We Got Him!

by Steve Russell

  Some fifteen minutes later, the convoy received their first assistance from a group of British contractors who happened by on a trek to Kirkuk. They relayed to their contacts in Tikrit, by phone, what had happened so the military could be notified. Word passed both to the 4th Infantry Division and to the 1st Brigade. Our Assistant Division Commander, Brigadier General Mike Barbero, was in the air on one of his frequent trips to field units. He, along with his aide, First Lieutenant Pete Nunn, a Regular officer who was selected for that duty from my battalion, diverted their helicopter to find the scene of destruction.

  General Barbero spied the wreckage in the distance and approached for landing. Finding the officer in charge on the ground, he directed Captain Muller to increase his measures to secure the area and to provide leadership to the shattered convoy. With kind firmness, he urged them to pull themselves together, recover their weapons and equipment, and focus on the tasks at hand. He was then able to get an element from the 173rd Airborne Brigade, who was responsible for the territory, to come and recover the scene. General Barbero then ordered the shattered convoy back to Tikrit after making arrangement for the remains of my soldiers to be recovered by the airborne unit.

  I received the news at about noon. It had the impact of a baseball bat to the head. One minute we had a combat Hummer with three great mechanics, and the next minute Mier, Cabral, and McGeogh were all dead. The news sent ripples through our entire task force. Nearly everyone knew these soldiers because they worked on the entire battalion’s wheeled vehicles.

  Needing to educate myself as quickly as possible, I located the “Aggressors’” company commander, Captain Curt Kuetemeyer. He informed me of what details he had.

  “Curt, what were they doing out there?” I demanded.

  “Sir, they were making a parts run and offered to provide security for the convoy,” he explained.

  “Who authorized it?” I pried angrily.

  “Sir?” responded Curt somewhat confused by the question.

  “Who authorized the mission?” I demanded.

  “Sir, it was part of a Packhorse convoy,” he offered, Packhorse being the nickname for the 4th Forward Support Battalion. “It was cleared by their battalion.”

  Sensing my frustration and anger, Curt brought me back to reality.

  “Sir,” he said, treading carefully, “if they had been successful and got the parts we needed for our vehicles and helped protect a Packhorse convoy, would you be upset then?”

  I didn’t like the question. I wanted to be angry. I wanted someone or something to blame, to make some sense of it all, to find some explanation for the realities of combat and loss.

  “No . . . I guess not.” I thought it through. “I’m sorry, Curt. You’re right. They were doing what we trained them to do . . . to take initiative and not shy away from the fight. I’m sorry. It just comes as such a blow. Let me know what you need. I know you are as deeply upset, if not much more affected by this, than I am.”

  The remains of our soldiers were taken initially to the 173rd Airborne area, the beginning of a long journey back to the nation for which they gave their lives. As for me, once I was certain that their families had been officially notified, I made calls to give them what comfort and information I could.

  I called Paula Zasadny in Michigan, the mother of Holly McGeogh, and introduced myself. She appreciated the call. She wept, as would be expected, and then asked me a question I had not been prepared for.

  “Will I get to see my baby again?” she queried.

  “No, ma’am, I am sorry, she is gone,” I replied, not certain of her meaning.

  “Will I be able to see her face again?” she clarified, inquiring about an open casket arrangement when buried. “She was my only child.”

  “I would not recommend it.” I treaded lightly.

  “But why?” she pursued.

  “You need to remember her the way she was, ma’am,” I managed in the most delicate way I could muster.

  After a long pause of weeping, she continued to question.

  “How do you know?” she pressed as a loving mother would.

  “Ma’am, she was hit by a roadside bomb with a force that killed all three soldiers in the vehicle,” I explained. “The blast was very devastating.”

  “But how do you know? Were you there with them? Did you see her?” she queried in succession.

  “I am certain of it, ma’am, but no, I was not there,” I explained. “They were killed on a road outside of our area.”

  “I want you to find someone who was there and you ask them,” she continued. “Promise me you will do that.”

  “I will, ma’am,” I replied. “I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

  I hated these calls. The pain of the parents was so raw, and their hurt was so much to bear. Still, if it were my child, I would want to know. Lack of information creates more stress than to just have it straight, as the mind will play over a thousand things that do not apply. It is better to know the truth.

  After disconnecting the line with Mrs. Zasadny, I called Brigadier General Barbero. I explained to him about the call.

  “Sir, she wants to know if she can have an open casket and if she will be able to see her again,” I informed. “I explained to her the devastation involved.”

  “Absolutely not, Steve,” General Barbero said without hesitation. “I cannot imagine anyone putting themselves through that. Tell her I saw her and I could not agree with you more that it would be best to remember her the way she was.”

  I appreciated General Barbero even putting up with such conversations from commanders. At the end of the day, we were all human and had hearts. These were, after all, America’s sons and daughters entrusted to our care, and we all felt a deep personal responsibility for them. He gave me the confirmation I needed to fulfill a promise to a mother.

  Calling Mrs. Zasadny back, I relayed my conversation with General Barbero. After more weeping, but without any anger toward those of us who served with her daughter, she said, “I never got to say goodbye.”

