We Got Him!

by Steve Russell

  With this array of forces keeping Tikrit fairly civil, Sergeant Joseph Dalessio’s team from our sniper squad took up an infiltration route in Cadaseeyah to pursue an important lead. The objective was none other than Abbas Mahdi, who was purported to be visiting his uncle’s house. I gave orders to my snipers that if Abbas were spotted, he was fair game.

  By 8:00 p.m. on February 7, Sergeant Dalessio’s team had reached the objective area. Corporal Anthony Venetz and Specialist James Kelly worked their way over a wall following Dalessio and soon laddered their way onto the roof of a two-story residence near Abbas’s uncle’s house. It was not far from where we had captured Saddam Presidential Secretary Abid Mahmood al-Khatab the previous June. The whole neighborhood was unfriendly.

  Pulling up the ladder, securing the rooftop, and blocking the door, the soldiers began a planned watch for a 24-hour period. As they proceeded to work out their position inside the compound, a bullet suddenly smashed into the wall near Corporal Venetz’s head, spewing bits of plaster.

  “Close impact! Close impact!” Venetz warned, instinctively falling back on his sniper training and diving for cover.

  Dropping their equipment and themselves to the rooftop, Venetz crawled toward the opposite ledge for a better position while Kelly crawled to cover the opposite side. While Sergeant Dalessio attempted to radio Chris Morris, Venetz could spy two individuals with AK-47s coming up from the south.

  “AK! AK!” Venetz warned as he popped up into a firing position. The soldiers shouted to the suspects below in a pidgin Arabic call to put their hands up.

  The enemy put their rifles up instead. Gunfire erupted at each location, both inside and outside. As Corporal Venetz and Specialist Kelly returned fire at the enemy to the west, the woodline across the street to the south erupted. Bullets smacked and licked the plastered concrete block forming the low wall on the flat rooftop.

  Taking in the situation, Sergeant Dalessio could see several individuals now firing from the southwest and south. Crawling along the rooftop to get a better position, Kelly then fired a dozen rounds at the insurgents in the woodline, forcing their fire to slacken. As he did, another insurgent at the gate of the target house to the southeast opened up with an AK. Dalessio shifted his fire to the gate and dropped the enemy with his M-16.

  “Put a frag in that woodline!” ordered Dalessio to Specialist Kelly. He and Venetz provided cover as Kelly prepared to throw a fragmentation grenade.

  “Frag out!” alerted Kelly, sailing a grenade across the street and into the woodline. All three soldiers hit the deck until the grenade exploded. KABOOM! The firing was now sporadic and seemed to be coming from the east as two men were seen fleeing in the distance.

  A short time later, another individual approached, walking down the street. Venetz shouted at him to put his hands up (in an Arabic phrase he had learned). The man smiled and walked forward. Venetz fired a warning shot in front of him and repeated the phrase. The man smiled and walked forward again and was greeted with another warning shot.

  “Venetz, what are you doing?” asked Kelly.

  “I am telling him to put his hands up,” answered Venetz.

  “Dude, you are telling him we are Americans and to not be afraid,” jabbed Kelly.

  With laughter breaking the tension among the snipers, the man was correctly instructed by better pidgin Arabic and he fell to his knees and put his hands up. The snipers did not see a weapon and he did not appear to be involved, perhaps just happening upon the firefight. He was later released.

  Sergeant Dalessio relayed the contact to Chris Morris, who then informed me. Chris and our scouts vectored into the location after the soldiers “painted it” with an infrared device and, once reinforcements arrived, the soldiers began clearing the area. I arrived as the soldiers began clearing Abbas’s uncle’s house, capturing two wounded enemy and several enemy rifles.

  When the smoke had settled, Abbas’s uncle lay dead at the gate, a four-foot puddle of blood slowly advancing around him on the carport drive. Abbas’s father had one of his legs blown off by Kelly’s grenade and was being tended to by a woman at the house. A third relative had wounds to the shoulder and chest. We provided what medical assistance we could, and I called for one of our own ambulances to evacuate the men that tried to kill ours. Both the enemy wounded survived. Such is the difference between Americans and terrorists.

