Saddam then took his foot and kicked the cell door open. Hutch hadn’t closed it behind Saddam, and this was Saddam’s not-so-subtle way of expressing his displeasure that it had been left open. While Saddam sometimes liked the freedom of movement an open cell door enabled, since it allowed him to access his storage closet more easily or wander out to the rec area with one of his guards, at other times he preferred it to remain shut.
“My friend, my friend,” Saddam said to Hutch, gesturing at the door, which was now fully ajar.
Dammit, thought Hutch, who knew what this meant. Reluctantly, he dragged himself out of his chair, walked over, and dutifully shut the cell door.
Saddam appeared relieved. Thank you, my friend, Saddam said, before taking a seat at his desk.
Despite himself, Hutch couldn’t help but smile.
CHAPTER 26
Baghdad, Iraq—2006
If you play that damn song one more time, I’m going to kick your ass, Private Paul Sphar shouted across the room to Private Tucker Dawson. Dawson had been playing “Fireman” by Lil Wayne just about every morning in the cramped room they shared, and it had begun to drive Sphar crazy. Minor aggravations and annoyances were magnified by the forced proximity of deployment—and further compounded by unrelenting heat, grinding stress, and testosterone. Friction was inevitable and eruptions bound to take place.
When they did, the Super Twelve often resolved them in a somewhat brutal though surprisingly effective manner. Specialist Rogerson later recalled that “if we got sick of each other, we’d take each other to the Pit and that was it.” “Taking each other to the Pit” meant squaring off in hand-to-hand combat—or what was called in Army training “combatives”—while the rest of the squad circled around and watched, ensuring that things didn’t get too out of hand. Striking with the fists was frowned upon; rather, the men would try to grapple each other into submission. Sometimes mutual exhaustion simply led to a draw, at which point the two soldiers would help each other to their feet as they gasped to catch their breath. These bouts had a familial quality to them. It was “kind of like I can mess with my brother, but you can’t,” Rogerson recalls. “I would beat the shit out of Perkins more times than I can count, but if someone from the outside bothered us we’d have each other’s back.”
In this instance, though, Sphar didn’t have the patience to wait until later to deal with Dawson. The two had always had a rocky relationship, having entered the Army from very different worlds. Sphar was a tattooed “gamer” while Dawson, an avid hunter and fisherman, was more the embodiment of southern preppiness.
As Lil Wayne continued to blast from Dawson’s computer, Sphar couldn’t take it anymore. He charged across the small room and, lowering a shoulder, crashed into the young Carolinian, his considerable girth helping to send both tumbling to the ground. Neither of the young soldiers actually wanted to hurt the other, but the steam had reached a boil and needed release. They crashed about the cluttered space, slamming into plywood walls separating them from soldiers bunking next door. Eventually the stocky Sphar gained the upper hand, pinning Dawson to the floor. That’s when Sergeant Tom Flanagan burst into the room, having heard the commotion from the hallway as he passed by.
Cut that shit out! Flanagan shouted.
The two combatants slowly peeled themselves off each other, secretly relieved to have a face-saving opportunity to call a truce. There was never any doubt that Flanagan’s command would be obeyed. The sergeant was universally admired for being hardworking and a straight shooter. Sheepishly, Sphar and Dawson headed to the showers to clean up and get ready for another day—another twenty-four hours that stood between them and eventually going home.
Life for soldiers consists of an endless succession of countdowns. They begin during basic training—with the ubiquitous “[xx] days and a wake-up” scrawled on port-a-potties across base, denoting the number of days the trainee has left until graduation—and never really end. Once soldiers get to a unit in wartime there are countdowns to deployment; once on deployment, there are countdowns to midtour leave back to the States; once on leave, there are countdowns to returning downrange; and once returned, there are countdowns to the end of the deployment. Occasional flare-ups, such as Sphar and Dawson’s wrestling match, were just one of the ways soldiers vented frustration with their “Groundhog Day” existence.
