A Bloody Business

by Gerry Schumacher

  Around the same time that Dustin stood up, Schneider had gotten a similar perspective on the images firing at them. He could make out an outline of a humvee and had begun shouting at his men to cease fire. Everything was quiet now except for the commanding voice of the soldier directing Dustin. He moved cautiously forward toward the approaching soldiers.

  Then, without comment, without warning, without any apparent cause, Jordan leveled his AK-47 in the direction of the approaching soldiers and opened fire on them. Perhaps the unfolding events were unclear to him. He may have thought that insurgents were taking Dustin as a prisoner. Maybe Jordan just hadn’t been able to digest that the battle was over. Was he still in survival mode like a dog in a fight that bites his owner in the fury that lingers after the threat has subsided? Did he have a violent knee-jerk reaction to now seeing his two friends slumped over in the Toyota? It has never been clear why Jordan began shooting, not even to Jordan himself.

  Once again, both sides let loose a torrent of bullets in fierce exchange. Dustin, still standing there with his hands in the air, was torn between diving for cover and continuing to stand there with bullets now passing him in both directions. He mustered whatever courage and energy that was left in him. “Cease fire” he implored. “Cease fire.”

  Even for a seasoned combat veteran like Dustin Benson, to passively stand in the middle of a hail of gunfire was an extraordinary test of self-control. Like playing dead while being mauled by a bear, it may be the textbook response, but every instinct in his body opposed it.

  Again, the shooting stopped. Schneider had been crawling toward Wolf and Jake’s SUV. Schneider made it to the driver-side door. In the darkness he reached in to pull Wolf from the car. With one hand cradling Wolf’s head, he could feel his hand immersed in the warm, wet matter he realized was Wolf’s brain. Schneider, holding the lifeless body of his friend, incredulous and torn with grief, bellowed an anguished cry, “You blew his fucking head off!” His tortured voice permeated the night air and pierced every soul for a hundred yards around. A U.S. soldier’s bullet had passed through Wolf’s temple and exited out the back of his skull. Everyone on both sides of the firefight just froze in disbelief and horror at what had just happened. They realized this mistake could not be undone.

  To Schneider, the last words of this valiant and compassionate leader were indicative of how he had lived his life, cared about his men, and led his team. In his final utterance before a scorching bullet ripped into him, Wolf Weiss had tried to say, “Good job, Jordan.”

  Dustin was now back at the passenger door of Wolf’s vehicle. Jake lay slumped over in the passenger seat. Dee, in the back seat, was moaning and writhing in pain from a gaping gunshot wound to his arm. Dustin reached for his friend Jake. Jake recalls: “I could hear Dustin calling my name and I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t talk when I first heard him. I was aware of my surroundings as if I were someone else watching everything going on. I had heard Schneider scream out about Wolf and I wasn’t at all surprised because as I had laid there in the car next to Wolf, I remember hearing sickening noises from his side of the car; a gurgling discharge, like water trickling from a garden hose on concrete. I’m not sure how or why I knew it, but I did have a realization that the sound was coming from Wolf’s body.

  “I guess I was just busy trying to die,” Jake reflects. “While I had been drifting in and out of semi-consciousness, I had visualized a big hole in my face and I knew that the back of my head was bleeding. So my image was that the hole went clear through. It wasn’t a very pretty thought and I was in no particular rush to live that way. When Dustin saw the back of my head, he thought I was dead. I was bleeding heavy and pretty well covered with blood. He kept repeating my name, ‘Jake, Jake, Jake, talk to me, buddy.’ So as he was dragging me out of the SUV, I discovered that my vocal cords still worked and finally said something to him. I don’t remember what I said, but the fact that words came out of me at all stunned Dustin. I think he damn near dropped me. It was kind of like Dustin was thinking, ‘What the hell was that?’ It took him a second or two to adjust to the fact that I was alive.

  “He laid me down on the pavement alongside the car. Of course, I still figured I was dying. All in all, I was pretty calm about my fate. I guess when you really think you have bit the bullet and it’s all over, you don’t get too terribly excited about that shit. Of course, I still had that thing about the hole through my face, so the first words I remember saying were, “How do I look?” That was a dumb question because I got the stock answer, ‘You look good. You’re going to be alright.’ So I thought, So much for that bullshit, of course he’s going to say that. A lot of good asking that did!

