So it was in the coming weeks; we would simultaneously patrol and seek to promote local business development. Word quickly spread about American soldiers subsidizing small local shops. We helped a new barber secure chairs and equipment. Electronics shops, produce stalls, convenience stores, and the like benefited from our endowment. As we made the rounds on patrol, we also made note of positive activity and engaged the locals for their assessment of threats and trouble in each neighborhood.
On 17 January, we piled into our Hummers along with Matt Stannard, a reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle, to conduct a routine patrol during which we proposed to interact with local shop owners. It would be a good way to show him a different perspective of the progress we were making and for him to mingle with the population. I also used it as an opportunity to take my intelligence officer, Captain Clay Bell, along to get his appraisal of the population. Major Bryan Luke, who normally accompanied me on all combat patrols, was hip deep in alligators planning the transition for our relief in the coming weeks. Clay would assume his duties as my field operations officer for this patrol since Mitch Carlisle was temporarily commanding C Company.
We meandered south along 40th Street, making the loop north on 60th Street, while various patrols from the battalion scoured the city and surrounding villages. We found some new graffiti and quickly sprayed over it; we found what turned out to be an innocuous cinder block we had treated as a bomb. The city seemed pretty relaxed overall. Resuming our patrol, we pulled up to a small convenience shop. Several young Iraqi men were there along with the owner’s children. I wanted to ask him how things were going.
“How’s business?” I asked as a deafening explosion washed over us. Flashes of light flared to the north as gunfire began to pop.
“We’ve got a burning car!” shouted Sergeant First Class Gil Nail as a white Mercedes rolled from the side street, bounced the curb, and careened into a small palm tree short of the residential wall.
“All right, watch 360!” I ordered. “Let’s go.”
We rushed the Hummers forward to close up with our vehicle-mounted machine guns and leapt to the street, taking up positions on each side.
We ran toward the enemy, unsure of the situation unfolding before us. Gunfire seemed sporadic. We worked our way toward the scene with Gil Nail and Cody Hoefer on the left as I led out with Sergeant Jeff Mann and Specialist Michael Bressette on the right. Clay Bell radioed the contact to battalion to alert all units in the area. Intense flame gushed from the car. Gunfire popped on the left side of the street north of Gil Nail but seemed to be inaccurately aimed.
Acting on training and instinct, Gil and Cody watched my side of the street as I watched theirs. A flickering glow from the car lit the intersection, revealing at least one person on the street. Getting my first clear look at the car, I immediately registered “white Mercedes” in my mind. I found an injured man near the car who would surely burn if not moved, so I grasped his feet as Bressette lifted his torso. We moved him about twenty feet to the sidewalk, and a gate sprung open near us. Sergeant Mann covered it as all of our rifle muzzles locked on the head of a local resident peeking out in curiosity. Sensing his innocence, we gestured a thumbs-up to show no hostile intent. He gave a nervous smile and seemed to relax while watching our efforts.
Mike Bressette and I checked the injured man. He was a young Iraqi in his early twenties and appeared to be dressed for mayhem. While unarmed, he displayed all the other characteristics of the types that we typically encountered in street fights.
“Venegas, bring a stretcher! We got a live one who needs help,” I yelled to Private Luis Venegas, a medic newly assigned to my command convoy.
As we checked the injured man for wounds, the curious resident pointed and spoke in broken English, “Why you no help him?”
Him? Who was “him”? I scanned the street and car. Gil Nail and Cody Hoefer were scouting the origin of gunfire and were focused west while the remaining men near the vehicles covered us and scanned south. Staff Sergeant Lonnie Hinton kept new traffic at bay as it advanced up the street.
Between Sergeant First Class Nail and me was “him.” A badly broken human being was splayed on the street in a supine position. While Bressette covered the first man being attended by Venegas, Sergeant Mann and I checked out the newly discovered Iraqi. He displayed the obvious look of death. His face was seared, and his eyes were gray, glazed, and open as blood pooled around his head. He had been severely burned as well. Blood trickled from multiple wounds along his entire body. In the center of his chest was a silver-dollar-sized hole.