  Abbas was believed to be one of the two men seen fleeing to the east toward the Tigris River. Locals said that he was definitely there. The price his family paid to protect him was steep. While he managed to escape us yet again it was to be short-lived. Later in the year, he would be killed fighting Americans in the 2nd Battle of Fallujah.

  LONG BEARDS

  That cool February 2004 brought more than rain. Mortar rounds fell on the Birthday Palace and the “Gator” compound in Auja while huge SS-30 rockets rained on the main compound of the 4th Infantry Division. The enemy launched them from dirt ramps with a crude aim at the bluffs of the Tigris River from the wheat fields and orchards due east. The counter battery fire from our own 120mm mortars kept these attacks to a minimum.

  Along with the rain and rockets, thousands of soldiers began to pour into our area as the 101st Airborne Division departed from Mosul and the 1st Infantry Division arrived to take over our sector in Tikrit. With such an enormous temporary increase of troops, things became fairly quiet, but there were still occasional ambushes. On 18 February, one of our patrols was attacked with an RPG from a great distance in a back alley near the Fruit Loop Apartments on Highway 1. The rocket missed and plunged into a playground, killing a five-year-old boy. Such incidents only served to galvanize Iraqis against the insurgency.

  With the influx of relief troops, each patrol had now doubled in strength. We gave the 1st Battalion, 18th Infantry “Vanguards,” led by Lieutenant Colonel Jeff Sinclair, an official tour of Tikrit. We could not have asked for a better trained or more ably led unit to build on the foundation we had established. My focus was now divided between pursuing the final leads on known enemies in our area and making introductions to the locals to ensure the same or enhanced level of cooperation with Sinclair’s new task force in Tikrit. We launched one final raid on the farmland south of Auja with the “Vanguards” also participating.

  For the most part, our pursuit of Saddam Hussein and his henchmen had been completely successful. As we readied our forces for the return to Kuwait and eventually to the United States in March and April, we did so with a certain pride in our accomplishment. Still, Tikrit could be a very dangerous place. We tried to convey the sights and sounds of normal activity versus danger signals to our replacements. On a level of competency, our soldiers and our relief were on equal footing. In terms of experience and combat savvy, our relief could not yet recognize threats that were blatant to us.

  Gradually, the Vanguard soldiers replaced our troops. Mike Wagner’s A Company pulled out of Auja and temporarily occupied a spot on the “Packhorse” compound near them until they could load vehicles and equipment for Kuwait. Brad Boyd’s C Company pulled out of the city, joined by Scott Thomas’ B Company, which had finally rejoined us from Bayjii. With Jon Cecalupo’s tanks and Curt Kuetemeyer’s support troops completing the assembly, the task force was gradually being relieved of its duties.

  By the first of March, I would maintain command of the city, but the majority of troops now belonged to 1-18 Infantry rather than to me. The designated time to switch control of our entire area would be midnight on 12 March. Mike Rauhut, Bryan Luke, and Pete Martinez worked fervently moving troops and vehicles over hundreds of miles through hostile territory to reassemble in Kuwait. Mike and Pete had already departed for Kuwait. Bryan Luke and Clay Bell remained with a skeleton staff until I was relieved of combat duty.

  The final day of combat patrolling was one of mixed emotions. I had no concerns about the “Vanguards” or Lieutenant Colonel Sinclair, but it was difficult to relinquish the mission in which we had invested so much of our live
s. Scores of my soldiers had shed blood on these streets, and some lost their lives here. As I surveyed each street and farm field, I sincerely prayed that we would one day return to walk them in peace. Perhaps we would dine in restaurants as old men with our families and point out things that locals could not conceive having happened in their peaceful neighborhoods. It was a nice dream anyway.

  By the evening of that last patrol, we began to notice some things that did not feel right. It was no secret that new troops with bright clean uniforms were replacing ours. The locals noticed, too, that the new troops did not wear the burlap on their helmets that had so distinctly marked my men. Still, we were out there on a final patrol showing we had not yet left.

  Driving north up 40th Street, I spotted some trouble brewing at the Huda Mosque. The gates were open, and a fair-sized gathering of men milled about. They were soldier age, with piercing eyes full of hatred. Most notably, they all had beards. Beards were uncommon among Sunni Arabs in Iraq. If they wore them, they were usually neatly trimmed and close-cropped. It was very unusual to see the free-flowing unkempt whiskers typically worn by the most radical elements of Islam.