  “For some reason, I couldn’t stop moving my legs. Dustin was trying to access my wounds, and I couldn’t get used to the idea of just laying there helpless. Then I heard someone say something about me lying in a pool of gasoline. Well, that did it! Survival instincts must run deep. I mean dying is one thing, but frying is another! I asked Dustin in a panic, ‘Pull me out of this, pull me out of this.’ Dustin began pulling me by my body armor; I tried to help him by kicking at the pavement. It was a rough go. In the struggle to get away from all the leaking gas, Dustin asked if I could stand up. To my surprise, I did. One side of me thought, Gee, I must be OK. I’m walking around. Then, being the fatalist I am, I recalled stories of guys shot in combat [who] walk around and talk a few minutes like everything’s normal, and then just plop over and die. It wasn’t like the thought scared me, or that I dwelled on it. It was just a matter-of-fact thought.

  “Dustin took care of me. He took off my body armor, cut open my shirt. He applied some pressure bandages and started an IV on me. I had a non-life-threatening shrapnel wound to the back of my head. Jordan had a few shrapnel wounds; Dee had a bullet wound in the arm. The army medic on the scene wasn’t much help. In fact, our guys knew a lot more about how to treat and evacuate wounded than this ‘green’ army unit knew. Dustin even had to coordinate and safely direct the landing of a medevac chopper.

  “The Blackhawk helicopter touched down. The wounded and the dead were loaded onto the same chopper. Wolf, Jake, Jordan, and Dee lifted off into the raining black abyss. En route to the military base at Balad, they looked at one another inside the dimly lit confines of the Blackhawk. No one spoke. They just blankly stared at nothing in particular. Each man was alone with his thoughts; far louder than the whir of the blades, the roar of the engine turbines, or the seemingly distant voices of crew members communicating on the radio.”

  They will forever carry with them the surreal memories of this night. With the passage of time, the human coping mechanisms will naturally and gradually push these events to the recesses of their minds. But throughout their lives, again and again, and at times when they least expect it, the memories of this night will be played out, always in slow motion, always in excruciating detail, and always painful.

  III. The Knife Fighter

  Fifteen days after the friendly fire incident, Jordan, Dee, and Jake rejoined the team. Schneider moved into Wolf’s old position as Crescent’s director of security operations. He listens intently and is well spoken. On the rare occasion that he cusses, it is clearly a moment chosen for effect and not the product of uncontrolled emotions. He doesn’t drink or smoke. He addressed these vices years ago and banished them from his life, yet he passes no judgment on those who do. Schneider expresses only two emotions with regularity: he either smiles like a school kid with his blue eyes twinkling and a mischievous grin or he is deadly serious, and few men or women would challenge his rock-hard appearance. He has that look that instantly makes the observer feel that he could break you like a pretzel. This is not someone you disrespect in a bar. Yet he is polite and courteous almost to a fault.

  A street kid from Sacramento, Schneider joined the army as a teenager and trained as a combat engineer. He was fortunate enough to land some great assignments with good military units so he could hone his skills along the way. He trav
eled through Europe and felt lucky, as a back-alley kid, to experience the people and cultures of other countries. Restless for a change after fourteen years, he left the service to live with his wife, Belinda, in Adrian, Michigan. His decision meant that he would forego a retirement check just six years away. This decision was not unlike his original decision to join the army; it was time for a change. He would figure out his new direction later. For now, he just wanted time with his family.

  The transition was difficult. Employment opportunities for former army combat engineers were rare. He enrolled in a truck-driver training program and picked up a big-rig license. Somewhere along the line, he learned that KBR was hiring truck drivers in Iraq. He and Belinda discussed it intensely. The money would solve a lot of problems. They decided that he would try it for a year and sack away the income. Schneider contacted a KBR recruiter who wanted him on a plane the next week. He and Belinda got their affairs in order and he left a few days later. Schneider remarks: “In the beginning you come here for the money, in the end you stay here for the mission.”