Kneeling beside him, certain he was dead, I grabbed his left wrist to check his pulse. As I did, he gurgled horrendously and twitched with life-struggling movement. The hole in his chest sputtered, and his jaw moved with attempted speech. He stared through visionless eyes at the sky above.
“Venegas, this guy is alive!” I called out. “Chest wound, severe burns to the face, and internal bleeding.”
Diverting his attention from the slightly injured man at the sidewalk, now in the care of the Iraqi resident, Venegas rushed into the street with his aid bag. Sergeant Mann and Bressette helped with the stretcher. We lifted him onto it as Venegas tore into the bag for a venting chest tube and an IV bladder. He stuck the IV and tended to the sucking chest wound. The man was no longer making gurgling sounds, and in moments he lay still.
“He’s gone, sir,” the young medic informed.
“All right,” I replied coldly. “Dump him. We need the stretcher.”
I studied the area while Venegas worked to save the man’s life. Plastic parts lay scattered about. An electronic bomb initiator lay near the dead man. The popping sounds of rounds cooking off indicated a smelting AK-47 or two in the vehicle. These were insurgents, and they had just tried to kill us. I morphed from compassionate to angry as reality washed over me.
This is THE white Mercedes. They were attempting to place a bomb in the road as we came up the street. These were the bastards who tried to kill Brad Boyd and had wounded a half dozen of my men in the last month. They were trying to kill us. My mind snapped back to reality when Gil Nail walked up to me.
“Sir, I think we have another one,” he surmised, waving something in his hand. It was a human foot. “The other two have both of theirs.”
I looked to the ground and saw that the dead man, while extremely mutilated, had both feet. The other insurgent was more or less sound as well.
“Let’s look for the rest of him,” I ordered. “He could be anywhere. Look for more evidence like this, too,” I added, holding parts of the bomb-initiating device.
“Roger, sir,” acknowledged Nail as he moved with several other men who had closed in to help.
Clay Bell studied the area for an obvious bomb attack. It appeared that these men had been shadowing our patrol and diverted down a side street to lay a trap for us. They must have gotten their wires crossed prematurely and set off the device. The initial AK-47 firing was from a local resident on the corner who believed he was being attacked and fired bursts of intimidation to ward off the attackers. The later gunfire came from flaming AK-47s in the volcanic car.
C Company began to arrive with First Lieutenant Mike Isbell’s 3rd Platoon. They secured the area. First Sergeant Mike Evans offered his medics to assist Venegas. Gil Nail relayed orders to contact the Iraqi Fire Department to extinguish the exploding and intensely burning car whose roof was split open by the blast. Combustion of burning elements emitted random but mild explosions. The tires were melting, but amazingly, the headlights were still beaming. You have to admire German engineering.
We assembled a collection of body parts, including a match for the foot. The missing torso would be discovered when fire hoses doused the remains of the car. A square chunk of black char emerged, topped off with what appeared to be the remnants of a skull near the open right side back door.
At this juncture, it seemed that the three insurgents had flanked us on the western outskirts of
the city. When they saw us pause to talk to the local businessman, they came up a side street quite near to us and prepared to set a bomb fashioned from an artillery shell with plastic explosives stuck in the nose and a fuse inserted into it.
The young guy we found alive exited the car while the bomb layer prepared to emplace the device on the street. Sitting in the rear passenger seat with the bomb in his lap, Mr. Bomber swiveled to exit the open door. That’s when the electrical circuit completed on the device he held. He was blown to bits, with portions of his arms and legs sailing outward while his torso stayed behind. The blast lifted a part of the roof off the car and immediately sparked the gas tank. The driver was burned and pierced with shell fragmentation, losing control of the car as it did a slow coast. The flaming Mercedes then struck the residential wall after bouncing up a curb. While the driver somehow managed to exit, he collapsed in the street and rolled over on his back. Stunned and injured by the concussive blast, the young guy also fell to the sidewalk near the car.
During this entire episode, I was oblivious to the presence of Matt Stannard from the Chronicle. Not only did he advance with us, but he also snapped some incredible photos of raw action as we were put through the paces of another act of combat.