One afternoon Sphar and Dawson were out in Saddam’s rec area at the Rock. They’d come from the old man’s cell, prompted by his half-joking, half-serious comment “My cage cannot hold me.” While they played chess Saddam sat smoking a cigar, absorbed in his reading and writing. In the background, his old radio played its curious mix of American and Iraqi tunes. He’d been working his way through ten volumes by the fourteenth-century Tunisian philosopher and historian Ibn Khaldun that he’d asked his daughter Raghad to procure for him. He’d also requested of her some volumes of Arabic poetry and scholarly studies of the Koran. Raghad would collect the books and give them to Saddam’s lawyer Nuaimi when he traveled to Amman. Raghad’s dutiful support suggests she was no longer troubled—if she’d ever been—by her father’s role in having her husband gunned down following the couple’s return from Amman in 1995. Like her father, she was a survivor, and by all accounts opportunistic, and she must have known that she had little to gain by falling on a sword for her dead husband.
Sphar and Dawson were careful to keep an eye on Saddam even as their chess match grew more heated. As they periodically looked up they noticed that their prisoner had begun to steal glances at them as well. He seemed curious about something but didn’t beckon to them, as he usually would if he wanted to talk.
Saddam then set his papers down and walked over. He hovered over Sphar and Dawson as they concentrated on their next moves, puffing on his cigar as he watched the two young soldiers play. He was studying the game carefully.
“Can I play?” Saddam finally asked.
Sphar had been winning, and so he assumed that Saddam was challenging him. Hold on one second, sir, let me check, Sphar said. He called Sergeant Flanagan, who was in the control room watching the closed-circuit TV camera feeds.
Is it okay if I play chess with Vic? he asked.
Sure, Flanagan said.
As Dawson stood up to make room for Saddam at the chessboard, Sphar rearranged the pieces to their starting positions. Do you want black or white? he asked.
It’s okay, you choose, the former president responded. I haven’t played in many years, he added, perhaps trying to manage expectations in the event of a loss.
He needn’t have worried, as he went on to beat Sphar in a blitzkrieg attack. Saddam didn’t say a word after his demolition of the young soldier. They played again, and Saddam won again. Sphar says, “It was like he was playing a child, and I’d been playing chess for years.”
While the soldiers had been instructed not to engage Saddam on potentially inflammatory topics, they sometimes couldn’t help but succumb to their curiosity. One afternoon Dawson, who believes that Saddam “probably did most of the crap he was accused of before I was even born; he’d killed a lot of people,” came right out and asked Saddam a couple of the questions that had been on some of the soldiers’ minds.
“What do you think about the war? Are you glad the terrorists are out there hitting us with IEDs and bombs and shooting us?” Dawson asked Saddam.
No, Saddam responded. All I ever wanted for Iraq was peace. But, he added, let me ask you this. If we came into your country, and we were running things, what would you do if you didn’t want us there?
Well, yeah, I see what you’re saying, Dawson replied.
Exactly, so I can’t really blame them, said Saddam, referring to the insurgents, and I really can’t stop them.
Dawson may have felt emboldened to broach these sensitive subjects since it was clear to many of the soldiers that Saddam had taken a particular liking to him, perhaps because he was the youngest member of the Super Twelve. Saddam would often ask Dawson about his girl
friend, telling him he should be at home going to college with her rather than fighting in Iraq. One afternoon Saddam even promised Dawson that he’d pay for him to go to college if he could ever access his bank account.
Late one night at the Rock, Dawson surprised his buddies by parading down the hallway of their living quarters—nothing more than a row of small dwellings partitioned by plywood walls—dressed in one of Saddam’s suits. Saddam gave it to me, he announced buoyantly. The fact that Saddam’s suit, which was tailored for a paunchy man, didn’t come close to fitting Dawson made the scene even more ridiculous. The soldiers cracked up as Dawson took exaggerated steps through the austere living area as if on the catwalk at a fashion show.
Months later, explaining his relationship with Saddam, Dawson would say, “I don’t think he ever would have tried to hurt me. If I were to hand him a gun—a loaded gun—I bet you he wouldn’t shoot me. I’m pretty darned sure. He never tried to do anything to harm us. If he called you friend, you were his friend.”