  These were words that landed on me heavily. I had no response for them. How true it was of all loved ones who suffer the loss of a son or daughter in battle. No chance to hold them one more time; no opportunity to see their face, to touch their skin, or hear their voice; not even one last chance to say, “Goodbye.” Just heartbreaking news and then . . . gone. Forever.

  How many more? It is best to not ask such questions. As I reflected on our casualties, compared to America’s wars of the past, we were fortunate. My regiment, the 22nd Infantry, suffered over 800 casualties in the first three days of Normandy in the Second World War. In the Hurtgen Forest, the unit had 210 percent casualties in 18 days. We had not suffered like that. Thank God.

  Still, we knew these soldiers. We served alongside them and heard their laughs, knew their stories, and shared their burdens. What we lacked in scale, we felt in intensity. To a soldier in a fight, the combat is still just as real and so are the costs to those involved, even if fewer in number.

  Unlike previous memorial services honoring our fallen, the honoring of Mier, Cabral, and McGeogh affected us a bit more. I think there were several reasons for it. For one, we lost three soldiers in a single attack, and the enemy had not paid a price for their actions. No friendly soldiers from our unit were even able to come to their aid like we had been able to do in our other actions. For us, they simply went out and never came back.

  Another reason was that because these mechanics worked on every single one of the wheeled vehicles in our task force, we all personally knew them. They worked hard, got dirty, shared risks, and made their best effort to support our combat operations. As infantry, we were supposed to protect them while they did their job. We never got that opportunity on the 31st of January.

  Lastly, McGeogh made it tough. I don’t care what anyone says. Losing female soldiers in battle is different. We had now lost two. People can try to talk themselves into any type of theory they wish, but
to the average infantrymen in battle, losing a female soldier is different.

  As we gathered that first week of February to “say goodbye,” we did so the best we could. With three pairs of boots standing beside three M-16 rifles crowned with Kevlar helmets, we honored their lives. When I spoke, I reflected about Sergeant Mier’s example, commitment, and dedication. The Mexican-born 27-year-old gave everything he had to his adopted nation. I extolled 25-year-old Corporal, now promoted to Sergeant, Cabral’s bravery and unwavering commitment to get the job done. He had been awarded a Purple Heart in June for that. The additional one he received in January was final. He would leave behind a wife, a seven-year-old son, and an eighteen-month-old son.

  McGeogh’s death was particularly hard for me for one reason. Back in the late summer, it was almost as if I could sense the danger to her. I ordered her off of my combat patrols, mostly because she was a mechanic, but partly because I did not think I could forgive myself if she should be hit while on my convoy. I took solace back then that she would somehow be safer. Now she was dead.

  When it was time to speak about 19-year-old Private First Class, now promoted to Specialist, Holly McGeogh, it came with the baggage of her actions on my patrols, of her playing with the Iraqi children, and of her mother tearfully asking why she could not see her again. I am only human. My voice broke. As a commander, I did the unthinkable. I cried before my soldiers. I suppose I could have shown more sternness as a commander. Still, the Army tradition goes that memorial services are the place to say your goodbyes. Maybe they just don’t want the goodbyes to be felt too deeply. If we could not show our love for our fellow soldiers there, then where could we? My soldiers knew me. They knew I would lead the fight for them, and now they knew I was also capable of mourning along with them. I don’t regret it.

  After the memorial service, amidst stern reminders to “get a hold of ourselves,” we returned to the tasks of taking the fight to the enemy and making the area better for those that would relieve us and, most importantly, for the Iraqis who lived there. We had ongoing offensive operations still in play and even had ambushes in place that very day during the service. We did it with the same high standard and skill as we always did. Our brief brush with the feelings of humanity would not change that toughness or dedication.

  The cruelty of war is that, while you survive in life’s greatest extremes, there is little time allotted for emotion. Anger, yes, but not that other stuff. You really cannot dwell on it. The hurtful things quickly give way to the humorous, the routine, or even the mundane. The macabre is made light of. Memories and feelings are suppressed, buried perhaps for another day . . . or year . . . or decade.

  People back home, other than combat veterans, cannot understand it. The soldiers you serve with do, but they often would rather not bring it back up. So we carry the memories of our fallen friends that Americans will never get to know. They were the finest and most selfless citizens that our nation produced, sacrificing so people could live in ignorance of them in a future of peace and freedom. We know them and see them every day. You never really get a chance to tell them “Goodbye.”

  INSIDE, OUTSIDE

  While we were mourning our fallen, an Iraqi man exiting a taxi and discreetly carrying a toolbox approached the turnoff intersection leading to our main compound. Looking to his left and then right, he slowly and cautiously gathered tools and a large object, placing them in the median of the turnoff on Excellency Street. His taxi-driving accomplice parked nearby. This was a favorite bombing spot, and we had participated in dozens of episodes on this bottleneck turnoff.

  Specialist John Hartline spied the man from his little C Company outpost on the second floor of a bank overlooking the troubled intersection. Observing him carefully, he could not believe what he was seeing. Since many of our early morning patrols were attending the memorial service at the Birthday Palace, the enemy was taking an opportunity to fill what they believed to be a void in security.