With the car now doused and its entire complement or their remains collected, we gathered what information we could. The tag of the Mercedes was from Baghdad. Using our “Mukhint” contacts, we discovered that our would-be killers were well connected to Saddam. The driver was Bashar Sadiq Jassim, a nephew of Watban al-Hasan, better known as Saddam’s half brother. We think that he was the man who died in the street. The man blown to bits was Ahmed Ayad Sachran and a neighbor of Jassim’s. The young guy who survived was an unknown local insurgent named Ahmed Mohammed Juwad.
We resumed our patrol, leaving the recovery to the local Iraqis and the “Cobras” of C Company. It was good just to be alive. As I took it all in, I could not help but think again of the words found in Psalm 64:
Protect me from the plots of the wicked, from the scheming of those who do evil. Sharp tongues are the swords they wield; bitter words are the arrows they aim. They shoot from ambush at the innocent, attacking suddenly and fearlessly. They encourage each other to do evil and plan how to set their traps. “Who will ever notice?” they ask. As they plot their crimes, they say, “We have devised the perfect plan!” Yes, the human heart and mind are cunning. But God himself will shoot them down. Suddenly, his arrows will pierce them.
I was thankful on this night that business for us was very good indeed.
8. TORMENT
FIGHTING FOR A NATION
Roadside bombs were, without question, a major problem we faced in combat. We had developed tactics that reduced their effectiveness to only about 30 percent of those employed, and of those, less than half caused injury. Jon Cecalupo’s “Cougars” would patrol the outer city loop while Mitch Carlisle’s “Cobras” focused on the northern two-thirds of the city and Cadaseeyah. The “Gators,” now under the command of Mike Wagner, covered the southern third of Tikrit as well as the villages of Auja, Oynot, and south along Highway 1. Linked in with Lieutenant Colonel Mark Huron’s 299th Engineers, we were able to keep the area fairly clear of roadside bombs.
Even so, the injuries were usually severe when we missed one. A day after my latest close call, Scott Thomas’ “Bears” in B Company had a close call of their own. A bomber in Bayjii had damaged another Bradley that escaped with holes and scars, but our first-rate mechanics were able to keep it in action. Fortunately, there were no injuries.
We were now getting closer to going home. Advance parties from the 1st Infantry Division had already visited our area, and our relief units were identified. While this was certainly good news, my mood was mixed. I knew that this was the most dangerous time we could face if we did not remain focused. There was so much work to be done, and we only had eight weeks left to do it. With Saddam gone and his Baathist insurgency network severely degraded in our area, we still had the responsibility to tighten up the local government, strengthen the police relationships, and continue to train more Iraqi Civil Defense troops who clearly would become part of the future Iraqi Army. We were already deploying over 200 of them in our daily operations.
By this time, not only had I been able to use these Iraqi troops as a fairly reliable augmentation force of company size, but we had enough of them to allow for platoon-sized augmentation on the patrol routes of our companies. That gave me a mobile force for battalion use, and the companies could use an Iraqi static force to pull their guys off of checkpoints.
The Iraqis demonstrated bravery equal to those we were fighting and were not afraid to fight for their new nation. We had already lost one Iraqi soldier who was gunned down in Cadaseeyah on 8 January. We gave him full honors.
Our Iraqi soldiers faced danger at checkpoints all along Highway 1 from north to the CMIC to south of the city near Auja, in sandbagged bunkers perched on the highway’s center median. This effectively restricted the flow of insurgents when our patrols were not at a particular location.
Our wonderful CMIC proved yet again why I wanted it closed down, despite its usefulness to local business engagement. At dusk on the 19th of January, Corporal Patrick Tayfel led a small foot patrol into the surrounding area. After the patrol was complete, the small group of American and Iraqi soldiers wove their way back to the CMIC for drop-off and to link up with the Iraqi checkpoint there. Suddenly, a burst of fire let loose from the vicinity of the “Lucky Panda” ice cream shop. C Company troops at the CMIC covered Highway 1 and sent a squad to reinforce, but the enemy could not be located.