  On arrival in Iraq, KBR reassigned Schneider to a fuel point in the middle of the country. Wolf Weiss, who was at the time managing just one three-man security team, periodically stopped in, so Schneider and Wolf developed a friendship. As is Schneider’s personality, he always made certain that Wolf’s men were well taken care of. He would frequently give them additional water or food to take along on the dangerous road trips through the Iraqi countryside. One day, after a couple of months in country, Wolf asked Schneider what he’d like to do. Schneider responded, “I’d like your job.” Wolf said he’d keep it in mind. A week later, Wolf lost a man and Schneider was offered a spot on the team. Schneider gave notice to KBR, and within two days was headed south to Kuwait to join Crescent Security.

  Crescent Security, like the dozens of other security firms operating in Iraq, did not originally go into business to take advantage of the financial benefits offered to war zone security contractors. The intent of their development was to protect their own logistics assets, not to be hired guns for other companies. Crescent was the brainchild of Franco Pecco, an Italian businessman who was raised in South Africa and who has operational oversight responsibilities for a half-dozen businesses, including several trucking operations. His trucks in Iraq required security, and that was both expensive and unreliable. Franco reasoned that it made more sense in terms of cost and quality control to create a security company. Based on his own military experience with the South African army in Angola, he began looking for a few good men. He found Wolf Weiss and hired him to begin Crescent Security.

  Crescent has developed a written manual of standard operating procedures, and all of their contractors are required to know it by heart. They observe the military’s rules of engagement and are quick to go through the required procedures before opening fire. Although Crescent’s team exercises a great deal of self-control and fire discipline, when circumstances dictate they will not hesitate to open fire. And circumstances require it frequently. Schneider is known to say, “I’d rather be judged by twelve than carried by six. Iraq is all about the quick and the dead.”

  Schneider, Danny, Jake, and Justin roll out of bed in their Kuwait villa, the headquarters for Crescent Security. The contrast between where the team is now and where they’ll be just a few hours from now is striking. Although some contractors would envy their living conditions, many would find it a struggle each day to leave the relative safety and opulence of Kuwait for the harrowing mission that will take them four hundred miles into Iraq and back to Kuwait in just thirty-six hours. The experience is somewhat like a strategic bomber pilot leaving Whitman Air Force Base in Missouri to attack targets in the Gulf and coming home to dinner the next night. In such short periods of time, the human mind has to struggle with rapid cycles of mental preparation, tension, terror, and subsequent decompression.

  Everyone is in the standard uniform: desert boots, khaki pants, a black T-shirt, and a black Crescent Security baseball cap. Their vehicles are lined up in front of the villa. Engines are running. They hook up satellite trackers, load cases of water, check body armor, and tighten gun holsters onto their right legs. With the exception of a quick radio check, there is very little conversation. They are still waking up and each knows exactly what has to be done.

  Still wearing her robe and a cup of coffee in hand, Belinda is standing on the steps, about ten yards away. She’s watching her husband and the team get ready for work. Jake, Danny, and Justin climb into their Chevy Avalanche. Schneider glances back at his wife, and they move toward each other for a quick kiss and a few words. Then Schneider turns and climbs into his Yukon. The four vehicles begin to roll through the streets of Kuwait City and head north, toward the Iraqi border.

  Belinda will be working in Crescent’s operations center. Along with Paul, Franco, and a British operations manager, she will track every movement and every vehicle location while the team is on the road. As always, they will experience intense apprehension when unplanned events unfold and will endure painful frustration when radios and cell and satellite phones fail. Communication is their lifeblood. God willing, Belinda will see her husband and his team drive up tomorrow night. She won’t be surprised to see a few new bullet holes in the Yukon. This is what Schneider and Belinda bought into when he signed on to be a security contractor.

  On the highway to the border, the team rolls by Mutlah Ranch, where the Kuwaiti government has posted several signs leading to the Mutlah Ranch exit. Above each sign is another. It says, “God Bless U.S. Troops.” Some Kuwaitis still remember the brutal and savage treatment received at the hands of the Iraqis during the 1991 invasion. It warms the hearts of today’s U.S. soldiers to be remembered and appreciated by the Kuwaitis, who see them in the same light as those who fought and died to free them from Saddam Hussein’s tyranny.