Presidential Palace, Baghdad, Iraq—September 11, 1994
Ra’ad al-Hamdani, the Iraqi patriot and decorated veteran, was in command of the elite Al-Medina Al-Munawara Republican Guard Division headquartered at Camp Taji, about twenty miles north of Baghdad, when the phone in his office started ringing one September afternoon. It was Qusay, the more disciplined of Saddam’s two sons, calling.
“General,” the young man said, “we are gathering all the military leaders. Please report to the palace immediately.” And then came the words that “felt like lightning striking my body,” says Hamdani. “The president wants to reinvade and occupy Kuwait.”
Hamdani had been against the first invasion, and after witnessing firsthand the carnage inflicted by the vastly superior American-led coalition, including nearly being killed himself—the “sword had reached my neck,” he later recalled—he resolved to do anything he could to prevent a repeat of that disastrous mistake.
When Hamdani arrived at the palace, he was greeted by Qusay, who privately confided in him that he, too, was concerned about the prospect of launching another foolhardy invasion. We are not capable, are we? Qusay asked Hamdani, his tone suggesting he already knew the answer to his question. What shall I tell the president?
Tell him we cannot do it, Hamdani said.
The young man’s expression indicated that he recognized the gravity of the situation.
The commanders gathered in the palace. Others spoke first, sycophants to the last, assuring Saddam that “we are not only capable of occupying Kuwait, but can make it all the way to Oman.” Qusay then turned to Hamdani and asked, “How come they’re all saying this would be easy and you’re saying it’s impossible?” Qusay asked the question respectfully, with the confidence of a lawyer who knows what his expert witness is about to say.
If we get the order, I will salute and carry it out, as I always have, Hamdani answered, and the results will show who is telling the truth. The implication was clear—they would not be good.
Hamdani had returned to his headquarters, unsure of how his message had been received by the president. His uncertainty wouldn’t last long. Late that night, around 10:30 p.m., the red hotline rang in Hamdani’s office at the Division Headquarters in Taji. Only three people ever called on this line: Saddam, Qusay, or the president’s private secretary, Abed Hamoud. This time it was Abed.
“Ra’ad, Our Uncle wants you,” Abed said, referring to Saddam by the affectionate—but slightly menacing—nickname his deputies sometimes used. Hamdani quickly jumped in an official military sedan to make the roughly forty-five-minute drive south to the Presidential Palace in Baghdad.
Late-night summonses like this weren’t entirely uncommon, as Saddam worked long and unpredictable hours. As Hamdani’s driver steered his way to the palace, aggressively navigating the city streets, the general tried to divine what kind of Saddam he was about to encounter. He weighed the danger of upsetting Saddam with his candor against the risk of another ruinous war, and asked for God’s protection as his car rolled inexorably forward.
Upon arrival, Abed Hamoud did nothing to assuage Hamdani’s fears. “The president is very angry with you,” the secretary said. A deep, paralyzing fear enveloped the general, the kind one feels late at night when one has slipped into a nightmare.
Can the guard accompany me? Hamdani asked, gesturing to a member of the security detail working the night shift in the palace. The general was hopeful that the presence in the room of another person might somehow diffuse Saddam’s anger.
No, he wants you alone, Abed replied.
Taking a deep breath, Hamdani opened the door.
General Ra’ad Hamdani, he announced formally as he snapped to attention and saluted the president. Both of the men were in olive-colored military uniforms. Anger was etched across Saddam’s face—a face that, even when calm, could cause Hamdani’s pulse to beat 120 times a minute. The president took a final inhalation from the cigar he was smoking before setting it down deliberately. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence and then he began:
Ra’ad, I cannot respect any commander who says he can’t do something.
Sir, there was never a command I did not obey. In this instance I was commanded to provide an opinion, Hamdani explained, which I did.
A few excruciatingly slow seconds of silence ticked by. Hamdani continued to stand frozen at attention while Saddam observed him impassively. Hamdani was familiar with Saddam’s claims that he could tell what people were thinking before they opened their mouths. Sit down, Saddam finally said.