Specialist Bradley Burns, at the trail of the patrol, held up his left arm and called out to the others. A bullet cut along the back of his left hand, tearing into several tendons and shattering bone. Corporal Tayfel covered Burns as an Iraqi soldier began to administer first aid to his hand. They were able to get the patrol and Burns back to the CMIC.
First Sergeant Mike Evans arrived to take Burns to the battalion aid station while patrols from C Company scoured the surrounding area. Confusion reigned as other insurgents made their way into the crowds around the market area of the city north of Cross Street. The “Cobras” spotted one man with a weapon and fired warning shots, trying to avoid the crowd. Others fired at a fleeing car, wounding one of its occupants. When the gunfire reached a peak, Specialist Jacob Lynn opened up with his vehicle-mounted .50 caliber machine gun on the wall of a building from which he believed he was receiving fire. That caused the entire crowd to part like the Red Sea.
After this firing crescendo, our men were able to search the area. Unfortunately, the attackers fled. Locals stated that the attack had been conducted by black-clad men wearing black kaffiyeh headdresses who sped along a back alley in a late ’70s blue, four-door Chevy Malibu. The enemy scored a small victory on us with the wounding of Brad Burns, but the streets were still ours. Burns would undergo multiple complex hand surgeries. Eventually, his tendons and joints would deteriorate, causing him to lose a finger. He was a calm and brave man that day.
It was obvious that the threat of insurgent activity, while waning, had not fully abated. We even had indication in other areas of Iraq that pro-Saddam groups were aligning themselves with al-Qaeda operatives such as those led by Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. Our enemy still appeared to be the loyalists to Saddam. While the street fights had claimed a few wounded recently, the roadside bomb was still the greatest threat.
Despite the street fights, we did not stop our raiding, even with the major players suffering big losses. My soldiers continued to work closely with John’s special operations team on small, pinpoint raids. My Scout Platoon, led by Chris Morris, usually participated in these combined raids. We also acted rapidly on free-flowing intel that greatly contributed to keeping Tikrit beautiful. The fruit of these raids in January included such notables as Hadooshis, Khatabs, Shehabs, and Musslits. If necessary, we were willing to collect the whole set.
John�
�s team would transition back to the States by February. They would be missed and the bonds we felt with them cannot be described. In their place, a new SOF team led by “Liam” worked a few raids with us, but by and large, the major hunt for Saddam and his henchmen was now over. The special ops community began to shift its focus to the al-Qaeda connections farther south while we labored to strengthen the Iraqi civil and military structure in Tikrit and Salah ad Din province. The hope was that by the time we left, Iraqis would secure some of the void as the 1st Infantry Division shifted its resources to cover more ground.
In the meantime, I urged my commanders to not only remain vigilant but also realize that our actions against enemy threats could only mean fewer insurgents for someone else to face. I was very proud of my commanders and the way they handled the breakneck pace that all of our soldiers had been keeping for the better part of a year.
Every single day, these young soldiers woke to new tasks, new patrols, and new threats. To handle the risk, their alertness was punctuated by 100 percent adrenaline as the mind pushed the body to stay alive. While nineteen and twenty-year-olds back home were focused on carefree lives or youthful pursuits, our soldiers were becoming men acquainted with their mortality. Such high-gear, full-speed daily life begins to take its toll, even on young and healthy soldiers, but they were still holding up with very good morale.
Our Bradleys were also holding up to the breakneck pace. We were driving the road wheels and tracks off of them all day, every day to support the soldiers in their worn-out boots and faded uniforms. Night was the norm for our most intense patrols as the sun now sank around 6:00 or 7:00 p.m. each evening. The temperature would drop with it, and the soldiers could often be seen in various forms of wet weather gear and clothing to protect against the cold. It was still the rainy season in Iraq.
Command Sergeant Major Pete Martinez and our stable of tireless first sergeants kept the troops ammoed, fueled, and fed. Few soldiers worked harder. First Sergeant Delionel Meadows had the unenviable task of keeping the headquarters troops in order. He and Captain Chris Fallon, while not on the streets every day, did a marvelous job with “Hammer” Company, defending my headquarters against multiple attacks while supplying everything the vast variety of troops in this company needed. No enemy was ever able to penetrate our defenses, due to their superb work.
We Got Him! Page 38