  Rounding the corner east on Cross Street, we saw more of them by the “Evil” Mosque (or Saddam Mosque). A few even dotted the market area, watching us warily as others went about their normal business, paying us no attention.

  “Hoefer, how do we look on fuel?” I asked my driver, Specialist Cody Hoefer. “We’re good, sir,” he answered.

  “Three, we’re gonna patrol until midnight,” I said, tossing my words back to my S-3 Operations Officer, Major Bryan Luke. “I don’t like what I am seeing.”

  “Roger, sir,” he acknowledged. “You mean the guys with the beards?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Something definitely doesn’t feel right.”

  “I noticed that, too, sir,” chimed in Cody Hoefer. “Did you see how they seemed to follow us from point to point?”

  “Roger,” I agreed. “Bryan, alert the rest of the convoy on the internal,” I ordered.

  “Wilco, sir,” Bryan responded, cautioning our dozen remaining Regulars on patrol to expect the worst until midnight and take nothing for granted.

  The night proceeded uneasily. It is difficult to explain. Law enforcement officers have told me that they have a “sixth sense” about areas with which they are familiar. I now knew what they meant. They just know things are not quite right without being able to say why. Apart from the obvious long beards in town, there was little else I could pinpoint, but I knew things did not look or feel right.

  Midnight came, and I signed off the radio forever as commander of combat forces in Tikrit. My task complete, I decided to go to 1-18 Infantry’s headquarters to pass along my concerns about the 40th Street district of Tikrit.

  “Something’s not right with the city,” I offered to the task force Executive Officer, finding him in the ops center.

  “What makes you say that, sir?” he asked.

  “Watch 40th Street and the area around it,” I continued. “We saw men with long beards at the Huda Mosque, and that whole area just did not feel right. You guys need to be careful.”

  “Got it, sir,” he replied. “But do you think that maybe it is just partly because it’s your last patrol and turning it all over to us?”

  “No, it’s because something is not right with the city,” I allowed. “I’m serious. Watch 40th Street. Something is not right. I can think of no one we’d rather turn our mission over to, but I am concerned about what we saw on patrol.”

  “Understood, sir,” he acknowledged. “I’ll pass it along to Colonel Sinclair and the units.”

  We bunked one final night in our old headquarters location. My crew fueled the vehicles and would grab some rack time until morning. Then we would make our way to the battalion relocation point and ready our eventual trip to Kuwait. Jeff Sinclair, ever the professional, offered me a place to sleep in the command hooch. He and his Command Sergeant Major, Doug Pallister, were exactly the kind of men we had hoped to get for our relief.

  Accepting his offer of hospitality, I began to relax. The weight of command in combat relaxed a little, although I had troops scattered under various commands from Tikrit to Kuwait. I worried very little about them, as they were ably led. In minutes I was out, descending into a deep sleep.

  Waking abruptly at approximately 4:45 a.m. on March 13, I thought I was dreaming.

  “Colonel Sinclair, sir,” interrupted the 1-18 Infantry battle captain.

  “Yeah . . . ” answered a gravelly voice.

  “Sir, B Company has been attacked,” he continued. “Captain Kurth is dead, and so is Specialist Ford. There are some wounded as well.”

  “What!?” he answered, bolting straight up in his bed, as did Command Sergeant Major Pallister and I.

  As he repeated the devastating news, I went into instinctive drill. In five minutes I had my gear, rifle, and crew assembled on our Hummers ready to roll. Jeff’s men were trying to piece together what had happened. We waited and then waited some more. I made sure to withhold criticism in my mind. We had been through this so many times before. I would assist if he needed us.

  “Sir, we gotta get out there to help them,” urged Sergeant First Class Gil Nail.

  “Sergeant Nail, I am no longer in command,” I countered. “If they need our assistance we will help, but we have to let them work it out.”

  “Roger, sir,” he grudgingly acknowledged.