  Seeing a large object and wires, Hartline lifted his M-16 rifle and looked down the iron sights. Mindful that a bomb had killed three more of our soldiers two days before, Hartline took careful aim at the device, instead of the man, and pulled the trigger.

  The enemy working in the median heard an earsplitting crack. As he reflexively looked about, he heard another and then saw his toolbox explode before him. As the instinct for survival kicked in, he dropped to his knees and placed his hands on the back of his head. Wires and debris lay scattered around him.

  Hartline saw the man take a submissive posture and ceased firing. He and his buddy ran down to the street after calling C Company and took the man and his driver prisoner. Hartline was very disappointed that he had been aiming at the toolbox, thinking it was a bomb. Behind it, though, was an olive green 120mm artillery shell with a prepared fuse. The insurgent also had a wireless car alarm to be used as the initiator.

  Arriving at the scene from the Birthday Palace and thankful that we were not the new victims of another attack, I commended Hartline for his alertness and quick thinking that had resulted in the capture of the enemy and the bomb.

  Responding to an AFP reporter who was riding back with us from the service, Hartline said, “I was on duty today, and I couldn’t attend the memorial service. I knew two of the killed soldiers well. Catching these criminals doesn’t change the fact that they’re dead, but I’m glad I was able to do my job today.”

  The would-be attackers worked for the fire department, and several interviews of local traffic police in the area revealed a bad case of the Sergeant Schultz syndrome from Hogan’s Heroes—they knew nothing.

  When pressed by the AFP reporter about the traffic cops I replied, “I don’t know if the Iraqi police were involved in this, but they were definitely trying to cover it up.”

  The concealed bank location we used for observation of that intersection was now blown but had provided us the necessary cover the day we needed it. It was not long until attackers shot up the second-floor windows of the bank, a few days later. In typical reaction, locals complained to the chief of police that our soldiers had vandalized the bank and shot up the windows—from the inside!

  To reassure General Mezher, the provincial police chief with whom we had good relations, I stated that my men would do no such thing. I agreed to go with the plaintiffs to get to the bottom of it. Walking up the stairs of the bank to the second floor, I immediately noticed several bullet holes in the thick window facing a side alley to the north. I placed my fingers in the divots on the glass and felt that something was not quite right.

  “These holes came from the outside,” I proclaimed, explaining that glass will spall in the opposite direction of the bullet’s impact, creating a divot. It is such useless little knowledge packed in our heads that sometimes proves valuable.

  “No, mister . . . inside!” argued the chief plaintiff standing beside General Mezher, who was now considering my plausible explanation with crossed arms and cocked head.

  “No, outside,” I countered. “The glass. Look at it. It is smooth on the outside of the window and caved in on our side where the glass flew into the room.”

  “No, mister . . . inside!” asserted the bank man, convinced that my soldiers had fired shots from inside the room.

  “Excuse me,” I warned, motioning for everyone to step back some distance from the window. Taking a knee, I flipped my M-4 carbine’s safety to fire, took aim, and put two bullets through the window, spaced about a foot apart. Everyone around me looked stunned, eyes blinking in amazement.

  Walking up to the window, I placed my fingers on the glass and compared them to the other holes. They were totally opposite in shape to the original suspect holes. The plaintiffs approached and felt the holes for themselves.

  “Ah, yes, mister! Outside!” the now-convinced banker said with a broad smile.

  With apologies to my men accepted, the locals assured us that they would be more careful to look out for insurgents in our area.

  Inside,
outside, every side. In the last two weeks before our relief arrived, we were hunting down the latest lead on the lingering Saddam loyalist clan that were purported to be behind some of the most recent insurgent activities. Chris Morris had our scouts out in the Cadaseeyah area planning that raid against a member of the Shehab family, and we successfully executed it. We not only captured Nazar Shehab, a relative of Izzat Ibrahim al-Duri, aka the King of Clubs, but we also found more information that led us to a raid the next night that netted four more members of the Musslit family. With these two raids, the last active vestiges of the network we had pursued for eight months had been erased.

  The resistance we now faced was more akin to those insurgents pledging to fight regardless of motivation. Such malcontents began to align themselves with al-Qaeda, with further ties leading to Fallujah. For the first time, we heard the name of Abu Musab al-Zarqawi in connection with this forming network. We maintained pursuit for one such Tikriti individual connected to the Fallujah network that had killed D.J. Wheeler in October—Abbas Mahdi. We staked out several of his possible family connections with our snipers. Meanwhile, Mike Wagner’s “Gators” and Jon Cecalupo’s “Cougars” continued combat patrolling of the outskirts of Tikrit. Brad Boyd was able to return to command of C Company after a two-month absence, and had the Cobras in tight control of the city center.

  Brad was still recovering somewhat and had even tried to convince me earlier to let him return to command. I told him when he could do an exercise called a Squat Thrust—involving bending at the knees, leaning forward into a push-up, and then springing back up—I would consider it. It took him some time, but he eventually did so. I returned him to command. Mitch Carlisle came back to the headquarters, and we were all grateful for his handling of the company in Brad’s absence.