speicher, north of Tikrit. The surgeons there were the best. Unfortunately, they knew too many of us far too well. First Sergeant Evans conveyed his commander out with the others and began to place them in the ambulance.

  “Sir, don’t take me out of command.” Brad struggled, lifting his head to speak.

  “Brad, put your head down,” I ordered. “They have to get your stretcher into the slots in the ambulance.”

  “Sir, don’t take me out of command,” he repeated, pleading.

  “Don’t worry about your command,” I replied. “The ‘Cobras’ will be fine.”

  “Sir, don’t give the company to the XO,” he continued. “He’s learning, but he is not ready yet.”

  “Brad, listen!” I ordered, looking directly into his eyes. “Don’t worry about the company. Get healed. Mitch Carlisle will take the ‘Cobras’ until you get back on your feet.”

  With that, Brad seemed to completely relax. He laid his head on the stretcher as they locked it into place. The medics closed the ambulance doors and slapped them with their hands, signaling to the driver that they were ready. The vehicle sped away to the hospital.

  Emotionally, I was torn apart inside but could not display it to the men. It was then I realized that the media had been nearby all along. The expressions on their faces were similar to those on ours. I was not angry with them nor did I feel that they were intruding. They were not the enemy. Having been on many patrols with us, they also knew the men lying on the stretchers and were deeply affected by the reality of the moment. They did the only thing they knew to do. They began to record it. To their credit, they did so in a dignified manner so as not to show the faces of our men on the stretchers.

  Concerned about how the loss of their dynamic leader would affect the “Cobras’” morale, I called Mike Evans over and asked him to assemble the soldiers from Brad’s convoy. I explained the need to channel their emotion and cautioned them to use it to their advantage and to take it to the enemy but not to view all Iraqis as the enemy. I had seen that same reaction so many times before in various combat locations, and it never boded well. There was still much work to do, and these wounded would return to us. I did not want to lose more soldiers due to rash behavior.

  The men seemed fine. They had already recouped their equipment as they remounted their Hummers in preparation for the remainder of the day. It was not yet noon. I readied my command group as well. Seeing the Governor was my immediate priority. If we were to regain control of the city immediately, we had to counter the people behind these senseless demonstrations. As we readied, a report crackled over the net of a demonstration gathering in the city center. We sped to the location.

  As we arrived, we noticed two “Cobra” Bradleys had just arrived in a herringbone formation on the northbound lanes of the main street. The men started spilling out the back as several sergeants began pointing to a side street east. Suddenly, a rifle cracked off just as I stepped out of my vehicle. It was immediately followed by another. The rifle fire was completely drowned out by a substantial burst from one of our 240B machine guns.

  Running to the machine gunner, I asked why they were shooting.

  “Sir, someone in the crowd threw a pipe bomb at our vehicles and took off into this back lot,” replied Sergeant Jeffrey Loehr, a tough, Ranger-qualified soldier from C Company. I could see several alleged insurgents scaling a wall in the distance, unfortunately into a densely crowded area of the city.

  “Sergeant Minzer, get control of your guys. Watch for baiting tactics,” I cautioned. “Be careful about being drawn into something.”

  “Roger, sir,” replied Staff Sergeant John Minzer, who had served with me in the 26th Infantry “Blue Spaders” in Kosovo in 1999. I knew he could handle the situation.

  The pipe bomb had failed to explode. Although the crowd had already scattered, Joe Filmore, our translator from San Diego, questioned several students nearby. We advised them to disperse immediately or be arrested. They wasted no time leaving the area. It was time to move on toward the Governor’s building. I could see Mike Evans’s patrol coming to reinforce Minzer’s, and I knew at that moment that C Company would be able to perform its duties without skipping a beat—at least for today.

  UPPITY

  We remounted our Hummers and headed toward the Salah ad Din government building. As we passed the shops along the streets, the locals sent us dagger-like glares. Men spat and narrowed their eyes in sideward glances. Uppity. They were getting uppity. Fine. I would solve this
right now. I already had three casualties that day and did not want more. I put out a net call on the battalion radio for all my commanders to assemble at the Birthday Palace. I told them to assemble every piece of equipment that could roll and all the infantry they could spare.

  I then called Lieutenant Colonel Reg Allen at 1-10 Cavalry to ask for attack aviation support for 2:00 p.m. I explained my intent to level a heavy-handed patrol against the city to implant fear and clear the streets. I had known Reg since he was a First Lieutenant in the advanced course that we attended together. We knew each other well. He offered to supply anything I needed. Reg was a good man.

  I assembled my commanders at the Birthday Palace, and we readied a large force. I unfolded a satellite image of Tikrit across the hood of my Humvee and pulled some little lead tanks and plastic toy soldiers from an Altoids tin kept in the butt pack on my gear. The toys were for hasty “sand tables” and visual planning such as this. We talked through a quick concept using the figurines on the map and executed the plan just twenty minutes later.

  Captain Jon Cecalupo brought the “Cougars’” M1 Abrams tanks down the main street of the city. The “Cobras” followed directly behind in a herringbone formation with about eight Bradleys in the main intersection of downtown. The ramps fell, and our infantry rushed at the sidewalks, immediately clearing the crowds. Reg’s aviators swooped their attack helicopters overhead at intimidating heights in perfect timing with us. Captain Mark Stouffer followed with “Gators’” infantry and Bradleys. Captain Darryl Carter followed with the Iraqi Civil Defense troops we had trained.