  After a twenty-minute wait, we joined Colonel Sinclair’s convoy. I had gathered what info I could and learned that Captain John “Hans” Kurth had been leading his company’s first early patrol when they were hit by a roadside ambush on 60th Street. I miscalculated the scene of trouble by a single block, but the prediction of the previous night was, unfortunately, very accurate on that early morning.

  Arriving at the scene, I pointed to the location; we knew it well. Then my guys pulled security in the area. Jeff had already sent combat forces into the area to provide a wider security. The scene was one I had hoped never to witness again. It would serve instead as one more heartless send-off from the city of Tikrit.

  At approximately 4:42 a.m., B Company Commander Captain Kurth had been leading a two-vehicle combat patrol north along 60th Street near the east-west road leading to the Birthday Palace. An insurgent had apparently planted a powerful roadside bomb on the back recess of the curb designed to allow streetside parking. It also concealed the bomb efficiently until it was too late. We had often countered such tactics by driving in the opposite lanes and direction of traffic. It would throw the enemy off and allow us to see ahead.

  When the bomb exploded, the blast ripped into Captain Kurth. He probably died instantly. Specialist Jason Ford, a team leader from 1-18 Infantry’s B Company, was also killed in the blast. Kurth’s driver, Specialist Michael Press, escaped with fragmentation to the arm. Ford’s squad leader, Sergeant Alfored Kalous, would suffer a broken left leg and later lose his left foot. SAW gunner, Specialist Rafael Lovell, would escape with less severe wounds to the face and left leg.

  Fuel dripped from the ruptured tank of the stricken Hummer. The tires were blown, and the vehicle lay broken and undrivable on the street. Bandages, syringes, and other medical waste lay scattered about, mingled with blood, concrete, rubber, and oil. The time was approaching 5:30 a.m. In a mere half hour, Tikrit would spring to life as curfew lifted. We had very little time.

  “Jeff, would you like me to raise the fire department to assist in cleanup?” I offered.

  “I got it,” he snapped with a radio receiver in his ear. He was not so much mad at me as he was mad at losing men.

  I had been there. I decided to give him a wide berth and walked back over to the shattered vehicle. We have to get this vehicle outta here, I thought. We gotta wash the blood off the streets. When the people wake up, it needs to appear as if this never happened.

  Feeling helpless and watching the unit respond like a duck whacked on the head, I started pi
cking up stuff from the street. I grabbed bloody bandages and syringes and pieces of shattered gear. I tossed them into the broken Hummer. My men caught my lead and followed suit. Colonel Sinclair’s ops sergeant walked over and joined in.

  “Sir, what is going through your mind right now?” he queried in a polite but roundabout way of asking how I would respond in this situation.

  “Sergeant, you gotta get this vehicle out of here,” I began. “We’ve got thirty minutes before the whole town comes alive. When they wake up it needs to look as if none of this ever happened and you are still in charge and on the streets.”

  “Roger, sir,” he said and wandered off.

  “Steve, I’m sorry, man,” called out Jeff Sinclair. “What was that number to the fire department?”

  Jeff immediately went into action. We suggested they drag the vehicle with a Bradley tow bar to the Birthday Palace. A fire truck appeared to wash the blood off the street. The scene was cleaned up in short order.

  That night, Lieutenant Colonel Sinclair dropped 120mm mortar rounds directly into the fields in the heart of the city near the “Evil Mosque” and the scene of the bombing. It had a terrifying effect on the locals and calmed the city considerably. I already liked Jeff’s style and knew that they were going to take Tikrit to the next level. Still, it was a terrible first day for him in command of the city.

  At 11:00 that morning, a ceremony officially transferring command from the “Regulars” to the “Vanguards” had been scheduled. Lieutenant Colonel Sinclair asked that we cancel it. I agreed to cancel the formal one but still wanted to properly case our battalion and regimental colors with the respect they deserved. I told him that we would do it with or without him.

  “I’ve lost men, too, Jeff,” I offered. “We’ll support whatever you want, but we will case our colors with the honor and dignity they deserve.”

  Sinclair and Pallister agreed, easily able to identify with our situation. We held a small and abbreviated ceremony in which we rolled up our colors and placed them in slipcases to be unfurled again on arrival at our duty station at Fort Hood. Our mission was now over.