  About ten miles south of the Iraq-Kuwait border, a few hundred yards short of a Kuwaiti police checkpoint, is the last truck stop. This is Kuwait’s version of a greasy spoon. Truckers from around the world return to this small café and convenience store to stock up on water and grab a quick breakfast or a cup of coffee. The atmosphere is friendly and jovial. The shouting of food orders sounds like the Arabic version of Chicago’s Billy Goat Inn. Lively conversation and laughter abound. One would never guess that these truck drivers are headed north to Iraq and that an hour from now they may be getting shot at, hijacked, and executed. They live for the moment, and at the moment they’re a happy group.

  Schneider buys a couple of cases of Red Bull for his team and gets back on the road again. The four Crescent SUVs cruise past hundreds of trucks creeping through the last Kuwaiti police checkpoint prior to reaching the Iraqi border. There are trucks of every conceivable dimension and size. Some are just homemade flatbed trailers with furniture and miscellaneous junk piled twenty feet into the air. Some are old SUVs with eight feet of stuff piled on top of the roof. A few miles up, on the left side of the road, are a cluster of forty or fifty damaged and deserted homes, stores, and buildings. This was once a thriving Kuwaiti border town. The trees that were once carefully maintained and manicured are now dried stumps with naked branches. When the Iraqis invaded Kuwait, they killed nearly everyone and destroyed everything in this town. It was never rebuilt. The sand dunes have reclaimed the decrepit buildings. This is a ghost town.

  The border crossing is just ahead. Off to the right is the sprawling U.S. Army compound known as NAVISTAR. Barbed wire, blast walls, and armed guards are everywhere. This is the staging area for all military and contractor convoys headed north. The Crescent SUVs turn into NAVISTAR and move slowly through the checkpoint maze. Just short of a sign that reads “Welcome to NAVISTAR, Major Thomas Palermo, Commanding,” the vehicles are halted and searched. After they’re cleared into the compound, they go to an area with a half-dozen lanes leading up to fuel points. No one begins a trip into Iraq without a full tank of gas.

  Gassed up, they move over to a prefab buil
ding, which is the NAVISTAR northbound movement control center. Dave Bowman, a big, burly KBR employee, is the operations manager. He’s got a half-dozen people milling around his office waiting for one thing or another. Dave has a phone in each hand and he seems to be holding three different conversations at the same time. Behind him is a rack of M16 rifles. He looks up at Schneider and asks, “What can I do you for?” Schneider gives him some paperwork on the trucks he’s taking north. At the same time, Captain Waldman, a young, stressed-out military counterpart to Bowman is also trying to sort out what to do with all the gun trucks that are ready to roll.

  Schneider glances through a copy of today’s Road Warrior, a daily intelligence report that covers enemy activity along major Iraqi highways during the last twenty-four hours. He turns to Jake, Danny, and Justin. “Take a look,” he comments. “The usual stuff up north, but the Italians lost a couple of guys down south.” Schneider continues, “Remember that guy on the overpass yesterday, a few klicks north of Cedar II? We shoulda taken him out. I’ll bet anything that he’s the one [who] hit them.” They browse through the report, make a few comments to each other, leave the building, and head back to their SUVs. Each of them is silently committing to memory the locations of yesterday’s attacks. It’s good to have information, but who knows where the enemy will strike today?

  The Crescent team walks across the huge sandy staging area where row after row of trucks are lined up. A thirty-truck convoy with an army escort is in the middle of rolling out of NAVISTAR. Several up-armored humvees are standing by, ready to slip into position in the departing convoy. Their mounted .50-caliber machine guns are pointed at a 45-degree angle skyward. A young lieutenant, obviously the convoy commander, stands off to the side of his humvee. He is using arm and hand signals to control the flow and placement of vehicles in his convoy. Except for his desert camouflage uniform, he looks a lot like a New York City traffic cop going through his motions. This is a typical morning at the Iraqi border.