The two men sat, Saddam on one side of the room’s lone desk, Hamdani on the other. The office was surprisingly cramped and utilitarian, the only items on the desk an assortment of papers stacked underneath two paperweights and some scattered pens and pencils.
Explain yourself, Saddam commanded. What is the justification for your negative assessment?
Sir, I compared our capabilities with those of our enemy—America, Hamdani began. According to these models we’re incapable of defeating them.
Oddly, despite the fact that Hamdani’s words were presumably not what Saddam wanted to hear, his body appeared to grow less rigid. He seemed to be calming down.
Can I take some items off your desk and use them to demonstrate something to you? Hamdani bravely asked Saddam, who nodded assent.
See this paperweight? This is a Russian T-72, our most sophisticated tank, Hamdani explained, picking the paperweight up to signify the tank. Imagine that this has a value of 1.5 on a scale of 1 to 5, Hamdani said. I got this tank at the beginning of the eight-year Iran-Iraq War, and it has never been upgraded due to the sanctions that were imposed on us.
He then picked up the other paperweight and said, This is an American M1 tank. It is a 5 on a scale of 1 to 5.
Saddam appeared to be concentrating, and remained eerily silent.
Hamdani continued: On top of this M1 tank the Americans can fly an Apache helicopter with Hellfire missiles. This multiplies their effectiveness by 5. So now they have 25 and we still have 1.5. Hamdani then reached for a pen and held it over the paperweight signifying the tank. This pen is an F-16 and the Americans can fly them above the tank and the Apache. This multiplies their effectiveness again to 75. We still have 1.5.
Hamdani was poised for Saddam to lash out at any minute. These were Saddam’s military capabilities that he was denigrating, after all. Remarkably, the explosion didn’t come.
Above the F-16 there will be a B-1 bomber, Hamdani went on, slightly emboldened by the fact that he hadn’t yet been cut off. And above that they have satellites, he added, having extended his analysis from hypothetical tanks squaring off in ground combat all the way to outer space.
Taken all together, Hamdani said, my analysis suggests that the Americans possess capabilities of 125 in comparison to our 1.5. That is why we cannot win this war, and why we should not reinvade Kuwait. With that, he exhaled. He’d done it. He’d articulated his heretical thoughts to Sadda
m.
Saddam finally broke his silence. I know that you have fought against Israel, Iran, and America, and that you are courageous, he began. Hamdani briefly felt the suffocating fear start to dissipate—but suddenly Saddam pivoted. That is why you don’t need all these numbers, Saddam said.
Saddam was indirectly referring to his deeply held, primitive belief that somehow sheer courage and bravery could propel Iraqis to victory over enemies who enjoyed vastly superior technological capabilities. This was Saddam the Bedouin, placing faith in mystical warrior virtues over rational computer-driven metrics. Saddam stood and extended his hand for Hamdani to shake, signaling that the meeting was over. Go back to your command, Saddam said, adding ominously, I was thinking something else for you. The unspoken, though deadly, implication was clear.
Saddam was still grasping Hamdani’s hand. What do you want from Saddam? he asked.
Hamdani knew that Saddam had something like a car or money in mind. This, again, was Saddam the Bedouin, wanting to appear magnanimous to his tribe, and make them dependent on his largesse. While audiences with Saddam always had the potential to result in death, many visitors emerged with gifts, some quite lavish. Hamdani was a proud man, though, and didn’t want to become any more beholden to Saddam than he already was by virtue of being a senior leader in his military. I am just a soldier doing my job, he responded, and I’d never ask for anything.
As if he hadn’t heard Hamdani’s answer, Saddam repeated, What do you want from Saddam?
Thinking quickly, trying to appear respectful while not actually asking for anything, Hamdani said, God protect you so you can protect Iraq. That is what I want.
But Saddam pressed Hamdani for a third time, continuing to refer to himself in the third person. What do you want from Saddam?
Hamdani strained to come up with a satisfactory answer. Finally, he replied carefully, “Since I am in the military, I do not need anything, but if I leave, please let me knock on your door with any needs I may have at that time.”
The Prisoner in His Palace Page 13